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’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. captain sikorsky
Sikorsky keyed the intercom. “Sensor station, give me something.” Silence in the cockpit