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Despite being only three years old, little Ivan had already made himself known in every corner of the hospital dormitory. In the few months since he and his mother arrived, he'd grown familiar with all the neighbors upstairs and down. Aunt Diana, one of his favorites, often gave him candy and sweet words.
So when Ekaterina began accusing Andrei in the middle of the night, Ivan had no hesitation stepping up. "It wasn't Uncle Andrei," he declared proudly. "He taught me how to fly a plane! He's a good guy!"
Ekaterina's anger melted in an instant. She realized she had misjudged Andrei—and badly. Her accusations now felt foolish, and the embarrassment began to creep in.
"I'm sorry," she said with a sheepish smile. She scratched her hair awkwardly and continued, "I just…"
But before she could finish, her nightgown betrayed her. The silky straps slipped off her shoulders and slid down to her waist in one smooth motion.
"Ah—no! Turn around, don't look!" she cried, hastily clutching the gown as she fled back into the bedroom.
Andrei instinctively turned away—only to catch her reflection in the full-length mirror beside him. Ekaterina, flustered and flushed, practically dove into her room, the image of her slim, graceful figure seared into his memory despite himself.
Inside, Ekaterina buried herself under the covers, mortified. Why did this have to happen? How do I face him tomorrow? she thought, heart pounding.
She didn't dare step out again until morning. Even when she heard movement from the living room, she kept still and silent, pretending to be asleep.
By nine o'clock, she finally emerged, peeking out cautiously.
To her surprise, Ivan was already seated at the table, happily sipping porridge from a large floral bowl. As soon as he saw her, he grinned and said, "Ms. Ekaterina! You finally woke up! Uncle Andrei made breakfast. He left before you got up."
"Left?" Ekaterina echoed, her chest tightening slightly.
Without a goodbye?
She stood there silently for a moment, looking at the warm breakfast on the table. It was simple—porridge, boiled eggs, and slices of rye bread—but it suddenly felt meaningful.
Crack.
She gently tapped Ivan on the forehead. "How many times do I have to tell you to call me 'Mother'?"
"That's only when people are around," Ivan said cheekily, grabbing a piece of brown bread. "When it's just us, I'll call you Ms. Ekaterina. And if you hit me again, I'll tell everyone what happened last night!"
"You little rascal," Ekaterina muttered, half-laughing. "Have I not taken good care of you these past months?"
"Well, I want a MiG-25 model plane today," Ivan replied smugly. "Bring it home when you get off work."
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Across the airfield, the distinct rumble of a GAZ-69 echoed as Andrei stepped out of the jeep. The runway shimmered under the morning sun, and rows of sleek MiG-25 interceptors lined the tarmac. The sight made his heart swell.
There's nothing like flying, he thought.
At 30,000 meters above the Earth, skimming the edge of the stratosphere, nothing compared to the sense of freedom the MiG-25 gave him. He had missed it dearly.
Carrying his duffel bag, Andrei returned to the pilots' dorm. The corridors were quiet—most of the regiment was either training or on alert.
He opened the door to his room and frowned. Empty vodka bottles lay scattered beneath the bed, and waste paper littered the floor.
Belenko again, he thought bitterly. Still drinking like the war ended yesterday.
As he gathered the trash, something caught his eye—a folded map marked with red ink.
It was a detailed topographical map of Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan. One specific location had been circled in bold red: Yakumo Town, Erimo District—Yakumo Forward Air Base.
Andrei's eyes narrowed.
He did it... Belenko really went through with it.
Without hesitation, he dropped the map and sprinted toward the command tower.
No time to waste. If I'm right, he's already gone. We have to stop him before he crosses the border.
The pain in his once-injured leg was long gone, and he ran full speed across the airfield.
Inside the tower, Colonel Kozhdub's voice rang over the comms: "031, respond! This is Command! 031, do you copy?!"
031—Belenko's callsign.
"Comrade Colonel!" Andrei burst through the door. "Captain Andrei, pilot of the 3rd Brigade, 513th Regiment, reporting for duty! I've completed my recovery and request to return to the unit!"
Kozhdub turned sharply, eyes wide. "Andrei? You're back?"
"Yes, sir. What's the situation?"
Colonel Ivanov spoke grimly. "Two minutes ago, during a post-repair test flight, Belenko's MiG-25 suddenly dropped altitude. We've lost radio contact. Radar shows nothing. It may have crashed."
The implications hit like a brick. A fighter disappearing like that meant either a catastrophic failure—or something more calculated.
Andrei's instincts screamed the latter.
"No," he said aloud. "I don't think it was a crash. Belenko could've dropped into ultra-low altitude flight and cut radio. It would look exactly like a malfunction. And he's circled a Japanese air base in his room! Yakumo, Hokkaido."
Kozhdub's face darkened. He'd had issues with Belenko before—arguments over maintenance, complaints about logistics. Now it all made sense.
"Damn it," he muttered. "So that bastard's defecting?"
"Permission to launch a search sortie," Andrei requested. "My MiG's radar has terrain-tracking capability. I may spot something before the Tu-142 maritime patrol arrives."
Colonel Ivanov hesitated. "We already have two MiGs patrolling the area. They've found nothing."
"Exactly," Andrei replied. "That's why I think he's flying under them. Give me a chance, sir."
Kozhdub's eyes narrowed, calculating. Then he gave a firm nod.
"Granted. Get up there, Captain. If Belenko's defecting, we'll deal with him our way."
Andrei saluted sharply, adrenaline pumping.
The chase was on.
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