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Though there was still some distance between the MiG-25 and the American jet, the detonation of the missile had done its work. Andre watched as the F-4 Phantom swayed in the air like a kite with a cut string, a thick trail of black smoke pouring from its tail. Then—boom—a fiery blast consumed the aircraft, reducing it to a flaming wreck.
Air-to-air missile warheads were designed for maximum damage, packed with fragmentation casings that turned into lethal shrapnel upon detonation. Even a small metal fragment could cripple an aircraft; a direct blast left little hope.
The American F-4 hadn't stood a chance. Its pilot had deployed flares too late. Though the R-40 missile had locked onto the decoy, the explosion had occurred just meters from the tail. The massive warhead, even without a direct hit, was enough to shred the aircraft. Before the crew could eject, they were consumed in the inferno.
Major Dick, still alive in his own F-4, had no time to mourn. His radar warning receiver screamed in his ears—another missile was inbound. The MiG-25 had fired again.
Andre, having launched his infrared-guided R-40T earlier, now switched to the second variant: the radar-guided R-40R. He didn't expect it to land a kill. His goal was simpler—to force the enemy into evasive action, disrupt his control, and keep his tail exposed.
Major Dick immediately recognized the tone of the threat. The radar lock was persistent—likely a semi-active missile using reflected radar waves. He remained calm. Years of training taught him that Soviet semi-active systems lacked the refinement of Western electronics. If handled correctly, evasion was possible.
He began deploying chaff—fine metallic strips meant to overload radar signals—and banked hard to the side. His Phantom shuddered under the G-force as he spiraled downward, slipping away from the missile's tracking arc.
The Americans had long speculated on the MiG-25's systems, especially after previous encounters. They believed the Foxhound lacked true pulse-Doppler radar, relying instead on more conventional tracking. What they didn't know—what Belenko's failed defection would have revealed—was that Andre's MiG-25PD was equipped with a functioning pulse-Doppler system. The threat was far more real than they understood.
Andre's radar screen erupted with noise—digital snow. The American's evasive maneuver and chaff deployment blinded his sensors. The target had vanished.
Andre didn't hesitate. He pushed forward, diving in pursuit. His goal now: get within five degrees of the fleeing Phantom's tail and hold that position long enough for his R-60 missile to lock on.
The R-60 was far more agile than the R-40 but had tighter targeting constraints. Its seeker required a precise angle—no more than five degrees from the center axis—and at least two seconds of uninterrupted lock to fire.
The chase intensified. Andre kept his cool, aware that the American was dragging him lower and lower. Below 7,000 meters, the dense air grew turbulent. The MiG-25, built for high-altitude speed, handled poorly at these levels. It could suffer from sudden aerodynamic torque, especially during high-stress maneuvers.
The American Phantom, by contrast, was more versatile at lower altitudes. Though originally designed for altitude and speed, its agility in the lower atmosphere far outmatched the MiG.
Andre knew the trap. After 20 seconds of tight pursuit, seeing his altitude fall to dangerous levels, he throttled the afterburners and pulled into a climb. The R-60 never left the rail. It was time to retreat.
The MiG-25 soared skyward, a lone hunter vanishing into the blue. When it wished to leave, few could follow.
Behind him, U.S. forces scrambled. Four more F-4s had launched from base and were closing fast. But as Andre reached 20,000 meters, he became untouchable. They ceased pursuit.
Down below, Major Dick finally leveled out. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He tore off his oxygen mask and exhaled in heavy gasps.
He'd barely survived.
Multiple times during the chase, he felt the MiG lock on, and he knew how close he had come to death. It felt like the other pilot had toyed with him, just waiting for the right moment to finish him off. And then, without warning, the MiG had vanished—back into the stratosphere.
That Soviet pilot was dangerous. Lethally skilled.
By now, reinforcements had arrived. Four F-4s flanked Major Dick, escorting him back toward the base. This mission was a failure.
The plan had been to receive the defecting MiG-25, to finally get hard data on its mysterious systems. But somehow, the Soviets had intervened just in time. They'd not only intercepted the defector, they had shot him down—and almost taken out two American jets in the process.
When the report reached Yokota Air Base, Lieutenant General Paul exploded in rage.
"What was Major Dick doing? Why didn't he meet the defector earlier? And why was the E-2 early warning aircraft launched so late?" he barked. "Who made this plan?! It's a disaster!"
No one dared speak.
Truthfully, the plan had been Paul's. Cautious from past experiences, he had limited the response. There was always the chance the defection was a trap. Deploying the E-2 early could have drawn Soviet retaliation. So, as with previous encounters, only two F-4s had been sent.
Now, the plan had backfired—and Paul didn't want to take the blame.
"We haven't lost everything yet," a calm voice said from the corner.
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