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unbelievable.”
    Bob Buckridge spotted the tornado right after he threw it back to Andrea. It came swirling out of the southwest, heading northeast, an awesome cone of descending smoke with a counterclockwise spin. The vortex cloud was black, but as it began to close range it quickly turned muddy brown as dirt, debris, and the theater marquee got sucked into the whirl. The crafty pilot had his headset on, tuning out the unreal world spinning around him, but Kitt Karson could hear what sounded like the roar of F-16s taking off on another mission. Thoughts of heading home, thoughts of their own safety got sucked away. Instinct and adrenaline took command. Buckridge circled clockwise and snuck up behind the monster.
    The tornado hopped like a stone skipping on water, sometimes skipping entire neighborhoods, sometimes cutting a swath three blocks wide as it roared northeast from Edina through South Minneapolis toward lakes dotted with sailboats and swimmers. Homes were shredded as if by an eggbeater, torn down to their foundations.
    “We were looking out the window and we saw bricks flying through the air, pieces of houses, everything … and a rolling kind of a cloud in the sky … and I said, ‘Everybody down the basement, down the basement’ ... and the baby was upstairs sleeping, so I ran upstairs … I couldn’t get the door open … there was such suction… and I was really afraid… and the pressure was building up in the house … I pulled and pulled and finally it opened … I pulled the baby out and I ran down the stairs … and I could hear crashing … and everybody’s ears were popping … Then I heard this train noise, and then that woman screaming. It was terrifying.”
    At times dust and debris obscured the funnel. At times Buckridge flew so close they could look up and down the shaft, which extended a thousand feet from cloud to ground and swayed gently. Kitt aimed his camera right down the spout to where it narrowed at the bottom rim and the tip ripped up everything on earth. Despite all the weapons of destruction he had seen unleashed on his native country, he’d never witnessed anything like this. And when they moved in close, the roar was deafening, and when they dropped back there was a high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream that made the photographer’s skin crawl.
    Back in the Channel 7 control room producer Chris Mack could not believe the pictures Skyhawk 7 was beaming in. He grabbed the microphone in front of him. “Andrea, toss it to Bucky-now!” He grabbed the director next to him. “Go to it, goddammit!” He looked up at the small monitor where the Weatherman stood. ” ‘His own safety,’ ” he said mockingly. “He’s got the son of a bitch chasing a tornado.”
    Bob Buckridge was on the air, not waiting for any cue, sounding the warning as dispassionately as he could. “We have a tornado on the ground causing extensive damage. This is a major twister doing major damage. It is moving northeast at about forty miles per hour in a line from Eden Prairie to Lake Harriet to downtown. Anybody in this path should seek shelter immediately. Again, we have a tornado on the ground in the metro area.”
    At the anchor desk Ron Shea got his two bits on the air. “It would be wise if everybody watching this headed for the basement. Bucky, I don’t know if you can hear me, but don’t you think you should back off from that thing?”
    Andrea chimed in. “Yeah, we’re really worried about you.”
    “Negative,” the pilot shouted. “Stay off the radio!”
    Within minutes the feed to Channel 7 was picked up and broadcast by the other TV stations. Radio stations plugged into the audio. As Buckridge described what he saw, and Kitt held his camera steady, a hundred sailboats moored at the Lake Harriet Yacht Club capsized, the masts snapping like toothpicks. The park pavilion where the summer concerts were held was destroyed. The tornado continued its dance of death and devastation for three more