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In modern combat, there's rarely time to aim carefully. Instead, pilots often rely on experience and instinct—especially in close-range dogfights. That's why many aerial gun kills come at such short range that both planes take damage in the exchange.
Andrei examined the newly mounted reflector sight. It was a relic—just like the ones he used during his early training. Against a target moving at Mach 3.2, it would be practically useless.
His window to fire would be less than a second.
Yes, the MiG-25 was no slouch. It was equipped with pulse-Doppler radar and a basic infrared search and tracking system (IRST). But integrating those systems with the cannon and its sight was simply beyond the capacity of the existing avionics—or the skill set of the current crew.
Ideally, radar rangefinding data should feed directly into the gunsight. That would eliminate the pilot's need to manually estimate distance and lead. But this wasn't an ideal world, and Andrei wasn't flying an Su-27 or F-15.
So… how to bridge the gap?
Andrei watched the crew drilling into the cockpit to install the sight. If the systems couldn't be wired together, he'd have to do it the old-fashioned way—with pre-set calculations and a lot of mental math.
Fortunately, he had an advantage.
The target wasn't a nimble fighter. It was a Blackbird—a strategic reconnaissance aircraft that, at Mach 3.2, could only fly in long, stable trajectories. No hard turns. No evasive barrel rolls. Its strength was speed, not maneuverability.
This was Andrei's edge.
Air combat doctrine—passed down from World War II—warned pilots never to fly straight for even a second. Maneuver constantly. Don't be predictable. But the SR-71 had no choice. Its design made hard turns impossible. Its defense was altitude and velocity, not agility.
That made it vulnerable—if you knew how to trap it.
Andrei began building the scenario in his mind. He knew the Blackbird's specs by heart: a 17-meter wingspan, 33 meters in length, a max speed of Mach 3.35, and flight patterns that barely deviated from a straight line once cruising began.
Yes, the Blackbird was faster. But if Andrei could plot a tail-chase interception—approach from below, time the closure rate, and fire at just the right moment—he could bring it down.
His head filled with numbers, angles, and estimated closure speeds. He'd need to coordinate with ground control to plan the interception trajectory, but the idea was forming clearly now.
At that moment, Victor approached. "Comrade Andrei, the modification is complete. We're ready for a live fire test."
"Good. Find an open area outside. Let's test the gun."
The No. 032 MiG-25 was rolled out of the hangar. Mechanics set up a paper target 300 meters away. The cannon roared to life.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The paper target exploded into shredded fragments. The weapon was operational—and accurate.
"Good," Andrei said, watching the smoke drift in the breeze. "If it hits a stationary target, it'll hit a moving one—if we calculate properly."
In his mind, Andrei was already planning: pre-set wingspan measurements, approach angle, velocity match, and timing. Approach from below, stabilize the aim for one full second, and fire. That one second was everything.
But before he could return to the cockpit, a voice called out behind him.
"Quite the show here, Comrade Captain."
Andrei didn't have to turn around. He knew the voice—Commander Kozhedub, head of the Sokolovka base.
"What brings you out here, Commander?" Andrei asked, not bothering to mask the edge in his voice.
"I heard you were preparing the MiG for another interception attempt. I came to see for myself. If you need anything from me, just say the word. This is a matter of pride for the base, after all."
Andrei didn't respond. He walked past him and climbed into the cockpit to begin calibrating the sight manually, ignoring Kozhedub as if he were a bureaucrat in a queue.
Kozhedub stood awkwardly in the sun, sweat rolling down his temples. In the past, a junior officer like Andrei wouldn't have dared speak to him like that. But now, Andrei was a Hero of the Soviet Union, decorated in person by top Party officials.
And, more importantly, he had dirt on Kozhedub's nephew.
Warehouse corruption. Spare parts sold off for vodka. If the KGB took over the investigation, it wouldn't stop with Akim. Kozhedub's own career might burn with him.
For a moment, the two men stood in silence—one sweating in the sun, the other preparing a fighter for war.
Andrei didn't say it, but he knew what Kozhedub feared.
If those spare parts had been smuggled out of the country, or worse—ended up in American hands—it wouldn't just be a scandal. It would be treason.
Andrei closed the canopy with a firm clunk, ending the conversation without a word.
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