The Atacama Desert, April 25, 1977.

In the dead of night, at a remote Chilean army outpost nestled high in the desolate foothills of the Andes,

six soldiers huddled around a flickering fire.

The silence of the desert was thick, absolute, broken only by the occasional snap of burning

wood. Then, without warning, the occasional snap of burning wood.

Then, without warning, the sky tore open.

Two brilliant purple lights descended from the heavens,

hanging impossibly still above the jagged terrain.

One light drifted down toward the base, touching down roughly 450 meters from where

the soldiers stood. The men froze, transfixed. The craft emitted a violet glow so intense,

it lit the landscape like a dream, casting long shadows across the parched earth. It made no sound, only a charged silence,

deep, heavy, alive. Private Rosales sprinted to wake his commanding officer. Within moments,

Corporal Armando Valdez emerged, grim-faced, calm and commanding.

He ordered the fires extinguished, weapons at the ready.

Then, alone, he stepped into the light.

As he drew closer to the object, Valdez stopped.

He raised a hand and spoke to the light, not as a frightened man,

but as a soldier giving orders. First, he commanded it to leave. Then he demanded it

identify itself. When the silence persisted, he walked forward once more. And then he vanished.

Right before their eyes, Corporal Valdez disappeared into thin air.

The violet light still glowed, unbroken, but he was simply gone.

Fifteen minutes passed like lifetimes.

...