---
"From the island nation?" Ustinov's eyes sharpened like a steel blade. "How would we go about that?"
Andrei didn't hesitate. "With the sword in our hands. Take it—from the Americans."
Ustinov leaned in. It wasn't a subtle suggestion. Andrei was proposing war. Not some proxy conflict, not political subversion, but a direct military strike in the Far East. Take the island nation, seize its advanced electronics industry, and transplant it back to the Soviet Union.
To any other official, such an idea would sound delusional—insanity. This was the Cold War. Any move against Japan would trigger an American military response. And once the dominoes fell, it wouldn't be long before missiles flew and the world burned.
But Ustinov wasn't just any official. He was the man who would later throw his full weight behind the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. A hardliner. A hawk. A man who saw confrontation as inevitable, and war as a tool of strategy.
Andrei pressed on. "If we move fast, we could catch the Americans off-guard. Even if we don't hold the island long-term, we can extract what matters—industrial infrastructure, technology, and skilled workers. Relocate them to the mainland. Reinforce our own systems with theirs."
He wasn't sure why he said it. The thought had sparked, wild and unfiltered, and leapt from his lips before he could rein it in. Perhaps it was frustration—his knowledge of the Soviet Union's slow, inefficient march toward modernization. Perhaps it was personal. He'd served in the Far East. He'd seen the technological gap firsthand. And maybe—just maybe—there was a touch of old hatred buried in his blood, shaped by memories of war and legacy.
Regardless, it was said. Andrei watched Ustinov carefully.
To his surprise, the Marshal didn't scoff. Instead, he folded his hands behind his back and nodded slowly. "It's bold. Very bold. But bold ideas are what we need."
He circled to the window, gazing toward the gray skyline of Moscow. "Comrade Andrei, your perspective is valuable. The Supreme Council will take it into consideration."
Andrei stood and saluted. "I serve the Soviet Union."
The meeting ended. As he stepped out of Ustinov's office, Andrei's heart pounded—not from fear, but from a strange exhilaration. He had captured the attention of one of the most powerful men in the Union. In a system where pilots typically flew their entire careers without political impact, this was rare. He'd risen, quickly—and dangerously.
But such ascents came with a price. The deeper you climbed, the less oxygen there was.
Outside, the sun was shining. The copper dome of the Kremlin gleamed overhead. Andrei paused, breathing in the warm air, letting the gravity of the moment settle.
Then came the sound of approaching engines—multiple black Volga sedans, their license plates unmistakably KGB. The sleek chrome grilles shimmered like polished masks. The cars pulled up with a precise stop, and from one of the center vehicles, a small group of officials stepped out, all dressed in gray overcoats, briefcases in hand.
And from the middle car emerged a man Andrei recognized instantly.
The older gentleman adjusted his thick glasses and looked straight at him. It was Elena's father—the quiet, intellectual man from the dinner the night before. Andrei was stunned. What was he doing here—arriving in a KGB vehicle? His mind raced.
The man approached, eyes calm, expression unreadable. He stopped before Andrei and glanced at the fresh medal on his chest.
"Good work, young man. Keep it up," the older man said, his voice even.
"Thank you, comrade. I serve the Soviet Union." Andrei responded instinctively with a sharp salute.
The man gave a faint nod and turned, walking with his entourage into the Kremlin.
Behind him, a few of the other Hero recipients had just exited their own receptions. One of them, a middle-aged pilot with two Gold Stars on his chest, let out a low whistle.
"Well, look at that. Andrei's got the attention of the KGB chairman himself," he muttered, half in admiration, half in envy.
"KGB chairman?" Andrei repeated, still trying to piece it together.
"Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov," said another, eyes wide. "The head of the Committee for State Security. You didn't know?"
Andrei's breath caught. No wonder the man carried himself with such quiet authority. No wonder Ekaterina had warned him not to speak openly the night before. Andropov wasn't just a senior official—he was one of the most powerful men in the USSR, second only to Brezhnev and the Politburo elite. And in time—Andrei knew from history—he would become General Secretary of the Communist Party, even if only briefly.
So that's who Elena's family really was. That's who had been listening as Andrei voiced dangerous truths in a dining room filled with marble and portraits of Marx and Lenin.
The pieces were falling into place.
Andrei turned and began walking. The path before him was clearer now—and more perilous. He wasn't just a pilot anymore. He was a marked man in the Soviet chessboard, admired by the military, noted by the Party, and now acknowledged by the shadowy hands of the KGB.
Whether that would be his rise or his ruin, only time would tell.
---