Dreamland: Travels Inside the Secret World of Roswell and Area 51

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“You didn’t see that,” the officer said.

We were walking amid aircraft in the Arizona desert. It was a boneyard, like the one in the famous scene in the film The Best Years of Our Lives, where planes await the day they will either fly again — perhaps for some Third World air patrol — or be crushed in great machines and melted down into pure aluminum. Hundreds of acres of aircraft shimmered silver in the desert sun south of Tucson — an elephants’ graveyard of planes. Military police in blue berets and shiny black boots driving blue pickup trucks patrolled the perimeters. German shepherds rode with them.

The commander of the facility talked too much. It was not a big career builder, this command, and he talked endlessly about how important the job they did here was, that it was like a blood bank for aircraft parts, not a graveyard. He hated the word graveyard. I suspected he had been given this job because he talked too much.

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