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Beneath the surface of the ocean, the RGB-12 rocket depth charges descended rapidly at a terminal speed of 6.85 meters per second. Like steel javelins, they plunged deeper and deeper until they reached the preset depth—800 meters.
There, an internal KDV timer triggered the detonation fuse.
"Boom!"
Each warhead, carrying 32 kilograms of high explosive, erupted in a violent underwater shock. The surrounding seawater surged under the force of the blasts, sending a pressure wave crashing toward the seabed. The shock flattened the area like an underwater earthquake. Had the water been shallower, waves would've surged across the surface.
In the sonar room aboard the Tashkent, the operator carefully listened to the echoes. Every single charge had detonated cleanly. The overlapping blasts were unmistakable—sharp, rhythmic, brutal. It was as if a Katyusha salvo had gone off beneath the sea. This wasn't precision targeting. It was area denial. That section of seafloor had just been obliterated.
Onboard the American ships, there was no immediate retaliation. No torpedoes fired. No shells launched. Just silence.
"Reload. Fire again!" Ilyich ordered without hesitation.
Per their plan, if the first salvo provoked American aggression, the Tashkent and her sister ship were to retreat immediately. But the Americans were still frozen in shock—perhaps unsure whether to consider the attack as escalation or a bluff. Ilyich took advantage of the hesitation and ordered a second barrage.
The Tashkent's RBU-1200 system, a compact and widely-used weapon among Soviet light warships, typically carried four reload sets. Within minutes, the second salvo was loaded and ready to fire.
But as the final rockets slid into place, the Americans finally responded.
The USS Cohen, steaming angrily forward, powered up and surged toward the Tashkent, intent on ramming or forcing a confrontation.
"Launch!" Ilyich shouted.
As the ten rockets roared skyward, trailing flame and black smoke, Ilyich gave a second order: "Hard to starboard!"
They had completed their mission. Time to disengage.
Meanwhile, the USS Perry—which had previously been engaged with the Tashkent's sister ship—altered course to intercept. The realization had struck the Americans like a hammer.
The Soviets weren't trying to recover the MiG-25. They had come to destroy it.
The depth charges were never about salvage. They were preemptive demolition.
"Call for air support—now!" Ilyich barked. The Soviets knew that this stunt had likely triggered a much larger American response. The Tashkent had no modern air defenses to rely on. If U.S. aircraft responded aggressively, they'd be in real trouble.
But Soviet support was already en route.
Flying low over the Sea of Japan, four MiG-25 fighter jets from the 513th Regiment screamed through the sky at supersonic speeds, afterburners blazing.
"027, 028—drop to low altitude and form a cover screen," Andrei's voice crackled through the comms. "034, you're with me up high. Maintain overwatch."
Recently promoted to deputy commander of the regiment, Andrei had taken his new role seriously, though without ego. He still considered himself, first and foremost, a pilot. A guardian of the sky. A soldier.
It just so happened that today was his scheduled patrol sortie with three wingmen. When the emergency signal from the Tashkent came through, they'd diverted immediately.
Thanks to their upgraded Sapphire-25 pulse-Doppler radar systems, the MiG-25s were able to detect low-altitude sea targets despite surface clutter. During the approach, Andrei caught a radar blip—an unusual concentration of vessels roughly thirty nautical miles north of the conflict area.
He frowned.
"Those aren't fishing boats," he muttered to himself. The signal was too dense. Too concentrated. Something wasn't right.
He had his doubts from the beginning. The Soviet ships had been clashing to the south of the suspected crash zone, but this new formation was well north—closer to the estimated location where the MiG-25 originally disappeared. Could the aircraft have drifted that far underwater? Unlikely.
Even the flight path didn't align. Belenko's aircraft had been heading east when it vanished. Logically, if it continued gliding underwater, it should've continued east—not south. And if this was a decoy operation, then the Soviets might have taken the bait.
Andrei keyed his mic again. "034, keep an eye on the airspace over the Japanese mainland. I'm descending to investigate."
He pushed the control stick forward, and his MiG-25 began a steep dive toward the unusual group of vessels.
The weather was ideal. Clear skies. Smooth seas.
And, as Andrei soon saw, two Japanese-flagged salvage vessels were already hard at work, suspended in coordinated lift operations. Cranes creaked and cables groaned. They had started at dawn, operating in near silence.
The conflict further south? A ruse.
And the Soviets had fallen for it.
The real recovery team had moved in unnoticed during the night. According to the chart, this section of seabed had been marked discreetly hours earlier, but no official announcement had followed. The Americans had waited for the Soviet warships to take the bait—then slipped in their divers.
Using rubber-clad deep-sea diving suits, they located the wreck. Fixing heavy-duty cables to the airframe, they now worked in tandem to slowly raise the prized fighter from the ocean floor.
Salvaging a 20-ton jet wasn't complex. Unlike a sunken freighter, no buoyancy tricks were needed. Just raw lifting power.
Locke, standing on the deck of one of the salvage vessels, watched the crane's steel cable tighten and rise. A slow, wet silhouette emerged from the sea. His plan had worked.
He couldn't help but feel some contempt for the senior officers back at the U.S. Japan Command. "Idiots," he thought. "They'd never have pulled this off without me."
Behind him, a young Air Force officer let out a cheer. "It's coming up!"
With a loud splash and a chorus of excited voices, the fighter broke the surface like a ghost rising from the deep. Its form was intact—save for the shattered canopy and missing ejection seat. Water poured from the intake ducts and fuselage, streaming back into the sea.
The MiG-25 stood tall: dual engines, dual vertical stabilizers, and massive rectangular air intakes. An icon of Soviet aviation, now ready to be picked apart by American engineers.
The secrets of the Soviet Union's fastest interceptor were about to become the West's newest advantage.
Andrei, still circling overhead, could only watch from afar as reality began to set in.
Something was very, very wrong.