Las Vegas, Nevada

0900 hours

Major Greg Thomson stared out the side door of the UH-60 Blackhawk as it circled the alien ship, his Gatling gun armed and ready. Underneath him, he could see the shapes of twenty M1 Abrams battle tanks and an assortment of troops, all with their weapons trained at the sphere right below him.

Yes, it was a sphere. From a distance, it looked like a finely machined ball of stainless steel, floating above the groud and a hundred meters in diameter. Up close, you could see a faint blue glow emicating from within, visible despite the bright Vegas sun. The hotels and roads of the Strip were visible in the distance - and the city was holding their breath.

Greg and his National Guard detachment had been mobilized an hour ago to reports of a U.F.O. landing, called in by paniking civilains on the highway. He knew that the little armaments he had probably couldn't even dent the monstorisity.

"Major, look!" The private beside me pointed a finger at the bottom of the sphere. Looking through my scope, I saw a section of the shell glow brightly, then suddenly disappear. Their technology was centuries ahead of ours.

"Snipers, get ready, but hold your fire," I ordered. My Blackhawk shifted slightly to bring its rockets to bear on the hatch, while all the soldiers on the ground shouldered their weapons.

An alien stepped off, his skin blue and furry. He carried no obvious weapons and was only three feet tall. In front of him stood two more aliens, each holding a large device in their hands.

To my suprise, the first alien started speaking and waving his arms in our direction, while his two assistants aimed their devices at him. Other aliens soon climbed off, filming the small army in front of them.

"They're... uh... reporters," Greg said with shock. "And we're the stars."