---
"Andrei, that was incredible!" the voice crackled through the radio just as he crossed the midpoint of the Sea of Japan.
Two MiG-25s approached from the opposite side, climbing into formation. In anticipation of further threats, Sokolovka Air Base had scrambled two more interceptors for support. As the three aircraft aligned and banked westward, Andrei finally relaxed his grip on the control stick.
Flying alongside him were old squadmates from the 513th Regiment: Lieutenant 027 Alexander and Second Lieutenant 029 Antonio.
"All for the Motherland," Andrei responded on the radio, though the words felt hollow.
In truth, there was no joy in his return. He had completed the mission—Belenko, the defector, was no more. Yet that didn't feel like a victory. Belenko had been his lead pilot, the man he had flown beside through training and patrols. In the brief time since his assignment to the base, Andrei had spent more time with Belenko than anyone else.
And now, it was by his own hand that Belenko had fallen.
Perhaps his reckless engagement with the American fighters had been less about national duty and more about channeling the storm inside him. He'd downed two U.S. aircraft and, if Belenko's MiG was counted, Andrei had racked up three kills—almost enough to be called an ace.
The formation touched down at Sokolovka. Andrei immediately filed a detailed report and submitted it to Commander Kozhedub. He knew the commander wouldn't shoulder any blame himself. Now that Belenko had been intercepted and eliminated, Kozhedub would spin the outcome as damage control—and perhaps even claim credit for Andrei's actions.
What Kozhedub told his superiors didn't concern Andrei. He had done his part.
Back in the dormitory, the empty wine bottles from earlier remained strewn across the floor. But Belenko was gone.
When writing the report, Andrei had deliberately left out one crucial detail: that Belenko had ejected before his aircraft crashed. Hundreds of kilometers from the coast, in the cold waters of the Sea of Japan, such an ejection was tantamount to a death sentence. Perhaps this omission was a quiet act of mercy.
Without eating, Andrei collapsed onto his bunk, still in his flight suit, and fell into a fitful sleep.
---
In the shadows of his dreams, a voice echoed.
> "Andrei, you don't understand. You were raised to love the state, but the state no longer loves you back. This country is rotten. Corruption, nepotism—justice is dead. You almost died in that stall-spin last month, remember? That wasn't chance. The one who failed the maintenance check was Kozhedub's own nephew. There's nothing left here. Come with me. In the West, there's democracy. Freedom. A new life."
It was Belenko's voice—calm, persuasive, venomous.
> "Join me. The West is paradise."
No! Andrei thrashed in his sleep.
Democracy? Freedom? These were the slogans that had hollowed out his nation. Western influence, cloaked in idealism, had poisoned the very foundations of the Union. Subversion had worn a smile and called itself liberty. The result? The collapse of unity. Chaos.
The dream twisted.
He saw her—Annie—smiling seductively, her figure graceful, eyes glinting like obsidian.
> "My name is Annie."
She was beautiful. Too perfect.
But her lips darkened. Her fingers elongated. Her eyes sharpened. The smile curled into something inhuman. She was no longer a woman—she was a witch.
She lunged.
> "Come with me to the West—or go meet Marx."
---
"Captain Andrei. Captain Andrei!"
Someone shook him.
Andrei's eyes opened to a gray blur. A man in a dark uniform stood over him. The insignia on his sleeve—a sword piercing through the red five-pointed star, sickle, and axe—was unmistakable.
KGB.
The Soviet State Security Committee. The very name conjured fear across the nation. Its reach was everywhere—from city blocks to military bases. In the wrong hands, a whisper from the KGB could end careers—or lives.
"Comrade Andrei," the man said with an unreadable smile, "we need your cooperation for an investigation. Please come with me."
The officer wasn't hostile. Behind him stood one of the base guards. It didn't feel like an arrest—but Andrei knew better than to resist. He washed up briefly, composed himself, and followed them to headquarters.
Inside, Commander Kozhedub greeted him with his usual stiff smile. Standing beside him was another KGB man—this one wearing a major's insignia.
"Comrade Andrei," the man began, his voice formal and dry. "I'm Major Serov, Second Directorate of State Security. I've been dispatched from Moscow to investigate the incident involving Captain Belenko's defection. We'll need your full cooperation."
The Second Directorate. Internal counterintelligence.
Andrei nodded. "Of course."
This was serious. The First Directorate handled foreign operations. The Second dealt with domestic threats—spies, traitors, and dissidents.
And now, they were here, digging through the wreckage of Belenko's last flight.
Even Kozhedub, who usually exuded confidence, seemed unusually reserved. Andrei said nothing, but one thing was clear:
This was far from over.
---