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Climbing, diving, rolling, banking—Warrant Officer Yamada executed every maneuver in the book. From the ground, it might have looked like an aerobatic display. But inside the cockpit, he was far from calm.
No matter what he tried, the fighter on his tail wouldn't budge. One conclusion became painfully clear: the enemy aircraft was more maneuverable than his own. And worse—the pilot behind the stick was simply better. If this had been a real missile engagement, he would've been blown out of the sky by now.
Yamada's flight suit was soaked with sweat, his back sticking to the seat. His radar intercept officer in the rear cabin looked pale and nauseated. Despite all efforts, they couldn't shake the MiG.
What now? What could he do?
Beads of sweat dripped from Yamada's forehead. His vision blurred. The relentless high-G maneuvers had drained him. His body was nearing its limit.
Meanwhile, Andre remained firmly in control. The MiG-25 wasn't known for dogfighting, but today, it was holding up impressively. Though Yamada's wingman tried to find an opening, Andre's situational awareness was too sharp. No chance was given.
The enemy began retreating toward Hokkaido's airspace. Andre kept up pursuit. Everything about today's engagement felt smooth—almost effortless.
He couldn't entirely blame his opponents. The F-4 Phantom had been conceived during an era that believed missiles would render dogfighting obsolete. Built for speed and altitude, it was a platform for air-to-air missiles, not for close-quarters maneuvering. Some early versions didn't even have a cannon. But the Vietnam War shattered that theory—the abysmal hit rate of the Sparrow missile exposed the Phantom's limitations in real combat.
The MiG-25 shared the high-speed, high-altitude design philosophy, but with notable differences. As a third-generation prototype, its twin-engine and twin-tail configuration gave it better agility than many assumed. While facing an F-15 might be a stretch, going up against second-generation fighters like the F-4? That was a different story.
"032, 032, return immediately! The target is approaching your airspace. I repeat, twenty aircraft are attempting to cross the border—heading straight for your airspace!"
Andre's pursuit had pushed him over Hokkaido without him realizing it. The Americans, alarmed, were scrambling all available fighters from the Kraken Squadron to protect their E-2 Hawkeye AWACS aircraft.
Even if the 513th Regiment disengaged now, with the American planes retreating first, it would still be seen as a successful defensive action. The CGI command station had already issued the recall order and assumed all Soviet aircraft were returning.
That's when someone noticed a missing signal—fighter 032 wasn't on its way back. Further scans confirmed the horrifying truth: Andre had flown over Hokkaido, and the American fighters were now circling to intercept him directly over Japanese territory.
An encounter over the Sea of Japan was one thing. Over an island? That was entirely different. Back at Sokolovka airbase, Commander Kozhdub's anxiety spiked. If Andre was shot down over foreign territory, the political fallout would be catastrophic—and it would fall squarely on him.
Andre had always been quiet and dependable. What was going on with him lately?
Furious and desperate, Kozhdub sent out another command: "032, return immediately!"
Andre finally glanced down. The blue expanse of the sea had disappeared. Below him now were dense forests—no mistaking it. He'd crossed into foreign airspace.
His heart skipped a beat.
"Roger that, returning immediately!" he shouted into the radio.
"032, 032, return immediately!" Kozhdub's voice came again, but this time Andre realized something troubling—the transmission was one-way. His own signal wasn't reaching the base anymore.
In this era, fighters didn't yet have satellite datalink communication. The entire air defense network relied on line-of-sight or signal relays. Out at sea or over foreign land, unless supported by an electronic warfare aircraft acting as a relay, communication was limited. The MiG's onboard radio just didn't have the range.
It was time to turn back. He checked his fuel gauge. The recent high-G chase had consumed another half-ton of fuel. If he didn't conserve now, he wouldn't make it home.
Altitude: 9,000 meters. Speed: 600 km/h.
Then he spotted it.
A slow-moving, high-profile blip—large and distinct. An E-2 Hawkeye.
The E-2 was the United States' current primary early warning aircraft. Its successor, the E-3 Sentry, was still in testing. Though carrier-based by design, the E-2 was often deployed at land-based airfields as well.
He had stumbled onto a high-value target.
So this was why the Americans were panicking.
Andre grinned beneath his oxygen mask. An idea formed quickly—he wouldn't attack, but he could certainly scare them.
Originally, the E-2 should've retreated south toward Honshu. But the American F-4s, still entangled in their failed intercept attempt, had dragged it eastward. The Hawkeye, with its giant rotating radar dish and slow speed, was now isolated.
Andre's MiG surged ahead.
Inside the E-2, panic broke out. The radar operator stared at his screen. "Damn it—he's on top of us!"
A shrill alarm filled the cabin—the MiG had locked onto them.
"Is he going to fire?" the war control officer shouted.
"Drop altitude, now!" someone barked. The crew suddenly remembered the MiG-25's weaknesses. Its radar systems weren't optimized for look-down engagements. By descending rapidly, they might break the lock.
The pilot shoved the control stick forward. The E-2 began a slow dive. The tips of its spinning propellers howled through the air, adding to the stress inside the cockpit.
But the lock alarm kept screaming.
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