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"Report," a voice called from outside the office door at Sokolovka Air Base.
"Come in," barked Commander Kozhdub, already recognizing the voice. It was Belenko.
The door opened with a stiff creak, and Belenko entered, standing at attention.
"What is it, Belenko?" Kozhdub asked, barely looking up.
"Comrade Commander, I'd like to ask when my fighter—No. 31—will be repaired."
"Your engine has reached its overhaul limit," Kozhdub replied flatly. "It's already been disassembled and sent to the maintenance plant in Vladivostok."
As per standard Soviet Air Force procedure, the R-15 engines powering the MiG-25s had a service life of just over 100 flight hours. After that, they had to be shipped to a certified overhaul facility. Sokolovka wasn't equipped for such tasks—only the specialized plants near Vladivostok handled it.
"But it's been more than a week," Belenko pressed. "It should have been returned by now."
"You'll have to take that up with Vladivostok's logistics. We're not responsible for their timeline."
There was a pause.
"Commander… we have spare engines in the depot. I'd like one installed on my fighter."
Kozhdub raised his eyebrows. "What's the rush, Belenko?"
But Belenko wasn't listening. His thoughts were with Anne—her parting words, her tears, the fire they lit inside him. He had made up his mind. He would cross the sea. He would bring the MiG-25 to the West and offer it to the Americans. That act alone would make him a figure of immense value—one the West couldn't ignore. It would earn him the right to stay with Anne, to reunite her with her family, and finally escape the gray, stagnant world he'd come to despise.
In recent years, his frustration had only grown. His time at the flight academy was hell. Labeled mentally unstable by political instructors, sidelined and mocked, Belenko had clawed his way to the front lines to fly the most advanced Soviet interceptor.
But what had he found? Corruption. Nepotism. Kozhdub ruled the base like a fiefdom. His relatives filled logistics roles. Ground crews drank behind hangars. And now—his engine hadn't even been sent for overhaul. He knew it.
Kozhdub's voice interrupted his thoughts. "We have limited spare engines, and they're prioritized for our most capable pilots."
The words hit like a slap.
"Most capable?" Belenko's voice tightened. "Since converting to the MiG-25, I've flown thirteen successful missions without incident. If that doesn't qualify me as an excellent pilot, what does?"
Kozhdub's eyes narrowed.
"I didn't want to bring this up," Belenko continued, unable to stop himself now, "but your favoritism risks real consequences. That engine wasn't sent for overhaul, was it? It's still sitting in the hangar."
Kozhdub's expression darkened.
"And don't think I don't know about Andre's aircraft either," Belenko added. "The last time he experienced a control failure during training—it wasn't pilot error. A welding bead had fallen into the hydraulic system during maintenance. It jammed the rudder. Andre was lucky the oil flow reversed mid-flight and flushed the obstruction into the reservoir. If he hadn't recovered control, he'd be dead—and you would've faced a tribunal."
Kozhdub didn't respond.
Belenko pressed on. "You rushed to scrap that plane to cover it up, didn't you? And when the command sent down praise and rewards, you gave Andre a new fighter—more to bury the evidence than to honor him."
Silence hung thick in the air.
Kozhdub finally looked up. "What exactly are you trying to do, Belenko?"
"I just want to fly," Belenko replied, voice calm but defiant. "It's been over a week. I've been grounded long enough. I want my aircraft ready within three days."
Kozhdub stared at him for a long moment. Then, with forced politeness, he said, "Fine. I'll order the ground crew to prepare No. 031 with a spare engine. You'll be back in the air in three days."
His tone was flat, his eyes hard. "You're a capable pilot, Belenko. And flying is your life. I respect that."
"Thank you, Comrade Commander," Belenko replied. He turned on his heel and exited the office.
As the door closed behind him, he could feel the weight of Kozhdub's glare like a blade between his shoulder blades.
He had burned his last bridge—but it didn't matter.
He was leaving.
And when he did, they'd never forget his name.
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