"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.
11:31 p.m.