“Turn immediately or we will fire.”
The F-22 pilot’s voice filled my headset while two Raptors boxed my Cessna over a Carrier Strike Group I wasn’t supposed to know existed.
Ten thousand feet above the Atlantic.
Nearly one hundred miles off the Virginia coast.
Clear sky.
Filed flight plan.
Active transponder.
By every civilian rule that mattered, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
At least, I thought I was.
My restored 1970s Cessna 310 hummed around me while sunlight scattered across the ocean below.
I had just lifted my thermos when the cockpit went dark.
Not from a cloud.
A shadow swallowed the aircraft.
Then the controls began shaking.
A roar punched through the windows hard enough to rattle my teeth.
I turned left.
An F-22 Raptor was less than fifty feet from my wingtip.
Close enough to read the markings on its matte-gray fuselage.
Through the canopy, the pilot’s dark visor was pointed directly at me.
My pulse jumped.
Then another shadow formed on my right.
A second Raptor slid into position.
I was boxed in.
Completely.
Deliberately.
The fighter on my left rolled its wing upward.
The message was unmistakable.
You have been intercepted.
Follow.
Now.
