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Closer. Closer. Finally, the coastline came into view. Andre exhaled with relief. Luck was on his side today. As he descended further, a tailwind blew from east to west—helping conserve precious fuel during the final stretch.
He was going to make it.
From the control tower, binoculars trained on the horizon, Kozhdub spotted the returning MiG-25 entering its landing pattern. His eyes narrowed. Just a ton and a half of fuel, and he still managed to fly back hundreds of kilometers? Was this guy lying?
But based on calculations—and the fact Andre had crossed into Hokkaido—it was likely he'd pushed the aircraft to the limit.
The mystery was short-lived. Colonel Ivanov, commander of the 513th Regiment, had returned with the rest of the squadron. Upon landing, he headed straight for the tower to check on his maverick subordinate.
Now, leaning over the railing, Ivanov spotted something telling: one of the MiG-25's rear engines wasn't running.
Not a mechanical fault—Andre would have reported that. More likely, he'd shut one engine down manually to stretch his fuel reserves.
Strange behavior for Andre. Lately, he had been acting unlike his usual self—quiet, cautious, and by-the-book. This daring stunt didn't match his prior record. Ivanov frowned but couldn't help admitting—it was impressive.
Landing with one engine, however, wasn't without risk.
At high altitudes, it was manageable. But during landing, a single-engine setup demanded perfect control. One wrong move could end in disaster.
Modern fly-by-wire systems were still in their infancy. The MiG-25's control layout, optimized for high-altitude performance, produced excessive torque at lower altitudes. One small overcorrection could lead to a dangerous pilot-induced oscillation—a cycle of worsening inputs that could send the aircraft into instability.
The solution? Precision and restraint.
Andre eased the stick gently, centimeter by centimeter. He knew he had only one shot—his fuel gauge was already bottomed out. There wouldn't be enough for a go-around.
Lower. Lower still.
Finally, the main landing gear touched down. A wave of relief washed over him as the aircraft's wheels met the runway. The nose stayed high for a few seconds, then slowly dropped. The front gear made contact—and at that moment, the rear engine sputtered out.
Completely out of fuel.
Andre let the fighter roll forward. He pressed both pedals to activate the brakes.
Nothing happened.
His heart sank.
He'd forgotten—on the MiG-25, braking relied on hydraulic pressure supplied by the engines. With both engines now dead, there was no pressurized fluid. No brakes. No drag chute. No way to slow the plane manually.
The aircraft kept rolling—fast.
The runway was 3,000 meters long, usually more than sufficient. But at over 200 kilometers per hour with no braking, even that wasn't enough.
Andre's hands were tense on the stick. The fighter slowed—gradually—but not quickly enough. The end of the runway rushed closer.
At 50 kilometers per hour, the forest beyond the tarmac came into view.
Then—bang.
A sudden jolt from below. Andre swore under his breath.
A tire had blown.
The MiG skidded, veering off course. The jet bucked wildly up and down. Even strapped in tightly with his helmet on, Andre's head slammed into something hard.
Everything went black.
---
White light. A faint yellow bulb overhead. The faint beeping of an old heart monitor. A chipped blue oxygen tank stood beside the bed.
Andre blinked slowly, registering the antiseptic smell. He was in a hospital.
He was alive.
Judging from the Soviet-era equipment, he hadn't been captured or transported. He was still in the USSR—1976.
He sat up slowly, pulling a few monitoring wires from his chest. Coarse black chest hair greeted him beneath the hospital gown, and with it, a wave of reluctant acceptance.
The reality settled in.
Time travel—no longer a theory or hallucination.
That night, the transition had been sudden, surreal. He'd spent nearly all of it awake, plagued not just by thoughts of Belenko's defection, but by a deep unease. He didn't belong here. He hadn't chosen this. He wanted to go back—to his original time, his original life.
Flying the MiG-25 like a daredevil, chasing American aircraft over Japan, harassing an E-2 with radar locks… it wasn't bravery. It was recklessness. Maybe, subconsciously, he'd hoped that another extreme maneuver might tear open a hole back to his world.
But now, staring at the wavy green line on the ancient heart monitor, Andre accepted the truth.
This wasn't a dream.
He hadn't just ended up in the Soviet Union.
He was a Soviet pilot now.
And the MiG-25 was his weapon.
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