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Skyward
“Komyeta 1, this is Station T-22. New contact, bearing three-three-five, range seventy kilometers.”
Nesterov blinked, his tiredness receding upwards behind his eyeballs as the tinny voice of the ground-control intercept radar officer pierced through his headset. Clearing his throat, he could hear his radar systems officer, Dubinev, also grunting himself more alert over the plane’s intercom.
“Speed is approximately five hundred kilometers per hour, altitude is seven kilometers. Komyeta 1, status?”
Before pressing the transmit toggle, Nesterov heard Dubinev say, “My scope’s clear. Has been for the last hour.”
“Station T-22, this is Komyeta 1,” Nesterov said, his voice carrying no hint of the fatigue sharing equal space with the blood coursing through his arteries. “We have no other contacts on radar at present. Fuel capacity is within tolerances. All systems are operational.”
“Proceed on bearing to establish visual identification of contact.”
Nesterov, already bringing the rudder and stick over smoothly to change course, said, “Roger, Station T-22. Will report on making visual with contact. Komyeta 1, out.”
Both the radar station and the plane belonged to the Voyska-PVO, the separate air defense arm of the Soviet Air Force. Station T-22’s recent construction on Severny Island of the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago increased available coverage for the PVO into the far north, and allowed it to more accurately vector in interceptors from the nearby air base at Rogachevo.
Nesterov and Dubinev both held the rank of captain. Flying as a pilot/radar operator team for two years now, the dull sweep of air patrols over the desolate northern Arctic reaches did not faze them. Nudging the throttles forward as they settled in on their new course, the acceleration nudging him back into his ejection seat, Nesterov said, “Going rather low and slow for a reconnaissance flight.”
“Probably someone off-course. Or the new station is having some kind of a mechanical goblin.”
“It’s no Blackbird, that’s for sure.”
“A crate like ours won’t catch a bird like that.”
“A Red pilot can dream.”
“Sure, and the black ones will soar away on afterburners above us.”
“Don’t kill my joy.”
Even with their banter, Dubinev’s point remained correct. Their plane, a Tupolev Tu-28, bore the dimensions of a bomber more so than the kind of silver streak required to bring down an American SR-71. With a full weight of forty thousand kilos, the design philosophy mandated a heavy radar tied to heavy engines designed to bring a quartet of heavy missiles within range of an incoming bomber formation. Its fuel capacity gave it the endurance to conduct long-range patrols over large and otherwise empty expanses of the Soviet Union. Not a glamorous mission, but a necessary one. Before their arrival at Rogachevo, their base had been in the flat and wind-blown Taymyr region of northern Russia. Keeping the more desolate skies of their homeland free of probing had been something they had grown accustomed to doing over the last two years.
In this nighttime hour, going on close to midnight at their local time, the skies over the nether swirl where the Barents and Kara Seas merged contained a cold majesty of stars. Being the seventeenth of January of the year 1984, the sharp white disc of the full moon lay like a crown jewel amongst a breadth of celestial bodies pressed so close together that scarcely any darkness showed between them. It could, at times, move even the two of them, they who had seen such things numerous times on their lonely flights. But the approach to their contact now occupied their attention.
Their acceleration on their new heading soon bore a result. “I have a radar contact,” Dubinev said, “at fifty kilometers. Altitude and speed appear to have remained constant since the radar station’s report.”
Nesterov considered that for a moment. A contact that appeared to be conducting a very tight orbit, to the point of remaining stationary, didn’t seem all that plausible in these conditions. Other Tu-28 units had conducted intercepts of NATO reconnaissance balloons, but he considered finding one this far up here unlikely. The same went for some kind of small civilian aircraft. No reason for it to behave in such a manner. Some kind of drone, then? Perhaps the Soviet Northern Fleet testing something, their notification of such getting lost somewhere between Murmansk and Moscow. Finally, he said, “Continue tracking.” He nudged the stick forward lightly, the plane’s nose pointing downwards towards the life-ending sea below and away from the icy points above. “We’ll approach and overfly at 75 klicks altitude, see if we can see anything. If not, we’ll descend and return for another pass.”
“Prepare the radar-homing missiles?”
Pause. “Negative. For now, we shall just look.”
“Not risking more bad press?”
“The West loves its bad press. About everything you could name, but about the Soviet Union especially. I’ll not give them another flak shell to fire against us, even in as remote an area as this.”
Four months prior, there had been an incident over the Soviet Far East. Voyska-PVO interceptors had shot down an airplane that had violated Soviet military airspace over the island of Sakhalin. While the official Soviet line, the line which both Nesterov and Dubinev felt inclined to believe, said that their planes had downed a US Air Force reconnaissance flight, most of the rest of the world howled that it had been an off-course Korean Air Lines jumbo jet instead. The investigation still went on. Combined with a separate occurrence in 1978 where a PVO interceptor had fired on an another off-course Korean Air Lines jetliner, that time near the border between the Soviet Union and Finland, most air defense squadron commanders felt the need to require a more conservative approach to handling unidentified aircraft.
“As you say, then,” Dubinev replied.
“Two of our missiles are heat-seekers. That should be adequate for whatever we find.”
“Alright, then.”
“Why so unconvinced?”
“Not really. I just prefer having the option.”
“Our bosses have a different preference. Therefore, it’s our preference.”
A small chuckle. “Of course.”
Nesterov edged the throttles forward again. This, combined with their shallow descent, increased their speed to a comfortable margin. Enough to quickly disengage in the face of a sudden appearance of hostile intent. After a moment, Nesterov asked, “Any change in contact aspect?”
“Negative. Range twenty-five klicks and closing.”
Opening the radio channel, Nesterov quickly gave a status report to the radar operator at Station T-22, who only replied with a terse, “Acknowledged.”
“If the contact location remains consistent,” Nesterov said to Dubinev, “then at ten kilometers, I want you to start broadcasting on general aviation bands. See if we can establish any kind of radio contact with them.”
“Roger. If we cannot?”
“Continue closing, make a visual identification. Follow our orders. Any other contacts on screen?”
“Negative. We’re alone up here.”
The darkness below spread in every direction into which they could fly down, masking the empty chop of the sea. Both Nesterov and Dubinev focused on the soft light of their instruments, their attention concerned with the single blip on the plane’s huge Smerch radar system. Nesterov considered asking if any kind of radar emission had been detected emanating from the unknown contact, but squashed it almost instantly. Dubinev had not said anything about any sort of electronic emissions, radar or otherwise, therefore, there could be nothing to report.
In the two years they had known each other, Nesterov considered Dubinev to be as close as a brother. Growing up an only child, he had never felt any sort of a pang for where a sibling’s affection would have been in his life. There had only been his parents and himself in the household, and, as far as he had been concerned, getting emotional over that fact constituted a misallocation of resources. His initial service in the PVO had been in twin-seat Yakovlev interceptors, and, while the radar operators he had flown with had been a decent lot, none had made a deep impression upon him. Only after transferring to the Tu-28 squadrons, and meeting Dubinev, did he realize that growing up with a brother might have brought his life an enrichment that it had not known.
It did not shame Nesterov to say that he loved him. Not really in any kind of romantic manner, but as a unique and irreplaceable sharer of experiences. Whether that experience had been getting booted out of the local dive for the umpteenth time, or discussions about the vagaries of their similar sexual experiences with women, or arranging the logistics of special long-range flights to increase their unit’s prestige, to the one terrifying, exhilarating time when Nesterov had nursed their Tu-28 back to Rogachevo with one of its engines dead and the other one dying as it burned itself up from the inside out on a load of poor-quality fuel. He did not know Dubinev’s position on their relationship, but could reasonably guess that it mattered as much to him, as well. It brought him a comfort he needed in the desolation into which they constantly operated.
Checking the radar console, Nesterov called out, “Ten kilometers.”
Dubinev opened the radio channel, broadcasting on general aviation bands that any aircraft in the area would be reasonably expected to be receiving. He spoke first in Russian. “To the aircraft bearing three-three-five from my location, this is Soviet Air Defense Forces aircraft Komyeta 1. Please identify yourself and state your intentions, over.” After a moment, he repeated his message, this time in remarkably good English. In the barren north, having time to learn potentially useful skills came easily to them.
No reply.
Only darkness lay ahead. No light, no shape. The Smerch radar still held the contact.
Nesterov switched back to the frequency for Station T-22. “We are attempting to initiate radio communication with the contact. Will update if successful.”
The same reply as before: “Acknowledged.”
“Nice to know they’re so excited to learn what’s going on up here,” Dubinev said.
“If it’s nothing but a fault in their system, I’m getting that operator to buy us a bottle of something good to make up for our lost time and fuel.”
“You think you’ll get him to do that?”
“I know I will. Have some faith.” Pause. “Try hailing them again.”
Another pause as the frequency shifted back once more. This time, leading off in English, “This is Soviet Air Defense Forces aircraft Komyeta 1 to the aircraft bearing –“
Suddenly, over the radio, came a single dull spike of noise. Not earsplitting, but loud enough to make both of the Soviet aircrew wince and flinch. It faded out in a few seconds. Only silence following it.
With a ringing in his ears, Nesterov again put the radio back to Station T-22’s frequency. “This is Komyeta 1. Experiencing some kind of radio interference from the contact. Acknowledge.”
No reply.
After a moment of waiting, Nesterov again said, “Station T-22, do you copy?”
Again, no reply.
“Dubinev, is there a fault with the radio?”
“Negative. System appears normal. I am still not detecting any electronic emissions from the contact. Do you have a visual?”
“Negative.” A light unease had begun to slither in the pit of Nesterov’s stomach. Not enough to get him to abort, but certainly enough to increase his wariness over this unknown contact. “Try hailing the contact one more time.”
A pause. “This is Komyeta 1 to –“
Another noise spike driving into their eardrums. Its peak lasting longer, its taper unwinding at a slower pace than before. Nesterov went back to the intercom. “We’re being jammed. Somehow. Not sure. Increase power output on the Smerch and bring the radar-guided missiles online. Try one last time to reach Station T-22.”
Dubinev tried one last time to broadcast to the radar. Receiving no reply whatsoever, he focused on his radar and the missiles it might soon be guiding to their target. The Tu-28 carried a missile system unique to that particular type of plane. The Bisnovat R-4 had been designed from fins to nosecone as a bomber-killer, carrying a fifty kilogram warhead to a target at over Mach 1. Two of them carried semi-active radar-homing seeker heads, the other two configured for infra-red tracking. They could handle the target now harassing them, if it came to that.
Nesterov pushed the throttles forward. Not up to full military power, but close. Looking into the darkness, he thought he could see something. It looked elongated, a vague oval shape. The color hard to determine. Maybe red. Squinting at it for a moment, he saw the color start to brighten, become ever so slightly more vibrant. He said to Dubinev, borrowing an Americanism he had picked up from the other man’s English lessons, “I have a tally-ho on the target. Eleven o’clock low. Still maintaining its station.”
It only took a second. Just one.
Dubinev, a knife edge in his voice, “Fast aspect change on target! Target is climbing and accelerating –“
Nesterov punched the throttles all the way up, the plane’s afterburners igniting as he hauled the Tupolev’s nose up and to the right, heaving for altitude. Dubinev increased the Smerch’s power output to maximum, seeing the possibility of increased jamming and using the one tool at their disposal to try to counteract it. The Smerch could burn through a huge amount of electronic jamming if the need arose, and he sensed that need now.
The only thing either of them had heard of that could produce the maneuvering they now saw was some kind of rocket or missile, but none of that computed with the target’s behavior up to now.
Nesterov, still pulling up and right, almost putting the Tupolev on its wingtip, sensed a huge burst of light to his left. Red light – no, not red, pink. A hard whump sound, the plane bucking upwards like something had kicked it square in its belly. Him fighting a moment to keep the plane from going inverted. Nose still up and pointing back to the stars. The light fading, pink glow passing behind them. Sharp, curt, “We hit?”
“Negative, negative.”
“Where is he?”
“Six o’clock, still climbing. Speed is about” – doubt – “sixteen hundred, what the hell –?“
“Does he have a lock on us?”
“Negative!” Pause. “I don’t think –?“
“Focus! It’s negative. Keep tracking him!” Disengaging afterburners, he kept the giant interceptor in its right turn, now making a wide circuit to come back around to face the target. “Two R-4’s, one radar, one heat-seeker. Set it up.” The engagement range less than Nesterov would have liked, but it would have to work. The Tu-28 did not carry a cannon for very close-in work.
“Target is now two klicks above us. Still in the R-4’s engagement envelope.”
“Do you have a target lock?”
Silence.
Frustration, confusion, “Do you have a fucking-?“
“Look up.”
Nesterov, startled, looking away from his controls, did as Dubinev asked.
Seen from Earth, stars always appeared white. Even through the electric curtain lens of an aurora borealis, the stars, and the moon, generally always shone white. On this night, as both Nesterov and Dubinev looked into the firmament, each white point, so many of them so close together they could almost choke one another, began to turn. All of them.
Each hard white point shifting into pink.
The moon acquiring a darker hue, more salmon in tone. The black lines delineating its various seas and craters now shifting to a pink so light they almost appeared white.
Nesterov, his mind now grasping that this did not fall into any kind of set military engagement, checked his compass to set a course back to Rogachevo. Setting the throttles back up to afterburner. Vaguely aware it might give him fuel problems later, but not caring in the right now.
“Are you seeing this?”
“Yes, and I’m trying to get us the hell away.”
“Nesterov, the light!”
“I know-“
“No, look!”
His gaze jerking upwards again and this time it did not leave again as the pink light descended like a great curtain through the twin canopies of the plane. The light whose source neither of them could see. The light whose source, unseen to either of them, suddenly winked off their radar scope.
Nesterov, seeing the light, sensed his muscles grow slack, his head relaxing back into his seat, mouth opening, his eyes never leaving the illumination. His need to blink going away for the time being. The light providing for that need.
All the darkness above, the space between the stars, replaced with that heart-soft glow.
The thought to pull back on the stick did not originate within his own mind. He followed it anyway. Dubinev in the same position behind him and following him up. Nesterov pulled back, stood the Tupolev up on its tail, now ascending like a gunmetal angel.
The light filling him. Them. Time getting lost and happening to everyone else in the world except them.
As they rose, Nesterov saw millions of years in a space the size of a cubbyhole, all bright pink and white and whirling so hard they could cut to the end of all history, and the diamond cores of gas giants, and wings holding aloft beasts of such luster and glittering angular beauty that no human finger could hope to build a machine to match their purpose and devotion. His airplane rose through the stratosphere and passed into an elsewhere that would never stoop to the cold vacuum of mere space. He saw dirt once trod upon by empresses trapped in ice that contained secrets capable of launching a thousand revolutions. Seeing all families in all the worlds as a kaleidoscope whirl before his eyes, and he could hear them sing at times. The partitions between them melting, Nesterov tumbling backwards to face Dubinev looking at it all with the same expression upon his face as Nesterov wore upon his own. Them both nude now, flight suits and helmets gone, Nesterov embracing him more tightly than he would have once believed possible even as Dubinev kept looking to the heavens. A hundred questions being put to their own minds as they saw the splendor beyond their imaginings, and them answering every single one without their realization. Too enthralled by the answers they now received to the questions they never even knew to ask.
Even in the mass of it all, Nesterov, who could still remember himself in totality, felt the Tupolev perform a loop. Through where, through when? Certainly questions.
He let Dubinev go, turning back to face the front. The pink now starting to fade. He assumed a sitting position, his flight gear coming back to him as the partitions behind him came back into existence. The pink draining from above, and, through the valleys of his brain, Nesterov sensing their wave of goodbye.
It ended with a simple muscle movement.
He blinked.
Dawn’s cold light, passing through a pitiless overcast, blared through the left side of his canopy. Nesterov blinking more furiously as his normal mind caught up and started assessing the situation. Where once before they had been kilometers in the air, now only a few hundred meters separated the Tupolev’s belly from the sea below. Gazing ahead, he could see the barren gray waste of Cape Zhelaniya dead ahead. The northernmost point of the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago, he’d passed over it enough times, heading out and in on patrol flights, to recognize it instantly.
Neither engine running. Both out of fuel. The loss of engine power also meant the loss of electrical power. He could still work the control surfaces. He barked,
“Dubinev, can you hear me?”
“Yes.” His reply weaker than Nesterov would have liked, but definitely there.
“Drop the weapons. Get them off the rails. Now!”
“Y-yes, right now.” A series of mechanical thumps issued from each of the plane’s hardpoints as all four air-to-air missiles jettisoned into the sea.
Nesterov kept the Tupolev as level as possible. Very little in the way of crosswind on this dawn, for which he felt grateful. His first real emotion he could remember since last night.
Applying flaps, he maintained the plane’s level attitude. For having no memory of arriving there, the plane was straight on course to make a proper belly landing on the island. Nesterov did not have to do much in the way of actively flying the plane. As emergency landings went, it would be the best a pilot could ask for.
Moments later, the plane cruised over solid land, with only about ten meters below its centerline. Its belly hit the gray, rocky soil with an annoyed groan, the plane’s low speed and high mass ensuring that it skidded only a short distance before coming to a halt.
He looked up again, but saw only the dawn of this world, in this time. A gray sheet of clouds above him.
But, lighting deep inside him, Nesterov, who had seen into the deeps above, felt the lightest sense of wonder. A thinning of all separations. In the dawn’s light, he smiled.
“Nesterov?”
“Yes, Dubinev?”
“We need to leave the plane.”
This statement struck Nesterov as hilarious. His laughter did not spread, though the other man did quirk his lips in a quick grin.
Opening the canopies and stepping outside, they regarded each other for a moment. Nesterov’s face still lit up, Dubinev’s more closed. After a moment’s quiet, Dubinev said, “There’s a manned weather station nearby. We can use their radios to contact Rogachevo for assistance.”
“Of course! We should head there immediately.” Nesterov turned and began walking in the direction of the station. But only he did so. After a moment, he became aware of this, and turned to look back at Dubinev. “Aren’t you going to come along?”
He stood in silence for another moment, the sigh of the sea air coursing around him. Finally, he asked, “What do we tell them?”
Nesterov, a spark in his eyes, said, “As much as we can, and nothing more.” He paused for a minute himself. “I don’t remember a whole lot. The last time the radar station acknowledged us is the last thing I remember concretely before whatever happened, happened. Is that true for you, too?”
The other man nodded.
“It’d be worse if we lost the plane. After what we went through, we can only do what we can.” Nesterov gestured to his side. “Walk with me, my brother.”
Dubinev blinked at being called that. He did not move for a moment, but, finally, with the distant shriek of gulls at his back, he walked forward to fall in beside Nesterov.
The two of them walked down to rejoin the world as they knew it.
The Voyska-PVO’s final report into the incident involving one of its Tu-28’s on the night of January 17 – 18, 1984 did not make any solid conclusions about the vague stories of the plane’s flight crew, nor did it offer an explanation for how a plane with four hours’ worth of fuel managed to stay aloft and glide in for a belly landing seven hours after it took off from its home base. Close examination of the radar telemetry records retrieved from Station T-22 yielded no firm conclusions, either, and this incident contributed to the decision to shut down the station six months later. Nonetheless, both the PVO’s report and the radar readings both ended up classified at a level beyond top secret. At that point, most of the air defense force leadership was engaged in deflecting criticism from itself after the shootdown of Korean Air Lines Flight 007. An incident of the unexplained would not endear itself to the wider Soviet military establishment, and, so, any investigation into what happened ended up quietly dropped.
Both Nesterov and Dubinev saw beyond what they believed it possible for a human to see. From that night forward, their life paths diverged in ways neither could have imagined before then.
Filip Nesterov resigned from the Voyska-PVO in March of that year. Returning to his home city of Novosibirsk, he became active in organizing Russia-based UFO groups, while gaining employment at a company providing crop dusting and aerial firefighting services. Marrying in 1986, he later raised two daughters. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, he traveled to Europe, speaking on matters related to extraterrestrial contact and adopting an almost anarchistic stance in calling for the borders of the globe to be broken down and replaced by a single unified world-nation. Revered by some, though taken as a fringe figure by practically all, Nesterov continues to lecture on a variety of subjects (as his work and family schedules will allow him) to this day. He often personally flies crop-dusting sorties, as a means of maintaining his piloting skills.
Iosif Dubinev remained in the Voyska-PVO, eventually attaining the rank of full colonel before the collapse of the USSR in 1991. Never marrying or raising a family, he remained in the armed forces before retiring in 1993, having transferred from airplanes to focus on ground-based air defense systems. Following his retirement, he immigrated to the newly-independent republic of Belarus, where he became a high-level civilian advisor to the Belarusian air force staff regarding air defense systems and training. Most of his income ended up being donated to various Orthodox churches and religious organizations. Modest about his successes, Dubinev, who never displayed any overt signs of clinical depression, did, however, develop a paralyzing fear of flying, and he vowed that never again would he leave the grip of the Earth so long as he lived.
Both Nesterov and Dubinev maintained contact for the first few years, but it grew increasingly sporadic as time went by. Neither of them speaking directly of that night to each other, but that night always there in the backgrounds of everything they did say.
Until, eventually, they did not say anything to each other anymore.
In February of 2004, Nesterov received an envelope in the mail. The rest of his family had traveled to Khabarovsk, to visit relatives of his wife, while he had stayed behind to sort out some complications with his business.
The envelope had contained two documents. The first being the plastic image of an MRI scan, marked I. DUBINEV, and showing an image of the interior of his skull. An image centered on his brain, and, in particular, the tennis ball-sized mass within it. The second document was a single piece of paper, folded into thirds, with two sentences hand-written upon it:
Telephone inquiries immediately followed. The envelope had been mailed at the end of January, on the notarized instructions of Dubinev’s attorney. Dubinev had been diagnosed in November of the prior year and given three months to live. Returning to Russia, the authorities pieced together what he had done afterwards. Forging official documents, he managed to get himself transported out to the weather station at Cape Zhelaniya. Arriving there on the seventeenth of January, he had waited with the skeleton staff at the station until nightfall, when he had purportedly gone to bed. His last statement, made to one of the station workers, had been, “I’ll see the light tonight.” Once they had fallen asleep, he proceeded to board a small rowboat with limited supplies, and rowed away out into the freezing nighttime sea.
No one saw him again.
Finding this out, Nesterov collapsed in his home. A sorrow beyond all tears moving deep within him. The memory-less night that still blew him forward rising in his mind in a wash of illumination.
His tears came later. After his family returned.
As did something else.
In the small garden behind his office, Nesterov began keeping a small electric light. Always lit. A light sheathed in a case of pink glass.
“I’ll see the light tonight.”
Nesterov hoped it came to pass for him. For the things the pink light meant to both of them, that it healed him.
He keeps the light burning even now. For his brother.
Nesterov blinked, his tiredness receding upwards behind his eyeballs as the tinny voice of the ground-control intercept radar officer pierced through his headset. Clearing his throat, he could hear his radar systems officer, Dubinev, also grunting himself more alert over the plane’s intercom.
“Speed is approximately five hundred kilometers per hour, altitude is seven kilometers. Komyeta 1, status?”
Before pressing the transmit toggle, Nesterov heard Dubinev say, “My scope’s clear. Has been for the last hour.”
“Station T-22, this is Komyeta 1,” Nesterov said, his voice carrying no hint of the fatigue sharing equal space with the blood coursing through his arteries. “We have no other contacts on radar at present. Fuel capacity is within tolerances. All systems are operational.”
“Proceed on bearing to establish visual identification of contact.”
Nesterov, already bringing the rudder and stick over smoothly to change course, said, “Roger, Station T-22. Will report on making visual with contact. Komyeta 1, out.”
Both the radar station and the plane belonged to the Voyska-PVO, the separate air defense arm of the Soviet Air Force. Station T-22’s recent construction on Severny Island of the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago increased available coverage for the PVO into the far north, and allowed it to more accurately vector in interceptors from the nearby air base at Rogachevo.
Nesterov and Dubinev both held the rank of captain. Flying as a pilot/radar operator team for two years now, the dull sweep of air patrols over the desolate northern Arctic reaches did not faze them. Nudging the throttles forward as they settled in on their new course, the acceleration nudging him back into his ejection seat, Nesterov said, “Going rather low and slow for a reconnaissance flight.”
“Probably someone off-course. Or the new station is having some kind of a mechanical goblin.”
“It’s no Blackbird, that’s for sure.”
“A crate like ours won’t catch a bird like that.”
“A Red pilot can dream.”
“Sure, and the black ones will soar away on afterburners above us.”
“Don’t kill my joy.”
Even with their banter, Dubinev’s point remained correct. Their plane, a Tupolev Tu-28, bore the dimensions of a bomber more so than the kind of silver streak required to bring down an American SR-71. With a full weight of forty thousand kilos, the design philosophy mandated a heavy radar tied to heavy engines designed to bring a quartet of heavy missiles within range of an incoming bomber formation. Its fuel capacity gave it the endurance to conduct long-range patrols over large and otherwise empty expanses of the Soviet Union. Not a glamorous mission, but a necessary one. Before their arrival at Rogachevo, their base had been in the flat and wind-blown Taymyr region of northern Russia. Keeping the more desolate skies of their homeland free of probing had been something they had grown accustomed to doing over the last two years.
In this nighttime hour, going on close to midnight at their local time, the skies over the nether swirl where the Barents and Kara Seas merged contained a cold majesty of stars. Being the seventeenth of January of the year 1984, the sharp white disc of the full moon lay like a crown jewel amongst a breadth of celestial bodies pressed so close together that scarcely any darkness showed between them. It could, at times, move even the two of them, they who had seen such things numerous times on their lonely flights. But the approach to their contact now occupied their attention.
Their acceleration on their new heading soon bore a result. “I have a radar contact,” Dubinev said, “at fifty kilometers. Altitude and speed appear to have remained constant since the radar station’s report.”
Nesterov considered that for a moment. A contact that appeared to be conducting a very tight orbit, to the point of remaining stationary, didn’t seem all that plausible in these conditions. Other Tu-28 units had conducted intercepts of NATO reconnaissance balloons, but he considered finding one this far up here unlikely. The same went for some kind of small civilian aircraft. No reason for it to behave in such a manner. Some kind of drone, then? Perhaps the Soviet Northern Fleet testing something, their notification of such getting lost somewhere between Murmansk and Moscow. Finally, he said, “Continue tracking.” He nudged the stick forward lightly, the plane’s nose pointing downwards towards the life-ending sea below and away from the icy points above. “We’ll approach and overfly at 75 klicks altitude, see if we can see anything. If not, we’ll descend and return for another pass.”
“Prepare the radar-homing missiles?”
Pause. “Negative. For now, we shall just look.”
“Not risking more bad press?”
“The West loves its bad press. About everything you could name, but about the Soviet Union especially. I’ll not give them another flak shell to fire against us, even in as remote an area as this.”
Four months prior, there had been an incident over the Soviet Far East. Voyska-PVO interceptors had shot down an airplane that had violated Soviet military airspace over the island of Sakhalin. While the official Soviet line, the line which both Nesterov and Dubinev felt inclined to believe, said that their planes had downed a US Air Force reconnaissance flight, most of the rest of the world howled that it had been an off-course Korean Air Lines jumbo jet instead. The investigation still went on. Combined with a separate occurrence in 1978 where a PVO interceptor had fired on an another off-course Korean Air Lines jetliner, that time near the border between the Soviet Union and Finland, most air defense squadron commanders felt the need to require a more conservative approach to handling unidentified aircraft.
“As you say, then,” Dubinev replied.
“Two of our missiles are heat-seekers. That should be adequate for whatever we find.”
“Alright, then.”
“Why so unconvinced?”
“Not really. I just prefer having the option.”
“Our bosses have a different preference. Therefore, it’s our preference.”
A small chuckle. “Of course.”
Nesterov edged the throttles forward again. This, combined with their shallow descent, increased their speed to a comfortable margin. Enough to quickly disengage in the face of a sudden appearance of hostile intent. After a moment, Nesterov asked, “Any change in contact aspect?”
“Negative. Range twenty-five klicks and closing.”
Opening the radio channel, Nesterov quickly gave a status report to the radar operator at Station T-22, who only replied with a terse, “Acknowledged.”
“If the contact location remains consistent,” Nesterov said to Dubinev, “then at ten kilometers, I want you to start broadcasting on general aviation bands. See if we can establish any kind of radio contact with them.”
“Roger. If we cannot?”
“Continue closing, make a visual identification. Follow our orders. Any other contacts on screen?”
“Negative. We’re alone up here.”
The darkness below spread in every direction into which they could fly down, masking the empty chop of the sea. Both Nesterov and Dubinev focused on the soft light of their instruments, their attention concerned with the single blip on the plane’s huge Smerch radar system. Nesterov considered asking if any kind of radar emission had been detected emanating from the unknown contact, but squashed it almost instantly. Dubinev had not said anything about any sort of electronic emissions, radar or otherwise, therefore, there could be nothing to report.
In the two years they had known each other, Nesterov considered Dubinev to be as close as a brother. Growing up an only child, he had never felt any sort of a pang for where a sibling’s affection would have been in his life. There had only been his parents and himself in the household, and, as far as he had been concerned, getting emotional over that fact constituted a misallocation of resources. His initial service in the PVO had been in twin-seat Yakovlev interceptors, and, while the radar operators he had flown with had been a decent lot, none had made a deep impression upon him. Only after transferring to the Tu-28 squadrons, and meeting Dubinev, did he realize that growing up with a brother might have brought his life an enrichment that it had not known.
It did not shame Nesterov to say that he loved him. Not really in any kind of romantic manner, but as a unique and irreplaceable sharer of experiences. Whether that experience had been getting booted out of the local dive for the umpteenth time, or discussions about the vagaries of their similar sexual experiences with women, or arranging the logistics of special long-range flights to increase their unit’s prestige, to the one terrifying, exhilarating time when Nesterov had nursed their Tu-28 back to Rogachevo with one of its engines dead and the other one dying as it burned itself up from the inside out on a load of poor-quality fuel. He did not know Dubinev’s position on their relationship, but could reasonably guess that it mattered as much to him, as well. It brought him a comfort he needed in the desolation into which they constantly operated.
Checking the radar console, Nesterov called out, “Ten kilometers.”
Dubinev opened the radio channel, broadcasting on general aviation bands that any aircraft in the area would be reasonably expected to be receiving. He spoke first in Russian. “To the aircraft bearing three-three-five from my location, this is Soviet Air Defense Forces aircraft Komyeta 1. Please identify yourself and state your intentions, over.” After a moment, he repeated his message, this time in remarkably good English. In the barren north, having time to learn potentially useful skills came easily to them.
No reply.
Only darkness lay ahead. No light, no shape. The Smerch radar still held the contact.
Nesterov switched back to the frequency for Station T-22. “We are attempting to initiate radio communication with the contact. Will update if successful.”
The same reply as before: “Acknowledged.”
“Nice to know they’re so excited to learn what’s going on up here,” Dubinev said.
“If it’s nothing but a fault in their system, I’m getting that operator to buy us a bottle of something good to make up for our lost time and fuel.”
“You think you’ll get him to do that?”
“I know I will. Have some faith.” Pause. “Try hailing them again.”
Another pause as the frequency shifted back once more. This time, leading off in English, “This is Soviet Air Defense Forces aircraft Komyeta 1 to the aircraft bearing –“
Suddenly, over the radio, came a single dull spike of noise. Not earsplitting, but loud enough to make both of the Soviet aircrew wince and flinch. It faded out in a few seconds. Only silence following it.
With a ringing in his ears, Nesterov again put the radio back to Station T-22’s frequency. “This is Komyeta 1. Experiencing some kind of radio interference from the contact. Acknowledge.”
No reply.
After a moment of waiting, Nesterov again said, “Station T-22, do you copy?”
Again, no reply.
“Dubinev, is there a fault with the radio?”
“Negative. System appears normal. I am still not detecting any electronic emissions from the contact. Do you have a visual?”
“Negative.” A light unease had begun to slither in the pit of Nesterov’s stomach. Not enough to get him to abort, but certainly enough to increase his wariness over this unknown contact. “Try hailing the contact one more time.”
A pause. “This is Komyeta 1 to –“
Another noise spike driving into their eardrums. Its peak lasting longer, its taper unwinding at a slower pace than before. Nesterov went back to the intercom. “We’re being jammed. Somehow. Not sure. Increase power output on the Smerch and bring the radar-guided missiles online. Try one last time to reach Station T-22.”
Dubinev tried one last time to broadcast to the radar. Receiving no reply whatsoever, he focused on his radar and the missiles it might soon be guiding to their target. The Tu-28 carried a missile system unique to that particular type of plane. The Bisnovat R-4 had been designed from fins to nosecone as a bomber-killer, carrying a fifty kilogram warhead to a target at over Mach 1. Two of them carried semi-active radar-homing seeker heads, the other two configured for infra-red tracking. They could handle the target now harassing them, if it came to that.
Nesterov pushed the throttles forward. Not up to full military power, but close. Looking into the darkness, he thought he could see something. It looked elongated, a vague oval shape. The color hard to determine. Maybe red. Squinting at it for a moment, he saw the color start to brighten, become ever so slightly more vibrant. He said to Dubinev, borrowing an Americanism he had picked up from the other man’s English lessons, “I have a tally-ho on the target. Eleven o’clock low. Still maintaining its station.”
It only took a second. Just one.
Dubinev, a knife edge in his voice, “Fast aspect change on target! Target is climbing and accelerating –“
Nesterov punched the throttles all the way up, the plane’s afterburners igniting as he hauled the Tupolev’s nose up and to the right, heaving for altitude. Dubinev increased the Smerch’s power output to maximum, seeing the possibility of increased jamming and using the one tool at their disposal to try to counteract it. The Smerch could burn through a huge amount of electronic jamming if the need arose, and he sensed that need now.
The only thing either of them had heard of that could produce the maneuvering they now saw was some kind of rocket or missile, but none of that computed with the target’s behavior up to now.
Nesterov, still pulling up and right, almost putting the Tupolev on its wingtip, sensed a huge burst of light to his left. Red light – no, not red, pink. A hard whump sound, the plane bucking upwards like something had kicked it square in its belly. Him fighting a moment to keep the plane from going inverted. Nose still up and pointing back to the stars. The light fading, pink glow passing behind them. Sharp, curt, “We hit?”
“Negative, negative.”
“Where is he?”
“Six o’clock, still climbing. Speed is about” – doubt – “sixteen hundred, what the hell –?“
“Does he have a lock on us?”
“Negative!” Pause. “I don’t think –?“
“Focus! It’s negative. Keep tracking him!” Disengaging afterburners, he kept the giant interceptor in its right turn, now making a wide circuit to come back around to face the target. “Two R-4’s, one radar, one heat-seeker. Set it up.” The engagement range less than Nesterov would have liked, but it would have to work. The Tu-28 did not carry a cannon for very close-in work.
“Target is now two klicks above us. Still in the R-4’s engagement envelope.”
“Do you have a target lock?”
Silence.
Frustration, confusion, “Do you have a fucking-?“
“Look up.”
Nesterov, startled, looking away from his controls, did as Dubinev asked.
Seen from Earth, stars always appeared white. Even through the electric curtain lens of an aurora borealis, the stars, and the moon, generally always shone white. On this night, as both Nesterov and Dubinev looked into the firmament, each white point, so many of them so close together they could almost choke one another, began to turn. All of them.
Each hard white point shifting into pink.
The moon acquiring a darker hue, more salmon in tone. The black lines delineating its various seas and craters now shifting to a pink so light they almost appeared white.
Nesterov, his mind now grasping that this did not fall into any kind of set military engagement, checked his compass to set a course back to Rogachevo. Setting the throttles back up to afterburner. Vaguely aware it might give him fuel problems later, but not caring in the right now.
“Are you seeing this?”
“Yes, and I’m trying to get us the hell away.”
“Nesterov, the light!”
“I know-“
“No, look!”
His gaze jerking upwards again and this time it did not leave again as the pink light descended like a great curtain through the twin canopies of the plane. The light whose source neither of them could see. The light whose source, unseen to either of them, suddenly winked off their radar scope.
Nesterov, seeing the light, sensed his muscles grow slack, his head relaxing back into his seat, mouth opening, his eyes never leaving the illumination. His need to blink going away for the time being. The light providing for that need.
All the darkness above, the space between the stars, replaced with that heart-soft glow.
The thought to pull back on the stick did not originate within his own mind. He followed it anyway. Dubinev in the same position behind him and following him up. Nesterov pulled back, stood the Tupolev up on its tail, now ascending like a gunmetal angel.
The light filling him. Them. Time getting lost and happening to everyone else in the world except them.
As they rose, Nesterov saw millions of years in a space the size of a cubbyhole, all bright pink and white and whirling so hard they could cut to the end of all history, and the diamond cores of gas giants, and wings holding aloft beasts of such luster and glittering angular beauty that no human finger could hope to build a machine to match their purpose and devotion. His airplane rose through the stratosphere and passed into an elsewhere that would never stoop to the cold vacuum of mere space. He saw dirt once trod upon by empresses trapped in ice that contained secrets capable of launching a thousand revolutions. Seeing all families in all the worlds as a kaleidoscope whirl before his eyes, and he could hear them sing at times. The partitions between them melting, Nesterov tumbling backwards to face Dubinev looking at it all with the same expression upon his face as Nesterov wore upon his own. Them both nude now, flight suits and helmets gone, Nesterov embracing him more tightly than he would have once believed possible even as Dubinev kept looking to the heavens. A hundred questions being put to their own minds as they saw the splendor beyond their imaginings, and them answering every single one without their realization. Too enthralled by the answers they now received to the questions they never even knew to ask.
Even in the mass of it all, Nesterov, who could still remember himself in totality, felt the Tupolev perform a loop. Through where, through when? Certainly questions.
He let Dubinev go, turning back to face the front. The pink now starting to fade. He assumed a sitting position, his flight gear coming back to him as the partitions behind him came back into existence. The pink draining from above, and, through the valleys of his brain, Nesterov sensing their wave of goodbye.
It ended with a simple muscle movement.
He blinked.
Dawn’s cold light, passing through a pitiless overcast, blared through the left side of his canopy. Nesterov blinking more furiously as his normal mind caught up and started assessing the situation. Where once before they had been kilometers in the air, now only a few hundred meters separated the Tupolev’s belly from the sea below. Gazing ahead, he could see the barren gray waste of Cape Zhelaniya dead ahead. The northernmost point of the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago, he’d passed over it enough times, heading out and in on patrol flights, to recognize it instantly.
Neither engine running. Both out of fuel. The loss of engine power also meant the loss of electrical power. He could still work the control surfaces. He barked,
“Dubinev, can you hear me?”
“Yes.” His reply weaker than Nesterov would have liked, but definitely there.
“Drop the weapons. Get them off the rails. Now!”
“Y-yes, right now.” A series of mechanical thumps issued from each of the plane’s hardpoints as all four air-to-air missiles jettisoned into the sea.
Nesterov kept the Tupolev as level as possible. Very little in the way of crosswind on this dawn, for which he felt grateful. His first real emotion he could remember since last night.
Applying flaps, he maintained the plane’s level attitude. For having no memory of arriving there, the plane was straight on course to make a proper belly landing on the island. Nesterov did not have to do much in the way of actively flying the plane. As emergency landings went, it would be the best a pilot could ask for.
Moments later, the plane cruised over solid land, with only about ten meters below its centerline. Its belly hit the gray, rocky soil with an annoyed groan, the plane’s low speed and high mass ensuring that it skidded only a short distance before coming to a halt.
He looked up again, but saw only the dawn of this world, in this time. A gray sheet of clouds above him.
But, lighting deep inside him, Nesterov, who had seen into the deeps above, felt the lightest sense of wonder. A thinning of all separations. In the dawn’s light, he smiled.
“Nesterov?”
“Yes, Dubinev?”
“We need to leave the plane.”
This statement struck Nesterov as hilarious. His laughter did not spread, though the other man did quirk his lips in a quick grin.
Opening the canopies and stepping outside, they regarded each other for a moment. Nesterov’s face still lit up, Dubinev’s more closed. After a moment’s quiet, Dubinev said, “There’s a manned weather station nearby. We can use their radios to contact Rogachevo for assistance.”
“Of course! We should head there immediately.” Nesterov turned and began walking in the direction of the station. But only he did so. After a moment, he became aware of this, and turned to look back at Dubinev. “Aren’t you going to come along?”
He stood in silence for another moment, the sigh of the sea air coursing around him. Finally, he asked, “What do we tell them?”
Nesterov, a spark in his eyes, said, “As much as we can, and nothing more.” He paused for a minute himself. “I don’t remember a whole lot. The last time the radar station acknowledged us is the last thing I remember concretely before whatever happened, happened. Is that true for you, too?”
The other man nodded.
“It’d be worse if we lost the plane. After what we went through, we can only do what we can.” Nesterov gestured to his side. “Walk with me, my brother.”
Dubinev blinked at being called that. He did not move for a moment, but, finally, with the distant shriek of gulls at his back, he walked forward to fall in beside Nesterov.
The two of them walked down to rejoin the world as they knew it.
The Voyska-PVO’s final report into the incident involving one of its Tu-28’s on the night of January 17 – 18, 1984 did not make any solid conclusions about the vague stories of the plane’s flight crew, nor did it offer an explanation for how a plane with four hours’ worth of fuel managed to stay aloft and glide in for a belly landing seven hours after it took off from its home base. Close examination of the radar telemetry records retrieved from Station T-22 yielded no firm conclusions, either, and this incident contributed to the decision to shut down the station six months later. Nonetheless, both the PVO’s report and the radar readings both ended up classified at a level beyond top secret. At that point, most of the air defense force leadership was engaged in deflecting criticism from itself after the shootdown of Korean Air Lines Flight 007. An incident of the unexplained would not endear itself to the wider Soviet military establishment, and, so, any investigation into what happened ended up quietly dropped.
Both Nesterov and Dubinev saw beyond what they believed it possible for a human to see. From that night forward, their life paths diverged in ways neither could have imagined before then.
Filip Nesterov resigned from the Voyska-PVO in March of that year. Returning to his home city of Novosibirsk, he became active in organizing Russia-based UFO groups, while gaining employment at a company providing crop dusting and aerial firefighting services. Marrying in 1986, he later raised two daughters. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, he traveled to Europe, speaking on matters related to extraterrestrial contact and adopting an almost anarchistic stance in calling for the borders of the globe to be broken down and replaced by a single unified world-nation. Revered by some, though taken as a fringe figure by practically all, Nesterov continues to lecture on a variety of subjects (as his work and family schedules will allow him) to this day. He often personally flies crop-dusting sorties, as a means of maintaining his piloting skills.
Iosif Dubinev remained in the Voyska-PVO, eventually attaining the rank of full colonel before the collapse of the USSR in 1991. Never marrying or raising a family, he remained in the armed forces before retiring in 1993, having transferred from airplanes to focus on ground-based air defense systems. Following his retirement, he immigrated to the newly-independent republic of Belarus, where he became a high-level civilian advisor to the Belarusian air force staff regarding air defense systems and training. Most of his income ended up being donated to various Orthodox churches and religious organizations. Modest about his successes, Dubinev, who never displayed any overt signs of clinical depression, did, however, develop a paralyzing fear of flying, and he vowed that never again would he leave the grip of the Earth so long as he lived.
Both Nesterov and Dubinev maintained contact for the first few years, but it grew increasingly sporadic as time went by. Neither of them speaking directly of that night to each other, but that night always there in the backgrounds of everything they did say.
Until, eventually, they did not say anything to each other anymore.
In February of 2004, Nesterov received an envelope in the mail. The rest of his family had traveled to Khabarovsk, to visit relatives of his wife, while he had stayed behind to sort out some complications with his business.
The envelope had contained two documents. The first being the plastic image of an MRI scan, marked I. DUBINEV, and showing an image of the interior of his skull. An image centered on his brain, and, in particular, the tennis ball-sized mass within it. The second document was a single piece of paper, folded into thirds, with two sentences hand-written upon it:
“I saw the light with you. I go now to seek it again.”
Telephone inquiries immediately followed. The envelope had been mailed at the end of January, on the notarized instructions of Dubinev’s attorney. Dubinev had been diagnosed in November of the prior year and given three months to live. Returning to Russia, the authorities pieced together what he had done afterwards. Forging official documents, he managed to get himself transported out to the weather station at Cape Zhelaniya. Arriving there on the seventeenth of January, he had waited with the skeleton staff at the station until nightfall, when he had purportedly gone to bed. His last statement, made to one of the station workers, had been, “I’ll see the light tonight.” Once they had fallen asleep, he proceeded to board a small rowboat with limited supplies, and rowed away out into the freezing nighttime sea.
No one saw him again.
Finding this out, Nesterov collapsed in his home. A sorrow beyond all tears moving deep within him. The memory-less night that still blew him forward rising in his mind in a wash of illumination.
His tears came later. After his family returned.
As did something else.
In the small garden behind his office, Nesterov began keeping a small electric light. Always lit. A light sheathed in a case of pink glass.
“I’ll see the light tonight.”
Nesterov hoped it came to pass for him. For the things the pink light meant to both of them, that it healed him.
He keeps the light burning even now. For his brother.
First off, since it is Military and Russia, you could have bother adding a few more words of description early on?
I find some issues with the punctuation, even if I guess it is less of a problem.
if the voice is identifying itself, the lack of tag kind of cancles itself out.
On the other hand, even if it can be acceptable to have Action in a Dialogue paragraph, but this does require a correct connection between the Dialogue and the Action taking place.
This does however not work.
I find some issues with the punctuation, even if I guess it is less of a problem.
if the voice is identifying itself, the lack of tag kind of cancles itself out.
On the other hand, even if it can be acceptable to have Action in a Dialogue paragraph, but this does require a correct connection between the Dialogue and the Action taking place.
“Prepare the radar-homing missiles?”
Pause. “Negative. For now, we shall just look.”
This does however not work.
This was an interesting piece that has just fallen short of being at the top of my slate. The problems, which admittedly could be simply issues I have without being objectively something to correct, are minor but impact in my overall placing of the story.
Let's start with the things I liked. Nesterov and Dubinev are nice characters. They give a real down to earth feeling and show a lot of humanity the few times they slide out from being professionals at work. The setting is a clever choice and ties well together the ending and how the events of the story never made a bigger splash. The encounter with the UFO is suitably alien, and I applaud your decision to not explain it. The ending itself was touching and melancholic as life can be. Great job there.
And now on the things that I think need to be improved. A few paragraphs are weak and bring down the rest of the story. This happens mostly in the descriptions, which swivel between evocative and telling. The dialogs are consistently solid. There are also a couple of points where we have some less than graceful infodump. While this helps giving context, it's not always necessary and could probably be rewritten better. The ending, while conceptually great, feels too distant. I'm not sure if this was a conscious choice or something caused by the time constraints, but after the intimacy of the first part, I feel like I'm missing something here on the emotional level.
You may have noticed that my complaints are mostly nitpicking and could be easily fixed with another round or two of editing. That's because I really liked the story. It's not my absolute favorite, but it is solid, touching and a really pleasant read.
Thank you, author.
Let's start with the things I liked. Nesterov and Dubinev are nice characters. They give a real down to earth feeling and show a lot of humanity the few times they slide out from being professionals at work. The setting is a clever choice and ties well together the ending and how the events of the story never made a bigger splash. The encounter with the UFO is suitably alien, and I applaud your decision to not explain it. The ending itself was touching and melancholic as life can be. Great job there.
And now on the things that I think need to be improved. A few paragraphs are weak and bring down the rest of the story. This happens mostly in the descriptions, which swivel between evocative and telling. The dialogs are consistently solid. There are also a couple of points where we have some less than graceful infodump. While this helps giving context, it's not always necessary and could probably be rewritten better. The ending, while conceptually great, feels too distant. I'm not sure if this was a conscious choice or something caused by the time constraints, but after the intimacy of the first part, I feel like I'm missing something here on the emotional level.
You may have noticed that my complaints are mostly nitpicking and could be easily fixed with another round or two of editing. That's because I really liked the story. It's not my absolute favorite, but it is solid, touching and a really pleasant read.
Thank you, author.
This gets pretty good marks from me. Honestly, a couple of paragraphs did make me turn off a little, but that may be because I'm reading with distractions in the room. Most of it read really well. military jargon can be a little daunting if you're not completely in the know, yet this fic is descriptive enough that it isn't an issue. We're given a decent amount of information regarding the setting, and the story plays out nicely. I enjoy the abstract idea, and like that what our characters see touches them so. The ending satisfied me, in that it legitimately made me smile. Any story that induces a smile at the end (and not because it's finally over), is a success in my books.
As for further criticism, >>Orbiting_kettle summed it up nicely, but I would add/agree that the last part of the story felt somewhat impersonal, something I did not expect after becoming invested in the characters. You know when you watch a 'based on real life' film, like 'Legend' or 'Blow', and at the end it tells you about the character's death/prison sentence/institutionalisation/marriage, but because you're only being told about it, without any descriptors, or anything else to place you in the situation, you don't feel so much for the character, despite knowing you might have cried or been at least upset if you had seen them be arrested (etc.) on screen. But because it's a little written segment at the end you're like 'oh, neat.' It's kind of like that, except it didn't happen that severely, I still felt involved with the characters, and interested in what happened to them.
This was a good read, thank you for sharing it!
AAIQU
As for further criticism, >>Orbiting_kettle summed it up nicely, but I would add/agree that the last part of the story felt somewhat impersonal, something I did not expect after becoming invested in the characters. You know when you watch a 'based on real life' film, like 'Legend' or 'Blow', and at the end it tells you about the character's death/prison sentence/institutionalisation/marriage, but because you're only being told about it, without any descriptors, or anything else to place you in the situation, you don't feel so much for the character, despite knowing you might have cried or been at least upset if you had seen them be arrested (etc.) on screen. But because it's a little written segment at the end you're like 'oh, neat.' It's kind of like that, except it didn't happen that severely, I still felt involved with the characters, and interested in what happened to them.
This was a good read, thank you for sharing it!
AAIQU
I really, really liked this one... after I got about a fourth of the way into it.
This line:
was especially great, in context.
I also appreciated that it didn't just drop things after they returned; it carried it through to a further conclusion, which I didn't expect. YMMV on that, perhaps, but it worked for me.
My biggest problems with this are, firstly, the occasionally info-dumpy nature of the text. This... can be difficult to write around, especially when you're describing about something as dry as weapon specs, but yeah. Some parts were a bit of a slog.
And secondly, the fact that this takes way, waaaay to long to get to any sort of conflict or hook going. That opening line is the right idea; you're putting the UFO spotting in, but just making a radar contact doesn't have any mystery or excitement. Make it clear that they're seeing something weird, so that people will be curious and interested in reading further.
However, despite those things, I thought this story was very enjoyable. These characters had a strong feeling of humanity, and this has the sort of sense-of-wonder that I really like in sci-fi and fantasy short stories.
This is held back in a few ways, but on the whole it's excellent work.
This line:
ascending like a gunmetal angel
was especially great, in context.
I also appreciated that it didn't just drop things after they returned; it carried it through to a further conclusion, which I didn't expect. YMMV on that, perhaps, but it worked for me.
My biggest problems with this are, firstly, the occasionally info-dumpy nature of the text. This... can be difficult to write around, especially when you're describing about something as dry as weapon specs, but yeah. Some parts were a bit of a slog.
And secondly, the fact that this takes way, waaaay to long to get to any sort of conflict or hook going. That opening line is the right idea; you're putting the UFO spotting in, but just making a radar contact doesn't have any mystery or excitement. Make it clear that they're seeing something weird, so that people will be curious and interested in reading further.
However, despite those things, I thought this story was very enjoyable. These characters had a strong feeling of humanity, and this has the sort of sense-of-wonder that I really like in sci-fi and fantasy short stories.
This is held back in a few ways, but on the whole it's excellent work.
Remove the last two sections and this story improves significantly. Maybe find some way to keep the last few paragraphs in.
I have to admit I was confused throughout the story as to whether this was taking place in a world of realistic technology for 1984, or something fantastic. My unfamiliarity with Soviet aircraft was part of the problem, but so was this:
In American usage, a klick is a kilometer. There are no airplanes, and certainly no 80s-era Soviet bombers, that can fly at nearly 250,000 feet. That's almost satellite range.
Normally I would write this off as a simple mistake and I wouldn't even consider penalizing the story for it (Writeoff entries, because of their tight deadline, often have editing errors). But I can't do that here because I honestly don't know if it's a mistake. In a world where UFOs apparently fly around northern Siberia, maybe they also have airplanes that can fly that high? I just don't know, which means I can't even tell what sort of world this story is set in.
Does anyone else know?
I have to admit I was confused throughout the story as to whether this was taking place in a world of realistic technology for 1984, or something fantastic. My unfamiliarity with Soviet aircraft was part of the problem, but so was this:
“We’ll approach and overfly at 75 klicks altitude, see if we can see anything. If not, we’ll descend and return for another pass.”
In American usage, a klick is a kilometer. There are no airplanes, and certainly no 80s-era Soviet bombers, that can fly at nearly 250,000 feet. That's almost satellite range.
Normally I would write this off as a simple mistake and I wouldn't even consider penalizing the story for it (Writeoff entries, because of their tight deadline, often have editing errors). But I can't do that here because I honestly don't know if it's a mistake. In a world where UFOs apparently fly around northern Siberia, maybe they also have airplanes that can fly that high? I just don't know, which means I can't even tell what sort of world this story is set in.
Does anyone else know?
>>Cold in Gardez I'd wager dimes to dollars the author missed a decimal, and it's supposed to be 7.5 klicks.
The author gave the altitude of the plane as seven kilometers near the beginning of the fic.
And, they got basically everything about this plane correct, including things like the radar and the missile load-out; there's no way they didn't know the flight ceiling. If this is magical realism on the Soviet side, the planes not only fly super high, they climb like crazy. Which the author only reveals through a single number in a single line in the whole work. Given the skill levels shown basically everywhere else in this story, I find that doubtful.
But, I have another argument to back this idea up. One of the things this story does so well you might not even notice is careful usage of numerals vs. words for numbers. Alphanumeric designations (basically names) and dates are given in numerals, but most all of the other numbers are given as words. This one, though, is conspicuously different. Not a designation, less than three digits, and spoken. So why's it a numeral? Well, perhaps the author went to put in a decimal, decided it would be too awkward to spell out, and used numerals. ...but forgot the decimal. :P
The author gave the altitude of the plane as seven kilometers near the beginning of the fic.
“Speed is approximately five hundred kilometers per hour, altitude is seven kilometers. Komyeta 1, status?”
And, they got basically everything about this plane correct, including things like the radar and the missile load-out; there's no way they didn't know the flight ceiling. If this is magical realism on the Soviet side, the planes not only fly super high, they climb like crazy. Which the author only reveals through a single number in a single line in the whole work. Given the skill levels shown basically everywhere else in this story, I find that doubtful.
But, I have another argument to back this idea up. One of the things this story does so well you might not even notice is careful usage of numerals vs. words for numbers. Alphanumeric designations (basically names) and dates are given in numerals, but most all of the other numbers are given as words. This one, though, is conspicuously different. Not a designation, less than three digits, and spoken. So why's it a numeral? Well, perhaps the author went to put in a decimal, decided it would be too awkward to spell out, and used numerals. ...but forgot the decimal. :P
Pretty nice story we have here! I may be biased, of course, since the outline in some respects closely resembles my own entry from last round. Mostly in agreement with >>Orbiting_kettle in that the characters, concepts and technical side are all stellar, but the pacing sometimes suffers from infodumping, too much description, and sometimes too much of an impersonal feel. Strangely I'm not finding a lot to specifically talk about otherwise, let's see...
How would I improve this? Bring out the ol' buzzsaw of a good editing pass. Cut everything that isn't absolutely necessary, and make sure every part's tuned to get across what you want to convey in the best way you can think of. You can probably knock a good 1.5k words off of this and only improve it.
Maybe make the UFO less vague. I agree it doesn't need to be completely explained, but I'm a bit fuzzy on envisioning what's going on just before and during ~The Event~. I was also somewhat unsure about the last sections. I didn't mind their presence (though they could've been shorter, like everything else) but was distracted by wondering if I was supposed to think the light somehow caused Dubinev's brain tumor.
Overall quite strong, one of my favorites this round. Thanks for writing!
How would I improve this? Bring out the ol' buzzsaw of a good editing pass. Cut everything that isn't absolutely necessary, and make sure every part's tuned to get across what you want to convey in the best way you can think of. You can probably knock a good 1.5k words off of this and only improve it.
Maybe make the UFO less vague. I agree it doesn't need to be completely explained, but I'm a bit fuzzy on envisioning what's going on just before and during ~The Event~. I was also somewhat unsure about the last sections. I didn't mind their presence (though they could've been shorter, like everything else) but was distracted by wondering if I was supposed to think the light somehow caused Dubinev's brain tumor.
Overall quite strong, one of my favorites this round. Thanks for writing!
There is a sub-genre, or perhaps a writing style, of military fiction which verges on gear porn: lovingly detailed descriptions of hardware and technical specs. I recognize that that is a thing. It has an audience. I, personally, have never been particularly been a fan.
(Note: My intent is not to say "gear porn" judgmentally; I am a fan of good worldbuilding porn, and I recognize that that can be just as much of a niche.)
If that's what you're going for here, this is quite admirably done. As >>Not_A_Hat notes, you're quite clearly showing your work. Even more impressive is that this ends up with such a plausible feel despite apparently being made up out of whole cloth (at any rate, googling the main characters' names didn't turn up anything for me, and a quick search suggests no unclassified UFO reports matching the date and location).
On that level, the story fires on all cylinders. Good job! But that's not all it's trying to do, which is where this started slipping down my slate.
It boils down to >>Cold in Gardez's suggestion "Remove the last two sections and this story improves significantly," but I'm not sure there's been a clear explanation of why, so I want to take a stab at it. The thing is, the majority of the story is an abstract, objective recounting of what happened during the UFO encounter ... and then, in the last two sections, it reverses on a dime and suddenly tries to unpack how the encounter affected the pilots. The big problem with that is ... this doesn't feel like a story about the pilots. (I hesitate to call them "the protagonists," because there's a tiny snarky part of me which insists that the Tupolev is.)
We get little dribbles of characterization for them throughout the piece, but the first time that the story really stops and examines them with the same level of analysis that it treats Voyska-PVO capabilities is the paragraph beginning "In the two years they had known each other, Nesterov considered Dubinev to be as close as a brother." That's 1200 words into a 4700-word story. And then after that brief digression, we're back to the abstract plane maneuvering. Even the climactic encounter with the pink light feels like it's described much more in physical terms than in what it does to the pilots, and the aftermath of it shows them, basically, trying to gloss over it and get back to their jobs. It's pretty telling that their first reaction is to discuss the logistics of how they're going to call it in, rather than having a conversation about the light that allegedly fundamentally altered their lives.
That means that everything after the time skip, frankly, feels like a different story. If this is about the psychology and decisions of the pilots, then it has to give that theme much more support in the early going. CiG's suggestion to kill the last two sections would strengthen this because it would focus your storytelling time on the parts which you accomplish well; it's hardly the only way to improve this — and in fact I think I would prefer the hypothetical story that was about the pilots all the way through — but his suggested fix would certainly be the quickest.
Which is all pretty much to say, *weak flailing of arms and noises of general agreement with above commenters*
Tier: Strong
(Note: My intent is not to say "gear porn" judgmentally; I am a fan of good worldbuilding porn, and I recognize that that can be just as much of a niche.)
If that's what you're going for here, this is quite admirably done. As >>Not_A_Hat notes, you're quite clearly showing your work. Even more impressive is that this ends up with such a plausible feel despite apparently being made up out of whole cloth (at any rate, googling the main characters' names didn't turn up anything for me, and a quick search suggests no unclassified UFO reports matching the date and location).
On that level, the story fires on all cylinders. Good job! But that's not all it's trying to do, which is where this started slipping down my slate.
It boils down to >>Cold in Gardez's suggestion "Remove the last two sections and this story improves significantly," but I'm not sure there's been a clear explanation of why, so I want to take a stab at it. The thing is, the majority of the story is an abstract, objective recounting of what happened during the UFO encounter ... and then, in the last two sections, it reverses on a dime and suddenly tries to unpack how the encounter affected the pilots. The big problem with that is ... this doesn't feel like a story about the pilots. (I hesitate to call them "the protagonists," because there's a tiny snarky part of me which insists that the Tupolev is.)
We get little dribbles of characterization for them throughout the piece, but the first time that the story really stops and examines them with the same level of analysis that it treats Voyska-PVO capabilities is the paragraph beginning "In the two years they had known each other, Nesterov considered Dubinev to be as close as a brother." That's 1200 words into a 4700-word story. And then after that brief digression, we're back to the abstract plane maneuvering. Even the climactic encounter with the pink light feels like it's described much more in physical terms than in what it does to the pilots, and the aftermath of it shows them, basically, trying to gloss over it and get back to their jobs. It's pretty telling that their first reaction is to discuss the logistics of how they're going to call it in, rather than having a conversation about the light that allegedly fundamentally altered their lives.
That means that everything after the time skip, frankly, feels like a different story. If this is about the psychology and decisions of the pilots, then it has to give that theme much more support in the early going. CiG's suggestion to kill the last two sections would strengthen this because it would focus your storytelling time on the parts which you accomplish well; it's hardly the only way to improve this — and in fact I think I would prefer the hypothetical story that was about the pilots all the way through — but his suggested fix would certainly be the quickest.
Which is all pretty much to say, *weak flailing of arms and noises of general agreement with above commenters*
Tier: Strong
Curious, and I can't help but wonder if it is based on something else. I like the overall idea and how it is delivered – mostly. If anything causes this story trouble, it is the unfortunate tendency to go into deep description of things we don't necessarily need to know. Granted, the audience can't be expected to be history buffs and it helps to have some knowledge of what's going on, but I am a firm believer that exposition is not the way to go about doing this.
Ignoring that? I enjoyed this one. Unexpected, interesting and mysterious.
Ignoring that? I enjoyed this one. Unexpected, interesting and mysterious.
Hm. Hm. Hm. I am unsure what to make of this story. It's format reminds me a lot of a supernatural occurance TV show: we get the dramatic recreation from the character POV then the aftermath and such at a distance. Like an episode of Unsolved Mysteries or something.
There is some very good writing here and this definitely seems like it'll appeal to certain types of readers (military fiction folks!) based off some of that. Unfortunately, I'm not one of them.
Honestly, while the scenario is cool and well done and properly (non-frustratingly) mysterious, I just never connected to the characters, so I never really got invested. Like, I was even having a lot of trouble keeping them straight during the story itself. Not quite sure if this is an actual flaw with the writing itself or whether I just bounced off the story, but I think it is more of the latter than the former.
There is some very good writing here and this definitely seems like it'll appeal to certain types of readers (military fiction folks!) based off some of that. Unfortunately, I'm not one of them.
Honestly, while the scenario is cool and well done and properly (non-frustratingly) mysterious, I just never connected to the characters, so I never really got invested. Like, I was even having a lot of trouble keeping them straight during the story itself. Not quite sure if this is an actual flaw with the writing itself or whether I just bounced off the story, but I think it is more of the latter than the former.