Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Like Trench and Coach?”

“Yes, ma’am. I keep watch from afar, and they seem to be behaving.”

“How about the rest of the air wing guys?”

“So far, so good. She knows her job and she’s nice …. And looks like Miss America. Don’t you hate her?” Olive said as she smiled.

Annie smiled back, and then added, “I just don’t want to see her get hurt. She’s pleasant, but she also seems naïve. And her flight deck jersey and khaki uniform show too much of her figure. Let’s get her a flight suit.”

“Yes, ma’am, but she’s still six-feet tall and built. Hard to hide that — even in a flight suit.”

“Yes, but I think she also needs a motherly talk from me. I’m not sure things are as rosy as they seem for Ensign Duncan, and she needs her shields up. You, too, need to watch out for her.”

“Always.”

“And Macho and Trench… are they still at each others’ throats?”

“Probably, but, from what I can see, it hasn’t spilled over into their jobs.”

“Good,” Annie said as she nodded. Good order and discipline for all hands was a key part of her job as squadron XO. As the senior woman in VFA-16, an unwritten part of her job was to look out for the fifteen percent of the squadron who were female, most of whom were young sailors, many of them right out of high school. While the junior officers had a few more years of maturity under their belts, it wasn’t that many more, and she was glad to have Olive as a wingman to help keep everyone focused on their jobs. Shane Duncan, in particular, had a bright future as an intel officer, and while it wasn’t her fault, she could also be a distraction.

Fifty frames aft, Coach couldn’t believe his luck.

Yes!

Before him on his computer screen was an email with a special attachment sent to him by a stateside buddy. Coach opened it, and before him were three photos of the squadron Intelligence Officer wearing blue jeans — and nothing else.

At that moment Trench walked in. “Dude,” he said as he flicked on the light to his desk.

“Just in time,” Coach replied. “Lookie here. We got skin. We got ink.”

Trench walked over to Coach and checked the screen. “ Yes! I knew it!” he said as he peered in close. In the photos Shane wasn’t wearing her glasses, but her arms covered her breasts. She appeared withdrawn if not perturbed, and one photo displayed her bare back with a tattoo design over her waistline. While the images were not R-rated, the pilots knew they weren’t anything Shane would want shared.

“Is that really her?” Trench asked. “Zoom in on her face.”

Coach complied, and they studied the high-definition image. “Look,” Coach said. “See that thing above the corner of her right eye? What is that? A mole, a freckle?”

“I think it’s a freckle.”

“Does she have a freckle there?”

“Dude, I haven’t noticed!”

“Yeah, I know what you’ve been noticing!” Coach shot back. He got up from his chair and grabbed his cell phone from the charger.

“Where you going?” Trench asked.

“Going to find out for sure. I’ll leave you two alone while I head down to the ready room. Be right back.”

Coach closed the door behind him, and Trench stared at the computer screen. Yes!

A booming roar from a jet recovering on the angled deck above vibrated the passageway as Coach headed aft. Bounding over knee-knockers with purpose, he turned amidships and then aft on the starboard main passageway to Ready 5. He found Shane sitting in the back alone.

Perfect!

“Hey, Shane, how’s it going?” he asked her. There it is, he thought as he spied the small brown mark above her right eye.

“Great! How about you?” she beamed back at him.

“Great. Hey, we’re sending the spouses photos of us at work, and as the new guy, they will want to see you. Let me get a photo of you here on duty.”

“Okay,” she answered, brushing back a wisp of her hair as Coach framed the shot.

“Glasses or no? How about one with each and you pick?”

“Okay,” Shane said and posed for each with her dazzling smile.

Coach showed her the photos. “Here, you go. This one… or this one?”

Replacing her glasses, Shane compared both. “I think the one with glasses.”

“Glasses? You sure?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of who I am. Glasses!” she said, blushing.

“Okay, you got it. Thanks, Spy.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks!” Shane called as Coach spun for his stateroom to compare the evidence.

Once there, Coach opened the door and closed it behind him. “I think we have a winner,” Coach said to Trench. He placed his phone next to the computer screen, and they compared the images of Shane. Coach pumped the air. “That’s her, man! Same spot right there.”

“Are you sure?”

“What? You need a fuckin’ micrometer here? It’s her. See, it’s right above the right corner, same ratio from her eyebrow. We have an intel officer and a centerfold model in the squadron.”

Trench smiled. Maybe Shane wasn’t such a little ingénue after all. And, with the right amount of charm, maybe he could photograph her and…. He was now as determined to bed her as he was to earn his wings. He had to have her, and it made no difference whether it was aboard ship or ashore.

Coach, on the other hand, was thirsty. He knew of a JO in the Hunters who had the hots for Wonder Woman, and these photos should be good for a bottle of whiskey.

Daniel got up and walked over to the wall-sized map of the Caribbean basin. Seated at the table were José Ramos and Eduardo Ramirez, kingpins of the Lara and Sabana cartels. Colombian expats like Daniel, they, too, were feeling the pinch of an unknown chokehold on their supply lines. Agreeing to meet at Daniel’s mountaintop lair was a rare occurrence for the cartel executives, who eyed each other with wary suspicion. Sharing the common hardship of severe losses and the disappearance of skilled mules— plus the harm that brought to their recruiting efforts — the trio had to pool resources and cooperate to restart the profitable flow of product north. Also seated at the table were their number twos who listened and spoke little. Standing around the perimeter was the muscle, in dark suits and glasses, showing no emotion and taking in everything. Daniel pointed to the map.

“I am effectively shut down in the Yucatan. We haven’t seen a shipment come ashore in two weeks, and have had two get through in the past month. Seven of our nine aircraft are missing, and we have only a Mayday call from one in the Windward Passage that had left Haiti thirty minutes earlier, reporting a fire before the radio went dead. Three of my lily pad trawlers are missing— without a trace— and with all this, over forty mules have disappeared with the vessels. At some point, even the mules have value when they make multiple trips and splash cash around their towns to gain new recruits.”

“I’m moving product along the Pacific, but only half of what I send out.” Ramos growled. At 300 pounds with slicked-back hair and dark glasses, he was a repulsive and feared thug.

Ramirez looked like a movie star. His tan set off the little bit of gray at his temples, and gold chains were visible under his open shirt and blue blazer. Like Ramos, his dark side was to be respected, and he spoke next.

“Had you not fought me, Daniel, we would have shared these losses in ‘Your Yucatan. ’ Like Ramos to the west, I am having success up the Leeward chain, but, once in the open, my shipments are lost. Last month one vessel and three aircraft got through to the Bahamas.”