Chapter 122 – The Line Crossed
At 9:01 p.m. Moscow time, the R-98 missile streaked through the black sky over Sakhalin, its flame tail briefly illuminating the darkness like a falling star. It was silent from the ground, unnoticed by all but the soldiers in radar stations and the men in cockpits. For Captain Osipovich, the few seconds between launch and impact stretched like minutes.
He didn't see the explosion. He didn't have to. The missile's seeker had locked perfectly onto the left engine of the airliner — one of four heat sources blazing across the radar scope. The moment it struck, the 40-kilogram warhead detonated just ahead of the engine nacelle. The resulting shockwave sent hundreds of metal fragments shearing into the fuselage.
Inside Korean Air Lines Flight 007, everything went wrong in an instant.
There was a muffled thump, followed by the violent tremor of the airframe. In the cockpit, warning sirens screamed as the pressure indicators plummeted. Oxygen masks dropped from the cabin ceiling. Cabin lights flickered. The autopilot disengaged with a jolt.
"We're losing pressure!" the captain shouted, reaching for the emergency oxygen mask while trying to stabilize the aircraft. But the controls were sluggish. There was no power on the port side. Instruments were failing. The aircraft began to descend — slowly at first, then faster.
In the darkness, it was impossible to know what had happened — a mechanical failure? A freak collision? No one aboard could imagine the truth.
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Onboard the Su-15, Osipovich peered through his canopy. The aircraft's silhouette dipped, smoke trailing from its left wing.
"Hit confirmed. The target is damaged," he reported with terse professionalism. But a part of him hesitated. There had been no evasive action. No countermeasures. No attempt to flee.
He followed as the jetliner began a slow spiral downward. But its descent was oddly controlled — as though the pilots were still fighting, still trying to recover.
"Command, the target has not exploded. It is gliding," Osipovich added.
On the ground, Soviet commanders monitored the blip on their radar screens. It was still moving, still inside Soviet airspace, and heading for the strategic missile base near Dolinsk.
"Finish it," came the cold reply.
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At 9:05 p.m., the second R-98 missile launched from the Su-15's wing. This time, it slammed into the central fuselage, directly beneath the wings.
The explosion severed critical control lines and ruptured the pressurized cabin. The aircraft shuddered violently, then rolled to the right. From the outside, one could see fragments spiraling into the wind — bits of aluminum skin, a wingtip, a piece of internal structure.
Inside, chaos.
The passengers, many of them asleep minutes earlier, now clutched one another in terror. Flight attendants struggled to calm children. There was no time left.
At 9:08 p.m., the aircraft vanished from radar.
Korean Air Lines Flight 007 — carrying 269 souls — plunged into the frigid waters of the Sea of Japan, just west of Sakhalin.
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In Moscow, Marshal Ustinov sat quietly, staring at the report delivered into his hands. No cheers. No vindication. No fists pumped in victory. Only the silence of what had just occurred.
Behind his steel-rimmed glasses, his eyes narrowed. He slowly reached for the phone and dialed the secure line.
"General Secretary Brezhnev," he said, his voice flat. "We have a situation."