Andrei gripped the controls of his MiG-25PD, slicing through the stratosphere as he crossed the center line of the Sea of Japan. Below, the American 13th Fighter Squadron scrambled to respond, but it was too late—the Soviet jet had already flown past their designated interception zone.
In a real combat scenario, this would be considered a catastrophic failure. An enemy aircraft crossing the line unchecked, especially one possibly armed with nuclear payloads, could wreak havoc deep in friendly territory. Yet, today, this was a show of force, a silent standoff. Andrei's move was bold, designed to rattle nerves and probe responses.
At an altitude nearing 30,000 meters, the MiG-25 was a blur against the endless sky. From the ground or even from interceptor jets, it was nearly invisible. The F-4 Phantoms couldn't track him effectively—their AN/APQ-120 radars lacked the scanning precision and range to handle such altitude and velocity. Their single-pulse lock systems couldn't even search the wider airspace around them.
Andrei surged forward, Hokkaido now ahead on his flight path. He had burned through more than half of his 16-ton fuel load, most of it devoured by the thirsty afterburners. The fighter was lighter now, and with a better thrust-to-weight ratio, more agile.
In the E-2 early warning aircraft, tension was mounting.
"Damn, he's coming straight for us. What the hell is he thinking?" the radar operator muttered, staring at the blip closing in at Mach 2.6.
"Qingteng Squad, Qingteng Squad, bogey at nine o'clock. Intercept immediately. Siren Squadron, return to assist!" barked the battle controller.
"Roger that, Qingteng Squad on the move," came the terse reply.
Two F-4 fighters, both part of Japan's Air Self-Defense Force, peeled off from their escort positions flanking the E-2. The red insignias on their air intakes and wings caught the glint of sunlight as they rolled into position, turning toward the approaching threat.
Despite Japan's constitutional constraints post-WWII, its self-defense forces had evolved into a modern, well-equipped military under the watchful guidance of the U.S. Their planes and pilots were trained for moments like this, yet few expected a Soviet jet to charge directly toward Japanese airspace.
The lead F-4, piloted by Warrant Officer Yamada, increased throttle. He signaled the radar officer in the rear cockpit to power up the systems. Their AN/APQ-72 radar, still relying on vacuum tube tech and a parabolic dish, needed time to warm up before it could track anything.
Meanwhile, Andrei soared onward.
During the Cold War, unspoken rules governed these encounters. The Soviets rarely, if ever, crossed the midline of the Sea of Japan. But today, Andrei had.
Two hundred kilometers from Hokkaido.
He grinned in the cockpit. If anyone asked later, he'd say the nav system glitched. A plausible excuse, if a bit thin. Right now, he just wanted to enjoy the flight—a casual cruise through contested airspace, seeing how the other side reacted.
Unaware that the E-2 circling above Hokkaido had already tagged him as hostile, Andrei cruised on. His MiG-25 lacked the advanced ECM gear to detect enemy radar sweeps, and the targets now emerging were beyond the range of his Sapphire-25 radar.
Then, two blips lit up on his screen. Altitude: 15,000 meters. Speed: Mach 1.2.
Interceptors.
Andrei throttled down. High-speed flight killed maneuverability. If he wanted to put on a show, he'd need to be nimble.
He flipped the radar mode. The inverted Cassegrain antenna hummed as it swept the skies with I-band continuous wave signals. The beams locked onto the incoming aircraft.
In the F-4, Yamada's warning receiver blared. His aircraft was being tracked.
"Radar lock!" the backseat operator shouted.
Their own radar had just come online, but it couldn't find the MiG.
"80 kilometers. Twelve o'clock. He's slowing down. Altitude 22,000," came the calm voice of the E-2 controller over the comms.
Yamada gritted his teeth. Eighty kilometers? The Soviets were bluffing. Everyone knew their missiles couldn't reach that far.
"Keep on him. He's trying to scare us," Yamada snapped.
He leveled off and accelerated. His radar operator finally picked up the target.
"We have him. Locking now. Ready Sparrow missiles."
"Do it," Yamada barked.
They were forty kilometers apart now.
Andre's cockpit suddenly filled with the harsh beep of radar lock. Enemy radar had him.
Without hesitation, he pushed the stick and kicked the rudder. The MiG-25 rolled sharply to the left, breaking the radar lock in a clean, practiced maneuver.
Silence.
Andre steadied the plane and began to climb again, arching back toward the midline. He had made his point. The message was simple: We can be here anytime we want.
In the E-2, the radar operator watched the blip begin to fade.
"He's turning around... climbing."
Yamada didn't speak. His target was leaving. No missiles had been launched. But the psychological impact had landed all the same.
Andrei adjusted his trim and re-engaged afterburners. The MiG-25 roared as it picked up speed again, drawing a long contrail behind it in the thinning stratospheric air. Mission complete.
Above the clouds and far from the shouting below, he allowed himself a brief smile. This was flying.
Let the diplomats sort it out.