The seaplane base on the shores of the Khadzhibey Estuary was slowly waking up. The morning air smelled of salt, fuel oil, and the creak of carts rolling torpedoes and fuel containers. Behind the old hangar, now serving as headquarters, stood four seaplanes of the experimental "Gryf" squadron. Their wings were folded like herons at rest. The Polish-Ukrainian emblem gleamed on their fuselages.

  Sikorsky sat in the briefing room, a tablet with coordinates in his hand.

  "Objective: detection and identification of an unidentified airship spotted in sector E-47," announced the communications officer. "Mission class: unofficial. HQ expects confirmation only."

  Sikorsky nodded. He wasn’t one for unnecessary questions. His uniform was spotless, his sideburns neat, his gaze steely.

  "Comms check, fuel, stabilizers," he barked at the mechanics as he approached the ?-12 seaplane. The steam turbine whistled like a streetwise urchin, dancing the needles of the manometers. The aircraft gleamed with its metallic nose.

  "All set, Pan Poruchyk. Godspeed!"

  ...

  Beneath him, the sea mirrored the sky. Gentle waves and ripples from fishing boats. The sun rose like molten gold from the horizon, reflecting off the instrument glass. Flying was easy. The seaplane sang, its wings catching the wind like a gull.

  Sikorsky stared at the horizon and thought there was nothing more beautiful than being a bird in the sky. To be above the clouds, above worries, above the people below rushing, quarreling, working, loving, aging. He felt his heart respond to every gust of wind, and each meter of altitude was true freedom. Below—the earth, life, bustle. Here—just him and the air.

  At 3,000 meters, he activated the acoustic sensor. A light blinked on the dashboard—target direction fixed.

  "There you are..." he murmured.

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  The airship was a distant silhouette, but his trained eye caught the contours: Donnerschlag class, flagship gondola. If he was right, it could only be one ship—Baron von Blumenkranz's.

  Sikorsky pulled out a mirrored camera and took several shots, carefully capturing the airship's outline. Then he began to turn. He had no intention of engaging.

  ...

  Onboard the Donnerschlag, in the forward gondola, two observers had already marked the "reflection point."

  "Contact. One. Light scout. Polish fleet." "Armament?" "None. Pure recon." "Baron ordered—no leaks."

  The turret rotated. The Feuerling-6 auto-cannon fired a short burst.

  ...

  The wing ignited, and Sikorsky began to lose control. With immense effort, he managed to land the plane on water. He grabbed the hatch, but it jammed. He pounded on the plastic with his elbows, but it wouldn't budge. Water had reached his neck. "So this is it," he thought. "Should've turned earlier... fool, overestimated yourself."

  Then came the dull thuds.

  Through the distorted glass, he saw someone outside pounding on the canopy. The glass cracked, and in the last flickers of consciousness, he felt strong hands pulling him free.

  ...

  He awoke lying on damp nets in a fishing boat. Wind blew in his face, the smell of mullet and sea air. Smiling faces of Odessa fishermen leaned over him.

  "You went for a swim, lad!" one chuckled. "This ain't no flight for a gull!"

  Sikorsky opened his eyes wider, took a breath, and hoarsely whispered:

  "I can't believe it... I'm still alive..."

  ...

  Fisherman Kostya stood barefoot, pants rolled up. He was hauling mullet to Odessa. The boat was full, nets neatly stacked, and a kettle hissed on a small kerosene stove.

  He had seen the crash—a flare in the morning sky. Shielding his eyes, he spotted the wreck. With a firm grip on the tiller, he headed for the plane.

  He saw the wreckage churning in the water, not sinking. At some point, he thought he saw a man struggling inside the cockpit.

  Without hesitation, he tossed aside his shirt, dove overboard, and swam to the plane.

  Sikorsky was beating the hatch from inside, water already up to his neck. The handle was stuck.

  Kostya dove, surfaced with an oar tossed from the boat, and smashed the jammed glass. A sharp splash. He grabbed the pilot under the arms and pulled him out.

  "Pull!" Kostya shouted to his crewmates.

  Two jolly Odessa lads in linen trousers hauled the pilot aboard. One, laughing, offered a flask:

  "You sure took a swim, lad!"

  Another:

  "This ain’t no seagull ride!"

  Kostya, breathing heavily, nodded:

  "Alive means you’re one of us."

  Sikorsky lay on the damp nets, looked up at the sky where the airship was gone, and laughed hoarsely.

  "I can’t believe it... I'm still alive..."

  Kostya covered him with a blanket.

  "Rest now. The sky can wait."