GUYMON -- Oh, what a beautiful evening it is in the Oklahoma Panhandle. The sunset blazes orange, cattle graze on yucca flowers, and prairie grasses wave serenely toward the horizon. At least, on one side of Highway 412. On the other, a massive supercell rotates low over the land. Black and purple, with a bright green heart of softball-sized hail, the circular thunderstorm uncannily resembles a spaceship in the movie "Independence Day." Vans, Doppler radar trucks, and emergency vehicles zoom along its periphery like ants rimming a giant carousel. On the storm's underbelly, ragged clouds start twisting into a drill-bit shape. Over the CB radio, on "chaser channel" 146.520 megahertz, meteorologist Bob Conzemius tells four vans of hopeful listeners, "It's reorganizing." Sure enough, the drill bit elongates into a crooked finger pointing toward the ground. All along 412 breath is collectively held. If that snaky green funnel touches down, it will become the most feared and destructive weather phenomenon in the Great Plains: a tornado.