Captain Jake Morton was piloting the F-14D Super Tomcat and he honestly
couldn't believe this was all that serious. He and his radar-intercept
officer, Frank Brady, had been scrambled on short notice and, though he
relished the chance to clock a little flight time, he felt in his bones
that this was a red herring.
He didn't even have a wingman, which told him that Command on the
Kennedy probably wasn't too excited either. The blip on the VSD,
vertical simulation display, was some tin can cruising just above the
chop down there, pulling around a hundred knots and now losing
altitude. Obviously just some civilian asshole, who wasn't going to
make it unless he pulled out damned soon. He had to be close to stall.
Problem was, though, the bogey had responded to the Kennedy's radio
room with some "medical charter" malarkey and then shut down. What was
that all about? And now? Were these guys really having radio and nav
problems, like they'd said, or were they about to try something funny,
some amateur attempt at evasion?
Well, he thought, if that's their game, they're pretty fucking dumb. So
what the hell was the real story? He'd learned one thing in fifteen
years of Navy: when you didn't know what could happen, you planned for
the worst.
He switched on the intercom and ordered Brady to turn on the
television-camera system (TCS), the F-14's powerful nose video, and use
the radar to focus it, bringing up the image from down below for
computer optimization.
"Yankee Bravo, this is Birdseye," he said into his helmet mike. 'That
bogey that ID'd itself as Icarus Delta One has still got a heading of
about two-seventy, but now he's definitely losing altitude. In fact,
he's practically in the drink. We're trying to get him on the TCS and
take a look."
"Roger," came back the voice. "We've lost radio contact. Advise extreme
caution. Whoever the hell he is, he's a bogey. I want him the hell out
of this airspace. Don't waste time with the TCS. Get a visual."
"Copy, Yankee Bravo, want me to fly down for a look-see?"
"Confirmed, Birdseye. And assume you've got a hostile on your hands.
Caution advised. Repeat, assume he's a hostile."
"Roger. We copy."
Morton tapped the stick and his F-14 banked into a steep dive, 74,000
pounds of steel plummeting downward.
What am I doing? he asked himself again as he watched his altimeter
begin to spin. I buzz the guy and I'll probably scare hell out of him.
He'll wind up in the soup for sure. And if he still doesn't respond,
then what? Am I supposed to shoot down a civilian?
The very thought made his new mustache itch, a clear sign of nerves.
Such things had been done before, but Captain Jake Morton had never
done them and he had no interest in starting a new trend in his career.
He had a wife and kids he still had to look in the face.
On the other hand, a close encounter would definitely get their
attention. But then, these were international waters, and the legality
of interdicting civilian traffic was not all that obvious, and might be
even less obvious in a court of law some faraway day. Particularly if
it really was a medical emergency situation like those bozos down there
claimed. Could make for exceptionally bad press. Which didn't do a
thing for promotions in the U.S. Navy.