---
Kutuzovsky Street, Building 26.
"Uncle Andrei!"
As soon as he crossed the gate, a small voice rang out. A little boy came sprinting out of the two-story house with arms wide open.
So, this was his home. Andrei smiled, bent down, and scooped the child up into the air. The boy laughed, delighted. Moments later, a warm-faced woman stepped outside, her eyes lighting up as she saw the guests.
"Ekaterina!" she greeted, embracing her like a sister. "And this must be Comrade Andrei? I must say, our dear Ekaterina has excellent taste."
"Thank you," Andrei said, smiling as he held Ivan aloft again. Ekaterina's easy command of respect from Irina—especially how she had managed to keep a KGB major at bay—now made more sense. This woman had strong backing.
From the moment they entered the residential zone, Andre noticed the subtle signs. Armed soldiers guarded the entrance. IDs were checked. The area was quiet, almost too quiet. The house itself was a well-maintained two-story villa, decorated in a Tsarist-era style that seemed preserved from another time. If it wasn't a confiscated noble estate, it had certainly once belonged to someone important.
Upstairs, portraits of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin adorned the walls. The sunlight coming through the tall windows illuminated a calm, scholarly-looking man seated on the sofa. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, his hair touched with grey, and his expression held the dignity of someone who once lectured students but now advised higher offices.
"Hello, Uncle," Ekaterina greeted with genuine deference, bowing her head slightly.
The man raised his eyes and smiled. "Ah, my little Nana is back." Then, turning his attention to Andrei: "You must be the young pilot everyone's been talking about. Welcome, Comrade Andrei. The Soviet Union needs men like you."
"Thank you, sir," Andrei replied. "It's an honor."
"Irina, Ekaterina—dinner, please. Ivan, go help them," the man said casually. Then he turned to Andrei. "Let's you and I talk."
There was something final in his tone. Ekaterina hesitated for a second, gave Andrei an uneasy glance, but followed the instruction without protest.
"Come, sit here," the older man gestured to the sofa beside him. "You've made quite the impression on the Party leadership. Your recent actions stirred much interest."
Andrei took the offered seat. "As a pilot of the Air Defense Forces, it was my duty to act in the interest of our country. Under the circumstances, there was no other choice."
The man nodded, clearly aware of the full story. "You intercepted the defector. You protected the integrity of our military assets. And you did so with clarity of mind and loyalty. That deserves recognition."
"Thank you, sir."
"Relax, Andrei. There are no informants here, no superiors watching. Just two patriots speaking freely. Tell me—how did it come to this? How could a pilot like Belenko, with excellent training and strong ideological background, simply defect?"
Andrei leaned back, collecting his thoughts. "It wasn't just one factor. The official report focused on external manipulation—an American spy who seduced him. And yes, she was involved. But that alone didn't drive him to betray his country. The roots were deeper."
"I agree," the man said. "No one changes course so drastically over a romance."
"Belenko was deeply disillusioned," Andrei continued. "Even during our training days under Colonel Sarsk, he saw favoritism, incompetence, and indifference. Unqualified personnel were promoted through connections. Alcohol abuse was widespread. Maintenance staff who couldn't repair even the simplest systems were still assigned to critical posts. He thought things would improve in the operational unit. They didn't."
"So, when a foreign agent dangled a romanticized vision of the West…"
"He fell," Andrei finished. "Not just for her. But for the idea of escaping what he saw as systemic rot."
The old man nodded again, steepling his fingers. "That rot… it's spreading."
There was a pause. Andrei didn't speak, unsure how far he could go.
"You can speak freely," the man said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "This house is secure. The ears of the Party don't reach into these walls. I want to know your thoughts, Andrei. On the system. On where we are headed."
Andrei hesitated again.
The room was quiet, except for the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen. He thought of Serov—the KGB major who had tried to destroy him. That was the kind of man who thrived in this environment.
"Our people are no longer the people of the Great Patriotic War," Andrei said finally. "The fire has faded. Bureaucracy has taken over. Nepotism and careerism rule the military. The sense of collective purpose is eroding."
He took a breath. "Brezhnev's stagnation is real. The generation in power now… they're too comfortable. Too removed."
The old man did not interrupt.
"If there's a way forward," Andrei continued, "it has to come from within. From those who still believe in the ideals this country was built on. But if nothing changes, if things continue like this… I fear more people like Belenko will follow the same path."
The older man gave a small nod, eyes sharp. "You've seen the disease. That's important."
There was silence again. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the portraits of dead revolutionaries.
"I am too old to fight these battles anymore," the man said finally. "But you… you still have decades ahead of you. Don't lose that fire, Comrade Andrei. We need officers like you."
Andrei rose respectfully. "I will remember your words."
At that moment, Irina called from the kitchen: "Dinner is ready!"
As Andrei walked toward the dining room, he glanced back once. The man on the sofa stared straight ahead, unmoving. A thinker. A realist. Perhaps even a dissident—but one who knew the game well enough to survive in Moscow.
Ekaterina was waiting with a soft smile and a warm plate.
"Everything alright?" she asked under her breath.
Andrei smiled. "Yes. I think I just saw a glimpse of the future."
---