Epica Official Website Epica Official Website

New studio album ‘ASPIRAL’ out now

Order

Captain Sikorsky Portable [SAFE]

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.

Sikorsky keyed the intercom. “Sensor station, give me something.” captain sikorsky

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. Sikorsky’s jaw tightened

It was three in the morning over the Barents Sea. His Il-38 patrol aircraft hummed steady, its belly full of sonobuoys and magnetic anomaly detectors. The northern lights flickered green and violet beyond the cockpit glass. Then—between one breath and the next—a shape emerged from the glow. Not a missile. Not a weather balloon. A disc. Smooth as polished bone, rimmed with a soft amber ring of light that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. He did not speculate

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.

“Open the ventral camera pod,” he ordered. “Record everything.”

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:

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.

Sikorsky keyed the intercom. “Sensor station, give me something.”

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 was three in the morning over the Barents Sea. His Il-38 patrol aircraft hummed steady, its belly full of sonobuoys and magnetic anomaly detectors. The northern lights flickered green and violet beyond the cockpit glass. Then—between one breath and the next—a shape emerged from the glow. Not a missile. Not a weather balloon. A disc. Smooth as polished bone, rimmed with a soft amber ring of light that pulsed like a slow heartbeat.

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.

“Open the ventral camera pod,” he ordered. “Record everything.”

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: