Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“ Father! ” Wilson growled. “Is there any opening where you can see behind the cabin?”

The priest nodded, and crawled, his elderly body showing its age, to the log bin by the fireplace. For the first time, Wilson noticed it had a door. Father Dan opened an inside door and then, inch by inch, an outside door from which he could see the tree line behind the cabin in a 30–40 degree cone. Better than nothing , thought Wilson.

“Can’t see anything or anyone out there, Jim.”

“Good,” Wilson said at the same moment the man outside changed his tactic.

“ El hombre Americano! No kill! Dame el Americano … solamente . Padre, you okay! Santa Maria digo la verdad. Truth.”

Wilson could understand the man’s pidgin English enough to know what he meant. Hand over Wilson, and he would let Father Dan go, invoking Saint Mary that he was speaking the truth. Wilson considered it. He was the cause of their danger. Father Dan smiled at Wilson and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Jim.”

Wilson eased up to the windowsill and peeked over it. Nothing . He was exhausted, and his injuries made it difficult to move, much less move well.

“Father, I need your eyes,” he whispered and motioned to the windows.

Father Dan crawled to the side window and raised himself up to peer over it, then lowered himself back down. He shook his head. Nothing.

The man fired, and, with a crack, the slug buried itself in the board above the door. Ahora , he shouted, and Monique’s whimpering increased in pitch.

Wilson then heard other voices in the distance. The man outside answered them in Spanish. Dammit!

A peek over the windowsill revealed two men darting among the trees.

Sonofabitch, Wilson thought. Three men could surround the cabin. Set it on fire and smoke them out. With his injuries, Father’s advanced age, and Monique’s emotional paralysis, an escape was out of the question.

Outside, the sun was lowering. Where are the damn embassy guys? Wilson fretted. No matter. He would have to hold out as long as possible. And he did have two pistols and, if he could only motivate them, two additional sets of eyes. Monique appeared to be a basket case, and he didn’t think he could trust her to report what she saw with accuracy, even if she could peer out a window. Maybe she could move furniture.

“Monique,” Wilson called out in a low tone. “Move the table to the window. Put some cushions on top of it.” Monique looked at him in confusion. “ Now! ” Wilson barked at her in an effort to snap her out of her stupor.

Staying low, she pushed the table to the window under Wilson’s direction and crawled to retrieve cushions from a couch and easy chair. With Father Dan’s help, she made a soft spot where Wilson could lie prone and shoot through the space where the window pane had been blown away by the bullet. They added a small stool and stacks of books to give Wilson added cover and helped him up on the table. From this position Wilson had a 30-degree line of fire. Father would have to be his eyes elsewhere in the cabin.

Wilson had nine rounds left in the .45, another ten in an extra clip, and four in the other pistol. Twenty-three total rounds. He knew he would have to expend some to keep them honest out there and slow their movements. He waited, motionless, looking at the trees down the sight of the pistol. Father and Monique stayed low, watching him watch the trees.

Wilson saw movement and pulled the trigger. The deafening report filled the cabin and Monique screamed. The round sprayed bark from the tree it hit, and one man darted away as the others fired at the house. One bullet shattered another window, ricocheting off a ceiling beam as glass peppered Wilson’s back. After several seconds of wild firing, one of the men shouted a command to stop. Wilson sensed they didn’t want to waste ammo either.

“ El Americano, now!”

Sundown was in an hour, an advantage for the men outside. Wilson had an idea.

He had three pencil flares left, and cocked the launcher before he screwed one into the firing tube. Setting the pistol down next to him, he stretched out his arm, thumb on the release mechanism, and waited for movement. After a long minute, he saw a silhouette dart among the trees and fired.

With a whoosh, the flare shot ahead through the window and into the woods. It then ricocheted off a tree, bounced off the ground, and slammed into another tree. The alarmed men shouted and scrambled away from the wild pyrotechnic as Wilson picked up the pistol and fired two rounds. A man shouted and in Spanish Wilson heard the word ayudame!

At least one — Wilson still didn’t know how many were out there — recovered enough from the surprise to fire off four rounds. The shots came from the southwest corner of the cabin and broke a side window. The men cursed and screamed at each other in Spanish as the spent flare came to rest. Wilson’s hope for a fire went unfulfilled, but he was sure he had wounded one of his attackers. Someone was now whimpering in pain for help.

“One man is hurt in the leg and bleeding,” Father Dan said.

“Do you know Spanish?” Wilson asked him.

“Enough,” Father Dan nodded.

The rapid thump, thump, thump of helicopter rotor blades could be heard in the distance, and they seemed to be getting near. Again, Wilson wasn’t sure what kind of helicopter it was, and, as he listened, he kept his eyes on the spot where the wounded man crouched behind a tree. Motioning to the side window, Wilson asked Father Dan to take a peek.

“Nothing. Can’t see anyone,” he replied.

The rotor blades were beating heavier, and Wilson strained to identify the sound. He wanted it to be a Sierra , but couldn’t be sure it was. And he heard the sound of only one aircraft. How he wished he heard two, a better chance that it was a rescue party. As the men outside shouted over the din of the rotor blades, Wilson kept watch. The wounded man no longer seemed to be involved in the firefight.

The helicopter flew over, and Wilson heard it turn as it did. It was their helicopter, whoever they were.

“Father, what do you see?”

A bullet smashed through the window above the priest, showering him and Monique with glass. The petrified woman drew her legs up and hugged them. She appeared beyond help.

“Well, someone is out there, Jim.”

“Yeah, that answered my question. Stay down.”

The helicopter returned overhead and seemed to enter a hover to the north of the cabin, along what Wilson knew was a road. Reinforcements, but whose? He wished he could take a peek.

“Father, go to the other side and look out the window. Can you identify what kind of helo it is?”

“Helo?”

“ Helicopter! What kind? Color? Anything.” Wilson had to fight to remain calm.

Father Dan scooted over to the other side as another bullet smashed into the clapboard. Through the trees he could make out a helicopter. “I’m not much of an airplane nut, Jim. Not sure what kind that is.”

“Color? What color?”

After a moment, Father Dan answered. “White… part of it blue.”

That was a clue for Wilson. Not military. It could be Americans from the embassy, a security team. More wishful thinking , he surmised. Soon, he knew that to be true as he heard Spanish shouts from the road as the helicopter took off.

“They’ve sent more, Father.”

Wilson needed to somehow redefine the fight . But how? With the added men, they would soon be surrounded and stormed. He had another idea.

“Father, take this flare. This is the ‘day’ end. Pull the top just like the old soft drink cans and stick the end outside through the log bin door in the back. It will smoke heavily. You can let it fire, but don’t expose yourself. And try not to let it fall outside. We can use the other end later.”