---
The result of the first strike had been disappointing.
Andre's salvo of four R-60 missiles, fired unguided like glorified rockets, had mostly missed. Only one detonated close enough to scatter shrapnel across the suspended MiG-25, but the damage was superficial. The aircraft remained hanging between the salvage ships—scorched, but intact. And now, it was being winched back aboard at full speed.
Visually, the hit had looked dramatic, but in practice, it had been little more than a glancing blow.
As Andre leveled his MiG-25 for another pass, his time was running out. The three other Soviet fighters were racing to join him, but they were still several minutes away. Meanwhile, American air response was imminent.
This had to end now.
Andre toggled his weapons switch to the remaining armament: two R-40s.
Soviet missile tech had its weaknesses. Their semi-active radar-guided versions were notoriously poor in performance. That's why Andre always flew with at least one infrared-guided R-40T. While far less capable than the American AIM-54 Phoenix—whose range exceeded 100 kilometers—the R-40T still packed a devastating 55-kilogram warhead and could home in on heat sources with brutal efficiency.
And right now, the target ahead—billowing black smoke from its engines, trailing an exposed, swaying MiG-25—offered the perfect infrared signature.
As long as the salvage ship didn't change course abruptly, Andre had a clear shot. The fighter was trailing just behind the ship's chimney. If he aimed at the heat source, the explosion might engulf both.
There was no hesitation. Andre committed.
If this failed, he'd ram his MiG straight into the target. Eight tons of aviation fuel would ensure neither the fighter nor the salvaged wreck survived.
Enough was enough.
Andre pushed the stick, banking right. His MiG-25 rolled into a long arc before settling into position directly behind the fleeing salvage ship.
"This is on you," he muttered under his breath, locking onto the plume of heat rising from the chimney.
Using the TP-26-SH1 FLIR system, Andre tracked the target and relayed its position to the R-40's infrared seeker. Once locked, he pressed the trigger.
The first missile screamed off the rail, trailing smoke.
Three seconds later, he launched the second.
At a range of less than two kilometers, both missiles had more than enough propellant left to strike with full force. If even one connected, the MiG-25 wreck was finished.
On the deck of the salvage ship, Locke saw the launch.
"Hard left! Now!" he barked.
The vessel began to turn, hoping to throw off the missile's trajectory. But with a lumbering crane and a 20-ton aircraft still swinging mid-air, evasive maneuvers were limited at best.
Too late.
The first missile hit.
It struck the chimney directly, triggering a deafening explosion. Flames erupted skyward as the massive exhaust stack shattered. Steel rained down across the deck.
But—amazingly—the MiG-25 was still there.
The sudden turn had swung the aircraft wide, just enough to pull it out of the explosion's center. The missile had passed under it by a meter or two, detonating against the ship instead. The wreck, scorched and listing in its sling, remained mostly whole.
Andre growled in frustration. Then the second missile hit.
This time, the MiG-25 had swung back into alignment—directly in the path of the second warhead.
Boom!
The explosion tore into the aircraft mid-fuselage. The stainless-steel frame buckled under the pressure, cracking nearly in two. The airframe groaned as supports failed, cables snapped, and scorched panels peeled away. Still, the wreck hung on, defying destruction.
Andre clenched the stick tighter. It wasn't enough.
He needed to finish this.
His fighter arced back for one final approach. He could see the damage—sheets of scorched metal flapping like wings, fuselage bent, canopy gone. But the core structure remained. American engineers might still extract something valuable.
That couldn't be allowed.
He looked out across the sea, past the burning salvage ship. Flames licked the sky from the ruined chimney, reflecting off the waves. In his headset, a voice crackled.
"Commander Andre, what are you doing?"
It was 034, one of the Soviet fighters that had just arrived on the scene. His wingman had seen the entire strike from afar.
"Commander, abort! You're too close!"
Andre didn't reply.
One thought consumed him: If I ram the wreck, will I return?
A strange calm settled over him. Maybe this was his ticket back to where he belonged. Or maybe it was just the end. But either way, he had no regrets.
He thought briefly of Ekaterina.
Would she understand?
Would she forgive him?
Andre turned once more, lining up the broken hulk of the MiG-25 in his HUD. The salvage ship had stopped maneuvering. Flames and confusion ruled the deck. There would be no more tricks.
034's voice rose in panic. "Andre! Don't do this! You'll—"
A thunderclap cut him off.
A final explosion engulfed the wreck.
Whether it was the missile's residual fuel, an onboard charge, or secondary detonation from damaged components, the result was the same: a roiling fireball consumed the suspended MiG-25. Shards of metal spun through the smoke. Parts of the fuselage rained into the sea.
034, watching from above, went silent.
Everything vanished into a curtain of flame.
Was Andre inside it?
Or had he pulled away at the last second?
No one could say.
---