“I know what protocol says,” Sikorsky interrupted. Report unknown contact. Do not engage. Do not deviate from mission flight path. But protocols assumed the unknown was a new Russian missile or a NATO drone. Not this. Not a thing that asked permission to fly beside you.
Co-pilot Zhukov leaned forward, his mustache brushing the instrument panel. “Da. Big. No transponder. No heat signature. No radar return until thirty seconds ago, and now it’s… just sitting there.” captain sikorsky
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.” “I know what protocol says,” Sikorsky interrupted
“Wait,” Sikorsky said into the mic. “Who are you?” Do not deviate from mission flight path
“Sir, it’s cold. Colder than the water below. And heavy. Magnetic flux is off the scale.”
The disc rotated lazily, then tilted. Sikorsky’s hands moved on instinct—throttle back, slight bank to starboard. The disc matched him. He turned port. It mirrored again, maintaining exactly five hundred meters off his wingtip, as if tethered by an invisible line.
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: