Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

When the gunners opened the side doors, he wasn’t sure where he was but noted a tree and a building through one of the openings. The Marines, Garcia and Smith, and Doc Woodruff got out, as did Jill, who was now ambulatory. They each, in turn, reached down to where he sat on the floor and patted him on his good shoulder. Wilson returned a weak smile. When Monique got out, Sackheim held her arm so she would not stray into trouble beneath the rotors of the still turning helicopter. While Sackheim waited for Father Dan so that he could escort them both inside, a barrel of aviation gasoline was wheeled over to the helo. An embassy employee helped Petty Officer Souza pump the helo with fuel sufficient to get to Coral Sea over 200 miles away.

Father Dan scooted past Wilson to the door and grabbed Wilson’s right hand. “Good luck, lad,” he shouted. “I hope you are reunited with your family soon.”

“Father,” Wilson spoke over the din.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Wilson croaked. “ Thank you—”

The priest made a sign of the cross over Wilson and brought his hands together in a blessing. “Now go and spread the good news of the Lord!” he shouted.

Wilson nodded, and Father Dan swung his legs over and hopped down to the ground to join Monique. Sackheim took them both forward of the nose and away to safety.

“Father?” Wilson called out, but the priest was gone.

Within minutes the refueling was complete, and the gunners jumped inside and closed the doors as the helo lifted. Wilson gazed at the lights of the city until they receded from view, replaced by the black Caribbean waters. The vibration of the machine lulled the cabin passengers to sleep, and the SEALs dozed head down on their gear during the long transit to the ship.

Wilson stared at the darkened cabin overhead. Its wire bundles and bare frames, exposed as in all military aircraft, were bathed in the faint green glow of the cockpit lighting. Alive. He was alive… against all odds. How did he get out over San Ramón? How did he survive the terror of the thunderstorm, the broken limbs as he crawled through the jungle, the firefights with cartel thugs and the Venezuelan Army? He had shot several men — and killed two. In his Hornet cockpit he was seldom sure if he had killed. Today he was.

He thought of all those who had rescued him. Jill, Doc, and the Marines. The SEALs dozing next to him, men he had never met. People on the ship, no doubt, like Annie and CAG and Admiral Davies. They hadn’t abandoned him but had ordered these men and this Rustler crew to risk their lives. And Wilson knew they had done so willingly, eager to risk all to save him — even though none of them had a personal relationship with him. Wilson was an American fighting man. That was good enough for them.

He thought of Father Dan. The priest had saved him, fed him, bathed him, defended him, and ministered to him. Harboring Wilson was a sure risk, and the arrival of the drug thugs had confirmed it. Father Dan was only a missionary serving the inhabitants of The Devil’s Woodyard. Until I showed up, Wilson thought. He knew he would contact the priest somehow once he could write. Maryknoll. They could get him a letter. Wilson would return one day, too, once things with Venezuela got back to normal.

Wilson saw lights far to the east, an island. He motioned to a crewman to ask what it was. The petty officer keyed his ICS to ask the pilots. A few seconds later, he spoke near Wilson’s ear. “Grenada, sir.”

They droned on, and Wilson saw another Sierra in formation with them. He looked at his combat watch. It had stopped. No matter, he thought. We’ll get there when we get there.

Wilson then thought of Mary. He wanted to be next to her, to hold her, to forgive her — and to ask her to forgive the fact he had ignored her with his preoccupation with command — even when ashore. Derrick. He needed a dad to care for him, a dad who was just there listening, not smothering. They all needed balance.

His leg was killing him.

Another 30 minutes passed, and Wilson sensed the descent of the helo. The SEALs did, too, and by the activity of the swimmers, he knew the ship must be near. They entered a turn, followed by another one, and Wilson could make out the ship a mile abeam. A Hornet was crossing the ramp; they were in the middle of a recovery.

More turns followed, and Wilson watched through the window when he could. He caught sight of an E-2 rolling out in the landing area and knew they would be given a signal to land next. They flew aft of the ship and turned right to final, the aircraft jerking and twitching as the pilots maneuvered it on the ball. One of the swimmers opened the right door as the pilot lifted the nose higher, and Wilson saw Hornets parked on the starboard shelf. The Sierra slowed along the landing area, past the island, to its landing spot at the edge of the angle. Wilson saw a medical team on the foul line and spied CAG in among them. After the aircraft weight transitioned from the rotor blades to the landing gear tires, the swimmers hopped out. Blue shirts then scrambled to the Sierra with wheel chocks as squadron personnel followed with tie-down chains.

Wilson was home. Safe. Alive.

Medical personnel helped him out of the aircraft as CAG pushed through them. “We missed you, Flip!” he shouted over the noise as he extended his hand. Wilson took it and smiled back. Behind him were Stretch and Olive. Grateful to see him, they all helped him to El 2 so he could bypass the multiple ladders leading down to sick bay. Once the alarm rang, the elevator descended to the hangar bay as warm Caribbean salt air cascaded down the hull.

They put him on a stretcher and carried him to an ammo elevator while dozens of sailors observed. As the hangar bay crew rigged the safety lines, Olive and Stretch stood back and watched. Wilson turned his head and caught their attention. “Where’s Annie? Flying?” he asked.

Wilson saw their faces fall just as the elevator lowered him down. He knew. He was still trying to process the blow when the elevator door opened next to him, and the medical response team lifted him out to the florescent world of the forward mess decks. Numb, Wilson stared up at the overhead as they carried him down the port passageway to sick bay.

The 1MC sounded: “T- weeeet … Now stand by for the evening prayer.”

Daniel recoiled from a shower of salt spray as the boat bucked on the swells between Paria and Trinidad. Lights out, they passed the darkened shape of Isla de Patos to the south, the halfway point on their thirty-minute transit to Trinidad, and safety. A G5 awaited him at the airport, but the timing was going to be close. Everything depended on Daniel’s men paying off key men at critical points. Right now, they had to get past the Coast Guard station in order to dock at the coastal village of La Retraite where a car awaited to take them to the airport.

Once in the car, it took, even in the wee hours, over an hour to get through Port of Spain. Needing a shave, Daniel wore a Washington Nationals baseball cap and sat in the passenger seat of a used Honda Civic, hiding in plain sight. His three other loyal thugs followed in a beat-up Opel. Stay calm and look bored …. He had done this before.

Daniel knew that Ramos would soon grab Annibel and the kids, raping his wife and terrorizing the girls to exact his revenge. Daniel felt bad and tried to blot it from his mind. They wouldn’t have to suffer long — Ramos would kill them.

The group made it to the airport and stepped aboard the G5 without any luggage, and, as the door was closed, the pilots started the engines. Greasing the palms of linesmen and two air traffic controllers was easy, and the aircraft taxied for takeoff within minutes. In the cabin, two female flight attendants, dressed appropriately, served as the in-flight entertainment for Daniel and his men.