Boom. Boom.
The deep, slow churn of rotors cut through the quiet evening sky.
Andrei had just finished dumping the half-conscious Belenko onto his bunk after dragging him back from the bar. It was late, but he couldn't sleep. His muscles buzzed with restlessness, so he threw on his tracksuit and headed for the perimeter track.
He was halfway around when he heard it — the familiar thump of an aircraft pushing through low-altitude air. He stopped, looked up.
Navigation lights blinked above. The silhouette slowly came into view — four-blade rotor, heavy undercarriage, thick fuselage. He recognized it instantly. Mi-8 Hip, the workhorse of the Soviet Union. Ugly as sin, but reliable as death.
Its huge belly swayed in the air, looking like a flying hippo. Andrei watched it descend and settle onto the landing pad, even before its wheels fully touched down, the side hatch slammed open.
Engineers. Technicians. Lots of them.
Andrei narrowed his eyes. These weren't just any mechanics. Their gear was clean, their stride purposeful. Moscow had sent its brain trust.
Which meant one thing: The clock was ticking.
The EP-3 sitting in the grass wasn't going to be left untouched. The Soviets were going to tear into it as fast as possible — pull out sensors, strip wiring, photograph every inch before politics could catch up. And these weren't local crews. These were from Factory 126, Komsomolsk-on-Amur — also known as the Gagarin Aircraft Plant.
In the future, that factory would become famous for building the Su-27, but even now it was one of the crown jewels of Soviet aerospace. Andrei had test-flown Sukhoi birds in another life. He knew the type of men coming off that chopper. Quiet. Focused. Brilliant.
His admiration was real. In a nation where bureaucracy and stagnation were sinking the system, these engineers still carried the weight of Soviet power on their backs.
"Lieutenant Andrei! The commander's looking for you!"
A voice cut through his thoughts. One of the base staff, waving from a jeep near the tarmac.
Andrei jogged over.
"Commander wants me this late? That can't be good," he muttered. "Probably found out about the bar run."
Still, he climbed into the car and rode toward the command center.
---
"Report!"
"Come in."
Koridub's voice came through the door, calm and upbeat — a surprise.
Andrei stepped in. Kozhedub Koridub, the blustery, self-important base commander, was actually smiling.
"Andrei, good news from Moscow."
The commander leaned forward, lighting a cigarette. "You and Belenko were commended. Officially. Moscow's calling it a heroic intercept. You've both been awarded third-class merits."
Andrei blinked. He wasn't expecting that. Koridub kept talking.
"The Far East Command has also issued you the bronze flight badge. For superior flying skill under stress."
Praise? From the top?
Koridub wasn't just happy. He was glowing. The incident could've buried him in blame, but Moscow had spun it as a success. A PR win. He'd protected the homeland from foreign spies, and now he had heroes on base.
"Permission to return to flight duty, sir?" Andrei asked immediately.
Koridub grinned. "Already approved. You're back on the roster tomorrow."
He exhaled a long stream of smoke.
"And you'll be flying a new bird."
That caught Andrei's attention.
"Your old MiG-25P is being scrapped. Overhaul team found serious engine failure — that's what caused the stall mid-air."
Andrei nodded. That explained it. He'd felt it during the dive — something mechanical had gone wrong. But scrapping the whole plane?
"In fact," Koridub continued, "your replacement just flew in from the Mikoyan Design Bureau today. It's a brand-new MiG-25PD. They've already painted your number on the side. It's yours."
Andrei stared.
A PD model? The interceptor variant? His pulse jumped. This was no small upgrade.
His old fighter had been a 1971 production model — a heavy, stainless steel beast known in NATO as the Foxbat-A. It flew fast, but the electronics were trash. The radar was Cyclone-A: huge, loud, but nearly blind unless you were staring right at your target. Good for brute force — not finesse.
The PD, though? That was the future. Better engines. Improved radar. Real targeting capabilities.
"What about my old bird?"
"Being sent to Leningrad for refurbishment," Koridub said casually. "Not worth patching up here."
That was the Soviet system in a nutshell — dump a barely used plane because it was cheaper to build a new one than fix the old one.
Wasteful? Yes. But right now, Andrei didn't care. He had a cutting-edge MiG-25PD, straight from the design bureau. Painted with his call sign. Ready for war.
He was practically grinning.
"Commander, the engineers from Factory 126 have arrived," came a knock from the hallway.
Koridub crushed out his cigarette.
"Good. Bring them in."
---
From outside, the hum of the Mi-8's turbines finally wound down.
Inside the office, Andrei stood quietly as Koridub prepared to meet the engineers.
Somewhere across the tarmac, under spotlights and watchful eyes, the EP-3 sat like a wounded whale, still warm from its last flight.
And soon, its secrets would be Soviet.
Andrei couldn't help but wonder — how much could they extract before Washington made its next move?
Whatever happened next, he'd be in the sky to meet it.
---