THE ORION FACTOR

Hawks I call them, for the black prop cones. Swooping down, they're the equivalent, for bay area civilians, of live machine gun fire. The Orion sub hunters are basic training. Their approach path, a vast green carpet in April, is the golf course

Around 3 PM I'm on my way to the photo shop, to get prints for a manual I've just finished. It's a beautiful day. As the Orions clear the fence at Moffett Field, that's when it gets interesting. How close will the landing gear get?

The guessing game ends. Like a puppet, my head is suddenly jerked about, eyes locked onto the cones. They're boring in, merciless black hawk eyes: It's Going To Crash!

Where to go! the shoulder maybe . . .

But -- (Not This One) – a silent addendum . . .

Surprising how easy it is. There is a moment of, what just happened? Then the game resumes.

I proceed to the reality of Moore Systems on Bordeaux Drive.

Photos in hand, I'm entering the lobby, and why is everyone looking through me? Do I exist? They're looking out the window. I turn to see what the big deal is, and way out, over the golf course . . .

a huge column of thick black smoke

“That plane just crashed!”

I fall into a chair.

“You all right?”

No comment