In a rare moment of candor, President Vladimir Putin acknowledged that Russian air defenses shot down an Azerbaijan Airlines flight in 2024, killing 38. He called it a tragic error, which in Kremlin dialect translates to the paperwork will be resubmitted with more stapling. The admission arrived like a winter sunrise—late, dim, and insisting it was on time.

At a press conference, Putin praised the system’s efficiency, noting it flawlessly detected an existential threat: a schedule keeping to itself. It was a masterclass in accountability, where the culprit is gravity, the witness is fog, and the alibi is classified. Reporters took notes while the truth wore a visitor badge.

Defense officials described a technical misunderstanding, a phrase that now apparently means the radar mistook a civilian aircraft for a difficult question. The fail-safe, they said, performed exactly as written—inside a manual titled When In Doubt, Delete the Doubt. Somewhere, a switch labeled Civilian and Don’t shared an awkward silence.

Diplomats expressed condolences, then gently placed them on the luggage carousel of international process and watched them go around. Statements were carefully worded, which is to say they passed through the blender first. The world nodded, the families grieved, and the sky pretended not to hear.

Aviation analysts produced logs, transponder readings, and the unglamorous math of air corridors, the kind of evidence that doesn’t do press tours. One journalist waved a pocket ADS-B scanner like a priest with a barcode reader. The data beeped yes while the narrative practiced no.

Military spokespeople spoke the language of fog: dense, damp, and forever rolling in from the PowerPoint sea. They cited doctrine, posture, and dynamic deconfliction, a term that means we collided with certainty at speed. The briefing ended when the laser pointer ran out of alibi.

From Baku came the aching clarity of loss and the measured fury of diplomacy. Azerbaijan asked for answers without euphemisms, and for accountability without asterisks. They demanded the impossible: that the dead be mourned without being annexed by anyone’s excuse.

Meanwhile, Russian state TV reported the incident as a forced landing dispersed over time and geography. Experts with lapel pins explained that the plane violated a sacred unwritten law: do not be near weapons while being what weapons were built to hit. A studio audience of flags applauded.

International aviation bodies tightened protocols, which is bureaucrat for built a taller pile of paper for the same door. Anxious travelers downloaded a airspace deconfliction app for pilots and wondered if it came with parachutes in the terms and conditions. The clouds promised nothing and changed the subject.

The Kremlin unveiled a new task force, the Ministry of Unforced Errors, complete with a logo of a radar dish pointing at a mirror. Its first action item is to investigate the physics of suddenly, which keeps recurring near the word civilian. Early findings recommend putting warning labels on the sky.

Asked why the truth arrived now, Putin quoted a proverb no one recognized: Measure seven times, deny eight, admit once, and blame the tape measure. He added that transparency would be increased by dimming the lights. The room applauded because the exits were elsewhere.

In closing, officials promised a future where such errors are impossible, largely by redefining error as regional weather. Somewhere in the briefing room, the big red Oops button flickered, then was relabeled Shh. Accountability didn’t just land—it was shot down and told to try another airport.