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Flying is a noble calling. Before each mission, every pilot took a moment to prepare—not just their gear, but themselves. They would polish their boots until they gleamed, scrape off any mud from the soles, ensure their uniforms were spotless, and then board the ground service truck that carried them to their aircraft.
It wasn't just tradition. It was necessity.
A fighter jet wasn't a passenger airliner. It performed high-G maneuvers, flips, dives, and rolls. If the cockpit was contaminated with dirt, hair, grass, or dust, those particles would become airborne once the pressurization system activated—potentially hitting the pilot in the face or eyes during high-speed flight. A distraction like that, at Mach 2, could be fatal.
That's why pilots weren't allowed beards, why every inch of their gear had to be spotless. Cleanliness wasn't just regulation—it was survival.
Still, even with such precautions, the cockpit couldn't stay pristine. Within two weeks of regular flying, it needed a full deep clean.
Andrei remembered how it was in later years. Back then, flying the Chinese J-11, he had to deal with the Russian-made K-36 ejection seat—one of the most sophisticated in the world. By contrast, the domestic HTY-5 seat used in J-10s had a narrower ejection envelope and didn't handle complex maneuvers well.
The K-36 was massive. You needed a crane to remove it. Two people couldn't lift it on their own. Soviet equipment was built to last—but it wasn't light.
The MiG-25 he now flew used the older KM-1 ejection seat. It was primitive by comparison. If Andre had to bail out at high speed, he would hesitate to trust it.
And yet, to clean the cockpit properly, the seat had to come out.
Three MiG-25s lined the tarmac that morning, ready for their cleaning cycles. Andrei, along with senior officers and most of the maintenance crew, had gathered to oversee the start of the maintenance competition.
At the sound of the whistle, the contestants sprinted toward their assigned aircraft. Platforms had already been positioned beside the planes, allowing the mechanics to reach the cockpit without delay.
Each man carried a screwdriver. The first step was removing the cockpit canopy—secured by over a hundred screws.
Victor climbed up, toolbox in hand. He didn't rush. Instead, he calmly pulled out an electric drill he had modified himself. Where others used manual screwdrivers, Victor had replaced the bit on his drill with a flathead, turning it into a powered driver.
Ivanov's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Is he drilling out the screws? That's not allowed!" he barked.
But no—Victor wasn't damaging anything. The screws were intact. The electric tool was simply faster.
Victor shouted from the platform, "We're allowed to innovate in our tools as long as it doesn't damage the equipment!"
The crowd buzzed. While the other two mechanics were barely a third of the way through removing the canopy, Victor had already taken his off and begun detaching the seat.
Electric screwdrivers were standard in later years, but not here—not yet. That Victor had thought to invent one using scrap and ingenuity showed a level of thinking far beyond his peers.
This man deserves to lead, Andrei thought. Rigid thinking had no place in a modern combat unit. Maintenance was not just about muscle—it required intelligence, initiative, and creativity.
He was reminded of the early days when the Su-27 was introduced. Its radome required complete removal for certain radar diagnostics, a cumbersome and error-prone process. One Soviet mechanic eventually invented a specialized screw mount that allowed the cone to pivot open without full disassembly. When Russian engineers saw it in China years later, they applauded the solution.
Victor had that same kind of spark.
Soon, Victor had the KM-1 seat out. He used a brush to clean its crevices, then stepped inside the cockpit and meticulously scrubbed beneath it.
By the time he began reassembling the seat, the other two mechanics were still wrestling with the last of the canopy screws. They were drenched in sweat. Their years of delegating minor tasks to junior crew had left them unprepared for hands-on work.
Victor, meanwhile, worked alone—and made it look easy.
Forty minutes later, Victor finished. A job that normally took a team over an hour was done, solo, in less than half the time.
The tarmac erupted in applause.
The morning session was over, but Victor wasn't finished.
In the afternoon, the next event began: engine removal.
The MiG-25's engines had a flight life of only 150 hours. At current sortie rates, that meant each aircraft needed its engines swapped out twice a year—minimum. For most crews, it was a team job.
Victor had other ideas.
Overnight, he'd welded together a custom rig using scrap from the base. The framework had a pulley system mounted at the top, allowing him to lift the engine cleanly and solo.
While other contestants struggled in teams of three, Victor calmly operated his device and removed the engine alone.
Colonel Kozhedub watched in silence.
He had no love for Victor. The young man's victory meant change—uncomfortable change. But there was no denying the results.
"I declare Victor the new Captain of the Maintenance Brigade," Kozhedub said, his voice flat.
It was a reluctant promotion—but a deserved one.
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