Gather around.

This happened.

September 11, 1997, four years before that date would mean something else entirely.

A Thursday night in the desert.

Art Bell sat in his home in Perup, Nevada, a double-wide trailer, 60 miles west of Vegas,

broadcast on coast to coast to am to millions of insomniacs across the country.

If you're watching this channel, you already know who Art Bell was.

He's one of our biggest inspirations.

That night, Art opened his special Area 51 line, a dedicated number for government employees who wanted to share secrets.

No screening, no caller ID, no questions about your identity.

You called, and if you got through, you were live,

talking to millions of people who would never know your name.

Most Area 51 callers were measured, rehearsed. They'd prepared their statements about classified projects and underground facilities.

The calls were fascinating, but controlled.

This caller was different.

He wasn't reading from notes.

He was hyperventilating. He was crying, begging Art Bell to believe him before it was too late.

And then, mid-sentence, the line went dead. But it wasn't just the phone call that died. Most callers on coast to coast a.m. were calm. They rehearsed their stories,

organized their thoughts, prepared to sound credible on national radio. They wanted to be taken

seriously. His caller was hyperventilating. His voice cracked and broke as he tried to get words out between gas for air.

He was a former employee of the Area 51, and he was on the run.

Area 51.

...