Another Su-27 soared toward the border, carrying out an even bolder plan. It flew straight across the boundary, deep into enemy territory, to launch an air-to-ground missile strike on the unsuspecting Revenge Camp base. Flying low to evade radar detection, the pilot was confident they could slip past the Polish air defenses—after all, Poland's air force operated independently from the Soviet military.
With less than five minutes to strike and escape, the pilot knew the mission demanded speed, precision, and ferocity. The Su-27 approached the base, its fire control system locking onto the compound surrounded by concrete walls and barbed wire. Unlike an open training ground, this base offered no natural cover, making it an ideal target. The fighter closed in, pilot's finger poised on the red launch button—everything was set.
Inside the stuffy, rundown building, Instructor Terry stepped out, irritated. He hadn't expected air conditioning here—an electric fan would've sufficed. Sweat clung to his skin as he headed to the corridor for a cigarette, but an unusual roar stopped him in his tracks.
That sound wasn't right. The Polish Air Force wasn't supposed to be training at this hour, and Terry hadn't heard any drills scheduled. A cold dread settled in his chest.
"No, that's not Polish fighters," Terry muttered, dropping his cigarette. Panic surged as he sprinted to trigger the air defense alarm—but then a bright light tore across the night sky, hurtling toward the base like a meteor. His first thought: Soviet missiles.
The air-to-ground missile struck without warning. The blast threw everyone inside dozens of meters through the air. The low, flimsy buildings crumbled under the explosion and shockwave; even the thick concrete walls toppled. Smoke poured from the ruins as flames consumed the training base, incinerating anyone unable to flee.
At the same time, Polish radar detected the Soviet jets intruding into their airspace. MiG-29 fighters scrambled to intercept. The Su-27 pilot, heart pounding, pushed the plane to near maximum speed—he'd just reduced a military base to ash. He knew the MiGs would catch him and shoot without hesitation.
Just as the MiGs closed in, two more Su-27s hidden near the border surged forward to back him up. They fired warning cannon bursts at the Polish fighters crossing the border, signaling this was Soviet airspace and any unidentified aircraft could be shot down.
Caught between numbers and strict orders, the MiG-29 pilots reluctantly broke off the chase. It wasn't fear—they simply couldn't risk a full confrontation. Soviet command made clear: they could threaten Polish fighters, but never shoot them down. Bombing the base was enough to humiliate Poland; shooting down a plane would be an act of war.
The Soviet Union claimed a decisive victory: it annihilated the armed insurgents trying to infiltrate Lithuania and dealt a harsh blow to reactionary forces abroad—two wins with one strike.
The next day, President Walesa erupted with fury. Accusing the Soviets of blatant border violations, he condemned the bombing as a provocation threatening Poland-Soviet relations. But as Putin had predicted, Walesa needed to conceal Poland's role in supporting anti-Soviet factions. He deliberately downplayed the attack, exposing his own limits.
Then the Soviet counterattack began. The Foreign Ministry issued a statement blaming the strike on a tragic mistake—a wrong judgment under confusing circumstances—and offered an apology to Poland. Just as Poland hoped to use the incident to blackmail Moscow, a bombshell came from outside.
At a press conference, Shevardnadze declared, "Shortly before the accidental border crossing by our fighter, we eliminated an armed group attempting to infiltrate the Soviet Union from Poland. Remarkably, one was captured alive. They confessed to receiving training from the Polish government on Polish soil before returning to their home countries to carry out subversive acts. We hope the Polish Foreign Ministry and President Walesa will clarify this matter."
The statement sparked public outrage. Poland's Foreign Ministry, previously confident, faltered under reporters' pressure. Their official line: "We don't know, we're investigating," promising to respond only after thorough inquiry.
Moscow didn't relent. Holding the moral high ground, it produced witnesses and solid evidence to prove Poland's dirty tactics to the world. President Walesa, initially fiery, grew silent. Faced with the Soviet accusations, Poland adopted a deafening silence, hoping to weather the storm.
Poland lacked the courage the Soviet Union showed to act decisively and take responsibility. Regarding the so-called government support for the separatist regime in its neighbor, Poland stubbornly insisted it was all Soviet slander, claiming they had done absolutely nothing wrong. On one side, the Soviet Union held irrefutable evidence; on the other, Poland refused to admit guilt. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs waged a fierce war of words over the issue.
Though the two countries' foreign ministries kept arguing, one thing was clear: the plane's border-crossing incident had finally been resolved—at least officially. The Polish Foreign Ministry spokesman insisted there was no subversive activity at all, dismissing the allegations as Soviet fabrications. "If concrete evidence can be provided, I will resign immediately," he declared, vowing never to break that promise.
But the Soviets would not relent. They promptly released detailed intelligence on the Revenge Camp training base—results of three months of surveillance. Every movement inside the camp struck a nerve within Poland's Ministry of Foreign Affairs, stirring panic.
These photos showed the Soviets had long kept the camp under watch. How deeply had Soviet agents infiltrated Poland to gather such intelligence? Meanwhile, Poland grew anxious over the situation at its border—something it had previously felt confident about.
After Shevardnadze published all the evidence exposing the militant training camps, he expressed hope the Polish Foreign Ministry officials would honor their promise and not allow Soviet diplomats to publicly expose them as a disgrace. Naturally, Poland once again chose to ignore the bombings of the prisoner-of-war camps, pretending nothing had happened.
Watching the Polish Foreign Ministry's cowardice, Shevardnadze sighed in frustration, shaking his head. "You are cowards who dare to act but refuse to take responsibility."
The pilot who crossed the border was hailed as a national hero. The Soviet Propaganda Department's newspaper declared that although he violated the border, he deserved respect for his firm resolve to defend the nation's dignity. Meanwhile, foreign ministry spokespeople from other countries backtracked, hardly appearing patriotic.
No one knows whether Polish President Walesa's face flushed with shame, but all of Poland felt the sting—as if slapped across the face, burning with humiliation.