It now said: "TOO LATE."
H-E-L-P.
The radar dish was still spinning.
She checked the elevation tilt. Negative 2 degrees. Impossible—the radar horizon should have cut off anything below the terrain. Yet there they were: a lattice of returning pulses, like a subway map of a city that didn’t exist, threaded through the granite of the mountain itself. Rds 86 Weather Radar Installation Manual
It was spelling something.