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"As mechanics, it's our duty to keep learning, to raise our skill and discipline." Andrei's voice echoed through the hangar.
He pointed at Akim without naming him. "Sokolovka Base sends personnel to Vladivostok every year for further study. And every year, it's the same people who go—drinking at night, skipping lectures during the day. Some even visit women."
Andrei scanned the room.
"Now I ask again—who here can mount a cannon pod on the MiG-25?"
Silence.
Then a voice from the back spoke.
"I can." A young mechanic stepped forward, his uniform neat despite the oil smears. "I trained on the MiG-21. We worked with GP-9 and UPK-23 cannon pods."
A ripple of interest passed through the room.
The MiG-21—while old—had been widely exported. Even China, with their J-7 variant, used it as a backbone interceptor. The Soviet Union had phased it out at Sokolovka, but the cannon pods—especially the UPK-23—remained a valuable solution.
Andrei's eyes lit up.
"What's your name?"
"Victor, comrade."
Andrei recognized him. A diligent mechanic. Quiet. Focused. A real Soviet man.
"Victor, you'll lead the pod installation. I'll have the fighter reassigned and apply to Command for immediate retrofit clearance. Who else will assist?"
A few mechanics—mostly younger, less entrenched in base politics—stepped forward eagerly.
The older veterans, those loyal to Akim, stayed silent, arms crossed, expressions mocking. They weren't here to redesign aircraft, they were here to follow orders and pass the time until vodka hour.
Andrei didn't waste energy on them.
"When the job is done," he said, "I'll put all your names forward. There will be recognition. And rewards."
The younger group responded with a clear: "Yes, Comrade Captain!"
From the side, Ivanov spoke up.
"I remember something—when we still operated MiG-21s, we kept several UPK-23 pods in the armory warehouse. They should still be there."
Andrei smiled. "Perfect. If we have the hardware, we begin now. The pod, the brackets, electrical routing, weapons alignment—all of it. Let's get this fighter armed before the Blackbird returns."
But then came a familiar voice.
"Captain... that was years ago," Akim said slowly, "I'm not even sure where those pods are anymore. The warehouse is a bit… disorganized."
Andrei's expression darkened. "What did you say?"
"It's a mess. It might take days to find them."
"You lost Soviet military property?"
"No—no, just misfiled," Akim said quickly.
Andrei stepped forward, his voice cold. "If those cannon pods are missing, I'll personally escort you to the Air Defense Command in Vladivostok and let you explain. You know what that means, don't you?"
Akim paled. Being called before the regional command didn't mean a reprimand—it meant an investigation. And with his sloppy records, missing parts, and suspicious vodka bartering, it would mean far worse.
"No need for that. I'll organize a search immediately."
Andrei said nothing. He simply walked toward the warehouse.
Inside, chaos reigned.
The place looked bombed. Crates were half-opened. Dust coated everything. Only a few clearly-labeled engine containers stood near the entrance—newer items. Deeper inside, inventory was scattered haphazardly across shelves and floors.
There was no digital system here, no barcodes, no terminals. Only a massive, handwritten ledger.
Andrei shook his head. This was the pride of the Soviet Air Force?
He recalled how the Chinese had once stunned visiting delegations with their own system—mechanics who memorized inventory by heart, who treated warehouse management like a science. Here, it was closer to a scrapyard.
"Regulations say this warehouse must be inventoried yearly," Andrei said, his voice echoing.
Akim trailed behind him, fumbling for excuses. "We've been too busy with regular maintenance. No time to do a full inventory."
Andrei turned on him. "Or was it easier to steal from a disorganized mess?"
The accusation hit like a hammer. Akim's face flushed.
"You want to talk about time? Let's talk about the time you spent drunk. Or gambling away spare wiring looms for vodka."
Akim tried to speak, but Andrei raised a hand.
"Spare me. You'll lead the search. You'll find those cannon pods. And if you don't? You'll report to Vladivostok in shackles."
Victor and the others had already begun clearing the warehouse, reorganizing crates, pulling manifests. The atmosphere had shifted—there was tension, yes, but also a rising energy. Purpose.
Andrei looked around and spoke loud enough for all to hear:
"This is where it begins. Not just a cannon retrofit—this is about discipline. About honor. About proving the Soviet Union can strike back."
He pointed to the scattered crates.
"Clean this mess. Mount that cannon. And prepare to take down a ghost in the sky."
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