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More than three million rubles. Akim stared blankly as the figure echoed in his mind.
It was a staggering sum—enough to buy a new MiG-25 outright. But Akim knew he hadn't seen even a fraction of that money. He had sold everything for far less than its true worth, dismantling equipment laced with silver and gold in components, selling them on the black market for scraps. Greed had blinded him to the bigger picture.
Now, the Ministry of Internal Affairs was involved. The KGB was tightening the noose. And the end of this rope led one place: a prison cell deep in Siberia.
"Uncle, please!" Akim's voice cracked as he shouted to the base commander, Colonel Kozhedub. "Help me!"
Kozhedub's face twitched. Of course he heard his nephew—how could he not? He remembered the day his sister had begged him to give the boy a place at the base. He had done so out of family loyalty, thinking structure might shape Akim into a man.
But instead of learning responsibility, Akim had learned to steal.
Now, with Moscow watching and the KGB circling, Kozhedub couldn't afford to be dragged down. His transfer to the capital was already planned for next month. He had to act—fast.
"Akim," Kozhedub said firmly, his voice echoing across the hangar, "cooperate with the Security Committee. If you've made mistakes, you must take responsibility and correct them. Family ties do not exempt anyone from the law."
In truth, Kozhedub had already tried to pull strings to shield Akim—but his efforts had been shut down. This wasn't just any investigation. Chairman Andropov himself had taken a personal interest.
And in the Soviet Union, if the KGB chairman was watching, no one dared intervene.
Akim was led away. The other mechanics who had associated with him watched in stunned silence. Some were guilty of minor theft or negligence. Andrei knew this—and so did they. But unlike Akim, they still had a chance.
They looked to Andrei, and he met their gaze.
They weren't just afraid—they were respectful. They understood now that this crackdown came from him.
"We are a frontline combat unit," Andrei addressed them. "We must be ready for war at any time. But some of our maintenance crews are not qualified for this responsibility. Therefore, we are instituting a new policy—a competitive system. The one with the highest technical ability will be promoted to foreman. The one with the lowest level of skill—who endangers others through incompetence—will be dismissed."
He paused. "Pack your things and leave. This is not a place for dead weight."
Even if Akim were to return, Andrei had already stripped him of authority. He would be nothing more than a basic mechanic—if that. This system was designed not just to punish, but to reshape the base's entire culture.
In Soviet society, even the lowest-ranking soldier or mechanic was respected. Their salaries could support entire families. But respect had to be earned.
Andrei, shaped by a different time and mindset, understood that stagnation bred decay. From what he had seen—and remembered—institutions that operated without competition became bloated and ineffective. The so-called "iron rice bowl" of guaranteed employment had no place in a fighting unit.
"Competition brings excellence," Andrei declared. "From now on, we reward merit, not seniority."
He glanced at the older mechanics who had coasted by for years, their expressions souring with every word. He ignored them. They had already failed in silence for too long.
Turning toward Colonel Kozhedub, Andrei said with a calm smile, "Commander, what do you think of the proposal?"
Kozhedub's spine stiffened. He sensed the shift in power, and it unsettled him.
"Of course," he replied quickly, forcing a smile. "A sound idea."
He dared not object. Not now. Andrei was in control—and any resistance would be crushed, subtly but decisively.
Back in his quarters, Akim allowed himself a flicker of hope. Despite the humiliation, he believed his technical skills would give him a second chance. He was, after all, one of the best mechanics on base. Maybe—just maybe—he could win the competition. Mother will be proud, he thought, already picturing the letter he would send.
Two days later, the maintenance competition officially began.
Contrary to expectations, the first task wasn't about replacing an engine or tuning avionics—it was to clean the cockpit.
Many scoffed. Cleaning? But this wasn't about wiping down glass. The process required disassembling the canopy, safely removing the ejection seat, and meticulously cleaning internal controls without damaging instruments or wiring. It was a test of both precision and physical strength.
In reality, "maintenance" was a broad term. The Soviet Air Force divided support work into three core sectors: outfield maintenance, regular inspections, and repair shop work.
The primary focus at Sokolovka was outfield maintenance—servicing aircraft directly on the tarmac or inside hangars. Within this branch, there were several specialties:
Mechanics, who managed engines and airframes. Each MiG-25 was assigned to a single lead mechanic—"one aircraft, one technician."
Ordnance specialists, responsible for cannons, pylons, and fire-control systems.
Missile techs, who installed and checked guided weapons.
Radar engineers, who handled the fire-control radar systems.
Electrical and instrumentation engineers, who dealt with power systems and cockpit gauges.
To become foreman, one had to understand all of it—fully cross-trained, efficient, and accountable.
This competition wasn't just a performance review—it was a declaration of change. The person who emerged at the top would lead the entire maintenance corps. And those who failed would no longer have a place in a combat-ready regiment.
Even among the most confident mechanics, the stakes were clear: this wasn't a routine drill.
It was a test of survival.
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