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"He's going to shoot us down!"
"He's closing in! Damn, he's past Mach 2—he's going to launch!"
"God help us!"
Screams echoed through the E-2's cabin. Had the aircraft been equipped with ejection seats, the crew would have bailed out long ago. But the Hawkeye wasn't built for that. Trapped inside, they could only brace for what felt like inevitable destruction.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the locking alarm went silent.
The cabin was soaked with sweat. Every crew member was drenched and trembling. The air traffic control officer collapsed into his seat and quietly began to cry.
Surviving a close encounter with a supersonic interceptor wasn't something to take lightly. Not everyone got lucky. And whoever that MiG-25 pilot was—he didn't feel human.
Three seconds later, Andre calmly switched off his radar system. A smirk crept across his face as he pulled the control stick left. Time to head home.
He had briefly reignited the afterburners during the maneuver. Now the MiG had gone supersonic again, pushing past the sound barrier. As he completed his wide arc, he had already left Hokkaido's airspace, gliding into the skies above southern Sakhalin Island. At such speeds, his turning radius was enormous—enough to stagger even the most experienced pilot.
Andre kept the afterburner running. Fuel levels were dropping fast, but the MiG's performance continued to soar. Altitude climbed to 26,000 meters. Speed reached Mach 2.6.
The F-4s scrambled to intercept him were left behind, climbing in vain to reach his altitude. The difference was too great—they were hopelessly outmatched.
The MiG-25's presence alone created immense pressure. The F-4's Sparrow missiles weren't designed to engage targets at 20,000 meters or higher. Against a target flying at over Mach 2, those missiles had a near-zero chance of impact.
Only one platform in the American arsenal posed a real threat to Andre's fighter—the F-14 Tomcat, equipped with long-range Phoenix missiles.
Andre knew this. He soared confidently over the heads of the F-4s, circling them like a predator stalking prey. Today, the Soviet MiG had proven itself—and made its presence unmistakably felt.
But back at Sokolovka airbase, Kozhdub wasn't impressed. He was furious. Andre had gone rogue, violated airspace, and risked an international incident. Upon landing, he was certain to face consequences.
Even so, Andre had bigger worries than disciplinary action. His fuel gauge was dropping fast.
The MiG-25 had long been the subject of debate. Some critics called it a high-speed interceptor with no staying power—an "airfield guard" with a combat radius under 300 kilometers. Others claimed its mobility was too poor to compete with modern fighters.
But Andre knew better. Pilots who hadn't flown it had no business judging it. The MiG-25 had plenty of internal fuel—enough to fly over 3,000 kilometers in ideal conditions. Its combat radius in a standard loadout exceeded 1,000 kilometers. That made it more than capable as a long-range interceptor.
Of course, those numbers didn't include the use of afterburners.
Today's mission had been anything but standard. From the very beginning, Andre had flown at high speeds with full afterburners. Reaching the intercept point alone had burned through 400–500 kilometers' worth of range. Then came ten minutes of high-intensity combat maneuvers.
Still, if he had turned back when ordered, he might have made it back with ease. But chasing down the F-4s, locking onto the E-2, and climbing to near space had cost him dearly.
Now, as he glanced at the fuel gauge, his expression darkened.
Just over two tons left.
A few hundred kilograms of that were unusable reserves at the bottom of the tanks. He effectively had under two tons of fuel—and more than 800 kilometers to cover.
That wouldn't be enough.
In two years, the MiG-25 would receive upgrades, including in-flight refueling capability. But for now, there was no such luxury. No tankers, no relays—he was on his own.
Andre cut the afterburners. Speed dropped, but he kept his altitude steady.
The higher he flew, the thinner the air, and the less drag he'd face. Dropping altitude would increase resistance and burn even more fuel. If he wanted to make it back, he had to stay high.
For a minute, he cruised in silence, mentally calculating the burn rate. Still not enough. He wouldn't make it.
Ditching in the sea? Waiting for a helicopter rescue?
Unthinkable.
Then an idea struck him. Risky, but it might work.
He reached for the panel, his gloved fingers moving deliberately across the switches. He flipped five in a row.
The aircraft shuddered.
Speed dropped sharply. Altitude dipped.
From the rear, one engine continued to emit an orange glow. The other had gone dark.
Andre had shut down one engine.
A desperate move—but a smart one. The MiG-25's R-15 engines were fuel-hungry beasts. Even without afterburners, they guzzled fuel at alarming rates. Cutting one could reduce consumption by 30–40%.
But it had to be done carefully.
The aircraft was already losing altitude. Andre adjusted trim, stabilizing it at around 20,000 meters. The thinner atmosphere helped—lower drag meant less strain on the single running engine. He watched the Mach meter: Mach 0.7. Cruising speed achieved.
Finally, his radio crackled with a familiar voice.
"032, 032, report fuel status."
He'd flown back into range.
"032 reporting—fuel remaining: 1.5 tons."
On the ground, Kozhdub clenched his fists. Radar showed at least 400 kilometers still to go.
1.5 tons? Not good.
"032, that's the newest aircraft in our regiment. If you're going down, then you go down in one piece—understood?"
Andre winced. Kozhdub's fury was loud and clear through the headset. No doubt there'd be yelling when he landed. Bureaucracy at its finest.
Still, judging by his current speed and power output, it just might be enough.
"032, received," Andre responded, then began shutting off all unnecessary systems to save additional power. Radios, lights, non-critical electronics—everything he could afford to lose.
Each second felt like an hour.
Kozhdub stared at the radar screen, dreading the moment the blip might vanish.
If the MiG ran dry in mid-air, they'd be facing a rescue op—or worse.
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