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The SR-71 banked lazily—if one could call it that at Mach 3.2. Its turn radius spanned hundreds of kilometers. But Lieutenant Colonel Olmsted was unfazed. He had full faith in the Blackbird's speed and altitude to outrun any threat.
Behind him, the final two missiles surged past, trailing bright arcs through the air. One veered wide, the other detonated midair—close, but still off by hundreds of meters.
A split second later, the second pair of missiles reached lethal distance and triggered their warheads.
Each R-40T carried nearly 40 kilograms of explosive mass and a rod-type fragmentation charge—designed to scatter deadly shards across a wide radius. But even that wasn't enough. The Blackbird, already pushing toward Mach 3.5, had left the blast zone in a blur.
"Still intact," Topol muttered in the rear cockpit, exhaling sharply. Sweat traced a line down his spine. Even seasoned as he was, the brief encounter had felt like a lifetime.
The fragments hadn't caught up.
The missiles had locked on. The infrared seekers had worked. But the guidance systems were simply too slow to adjust at Mach 8 closing speeds. When the rudders shifted, it was already too late. The missile assumed it could shift its control surface in time—but its tiny delay meant it was already past the target.
In these speeds, milliseconds mattered.
If the response rate had been faster—if the analog circuits had even a slight upgrade—the result could've been different. But they weren't. They couldn't be. Not yet.
Andre pushed forward, climbing in pursuit of the vapor trail. For a brief moment, he saw it clearly.
The SR-71.
No longer black. At such speeds, its titanium skin shimmered pale blue from the intense friction with the air. A streak of heat and light.
And then it was gone.
Vanished into the upper sky like a ghost.
Interception failed.
Back on the ground at Sokolovka, Colonel Ivanov was livid. He stood before the gathered pilots, his voice rising with frustration.
"The Air Defense Command has given the order," Ivanov growled. "No more warnings. That thing must be shot down—no matter what. Even if it means collision, the Blackbird cannot be allowed to leave our skies unharmed."
It was a tall order. An impossible one, perhaps.
"They're not even sneaking in at night anymore," he continued. "They come boldly, under full daylight. Investigating our bases with impunity! Where is our deterrence?"
The room fell quiet.
Andrei, freshly out of his high-altitude suit, sat at the table, arms crossed, calm despite the heat still radiating from his body.
"Our current weapons aren't enough," he said simply.
The others turned to look at him.
"Missiles can't do it," he continued. "Not at these speeds. Not with our electronics. We can't track and intercept targets moving at over 1,000 meters per second. Our fire-control systems are too slow. Our seekers too crude. It doesn't matter if we fire from twenty kilometers or two—our guidance can't keep up."
No one interrupted.
Andrei's tone was measured. Not boastful. Not critical. Just fact.
He leaned forward. "There is one option. Retrofit my aircraft with twin underwing autocannons."
The room blinked at him in confusion.
"Cannons?" Ivanov echoed, skeptical.
Andrei nodded. "Yes. Guns."
He let the word settle.
"Missiles are clean and precise—when they work. But at these speeds, they don't. Our tracking systems lag. If I can close the distance with the Blackbird and match speeds, then I don't need advanced electronics. I need raw firepower."
"But the MiG-25 doesn't carry guns," another officer pointed out. "It wasn't designed for it. It's an interceptor."
Andrei knew this well. "Correct. It was built to shoot down bombers—large, slow targets. The R-40 was perfect for that role. But now we're chasing a reconnaissance aircraft faster than anything we've faced. The cannon was dropped to save weight. That decision made sense… until now."
He stood and gestured toward the chalkboard at the back of the room.
"The MiG-21, MiG-23—they still carry cannons. But the MiG-25 doesn't. Because in theory, it doesn't need to."
He tapped the board.
"In theory."
No one spoke. They all knew the Americans had suffered from the same assumption. Early in Vietnam, the F-4 Phantom had been sent into battle without a gun. They regretted it fast.
"So you want to strap cannons to a 30-ton aircraft flying at Mach 3?" Ivanov asked, voice low.
"If we want a chance of actually shooting something down," Andrei replied, "then yes."
Ivanov rubbed his temples. "We'd need a weapons pod. GSh-23 or GSh-30 twin-barrel system. We'd need to wire fire controls. Reinforce the hardpoints."
"I've already sketched the mounts," Andrei said. "I'll even help install them."
The colonel studied him for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly.
"You're insane."
"I'm practical," Andrei answered.
The room remained quiet. But several pilots were nodding.
Because deep down, they knew—he might be right.
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