---
"Belenko, I'm heading back to Vladivostok tomorrow. My professors and classmates are already there—we'll spend three more days in the Far East before returning to Berlin," Anne said softly, nestled in his arms as they stared at the star-scattered night sky.
Her voice was gentle, reluctant.
Belenko's heart ached. "Annie… I like you. I want to be with you."
He had fallen for her the first night they went camping together. He didn't care about status or appearances anymore. Being with Annie made everything else fade. Tonight, as they camped once more under the open sky, he held her close. Even if they hadn't crossed that final boundary, in his heart, this woman had already eclipsed everyone before—including his ex-wife, Lyudmila.
With Anne beside him, Belenko wanted nothing more. He'd follow her anywhere.
"I like you too, Belenko," Anne replied, voice trembling. "But we… we can't be together."
His breath caught. "Why? Is it my age?"
"It's not that." She stood, pulling away gently, walking a few steps toward the birch trees ahead. "You know I never planned to stay in the Soviet Union forever. I never intended to marry a Soviet officer."
Belenko remembered what she'd told him one night. Her father had remained in East Germany while her mother lived in West Berlin. The Berlin Wall had split her family. Anne longed to reunite with her mother in the West.
If she married a Soviet citizen—especially a military pilot—she'd never be allowed to leave. The Iron Curtain wouldn't just divide nations. It would divide her future.
His chest tightened. She liked him—he could feel that. But she couldn't marry him. Not here. Not like this.
"I had a wonderful time with you, Belenko," she whispered. "But this… has to be a memory. A beautiful one."
She turned, tears glimmering in her eyes.
"No!" Belenko reached out, desperation rising. "Annie, I'll go with you! To the West. I won't be Soviet anymore."
She paused. Her voice cracked. "Belenko, you're a decorated officer here. In the West… what would you be? A defector? An outcast? You're used to this world. Over there, you'd have no rank, no role. My family wouldn't accept you—not unless…"
"Unless what?" he demanded. "Tell me!"
"Unless you prove your worth," she said, her voice fading into the night. "Unless your defection means something. Unless the West sees you not as a risk, but as an opportunity."
Then she ran.
"Annie!" he shouted, stumbling forward.
But she was already gone—her figure vanishing into the shadows beyond the trees. Belenko stood frozen, her words echoing in his ears.
Prove your worth.
If that's what it took, then so be it. He wouldn't lose her. Not like this.
---
Back in Vladivostok, Andre winced with every step. His injured leg throbbed, but he pushed forward. He needed to rebuild strength. The tendon had been torn and stitched after the emergency landing. Three days had passed. He refused to waste time lying idle.
In his previous life, he remembered the saying: "Broken bones take 100 days." But that was an oversimplification. In reality, tissues like tendons and fascia needed only a few weeks. Muscles needed motion to regain strength. Rest too long, and they weakened beyond repair.
For Andre, flying again was everything. And that meant recovering—fast.
Leaning against the wall, he pushed through the pain, circling the room slowly. Across the ward, Ekaterina stood watching. Her eyes—bright and concerned—never left him.
"Be careful!" she called out as he stumbled slightly and rushed to his side.
"It's fine," Andre grunted, placing a hand gently against her shoulder to steady himself—and instantly recoiled.
His fingers had brushed somewhere… soft.
Internally, he panicked. That wasn't intentional! Act normal. Don't let her notice.
He turned, pretending to focus elsewhere.
But he saw it.
A subtle blush beneath her golden hair, barely hidden by the mask. Her ears tinged red. She hadn't said a word, but she had felt it—and chose to say nothing.
"Comrade Andre," she said gently, "please sit. You need to rest."
"No," he replied, gritting his teeth. "I didn't back down when I faced American jets. I'm not backing down now."
He circled the room again, sweating and grimacing. Eventually, the pain caught up. He collapsed back onto the bed, breathing hard.
Ekaterina hesitated, then sat across from him. "Comrade Andre… tell me how it happened. How did you beat the Americans?"
Andre blinked. Did she just ask about the dogfight?
She wanted to hear his story?
He smiled slightly. Maybe she did admire him a little. Maybe this wasn't just professionalism.
"At the time," he began, "we were cruising at 8,000 meters…"
His voice grew steady as he recounted the aerial duel—the turns, the locks, the missile cues. Ekaterina listened in silence, eyes fixed on him, her hands resting in her lap.
For a moment, it wasn't about politics, medals, or pressure.
Just a pilot. A doctor. And the quiet fire of something unspoken between them.
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