Chapter 85: A Conversation in the Halls of Power
"Yes, our electronics are still far behind the United States. Even their Sparrow missiles, which were used heavily in Vietnam, suffered from reliability issues. Compared to that, our air-to-air missiles leave even more to be desired," Simonov admitted, his tone pragmatic.
The Sukhoi Design Bureau excelled in airframe development, but missiles were another matter, the responsibility of separate design offices. Still, Simonov was keenly aware of the limitations they faced.
"Our semi-active radar-guided missiles drag too much on the target. In real combat, I'd rather mount infrared seekers than rely on those," Andrei replied. "Honestly, I still don't understand how the official account describes shooting down a Blackbird with medium-range missiles. We simply don't have that kind of capability."
Simonov's interest deepened. "Then how did you bring it down?"
"Cannon," Andrei said. "I retrofitted my MiG-25 at Sokolovka with twin cannon pods and closed in with guns."
Simonov's eyes widened slightly. Using cannon fire at Mach 3 was a reckless maneuver by any standard. As an aircraft designer, he understood the dangers immediately—at those speeds, the vibration alone could destabilize the aircraft. And yet, here was the pilot who'd pulled it off.
Andrei's boldness had previously caught Simonov's attention. The EP-3 incident, where Soviet pilots forced an American plane down using close-quarter tactics, had impressed him deeply. He had even lobbied to transfer Andrei to the Sukhoi Design Bureau as a test pilot, but the proposal had been declined.
"It seems the MiG-25 is a remarkably rugged airframe," Simonov said. "Firing a cannon at such speeds could easily tear lesser designs apart."
"Indeed," Andrei nodded. "The MiG-25's stainless steel frame gives it some advantages in this regard, but it's far from perfect."
The Mikoyan and Sukhoi design bureaus were natural rivals, each vying for funding and prestige. Yet there was mutual respect among engineers and pilots alike. Hearing a frontline pilot speak openly about both the strengths and flaws of Mikoyan's aircraft piqued Simonov's interest.
In a corner of the banquet hall, while champagne glasses clinked and dignitaries mingled, a quiet discussion about the future of Soviet aviation unfolded.
Andrei recognized the opportunity. Mingling with top-tier officials could be helpful for his career, but he was cautious. He was still a lieutenant colonel, and exposure came with risk. Andropov's support—and marrying Ekaterina—had given him strong political backing. But for now, his best move was to remain grounded in the military and build credibility through action.
Discussing aircraft design with someone like Simonov, however, was another matter entirely. Andrei deeply admired the Su-27 project. He had flown its future Chinese derivative, the J-11. In many ways, the Su-27 represented the pinnacle of Soviet aerodynamic design.
"One major weakness of the MiG-25 is its flight control system," Andrei explained. "It uses hydraulic actuation for each control surface, which is standard. But that system demands a lot from the pilot—small stick at high altitude, heavy input at low. In the heat of battle, you don't always have time to check your altitude. I once entered a spin because of it."
A stall spin—lethal in most situations. Only the most skilled pilots could recover.
Simonov was listening intently. The prototype of the T-10 (the precursor to the Su-27) had already been built. It shared a similar twin-engine, twin-tail layout and used hydraulic systems as well. This was a design concern he could not ignore.
"How would you improve it?" he asked.
"Replace it with digital fly-by-wire," Andrei replied without hesitation. "Sensors on the stick and rudder would send inputs to a computer, which then determines the best response for each control surface. It would also factor in altitude and airspeed automatically."
Simonov was momentarily stunned. Fly-by-wire? It hadn't yet been seriously considered at Sukhoi. The Soviet electronics industry was still behind the West in processing power and miniaturization. Implementing a fully digital control system would be a monumental challenge.
But Andrei's logic was sound. In the West, the F-15 had already flown in 1972 with a dual-redundant analog stability control system—a primitive form of fly-by-wire. The F-16, in development, was moving straight to digital fly-by-wire with quadruple redundancy.
Back home, the Su-27 project had experienced setbacks. Its initial prototypes still relied on hydraulic controls. Andrei recalled that in future history, one of the prototypes crashed due to control failure—leading to the death of a veteran test pilot. Only after that tragedy did Sukhoi engineers accept the need for fly-by-wire.
"Even if it's difficult, we'll never build a world-class fighter without a telex system," Andrei continued. "Yes, it adds complexity, but if we want to match or surpass the West in maneuverability, there's no alternative."
Simonov rubbed his chin. Digital fly-by-wire—if implemented—would allow engineers to design inherently unstable airframes, maximizing agility and minimizing drag. The challenge was enormous, but perhaps not impossible.
"You're right," he said finally. "It's something we'll have to pursue, no matter how long it takes."
The future of Soviet fighter design was being shaped in that quiet corner of the Kremlin, far from the noise of the banquet, in a conversation between a daring pilot and a visionary engineer.
Andrei, content to remain in the background, knew he had just planted an important seed.
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