But at night, when the crystal-black sky explodes with stars and the mountains offer a scarf of darkness, this trailer is transformed into a transmitter of freakish fear and the sweetest of hopes. Not far from the town’s main drawing cards - legal brothels called Sheri’s Ranch and the Chicken Ranch - Bell’s trailer commands a plot of sand and rock, surrounded by satellite dishes and a chain-link fence.īy day, it’s nothing special, the hideout of just one more American who found his piece of paradise and straightaway nailed up a “No Trespassing” sign. That fog is faraway ice.Įighty miles west of the nattering neon assault that is Las Vegas, a narrow road leads to Pahrump, an ancient Indian settlement poised for development as the next gambling paradise. That cloud, on closer inspection, is a mountain. It is true: That man with a straw hat, quivering in the remote distance, turns out to be a clump of cactus. The desert, it is said, does strange things to the eye. Later that night, Bell offers listeners his take on the event: “That’s beyond coincidence. My uplink transmitter was dead as a doornail.” For the first time in all his years of broadcasting, Bell had lost his connection to the transmitter. And then Bell’s theme music swells, and the host’s calm, resonant voice returns: “Coast to Coast AM,” Bell’s program, has vanished into the ether. One, two, three, four, five seconds of dead air - a radio eternity.

The man is weeping now, and suddenly there is only silence.

They want those major population centers wiped out so the few who are left will be more easily controllable. The disasters that are coming, they - the government - knows about them. “They have infiltrated a lot of aspects of the military establishment, particularly Area 51. “What we’re thinking of as aliens, Art, they’re extra-dimensional beings that an earlier precursor of the space program made contact with,” the caller blurts out.

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