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The two F-4 Phantom IIs had not truly intended to shoot down the incoming Soviet MiG-25s. Their main objective was deterrence—force the intruder to retreat, secure the airspace, and protect the defector's arrival. But what they hadn't realized was that they had just provoked the wrong man.
Andre, furious after narrowly avoiding their AIM-7 Sparrow missiles, made a sudden climb. The powerful engines of the MiG-25 hurled the aircraft skyward, easily outrunning the failed intercept. As the Sparrow missiles fell away, Andre flipped his fighter into a steep dive.
Below, the two American jets were flying fast. Propelled by twin J79 engines, their heavy frames pushed to Mach 1.4. Major Dick Houston, at the controls of the lead F-4, watched his failed missile strike and looked up—just in time to spot a flash of metal diving down from the sunlit sky.
"Nine o'clock, MiG!" his wingman shouted, eyes locked on the descending threat.
Major Dick immediately recognized the danger. If he continued flying level, the MiG would swing right into a textbook attack position—his six o'clock. Gritting his teeth, he slammed the throttle forward and yanked the stick back. The afterburners roared to life, and his Phantom climbed hard to meet the oncoming threat head-on.
His wingman followed suit, mimicking the maneuver. As they passed under the MiG-25's dive, they could see it clearly now—the gleaming frame, the dual tail fins, and unmistakably, the red Soviet star painted boldly on the wings. In the cockpit, the pilot locked eyes with them.
Andre raised a single gloved hand and extended his middle finger.
The Americans had fired first. Now they would taste his reply.
As the MiG-25 soared past them, Andre pulled back on the stick again, climbing rapidly to gain altitude. The F-4s, anticipating a follow-up strike, began standard evasive maneuvers. Both turned sharply in opposite directions—classic dogfighting tactics. The goal: one would draw the enemy, the other would flank and strike.
Inside both cockpits, the pilots and their weapons officers struggled against crushing G-forces. Their bodies pressed against their seats, necks twisting to catch any sign of the elusive Soviet interceptor.
But the sky behind them was empty.
Major Dick scanned frantically. "Red Dragonfly, formation scatter!"
His wingman, code-named Red Dragonfly, understood immediately. They broke apart, pulling separate arcs in the sky—hoping to cover each other's blind spots.
But still, no MiG in sight.
Then a calm but urgent voice crackled through the radio—coming from the E-2 Hawkeye airborne warning aircraft recently scrambled to the area.
"Fox Hunt, Red Dragonfly—target at 16,000 meters, diving fast!"
The E-2 had finally reached altitude and activated its radar. The Soviet MiG's new position was confirmed—it had used its altitude advantage to set up a second attack run, this time from behind.
Andre had executed a textbook boom-and-zoom maneuver. After climbing to 16,000 meters, he now dived again, converting altitude into speed. The airframe groaned under pressure. Vapor formed on the canopy. On the Mach gauge, the needle pointed past Mach 2.
He had the angle, the altitude, and the distance. Everything was perfect.
Under the MiG-25's wing, the R-40T infrared missile locked onto a heat signature: the hot, bright exhaust of an American Phantom's twin engines.
Andre pressed the launch switch.
The half-ton missile roared from the rail, trailing a white plume across the sky. Its seeker burned red-hot, locked onto its target: the tailpipe of Red Dragonfly's F-4.
Andre had no interest in repeating past mistakes. This time, he didn't gamble with a lighter R-60. The R-40 carried a 38kg high-explosive warhead. One hit would be enough.
Major Dick had just finished a turn when he realized what was happening. "Red Dragonfly, climb! Deploy flares!"
His wingman reacted instantly, pulling the fighter into a steep ascent. The F-4's countermeasure system kicked in, launching dozens of infrared flares—white-hot bursts designed to distract incoming heat-seekers.
The missile closed in.
For a moment, it seemed the trick worked. The missile swerved slightly—its seeker momentarily confused by the heat blooms.
Major Dick let out a breath.
Then came the explosion.
The R-40T, built for bomber interception, had locked onto one of the decoys. But its proximity warhead detonated with ferocious force—far too close to be harmless. The 38kg payload erupted in a massive blast, sending a cloud of shrapnel hurtling through the air.
Though it had missed a direct hit, the explosion rocked the sky. The F-4 was caught in the blast radius. Its tail section wobbled violently, flames licking across the rear fuselage.
Andre pulled out of the dive, eyes tracking the chaos below.
Red Dragonfly's F-4 spiraled briefly before stabilizing, limping westward. Smoke trailed behind it.
The Soviets had never intended the R-40T for agile dogfights. Its real purpose was simple—obliterate high-flying strategic bombers. But at close range, and with a good lock, it was just as deadly to fighters.
The air around them shimmered from the exhaust and shockwaves. One MiG against two Phantoms—and Andre had drawn blood.
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