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Just minutes later, Andrei, fully suited in his flight gear, climbed into the cockpit of his MiG-25PD interceptor.
Despite his recent hospitalization, Andrei's aircraft—number 032—had been carefully maintained. Thanks to the media's constant glorification of his past exploits, he was now a national hero. In the eyes of the Soviet people, he was more than a pilot—he was a symbol. And symbols deserved special treatment.
The fighter was fueled to capacity. The moment it left the hangar and rolled onto the runway, Andrei engaged the afterburners. The massive thrust pushed him back into the seat as the aircraft roared forward and leapt into the air.
Belenko… did you crash—or did you defect?
If the latter, it was catastrophic. The West would tear the MiG-25 apart, analyze every component, and strip away the aura of mystery surrounding Soviet aviation. They would learn of the primitive vacuum-tube radar system and laugh at the USSR's backwardness. The aircraft's deterrent power would be destroyed in a single act of betrayal.
This couldn't be allowed.
Today was August 6th, 1976—an entire month ahead of the real defection date in recorded history. But this time, Belenko wasn't alone. His quick decision to defect had been encouraged—by Anne.
It had been just yesterday that Belenko secretly visited Anne in Vladivostok. He told her everything: his plan to fly a MiG-25 to Japan and escape to the West. Anne had responded with a long, passionate kiss and whispered promises. She would return to East Germany and, through her father's contacts, relay Belenko's defection plan to the Americans.
If all went well, two F-4 Phantoms would be waiting over Hokkaido, ready to escort him safely once he crossed the maritime border.
And now, sitting in his cockpit, Belenko was overwhelmed with emotion. He had nothing left in the USSR—his superiors mocked him, his peers dismissed him, and his family was gone. But ahead of him was freedom, a new life, and a beautiful woman waiting.
The mission had been set up under the pretense of testing a new engine installation. He took off solo—no wingman, no escort—and with only 6 tons of fuel, enough for a carefully timed route.
After one minute of afterburner to climb, Belenko leveled off at 8,000 meters, then dropped altitude rapidly. He simulated an engine failure and crashed dive to under 1,000 meters, leveling out again at 300 meters above the water. Then he killed the radio.
At that altitude—hugging the sea surface—he was virtually invisible. Radar beams would bounce chaotically off the waves. Without a guiding radar cue, spotting a lone jet visually in the vast ocean was like finding a pin in the Mariana Trench.
Contrary to Western misconceptions, the MiG-25's radar wasn't disabled to prevent radiation burns. It was because the ancient vacuum-tube system—Cyclone-A—was utterly incapable of filtering surface clutter at low altitude. The radar's processing was easily overwhelmed by ground reflections, and at low levels, it became useless.
That was why the MiG-25 was designed for high-altitude interception. And Belenko, with his system disabled, was now relying purely on stealth, speed, and luck.
He had thirty minutes. If he could stay hidden that long, he'd be free.
What he didn't know was that just five minutes after he disappeared, another MiG-25PD had launched. This one had something he didn't anticipate: the upgraded Sapphire-25 pulse-Doppler radar—designed specifically to counter the weaknesses of the old system.
That MiG-25 was flown by Andrei.
While the other pilots searched the obvious crash area, Andrei followed a different hunch. He drew a straight line from Belenko's last known position to Yakumo Air Base in Hokkaido, Japan. If his theory was right, Belenko would be flying that very route—low, silent, and fast.
Andrei had taken off at full burn, pushing his aircraft to Mach 2.6 as he streaked toward the presumed escape corridor. When he neared the area, he killed the afterburners and switched on the radar.
The large antenna of the Sapphire-25, almost a meter in diameter, tilted downward by 42 degrees, scanning in pitch. Radar pulses, each with 600 kilowatts of peak power, swept over the ocean surface. The sophisticated processing systems filtered sea clutter, and a soft rotating line glowed on the radar scope.
Fifty seconds passed.
Then—a blip.
Distance: 100 kilometers.
Altitude: 300 meters.
Got you.
Andrei smiled grimly. He gently eased the control column forward, descending like a bird of prey.
The contact grew clearer with each passing second. Switching to his TP-26-SH1 forward-looking infrared search and track system, he locked onto a faint but growing heat signature. The system would help him zero in—especially now that he was chasing from behind.
The Mach meter climbed rapidly. The MiG began flirting with Mach 3 as Andrei plunged from the stratosphere.
The air thickened below 10,000 meters. The skin of the aircraft began to heat as Andrei throttled back slightly, focusing. He was getting close.
His hand hovered over the radio trigger. Not to engage—not yet.
But to confirm, to confront.
To stop a betrayal that could shake the entire Soviet military balance.
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