Sometimes boring holes through the sky is just plain boring. That's what one B-52 aircrew felt on a winter's evening.

Returning over their airfield one December night, after an eight-hour training mission, the crew discovered the weather had worsened. Their home base was closed due to low ceilings and visibility.

Fortunately, the forecast looked good. In three hours things were expected to improve and landing would be possible. This time the crew would not have to divert to another airfield. They had enough fuel to loiter for five or six hours.

Around and around they flew, orbiting in a racetrack-like holding pattern. It was difficult to stay awake after the first hour or two. Ho hum. What to do?

The electronic warfare officer (EWO) decided to amuse himself by scanning the radio bands. He listened to music for a while, then some news and sports reports. His crew position was ideal for such a thing, surrounded as he was by receivers, transmitters and signal analysers. He could amuse himself by exploring the electronic environment.

Down below, on a dark city street in downtown Spokane, Washington, a taxicab driver awaited instructions from his radio dispatcher. It had been a slow night for him and any chance to pick up a fare would be welcome.

"Yellow Cab 47, this is Dispatch," the radio crackled. Finally, the cab driver was to get his assignment to pick up a fare.

"Yeah, dispatch .. this is 47. Go ahead."

These messages were heard not only by the cabbie and his dispatcher. They were, by chance, also heard by the EWO circling overhead at 35,000 feet.

Suddenly, the EWO smiled, a wicked kind of smile. It was more like a smirk, the kind of expression one shows when about to play a prank.

Quickly, deftly, the EWO tuned his radio jamming transmitter to the same frequency being used by the cabbie and dispatcher down below. He held his finger on the ON-OFF switch, ready to pounce.

"Yellow 47, you've got a fare that wants to go to the airport," Dispatch began. "He's at ... Bzzzzzzzzzzz."

"Dispatch, I didn't get that address. Give it to me again, will ya." Yellow 47 responded.

"Your fare for the airport is ... Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz ..., did you copy?" the dispatcher repeated.

The smirk on the EWO far above grew into a wide grin. "This is kinda fun," he mumbled to himself.

The cabbie's voice began to reveal a little frustration with the radios. "One more time, dispatch. I didn't get the fare's location. Gimme that again."

"47," Dispatch repeated. "Your fare is at .. Bzzzzzzzzz. Did you copy?"

"Naw. Didn't get it, Dispatch. Must be these damn neon lights where I'm parked. I'm going to drive around the block and we'll try again," the cabbie responded.

Down below, in the darkness, the cabbie drove away from the little cafe, with the neon sign flashing "EATS" to attract customers. He parked in front of a now-quiet and dimly lit furniture store.

"Okay, Dispatch. One more time. Where's my fare?"

"Yellow 47, your fare is at .... Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ... and says he's in a hurry. Copy that?"

The cabbie's frustration, as well as that of his dispatcher grew. "What's the matter with your transmitter, Dispatch? All I get is static every time you broadcast."

"Yellow 47, there's nothing the matter with this transmitter. What's wrong with your hearing? My radio is just fine." The dispatcher was peeved, to be sure.

"Dispatch, I'm gonna call in at the payphone on the corner. This damn radio's no damn good."

The B-52 pilot called to his crew. "Well, guys, it's clearing up down there. We'll be on the ground in ten minutes. Secure your equipment and prepare for descent and landing."

"Roger, Pilot," the EWO replied. "My equipment's turned off and pre-landing checklist is complete." The EWO's evil grin would last all the way to touchdown.

"Wonder if that cabbie ever picked up his fare?" the EWO thought to himself as he climbed down the ladder and headed for mission debriefing.

He'd later report to the maintenance troops that his equipment worked just fine. "Nope, no write-ups on my equipment," he reported, grinning slightly.