Chapter 123 – No Return
In the vast cold sky over Sakhalin, the night was pierced by a silent, merciless spiral of fire.
Flight KAL007, a civilian Boeing 747, once full of the soft murmur of passengers, had become a tumbling mass of shrieking metal and fire. The R-98 missile had done more than sever an engine—it had disfigured the wing root, ripping out critical fuel lines and flight surfaces. Jet fuel sprayed into the air and caught fire in the frigid wind, casting a flickering glow against the snow-covered ground far below.
In the cockpit, the captain fought the yoke, but the aircraft no longer listened.
"She's not responding! Flight controls are gone!" he shouted, as the cabin tilted wildly. The main driver was pale, mouth agape, one hand gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles turned white.
In the passenger cabin, oxygen masks danced in the chaos, swinging violently as overhead compartments burst open, flinging bags and coats through the air. Screams erupted, confusion and terror filled the cabin. Some passengers clutched their children, others bowed their heads and prayed. In the confusion, no one knew exactly what had happened—only that the end was coming fast.
The aircraft, its port wing mangled and burning, rolled to the left and entered a spiraling dive. It fell from 30,000 feet like a wounded bird, trailing debris and flame, its aluminum skin breaking apart from stress.
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Onboard the Su-15, Captain Osipovich watched grimly.
He had no joy in what he saw.
"Target rolling—falling rapidly. Breaking apart," he reported to ground control. His voice was steady. Trained. Professional. But his jaw was locked.
There had been no evasive action. No jamming. No flares. The aircraft had not dived or accelerated. He was starting to doubt—was this really a reconnaissance aircraft? Or had they made a grave mistake?
But the voice from the ground was calm. "You acted in accordance with orders, Comrade Captain. Return to base."
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At the Kamenei Ruchii base, ground control confirmed the radar echo of the airliner disintegrating at 18,000 feet. Moments later, the signal vanished from the radar screen entirely.
Silence fell in the control room.
No one cheered. No one spoke. Even the warmth from the radar equipment seemed to fade.
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In Moscow, a direct line call reached Ustinov's desk. The strike had succeeded.
The defense minister said nothing at first. He simply turned the receiver over in his hand, weighing it like it was the object that had struck down the airliner.
"Contact General Secretary Brezhnev. Inform him… it is done."
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The news would not be made public for another two days.
When it did, the world erupted.
Two hundred sixty-nine lives had been lost—men, women, children. Schoolteachers. Businessmen. Families. American citizens. South Koreans. A Congressman. One hundred forty-six South Koreans. Sixty-two Americans. Thirteen nationalities in total.
The Soviet Union had crossed a line no one expected.
And when the U.S. publicly disclosed the truth—that KAL007 had drifted into Soviet airspace, and been shot down with no warning that reached the aircraft—the world recoiled in horror.
Washington seethed. Tokyo mourned. Seoul raged.
In the Kremlin, silence reigned behind closed doors.
Inside the heart of the Soviet military and political establishment, there was no celebration. Only cold calculation, muted embarrassment, and fear—fear that this single act might become the spark.
Andrei would read about it two days later.
A blurred photograph in Pravda, buried near the back pages. "An unknown aircraft, flying provocatively toward Soviet airspace, was intercepted and brought down," the caption said.
There were no names. No admission.
But Andrei knew. He knew the silence was not guilt—it was preparation.
And this time, there would be no going back.