Darlington went out to Rachel, Nevada, in the mid-nineties and hung around long enough to write the book about the people, not the saucers. The base is real and the history is straight: The CIA built it in the fifties because nowhere in the Lower 48 was emptier. The U-2, the Blackbird, and the stealth fighter all first flew out of there. Everything else about it is deniable. So you get the Interceptors, guys who sit out on ridgelines with scanners logging black airplanes. You get Glenn Campbell, not the singer, who moved to Rachel and made himself the resident authority on a place nobody admits exists. You get Bob Lazar and the alien-reverse-engineering story. You get the Cammo Dudes in white trucks watching the watchers, and the Air Force grabbing the last public ridges people were using to see in. And running under all of it, the workers who sued over burning toxic waste at a base the government wouldn’t confirm was there, which is the part that should make you mad. It came out in 1997, so there’s nothing recent in it, and it’s still the best of the Area 51 books.