Sikorsky: Captain

Silence in the cockpit. Zhukov crossed himself. Sikorsky stared at the disc. It dipped its leading edge—a bow, or a nod—and slid closer, two hundred meters now. Close enough to see that its surface wasn’t metal but something like polished nephrite jade, veined with faint, moving light.

Sikorsky flew home in silence. He landed at Severomorsk-1 at 07:13, filed a standard patrol report with no mention of the disc, and walked to his quarters. There, he sat on the edge of his cot, pulled out a worn notebook, and wrote a single sentence in pencil: captain sikorsky

“Co-pilot, you seeing this?”

A pause. The disc’s amber ring pulsed three times—green, blue, green. Then a synthetic voice, gentle and accentless, came through the speakers: “Acknowledged, Captain Sikorsky. Maintain heading. We will guard your starboard side. The sky is cold, but you are not alone.” Silence in the cockpit

The amber ring on the disc brightened. A beam of soft, blue-white light swept across the Il-38’s fuselage, nose to tail. Every warning light on Sikorsky’s panel flickered—then steadied. The radio emitted a single chime, followed by a burst of static that resolved into a pattern. Rhythmic. Almost like syllables. It dipped its leading edge—a bow, or a