Now Morton was really puzzled. The pilot had just gone into the drink. What had happened? Maybe, he was thinking, he should call in a Huey for a rescue op?
No, this setup was starting to smell to high heaven. They had refused to change their heading, so the bastards had to be up to no good. No legitimate civilian aircraft would ignore a U.S. Navy wave-off…
Now… finally he could make a visual, rough through the downpour, but it looked like… it was a fucking seaplane. So instead of responding to orders to vector out of the airspace, they had settled in. Wiseguys.
Well, even with the stormy sea down there, they still could take off, leave the same way they came in, and nothing would be made of it. First, though, they needed a short lesson in aviation protocol.
"Frank, let me handle this. I'm going to get their fucking attention." Using his right thumb, he toggled the weapons selector on the side of the throttle quadrant down from SP/PH, past SW, and into the setting marked GUNS. The 20mm cannon was primed with two tracers, which should give the bastards something to think about.
Now the red radar lock on his HUD was flashing. That asshole down there, whoever it was, was in for a big fucking surprise…
His thumb was about to depress the red "fire" button when the first explosion came: down below a giant fireball illuminated the night sky, followed by secondaries! Jesus!
Medical supplies, right! That innocent-looking little Cessna was a flying munitions bin. They really were terrorists.
A pillar of black smoke now covered the entire area. He ordered Brady to switch off the weapons station, and then, his hand trembling, he toggled his oxygen regulator up a notch, trying to catch his breath as he pulled back on the stick.