Amelia Cruz: The Dixon Project

5 February 1958

The B-47 departed from an unidentified airfield in Nebraska at 0515 on 5 February 1958. Four hours later the behemoth was cruising at 38,000 feet over North Carolina and Georgia. The pilot was Colonel Kevin Dixon, his co-pilot, Lieutenant Colonel Bryant Ross, and his navigator, Major Doug Menard, all officers in the United States Air Force. They were on a routine Top Secret training mission. Their mission was to practice flying long distances and for extensive periods of time, exactly what would be required should the United States declare war on the Soviet Union. The United States Secretary of Defense decided that in order to make sure that their training was as close to reality as possible, pilots should be required to train with an actual payload on the bomber. Their package was an eight-thousand-pound nuclear bomb, capable of destroying Moscow with its magnificent power.

"Commando, did you hear about Captain Barret?" Major Menard asked Colonel Dixon, calling him by his call-sign. "The rumors are that he received orders to Las Vegas, to some new Army base called White Sands. He's telling everyone he's going to be test flying alien aircraft, maybe even the stuff they captured from the Roswell crash."

"That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard," Colonel Dixon said.

"I agree," Lt Col Ross added. "My wife's brother was involved in the cleanup effort at Roswell. He said it was obvious to him it was the wreckage from the weather balloon and not some alien spaceship like the newspapers reported. There was no ... Holy shit, what is that?"

"There isn't supposed to be anything up here for miles," Colonel Dixon said, checking his many documents and radar. "Call ground and find out what else is up here with us." The lights were faint, but there were lights dead ahead of their B-47, approaching their plane head on.

Lt Col Ross took to the radio and called in the unidentified aircraft. "Control, this is PSA 182, we have traffic at twelve o'clock, two miles northbound."

"Roger, PSA 182, we're looking." The control tower came back. Major Menard was checking their position and heading, ensuring they had not drifted off course or dropped in altitude, while the other two pilots carefully watched the approaching plane.

"PSA 182, confirmed, traffic is twelve o'clock, three miles just north of the field northwest bound. It's Cessna 172, climbing VFR out of two thousand six hundred."

"Negative, Control, we've got that other twelve, but we have another at 12 o'clock, at twenty-eight thousand two hundred feet, heading southwest."

"Roger, PSA 182. Cessna 172"

"Cessna 172, go ahead, Control."

"Cessna 172, maintain VFR conditions at or below three thousand five hundred, flying heading zero seven zero, vector final approach course."

"Negative, Control, traffic is not Cessna 172," Col Dixon came back, disbelieving the idiocy of the tower. "I repeat, traffic is not Cessna172. Traffic is at twenty-eighty thousand two hundred feet, heading north bound. Get your head out of your ass and contact the right plane!”

"Roger, PSA 182. Sir, maintain visual separation, contact Scott tower at one three three point three, have a nice day, ass hole."

"What is wrong with you? Have you had too much to drink?" Col Dixon barked across the radio, violating protocol and military etiquette. "Control, this is PSA 172, under military assignment, please identify traffic at 12 o'clock."

"Is that what we're looking at," Major Menard asked, looking out the window from between the two pilots. "What kind of plane is that?"

"I have no idea," Lt Col Ross said, flipping through an aircraft book to identify the plane. "Commando, maybe it's Captain Barret. Maybe he's flying an alien spacecraft."

"Why don't you both shut up," Col Dixon said, lowering the nose of the plane on descent. "Control, this is PSA 172, we're moving to 25,000 feet and changing our heading to ..."

"Holy shit!" Major Menard yelled, falling to the ground as the B-47 dropped several thousand feet in mere seconds. The explosion sent flames all around the plane, and black smoke higher into the sky. "Did we hit him?"

"No, something hit us. Shit, we've lost engine number one," Col Dixon said, fighting to maintain control of the plane. "Easy baby, easy."

"Control, PSA 182, we've been hit. Tower, we are going down."

"Roger, PSA 182, we'll call the equipment for you."

"We’re hit bad, man," Major Menard said, peeking out the window to the left wing. "What hit us?"

"I think it was a fighter, but it could have been Cessna 172. Right now, that doesn’t matter, all that matters is we’re going down," Lt Col Ross said, helping Colonel Dixon keep the plane level.

"Was it something from outer space?" Major Menard asked, watching the fire spread across the wing. "Was it a UFO?"

"Well, it was unidentified, and it was flying, so yeah, it was," Lt Col Ross yelled. "We need to eject; we can't maintain altitude with two engines down - we weigh too much."

"No, I have a better idea," Col Dixon said, dropping the plane to twenty thousand feet. "Ross, head east out into the ocean. Major Menard, help me with the bomb."

"You can't eject that thing!" Major Menard yelled as Colonel Dixon began preparing the bomb bay doors. "If that thing goes off we'll turn Savannah into Hiroshima."

"It isn't armed; it won't go off if it isn't armed," Colonel Dixon yelled, pointing at the bomb angrily. "Besides, Command instructions are to eject the payload in order to save the crew. If we don't get rid of this bomb, we will not survive an emergency landing."

"Commando, we're two miles off the coast," Lt Col Ross yelled through the cockpit door. "Get rid of it."

"Major, we don't have a choice," Colonel Dixon yelled, hurrying back into the cockpit. Major Menard finished the last bit of preparations that were needed before the bomb could be dropped. The young major took one last look at the nearly eight-thousand-pound bomb, and, saying a quick prayer, he rushed back into the cock pit.

"Are we good, Buck?" Lt Col Ross asked, glancing knowingly at the Major. "We don't have a choice."

"Yeah, if that's what makes this decision easier by all means keep telling yourself that," he said, taking his seat and checking the coordinates. He checked the instruments and made note on his flight maps.

"Drop it," Lt Col Ross yelled as the plane bucked violently. "We have to land now, or we're toast."

Colonel Dixon opened the bomb doors and dropped the bomb. The nuclear bomb seemed to hover momentarily in the air as it was released, only dropping when it realized it had been freed from its confinement. The bomb plummeted to Earth as the pilots regained control of the flailing craft. Major Menard jotted on his navigator log and maps, hoping that his notes might make a recovery possible. The bomb fell and shattered the calm seas below, sinking to the bottom of a 100-foot crevice some two miles off the coast of Savannah, Georgia, not far from Tybee Island. As the eight-thousand-pound nuclear bomb hit the bottom of the ocean it threw sediment all around, the sand and shells settling messily around the unexploded ordinance.

On a good day, the Navy recovery ships would have noticed the disturbed ocean floor and realized the bomb would be close by; however, today was different. At the same time military flight PSA 182 was making an emergency landing at an unidentified Airfield in northern Florida, a storm was approaching the shores of Georgia. Tropical Storm Irene was fierce, with twelve-foot swells at the shore and twice that further out. By the time the Navy was able to get ships out to the site where the bomb fell the entire area was disturbed, erasing any evidence that anything, let alone an eight thousand pound nuclear bomb, had fallen in the area. And there the bomb remained, hidden under feet of ocean sediment, surviving twelve different searches, both official and unofficial for many decades.