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Moscow.
Though it was only early October, the chill had already crept into the Russian capital. Coats grew heavier, scarves thicker, and the golden leaves of autumn rustled over Red Square as the city prepared for its grandest event: the October Revolution military parade.
Inside the Kremlin, the mood was both celebratory and tense. An unscheduled entrance interrupted the senior meeting of the Politburo.
"General Secretary, urgent report!" Marshal Pavel Fyodorovich Batitsky, commander-in-chief of the Air Defense Forces, strode into the chamber, his voice laced with pride. "Comrade General Secretary, we have just received confirmation—the 513th Regiment from our Far Eastern Military District has shot down an American SR-71 Blackbird!"
The room stirred.
That damned Blackbird. For weeks it had violated Soviet airspace over the Far East with impunity, mocking their defenses and stirring outrage. The Homeland Defense Air Force had tried and failed to intercept it multiple times. The pressure on leadership had been intense, with Brezhnev himself issuing a directive: bring it down, no matter the cost.
Now, they had done just that.
All eyes turned to the General Secretary. Andropov adjusted his glasses without saying a word, his gaze sliding toward Brezhnev, who was already grinning.
"Well done!" Brezhnev's fleshy face lit up. "Outstanding! Who brought it down?"
"Andrei Vladimirovich Tolstoy," Batitsky replied proudly. "Deputy commander of the 513th Regiment—the same Far Eastern pilot recently awarded the title Hero of the Soviet Union. He couldn't lock on with a missile, so he closed in and took the Blackbird down with cannon fire. A daring, heroic feat."
There was a moment of silence—then a round of quiet murmurs. Even among hardened generals, this was exceptional.
Another Hero of the Soviet Union award seemed appropriate, but Brezhnev hesitated. Two such honors within weeks? It might cheapen the title.
"Send him to Moscow," Brezhnev declared after a pause. "Have him attend the October Revolution parade. There will be a place for him on the stands."
Andropov's eyes lit up behind his glasses. Smart move, he thought. Brezhnev had given Andrei visibility without too much attention. But to Andropov, Andrei was more than a brave pilot—he was a kindred spirit. A man who dared to confront the rot festering within the system.
Andropov was not blind to the decay gnawing at the Soviet machine. Corruption, inefficiency, complacency—these had spread through the bureaucracy like mold. Few dared challenge them. But Andrei had. Not for power or fame, but because he believed the country could be better.
A cannon can down a plane. But what brings down a nation? Silence. Andropov believed Andrei was exactly the type of man the country would need if reforms were ever to succeed.
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Sokolovka Air Base.
Andrei, meanwhile, was oblivious to the discussions occurring in the Kremlin. He didn't know he had caught the attention of both Brezhnev and Andropov. All he knew was that he had rooted out a dangerous problem inside the base—and he wasn't done yet.
In the hangar, the entire base personnel, including off-duty pilots, stood at attention. Andrei, Commander Ivanov, and a KGB inspection team listened as the final inventory report was read aloud.
"Missing: Thirty-two MiG-25 main landing tires. Two power starters. Six sets of maintenance tools. One backup engine, stripped of precious metal components…"
The KGB officer paused, flipping through his notes.
"In total: 238 items either unaccounted for or intentionally damaged. Estimated cost—three million rubles."
The room was dead silent.
Three million. That was more than the price of a fully operational MiG-25. It was a catastrophic loss.
Andrei stepped forward.
"I hope those involved will come forward and accept responsibility," he said, calm but direct. "Our comrades from the National Security Committee will continue their investigation. But the base remains a place where one can make mistakes—if one is willing to admit them. Confess now, and you may still be treated as comrades. Wait, and let them find out… and it will be too late."
A long pause followed.
Then a mechanic raised his hand.
"Comrade, I took two bottles of methanol from the warehouse," he said nervously. "I mixed them with water and drank them."
A low murmur passed through the ranks. It wasn't the first time someone had turned aviation-grade methanol into a poor substitute for vodka.
"Report," said another, a ground crew technician. "I took two starter batteries and sold them to a civilian driver in town. I got fifty rubles. I'll return the money."
Small crimes. But enough to break the wall of silence.
"Anyone else?" Andrei asked, sweeping his gaze over the others. Still, the main offender remained silent.
Turning to the KGB officer beside him, Andrei said, "Comrade Joseph, let's proceed with the formal investigation into the illegal misappropriation of state assets."
Lieutenant Joseph stood.
"Comrade Akim," he said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, "you'll come with us for questioning."
Akim blinked, stunned. "Why me?"
"Because we have witnesses from the nearby town. You sold them goods from this base. The bar owner knows you. You're a regular. And we've already confirmed the timeline."
The color drained from Akim's face.
He now understood: this wasn't just about the base. The KGB had been investigating from the outside as well. The noose was already around his neck.
Andrei had coordinated both efforts, and it had worked.
"Uncle! Help me!" Akim cried out, eyes locked on Base Commander Kozhedub.
Kozhedub's jaw clenched. This was the moment he'd feared. Years ago, he had brought Akim into the military at his sister's request. But instead of learning discipline or responsibility, the boy had learned how to steal.
Now, his mistakes could cost Kozhedub dearly. Unless…
"Akim," Kozhedub said with forced calm, "you must cooperate fully with the Security Committee. We are relatives, yes—but I will not protect you."
Andrei watched with narrowed eyes. He knew Kozhedub had tried to interfere before—but not anymore. Not with Andropov's eyes watching.
Akim was escorted out by KGB officers. He said nothing, but his shoulders were slumped, his fate sealed.
Around the room, other mechanics stood stiffly, eyes on the floor. They now understood: this wasn't just a cleanup. This was a purge.
Andrei turned back to the group.
"We are not just technicians. We are the last line of defense for the pilots who risk their lives in the air. Therefore, the regiment will hold a competition—open to all. The most skilled mechanic will be promoted to foreman. The least skilled…" he paused, "will be dismissed."
No one spoke, but the weight of his words settled heavily on them.
This wasn't a threat. It was a new era.
Andrei glanced back at Kozhedub, who now stood frozen.
"Commander," Andrei said, "do you support this initiative?"
Kozhedub smiled tightly. "Of course."
He had no choice. He understood now: Andrei wasn't just a pilot. He was a force of change.
And with or without Kozhedub's help, he was going to clean this place from the ground up.
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