The Far East Military District headquarters sat hundreds of kilometers away in Khabarovsk. Andrei would never have guessed that its top brass would come to a small forward base like Sokolovka in person. If they were here, it could only be for one reason: the MiG-25 that Belenko had taken west—and that Andrei had sent into the sea.
He knew how serious the defection attempt was. By now even General Secretary Brezhnev would have been briefed.
"The man standing before us is a hero of the Far East Military District," Lieutenant General Konstantin Boermann said, his wide, sharp eyes fixed on Andrei with an intensity that felt both approving and appraising.
"Lieutenant Colonel Andrei," added General Ivan Trechyanko, commander of the district, "you personally shot down Belenko and prevented the Americans from compromising our most advanced interceptor. On behalf of the district, I commend your judgment and courage."
Lieutenant colonel?
Andrei blinked. He had only just been promoted to captain. How had he vaulted two grades in a day?
Kozhedub, grinning as if he had never heard of the KGB, supplied the answer: "In view of your outstanding service, your rank has been elevated to lieutenant colonel. You are also appointed commander of the 3rd Squadron of the 513th Aviation Regiment—and deputy commander of the regiment."
Deputy commander. It felt surreal. Last night he had nearly been hauled to Moscow in handcuffs; today he was being rocketed upward. In the Cold War, he might well be the only Soviet fighter pilot who had shot down an American aircraft—and he had done it twice. If Moscow wasn't afraid of political backlash, promoting him made sense.
And yet unease tugged at him. He felt like a piece on a chessboard—claimed by one side, contested by another. The KGB wanted him in chains, the military wanted him decorated. That meant only one thing: he was in the middle of someone else's power struggle.
"Andrei?" Kozhedub's voice pulled him back. "Recount the Belenko shootdown for the commanders."
Andrei did, calmly and precisely. The generals listened, stone-faced, absorbing every detail. Their presence wasn't about pinning medals. It was about understanding the battlefield—and what came next. A single mismanaged incident could hand the Americans the MiG-25's secrets or escalate a standoff into a shooting war.
When he finished, Trechyanko's brow creased. "So the MiG-25 did not explode before it hit the water?"
"No, Comrade General," Andrei replied. "I intended to fire again, but American fighters closed in. I had to engage them."
"Then the Americans will try to raise it," Boermann said. "It's barely a hundred nautical miles from Hokkaido. The situation is… not ideal."
A staff officer hurried in. "Comrades, the reconnaissance photographs are developed."
Prints were spread across the desk. The shapes of sonar survey vessels and a salvage ship were unmistakable.
"They're moving fast," Trechyanko said, frowning. "And not alone."
"Our signals monitoring also shows the U.S. Seventh Fleet has dispatched two surface combatants from Yokosuka," the staff officer added.
Andrei spoke up before checking himself. "Has the carrier sailed?"
The officer shot him a quick glance—irritated at the breach of protocol—but answered. "No. No carrier deployment detected. A Charles F. Adams–class destroyer and an unidentified frigate."
For Andrei, that was crucial. The only real aerial predator of the MiG-25 was the U.S. Navy's F-14 Tomcat—fast, agile, and deadly at all altitudes, packing the long-range AIM-54 Phoenix missile designed to kill high-speed interceptors. But the Tomcat required carriers capable of operating large, heavy fighters. The Seventh Fleet's resident carrier was the USS Midway—a World War II veteran modernized with an angled deck, but still limited. It had supported the Vietnam War right up through the previous year, but it wasn't built to handle F-14s. It flew A-6s and would later fly F/A-18s—but not Tomcats.
Unless the Americans brought in a newer carrier, the Soviet MiG-25s wouldn't face Phoenix missiles here.
Besides, the Sea of Japan was narrow enough that land-based fighters and bombers dominated. Any carrier in the area would be constantly under threat from Soviet aviation. The U.S. presence there was more symbolic deterrence than operational necessity.
So with no carrier launched, the crisis was serious—but still manageable.
"We cannot allow them to recover that wreck," Boermann said quietly. "If they do, they will measure every panel and rivet, understand our radar, learn our weaknesses. The fear they feel now—that is worth as much as the aircraft itself."
Trechyanko nodded. "The reconnaissance confirms their intent. Our next move must be precise. Escalation risks everything. Hesitation loses everything else."
Andrei stood at attention, waiting for orders—aware that for all the promotion and applause, he had just been conscripted into a much larger game. One misstep could set the sea ablaze—or hand the Americans the crown jewel of Soviet air defense.
He wasn't sure which outcome the men in Moscow feared more. But he knew which one he wouldn't allow.
Not while he was still flying.