34．The Xiaoshan UFO Landing and an Alleged Secret Treaty

During the pandemic, Carla contacted me with an extraordinary story. A man I had once met briefly at the Shanghai conference, she said, possessed a USB drive containing classified material about the Xiaoshan Airport UFO incident—including records of an alleged encounter between the Chinese military and extraterrestrial beings.

I did not know whether the material was genuine. What followed became an education in the dangerous territory between testimony and proof, secrecy and disinformation—and in how easily the search for truth can make the seeker part of the story.

Just as the pandemic in Australia appeared to be easing, the country slipped into a second wave of lockdowns. Offices closed again. Those of us able to work from home returned to lives narrowed by screens, government announcements, and the limits of permitted movement. The UFO circle carried a different charge, fed by fragments of information and quiet warnings that larger forces were moving beyond public view. It was during this period that Carla contacted me again. I did not yet understand that what she was about to tell me would lead me into a forbidden zone I had only sensed from a distance.

Carla had spent years travelling between China and Europe. She had once run an independent media platform devoted to UFO and spiritual subjects, and I had met her briefly through a mutual contact at the conference in Shanghai. What few people knew was that she was also involved with an overseas research team developing a form of free-energy technology they called an “eternal kinetic energy” device, which they claimed could generate power through a self-sustaining cycle without conventional fuel.

According to Carla, the team encountered obstruction at every decisive stage, from intellectual-property registration to production. Whenever the project approached implementation, the path seemed to close. Then the lead scientist suffered an “accident”: he was stabbed several times by a stranger on the street and narrowly survived. After that, Carla no longer saw the resistance as bureaucratic delay or scientific rivalry. The project had crossed into more dangerous territory, where invention, capital, secrecy, and power converge.

Her account reminded me of Marcus from the experiencers’ support group, who had once said he had been warned by Australian intelligence not to bring a similar technology to market.

Within the UFO world, Carla’s story was alarming, though hardly unfamiliar. People spoke quietly of a pattern: technologies capable of disrupting energy, medicine, or entrenched industry seemed to attract pressure long before they reached the public. Such inventions threatened more than markets. They threatened the structures of dependence on which markets and institutions themselves were built.

Carla and her team believed they were working for the good of humanity. Their experience had shown them how fragile such technology could become once it collided with organised power. Under pressure, their conviction did not disappear. It became lonelier, more costly, and far more dangerous.

When Carla spoke of these events, I heard anger held tightly in check, with helplessness beneath it. The conversation soon turned to someone she described as “a comrade in the same trench”: a man named Ming.

According to Carla, Ming possessed critical information - what she believed to be official intelligence that, if authentic, would prove China had long ago obtained advanced extraterrestrial technologies capable of transforming the energy and medical industries. If brought into production, such technologies could change the human condition itself: freeing people from dependence on conventional energy and from illnesses long treated as unavoidable. That was precisely why, she said, Ming had become a target. He had been pressured, intimidated, and repeatedly threatened by forces linked to the Chinese Communist system.

“I understand how difficult it is for him,” Carla told me that night.

Her voice carried fatigue, sympathy, and respect. She saw him as one of the rare idealists still willing to pay a price for truth.

In him, she seemed to recognise her own struggle: the belief that knowledge capable of relieving human suffering had been placed beyond public reach, and the loneliness of trying to bring it back.

My own memory of Ming from the Shanghai conference was faint. He had been there, and he had joined us at dinner afterwards. I remembered a slight, polite man, not tall, quiet almost to the point of vanishing. He spoke only when someone drew him into the conversation, then lowered his eyes and returned to his food, his expression composed and unreadable. Without Carla’s reminder, I might have lost him entirely in the blur of dim restaurant lights and the soft clink of wine glasses.

Then Carla lowered her voice.

“Let me tell you something,” she said. “Ming was at Xiaoshan Airport that night and later gained access to the government’s secrecy files about the incident.”

I paused. I knew only the broad outlines of the story. Years earlier, the so-called Xiaoshan UFO incident had caused a stir online in China and overseas. According to widely circulated accounts, an unidentified flying object appeared over the airport during peak hours, disrupting flights and temporarily closing the airport. At first, when the political atmosphere was still relatively loose, the incident received broad media attention. Later, as the climate tightened, the reporting became more restrained. Some articles disappeared. Discussion narrowed. Certain witnesses, people said, could no longer be found or had quietly moved away.

Before I could respond, Carla continued, her voice quickening.

“What happened that night was far more explosive than people know,” she said. “The UFO did not simply pass over the airport. It landed near one side of Xiaoshan Airport. The military sealed off the area immediately. They made contact with the beings who came out of the spaceship and entered into negotiations. There was even some kind of secret treaty - including advanced technology given to China by an extraterrestrial civilisation.”

I listened with guarded disbelief. Carla must have noticed the hesitation in my silence, then she pressed on.

“Believe me, it’s true. Ming was there. He isn’t an ordinary person. He used to work on a covert program for the Chinese government. More importantly, he has a USB drive given to him by someone from the state secrecy system. It contains files exposing what happened at Xiaoshan Airport. He showed me photographs of the extraterrestrials after the archive was decrypted. I saw what they looked like.”

Her words came faster now, each detail offered as though it might close the distance between testimony and proof.

I remained sceptical, yet I could not ignore the implications. If any part of her account was accurate, the Xiaoshan Airport incident was no ordinary UFO sighting. It would mean the Chinese government had already made direct contact with a non-human civilisation.

My curiosity sharpened. “What happened after that?” I asked. “Did Ming tell you more?”

Carla laughed softly. “Don’t rush. I’ll arrange for him to speak with you himself. He witnessed the UFO and the disruption at the airport that night, and later obtained classified material about what followed. He can tell you how those state-level classified files came into his possession.”

A few nights later, the three of us spoke by phone. Carla gave a brief introduction, unable to hide her excitement. Ming’s voice carried the relief of someone who had kept a story buried for too long and had finally found a listener.  Beneath that relief lay the caution of a man handling something dangerous.

After a few polite exchanges, we turned to the subject that had brought us together: the strange incident at Hangzhou Xiaoshan Airport.

“I’ve held this in for too long,” Ming said. “It feels good to finally let it out.”

Then he began.

He described the sudden appearance of the craft that night, the military’s abrupt arrival, the lockdown of the airport officially described as a drill, and the astonishing contents of the classified files stored on the USB drive. Even now, the memory of that conversation unsettles me. What follows is my best reconstruction, from memory, of his account of the Xiaoshan incident.

Ming said he had been waiting for a flight at Hangzhou Xiaoshan Airport that night. By coincidence, or through some stranger arrangement of fate, he witnessed the beginning of the incident himself.

“It was peak hour,” he said, excitement rising in his voice. “People in the terminal suddenly started saying there was an unidentified object over the airport. Many flights were cancelled. Everyone rushed to the floor-to-ceiling windows to look. Then the announcement came on, telling us all to return to our seats.”

He paused, as though the atmosphere of that night had returned to him.

“After a while, special police and counter-terrorism units arrived in large numbers. Later I heard the military had come too. They said it was a routine drill and ordered everyone to sit down. Then they started moving people away from the side where the object had appeared. It was obvious what they were doing. They were blocking our view.”

His tone sharpened.

“The whole glass wall facing the UFO side was quickly covered. Then they jammed the signal across the airport. My phone couldn’t send or receive anything. Later, to calm people down, they handed out boxed meals and thanked everyone for cooperating with the ‘drill.’ Some people stopped asking questions once food arrived. Others ate while gossiping about the so-called drill. I’ll give them this—they moved fast. The whole thing was clean, efficient, almost rehearsed.”

Carla laughed on the other end of the line, amused and bitter at once, as though she recognised that choreography of official reassurance.

“There wasn’t only one craft that night,” Ming continued. “There were two. One was smaller, so it didn’t show up in many photographs. What the public never knew was that one of them later landed at the airport.”

I interrupted him. “If the glass wall had already been covered, how do you know it landed?”

“I wanted to know too,” he replied at once. “I’m a UFO enthusiast. Of course I investigated. After the incident, through some contacts, I found an airport ground staff member who said he had seen the landing himself. And didn’t Carla tell you? I also have classified files showing military personnel engaging with the beings that came out of the craft. They’re all stored on the USB drive.”

I withheld judgment. Even if Ming had located a member of the ground staff who claimed to have witnessed the landing, that person could hardly have observed the full interaction between the military and the extraterrestrials inside the restricted areas. Another question remained: how had Ming obtained an officially classified USB drive?

For the moment, I decided not to interrupt. I wanted to hear what he knew from the airport witness and from the alleged files.

“What happened after that?” I asked.

Ming was silent for a few seconds. Then he began describing what he said was recorded in the classified material: the military’s meeting with the beings who emerged from the spaceship.

“After the military arrived, they erected a temporary tent near the area where the craft was expected to land,” he said. “As I told you, they had already blocked the terminal windows facing that direction. Once everything was in place, the craft came down. Three extraterrestrials emerged. The two on either side were very tall; the one in the middle was short. I’m telling you, the short one was probably their leader. Why else would he be standing in the centre?”

Ming interpreted their formation as evidence of rank, though his conclusion rested entirely on the positions in which the three figures appeared.

According to Ming, the beings were invited into the tent for talks with the military. He remembered them as coming from a star system with an unusual name, though I can no longer recall what he said it was. Their purpose, he told us, was to retrieve a craft that had crashed in ancient times and lay buried deep in the silt at the bottom of a lake somewhere in China.

In exchange, he said, they offered the Chinese side four gifts.

“The first,” Ming said, “was a medical device and related technology capable of rapidly healing the human body. The second was an energy technology similar to eternal kinetic energy. The third was assistance with China’s space program—key aerospace technology and research support. The fourth…”

My memory fails me there. I remember only that he described it as a technology far beyond the present limits of human understanding.

Then, in an almost matter-of-fact tone, Ming added, “The first and second gifts were sealed away by the military. From the government’s point of view, if they were ever put into production, they would threaten the economy and cost too many jobs. In truth, the military has had this kind of technology for a long time.”

His words touched something I had long sensed but could never prove: that medicine and energy, two great dependencies of modern life, might also be vulnerable to deliberate suppression. Those who hold power seldom surrender the structures that sustain them. Energy and medicine govern access to survival and relief; wherever necessity can be controlled, power gathers around it.

If technologies capable of reducing those dependencies were released into civilian life, the consequences would reach far beyond innovation. Industries built around scarcity could be disrupted, along with the forms of economic power that scarcity sustains.

Listening to Ming, I understood why such a claim, true or untrue, carried such force inside the UFO world. It gave language to a suspicion many people already carried: that human suffering was the result of ignorance and limitation, and sometimes of systems that had learned to profit from both.

A deeper implication lay beneath his story. If such technologies were ever released, human life could change at its foundation. Once survival loosened its grip, people might have more space to ask what life was for and what freedom should require of them.

Perhaps that was the possibility power feared most: a civilisation less governed by scarcity and fear, whose attention could turn toward meaning, conscience, and the dignity of being alive.

Carla joined in from the other end of the line. She had her own reasons for anger. To her, the same machinery of suppression had struck directly at her research team, blocking their attempt to bring hidden technology into public use. What began as a humanitarian ideal had met the cold resistance of institutions built on secrecy and fear.

Ming continued. “Think about it. China’s aerospace technology was once far behind. Then, over the next decade or so, it advanced at extraordinary speed. After the Xiaoshan Airport incident in particular, the country’s aerospace programme seemed to accelerate dramatically. Do you really think that was a coincidence? Where did the technology come from? How did they suddenly know what to do?”

His certainty carried a strange force. For a moment, I had no answer. China’s space program had indeed advanced rapidly during the years that followed, though many of its foundations had been laid through long-term state investment well before the Xiaoshan incident. Could there have been some form of extraterrestrial intervention? The thought flashed through my mind, and I pushed it back almost immediately. The timing may have appeared suggestive to Ming, but chronology alone could prove nothing. Still, I could not deny the unease his question left behind.

“Really?” I asked. “How did they provide that kind of aerospace support?”

Ming spoke slowly, with the authority of someone describing a system he believed he understood from within.

“They can send extraterrestrial specialists to Earth to work with the military,” he said. “The military selects a person with exceptional memory and cognitive ability to serve as an apprentice. The beings teach through direct demonstration. The apprentice observes, absorbs, imitates, and translates the technology into concepts human language and human thought can grasp.”

He paused, then added, “They guide humans to understand it for themselves.”

As I remember it, Ming also shared several details from the USB files about the contact itself. The beings, he said, made one condition clear from the beginning: they would not answer questions about religion. Their concern was human happiness. To them, a civilisation’s happiness index was one measure of its capacity to evolve.

That detail startled me. More than that, it resonated.

Ming also described how the so-called gifts were delivered. The beings did not carry them by hand. Through intention alone, he said, they made the objects rise, drift, and move through the air, as if gravity no longer applied.

“What shocked the military most,” Ming continued, lowering his voice, “was one of the taller beings. He spoke Chinese almost like a native speaker. He could switch between regional dialects at will and imitate them perfectly.”

I listened without speaking. If any part of this was true, the Chinese military would have understood the force of what stood before them.

The display carried a quiet psychological force. According to Ming, the visitors already seemed fluent in China’s language, regional dialects and cultural codes. By moving effortlessly from one dialect to another, the taller being exposed an imbalance before any negotiation had properly begun: they appeared to know China in intimate detail, while China knew almost nothing about them. No threat was required. Knowledge itself established the hierarchy.

I pressed him. “How did you get the USB drive from someone inside the secrecy system? Materials about military contact with extraterrestrials and a secret agreement would surely be among the most closely guarded secrets of the state. How did they end up with you?”

Ming addressed Carla. “Didn’t you tell Shao about the secret project I was involved in?”

Carla jumped in at once. “I did! But I just didn’t go into detail. I was afraid you’d say I talked too much. You tell her yourself.”

Ming then explained how, as a technical specialist, he had been brought into a classified military project and, in his words, had made himself useful there. He mentioned the enormous radio telescope in Guizhou. Officially, it existed to observe the universe and advance scientific research. In his account, it had another purpose: receiving interstellar signals and establishing contact with extraterrestrial civilisations.

“And,” he added, “there’s a secret underground base beneath the telescope. I’ve been there. I stayed there. I worked there.”

His voice carried unmistakable pride.

“I’m telling you, inside that base, the military and extraterrestrials are working together on classified projects.”

He later offered further details. Given the sensitivity of what he claimed, I cannot set them all down here.

I was silent for a few seconds. Then I asked the question I could no longer hold back.

“Even if everything you’ve said is true, information like this would be tightly classified and compartmentalised. I can believe you may have worked on a covert military project. But there must be many people in China involved in that kind of work. At most, you were one of them—perhaps a capable technical specialist. The classified file on Xiaoshan Airport had no direct connection to your own project. Why would anyone hand something that important to someone at your level?”

I kept my tone light, partly to soften the challenge and partly to ease the heaviness gathering over the call.

“You weren’t exactly senior military,” I added, trying to lighten the challenge.

Ming had an explanation for the USB drive.

He said it began after the Xiaoshan Airport incident. The event had seized his imagination, and he started asking around, trying to find out what had happened. Before long, an older official from what Ming described as the state secrecy system came to warn him off. The man approached him more than once.

According to Ming, technical personnel like him, working inside classified military projects, were closely watched. Their phones could be monitored; their movements tracked. The purpose was simple: to ensure they understood what they were allowed to know, and what they were never allowed to say.

The older official from that system had once warned him in a measured voice: “Stop looking into this. It won’t end well for you.”

The words were quiet, but they carried the force of an order.

Ming, by his own account, was stubborn. He understood the warning and refused to retreat.

Several weeks later, the same man appeared again. This time, his manner had changed. He was almost cordial, almost like an old acquaintance. He handed Ming a slim USB drive and lowered his voice.

“I know you’ve always been interested in that matter,” he said. “You might as well have this.”

Ming was stunned. He could not understand why an officer from the Chinese secrecy system would place such material directly into his hands.

I pressed him. “Why would he give it to you? First, he monitors you and warns you off. Then he hands over classified material. That makes no sense.”

Ming gave a faint, bitter laugh. “I asked him the same thing.”

According to Ming, the man said only that he had “retired,” taken on another identity, and was preparing to leave the country. The files on the drive did concern the Xiaoshan Airport incident, but they were encrypted. Knowing Ming’s background in information security, he added, almost deliberately, “Decrypt it yourself. Anyone else would only see a mess of code. You understand technology. You may be able to find a way to de-code it.”

Ming said he remembered those words almost exactly.

His curiosity deepened. After returning home, he spent a long time working through the encrypted layers. When he finally unlocked the drive, he said, he found detailed records, photographs, and video footage allegedly taken at the scene - images of the extraterrestrials and the negotiations between the miliary and the extraterrestrials.

“Ask Carla,” he said, with a laugh. “I showed her the photographs.”

Carla confirmed it at once. “Yes, I saw them. He sent me several images. They looked humanoid—definitely not like ordinary people.” Carla could confirm that Ming had sent her images but such confirmation could not authenticate their origin.

I fell silent. For safety reasons, I did not ask them to send the photographs or make a copy for me. Curiosity was not worth that risk. I wanted to keep a deliberate distance from the matter—neither dismissing Ming’s account outright nor allowing myself to be drawn into the alleged UFO landing and secret treaty between the parties.

Ming added that the USB drive was quite long and narrow, unlike the models commonly sold in shops. “It was probably made for the secrecy system,” he said. “The encryption structure and casing were different.”

He insisted he had been careful.

“I’m not that stupid,” he said. “I only opened the decrypted files on a computer completely disconnected from the internet and from any printer. You may not understand this, but a drive like that would trigger an alert the moment it was inserted into a laptop connected to the internet. Before most people even saw the files, they would already know where it had been opened, which computer had accessed it, and where the leak had occurred. But I made another copy and hid it. They don’t know where.”

There was unmistakable pride in his voice.

As I listened, unease moved through me. The story sounded almost cinematic, yet some of its details felt disturbingly plausible. His account displayed technical confidence, but none of those details could establish who had manufactured the drive, who had created the files, or whether the material had truly originated inside the Chinese secrecy system. An unusual casing and sophisticated encryption might suggest deliberate protection. They could not authenticate the contents.

Carla tried to reassure him. “You’re lucky you were a technical specialist on a military project. To them, you still had value. Otherwise, you might not be alive now.”

Then Ming’s tone shifted.

“Shao,” he said, “I want more people to know about this. If you’re willing, I can mail you a copy of the USB drive. Email is no good—they monitor electronic communications. Ordinary post should be safer. But you must view it only on a laptop that is completely disconnected from the internet, and whatever you do, never click the ‘Update’ button.”

I froze. In that instant, danger felt suddenly close.

If Ming was telling the truth, and if the USB drive had come from inside the state secrecy system, this was no longer grassroots UFO disclosure. It was state intelligence. Accepting it, whatever my intention, would put me in direct collision with the Chinese Communist Party’s security apparatus. If its contents were ever made public, even life in the West might not protect me.

Besides the safety concern, one question kept turning in my mind: was the material real?

Outsiders may not realise how deeply the UFO community has been shaped by disinformation, infiltration, and the involvement of intelligence agencies. Anyone approaching such material must therefore exercise careful judgment, weighing each claim against its source, context, internal consistency, and available evidence.

I could see two possibilities.

Ming may have been entirely sincere, acting in good faith to expose what he believed to be the truth. Perhaps, trapped within China’s machinery of secrecy, he had placed his hope in overseas Chinese, believing that someone beyond the firewall might one day bring the buried record into the light.

The second possibility was colder. The older man from the secrecy bureau may have recognised Ming’s sincerity and used it. He could have given him material deliberately composed of truth and fabrication—enough fact to inspire confidence, enough distortion to compromise any conclusion drawn from it. Intelligence systems understand the power of such mixtures. A document does not have to be wholly false to mislead. It only has to break down at the point where verification matters most.

For that reason, my trust remained divided. I believed in Ming’s sincerity. I could not accept the decrypted contents of the USB drive as proof.

If the material could not be verified, accepting it would be reckless. Publishing it could mislead the public. Yet if it was genuine, possessing it would provoke the secrecy system itself. Either way, the drive was dangerous: evidence, bait, or both.

From my perspective, Ming was the person best placed to disclose the Xiaoshan Airport landing and the alleged secret treaty with the Chinese military. He had been at the airport on the night of the sighting. By his own account, he later worked on a classified military project and dealt directly with the older man from the secrecy bureau. If anyone was in a position to establish the evidentiary chain and tell the story, it was Ming.

I was only a listener, a recorder standing at the edge of the story. Fragments passed to me through conversation were not enough to establish the truth.

Still, through that night’s call with Carla and Ming, I sensed something difficult to fake: the conviction of people who believed what they were saying and understood the possible cost. Their sincerity felt plain and unvarnished. The uncertainty lay in the USB drive itself. How much of its contents was real? How much had been shaped, mixed, or planted?

Was it a key, or a trap? A path toward the truth, or an attempt to use me as a vehicle for disclosing material whose authenticity would be almost impossible to verify? I had no answer.

In the end, I declined Ming’s offer as gently as I could.

“I’m interested in the Xiaoshan Airport incident,” I told him, “But I don’t want to be drawn into anything involving state secrets, especially when so much of the account is hard to verify.”

That was the contradiction at the heart of the matter. Ming claimed to possess evidence, yet the burden of disclosing it had somehow shifted toward those who had seen only fragments. A secret that could not be examined, tested, or defended remained suspended between revelation and belief.

Carla would not let it go. She hoped I might help bring the matter into the open, especially the material on the USB drive concerning suppressed technologies. She wanted more people to know. She wanted a sleeping world to wake. Ming, too, seemed to hope I would take up the burden of disclosure. Yet Carla herself was unwilling to risk exposing the contents directly.

I understood their urgency. I also knew that I did not want to become a target of the Chinese government for exposing what it considered state secrets, or an unwitting instrument for spreading deliberate disinformation in service of some hidden purpose. The matter had moved beyond discussion within the UFO community. It had become a fuse lying in the dark, capable of tearing through a life the moment someone touched it.

The three of us circled the question again and again by phone. Gradually, the conversation lost its heat and sank into fatigue. Nothing was resolved.  At last, the call dissolved into silence.

As far as I know, Ming never sent the USB drive to anyone in the circle for further disclosure. It remained where it was, sealed by circumstance - dangerous, unverifiable, and beyond reach.

Through that experience, I began to see that the clues before me pointed beyond the question of whether the Chinese Communist Party had concealed contact with extraterrestrial civilisation. They opened onto something more fundamental: the way power can control reality by controlling what human beings are allowed to know, imagine, and become.

For Chinese citizens, the implication was stark. Under the CCP’s rule, ordinary people live inside a managed reality. Any disclosure that challenged state secrecy or political control would be filtered through the needs of the Party. If such contact had occurred, there was little reason to expect the truth to be offered freely from above.

If such claims were true, technologies capable of improving ordinary lives could still remain locked inside the private chambers of power, controlled by a few.

The reason was painfully clear. If people came to believe that their government had encountered beings from a more advanced civilisation—and that such a civilisation had built systems more just, free, and humane than the one governing China—the questions would begin at the root. What else had been hidden from us? What kind of world had we been taught to accept as inevitable? What forms of life, dignity, and consciousness had been kept outside the boundaries of permissible thought?

That kind of awakening reaches far beyond curiosity. It touches civic consciousness and the recovery of moral agency from systems designed to keep it small. To any authoritarian regime, this is the most dangerous challenge of all. Once people begin to see beyond the reality built for them, the foundations of obedience begin to crack.

If people came to believe that the Party had withheld knowledge capable of improving ordinary lives to preserve its own power, the official version of reality would become harder to sustain.

Any government deeply invested in secrecy has little incentive to surrender knowledge that might weaken dependence or fear. Under the CCP, I found it difficult to imagine full disclosure arriving freely from above.

If such a truth existed, it would not emerge gently through the machinery of the state. It would surface through people willing to speak beyond the centres of power, or through events large enough to rupture the structures that kept it buried.

Perhaps extraterrestrial beings were never the greatest distance before us. The deeper distance lay between human beings and the truth they were permitted to know—between lived reality and the world power taught them to accept.

I closed the window softly. A thin current of night air slipped through the room and lifted the papers on my desk. My thoughts would not settle.

What troubled me was larger than the possibility of a concealed encounter. If Ming’s account contained even a fragment of truth, what had been buried might include technologies capable of serving humanity—and something more intimate: the right to awaken beyond the limits imposed by fear.

Just when I thought the matter had ended, the story returned from an unexpected direction.

That night, after the long phone call, I lay in bed on the verge of sleep. Through my third eye, I saw two UFOs hovering outside my window. Then I experienced myself being taken aboard one of them. A male being spoke to me.

“We no longer need a USB drive to disclose this information,” he said. “If we choose to reveal it, we have other ways.”

The next moment, I found myself back in bed, and I drifted into sleep.

To me, the experience felt like a confirmation that what Ming had told me was true, or at least contained some measure of truth. Why else, I wondered, would these beings have taken me aboard and spoken so directly about the conversation I had just had? The experience could not authenticate the contents of the USB drive in any conventional sense, yet inwardly, it altered the weight I gave to Ming’s account.

Months later, I was invited to speak at the virtual Contact in the Desert conference, where I shared parts of my own experience. Another guest introduced me to her close friend, Cathy. None of us imagined that the Xiaoshan Airport story would take its next turn through a woman I had never met.

During a spontaneous channelling experience, Cathy delivered a message in a serious tone.

“Shao,” she said, “the extraterrestrials want me to tell you that the secret you heard about the airport in China is true. Someone inside the Chinese system deliberately passed the information from one person to another until it finally reached you. He wanted you to know.”

Something in me went still. To my knowledge, Cathy had never been told about the Xiaoshan Airport incident, or about my conversations with Carla and Ming. Yet, through what she understood as channelling, she had described with unnerving precision the indirect chain by which the information had reached me.

I found it astonishing. To me, a complete outsider had offered another form of confirmation for the Xiaoshan Airport account, and perhaps for some of the material said to be contained on the USB drive that had troubled me for so long.

Still, I have never known who the person inside the government or military system was - the more open-minded figure who, according to that message, chose to pass the secret outward, hand by hand, until it reached me. Nor do I know whether his purpose was simply to see the truth exposed.

Perhaps the deepest mystery was never the origin of the message, but the intention behind its passage: who wanted it carried into the world, and what they hoped would happen once it arrived.

In the years that followed, another pattern became increasingly difficult to dismiss. In dozens of English-language interviews with overseas hosts, I spoke about the Xiaoshan Airport incident, the possibility of contact between the Chinese military and extraterrestrial beings, an alleged secret treaty, and the acquisition of advanced extraterrestrial technology. Again and again, those interviews disappeared after being released publicly.

Even the content creators seemed unaware that the videos had been removed. They received no warning or notification from YouTube, and neither of us could establish what had happened. The consistency of the pattern led me to suspect that the subject was being treated as politically sensitive, and that mechanisms existed for suppressing material without leaving an obvious trail.

During the same period, the threatening calls and anonymous voicemails increased. The message was unmistakable: I should stop speaking about the subject.

Whether anyone was watching, or who might have been responsible, I could not know. The disappearances offered no proof. They only deepened the unease that had surrounded the story from the beginning.