Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Wilson fumed as Mongo led them to a catwalk abeam the island and descended to the O-3 level where he undogged the hatch so CAG and Wilson could enter the ship. Once inside and away from the flight deck chaos, they removed their helmets. CAG spoke over his shoulder as he led them down the passageway.

“Jim, we need to go to CVIC. No worries, but we need to talk there.”

The carrier intel center was where Wilson was going anyway to debrief, as would any aviator after a hop. He could see that he was going to be debriefed by CAG himself on what he had seen out there. But one thing was sure: From this point on, he would not allow Mongo to step into his ready room, much less fly one of his jets.

Once at CVIC, the sentry buzzed them in, and CAG led them past the tables of intel officers taking aircrew debriefs. Among them was Shane who smiled at her CO. Wilson nodded back, mindful of the need to look as normal as possible, despite his high-ranking escort.

A conference table sat in the middle of the small room they entered, and workstations with computer monitors ringed the perimeter. Charts of the area were displayed on the bulkheads, and in one upper corner the ubiquitous PLAT monitor showed the recovery that continued on the flight deck. They heard the roar of a Growler trapping aboard one deck above them.

Mongo closed the door behind them and went to a file cabinet to retrieve a folder. CAG motioned for Wilson to take a seat.

“Jim, what did you see out there?”

Feeling Mongo’s hostile stare on him, Wilson began. “I saw a Rhino , flown by my friend, drop 76’s in a patch of ocean. Suddenly, an object, which I assumed to be a submarine, surfaced where he was bombing, and a Fire Scout shot it with a missile. On my FLIR display I saw the object as it began to sink, and after it did, Weed — that is, Commander Hopper — strafed the water where it went down. Then I left.”

“How do you know it was Weed?”

“He was ahead of me on the cat. And, when my wingman went down, I had time on my hands and decided to follow him. We’ve been friends for years, and I wanted to see what kind of tests he was doing with the Fire Scout .” Wilson paused as he looked at CAG. “I now think I know.”

CAG took a few steps and sat down in a chair on the other side of the table. “Do you know we are at war?”

Wilson let the words sink in. “Yes, sir, several of them ongoing. If we’d just win one, we could lower that number.” CAG Matson let Wilson’s sarcasm pass.

“We are at war down here. Remember the war on drugs?”

“Yes, sir, been going on 20–25 years, I think.”

“Are we winning?” CAG asked.

“Not from what I can see.”

“Well, we’re trying to. Mongo, go ahead.”

Mongo, still standing, placed an open folder on the table in front of Wilson. Inside was a nondisclosure agreement.

“Commander Wilson, you are being read-in to a special access program that involves restricted information. You are being read-in as a ‘need-to-know’ as a result of a breach of operational security during the normal course of your duties. The information you are about to receive is classified TOP SECRET NOFORN, SCI, and will remain so until rescinded by controlling authority. Do you understand, sir?”

“Yes,” Wilson answered Mongo with a frown.

“This classification level has no expiration date and will remain in effect after you leave the service and until your death. Do you understand this, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Please sign and date.”

As CAG watched, Wilson took his pen, scanned the agreement, and signed his name at the bottom. They heard a knock on the door, and Mongo cracked it open to see who it was. He then opened it to allow Weed to step inside. Wilson’s eyes remained on Weed as he walked around the table and pulled out a chair next to CAG. When Weed sat down, he made eye contact with Wilson.

“Kemosabe.”

Wilson glared at him.

“Sorry to give you a start as you were coming back home. How was your pass?”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “If Paddles can find me, I’ll get a debrief — if I ever get out of here,” he said, trying to mask his disgust. CAG took over.

“Jim, here’s the deal. The United States is engaged in a covert program to stem the flow of illegal narcotics from South and Central America. Smugglers are using air, surface, and, as you saw today, subsurface means to traffic product. Navy is the lead agency, and we have assets here in the Atlantic, and in the Pacific, to interdict the flow.”

“How long has this been going on, sir?”

“That’s need-to-know, but we’ve been involved since we arrived here. Weed and Mongo and the other operational testers are involved with testing of the Fire Scout based on Max Leslie. That much is true. But they are also involved with kinetic operations like you saw today. This operation hides in plain sight, and you stumbled across it. So now you’re read-in. The name of the program is called Century Ratchet.”

Wilson took it in, his mind full of questions. “Who else aboard is read-in, sir?”

Matson glanced at Weed, then back at Wilson. “Several. Without naming them, I’ll allow you to ask, and I’ll answer with a nod.”

Taken aback, Wilson formed a mental list of likely confidants for Century Ratchet. “The captain?”

Matson nodded.

“Ship’s Operations Officer?”

Another nod.

“The admiral?”

CAG shook his head no. Wilson was stunned. The strike group admiral was not read-in? He continued.

“Other aircrew like me?”

“Yes, two JOs from another squadron, in a similar scenario.”

Wilson absorbed this information before he asked the question he knew he must: “So, no one in my squadron?”

Matson pursed his lips and shook his head. “There is one.”

“Who, sir?’

The airwing commander pointed toward the other room. Wilson reacted with wide-eyed shock when he realized CAG’s gesture meant his new intel officer. Shane Duncan .

“My wet-behind-the-ears ensign! She’s read-in?” he asked, astonished.

“Intel needs to be collected and recorded, and cleared people need to do that.”

When Wilson slumped back in his chair, Weed piped up. “Sir, may I take over now and spend some time alone with Skipper Wilson?”

“Yep,” CAG agreed. “You’ve got it.” As he stood, he said, “Flip, you know the gravity of this. Century Ratchet is a classified term, and we are not going to discuss it further. As far as you are concerned, our activity down here is ops normal. Make it fast, Weed, so he can get back to his squadron.”

“Thanks, CAG,” Weed replied. He then turned to Mongo and said, “Mongo, why don’t you take a walk?”

“I need his tapes, sir.”

Weed raised his hand. “I’ve got it, Mongo. You can go now.” With a scowl, Mongo followed CAG out the door and closed it.

Wilson spoke first. “Is he really a naval officer?”

“Yep.”

“Could’ve fooled me. I don’t want him flying my jets. I don’t want him to even set foot in my ready room.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

Wilson looked at Weed as if to say Really? Considering what he had seen, Wilson was still skeptical — and worried about the implications for his friend and his country.

“Where do I start?” Wilson asked him.

“Why don’t you let me begin? Do you know how much the cartels make each year on the cocaine trade? Total?”

“A gazillion dollars.”

Chuckling, Weed said, “You know, that’s about right. It’s eighty-six billion a year. Do you know how much of that is overhead?”

“No.”

“ One billion . The cartels are making 98.8 % profit, numbers that would make Amazon and Apple blush. And they are using old, beat-up, twin turboprops; cigarette boats; nondescript fishing boats; and, yes, as you saw today, submarines. They have fucking submarines , Flip, not low radar cross-section submersibles. Submersibles are so last century. Their subs can carry 10 tons of product that they take to Mexico where it walks across the border, or they can take it to the Bahamas, Puerto Rico, or even right up to our gulf coast and transfer it to a waiting cabin cruiser offshore. And they ditch the vessels or aircraft, no need to reuse them, and if two out of four shipments are intercepted by law enforcement, they are still making a mint. And that’s just cocaine, not pot, not meth, not heroin. The stuff then gets into the distribution network in the states or Europe, wherever, and it’s no longer the cartels’ problem. They’ve long been paid. That’s all this is, Flip, one big and very well oiled production and distribution machine. You gotta hand it to these guys.”