Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“They can abandon all that?”

“Hell, Flip, they’ve flown damn airliner packed to the gills into a dirt strip, unloaded it within minutes, and abandoned it to the desert. They don’t need it again. They’ve made their billion off it.”

“So what is this? You guys are going out there, with tipper info from someplace, to find a go-fast and blow it away just like that? And it’s all covert, even as you hide with your bogus cover story in plain sight aboard the ship. Do I have it right?”

Weed’s eyes held no expression as he mulled his answer. “In so many words, yes.”

“Lying to me and everyone else?”

“ A bodyguard of lies , Flip. We need to keep this black to deny the enemy any intel for as long as possible as we attrit as many of their on hand transportation assets as possible.”

“Come upon them with no warning? Shoot with live ammo? Shoot survivors? Is this what we’ve come to, Weed? Is this how far we’ve devolved?”

Weed’s face turned dark as he leaned forward in his seat and growled. “ Don’t give me your Marquess of Queensberry bullshit! These guys are sending poison into our society each month. It is a fucking deluge and law enforcement can’t handle it. Decades of interdiction have barely made a dent in the trade, and the cartels’ networks are stronger than ever. Dollars are washed with increasing sophistication. Look at Panama! It’s the financial capital of Central and South America, and it ain’t from collecting fees from banana boats going through the canal. If we don’t stop these guys, or at least slow them down, they are going to become a major power right on our front porch. Are we supposed to just watch that happen? Do we have to just sit back and go through the farce of this endless ‘drug war’ while our inner city kids kill each other, generation after generation of them unemployable. The suburban kids grow up wasted and useless, and even the country kids have figured they can make meth themselves and eliminate the middle man. Everyone acts rationally except us, and you want to see no evil?”

“I just saw you commit murder, and you are telling me it is officially sanctioned? Fine, let’s march the cons on death row to the firing squad tomorrow. Let’s send the damn lawyers home if we have no more rules of engagement. I mean… I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, Weed. What have you gotten involved in?”

“What did you see out there? A U.S. Navy warplane catching a smuggler in international waters and taking it out. What is the difference between that and a UAV blowing away a terrorist in any number of sovereign nations? Happens all the time, doesn’t it? How about a sniper defending a company of soldiers. No warning, bang, here comes a Hellfire or a high caliber bullet. Precise and quick. Would you rather we waste the coastal village from where they started? The poor farmers who are growing this stuff and still live in squalor? The bottom line is everyone gets screwed but the kingpins down here and the dealers back home.”

“ No survivors! Why? Just tell me why?”

“The gloves are off. It sends a message when Juan and the boys go over the horizon and are never heard from again. Before, the Coast Guard would capture some guys after they tossed everything overboard. They would then do some amount of time, then it’s ‘Back, Jack, do it again.’ I’m thinking, after this month, the recruiting offices will have a tougher time making their quota of mules if the mules know there’s a pretty good chance they’ll disappear forever. That fear is another weapon, asymmetric at that. If those guys want to play without rules, we can do that.”

Wilson was still struggling to understand. “How did you get involved in this?”

Weed’s familiar smile returned.

“After I left the Ravens, I was ‘approached.’”

“Approached? I wasn’t ‘ approached .’” Wilson regretted his words, and Weed didn’t disappoint.

“Yes, you, the hero of Yaz Kernoum! Navy Cross, two air-to-air kills — never mind that one of them was mine, you dick. Then, boy-skipper. I guess the CNO aide job took you out of the pool, and they had to approach little-old-me with my measly Silver Star.”

Wilson knew he deserved it and knew Weed had to get this off his chest.

“You know, that Silver Star… people notice it. You are King Kong, instant credibility, but when your freakin’ roommate has a Navy Cross….” Smiling at the incredulity of it, Weed shook his head and exhaled. “I mean, you’re the guy the CNO wants. Everybody wants you on their team. You get command of the Firebirds early; you’re on your way. Me? I’m the perennial second-banana to Flip Wilson, Tonto to Kemosabe. I’m out of the limelight — and that’s why I was approached.”

“Are you still in the Navy?” Wilson asked.

Weed chuckled. “Yes, currently hanging out with Mongo and other fun personalities in a dark cyber-locked dungeon on the Fleet Forces staff. We’re the Atlantic Fleet operational test guys. The land of the misfit toys, I like to call us. We are everyday fleet knuckleheads involved in some programs — so we have cover stories — and we just read you in to one of them.”

“One of them?”

“One of them.”

Wilson pressed him. “You’ve done this before?”

“Yes, several times. Mostly go-fasts and submersibles like today. Months ago I bagged a King Air near the Yucatan Peninsula; low-slow flyer on the deck, non-squawking, lights out, heading north… that guy isn’t a tourist. I flew close aboard to ID him, then chipped away at his right engine with guns before finishing him off. The guy was a fucking plastic surgeon from Alabama carrying a load of poison for our kids. Yeah, I sleep soundly.”

Wilson sat absorbing it, stunned.

Weed broke the tension that followed with his familiar grin. “Skipper, you better get back to the squadron. We’ve been alone here for some time, and people are going to talk.”

Wilson, still in his flight gear, gathered his helmet bag and stood. “We will talk again?”

“Sure, Kemosabe! But not about Century Ratchet. That is discussed here only , and I cannot emphasize enough, my friend, the importance of operational security. You have some experience in this area, and, if I were you, I wouldn’t sneak up on me and hide behind clouds again.” Weed’s face went from jovial to serious as he spoke the words.

In the past, Wilson would have made a crack about Weed’s poor lookout doctrine or his poor eyesight. Not today — and maybe never again.

With a cup of coffee, Daniel Garcia enjoyed the sunrise over the Golfo de Paria from his mountaintop estate above Puerto Hierro, the dark landmass of Trinidad barely visible from thirty miles away. As the red warmth began to break through the clouds that hung over the mountainous island, Venus showed itself in the royal blue sky. To the south a large ferry plied the gulf. En route to Port a Spain, he surmised. Unusual for this hour.

To his left and north the Caribbean met the Atlantic, the limitless ocean, now dark and serene as the glow from the east began to illuminate the cottony clouds that floated above the peaceful waters. From his picture-window observatory, he had a near 360-degree view of the sea and sky around the Peninsula de Paria. Here, as the day began, long before Annibel and the girls awoke, he could think.

Medellin. A continent away and a lifetime ago…. In reality, it had been only ten years since he left the city where he had made his fortune. Not that he missed it. The Pacific was what he missed, his boyhood home of Buenaventura along the coast. A boy as restless as the Pacific surf, he had left paradise for Cali and the coke, the girls, the money — and the power a tough, smart kid like Daniel could wield at a young age. He regretted the murders, and was glad he no longer had to burden himself with the violent end of the business. He didn’t regret leaving bitchy Marta, who had refused to leave Cali and her super-bitchy mother. Marta did not know how close she came to death when she lit into Carlos that night in Medellin. She has her money now , he thought, and her annulment. If she remarried, however, he would have her new husband killed. Daniel would ensure she spent the rest of her days alone.