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Commander Kozhedub had no choice but to stand in the baking afternoon sun, waiting for Andrei to finish. Half an hour later, when the canopy of the MiG-25 opened and Andrei climbed down, Kozhedub forced a broad smile onto his face.
"Captain Andrei," he greeted warmly.
Andrei raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Commander, you're still here? Planning to take a flight yourself?"
The dig was subtle but sharp. Kozhedub had been a fighter pilot in his youth, but now his rounded belly and soft frame made it clear—those days were long gone.
"No, no," Kozhedub replied, brushing off the remark. "I wanted to discuss the warehouse cleanup. You're in charge of operations, after all. Let me, as base commander, handle logistics. It's my responsibility."
Officially, Andrei was only the deputy regimental commander. But everyone at the base knew that title meant little now. As a Hero of the Soviet Union, his rank was a formality. He carried more influence than many generals.
Andrei understood why Kozhedub was here. It wasn't about cleaning out dusty shelves. He was here for Akim, his nephew—the corrupt head of the maintenance crew. What Kozhedub didn't realize was that Andrei had set this whole trap not just to deal with Akim, but to implicate Kozhedub as well.
The commander had long used his influence to fill key posts with personal connections. That era, Andrei believed, had to end.
"Of course," Andrei replied. "I appreciate your attention to detail. Our warehouse hasn't been audited in years. It's long overdue."
Kozhedub relaxed slightly, but then tensed again. Something in Andrei's tone was off.
"Captain… what do you mean by 'we' will be handling it?" Kozhedub asked carefully.
"Oh, I've already requested support," Andrei said, his tone nonchalant. "The KGB branch in Vladivostok will be sending a team to assist with the inventory. They should be en route by now."
The words hit Kozhedub like a punch to the gut. His knees almost gave way.
The KGB? That meant real oversight. No cover-ups. No favors. If the investigation reached far enough—and Andrei clearly intended it to—it could bring down not only Akim, but Kozhedub himself.
Andrei had made the call from the hangar guard's phone, bypassing standard protocol. He knew the KGB in Vladivostok would respond quickly. They already knew about his ties to Yekaterina, and more importantly, they knew she was Andropov's daughter.
With that connection in play, Andrei's request wasn't just an operational matter—it was political. The KGB had responded immediately.
Just as Kozhedub stood there reeling, a voice rang out from the comms room.
"Alert! Alert! American reconnaissance aircraft detected again!"
Everyone turned to the sky.
Again? It was only five in the afternoon. This was the second flight today. Andrei didn't hesitate—he sprinted to the ready room and began strapping into his anti-G suit.
So they're back. Good. He'd just finished modifying his fighter. No time for further testing—the moment had come.
Minutes later, he was in the cockpit.
"Sokolovka, 032 requesting takeoff clearance for interception," Andrei reported over the radio.
His tone was calm now, laser-focused. The low sun cast long shadows across the base. Even Kozhedub's silhouette stretched across the tarmac—tall, still, and, to Andrei, lonely.
"032, you are cleared for takeoff," came the voice through the headset.
Andrei ignited the afterburner. The MiG-25 roared forward, lifting off into the golden sky.
"Owl requesting tail-chase intercept. Provide guidance vector."
The GCI system—the radar operators responsible for controlling Soviet interceptor flights—now took over.
"032, Owl, turn to heading 126. Climb to 23,000 meters. Maintain Mach 0.8."
"Roger that," Andrei replied, easing the MiG into its new heading.
Unlike head-on intercepts, a tail-chase was a delicate maneuver. It was like setting an aerial ambush. Patience mattered more than speed.
Far to the east, at the edge of Soviet airspace, the SR-71 Blackbird was already inbound.
"It's only been seven hours," said the man in the back seat of the American aircraft. "We're being sent out again?"
"Apparently, HQ picked up something interesting," said Olmsted, the pilot. "Photos showed activity at Komsomolsk. Some kind of new airframe was spotted. They want better imagery."
Olmsted wasn't privy to everything, but he knew the CIA had been buzzing for hours. In the last mission, their high-altitude cameras had accidentally captured a prototype wooden airframe—something unusual.
What they'd found was the T-10 mock-up at the Komsomolsk Aircraft Plant—a prototype that would eventually evolve into the Su-27.
At this stage, it was still a rough concept. But even that was enough to raise alarms in Washington. The Americans were used to Soviet jets being rugged, bulky, and boxy. This one was different—sleek, twin-tailed, with fluid contours and a fuselage that looked more like a Western design.
CIA analysts had been stunned. One photo alone had triggered a full-scale review. They'd concluded that a new generation of Soviet fighters was imminent.
In reality, the design was still flawed. In future years, the Soviets would revise it again and again before it reached full maturity. But none of that mattered to Olmsted now. His mission was clear—get the photos, and get out alive.
Back in the MiG-25, Andrei checked his radar screen.
The target was still out of range, but closing fast. He adjusted his course slightly.
This time, he thought, I won't miss.
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