---
Two MiG-25 interceptors descended from the sky, their final approach sharp and deliberate, aligned perfectly with the runway ahead.
"031, 032 — ease the stick, keep the attitude steady. Gear down confirmed."
The voice of the air traffic officer echoed calmly in their headsets.
It was Andre's first time landing a MiG-25 — a beast of altitude and speed. But in this world, this life, he was Andre, and his hands were steady. He eased the control column forward, keeping the glide clean and controlled.
The MiG-25 had unique handling quirks. To keep it responsive at high altitudes, the aircraft was fitted with a full-moving horizontal tail and twin towering vertical stabilizers. At low altitude, though, the dense air made every movement heavy — sluggish — like wrestling a flying brick.
---
The rear wheels kissed the tarmac. A muted thud rolled through the airframe.
Andre looked out through the cockpit's metal-framed canopy as the world blurred past.
The nose wheel touched down next. He began light braking — no drag chute today.
The MiG-25 was heavy. Very heavy. Without the chute, it needed every meter of the two-kilometer runway.
At the far end, the aircraft finally slowed to a crawl.
---
Ground crew rushed in. A mobile ladder was already rolling into place beside the cockpit. Andre powered down the systems, popped the canopy, and climbed down.
Up close, the MiG-25 was colossal. Thick fuselage, sharp edges, gaping rectangular intakes — everything about it screamed power. Soviet design didn't care about elegance. It was about what worked.
Andre had flown the J-11 in his previous life — sleek, maneuverable, modern. But standing beneath the MiG-25, he felt small.
---
Another technician climbed a second ladder, this one against the vertical stabilizer. It towered above them — nearly two stories high.
Andre remembered the collision — how his tail had sliced into the EP-3.
"Is it bad?" he asked, half-expecting the worst.
"Just skin damage," the technician said, inspecting the tail. "We'll weld it in the hangar. Didn't touch the VHF antenna."
Weld it. Not replace — weld.
The skin was stainless steel, heat-resistant, designed for brute durability. No composites. No fragile molded panels. Just torch it and seal it.
Andre grinned. In the future, a damaged composite wing meant full replacement. But this plane? Fix it with fire.
---
A tap on his back.
Andre turned. A broad-shouldered pilot stood behind him, helmet under one arm.
Stern jaw. Lazy eyes. A natural bear of a man.
"Captain Belenko," Andre said, surprised.
Belenko was the lead on this mission — transferred from Sarsk Training Center a year ago, now Deputy Chief of the 3rd Air Brigade at Qiuguyevka Air Defense Regiment.
They'd been flying as partners for about a month.
---
"Let's report to command," Belenko said flatly.
Then, with a glance: "That pass you pulled up there... weren't you worried about crashing?"
Andre shrugged. "My hand slipped. Bad judgment call."
Deliberately admitting an intentional collision could cause diplomatic hell. It was safer to chalk it up as pilot error — a "mistake."
Belenko didn't comment. He rarely did.
---
They climbed into a KamAZ troop truck headed for the command building. But as they drove across the base, Andre spotted something in the distance — something massive, white, and broken.
A four-engine turboprop.
Wing damage.
Skewed on the grass.
The EP-3.
Andre's pulse jumped.
They landed here?
The enemy's road was narrow indeed.
---
Soviet troops surrounded the downed aircraft. Helmets on, AK-74s in hand, they guarded the wreck with grim focus. One by one, the Americans were disembarking, arms raised or pressed to their sides, expressions tight.
Andre couldn't resist.
"Stop the truck!" he called out.
He hopped down and walked briskly toward the crowd. Behind him, Belenko just shook his head.
---
The Americans were being herded toward the main building — escorted, not welcomed. In Soviet eyes, these weren't "downed pilots." They were trespassers, violators of national airspace. Only orders from above had stopped missiles from flying.
The soldiers weren't subtle about their contempt. One lagging American got a sharp buttstock jab between the shoulder blades.
He stumbled — and ended up face to face with Andre.
It was Asius, the mission officer.
---
His eyes locked onto Andre's anti-G suit and flight helmet — and the rage exploded.
"You! You hit our plane! That was an act of aggression!"
"You violated international law! The U.S. will not tolerate this!"
Andre's expression hardened. No more evasions. No fake smiles.
"You Americans — you're not the world's saviors. Not the global police. You show up in our waters, and now you're mad about the consequences?"
He stepped forward, pulled a pilot's knife from his flight harness, and pointed to Asius's groin.
"Next time, I won't just clip your wing. I'll clip this."
Asius went pale.
The Soviet troops burst into laughter — raw, unfiltered amusement echoing across the field. Andre didn't crack a smile.
---
Asius turned away, jaw clenched, escorted into the base under heavy guard.
Andre watched them go.
In his mind, a name returned: Wang Wei.
A comrade from another life — a pilot who never came home.
Today, Andre had flown in his place.
And today, the sky belonged to him.