“It’s transmitting data,” the comms officer said, voice cracking. “Sir, it’s transmitting to us. Binary at first, then… it switched to basic ICAO aviation English phraseology. It just sent ‘request fly with you.’”
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. captain sikorsky
“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. It just sent ‘request fly with you
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.” The radio emitted a single chime, followed by
Sikorsky’s jaw tightened. He was fifty-two years old, a veteran of two naval conflicts, a man who had once landed a crippled plane on an ice floe with one engine on fire and three dead gyros. He did not startle. He did not speculate. He observed.
“Unknown craft,” he said, slow and clear. “This is Captain Viktor Sikorsky, Russian Naval Aviation. You are cleared to fly in formation. Maintain five hundred meter separation. Acknowledge.”