Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Daniel was dozing as they made their final approach to Madeira. Then, after spreading more cash, they were airborne again, this time for Minorca. He thought of the traitor Edgar, and thought about the wife and family he had left behind for Daniel to brutalize. He wouldn’t mind raping his daughter, Daniel thought, but it was too late for that now. One day, he vowed, he would have Edgar’s son killed.

It was late afternoon when the Gulfstream landed at the quiet 8,500-foot strip, and another car took them to a safe house at Cap d’en Font. They ate a quick meal before scrambling down to the beach to a waiting launch that allowed them to clear the jagged coastline as the sun sank into the Mediterranean. The fifty-mile crossing to Mallorca required three hours of pounding across moderate seas. Although Daniel was able to avoid the spray and stay dry in the cabin, he became seasick. His mood improved as he saw Mallorca draw near, and he hoped he could rally for a little nightlife, banking that what little Catalan Spanish he knew would suffice. And he planned to buy everyone a round of drinks before retiring to his room. The whole bar! The whole town! His boys had done well. They would own this little town tonight, and tomorrow they would begin building his empire anew, this time in southern Europe. This, too, he had done before. Daniel noted the clouds above were backlit by a waxing moon, and they reminded him of the puffy clouds about Paria. He could get to like this place.

The engine stopped, and a puzzled Daniel turned to the coxswain. His second, Alphonse, who had been loyal to him for twelve years — since Colombia days — drew a pistol and pointed it at him. “ Esta la hora, mí amigo. ”

Hurt, Daniel looked at him in shock as the boat rocked on the waves. Why? he thought.

The others watched, unconcerned. Daniel then surprised himself with a slight grin and nodded his acceptance. I let my guard down . Familiar with the routine, Daniel did not resist as the men grabbed him, tied his hands behind his back, and attached dive weights to his ankles. They took his valuables, including the switchblade he had used to save Alphonse’s life that night in Medellin so long ago, and led him to the stern. Daniel had a final request.

“I was good to you, Alphonse. May I go with a bullet? Like a man?”

In the shadows Daniel saw Alphonse acquiesce with a gentleman’s nod. “C ertainly, my friend .”

Daniel looked in turn at the others, what passed for his friends, as he accepted his fate. He knelt on the transom, surprised he had the urge to pray. He had not said a prayer in years, not since his boyhood in Buenaventura.

“ Padre Nuestro—” he whispered.

The bullet tore off the top of Daniel’s head, and his limp body fell overboard. The weights caught up in the gunwale and left Daniel hanging upside down until one of the men freed the weights so they could lead Daniel’s dead body 200 feet below the channel.

The torch had been passed, and Alphonse motioned to the coxswain to continue toward the city. He saw blood on the transom and motioned to another to hose it off as he turned to look west at the lights of Mallorca, their new home — where he would begin the first day of his new empire.

The following day, Coral Sea turned her bow north.

Venezuela’s military had suffered days of crippling blows from the Americans. Its message delivered, the United States withdrew to maintain strategic stability in the region, hoping for a revolution of moderate reformers who would return the country to a liberal free-market democracy. With NATO alerted and surface and air units arrayed from the Denmark Strait to the North Cape, the Russians stood down, having watched with amusement as NATO, and especially the United States, had spun up for nothing. Knowing the Americans would exhaust themselves for years to come, the Russians prepared for a too brief summer on the Kola Peninsula and husbanded their resources for the next time they could make Washington jump.

Likewise, the Cubans withdrew most — but not all — of their forces from along the fence line at Guantanamo. In smug satisfaction they believed that, true to form, the Americans would concentrate their forces in and around the southeastern tip of Cuba, which would open the rest of the Caribbean to cartel traffic as before. The waters off Venezuela and the West Indies would continue to be a future deployment theater for carrier strike groups as a sign of Washington’s interest, despite the fact it pulled needed resources from the Middle East and the Mediterranean, which was becoming a rough neighborhood again, the likes of which the U.S. Navy had not seen since the long-ago days of the Barbary Pirates.

Indeed, the Venezuelans had been taught a lesson — with the AMV half destroyed and its Army aviation losing significant frontline capability. The Bolivarian Republic had kept their Navy in port to spare it, and the Army remained all but intact, calming nerves in Foggy Bottom where stability was sought above all else. To Washington, all of Latin America had been taught a lesson about American power and resolve — a lesson that was lost on Latin America. Countries in the region saw that Venezuela, which enjoyed poking Uncle Sam in the eye, had paid a relatively small price for doing so, and they knew, after a while, the United States would lose interest. The Bolivarian Republic could then resume their previous activities, whether aboveboard or underground, confident that the Yankees would not soon return. Venezuela had not been defeated, which itself was a win, and plans went ahead to erect a statue of the Mayor General Edgar Hernandez. The gallant hero had led the AMV into battle against superior American forces and had given his life while saving South American soil from invasion and humiliating subjugation.

In the end, the United States settled for containment, and the region could be managed at the price of the drug trade and limiting for now the small beachheads of bad actors like Russia and an increasingly muscular China.

The United States could hope for stability… a national pastime in Washington.

In places like Miami, Norfolk, and the Pentagon, staff officers pored over the effectiveness reports of Century Ratchet and analyzed the air campaign over Venezuela. Negotiations began for the Americans to clear the mines dropped off Río Salta so Venezuela’s “legal” energy industry could once again resume shipments of crude — and smuggled narcotics — to customers worldwide, the largest market being the American northeast.

Wilson wished to remain aboard Coral Sea and in command of his squadron, but his injuries made the act of traversing the distance from his stateroom to the wardroom a daunting challenge. After he had clogged passageways too many times, he chose a self-imposed exile, accepting visitors in his stateroom most of the time. With Weed’s assistance, he was able to preside over Annie’s memorial service on the flight deck. When he learned from Macho and other witnesses of her courageous sacrifice, he first wrote Mike Schofield a heartfelt letter and then, with CAG’s strong approval, drafted a citation and recommendation for Annie to be awarded the Medal of Honor.

Whenever he was alone with his thoughts, Wilson thought of Mary — and of Father Dan. He said prayers of thanksgiving and pulled his Bible off the shelf — where it had lain available but unopened for many months. With help from Billy and Weed, he boarded the COD and flew to Roosevelt Roads, and then to Norfolk, to begin his rehabilitation. Coral Sea and the Firebirds returned to Norfolk two weeks later.