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The MiG-25 was a marvel of speed—designed to soar above Mach 3, clad in high-temperature-resistant steel. But it was never meant to carry a cannon.
That omission had been by design. At such speeds, engineers faced difficult questions: Could a gun remain stable while firing at Mach 3? Would vibrations shake the airframe apart? Could the muzzle flash or powder smoke choke the engines? No one knew.
So when Andrei proposed strapping a cannon to the aircraft, Colonel Ivanov instinctively rejected the idea.
"Too risky," he said flatly.
Andrei met his gaze. "Do we have a better option?"
Silence.
The R-40 missiles had their merits. Against bombers or predictable targets, they were reliable. But the SR-71 was neither. Flying over 3,000 kilometers per hour at 28,000 meters, it left Soviet missiles in its vapor trail.
And now, with Moscow issuing a direct order to shoot it down—no excuses—the 513th Regiment stood humiliated. They were the best-equipped unit in the Far East, yet powerless to stop the intruder.
Andrei's tone sharpened. "Then let's do it. Gather the maintenance crew. We start immediately."
Ivanov hesitated. But Andrei wasn't just a lieutenant colonel anymore—he was a Hero of the Soviet Union. And he had Andropov's support. If there was any time to attempt something unconventional, this was it.
He nodded. "Very well. I'll assemble the staff."
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The base's mechanics were a rough-looking bunch—oil-stained uniforms, unshaven faces, and the unmistakable smell of vodka hanging in the air. A few wandered in late to the meeting room. Some still had smudges of grease under their fingernails.
Andrei stood at the front of the room, fighting back irritation. These men were supposed to keep his MiG flightworthy. Right now, they looked more like workers at a scrapyard.
"Comrades, quiet down," he called.
The chatter faded. Ivanov stood silently to the side, arms crossed.
"We have a mission," Andrei began. "A modification request. We're going to install a cannon on the MiG-25."
A snort broke the silence. A man in his thirties with long, unruly hair and vodka on his breath stood from the back row.
"That's not possible," he said with a scoff.
Andrei recognized him immediately—Akim Varisievich, captain of the maintenance brigade and, more importantly, the nephew of Kozhedub, the base commander.
This was the same man who had botched Andrei's fighter maintenance prior to Belenko's defection—the same defector who'd publicly blamed poor maintenance for his escape.
Andrei hadn't had the authority to discipline Akim back then.
But now?
He would.
Andrei's voice was calm, deliberate. "What exactly is our level then, Captain Akim?"
Akim hesitated. He'd spoken too soon, too arrogantly. Andrei outranked him—by position and prestige.
"We're trained for routine maintenance only," Akim said quickly. "We can't do structural modifications. Even engine overhauls are sent to Vladivostok. Cannons? That's a whole different system. We don't have the tools or experience."
He looked around the room for support. "Isn't that right, comrades?"
A few voices echoed in agreement. "We've never done this." "That's factory work, not field maintenance."
Andrei let them finish before stepping forward.
"Tell me," he said, "are cannons some mystical Western technology now?"
He looked around. "The MiG-21, MiG-23, Su-15—every one of them carries a cannon. In the Second World War, even our biplanes had cannons. Are you telling me our top technicians can't even install what we've been building for half a century?"
Akim opened his mouth, but Andrei cut him off.
"You went to Vladivostok for training, didn't you? Spent two months there last year?"
"Yes," Akim said warily.
"Then you should know how to reinforce a pylon, wire a trigger linkage, and balance recoil against airframe load. Or did you spend your training drunk?"
A few heads turned.
Akim's face reddened.
"This isn't a request," Andrei said. "It's an order. If you can't do it, I'll find someone who can."
He paused, then added coldly: "Maybe someone not related to the base commander."
The room froze.
Everyone knew what this was about. Andrei wasn't just asking for a cannon retrofit—he was calling out the favoritism and stagnation that plagued the regiment. This was about discipline. Reform.
Change.
He looked around. "We don't need perfection. We need results. And fast. The Blackbird returns tomorrow. We have one day."
The room remained silent.
Then, from the back, an older mechanic raised a hand. "We'll need GSh-23 pods from the Su-15 depot. Mount them externally on reinforced struts. Might have to reroute electrical lines from the flare control system."
Andrei nodded. "Draw up the plan. I'll help personally."
Another technician stood up. "I'll take care of the recoil dampening. Might have to cannibalize parts from the fuel tanks."
A murmur spread through the room. No more objections. No more excuses.
Just work.
Akim sat down slowly. The smugness drained from his face.
The mood had changed.
Tomorrow, Andrei would take to the skies in a MiG-25 that no longer flew by the manual. No more theory. No more missiles.
Just steel, fire, and 23mm cannon rounds.
And for the first time, the Blackbird might not fly home untouched.
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