Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Bewildered, Father Dan took the flare and crawled to the rear of the cabin. Outside, the shouts increased.

“What are they saying, Father?”

“They are moving to surround us.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’d do, too. Monique… Monique! ”

The woman jerked her head at Wilson in surprise.

“Water, I need some water. Please, Monique.” Wilson smiled at her.

Monique nodded and crawled to the sink. Grabbing a glass from the counter and staying as low as possible, she set it under the tap as she turned the lever. She then scooted over to Wilson and handed it to him. Wilson downed the water in one gulp and smiled again. “Thank you.”

He then looked behind him. “Father, crack open the bin door and pop the flare!”

Father Dan pulled at the flare actuation device. As Wilson watched him, a round smacked the stool Wilson was hiding behind, and other slugs thudded against the cabin walls. The men were showing no signs of slowing their fire.

After some more fumbling, Father Dan actuated the flare. “Oh!” he cried as pink smoke billowed out from it with a loud whoosh .

“Hang onto it, Father. Just stick it through the opening!” Wilson shouted. In seconds, he could see the bright smoke wafting in front of him and floating into the woods. The men outside shouted to each other in Spanish.

Wilson kept the pistol aimed at the tree. If the men were coming to the aid of their stricken mate, he would shoot. He heard shots hitting the back of the cabin. “Father, make sure you keep your hands inside.”

“Oh, I dropped it!” Father cried. Fuck! Wilson thought. He wasn’t sure what he would have done with the night end of the flare, but he had wanted to keep it. Now it was on the ground outside and too dangerous to retrieve.

Pink smoke was everywhere, and it rose into the air above the trees. Wilson had sent a signal in a last ditch effort to draw the attention of local law enforcement. With any luck, American embassy personnel, or even Trinidad military if they were in the area, would see the smoke. Rounds continued to slam into the cabin.

Hope the good guys see this.

Edgar Hernandez nodded to his colonel. “Do it.”

The American was reported in Trinidad and pinned down by Daniel’s muscle, but he was holding out, harbored by a missionary priest! Hernandez thanked his good luck. From San Ramón, a quick reaction force of twenty men could be flown to the position in Trinidad in less than thirty minutes. “ Capture him. He is of value only if alive,” he added.

The men were far from elite forces, and they were not combat proven, but they were all he had with such short notice. He wondered if the Army could get three helicopters airborne! With the sunlight remaining, they could get in and at least secure the perimeter from nosy locals before a snatch and grab team from Caracas could get there in the morning. Maybe he would get lucky and his men would capture him tonight.

The American strike near Caracas had yielded some good news: A Super Hornet had been downed by one of his Vipers . With the pilot in a raft not too far offshore, the Army and Navy were doing everything they could to capture the pilot. The Americans, however, had fighters orbiting nearby, and they were doing all they could to rescue him first. It was a race against time to capture the two downed pilots separated by over 300 miles. With the Americans concentrating on their downed airman off Caracas, Hernandez felt sure he could get his helicopters across the channel and into Trinidad unmolested by enemy fighters. He called Daniel to give him a status report.

Hernandez found it ironic — in a very pleasing way — that two Americans would guarantee his safety.

Pink smoke rising above the wooded expanse of The Devil’s Woodyard drew attention, the kind that Wilson wanted. A U.S. Embassy special agent and two Marines were in a Ford Explorer en route to pick up Wilson from the cabin of the mission priest. Special Agent Gillian “Jill” Fischer, a 12-year veteran of the FBI who grew up in St. Croix, rode shotgun in the vehicle with two Marines and the staff physician. By the time they had gotten the word on Wilson, it was midmorning, and the traffic getting out of Port of Spain was heavy. Then, although Father Dan’s cabin was several miles inland, they had made a wrong turn and headed to the coast.

“See the pink smoke?” she asked the driver, a Marine.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “That’s the kind the airedales use when they are signaling.”

“Guess he knows we’re coming, but how?”

They drove along in silence for another minute, the route taking them to the vicinity of the heaviest smoke concentration. “Pull over,” she commanded.

The Marine pulled over, and Jill lowered her window. “What do you think?” Doctor Larry Woodruff asked. She lifted her hand and listened for a moment. In the far distance she heard a gunshot, with its echoing pop .

“Hear that?” she asked. After several seconds, they heard two more pops in rapid succession.

“There’s a firefight out there, so get ready. Let’s go. Chop, chop .”

The driver accelerated as Jill listened through the open window. The weapon reports were from pistols. Were they stumbling on a drug turf war? Was Wilson involved in it?

“Stop here,” she commanded while looking at her GPS. Around the bend was a driveway, but Jill wanted to go the rest of the way on foot. The firefight could be heard right through the trees.

“Let’s get out and go on foot. Doc, do you have a sidearm?”

“I do.”

“Good. Smith, Garcia, lock and load. Not sure what we’re going to find here.”

The Marines broke out flak jackets and helmets from the rear of the vehicle. One picked up an M-16, the other a BAR. Armed with her.9mm, Jill wore a Kevlar vest. Woodruff had his.9mm at his side and a medical bag. “Doc, stay with me and behind me,” Jill ordered.

They entered the tree line, separated into two groups, and crunched, as quietly as possible, through the woods, listening and looking. After a few minutes they came upon a man who sat with his back against a tree. He had a pistol, but appeared wounded. He was shouting, and they could hear two others answer him in Spanish. Shots rang out beyond them. Through the trees, Jill could make out a cabin. She turned to Doc Woodruff.

“We’ve stumbled onto a firefight, and the pilot Wilson is probably involved. Call the office and have Captain Carpenter, the attaché, call the Pentagon first. Then, tell the chargé d’affaires to call Washington. We need backup now! Head back toward the vehicle and monitor the radio.” Jill handed him a walkie-talkie so they could communicate near real time. She then turned to the Marines.

“You two, take sides on me and fan out, keeping sight. And stay out of sight.”

As Woodruff placed the call, the other three spread out and crept ahead, listening to the shots and shouts.

“ El Americano, ahora. No muerte. No kill.”

Jill then heard a voice shout in pidgin English. “Weel-son! Why you risk? Ven aca— leave them free. You man? Hide con mujer. Afraid man?

“Wilson is inside, I know it,” she said. “Probably with the missionary, and there may be a woman, too. Do you see the wounded man by the tree?”

The Marines nodded.

“Okay, he doesn’t look too good so let’s go around him. The others are to the south. Take out the active shooters when you get a bead on them with the BAR. Then we’ll capture the wounded guy.”