ARE UAPs a DANGER TO AVIATION AND NATIONAL SECURITY?

Are UAPs a Real Danger to Aviation and National Security?

by Steve Douglass 

Every time another UAP story breaks, the reaction runs the gamut from laughter to alarm.,but this isn’t about conspiracy anymore — it’s about documented experiences from pilots, documented investigations by government agencies, and very real questions about how unknown objects in the sky could affect aircraft safety and national defense.

When a professional pilot takes the mic and reports something that shouldn’t be there, it’s understandable that people start asking hard questions about risk.

One especially striking example happened back on February 21, 2021, when pilots aboard American Airlines Flight 2292 were cruising at about 36,000 feet over the remote northeast corner of New Mexico. As the Airbus A320 steadily made its way from Cincinnati to Phoenix, the flight crew suddenly reported over the radio that something had passed directly overhead at high speed — something they couldn’t identify and couldn’t see on radar. What the pilots described was a long, cylindrical object that “almost looked like a cruise missile type of thing” as it whizzed over the top of their aircraft. 

FAA air traffic controllers, however, told them they had nothing on their scope to match the sighting. The recording was later confirmed to be authentic by the airline, and the FBI acknowledged it was aware of the incident.

 

This wasn’t a weather balloon drifting across the sky or a flock of birds. This was a professional crew describing something unusual at high altitude, something fast, and something that wasn’t reflected in radar data. That alone should raise eyebrows in aviation safety circles.

That incident isn’t unique, either. In the last decade, numerous UAP reports have come from the cockpit. Military pilots off the U.S. East Coast recorded objects performing abrupt maneuvers off the books; commercial pilots in the Southwest have seen high-speed objects at cruise altitude; and both military and civilian crews have radioed controllers with reports they can’t explain. Agencies like the Federal Aviation Administration have even started incorporating UAP documentation into their Aviation Safety Reporting System. (The Debrief)

From a navigation perspective, any unidentified object in controlled airspace introduces uncertainty. Air traffic control relies on radar tracks, transponder data, and predictable flight paths. Pilots depend on knowing what’s in their vicinity so they can maintain safe separation from other aircraft. When something appears without the usual identifiers, exists outside normal flight corridors, and can’t be tracked consistently on ground radar, it complicates already complex operations in the sky.

That unpredictability alone — not whether the object is extraterrestrial or advanced technology — constitutes a safety concern. Even if, in most cases, an eventual mundane explanation emerges, the initial uncertainty forces pilots to make split-second decisions and causes controllers to consider measures they wouldn’t otherwise need. Groups like the National Aviation Reporting Center on Anomalous Phenomena (NARCAP) have highlighted that UAP encounters can involve loss of separation, near mid-air collisions, and radar invisibility — all of which pose a risk to flight safety. (narcap.org)

On the national security front, the conversation shifts from mere aviation safety to strategic advantage. Defense analysts and intelligence officials are less interested in the sci-fi implications and more concerned with whether these objects could represent advanced technology from other nations or adversary surveillance platforms. 

In government reports shared with Congress, officials have acknowledged that while many sightings have conventional explanations — like drones, balloons, or sensor errors — some remain unresolved due to limited data. The inability to classify an object doesn’t automatically signal a threat, but it does leave open the possibility that someone, somewhere, could be flying advanced systems that evade detection. (Aerospace America)

So should the public be worried? Probably not in the dramatic, Hollywood sense. There’s no confirmed evidence that UAPs are extraterrestrial or inherently hostile. But should aviation authorities and defense agencies take them seriously? Absolutely. An unidentified object at cruising altitude that doesn’t show up on radar and passes directly over a passenger jet is exactly the kind of thing that deserves scrutiny — not panic, but focus and action.

What the Flight 2292 encounter and dozens of other UAP reports really show isn’t that our skies are teeming with unknowable threats, but that our current ability to detect, identify, and understand every object aloft — especially far from populated radar coverage — has real gaps. Addressing those gaps isn’t just good science. It’s essential for safer skies and stronger national security.

If UAPs were secret military hardware, you might argue that fighter pilots don’t necessarily need to know the details. Compartmentalization is normal in defense programs. But the FAA is a different story.

The Federal Aviation Administration is responsible for managing the safest and most complex civilian airspace system in the world. Every commercial airliner, cargo jet, medical helicopter, and private plane operating in U.S. controlled airspace ultimately falls under its regulatory umbrella. If unknown objects are moving through that airspace — especially at cruising altitudes — the FAA’s mandate is safety first, secrecy second.

If UAPs were classified U.S. hardware operating in or near civilian corridors, would the FAA be informed?

Historically, when the military conducts classified tests that could affect civilian airspace, coordination happens — though not always transparently to the public. Restricted areas are established. Notices to Air Missions (NOTAMs) are issued. Airspace can be temporarily closed or rerouted. Controllers don’t necessarily know what is being tested, but they are usually aware that certain airspace is unavailable or active.

That’s why incidents like American Airlines Flight 2292 over New Mexico stand out. The pilots reported a high-speed cylindrical object passing over their aircraft at 36,000 feet. Air traffic control reportedly had no traffic in the area matching that description. If it had been a scheduled military test within restricted airspace, you would expect some level of deconfliction — even if details were classified.

Now, could there be cases where a highly compartmentalized program operates without full FAA visibility? It’s possible, especially in remote or military-controlled airspace, but once you’re talking about commercial flight levels and established civilian routes, the idea that objects are intentionally inserted without coordination becomes harder to justify from a safety perspective.

The FAA’s entire system is built around predictable separation. Aircraft broadcast transponder codes. Radar correlates position and altitude. Controllers maintain buffers between targets. An object without a transponder, moving at high speed, that isn’t on a flight plan introduces exactly the kind of uncertainty the system is designed to eliminate, and that’s the key distinction.

The military can accept certain operational risks in controlled training ranges. The FAA cannot accept unknowns inside the National Airspace System.

If UAPs were secret domestic hardware regularly transiting civilian corridors without FAA coordination, that would represent a systemic breakdown in interagency communication. That would raise serious legal and safety concerns, not just curiosity.

On the other hand, if the FAA genuinely has no record or coordination for certain objects reported by crews, that leaves only a few possibilities: sensor anomalies, misidentifications, unauthorized drones, foreign systems, or something still unexplained.

It’s worth noting that in recent years, the FAA has acknowledged receiving and cataloging pilot reports of unidentified aerial phenomena. The fact that those reports are documented rather than dismissed suggests the agency views them as safety data, not fringe stories.

So when people ask, “If it’s secret U.S. tech, shouldn’t pilots know?” the follow-up question might be even sharper:

“If it’s secret U.S. tech, shouldn’t the FAA at least know enough to keep airliners out of the way, because in civilian aviation, secrecy is never supposed to outrank safety?

Lie to Fly

There’s a phrase in aviation that doesn’t show up in flight manuals but gets whispered in ready rooms and crew lounges: “lie to fly.”

It’s not about dishonesty in general. It’s about survival — professionally speaking.

In high-performance aviation culture, especially in the military, your career depends on being medically fit, psychologically stable, and tactically reliable. If something raises questions about your judgment or mental health, you risk being grounded. And being grounded can mean losing flight status, promotions, or even your career trajectory. So the pressure to avoid saying anything that sounds strange is real.

That’s where UAP reporting runs into trouble.

For decades, pilots who reported unidentified aerial phenomena risked being labeled as confused, over-imaginative, or worse — unstable. In a profession built on credibility and precision, reputation is everything. If a pilot describes an object that accelerates beyond known limits or hovers without visible propulsion, the fear isn’t that people will assume aliens. The fear is that people will assume you misperceived something, and misperception is a red flag in aviation.

In interviews with members of Congress and public forums, former Navy pilot Ryan Graves has described how aviators flying off the East Coast between 2014 and 2015 encountered unidentified objects so frequently that it became normalized — but rarely formally reported. Pilots worried that filing a report could slow their careers or trigger medical evaluations.

The culture in elite aviation units prizes composure and clarity. If you say you saw something that doesn’t fit physics as you understand it, the unspoken question becomes: did you really see that? Or did your instruments glitch? Or did you?

That doubt — even if subtle — is enough to keep many quiet.

The phrase “lie to fly” has historically referred to pilots underreporting minor medical issues to avoid being grounded. A headache becomes “I’m fine.” Fatigue becomes “good to go.” Extend that mindset to UAPs, and you get a chilling effect on reporting. If speaking up risks your wings, staying silent can feel safer.

Commercial airline pilots face a slightly different but related concern. Their medical certifications are strict, and any hint of cognitive irregularity can trigger scrutiny. Even though the Federal Aviation Administration has formal reporting channels, there has long been an assumption in aviation culture that reporting something extraordinary may invite unnecessary evaluation.

That makes incidents like American Airlines Flight 2292 over New Mexico more significant. In that case, the crew calmly reported a cylindrical object passing overhead at 36,000 feet. The professionalism of the radio call — matter-of-fact, procedural — may be part of why it didn’t spiral into ridicule. It sounded like what it was: a pilot describing traffic that shouldn’t have been there.

But for every recorded transmission, how many went unreported?

One major change in recent years is institutional acknowledgment. The U.S. Department of Defense formally established reporting mechanisms and investigative offices specifically for UAP encounters. Congressional hearings signaled that reporting such incidents would not automatically damage careers.

That matters. When leadership publicly says, “We want this data,” stigma begins to erode.

Still, culture doesn’t change overnight. Aviation is conservative by design. It values checklists, not mysteries. Pilots are trained to identify, categorize, and resolve anomalies — not to shrug and say “unknown.” Admitting you encountered something you can’t explain feels uncomfortable in a system built on mastery.

Here’s the irony: stigma itself can become a safety risk.

If pilots hesitate to report unusual aerial objects, then aviation authorities lack complete data. And without data, you can’t analyze patterns, improve radar systems, adjust training, or determine whether sightings represent drones, sensor anomalies, or something more serious.

In other words, the fear of professional consequences can reduce situational awareness across the entire airspace system.

Aviation safety has always improved because people report problems. Near-misses. Instrument failures. Fatigue. Weather miscalculations. If UAP encounters are excluded from that transparency, the system loses insight.

The goal isn’t to validate every sighting as extraordinary. It’s to create an environment where reporting something unusual doesn’t threaten a pilot’s livelihood.

In recent testimony, aviators have emphasized that most pilots aren’t trying to prove anything supernatural. They simply want a safe, predictable sky. When an object appears without a transponder, without radar correlation, or behaves unpredictably, it should be logged and studied — the same way any other aviation hazard would be.

“Lie to fly” is a symptom of a culture that equates uncertainty with weakness. But acknowledging uncertainty is actually central to aviation safety. Checklists exist because humans aren’t perfect. Reporting systems exist because silence creates blind spots.

If UAPs are ever going to be fully understood — whether they turn out to be drones, classified programs, atmospheric phenomena, or something else entirely — the stigma has to fade.

Because in aviation, the most dangerous unknown isn’t what’s in the sky.

It’s what no one feels safe enough to report.

For the sake of an argument, let's say the majority of credible UAP sightings — especially the structured, radar-correlated ones reported by trained military aviators — are actually secret U.S. military hardware.

Even in that “best case” explanation, there are still serious structural problems.

First, there’s the airspace deconfliction issue. Modern military and civilian aviation runs on coordination. Training ranges are scheduled. Restricted airspace is charted. Civilian routes are carefully layered above and around military operations. If secret platforms are repeatedly being encountered by operational squadrons — as described by pilots like Ryan Graves — that suggests either intentional insertion into active training lanes or inadequate internal coordination.

Neither option is reassuring.

You don’t normally test revolutionary propulsion systems by surprising your own combat air patrols. Fighter pilots are trained to treat unknown contacts as potential threats. Injecting classified systems into those environments without briefing local commanders risks misidentification, unsafe maneuvering, and escalation.

Then there’s the civilian layer. If even a small portion of sightings — like the cylindrical object reported by American Airlines Flight 2292 over New Mexico — were secret domestic hardware, that raises immediate questions for the Federal Aviation Administration. Civilian airspace isn’t supposed to contain uncoordinated, non-transponder traffic at cruising altitude. If it does, that undermines the integrity of the National Airspace System.

Secrecy doesn’t erase liability.

Next is the strategic signaling problem. If U.S. black programs are operating in ways that cause confusion within the Department of Defense itself, that suggests extreme compartmentalization. The U.S. Department of Defense routinely manages highly classified systems — stealth aircraft, electronic warfare platforms, advanced drones — but those programs are usually carefully walled off from interfering with routine operations.

When stealth aircraft like the Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk were secret, they weren’t repeatedly startling Navy strike groups during exercises. They were flown in controlled environments. 

Back in the late 1970s, the U.S. was quietly building something that wasn’t supposed to exist: the F-117 Nighthawk. It started as the ultra-secret Have Blue, those faceted flying-diamond prototypes that looked like they came from another planet. But the big challenge wasn’t just building it — it was flying it without anyone noticing.

To keep the program invisible, the Air Force created the 4450th Tactical Group, based at the ultra-secret Tonopah Test Range. On paper, this unit flew LTV A-7 Corsair II, a completely conventional jet. In reality, the pilots were secretly flying the F-117 at night. The A-7s gave the pilots something legitimate to log flight hours in, explained why they were constantly in Nevada, and offered a plausible explanation if anyone happened to notice strange flights.

The Air Force didn’t just keep the F-117s secret from the public and the press; they had to fool the FAA, too. Any military plane flying in U.S. airspace technically needed a flight plan, and the FAA keeps track of radar transponders and air traffic.

So the Air Force told the FAA that all flights out of Tonopah Test Range were just A-7 Corsair II. On radar, that’s what civilian controllers saw: a conventional A-7 making routine training flights. In reality, the pilots were flying the F-117 at night. The “official” A-7 identity explained why there were aircraft in the sky at strange hours and kept everyone from asking inconvenient questions.

This is why sightings of the F-117 sometimes triggered UFO reports. To radar and official records, it didn’t exist. To ranchers and enthusiasts in the Nevada desert, it was a silent, angular shadow in the night sky. Everyone had a story, but the FAA was none the wiser.

Locals in the desert started reporting bizarre, silent black aircraft that seemed almost alive in the night sky. Ranchers jokingly called them “goat suckers,” a nod to old myths and mysterious sightings. Inside the program, the nickname stuck as a kind of secret joke. The F-117 was almost never seen in daylight, had an alien angular shape, and was surprisingly quiet. Perfect material for UFO rumors.

If today’s UAPs are ours, and they’re showing up unpredictably in front-line training theaters, that would imply either unusually aggressive testing doctrine or fragmented oversight. Both create internal friction.

There’s also the intelligence optics problem. Publicly, the U.S. government has acknowledged unresolved UAP cases. If most of them were classified domestic platforms, that means policymakers are walking a tightrope — appearing uncertain to protect secrecy. That may be strategically acceptable in some contexts, but it has consequences. It can erode public trust and create speculation that becomes harder to contain than the technology itself.

Finally, there’s the safety culture issue.

Aviation — military and civilian — improves because of transparency in reporting hazards. If pilots believe they are encountering advanced domestic systems but aren’t told, that reinforces the “need-to-know” wall at the expense of operational clarity. If they believe the objects are foreign because no one clarifies, that affects threat perception and readiness.

In other words, even if the explanation is mundane in origin — secret hardware — the implications are not minor. The “it’s just secret tech” explanation doesn’t eliminate the problem. It relocates it.

Instead of asking “What are these objects?” the question becomes “Why is our airspace management architecture allowing them to appear as unknowns to our own operators?", and if that’s happening regularly, that’s not a mystery problem, that's a governance problem.

What if it's intentional - close encounters? 

Let’s imagine a scenario where at least some UAP sightings are intentional — not accidents, not leaks, but controlled ambiguity. The idea wouldn’t be to brief adversaries through diplomatic or military channels. It would be to let them notice something. To let them see radar returns. To let their intelligence agencies collect fragments. And then to let uncertainty do the rest.

That concept has precedent in military strategy.

Ambiguity has long been used as a deterrence tool. The U.S. never publicly demonstrated the Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk until years after it was operational. The mere suspicion of advanced stealth capability altered adversary planning. The same goes for early development of the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird. When you don’t know exactly what your rival can do, you have to assume the worst — and plan accordingly.

Strategic uncertainty can be more powerful than a press conference.

Now imagine a 21st-century twist on that doctrine.

Instead of unveiling a new hypersonic drone or breakthrough propulsion system, you let fragments of it leak through radar encounters. Military pilots report objects with unusual flight characteristics. Congressional hearings acknowledge “unresolved cases.” Intelligence agencies decline to specify what they know.

Foreign analysts — in Beijing, Moscow, Tehran — start asking themselves uncomfortable questions.

Is this ours? Is it theirs? Are we behind? Are we vulnerable?

That kind of uncertainty can force adversaries to divert resources, accelerate R&D, or operate more cautiously. In strategic theory, that’s a win.

But here’s where the scenario gets complicated.

First, deliberate ambiguity inside your own operational airspace is risky. When Navy pilots like Ryan Graves describe near-miss situations during training exercises, that suggests either extremely bold signaling or poor deconfliction. Militaries generally avoid using frontline operators as unbriefed participants in psychological strategy.

Second, deterrence signaling usually has a controlled audience. Nuclear deterrence works because adversaries know you have the capability. They don’t need to guess whether it exists. Pure ambiguity can backfire. If your rival concludes the sightings are sensor glitches, drones, or bureaucratic confusion, the signaling fails.

Third, domestic perception matters. The U.S. Department of Defense operates within a democratic system. Allowing widespread public speculation about unexplained craft — especially without clarification — carries political and credibility costs. Strategic deception aimed outward can erode trust inward.

That said, strategic misdirection is not hypothetical in military history. Governments have staged exercises, exaggerated capabilities, and obscured timelines to influence adversary decision-making. During the Cold War, both the U.S. and the Soviet Union engaged in perception management operations designed to inflate or conceal technological advantages.

The question is whether modern UAP ambiguity fits that pattern.

If it were intentional signaling, it would likely aim at two audiences simultaneously: foreign intelligence agencies monitoring U.S. airspace activity and domestic audiences observing Congressional acknowledgment of unexplained phenomena. The message wouldn’t be “aliens.” It would be “there are capabilities in play you don’t fully understand.”

That strategy would require extraordinary control over the narrative and over operational safety. It would also require confidence that the benefits of ambiguity outweigh the risks of confusion among pilots, lawmakers, and the public.

So is it possible? Yes. Strategic ambiguity is a real doctrine.

Is it likely that routine near-miss encounters and unresolved reports are primarily psychological warfare?

That’s harder to argue. Effective deterrence typically relies on calculated messaging, not chaotic uncertainty.

If UAPs are terrestrial and technological, their strategic value might not lie in what they are — but in what others think they might be.

And in global power competition, sometimes making your adversary lose sleep is itself a capability.

In the end, what makes UAPs a concern isn’t that they might be aliens. It’s that we have professional aviators willing to describe what they saw, government agencies compelled to investigate, and an increasing record of unexplained aerial anomalies that, by definition, don’t fit within our existing frameworks of identification and response.