Inside the sleek black boots, the girl wore sheer stockings. As she slipped them off, the fabric clung to her legs, revealing a slightly red and swollen ankle.
"It's fine. Just a minor sprain. I'll be okay in a few days," she said with a forced smile.
Andrei was just about to offer a suggestion when Belenko beat him to it.
"Comrade, where do you live? I'll take you home. You shouldn't be walking too much on that foot."
Take her home?
Andrei glanced over at Belenko's flushed face. This guy — usually stiff and silent — now looked like a horny boar during mating season.
Women over vodka. Every time.
"I'm at the hotel across the street," the girl replied. "I can walk back. No need to trouble you."
"How could I let that happen?" Belenko insisted, nodding at the open-top GAZ-69 jeep parked at the curb. "I have a car. I'll drive you."
The girl hesitated, then glanced at the vehicle, then at Belenko. She gave a polite nod.
Andrei sighed and got in the driver's seat, figuring that with Belenko already drunk, someone had to make sure they all made it home alive.
From the backseat, Belenko wasted no time starting the conversation.
"So, comrade… you're staying at a hotel? Traveling alone? What about your family?"
The girl didn't seem offended. "I'm a geography student. Senior year. Berlin University."
Berlin University? Andrei's eyebrows raised slightly. That was no joke.
"I'm here for my internship. I came early to see the Far East. Got bored in Vladivostok and decided to explore."
Belenko was suddenly all-in. "That's perfect. There's a lot to see out here. I could be your guide."
She smiled. "My name's Annie, by the way. You can drop the 'comrade' thing. It feels a little… bureaucratic."
The term "comrade" might have been standard in the USSR, but when directed at a woman with her looks, it felt ridiculous.
Belenko chuckled. "Belenko. I'm with the… military."
Annie's eyes lit up. "Military? You're not Air Force, are you?"
A low rumble rolled overhead, and the distinct shriek of a MiG-25 echoed through the sky.
Belenko looked at her and smiled.
"Not Air Force. Air Defense. I fly that." He pointed skyward. "The MiG-25."
"Crk!"
Andrei tapped the brakes sharply.
"Annie, hotel's here," he said, deliberately cutting the moment short.
She gave a nod, grabbed her bag, and began limping toward the building.
Andrei raised an eyebrow.
"Captain, want to walk her up?"
"Comrade Captain?" Belenko looked at him, then sighed. "Let's just go drink."
---
The bar was plain but sturdy. Raw wood from the nearby forests formed the walls, the counter, even the floorboards. Everything was solid, with no pretense.
The bearded man behind the bar didn't say much — just wiped a glass and looked up as the two men approached.
"What'll it be?"
"Two bottles of vodka."
Belenko ignored the glasses the bartender laid out. He grabbed the bottle, bit off the cap like a savage, and took a long swig straight from the neck.
The burn was instant. Like liquid fire down the throat.
Andrei took a cautious sip, and even that was enough to scorch his lungs.
He coughed. "Strong."
Belenko laughed. "Andre, you know you're the first man in this whole regiment who ever invited me for a drink?"
Andrei blinked. That was… surprising.
Belenko leaned on the bar, bottle in hand.
"Back in my old unit, I mouthed off to a superior. They sent me for psych evaluation. Called me unstable. When I got stationed here? No one spoke to me. Not once.
"Even my wife…" His voice slowed. "…came here with me. But she hated it. Said it was too remote. Begged for divorce every day. Took our boy, Kimka, back to Moscow two months ago."
He drank again. Hard.
"Andre… this country…" he started, eyes glassy. "I love it. But the system? It's broken. There's no life left in it. The leaders are all old men guarding their chairs. The future's just a lie we keep repeating to ourselves."
Andrei stayed quiet.
"I haven't heard from my mother in twenty-five years. Haven't seen my father in eight. Lyudmila's gone. Kimka barely knows me."
Another swig.
"I'm tired. I want something else. Something new. I don't care if it means starting over. I'm looking for a way out."
Andrei sat still, eyes narrowed.
A name echoed in his head like a siren.
Victor Ivanovich Belenko.
The defector.
The pilot who flew the Soviet Union's top-secret MiG-25 to Japan in 1976, handing it over to the Americans.
Back then, the West feared the MiG-25. They thought it was a titanium marvel of Soviet engineering.
But once they got their hands on it?
They found stainless steel and brute-force design. No special alloys. No hidden tech. The myth collapsed.
The fallout was massive. The USSR had to scramble to redesign their IFF systems. The MiG-25, once a symbol of terror, was suddenly a paper tiger.
All because of Belenko.
Andrei looked at the man across the bar.
This wasn't just any troubled pilot. This was the pilot.
He had to stop this.
No matter how broken the system was, defection was treason. A knife in the back of the motherland.
Andrei's first instinct was to get up, march back to base, and report Belenko immediately.
But he didn't.
Why?
Because no one would believe him.
Right now, Belenko was just venting. Nothing concrete. Just a drunk man talking about his life falling apart.
If he reported it now, Belenko would deny everything. He'd come down on Andrei hard. KGB would get involved. And if nothing happened, Andrei would be the one disgraced.
No. He needed proof.
He needed a plan.
---
Forty-five kilometers west of Tokyo, in Fussa, Tama District, the Stars and Stripes flapped outside Yokota Air Base.
This was the nerve center of the U.S. Fifth Air Force — the American spear aimed squarely at the Soviet Union and China. A crown jewel in the post-war American empire planted deep in the soil of a conquered island.
And if Belenko succeeded?
This would be the MiG-25's next runway.
Not if Andrei could help it.