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"Watch your lateral spacing, Kawasaki—slow down!" one of the crewmen shouted over the radio.
The two salvage ships were moving nervously in tandem as they attempted one of the most delicate parts of the operation: transferring the salvaged MiG-25 fighter jet onto the rear deck of one of the vessels. This required precise coordination—one ship had to slow while the other adjusted position, keeping the wreck balanced in the sling hoisted between them.
But the ocean was never still. The cranes swayed, the cables groaned under tension, and every wave threatened to throw their alignment off. One wrong move, and the two ships could collide—risking the destruction of the very asset they'd just recovered.
Locke stood at the edge of the deck, arms crossed. His face was unreadable, but internally, he felt the work was nearly finished. The difficult part—the planning, deception, and underwater recovery—was done. If these crews couldn't manage the final phase without incident, they didn't belong in this line of work.
Suddenly, a deafening roar echoed across the sea.
Locke instinctively looked skyward—and froze.
A massive aircraft streaked overhead, low and fast. He saw the twin vertical stabilizers and massive air intakes immediately. His stomach dropped.
A MiG-25. Soviet.
"Alert! The Soviets are here!" Locke shouted, voice rising over the wind and steel.
The salvage operation had been covert for a reason. No escorting warships, just two civilian-flagged salvage vessels. They had hoped the Soviet frigates, now drawn away to the south, wouldn't return in time. And yet, here came the Soviet Air Force.
On the decks below, panic rippled through the crews. One of the salvage vessels suddenly rocked to the side, its bow veering toward the other. The boom carrying the suspended MiG-25 swayed dangerously.
If the two ships collided, the damage wouldn't just be to the hulls—it would be to the fighter hanging between them. The priceless wreck could be crushed or snapped in half.
"Hold it steady!" someone screamed from below.
Despite the chaos, the captains held their nerves. Years of experience paid off, and they managed to correct their positions at the last possible second. The ships stabilized.
The Soviet fighter shrieked overhead, barely missing the top of the masts. The wind turbulence nearly knocked Locke off his feet.
"Sokolovka, Sokolovka, this is 032. Situation has changed. I have visual confirmation of American salvage operations. Belenko's aircraft has been recovered!" Andre's voice crackled over the radio as he climbed and banked to circle around.
Back at the Soviet airbase, the response came quickly.
"032, destroy Belenko's fighter. Immediately."
"Roger that," Andre replied.
His adrenaline surged. There was no time for politics now. The two Soviet frigates were over fifty nautical miles away—chased off by American naval forces. Reinforcements wouldn't arrive in time.
The Americans could have fighters in the air within minutes from Hokkaido. That gave Andre less than ten minutes to complete his mission.
He pushed the MiG-25 into a high-speed climb, then flipped the jet into a steep dive.
Belenko's plane must not be recovered intact.
The target was practically stationary. The MiG-25 wreck was suspended above the sea between two salvage ships. Its engines were cold. Its systems inert. There was no heat signature for the missiles to lock onto—no radar reflection to guide a strike.
Andre checked his weapons: two R-40 long-range air-to-air missiles and four smaller R-60s. He had no anti-ship ordnance. No rockets. Just missiles designed for dogfighting.
Still, he had an idea.
He'd seen American pilots in Vietnam use similar tactics when their radar-guided missiles failed: firing Sidewinders as if they were unguided rockets.
Andre decided to do the same.
He disengaged the seekers, switched to visual attack mode, and lined up manually. Four R-60s armed and ready—aimed not at the salvage ships, but at the fighter suspended between them.
His crosshairs settled, finger tensed.
The salvage crews saw the MiG-25 banking hard toward them, flames flickering beneath the wings.
"Missiles! He's launching!" a sailor screamed.
"Let go of the cable! Kawasaki, cut the ropes!" Locke shouted. His instincts were razor sharp. He knew the MiG-25 couldn't carry anti-ship missiles, and the incoming warhead wasn't aimed at them—it was aimed at the wreck.
But in panic, anything could go wrong. The MiG was still suspended mid-air. If the two ships collided or jerked the wreck too hard, it could shear apart.
Kawasaki responded immediately, rushing to release the sling. The order came just seconds too late.
Four R-60 missiles streaked toward the target, leaving white trails across the sky.
Three overshot—whizzing past the masts and splashing harmlessly into the sea.
The fourth struck home.
Its proximity fuze detonated just meters from the suspended wreck. A storm of shrapnel tore through the air. The missile's fragmentation warhead, made of steel rods, lacerated the exposed fuselage of the MiG-25, just as the sling was finally released.
The cable detached.
The fighter, now hanging on one side, swung violently in a low arc like a steel pendulum.
But it didn't break.
Locke watched, teeth clenched. The jet, despite the blast, remained structurally intact—if only barely. Smoke rose from its side, and paint had been scorched off, but the frame was whole.
"Get us moving! Back to base!" he shouted. There was no time to lower the aircraft onto the deck now.
The salvage ship surged forward with the fighter still hanging from the crane, dragging through the air like a crippled bird.
Locke checked his watch. "Three minutes. Just hold out three more minutes."
If they could make it just a few more miles, their own fighter escort would arrive—and the Soviet skies would no longer be safe.
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