Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“ Condor, declare!” he demanded.

“Stand by, Hunter .”

Dammit! Weed thought. Ten freakin’ attack helos coming at us and no declaration? He went to military power and selected AIM-9. With a visual on Cisco a few miles southwest, he turned left and climbed.

“ Hunters , taking angels five. Dog follow me up. Condor, the Hunters are setting up for slashing attacks on the gorilla of helos. To the southwest .”

“Roger, Hunter. Stand by,” Condor replied, working the coordination as best they could. Through his goggles, Weed could now see the faint objects moving in a large formation toward the island, and, five seconds later, Weed had his answer.

“ Hunter, Condor. You are cleared to engage the bandit group. Two-two-zero at five, but only once they’ve gone feet dry. Acknowledge.”

“ Hunter four-zero-seven, roger. Acknowledged. Break, break: Cisco, take position west of them, and, after Dog and I are off, come in. Take the lead aircraft, whatever it is. Rustler? How are you guys doing?”

“The boys are securing the site, and we expect to have ‘em aboard momentarily.”

“Roger.”

Both formations of American aircraft had their hands full: Weed and the Hunters with the ten Hinds and Hips and the Rustlers with troops hiding in the trees and an unknown vehicle on the road, the helos and the SEALs sanitizing the area to pick up Slash 11. Complicating matters, the distance from the coastline to the landing zone was 2.5 miles, about a minute of flight time for the speedy gunships. Weed knew by Condor ’s caveat that wreckage landing in Trinidad had political value. He maneuvered his jet to be in his dive, radar locked on a Hind with a good missile tone, just as it crossed the surf line.

“ Hunters, Armstrong, ” he transmitted on SAR common.

“ On yer belly! Hands behind yer back! Everyone! ” the voice shouted inside the cabin. Before Wilson could move, hands grabbed him and forced him to the floor. In agony, Wilson cried out in pain, and he heard Monique wail again. “Hands behind yer back! Now! ”

“I’m an American doctor,” Woodruff protested.

“Shut the fuck up! Hands behind your back, dammit!”

The voices were American, and the heavy footfalls and rough actions of these men told Wilson they were SEALs.

“Mikey, take that window! Pete, the door. ”

“Rog-o!”

Wilson felt a man use a twist-tie to secure his wrists and heard Garcia protest. “All right, man! Ow! All right! I’m fuckin’ wounded, you stupid squid!”

“Fuck you,” the SEAL shot back.

Standing over him, Wilson’s SEAL asked him a question. “Sir, state your name, rank and social.”

“James D. Wilson, Commander, U.S. Navy, 123-45-6789. Slash one-one.”

“Roger, sir. Where’s your ID card?”

“In my flight suit, left breast pocket.” Wilson heard Father Dan groan.

“Don’t hurt the man and woman. They helped me.” The sounds of gunfire, shouting, and helicopter engines continued in the background. The SEAL rolled Wilson up and fished inside his pocket until he felt the card.

“What about this woman?” the SEAL asked.

“She’s embassy, took a ricochet to her clavicle.”

The SEAL flashed a light on the card to inspect it. “We got him, boys. Let’s get ‘em in the bird.”

“Roger.”

As Wilson felt the SEAL roll him back, a wave a relief came over him. Deliverance. They would make it. The lieutenant then cut the twist-tie, and Wilson was free.

“Okay, skipper, we got a bird outside. Can you walk?”

“With help. My left shoulder is hurt and right leg broken.”

“Roger, sir, we gotcha.”

“Where you from?” Wilson asked, detecting an accent.

“Staten Island. I’m Lieutenant Joe Rovelli. We gotcha, sir.”

Soon, everyone’s twist-ties were cut, and SEALs’ flashlights gave enough light to see the shaken look on Father Dan’s face and the numbed blankness on Monique’s. Outside, occasional gunfire was heard, and the sound of helicopter rotors filled the air. Rovelli listened to a transmission in his earpiece, and Wilson heard him mutter.

“ Fuck. ”

“What’s goin’ on?” Wilson asked.

“We’re gonna have company. Let’s go, you guys! Now! ”

Weed pulled his jet across the horizon, his Sidewinder growling, and bumped the castle switch to auto acquire. A dashed-line circle appeared in his HUD, and, as he overbanked, he pulled it to the helicopter closest to him and rolled out.

The Sidewinder tone screamed in his headset as he watched the planform of a Hind about to move across the breakers on the beach as the range counted down. Close enough, Weed thought and squeezed the trigger.

A white streak shot from his left wing with a whoosh and flew straight as an arrow into the lead gunship. The aircraft exploded, and the fireball plunged into the vertical cliff face. He picked up his nose and selected GUN as he led another Hind in a high deflection gunshot with a radar lock. With less than 1,000 feet in range, he pulled lead and squeezed the trigger again, bright tracers flying out of the gun barrels with a sharp buuurrrrppp . He pulled up and left, and looked down at his target — which continued on unhurt.

Dammit! Weed thought to himself. Too much lead!

Dog rolled in and followed Weed’s example, putting a Sidewinder into a near, and then a far, Hind . The second lost its tail boom which caused the fuselage to rotate out of control and careen into the trees. Two aircraft in one run — a feat probably not accomplished since World War II — but Dog pulled off out of missiles and at bingo fuel.

Cisco rolled in from the opposite direction and targeted a Hip . The Venezuelans could not see the Americans, but they now knew they were there and began to expend flares. The lucky Hip expended a band of flares just as Cisco’s missile was tracking it, and the seeker head glommed onto the flares and exploded harmlessly. He strafed another helo and scored hits, turning it out of formation to the east.

Four down, six to go . And they were approaching the LZ.

Weed ignored Dog’s fuel plight and was back in with his second missile, his target a hot Hind against a “cool” backdrop of forest. From inside a mile, he fired. The missile wiggled as it accelerated and blew the rotor disk off the aircraft, which rolled flaming into the trees and was followed by a large fuel-air explosion. He then aimed for the farthest aircraft when a band of bullets shot in front of him and caused him to pull up hard. Horrified, Weed realized he could not keep the attackers away from the Rustlers . He had to warn them.

“ Rustlers , we’re trying, but some are going to get through! Do you have everyone?”

“Survivors coming inside now, sir. Shit, looks like more than we thought!”

“Well, the gunships are going to be there in less than a minute!”

Cisco rolled in for a second time — Weed didn’t have track of Dog — and another helicopter, a Hip , was shot out of the sky. Five down.

“Dog, where are you?” Weed snapped on radio.

“I’m bingo, sir. Holding max endurance!”

Weed lost his patience. “Get down here and keep firing until you’re Winchester!”