Chapter 116 – Return to Kamenei Ruchiy
"Captain Andre, the photos are all developed—and the clarity is excellent."
At Kamenei Ruchiy base, the MiG-25R reconnaissance plane that had landed first had its photographic film processed in record time. As Andre returned and dismounted from his fighter, an officer handed him a stack of fresh prints. In one of them, Andre's massive MiG-25 soared directly over the deck of the American aircraft carrier. Though the angle didn't catch the lowered landing gear, it showed sailors below scattering in panic, heads ducked and limbs flailing. It was a masterpiece.
"Good work," Andre nodded with a grin. "Now let's send these to the Americans."
"Captain... will the higher-ups even approve of that?" Alexander asked, hesitant.
Technically, Andre had violated operational protocols. On the return flight, he and Alexander had swept in at ultra-low altitude over the U.S. carrier. That stunt had provoked a retaliatory launch of anti-aircraft missiles and Tomcat fighters. It could easily be classified as reckless insubordination.
But Andre was unfazed. He had allies—namely Andropov and Ustinov. Especially Ustinov. If the defense minister saw these photos, he'd likely slap his knee in delight. A MiG-25 humiliating an American carrier group was the kind of aggressive bravado he respected. Soviet strength, after all, had to be demonstrated.
Andre planned to submit a full report. He had no doubt that the Far East Military Command would quietly cheer. He imagined the reaction on the Kitty Hawk when that photo arrived by diplomatic pouch—sailors scattering, frozen in a perfect moment of airborne dominance.
"If only we had the internet," Andre muttered. "We'd have gone viral."
"Hey—what's that?" Alexander pointed toward the far end of the runway.
A new aircraft was touching down. It had a sleek, narrow body, dual engines, and a distinctive green radome on its nose. The single vertical tail stood tall above the fuselage. If not for the color and rounder contours, it might've resembled a later-generation Chinese J-8. But Andre recognized it instantly.
"Su-15," he said. "Sukhoi's twin-engine interceptor."
He hadn't expected one here. Kamenei Ruchiy was a heavy aviation base, primarily hosting Tu-95s and other long-range aircraft. There were no frontline fighters based here—at least not until now.
The landing was smooth. The main wheels touched down first, followed by the front gear after a short roll. The drag chute billowed open, fluttering behind like a signal flag. The pilot was skilled—clean, textbook landing.
"Let's take a look," Andre said, his curiosity piqued.
They approached the aircraft as the canopy popped open and a tall pilot climbed down, visibly fatigued.
"Hey, comrade. Which unit are you from?" Andre asked casually. "I'm with the 513th."
"Soviet Hero? Commander Andre?" the pilot blinked in surprise. "You're the Andre? The pride of our air defense?"
Andre chuckled. "Depends who you ask."
The pilot saluted. "Osipovich, 592nd Regiment, 19th Army, Tbilisi. We're redeploying to Sakhalin. I arrived ahead of the regiment."
Andre nodded. So, a whole Su-15 regiment was being stationed in the Far East? That meant something serious was unfolding. Sakhalin already had three interceptor regiments under the 24th Air Defense Division. Reinforcing it with another unit from Georgia hinted at rising tensions.
But Andre knew better than to ask. In the military, knowledge of sensitive redeployments without a need-to-know was a liability.
"Comrade Osipovich, welcome to the Far East," Andre said. "Let's defend the skies of the motherland—together."
"To defend our skies," Osipovich echoed with a grin.
Neither of them realized just how literal those words would become.
The MiG-25s at Kamenei Ruchiy were soon refueled and readied for return to Chuguyevka. Andre's regiment was based in Vladivostok, after all. This was just a temporary sortie.
But aboard the USS Kitty Hawk, the fallout was still unfolding.
Two hours after the aerial encounter, the carrier's SAR helicopter returned with the downed Tomcat crew—wet, cold, but alive. William stood before Colonel Ted and Captain Steve, posture rigid and face drawn.
"I wasn't shot down by a MiG," he reported flatly. "It was an engine failure."
He recounted his failed attempt to bait the MiG-25 into low altitude. The plan had worked—briefly. But as soon as he tried to pull out of the dive, the TF30 gave up. Compressor stall. Engine fire. Ejection.
Colonel Ted's face was impassive.
"You forgot the limitations of your aircraft," he said coldly. "Flying means knowing your machine. The TF30 has to be handled like a newborn—gently. Until we get a better engine, we fly what we have."
William lowered his gaze.
"You've got guts. But the sky doesn't care. Next time, if there is a next time, forget heroics. Stick to what the plane can do. Or else—retire early."
The reprimand was firm—but not unfair. William had let his pride run ahead of his jet. And Andre had danced circles around him.
Outside, the Pacific wind howled past the hull of the Kitty Hawk. Somewhere out there, the MiG-25s were already back in Soviet airspace, refueled and grinning.