Naval aviators Lt. John Jackson and Col. Steven Smithers, both highly decorated warriors and all around piloting studs, would never had thought they saw what they saw last Friday unless they were under the influence of mushroom tea. Both Jackson and Smithers insist that they hadn't had any of the magical happy drink before the mission; their fellow crewmembers, however, were skeptical until a medical given by the U.S.S Numbnutz head physician cleared the two aviators of any unlawful drink intake.

Radar operator, Paul Peter Peterson, recounts the initial sighting of the flock of pigs. 'They looked like a flock of geese from where I was sitting," he answered plainly.

Pilots Jackson and Smithers had different stories to tell.

"We were flying low, very low," Smithers explained, using his hand to illustrate his aircraft's movements. "We were at a cruising of about 600 miles per hour. Warp speed mister Sulu! It was John who caught them on radar at first . . .

"Hey Steve," John squawked. "We got bogies incoming on our six." John wondered briefly why enemies always came in on a pilot's six and turned his attention back to the fight. Even in the movies, always on the six. Why not on the seven or eight? Was nine not cool enough?

"Roger that," John replied in the time-honored NASA jargon. He whipped the fighter around in a wide bank and activated his sidewinder missiles. Steve wailed out a wild approval as the gees slapped his head into the side of the cockpit leaving a bruise. "Hell ya!" he screamed. "Do that again!"

"Roger that," John replied again in that time-honored NASA jargon.

John repeated the maneuver, smacking Steve's head into the cockpit side, smashing the opposite side of the specialist's face. "Hell ya!" Steve repeated, smacking John as hard as he could in the helmet. John thought he saw Elvis for a moment . . .

"Then we were on them," Steve said excitedly. "Pigs everywhere. With cute little cupid doll wings and money signs on the sides of their body. On launched a salvo of bombs at us--good thing we couldn't smell through our cockpits.

"Furious, I dove into the flight of bombers and gatted them with my Gatlin-gun. One, two three, I picked off the little porkers with more finesse than Jackie Chan on a bottle of vodka. Links flew everywhere and here I was without any mustard."

"It was horrible," John added with a reverent shudder. "They ganged up on us like a flock of pigs. They were a flock of pigs. They were too much for us all of the sudden."

"Then John get this idea," Steve added. "He said we had to go low and gotta move fast.

"We hit the deck as fast as we could, John guiding us into this canyon. The pigs were now shooting this weird green crap at us and getting very close to hitting us many times. We whipped and we wove wondering where Wedge and Porkins were. Soon the exhaust port was in sight. John brought down his targeting computer, but we both heard a mysterious voice tell us, 'Use the Pork Duke.'

"Confused, John shut down his targeting Computer."

"John, you've shut down your targeting computer--is everything all right?"

"A-Okay," John spat, reaching down and pulling the parachute lever. "I hope you fry to a crispy color," he said, as the chute enveloped the pigs, causing them to crash into the exhaust port."

"So," Steve said, puffing away on a cigar. "After we blew up the planet, they threw us in the brig. That's all she wrote."

Later that night, as I ate my ham and bacon with the two jailed pilot, I thought to myself. "What was that green crap anyway?"

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