The Plow — February, 18th

The day is Tuesday, February the 18th, 2020, it is 6:46 AM, and the sun rises over Beliu, a small and anonymous hamlet of west Romania.

Just like most local farmers, Karol Georgiu is awakened by the first lights, and after a moment of lingering in his bed, numbly starts his day. Guided by decades of an unchanged morning routine, he mindlessly tiptoes to the bathroom, preserving his wife’s sleep. He opens the shower tap, pees, then jumps in for a quick wash, dries while shaving, puts on his overall, gets downstairs, boils water for a coffee and makes breakfast while starting to mentally list today’s tasks.

He’ll have to draw water for the livestock, bring hay from the storage barn and clean the cattle shed. As Karol Gergiu emerges from his torpor, his current worries also start listing themselves. There is this milking machine that’s broken down, a cow’s calving that could be problematic, and a years-old background of financial instability. As a robust countryman, though, he knows that delving in his concerns won’t solve them, so he finishes his coffee, gets his boots and vest on and heads out.

It’s 7:20 AM.

His humble house is just a couple hundred yards away from the toolshed and the cattle barn, a distance usually covered in about a minute. But this Tuesday, on February the 18th, 2020, Karol Georgiu will never reach the barn, nor will he feed the animals, fix the milk machine or care for the parturient cow. Because, while stepping through his front door, Karol Georgiu will see something impossible.

Something he will never understand.

Every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, officer Andréas Bobesco is assigned to dispatch duty at the central police station of Arad, in the Romanian Județ of the same name — where Beliu is located. The policeman never liked what he sees as a chore, especially in the mornings when his grumpy mood often leads him to lack the necessary empathy for the job.

It is, then, with the usual mild discontent that he takes his post, around 7:45 AM that day, on the 5th floor of the decrepit police building overlooking Aurel Vlaicu avenue, along with the dozen of officers sharing the assignment.

He’s barely seated when the first call is transferred to his console. The screen marks its origin in a village somewhere north in the countryside. Suppressing a yawn, Andréas Bobesco presses a button to activate the connection and pronounces the ritual words: “This is the police. What’s your emergency ?”

On the phone is a man, probably in his 50’s, visibly panicked, confused. “A mountain! It’s a mountain!” he yells. The officer tries to calm him down, asks him to start over and explain. But the man keeps rambling, agitated:

— It’s in the field, in the fields, all the way to the horizon!

— What? What’s in the field?

— It’s black! Completely black! And it goes all the way to the sky!

— Calm down. What are you talking about? A truck? — gambles the officer.

— No! No! It’s a mountain, I’m telling you, and it fills the whole view!

Andréas Bobesco stays silent an instant, pondering what on earth he is going to do with that improbable guy. This instant is enough to make him realize that, in the whole room, the phones are all ringing frantically. All the other officers are seemingly trapped in conversations as crazy as his, displaying incredulous and dismayed faces. On the wall in front of him, the big screen showing incoming calls is full, nonetheless adding new entries every second.

Andréas Bobesco understands that something grave is happening, and freezes. On his phone, the man shouts, in vain.

It is exactly then, at 7:52 AM on February, the 18th, that the city’s alarm sirens start.

General Lucian Antonescu has a stitch. While an extremely competent military commanding officer of the Romanian air force, as respected by his subordinates as he is by the government he responds to, it’s been a while since he had any kind of physical training.

Rushed in the unending corridors of Baza 90 by an infantry commando, it’s with short breath and sweaty armpits that he finally arrives in the situation room of the base’s bunker, deep below the facilities of Bucharest’s airport.

At least he’s presentable, dressed with his formal 4-star general uniform. The soldiers went to get him not twenty minutes before at his house, and he avoided having to follow them in a bathrobe only thanks to the capital’s blaring sirens, forewarning an impending crisis.

Comfortable in tense situations, he calmly enters the room and heads to his assigned seat, in the center, facing the screen-covered wall displaying various military data. Once settled, as usual, he takes a moment to scan the room and assess the mood.

It’s chaotic. There are twenty or thirty people in here. Around the wide central table are all kinds of high-ranking military personnel, many of them yelling at phones or at frightened aides desperately trying to implement inconsistent instructions on their secured laptops.

The general notices with satisfaction that land forces’ general Melitaru, his old rival, wasn’t as lucky as him, wearing what looks like an old bed t-shirt under his jacket. Finally, he focuses on the task at hand.

It’s 8:34 AM.

First, restore order — promptly done with a loud invective. His authority unchallenged, the frenzy stops and turns to him. In truth, more than a few in that room are relieved to see someone in charge.

— So. What’s going on?

Follows a brief lapse, no one daring to speak. Expecting it, the general waits a bit longer to strengthen his effect. Briefly, he considers bringing attention to Melitaru and his shabby attire. Surely pleasant, but definitely not a good time. So he turns to one of his Locotonent, that he knows capable.

— Lieutenant Lupesco!

The Lieutenant jumps out of his seat. For a few seconds, he looks like he won’t manage to speak, but he gathers himself quickly and starts :

— Sir! Here is what we know currently. About 45 minutes ago, we have been informed by Arad and Timisoara’s airports’ radar surveillance of the presence of an unidentified object in our airspace, near Cermei, 40 miles north-east of Arad. The initial reports were imprecise, contradictory and, frankly, quite unbelievable, but they have been confirmed in the following minutes by multiple accounts from military and civilian channels.
They all talk about a… some sort of…. — he hesitates.

— Some sort of what? — insists the General

— An object, sir. Sizable, it seems. The reports mention miles, sir.

In another setting, Lucian Antonescu, at that point, would probably have asked his personnel if they wouldn’t be, by any chance, making fun of him. But seeing the long faces around the table, he concludes that an elaborate prank is unlikely.

— Go on, he simply says.

— 12 minutes ago, three of our MiG-21 of the 711th took off from the 71st airbase, and should reach their destination momentarily to give us a radio assessment. We also dispatched an Antonov An-30 to get photographic data, but the 902nd is stationed here in Bucharest so the ETA will be a bit…

He’s interrupted by an aide whispering an update in his ear.

— The fighter jets are on target, sir.

The lieutenant calls out to an operator manning a console in a corner, asking him to open a direct line with the jets.

Time slows to a halt in the situation room. The whole commanding body, including general Lucian Antonescu, waits silently. Finally, the wall screens, after a glitch, feature a map of Romanian airspace, complete with the fighters’ position. The console operator announces that the radio link with squadron Alpha is operational.

Static noise is audible on the wall’s speakers.

— Alpha leader, this is general Antonescu at command, do you hear me? What is your report? Over.

More static, and suddenly, the pilot’s transmission. Contrasting with the usual airmen’s nonchalant tone, and without even stating his call sign, the MiG’s captain blurts out :

— It’s impossible, general! impossible! There’s something here, it’s… it’s fucking huge!

Through the room, a profound unease is felt, sparking exclamations. The general alone manages to appear unaffected. Still, he contemplates: only a deeply abnormal, inexplicable phenomenon can make an elite soldier such as this MiG pilot lose his composure like that. The thought fills him with dread. Nonetheless, having spent his whole life leading men in battle or peace, he promptly intervenes to get his soldier back on track :

— Pull yourself together, captain. You’re a professional, a soldier, and you have a mission to do. What is your report? Over.

Another bit of static, and the pilot, having gathered himself, transmits :

— Alpha leader to command. Apologies, sir. We just reached our destination and are approaching Bogey from the south. The… the object appears to be a monolithic mass, stationary, in the shape of a disk, on its edge. Like a Ferris wheel, standing up. It’s massive, unbelievable dimensions, sir.

The pilot follows with technical comms on his position, speed and altitude, meant for the traffic controllers, before coming back to his assessment :

— Command, my flight instruments are going crazy, they seem affected by the object. My compass is all over the place and the radar is glitching. Flight controls are nominal, though. The object is probably metallic; in any case, it emits magnetism, without a doubt. Command, we are going to circle around the object to the west, stand-by.

Again, the speakers are back to static, this time for a longer period, during which no one lets out even a whisper for fear of missing out the next bit.

In the back, an anonymous staff sergeant can’t manage to hide a smile on his face, “it’s so exciting!” he thinks.

— Alpha leader to command. We are now on the object’s side. It’s not a disk! It’s a cylinder, lying on the side. It has roughly the proportions of a 16 ounces can, completely black… Like a steamroller, maybe. The flat face facing south was smooth, but on the curved side it appears textured with regular dents, going all around it.

Without warning, the land general Melitaru, who stayed mostly silent until now, jumped on the mic and yelled:

— Alpha leader, can you identify the object? What is it? Military material? A facility?

— Negative, command, I’ve never seen anything like it. The dimensions are… insane. We have been cruising on its side for a minute now and we are not there yet. That would make the length about… 6 miles, command. As for the height… the diameter, if you will… we’re flying at FL80 and we are about halfway… the summit is above the cloud ceiling, but that should be about… 3 miles, ballpark. Command, this thing… it’s… it’s not human, command!

It’s 8:36, that morning, on February 18th, 2020, and once more, a ghastly silence falls on the secure bunker, only disturbed by static noise on speakers and some phones ringing fruitlessly.

After an unknown amount of time, an aide enters the room. Unfazed by the general stupor, and not realizing seeing general Lucian Antonescu speechless is a historical first, he approaches and delivers his message :

— Sir, the prime minister is on hold, line 1.

The general snaps out of his daze and sees the phone facing him. It has been ringing for a full minute now. He takes a breath, clears his throat, picks up the phone and activates the loudspeaker mode. No way he’s dealing with this by himself.

— My respects, prime minister.

From Bucharest’s Palatul Victoria, the head of state’s office, is instantly transmitted the mad roar of prime minister Ludovic Orban :

— Antonescu! What the fuck is going on?!

The plow appeared like that, somewhere in eastern Europe. Since then, it slowly rolls west, crushing everything on its path. What is it? Why is it there?

Have you photographed, filmed, drawn the Plow? Have you witnessed, observed, heard something about it? Send your data and ask your questions at theplowinstitute@gmail.com

If you are just getting there, it might be easier to jump back to the beginning. You will also find all entries here.

The Plow’s trajectory is also being monitored on Twitter and Facebook.

Finally, this work is written by an non-native English speaker. If you see something weird about the grammar or vocabulary, do mention it via email or messaging.