As a U.S. Army field artillery radar technician, his job was to read signals others couldn’t see blips on screens, returns in noise, patterns hidden inside chaos. Radar didn’t lie. Data didn’t lie. If something appeared on his scope, it was there.
That belief would be shaken on a summer night in June of 2015.
Weeks was on a long drive with his wife and children, traveling from Georgia toward Colorado Springs, where he was stationed. It was supposed to be routine highway miles, tired kids, GPS guiding them west. But somewhere along the drive, the GPS began behaving strangely, rerouting them without explanation onto isolated back roads.
Then the fog came.
It wasn’t normal fog. It rolled in suddenly, thick and suffocating, swallowing the road ahead. Visibility dropped to almost nothing. Weeks noticed the car’s electronics flicker radio static, dashboard lights dimming and brightening as if something nearby was interfering with the signal.
That’s when his wife told him to look up.
Above the vehicle, hovering silently, was an enormous disc-shaped craft so large it blotted out the stars. It wasn’t glowing like a typical UFO report. Instead, it was dark, solid, impossibly massive. On its underside were symbols, etched or embossed into the surface patterns that felt deliberate, structured, almost technical.
Weeks remembers a profound, crushing stillness. No engine noise. No wind. Just the sense that time itself had slowed.
Then nothing.
