"DiDi."
Belenko tapped the horn of his military jeep and looked up at the hotel window above.
Moments later, a curtain rustled, and a young woman leaned out, her messy brown hair tumbling freely around her face. Upon recognizing him, she blushed faintly and waved. "Just a second! I'll be right down!"
A few minutes later, she appeared at the entrance in fitted jeans and a crisp white shirt. Her unruly hair was gathered with a simple white clip, lending her a mix of casual charm and youthful confidence. Belenko couldn't help but smile.
"Comrade pilot," she asked playfully, "any chance you could take me flying today?"
He chuckled, brushing his freshly combed hair with his fingers, pleased with his appearance. "Unfortunately, no flight missions today. And even if there were, my fighter's a single-seater. No room for passengers—especially not charming ones."
She looked mildly disappointed. "But still, you fly jets? That's seriously cool."
"I like to think so," Belenko said with a grin. "Hop in. I'll give you the grand tour of our sleepy little town."
She slid into the passenger seat without hesitation. The engine growled to life, and the jeep rolled out of the base perimeter. Belenko's spirits soared as fast as his MiG could climb. He hadn't expected the day to start this well.
The young woman—Annie, a visiting university student—was bright, curious, and clearly impressed. In the Soviet Union, military men carried weight, and fighter pilots even more so. Belenko, used to lonely evenings and quiet routines, saw possibility in her enthusiasm.
The town itself wasn't much—some concrete apartment blocks, a post office, a few shops—but to Annie, everything was new.
"Where does that road go?" she asked as they stopped at a mountain trailhead.
"That leads up toward the base," he said. "But there's a great overlook a little higher up. The view's worth the detour."
He hesitated a second, calculating. He had a tent in the back, and if the timing worked out, maybe—just maybe—they'd share more than a sunset. Without saying more, he turned the wheel and started up the mountain road.
The birch trees grew thicker as they climbed, leaves dancing in the breeze. Annie leaned out the window, arms outstretched to catch the wind, laughing as birds chirped overhead. Belenko stole a few glances, caught off-guard by her unfiltered joy—and by how stunning she looked in the golden light.
At the summit, he parked near a rocky ledge. Annie hopped out, scanned the landscape, and spotted the runways far below. "That's your base?"
"Good eyes," Belenko said. "Maybe you've got pilot instincts."
He walked over, gently guided her toward the edge, and mimicked a cockpit with her arms. "This is the throttle. That's your joystick. Feet go here—for the rudder."
He stood close behind, demonstrating with exaggerated seriousness, half hoping she'd play along. Annie giggled but didn't pull away.
"How fast can your plane go?" she asked.
"Faster than anything you've seen on TV. But for takeoff, just over 300 clicks an hour."
"Impressive," she said, tilting her head back against his chest. The moment hung for a second—then, in their playful leaning, they lost balance and tumbled onto the soft grass behind them, laughing as they rolled.
Belenko met her eyes, those wide eyes that made the world stop.
---
Miles away and far above, a different kind of game was playing out.
Inside an E-2 Hawkeye early warning aircraft, a radar operator watched his screen closely. Blips pulsed in steady rhythm—U.S. fighters on one side, Soviet MiG-25s on the other. High-speed climbs and intercept paths flashed in digital green across the radar scope.
Both sides were posturing aggressively, inching toward the edge of a real clash, yet holding back. It was the same Cold War game played a thousand times: scan, lock, threaten—but never shoot first.
A full volley of AIM-7 Sparrows and Sidewinders was ready if needed. But for now, it was about nerves and resolve.
"Seventeen of the MiGs are diving," the operator muttered, eyes narrowing. "Wait… One's still high—still holding altitude."
"Just one?" the squadron commander asked over comms.
"Affirmative. Cruising steady at altitude. Doesn't match the others."
That one fighter—Andrei's—was behaving differently. While the rest followed the scripted confrontation plan, diving to lower altitude to acquire radar lock, Andrei's aircraft remained at 27,000 meters, roaring at Mach 2.6. He wasn't playing by the same rules.
To the Americans, it looked like a provocation.
To Andrei, it was a calculated display.
---
The MiG-25 wasn't built for dogfights. It was an interceptor—pure and simple. Its R-40 missiles were massive, designed to hit bombers, not agile fighters. Four of them hung beneath Andrei's wings—each nearly six meters long and weighing half a ton.
There were two types: the R-40R, radar-guided, and the R-40D, heat-seeking. Neither had stellar range—around 40 kilometers at best. Their boxy shapes created huge drag, and their use in close combat was impractical.
What the MiG-25 lacked in versatility, it made up for in raw speed and altitude. But it couldn't carry short-range missiles—except for Andrei's modified jet, which had R-60s, small and deadly in close.
Still, Andrei wasn't interested in a dogfight. His goal was simpler: pressure. Force a response. Upset the balance. The high ground—literal and symbolic—was his.
And with the others following standard doctrine, diving to acquire lock with outdated Cyclone-A radars, his move stood out.
The American operators noticed. "One's crossing the midline," someone muttered in disbelief.
"Altitude 27,000 meters. Speed, Mach 2.6. He's pushing into our side of the zone."
"Is he defecting?"
"No," the commander said. "He's calling our bluff."
---
In his cockpit, Andrei smiled behind his oxygen mask as the steel frame of the MiG sliced across the invisible border above the Sea of Japan, heading straight toward Hokkaido.
He wasn't firing. Wasn't signaling. Just flying—calmly, confidently, with every intention of turning back before it went too far.
But it was a reminder. A message. A demonstration of Soviet reach—and nerve.
You want to play? Then chase me.
Let's see how far you're willing to go.
---