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Inside the cockpit of his MiG-25, Andrei's gloved hands were damp with sweat. At Mach 3, the temperature inside reached over 70°C. The heat was stifling, but Soviet pilots were trained to endure much worse.
"The target is 300 kilometers out. Altitude 28,000 meters. Speed, Mach 3.2," the voice from the ground control echoed in his headset.
Three hundred kilometers might sound like a safe distance—but at these speeds, it was mere minutes. Worse, since both aircraft were on converging paths, Andrei would only have a two-minute window to act.
This was it. One chance. One shot.
"Radar on," Andrei muttered.
The Sapphire-25 radar in the MiG's nose flared to life. Its inverted Cassegrain antenna flooded the forward airspace with a 600-kilowatt electromagnetic pulse. The lights on his control panel flickered as power was diverted to the radar array. In moments, heat flooded the cabin.
It was like flying inside a furnace.
The nosecone, where the radar system was housed, radiated heat into the cockpit. The radar used vacuum tubes instead of solid-state electronics—powerful but inefficient, with most energy converted into heat. Cooling systems struggled to compensate.
Andrei squinted at the radar scope.
There.
A green pulse flashed on the screen. Target acquired.
He toggled the radar to single-pulse tracking mode. The system locked on, sending consistent pings that bounced off the target. Each return signal was processed by the analog fire-control computer, providing launch data for his R-40R radar-guided missiles.
A second passed. Then another. Forty kilometers.
"Lock confirmed. Requesting launch authorization," Andrei said firmly, thumb hovering over the fire button.
"Fire!" came the curt command from ground control.
He didn't hesitate.
Andrei jabbed the button. Beneath the MiG-25's wings, two R-40R radar-guided missiles and two R-40T infrared-guided missiles detached in sequence, their motors igniting with a thunderous roar.
Distance: twenty kilometers.
The massive R-40s were designed for one job—bringing down fast, high-altitude targets. They'd been upgraded for launch at supersonic speeds, with reinforced airframes and enhanced cooling for the infrared seekers.
But just as the missiles streaked ahead, an ominous red light blinked on the instrument panel.
"Radar overheating."
Andrei gritted his teeth.
He reached for the override switch and toggled the radar to low power, hoping to keep it alive long enough to guide the radar-seeking R-40Rs.
Too late.
The radar image blinked off the screen. The system had overheated and shut down entirely.
Without active radar illumination, the two R-40Rs instantly lost guidance. With no signal to follow, they became aimless projectiles. Both veered off course, spiraling wide and detonating far from the Blackbird—useless.
Andrei stared at the scope, now blank, frustration surging.
That left the R-40Ts—infrared-guided and still in flight.
Their seekers, cooled by liquid nitrogen, were tracking the immense heat radiating from the Blackbird's engines. Though not originally designed for head-on engagement, the searing temperatures generated by the SR-71's Mach 3 cruise made it a viable target, even from the front.
The R-40Ts raced ahead, trailing behind the radar-guided missiles but still on course. Their large infrared domes created more drag, but the MiG's launch speed had given them a serious boost—by now, they were pushing Mach 5.
With the SR-71 approaching head-on at over Mach 3, the closing speed exceeded Mach 8. At that rate, they'd cover twenty kilometers in under seven seconds.
Andrei knew this was his only shot. He had no gun. No backup weapons. Once these four missiles were gone, his MiG-25 had nothing but speed and metal.
He clenched the control stick. "Come on... just hit."
In the SR-71's rear seat, reconnaissance officer Topol spotted the bright trails on the monitor.
"Missiles inbound—confirmed launch!" he called out, his voice sharp.
Olmsted, calm behind the controls, barely flinched. "Stay focused. They won't hit us."
Even as he spoke, he pushed the throttle forward and adjusted the yoke to shift trajectory. The SR-71's massive twin J-58 engines surged, pushing the aircraft toward its maximum sustainable speed.
Behind them, the R-40Ts locked onto the boiling-hot exhaust of the Blackbird.
Andrei tracked the infrared signatures as long as he could, his heart pounding in rhythm with the engines.
He wasn't sure if they would make contact. The odds weren't on his side. The Blackbird was the pride of American aerospace—designed not to fight, but to never be caught.
And yet… for a moment, as the gap closed to single digits and the targeting system still showed lock, Andrei felt it—
The Blackbird was within reach.
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