---
No man can remain calm upon discovering his wife's family connections include the head of the Soviet Union's most feared organization. The mere idea sent a chill down Andrei's spine. It was enough to make a man imagine himself being dragged into the Lubyanka prison at night.
"It doesn't matter who surrounds me," Ekaterina said gently, her eyes meeting his. "As long as we're together, and our feelings are true—nothing else matters."
Andrei nodded slowly, but his thoughts swirled.
He recalled the details of Andropov's personal life from his memories—knowledge gained from a future that hadn't happened yet. The KGB chief had been married twice. His first wife, Nina Yangarecheva, had given birth to a daughter named Evgenia and a son, Vladimir. His second wife, Tatyana Filipovna, had two children as well—Igor and Irina.
Officially, Andropov's past was sealed behind the iron curtain of KGB archives. Yet, Andrei had been to the residential block on Kutuzovsky Street—reserved for the elite. That confirmed it. Irina, the daughter of Andropov's second marriage, must be the mother of little Ivan.
Which also meant: Irina was Ekaterina's "sister"—not by blood, but by a bond close enough to make Ivan her godson.
Everything fit.
And then there was Serov.
That smug little snake, a KGB major who had once accused Andrei of treason. It all made sense now—he must've known about Ekaterina's status and tried to eliminate his rival through underhanded means.
"Tell me, Katya," Andrei asked, voice steady but low. "Who is that Serov, really?"
Ekaterina's eyes narrowed. "He's the youngest son of General Semyon Tsvigun. He joined the KGB through family connections. I despise him."
She continued, bitterness creeping into her voice. "Because of him, I gave up a position at the First Central Hospital in Moscow. I left for Vladivostok to escape him."
Andrei's brows furrowed.
General Tsvigun. A powerful figure, first deputy chairman of the KGB and Brezhnev's brother-in-law. He wasn't just a top official—he was a man placed there to keep Andropov in check. It was the delicate balance of Soviet power: never give one man too much control. Especially not the KGB.
While Tsvigun was skilled and politically savvy, his youngest son was the opposite—entitled, arrogant, and morally bankrupt. He wore the uniform like a costume, rising through ranks not by merit but by name. Stories of his misconduct in Moscow were infamous.
The moment Serov had seen Ekaterina at a state reception, he'd tried to claim her. General Tsvigun had even approached Ekaterina's family to propose marriage on his son's behalf. Faced with this pressure, Ekaterina had done the only thing she could—leave Moscow entirely.
That same man had once tried to frame Andrei. If she hadn't intervened, he would've been hauled off and tortured. A Hero of the Soviet Union, disgraced and destroyed.
But none of that mattered now.
Warmth radiated from the woman in his arms. He held her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
"You're mine now, Ekaterina," he whispered. "No one will hurt you. Not him, not anyone. I'll protect you with everything I have."
Under the protective shadow of Andropov's influence, Serov no longer felt like a threat. Andrei wasn't naive—he knew how politics worked. But he also remembered how Tsvigun's career would end. In a few years, it would be Andropov who cleaned house.
Ekaterina had become more than his lover—she was his anchor. And now, perhaps, his path to changing the fate of a crumbling empire.
The door rattled with a sharp knock.
Ekaterina slipped from his arms, brushing her hair behind her ear as Andrei straightened up.
"Come in," he called.
A signals officer stepped in. "Lieutenant Colonel Andrei, the Far East Air Defense Force has issued an urgent order. You are to return immediately to the 513th Regiment."
Andrei's heart sank. Something had happened.
Was it the Americans?
He gave a brief nod, his mind already racing.
Far away, across the sea, at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, the Americans were making moves.
Kadena—established in 1944 and seized from Japan a year later—had become the U.S. Air Force's crown jewel in Asia. With runways long enough to land anything from C-5s to space shuttles, its strategic location allowed surveillance over Vietnam, China, and the Soviet Far East.
Now, the reinforced doors of a hangar opened with a low mechanical hum. Out of the shadows rolled a sleek, obsidian jet—an angular beast with twin vertical tails and a sharp, dagger-like nose. Liquid dripped from its titanium skin, evaporating on contact with the warm air.
This was the SR-71 Blackbird.
Designed by Lockheed's Skunk Works, the SR-71 was the pinnacle of American aerospace engineering—a machine capable of cruising at Mach 3 and altitudes above 85,000 feet. The Soviets had never once managed to shoot one down.
Its sleek body seemed to shimmer, heatproof tiles stretching and sealing only when flying at full speed. Until then, it leaked fuel and fluids—by design. A machine meant for the edge of space, and it was being prepped for a new mission.
A mission directed eastward.
The sky was about to burn again.
---