Project Boussh: Unconfirmed Sightings
by Brad Corletti

"Control, Tango Bravo hitting the deck."
"Tango Bravo, Control, confirmed deck."

RAAF Captain Warren Cross eased his flightstick forward in a calm and
self-assured manner as he screamed across South Australia in his
F/A-18 Hornet. At a stately 1000 kph, he brought the aircraft down low,
to a height not usually flown. Although several thousand feet above the
ground, in aviation terms, he was practically driving.

He approached the critical moment of this training flight - the ridge
up ahead, a low stretch of hills, was his target. He was to fly over
it at a sufficiently low altitude to avoid the hypothetical radar
while still maintaining enough height to avoid any chance of collision
- and for the purpose of the exercise, to properly deplay the dummy
Durandel parachute-retarded bomb.

It was an exercise in self control - and control over the airframe. A
steady hand would be required to pass through the critical envelope.
The instruments would be of little help here, the instruments are
secondary devices - themselves affected by the aircraft's passage
through the air, with little to objectively measure themselves
against. A rookie would throw his aircraft about trying to 'chase' the
instruments, only to throw himself far out of the envelope.

Captain Cross was no rookie.

Barely paying attention to the instruments, he relied on the only
instruments he could truly rely on - the world outside, and the feel
of the airframe.

He threaded the needle perfectly. The Durandel happily slipped behind
him and floated gently to the ground, no doubt amusing any sheep
caught grazing on the slopes.

"Tango Bravo, Control, green light."

All perfectly according to plan. Except for what he saw next.

First surprise: There was an airbase of sorts beyond the ridge. That
was dangerous. Second, there was a strange-looking aircraft down
there.

"Control, Tango Bravo. There is an airfield beyond the ridge. Say
again, an airfield."

"Tango Bravo, Control. Can you confirm? It isn't on the map."

"Control, Tango Bravo. Confirming."

He brought the fighter around into a smooth circle. Yes, there was an
airfield there, all right - a pair of short dirt runways surrounded by
green crops. And that oddly rounded aircraft was lifting off...

Straight up.

"Fuck," he muttered.

"Control, say again Tango Bravo."

"Control, Tango Bravo, I said 'fuck'." A flash of red light - the
oddly circular aircraft turned and Cross got his first good look at
it. It was strangely shaped, almost appearing like an F-15 Eagle with
no wings.

Wait a minute. It reminded him alarmingly of the way one of the first
'foo fighter' reports read, before the press screwed up and called
them flying saucers.

"Tango Bravo, Control, come in."

"Control, Tango Bravo. You're not going to like this. Confirm one
airstrip. Confirm one goddamned alien spaceship."

The fighter accelerated north, and Warren, not having much else to do,
turned to follow. Silence reigned on the commline.

The fighter turned again, to port, and Warren followed. The fighter
turned to starboard. Warren got the impression it was playing with
him. Then it started to barrel roll. Warren duly followed it.

"Tango Bravo, this is Control! What the hell do you think you're
playing at?" This was a new voice for Control. Warren thought he
recognised the RAAF Edinburgh base commander.

The alien craft accelerated rapidly, flaming into the lower atmosphere
at a speed he could never hope to match.

Warren knew that he was setting himself up for public ridicule. But
dammit, that thing was real. It had performed like nothing he'd ever
seen. Nothing he'd ever read about. He sure as hell wasn't going to
lie about it.

Or would he? He did have his career to think of. His job. His life.

"Control, Tango Bravo. Very sorry. I thought I saw something."