---
A flash split the sky.
From within the billowing fireball, a fighter jet suddenly burst forth—rising sharply into the air, engines roaring.
"Captain! You're alive!" the voice of 034 crackled with disbelief over the radio.
Andre exhaled sharply, his voice calm but tinged with adrenaline. "Of course I'm alive. All aircraft, return to base. Formation speed Mach 2.6, altitude twenty-four thousand!"
The MiG-25 lit its afterburners, climbing high into the clear morning sky. Moments later, the remaining three fighters from the 513th Regiment joined him in a tight diamond formation. Below them, the last American F-4s arrived—too late. They circled above the wreckage in frustration, watching a column of smoke rise from the shattered salvage ship.
Inside his oxygen mask, Andre was still catching his breath.
That was close. Too close.
But fate had handed him a final stroke of luck. Just as he was preparing for one last suicidal pass, the fire from the earlier missile strike had spread into the salvage ship's engine room. The ship's diesel reserves—dozens of tons of fuel oil—ignited in a violent chain reaction. The resulting explosion ripped the ship open at the stern, hurling engine parts and molten fuel skyward. The MiG-25 wreckage, still tethered behind the chimney, was engulfed in the blast and obliterated.
Mission accomplished.
Andre had pulled up just in time, narrowly avoiding the blast and the hail of metal shrapnel. He now flew high above the Sea of Japan, his mission complete and his mind still racing.
Back below, the Americans scrambled to contain the damage. One of the salvage vessels had been nearly torn in half. It took two full days before they could stabilize it and tow it back to port.
The Americans had failed to retrieve the MiG-25.
They had come to steal secrets—and left with nothing but burned fuel and twisted steel.
---
Back at the airbase, Andre's MiG coasted onto the tarmac and taxied toward the hangar. Ground crew waved him in. From the tower, Colonel Kozhedub sprinted to meet him, his boots thudding heavily on the concrete.
"Andre!" he called, out of breath. "You made it!"
The moment felt oddly surreal. Kozhedub, who was typically strict and reserved, was practically beaming.
Andre climbed down from the cockpit, helmet under his arm, and narrowed his eyes. "What's with the welcome party? Did I hit the wrong ship or something?"
"You did hit a salvage ship," Kozhedub said, not missing a beat. "But let's be honest—they had no business recovering Soviet military property in our waters."
Andre's face remained neutral. "Still… I might've stirred the pot too much. Could spark a diplomatic headache."
"Let them sweat," Kozhedub replied, smiling. "You, Lieutenant Colonel, are the pride of the Far Eastern Military District. Hitting a ship with an air-to-air missile? That's a first. Legendary stuff."
Andre raised an eyebrow. "So no reprimand? No dressing down?"
"Reprimand?" Kozhedub laughed. "You're the deputy commander of the 513th now. A hero of the skies. There's no reprimanding that."
At that moment, another officer stepped forward—Major Ivanov.
"Andre, there's more," Ivanov said, his tone more serious. "You're ordered to report to Moscow."
Andre blinked. "Already? My leave hasn't even started. What's going on?"
Ivanov grinned. "It's not for leave. It's to receive your decoration. Moscow is awarding you the title of Hero of the Soviet Union."
Andre froze.
Even for a seasoned pilot, those words hit hard. The highest honor the USSR could bestow—earned in battle, inscribed in gold.
Ivanov continued, his voice brimming with pride. "Your name will be etched in history, comrade. Alongside the best of the Red Air Force."
---
The title Hero of the Soviet Union was no small thing.
Established in 1934, it had been awarded to soldiers, scientists, and cosmonauts who performed legendary acts of service. Since 1939, it came with three symbols of honor: the Order of Lenin, a Gold Star Medal, and a certificate from the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet.
The medal itself—crafted from over 90% pure gold, a solid five-pointed star—was worn with pride by legends. The red silk ribbon represented the revolutionary flag. Each medal was numbered, forever linking the hero to a place in Soviet memory.
During World War II, the title was awarded widely. Pilots in particular had earned a lion's share of them, with the very first heroes being Soviet aviators like Vodopyanov. But in modern times, especially during the Cold War, the title had become rare.
Fewer than five were awarded each year.
To earn one now—outside of full-scale war—was nearly unheard of.
Even more remarkable, a few individuals had been awarded the title multiple times. Marshal Zhukov and even Brezhnev himself had four each, though the latter's reputation was marred by vanity and self-glorification. Still, the title carried weight—a deep, symbolic connection to Soviet identity and pride.
Andre had never chased medals.
He flew for his country. For the men under his command. And now… maybe for Ekaterina too.
But hearing it now—Hero of the Soviet Union—he couldn't deny the swell of pride in his chest.
He looked over at Kozhedub and Ivanov. "So... Moscow, then?"
"Yes," Ivanov said with a grin. "Pack your bags, Comrade Hero. You'll be wearing gold."
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