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"F**K!"
The curse erupted from Lieutenant Colonel Olmsted's lips the moment he saw the twin streaks of tracer fire ahead. Without thinking, he slammed the control stick to the right. He didn't need confirmation—those were cannon shells, and they were aimed directly at them.
The Blackbird was a marvel of engineering, yes—but a reconnaissance aircraft, not a fighter. It was not built for combat. Its high-speed flight profile allowed for no more than 2.3G of maneuvering load. Anything more risked structural failure. Still, instinct took over.
"NO!" the backseat officer shouted, his voice breaking with panic.
The Blackbird groaned. Its titanium airframe squealed under stress. And then the worst happened.
The roar of the J-58 engine disappeared. A sudden pressure shift slammed through the cockpit.
The intake cone hadn't adjusted in time for the abrupt change in airflow, triggering a flameout. The Blackbird had lost power.
Normally, this wasn't fatal. The aircraft could glide, restart the engine. But something else was wrong.
A sharp jolt hit the cabin. A surge of heat wafted up from beneath the floor. The cockpit began to crack along the seams.
Olmsted's eyes widened. The G-meter read 4G—nearly double what the aircraft was designed for.
And then—impact.
The Blackbird hit the wall of shells.
A blinding fireball burst into the thin air at the edge of the stratosphere.
---
Andrei shoved the MiG-25's control column down hard, his aircraft nearly entering a stall-spin as it dove to avoid the debris. The detonation had occurred only 300 meters ahead.
Using a cannon at that altitude and speed was absurd. But with careful preparation and prediction, it could be done. Andrei had made it work.
He heard a faint ping-ping-ping—debris possibly bouncing off his fuselage. At these speeds, even a small fragment could pierce armor. Let the plane hold out, he prayed. If I have to eject at 10,000 meters, I might survive.
As for the Blackbird's crew?
There was no question. No one could survive that kind of catastrophic breakup at 30,000 meters. Even if they'd ejected, current life-support systems likely wouldn't keep them alive at that altitude.
> "032, great job!"
It was Ivanov's voice over the radio.
> "Long live the Soviets," Andrei replied, pride swelling in his chest.
---
Thirty minutes later, Andrei landed back at Sokolovka Air Base. As soon as the MiG came to a stop, a crowd of officers and crew rushed the runway.
"You're a legend, Andrei!" one mechanic shouted. "No one else would've dared fire a cannon at 30,000 meters!"
"You've made the entire 513th Regiment proud!"
"Headquarters gave us a death order to shoot down that Blackbird—and you did it!"
Everyone was beaming. Even the most hardened veterans were swept up in the excitement.
Andrei could feel their genuine joy, and he let himself smile.
In history, a handful of SR-71s had crashed due to mechanical failure. But never—never—had one been shot down in a combat situation.
Until now.
He had done what no one else had.
"Look at this!" Victor, one of the mechanics, circled around to the rear of the aircraft. "There are over a dozen shrapnel holes in the tail!"
The MiG's stainless steel fuselage had held together. Barely.
But then Victor's expression changed. "Sir… cracks on the wing root."
They all looked. A spiderweb of fractures had formed where the wing met the fuselage. At Mach 3, even steel had its limits. The vibration from the cannon had nearly torn the aircraft apart.
Andrei gave a low whistle. "We were lucky."
"Victor," Ivanov ordered, "do a full inspection. If it's repairable, do it. If not, we'll report it. A destroyed MiG is a small price for that kill."
---
In the distance, Kozhedub, commander of the base, didn't share the celebration. His thoughts were elsewhere.
The KGB team from Vladivostok had arrived—and they'd gone straight to the warehouse.
Andrei, now out of his flight gear, received the news with a smirk. So it begins.
The base's records were vast, stretching back decades. While the World War II-era documents were incomplete, everything since the Cold War's early years was meticulously cataloged.
The KGB began with the last ten years—the period most likely to reveal corruption.
Each spare part was re-labeled, cross-checked against inventory logs. It was like a supermarket audit, but one with far more serious consequences.
The officers worked swiftly, scanning items, flipping through ledgers, making notes. Discrepancies appeared quickly.
Akim, the maintenance chief, stood nearby, sweating bullets.
If they keep this up for two days, he thought, they'll uncover everything.
Desperate, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to a KGB officer.
"Comrade, have a smoke?" he asked with forced friendliness.
The officer stared at him coldly. "This is a warehouse. Do you want to start a fire?"
Akim laughed nervously. "You're right, I wasn't thinking. Long day, huh? What if I treat you to a drink later in town?"
"We're on duty. Please do not interfere."
Akim's smile froze on his face.
He had tried charm. Bribery. Politeness.
None of it was going to work.
The walls were closing in.
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