Flying is one of the most revered professions in the world. It doesn't matter what country you're in — the sky demands excellence, and those who master it are respected accordingly. In the Soviet Union, pilots weren't just professionals. They were elite soldiers. In the pecking order of the people, only the KGB outranked them.
At Sokolovka Air Base, positioned right on the Cold War front lines, pilots lived in style — at least by Soviet standards. A special residential wing had been built just for them: two-man rooms with 24-hour hot water, private bathrooms, and even their own TVs.
After debriefing, Andrei stripped off his anti-G flight suit in the ready room under the tower and changed into his off-duty uniform. He and Belenko made their way toward the dorms in silence, boots echoing down the concrete hallway.
Inside their room, Andrei headed straight for the bathroom. As soon as he stepped in, the reek of alcohol hit his nose like a punch.
Swinging the door open, he found Belenko already seated near the window, pouring clear liquid from a bottle into a glass. The sting in the air wasn't vodka. It was something nastier.
"Captain Belenko—are you seriously drinking that?"
Belenko looked up, unbothered.
"What else am I supposed to drink? All the vodka near the base is gone."
Andrei stared in disbelief.
That wasn't vodka. That was industrial alcohol — the kind laced with methanol. One wrong sip, and you risked blindness or death.
And unfortunately, industrial alcohol was easy to come by at Sokolovka.
The MiG-25 drank it.
To cool the immense airflow into the jet's massive engines, a water-alcohol spray system was used in the intakes. It worked like a charm — ethanol increased volatility, and the mix helped condense and chill incoming air. Each MiG-25 carried a 250-liter tank of this mixture.
And when desperate pilots were off-duty?
Sometimes, they siphoned it off for other uses.
Belenko poured another.
"Come, have a drink."
Andrei shook his head hard.
"We're on first-level combat readiness. War could start tomorrow. I need to be sharp."
Belenko smirked.
"Andre, you're too sharp. Sometimes it's better to live in a haze out here. It's the same damn thing as it was at the flight test center—no progress, no purity, no honor. I thought the front line would be different."
He tossed the drink back like it was water.
Andrei understood. Belenko wasn't just drunk. He was burned out. It was the same old Soviet routine. Different town. Same decay.
The optimism of the post-War era had withered. It was now 1976, and though the Soviet Union appeared powerful — thriving in the space race, countering U.S. influence worldwide — the rot had already set in. Bureaucracy, stagnation, an aging leadership. The Brezhnev Era had cemented a system where corruption grew like mold and the future was being quietly mortgaged away.
Andrei knew all of it. He was a man out of time, born into history with hindsight. If he had power, he might change something. But here? He was just a junior pilot in the Far East, waiting for orders.
He glanced at Belenko, now going for another pour.
"Stop. Seriously. I'll take you out for a real drink. Let's go."
"Out? To where?" Belenko muttered, eyes bleary.
"There's a bar in Qiuguyevka. Come on. My treat."
Belenko paused. He looked at the next glass of firewater, then slowly set it down.
"…You never drank before, Andre."
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Qiuguyevka was a small farming town. No factories, no high-rises. Just squat houses, wooden fences, and a scattering of state-run stores with red-and-gold signage.
But since the airbase went up nearby, the town had changed. It now existed to serve the soldiers — providing the things the military couldn't or wouldn't officially supply. Entertainment, food, drinks, distraction.
The Soviet system controlled distribution tightly. Even underwear was issued by the state. But people still had needs — material and emotional. So Qiuguyevka had built a quiet black-market culture around bars, shops, and old movie houses.
An open-top GAZ-69 jeep bounced down the dirt road and stopped in front of a low building with flickering neon signs. Andrei and Belenko climbed out and walked toward the entrance.
They didn't make it through the door.
Belenko froze mid-step.
Across the street, a woman walked by. And not just any woman.
She wore a black camisole stretched tight across a voluptuous chest, paired with shorts that ended just below her hips. Her long, pale legs were bare, leading down into tall leather boots that added bite to her already scorching presence.
Wavy auburn hair spilled over her shoulders.
Her eyes were alive, sharp and teasing, and when she smiled, it hit like a sucker punch.
Andrei blinked.
Even with his modern-day tastes, he had to admit — Maozi girls had their own magnetic pull.
Just then, she stumbled.
One of her high-heeled boots caught in a cracked sewer grate.
She bent down, giving both men a front-row seat as her chest threatened to escape her neckline.
Her handbag flew from her hand and landed neatly by Andrei's boot.
Before he could move, Belenko had already lunged. He scooped the bag, stepped forward, and reached out to her.
"Comrade, may I assist?"
The girl looked up and smiled.
"I twisted my ankle," she said. "Can you unzip my boot? I need to stretch it out."
Belenko knelt down in front of her, hands visibly trembling. The creamy white of her calf was inches from his face.
He unzipped the boot slowly, reverently — like he was unwrapping a sacred relic.
Andrei stared in disbelief.
This guy has a wife and two kids.
But the way he was acting now, you'd think he'd never seen a real woman before. Like some poor cartoon-watching hermit suddenly dropped into a dream.
Andrei didn't say anything.
He just watched, silently amused.
This was the Soviet Far East.
The Cold War raged on.
And for one brief second, in front of a bar in a backwater town, a beautiful woman had just made two steel-jawed fighter pilots forget all about it.
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