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"Captain, this warehouse is a disaster," Andrei said firmly, turning to Ivanov. "I recommend a full inventory and reclassification of all stored materials. It's time we clean house."
Before Ivanov could speak, Akim jumped in hastily, his voice almost too eager. "No need to trouble the commander, Captain! We'll handle it ourselves. There's no reason to elevate such routine matters."
Andrei looked at him, expression unreadable. "No, we're always 'too busy' maintaining aircraft, right? So busy we can't even sweep the dust off our spare parts. I'll inform the superior command. They can send someone."
That silenced the room. The message was clear: Andrei was escalating. Not just to the regiment or the base commander—but possibly all the way to Vladivostok.
Akim felt the blood drain from his face. He had been skating on thin ice for months. Andre's words were a dagger—he knew. This wasn't just about dirty floors or missing boxes. Andre was preparing to expose everything.
Akim quietly slipped out of the warehouse. He needed to get to Kozhedub. Now.
"Found it!" someone shouted. A group of mechanics cheered as they cracked open a large birch-wood crate. Inside lay a preserved UPK-23 cannon pod, covered in protective wrap.
Andrei nodded sharply. "Get it to the hangar. We start the modification now."
As the younger mechanics pushed the crate away on a wheeled cart, Ivanov leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Do you understand what you're doing, Andrei?"
Andrei didn't flinch. "Yes, Comrade Commander. We're a fighting unit, not a retirement home. There's no place in this regiment for parasites who sell off our equipment for vodka. If we want to survive the next war, we start winning this one first."
Ivanov paused, then gave a tired, solemn nod. "You're right. I let things slide. Kozhedub planted his people, and I turned a blind eye. I was wrong."
The two men stood in silence for a moment. The war they were talking about wasn't against the Americans.
It was a war within—against incompetence, complacency, and rot.
Andrei remembered the chaos of the post-Soviet collapse in his previous life. Men selling off military hardware like scrap metal. Helicopters abandoned for parts. Whole airfields looted. If he could help stop that future, even in a small way, then this battle mattered.
"Thank you, Commander." Andrei turned serious. "We need to protect this warehouse. Especially the record books. If Akim gets desperate, he might try to destroy the inventory logs."
Ivanov looked at him, eyes narrowing. "You think he would go that far?"
"I know he would. I've already contacted the KGB liaison in Vladivostok. Andropov gave me clearance before I even arrived. If anything goes missing, they'll investigate."
Mentioning Andropov and the KGB wasn't just for dramatic effect. It was a warning. Anyone who tried to interfere would find themselves swallowed by a far more dangerous machine than a jet engine.
The cannon pod was now in the hangar. Under Victor's supervision, the mechanics hoisted it with a crane, carefully aligning it to the MiG-25's inner wing pylon. The modification wasn't overly complex—at least not physically. The pod didn't need to be jettisoned like a missile, so a standard mechanical mount was sufficient.
Andrei's decision to install two cannon pods—one per wing—balanced the load and doubled the firepower. Mounting the pod under the nose, while ideal for accuracy, wasn't an option. The MiG-25's design, with its massive shock cone and dual intake system, left no room for venting smoke or recoil in that area.
"Captain Andrei, we'll also need to install a sight," Victor said, wiping grease from his hands. "But… it'll completely block the forward view."
That was the next challenge.
The MiG-25 was never intended to fire cannons. Its entire doctrine was based on long-range missile engagement at extreme speeds. There was no sight, no head-up display, no targeting system for fixed guns.
Andrei studied the old sight pulled from storage. It was a basic mechanical reflector sight, the same type used during Korea and Vietnam—practically a relic.
He frowned. "Mount it. We'll deal with the visibility."
The cramped cockpit of the MiG-25 made the task awkward. Soviet fighters, with their rigid metal canopy frames and cramped forward dashboards, offered little room. Once the sight was fixed in place, most of Andrei's frontal view was blocked.
It was a tradeoff between vision and capability—but one Andrei had already accepted.
In his past life, he'd flown the J-11, China's enhanced version of the Su-27. With its integrated digital HUD and automated aiming envelope, the pilot never had to look away from the flight path. Fire-control systems calculated lead, range, even shell spread.
This? This was stone-age tech by comparison.
Yet Andrei smiled.
Because this ancient gun, aimed with a relic sight, might do what four top-of-the-line missiles couldn't—bring down the Blackbird.
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