Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Just hold this heading. Haven’t seen anything since we left the damn barco .”

“ Si. Si. Just go below and take your piss. And hurry the fuck up.”

Enrique grunted and got out of the chair as Jorge grabbed the wheel. Though the men had known each other for years and crewed these boats before, they were not friends. Their frayed nerves, due to lack of sleep, coupled with the constant pounding of the choppy sea, did nothing to improve their moods.

Eat shit, Enrique thought as he went below. He’d had enough of Jorge’s pissy attitude for today. His partner had been a complete ass to the mujer on the “trawler,” probably the ugliest woman Enrique had ever seen, but she had made them sandwiches as the boat was fueled. Cold sandwiches! Enrique thought. We are making millions of dollars, and we can’t afford at least a hot meal at sea on a decrepit fishing boat? His thoughts then returned to Pablo. He wished Pablo could at least assign one of his idiot whores to make the sandwiches so they didn’t have to look at the stomach-turning fish-wife on the trawler. Cold freakin’ sandwiches. Still, Jorge didn’t have to be mean to her. He then put the thought out of his mind,

Three more hours and he would have his wad of hundred dollar bills and a hot shower. Then a hot meal, Bistec Encebollado with vino and rum. Without Jorge, the prick . And a chica bonita for the night. Then sleep. As he swayed in the stuffy compartment to the boat’s heaving and rolling, he thought he might make sleep his first choice.

Lieutenant Mark scanned the horizon and picked up the wake. “Got it,” he murmured over the ICS, alerting the three other crewmen they had a visual on their quarry.

His co-pilot, Lieutenant Todd, studying the Forward Looking Infrared display, lifted his head. As the Helicopter Aircraft Commander of the MH-60S Seahawk , Todd wanted to work them into an optimum firing angle for the Hellfire missile hanging from the “wing” off his left shoulder. He saw a faint white smudge, about seven miles distant, that pulsed from left to right as the boat heaved up and down on the waves at high speed.

“Great, let’s fall off left and come up his starboard quarter. Take us down to fifty.”

“Roger,” Mark acknowledged and smoothly rolled the aircraft left. He allowed it to descend to 50 feet above the waves, a dangerous altitude that required his full attention to maintain.

The data link steering from the E-2 overhead was tight, and Todd toggled back to the MIDS display on the tactical page glass cockpit display. The smugglers’ support vessel, designated as track number 1182, was approximately forty miles southeast. Knowing such vessels were typically disguised as fishing trawlers, he made a mental note of a rough heading and distance to it after they completed their task here. With the track ball he “hooked” the cigarette boat, track 1147, an action that gave Mark a steering cue on his display. He then went back to the FLIR, placed the cursors on the bouncing white slash, and designated it. Once the FLIR was tracking the infrared image of the boat, he transmitted over the radio, “Tango Lima, track one-one-four-seven is captured.”

“Roger, Delta Charlie,” the E-2 controller answered. “ Captured. Do you have VID?”

“Affirm, appears to be moonshine ,” Todd answered, using the code word for smuggler.

Todd zoomed in on the boat and took a photo. Using the keypad, he sent a text message over encrypted data link with the photo attached to the E-2 controller high above and miles away. He then typed the word

DECLARE

“Stand by for combat checks. This will be a LOBL shot, Mark. Set up for a five-mile run in.”

“Roger that,” Mark replied.

Todd then saw a flashing “M” on the bottom left of his display, an answer from the E-2. That was fast , he thought. With the trackball, he clicked on it.

HOSTILE

Todd typed back an acknowledgment, and keyed the ICS. “Okay, guys, we have a declared hostile. Gunners, you are cleared to lock and load.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Each door gunner answered, their faces covered with a “windshield” mask under their helmet visors that made them look like aliens from another world. On the left side door was the heavy 50 caliber GAU-21. The right gunner operated the smaller M240 using 7.62 ammunition. Over the constant whine of the jet engines and the thumping of the rotors above them, the pilots could hear the breech mechanisms slamming rounds home as the gunners prepared to engage on their signal. Todd lifted the switch over the MASTER ARM button and pushed it.

Allowing Mark to fly the aircraft, Todd continued with his Hellfire checklist: “AVT lock on target, reticle position… let’s pop up to one-fifty… mobility kill.”

“Roger, climb to one-fifty,” Mark replied, then added, “Turning in.”

“Roger,” Todd acknowledged.

The aircraft banked right, deepening the whup, whup, whup sound of the rotor blades as it dug harder into the Caribbean air. Mark placed the boat on his nose and lifted the aircraft to 150 feet. Todd was now head down on the FLIR. As he studied the boat, he was able to pick up contours from the heat contrasts, especially the four white-hot engines on the fantail. With the hand controller, his finger squeezed to the first detent.

“Ranging…six thousand meters.”

“Roger,” his co-pilot replied.

“Give me three degrees left, please—” Todd requested, lost in his concentration as they crept up on the boat, holding course and speed. They haven’t seen us. Good.

“Comin’ left three,” Mark answered. “Slowing to one hundred.”

The range steadily decreased, and Todd transmitted their status to the E-2. “Tango Lima, ten seconds.” He then said over the ICS, “ Designate … good heading, good offset… solid constraints box… solid seeker head.”

“Roger, Delta Charlie,” transmitted the disembodied voice of the E-2 controller.

With the laser designating the boat two miles ahead of them, Todd kept up a running commentary for the benefit of his crew.

“We’re armed up, good laser… five seconds.” He concentrated on holding the reticle on the middle engines, and when the range was ideal, squeezed the controller trigger to the second detent. After a familiar and unnerving delay, and sounding no different than a bottle rocket, the Hellfire shot past his shoulder. It left a white plume as it climbed gracefully ahead. He then transmitted;

“ Rifle away, now, now, now … fourteen seconds.”

“Roger, Delta Charlie,” the E-2 calmly responded.

While Todd concentrated on reticle placement, Mark watched the missile fly away. It became a white point that abruptly stopped in midair halfway to the boat as the rocket motor burned out. The missile immediately became invisible, and his eyes then went to the boat, bounding northwest as before.

Todd watched the seconds-to-go display count down as he kept the reticle on. “Five seconds,” he whispered into his lip mike, keeping his eyes on the display. They still don’t see us, he thought, transfixed by the infrared image casting off spray from the bow. When the missile exploded on the engines, the display went nearly white, and Todd instinctively looked up to see his target.

“Nice shot,” offered Mark, as if Todd had driven a ball into the fairway on a relaxing Saturday morning round of golf.

Todd watched the boat suddenly stop in the water as a mixture of white and black smoke rose into the air. “Impact. Cease lase.” he transmitted to the E-2.