CHAPTER 19: TRIANGLES AND APPLE PIE

Over the years, I documented several triangular-shaped aircraft on more than one occasion. They weren’t rare or isolated events, but sightings that happened with a consistency that pleasantly surprised both Mark and me. Each appearance felt less like a shock and more like a quiet confirmation that paying attention mattered.

What stood out most was the regularity. Similar shapes. Similar movements. Similar conditions. Seeing these aircraft repeatedly in daylight gave us time to observe without rushing to conclusions or second-guessing our own eyes. Rather than disbelief, the experience brought a sense of calm curiosity—an awareness that we were witnessing something uncommon, but not threatening.

Perhaps the most remarkable part was how ordinary the setting remained. These objects crossed the sky above familiar neighborhoods during everyday hours, while life carried on below. The contrast between the normal rhythm of the day and the unusual shapes overhead made the moments feel both grounded and extraordinary.

We don’t claim to know exactly what we saw. But those daylight hours spent watching the Texas sky left me with a lasting sense of wonder. Sometimes discovery doesn’t come with drama or fear—just a quiet surprise and the feeling that there is still much to observe, even in the most familiar places.

It was becoming clear to us that the Air Force was flying unacknowledged aircraft. The fact that these flights took place in broad daylight suggested intention rather than accident—either operational necessity made secrecy impossible, or visibility itself served a purpose. Whether meant to test public reaction or quietly signal technological capability, the aircraft were clearly not being hidden.

Seeing them openly, without any attempt at concealment, changed how we understood the sightings. This didn’t feel like something that had slipped through the cracks. It felt deliberate.

On one particularly clear and beautiful afternoon, three of the local interceptors had just finished lunch at our unofficial gathering spot, the Old English Fieldhouse restaurant, which happened to have amazing apple pie. Not long after, I received a call from a friend who worked in air traffic control. His message was simple: look to the south.

Etched sharply across the blue sky were three distinct contrails. I grabbed my camera and zoomed in. It immediately became clear these were not conventional aircraft. Flying in tight formation were three triangular craft, clearly defined and easily visible in the daylight. There was no attempt to hide them. Photographing them felt almost effortless—like shooting ducks in a barrel. LINK

The full encounter is detailed elsewhere, but those photographs had an unexpected life of their own. They landed both me and the other interceptors on national news and even in the pages of Aircraft Illustrated, where my photos were featured prominently. The following day, a man in Kansas photographed a remarkably similar aircraft, lending further credibility to what we had seen.

About a month later, the U.S. Air Force staged what could only be described as a very expensive dog-and-pony show. Three B-2 bombers were flown repeatedly over our town for hours. Naturally, we photographed them and compared those images to the ones we had taken earlier. The differences were obvious. The triangular aircraft we photographed previously were not B-2s, despite the Air Force’s attempt to suggest otherwise.

Soon after, a press release appeared claiming that B-2s had been spotted over Amarillo and that those aircraft were what had been photographed earlier. What the release left out was a critical detail: the B-2s were flown over the area a full month after our original sighting.

No one was fooled for even a second. In fact, the free B-2 air show only reinforced what we already believed—that we had photographed something genuinely secret. Instead of clarifying the earlier sighting, the spectacle highlighted the differences even more clearly and underscored how deliberate the response felt.

On another occasion, coincidentally as we were once again leaving Old English, one of the local interceptors noticed something flying extremely high above us. At first it was little more than a bright speck against the deep blue sky. I raised my camera and zoomed in with my extended telephoto lens.

What came into focus surprised me. Once again, it was a triangular-shaped aircraft—but unlike the others, this one was different. It appeared to be at a much higher altitude and had a reflective white surface that caught the sunlight and glinted sharply against the sky.

We watched it for roughly thirty seconds as it moved steadily overhead. Then, without any visible change in speed or direction, it simply disappeared.

Once again I published photographs of it, but this time it was largely ignored.

Just a few years ago, I photographed yet another unfamiliar stealth aircraft, this time flying in formation with two B-2s. I shared the images quietly within the Interceptors, but I didn’t bother posting them publicly. By that point, it was starting to feel as though these daylight overflights were no longer incidental.

Instead, they seemed staged to be seen—carefully orchestrated displays meant to send a message. Whether intended for foreign adversaries, domestic audiences, or both, the visibility felt deliberate. The mystery wasn’t just what we were seeing anymore, but why it was being shown so openly.

It also felt like a test—or even a setup. As if the question wasn’t what was flying overhead, but whether someone like me would post the images publicly, making it easier to discredit them later. I had the distinct sense that visibility came with strings attached.

I wasn’t interested in taking the bait. I could also see how the sheer number of sightings and photographs taken by yours truly might look suspect to outsiders. It would be fair to ask why Steve seemed so “lucky,” or whether someone was feeding him inside information. That kind of speculation was inevitable, even if it wasn’t grounded in reality.

Although none of the sightings were linked to Mark in any way, I was conscious of appearances. I went out of my way to avoid even the suggestion that anyone was leaking classified or sensitive information. In an environment where perception can matter as much as fact, caution felt like the only responsible choice.

Still, none of what I was witnessing bore any resemblance to what I encountered in Ohio on that August night. Everything I was seeing in Texas could reasonably be attributed to human activity—advanced designs, certainly, but still recognizable as incremental steps in aviation technology. Impressive in their own right, perhaps, but comparatively primitive when set against what I experienced in Ohio.

That distinction mattered. Whatever happened there felt fundamentally different, operating on a level that went beyond experimental aircraft or strategic signaling. By comparison, the daylight sightings over Texas, for all their mystery, felt grounded in familiar human limits.

Around that time, I found myself seeing Mark more often, though I didn’t understand why at first. It gradually became clear that something was wrong. He had lost a significant amount of weight, and the energy he once carried so easily just wasn’t there anymore. I couldn’t tell whether it was simply age catching up with him or something more serious.

Eventually, he told me the truth. His days were numbered, and the reason was cancer. Slow growing prostate cancer, possibly curable but I could see it was taking a terrible toll on Mark. 

Our conversations became more intense and more direct. I could sense that Mark wanted me to understand not only what he knew, but why he couldn’t simply say it out loud. He was still bound by his secrecy agreement, and above all else, he was focused on protecting his family from any possible fallout.

We both understood the reality of the situation—it was a race against the clock. But even then, he couldn’t tell me outright what he knew.

Instead, I would ask questions, sometimes very pointed ones, and he would respond with carefully chosen, leading answers. I’d go away and do my own research, following the threads as far as I could. When I returned, he would either quietly confirm that I was on the right track or steer me away if I wasn’t.

It was an unusual way of sharing knowledge, built on trust, restraint, and the unspoken understanding that time was running out.

UP NEXT - A UAP CRASH IN NEW MEXICO