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The enamel lunch box bore the unmistakable mark of the Soviet Union—a red sickle and hammer, bold against the white enamel. Inside, a delicate porcelain spoon contrasted its rugged container. Half-reclined on the hospital bed, Andre watched as a pair of slender, soft hands gently scooped up a spoonful of porridge.
"Open your mouth," said the female doctor, bringing the spoon close to his lips. She blew on it lightly, her warm breath brushing across the surface before guiding the thick, sweet porridge to him.
The porridge was comforting—simple, hearty, and warm. The Soviets weren't known for refined cuisine. It was often either dense black bread or this kind of sticky porridge. Still, it had its charm. And in this quiet moment, Andre felt the warmth of the food spread through his chest.
She had brought him the meal and was feeding him herself, likely because of his injured wrist. That thought made Andre shift uncomfortably, both from gratitude and embarrassment.
"Doctor, you can leave the food here. I can manage."
"No," she replied calmly. "Your wrist needs rest. Don't strain it. You're a pilot in the Far Eastern Military District, a decorated one now. If your hand heals poorly, it could end your flight career."
Decorated? A hero?
Andre blinked. He remembered being a lieutenant—not a captain. And the praise coming from her mouth seemed far too generous.
His eyes drifted to the lunchbox. It was spotless. The spoon—porcelain and refined—clearly wasn't military issue. This wasn't from the cafeteria. Had she brought it from home?
Before he could ask, a voice rang from the hallway.
"Dr. Ekaterina, the patient in Ward Sixteen is having complications!"
"I'm coming," she called back, then turned to Andre with a reassuring glance. "Lie down and rest—I'll be back soon."
Ekaterina. The name lingered in his mind. It meant "pure" in Russian. Fitting, somehow.
She stepped out quickly, leaving the warm meal by his bedside. Andre watched the door close, then reached for the spoon himself. She was busy. No need to cause her more trouble. Still, part of him hoped she'd return soon.
He had just taken a bite when a familiar voice echoed from the hallway.
"Andre! You're awake! Excellent!"
Andre looked up, surprised. Colonel Ivanov stood at the doorway, a familiar smile on his weathered face.
"Colonel!" Andre made an effort to sit straighter and salute.
"Relax," Ivanov waved it off. "I'm reporting to the Air Defense Command here in Vladivostok and thought I'd check on our favorite daredevil. You've been out for two days, son. Scared half the base."
Andre blinked. Two days?
No wonder everything felt like a dream. He rubbed his temple and then asked the question that had been gnawing at him: "Sir, any further movement from the Americans across the strait? Are they pushing again?"
Ivanov chuckled. "You scared them more than they scared us. Flying over Hokkaido, locking onto their E-2 Hawkeye? That stunt sent shockwaves through their command. They're pulling back, for now. Your actions showed them that our MiG-25 isn't something to be toyed with."
He stepped closer, placing a hand on Andre's shoulder.
"And because of that, the Party has decided to award you the First Class Order for Service to the Fatherland in the Armed Forces. Effective immediately, you're promoted to Captain."
Andre's jaw tensed. Captain? First-class medal?
That particular decoration was no small matter. It had only been established the previous year and was awarded sparingly—usually for exceptional performance, courage, and mastery of military duty. Fewer than a hundred recipients so far.
And now he was one of them.
Had he still been conscious when he landed, Andre had no doubt he would've been reamed out by Kozhdub and made to write inspection reports for weeks. But being unconscious for two days might've saved him from the paperwork—and replaced it with a medal.
All things considered, he had earned it. The Americans had just climbed out of the mess in Vietnam. This was the last thing they needed: a Soviet pilot proving their newest interceptor could fly circles around American jets.
"Andre," Ivanov added, "the Americans are demanding the return of the EP-3. But Moscow's likely to keep it until we've picked it clean for tech. That means tensions will remain high. If anything happens, our 513th will be the first to respond."
Andre nodded. Then another thought struck him. "Sir… what about Captain Belenko? I didn't see his plane during the scramble."
Ivanov's expression soured. "His MiG is still in the hangar—mechanical issues. Hasn't flown in over a week."
That was a relief. As long as Belenko was grounded, Andre still had time. If Belenko defected, the West would gain access to the MiG-25's inner workings. That could change everything.
Andre offered a respectful nod. Ivanov left shortly after, offering encouragement before returning to his duties. Alone again, Andre leaned back on the bed, processing everything.
The Americans wouldn't let this go. They never did. This was Cold War politics—victories were measured in inches, not miles. If Moscow decided to keep the EP-3, retaliation might come through other means—incursions, intelligence games, or worse.
And Belenko… he couldn't forget about him.
Andre's thoughts wandered to the girl he met in Qiuguyevka—Annie, supposedly a student from the University of Berlin. Her appearance was too convenient. Too perfect. Was she just a passerby? Or something more?
He had no hard proof, and handing her over to the KGB without evidence would be dangerous. But he couldn't ignore the gut feeling. Something didn't add up.
Lost in thought, Andre reached for a cigarette—one of the few comforts he still recognized in this unfamiliar world.
Just as he struck a match, a familiar voice called out.
"Comrade pilot, for your health's sake—don't you dare light that!"
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