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The target lit up clearly on the TP-26-SH1 infrared tracking screen. A sharp glint flickered ahead—a dot of sunlight reflecting off a cockpit canopy skimming the waves.
Andrei narrowed his eyes. Got you.
He pulled back slightly on the throttle and stayed behind the target, tracking at a distance. Cool and steady. Then he switched on the radio.
"Sokolovka, this is 032. Sea Sector 7. Visual contact with suspect aircraft. Believed to be fighter 031."
There was a short pause.
"No. 032, you are ordered to pursue and confirm identity," barked the voice of Colonel Kuoridub.
Sector 7 was nearly 200 nautical miles from Hokkaido. If fighter 031 was here, this was no test flight. It was a defection.
Andrei keyed his mic again. "032 to 031, do you copy? 032 to 031, respond."
Silence.
Just like in the reports. Belenko had turned off his radio, flying below radar, hugging the waves. With the MiG-25's narrow cockpit field of view, he'd never see Andrei creeping up behind him.
Andrei advanced. Twenty kilometers. Fifteen. Ten. Five.
The target loomed—twin tails, massive intakes, a MiG-25 like his own. Belenko's bird.
Inside the cockpit, Belenko's palms were sweating. The Sea of Japan's shimmering waters stretched ahead, growing bluer with every kilometer.
Hokkaido lay just beyond the horizon. Anne, freedom, and a new life in the West were within reach. I'm almost there…
Then—movement.
A shadow emerged from behind on his left flank.
Belenko turned his head and saw the unmistakable profile of another MiG-25 sliding into view. The same cold steel lines, the same shape.
Then he saw the number painted near the nose: 032.
Andrei.
Belenko's gut twisted. Andrei had found him.
In the cockpit of 032, Andrei raised his left hand, waving from behind his canopy, motioning for Belenko to open his radio.
For a long moment, Belenko hesitated—then flipped the switch.
"Andrei, what are you doing?" he asked, his voice strained but steady.
"Belenko, turn back. You're inside the island's ADIZ. If you continue, there's no turning back."
A pause.
"I can't go back," Belenko said quietly. "I hate what this country has become. I want a new life. You wouldn't understand."
Andrei's jaw clenched.
"Treason is treason," he replied, his voice cold. "Whatever your reasons, this path only ends in shame."
"You still believe in the fairy tale they fed us as kids," Belenko snapped. "Open your eyes! The country is rotting from the inside. Kozhdub's nephew Akim is the reason your MiG nearly crashed last month. That stall-spin? Faulty maintenance. And no one said a damn thing."
Andrei's breath caught. That spin had nearly killed him.
Belenko's voice was rising now. "There's nothing left, Andrei. The honest are crushed, the corrupt promoted. You think I'm crazy, but I'm just free. Come with me. There's a better world out there—freedom, democracy—Anne is already making arrangements!"
But Andrei was silent. The two aircraft surged through the sky, climbing now, contrails trailing behind them.
Then the order came.
"032, this is Sokolovka Control. Belenko has been classified as a traitor. Shoot him down. Two unknown contacts approaching from Hokkaido—altitude 12,000, speed Mach 1.3."
Andrei stared ahead, heart pounding. Two F-4 Phantoms—just like Belenko planned. This was no delusion. It was real.
"Treason," he whispered.
There was no more room for doubt. If Belenko reached those jets, the West would have everything—the MiG-25's secrets, Soviet radar codes, and a propaganda victory that would ripple through history.
Andrei's finger hovered over the red trigger.
"032, confirm engagement," came the voice again.
He took a deep breath. His voice was steady. "032, roger. Engaging."
His thumb pressed down.
The missile detached in a roar, trailing flame as it streaked toward its target—an iron judgment flying on a pillar of fire.