During Operation Desert Storm in 1991, Central Command asked me to fly a top secret mission to Lebanon in my twin engine Cessna 340.
Mission accomplished, I flew home on a 270-degree heading over the Eastern Mediterranean at an altitude of 200 feet, in order to stay under the radar.
It was a warm, hazy day, and I had the plane on autopilot, enjoying myself passing the time looking out for fishing boats, private yachts with bathing beauties, and cargo ships.
Suddenly, I saw an F-18 fighter jet come straight at me, pass a few feet overhead, do a 180, then come up right alongside my port wingtip. A minute later a second F-18 joined me on my starboard wingtip, and a third followed directly behind me at a safe distance.
I thought, “This is not good.”
The planes had US markings. So I reached into my pilot’s case and pulled out a small American flag and held it up against the cockpit window.
They ignored me, stonily staring straight ahead.
Then I took off my New York Yankees baseball cap, held it up to the window and pointed at it.
Still no response.
Then they gradually started edging towards me, eventually holding course TEN FEET off each wingtip at 220 MPH. I was unable to change course.
I put out a Mayday call.
Five minutes later I received a call from a listening station at a British Army base in Cyprus. He said he was relaying a message from a US Navy helicopter from an undisclosed location.
Right at that moment the cause of my predicament became clear.
An American aircraft carrier loomed out of the haze, surrounded by 25 grey support ships. As I passed overhead, the cockney accent informed me “Don’t worry, they only think you’re a suicide bomber.”
The second I passed over the enormous ship, it’s deck chock a block with waiting aircraft and hustling sailors, the F-18’s suddenly peeled away.
Observing the disjointed market action over the past few days, that queasy feeling that I was about to be shot down in flames has returned.
