A beat-up town called Mojave at the edge of the desert. Spraypainted trains run alongside the highway and behind the motel there is an airport filled with research facilities, training academies, and the bones of old planes. Three cigarettes left in the pack, drinking gas-station coffee over ice, wondering what I’m looking for in these photographs of junkyards and hangars. What is this attraction to scrap metal, to busted-up trucks, and dead factories? The apocalyptic glamour is self-evident, but there is also something poignant and dignified about the persistence of these machines.

The names of the clandestine places stick in the mind, demanding details: Groom Lake. Dugway Proving Ground. Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range. Frenchman Flat. China Lake. All of it surrounded by strict signs: Lethal Barriers Ahead. No Trespassing. Security Checkpoint Ahead. Restricted Area. Violators Will Be Prosecuted. Warning – US Air Force Installation. Warriors Supporting Warriors. The liquor store next to the motel has a flashing sign: ice…ammo.