75: Chapter 75 Pentagon Shocked: Was That a UFO?

Washington, The Pentagon.

The underground command center was shrouded in a suffocating silence, broken only by the shrill, death-knell-like wail of alarms.

On the giant electronic screen, the real-time radar map of NORAD displayed a scene that defied all logic.

A blinding red dot was performing a bizarre movement pattern centered over Nevada.

"My God..."

The major in charge of radar monitoring took off his headset, his fingers trembling as he pointed at the screen. "Sir, look at this trajectory! This is impossible! It's physically inexplicable!"

"Calm down!"

The Department of Defense Secretary slammed his coffee cup onto the table, spilling coffee everywhere. "Report the parameters!"

"Target altitude: 12,000 meters; flight speed... Mach 3!"

The major's voice cracked, sounding as if he had seen a ghost. "No, it's still accelerating! Mach 3.5! And... it's making a right-angle turn! No deceleration! No inertial buffer! It's like a ping-pong ball unbound by gravity!"

The command center erupted in an uproar.

A top speed of Mach 3 might be achievable by a handful of reconnaissance aircraft on this planet.

But a right-angle turn at Mach 3?

The pilot inside would be crushed into pulp by the instantaneous G-force, and the aircraft's structure would disintegrate in a tenth of a second.

"Is it a new type of Russian missile?"

A staff officer asked, sweat pouring down his face. "Or one of their 'hypersonic glide vehicles'?"

"It doesn't look like a missile."

The Department of Defense Secretary stared fixedly at the red dot. "Missiles don't draw circles in the sky, and they certainly don't... provoke us."

That's right, it was a provocation.

After entering the airspace of America, the red dot didn't head straight for any strategic target. Instead, it acted as if it were strolling through its own backyard, bobbing up and down over the Nevada desert, and even occasionally hovering in mid-air, as if waiting for something.

"This is a humiliation."

The Secretary's face was livid, his fists clenched tight. "No matter who it is, or which country's secret weapon it belongs to, anyone who dares to run wild over America will pay the price!"

He grabbed the red phone, his voice cold as ice:

"Order the 57th Fighter Wing to scramble immediately."

"Let the 'Raptors' teach them who the master of this sky is."

Ten thousand meters high, in the stratosphere.

Three F-22 "Raptors" flew in a V-formation, slicing through the thin air.

This was the pinnacle of human aviation, an aerial killer that combined stealth, supersonic cruise, and super-maneuverability.

"Falcon One calling Command Center."

The lead pilot, callsign "Viper," spoke with a voice that sounded steady and confident through his oxygen mask. "We have arrived at the target airspace. Radar... is experiencing heavy interference; we cannot lock onto the target."

"Copy, Falcon One. The target is at your twelve o'clock, thirty kilometers away. Altitude is dropping."

"Understood."

Viper pushed the stick, and the fighter jet carved a graceful arc in the sky, beginning its dive.

"Those radar guys must have been drinking again."

He joked on the internal channel. "A right-angle turn at Mach 3? I think a fly must have crawled across their screen."

The wingman laughed: "Maybe some rich kid is racing a modified private plane. Perfect, let's show him what real speed is."

However, the next second, their smiles froze.

"Beep—beep—beep—"

The radar warning receiver in the cockpit suddenly emitted a piercing scream.

It wasn't a lock-on alarm, but a close-range collision warning!

"Damn it! Where is it?!"

Viper abruptly pulled up the nose, trying to evade.

Just then, a black afterimage rushed out from the clouds below without warning.

It was too fast.

It was so fast that Viper couldn't even see its outline clearly. He only felt a massive gust of wind instantly engulf the fighter, causing the twenty-ton steel raptor to shake violently like a leaf in a storm.

"It's above us!"

The wingman shouted in terror. "My God! It's too fast! The fire-control radar can't keep up at all!"

Viper gritted his teeth, enduring the dizziness caused by the G-force, and slammed the afterburner on.

The F-22's engine spewed blue exhaust, and the fighter instantly broke the sound barrier, chasing after the black shadow.

"Trying to run? Not so easy!"

He stared fixedly at the black dot flickering in the clouds, his finger already resting on the launch button for the "Sidewinder" missile.

Just one lock-on.

Even if it was only a one-second lock-on window, he was confident he could shoot it down.

But he couldn't do it.

The black dot was like a ghost, darting left and right, up and down. It didn't seem to be in a hurry to shake off the pursuit; instead, it seemed to be toying with them, keeping a distance that was neither too far nor too close.

"It's decelerating!"

The wingman suddenly yelled. "It's stopped! Right in front!"

Viper felt a surge of joy.

Seeking death!

Stopping in an air battle meant being a sitting duck!

"Target locked! Prepare to fire!"

The three F-22s lowered their noses simultaneously, bursting out of the clouds and heading straight for the figure hovering in mid-air.

Sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating that patch of airspace.

Then.

Everyone forgot to fire.

Viper's eyes widened, his pupils constricted violently, and he even forgot to breathe. Through the canopy, he watched the "thing" hovering in the air, his mind going blank.

That was not a plane.

No wings, no engines, no exhaust ports.

That was a living creature.

A pitch-black beast, covered in thick scales, with a wingspan of at least twenty meters.

It had a ferocious head similar to the dragons in Western legends, and those golden vertical pupils were coldly watching these three tiny human fighter jets.

And on its back, there was actually a person sitting!

A human wearing camouflage and goggles, waving at them!

"What... what the fuck is this?"

Viper felt his worldview crumble into pieces.

What made him break down even more was that this "dragon" was covered in traces of modern industry that felt incredibly out of place.

Under its wings, two pylons were crudely welded, carrying four genuine "Hellfire" missiles.

And at the base of its wings, two six-barreled Gatling guns were vibrating slightly with its breathing, the pitch-black muzzles gleaming with a chilling metallic luster.

Biology and mechanics.

Myth and technology.

It was as absurd as seeing Guanyin Bodhisattva not holding a vase, but holding an AK47.

"Command Center..."

Viper's voice was trembling, even carrying a hint of a sob.

"Falcon One, please report the situation! Have you confirmed the target's identity? Is it a Su-57 or a J-20?"

The commander's anxious inquiry came through the headset.

Viper swallowed, struggling to take his eyes off the dragon, and looked at the data that was still jumping wildly on the dashboard.

He took a deep breath and spoke in a tone that tried its best not to sound like he was going insane:

"Sir..."

"I request to return to base."

"And, I strongly suggest... scheduling me for a top-level psychiatric evaluation."

The command center was stunned for a moment: "What are you talking about? Soldier! Tell me what you see!"

Viper watched as the dragon suddenly opened its huge mouth, revealing a smile that looked suspiciously like mockery, and then violently flapped its wings, disappearing into the horizon with an incredible acceleration.

He slumped back in his seat, his eyes hollow:

"I think I saw a..."

"A dragon... carrying missiles?"