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enough experimental aircraft that a simple highway jaunt like this generated no excitement. He drove ten miles over the speed limit, slipping past large trucks, some piled high with hay bales, others holding cattle or horses. “And our flying saucer came down near the Caspian Sea, not out in Siberia.”
    “The Russians have all the luck,” Freeth said, then brightened. “Well, we have our opportunities on this side of the world, too. Everybody knows about the abduction of Barney and Betty Hill, and the mass sightings of UFOs over Mexico City and Salida, Colorado.”
    “Oh, sure.” Devlin had never heard of either one. “Common cocktail party conversations across the country.” He pulled out to pass a slow red Ford pickup, but drifted back into his own lane when he couldn't see more than fifty feet in front of him.
    Freeth continued, as if Devlin had encouraged him. “On July 19, 1952, Washington, D.C., radar picked up eight unidentified targets in restricted airspace over the White House. Significant, eh? Air traffic controllers at National Airport contacted Andrews Air Force Base, and airmen there watched an orange fireball circle in the sky, then zip away at impossible speed. But when questioned, the Combat Officer from Andrews said he had referred the matter to a 'higher authority' and was not concerned about it.”
    As the road wound into the Sierra foothills, the traffic remained annoying. Devlin couldn't remember if this was a Friday or a holiday weekend; it had been too long since he'd paid attention to a calendar.
    Freeth reveled in having a captive audience. “Nobody even bothered to report the White House incident to Captain Edward Ruppelt, the man assigned to run Project Blue Book, the official investigation into flying saucers. Ruppelt had to read about it in the newspapers, and by then it was too late. It's like the Air Force was trying to cover up something important.”
    Devlin accelerated in a short passing lane up a steep incline clogged with trucks. He didn't have time for a leisurely drive. “I'm an Air Force man myself, Mr. Freeth.”
    “I knew you had to be military, even in a suit and tie. I could tell by your haircut.”
    Without losing his calm, Devlin scooted around a dairy truck, dipped back to his own side of the road as the lane vanished again, then slipped over to the left to pass a gasoline tanker. He emerged ahead of the clog just as a sharp curve—and an oncoming Chevy pickup—blocked his view.
    Kelli had always closed her eyes when he drove like this.
    Freeth squawked as they came up fast on a dented guard rail.
    Devlin accelerated around the corner, keeping two tires on the pavement and spitting only a little gravel from the shoulder. He avoided the drop-off by at least half a foot.
    White-knuckled, Freeth gripped the armrest as if he were trying to strangle it. He squeezed his eyes shut and recited information, distracting himself. “The Air Force investigation was a joke. It started in 1947 with Project Sign, which concluded in a Top Secret memo that said, 'The phenomenon reported is something real and not visionary or fictitious.' That's a direct quote, thanks to the Freedom of Information Act.”
    “You memorize that stuff?”
    “Just the important parts. It's the only way to maintain credibility when you're up against a tough talk-show host.” Freeth opened his eyes again, relieved to see a straight stretch of road.
    “Air Force Chief of Staff General Vandenberg rejected the Project Sign findings, ordered the whole report destroyed, then reformed the organization as Project Grudge—the name tells it all—with instructions that all reports were to be evaluated 'on the premise that UFOs couldn't exist.' ” Freeth shook his head. “Good old military objectivity.”
    Devlin grunted, keeping his smile to himself. “Roger that. And they concluded that the sightings were meteors, temperature inversions, weather balloons, sundogs, lenticular clouds.” He had seen all of