Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Taken aback, Macho answered her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If, in the future, any of your fellow officers act in an immature way that doesn’t cross the line, then shoot them a condescending look. I believe you have some experience in this area. Then drop it .” Macho nodded her understanding, her eyes locked on Annie.

“I’ve lied before in my life. We’re only human, and we must be forgiven. But if you ever lie to me again, it will be bad for you. Very bad.”

“I’m sorry, XO. Won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t. That’s now behind us. You have a problem, come to me first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Can you fly on his wing?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s a solid pilot, and you can learn from him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Annie smiled a warm smile at her nugget pilot. “Great. Have a nice day. Dismissed.”

Daniel drew on his cigarette as he observed Mayor General Edgar Rodolfo Hernandez through the smoke. The two of them were at a safe house near the Aviación Militar Nacional Bolivariana de Venezuela base at El Libertador in the coastal city of Maracay. Previously known as the Fuerza Aérea Venezolana or FAV, the Air Force brought to the Bolivarian Republic a modern fourth-generation threat that included a squadron of older model F-16s and 24 more modern Suhkoi Su-30 multi-role fighters, and a few squadrons of light attack aircraft. The force was well suited for internal security and air sovereignty alert missions, possessing a 707 in-flight refueling tanker and a handful of electronic warfare aircraft.

While no match for a concerted American effort, the AMV was a capable South American air force that could pose problems for the Americans should they decide to test Venezuela, the topic the two men were discussing in the dimly lit room in a non-descript neighborhood. Hernandez, who wore civilian clothes for the meeting, had only his aide and a bodyguard outside. He knew they were no match for Daniel’s team. Hernandez hoped the meeting would be over soon. He couldn’t wait for his reward and found it difficult to concentrate on Daniel’s words.

“Edgar, my supply lines are almost completely cut. I haven’t had a single shipment of any kind make it to the Yucatan in almost two months, and my operations in the islands are severely curtailed. Unlike normal interdiction efforts, my mules are disappearing. They go over the horizon in a plane or boat and are never heard from again. They disappear, as if in the Bermuda Triangle. Even my lily pad trawlers. Some of my best men, men who know how to outfox the Yanquis , are gone without a trace. And it’s becoming a challenge to replace them. Not only for me, but my colleagues are also feeling this new phenomenon, and we do not know what it is. I suspect the Americans. Who else has the intelligence to locate my shipments and the firepower to destroy them without warning? Their elite soldiers know their business. Without a trace , Edgar. We have a problem, mí General.”

Hernandez was a fighter pilot by trade, one of the youngest FAV pilots to fly the F-16 when it was purchased by Venezuela in 1983. He survived the 1992 coup by being on the loyalist side, and, because there were so many openings in the officer corps, he moved up fast. He was the Commanding General of the Venezuelan Air Force, now known as the Aviación Militar Nacional Bolivariana de Venezuela , or AMV in the Bolivarian Republic. While he had never flown in combat, Hernandez knew how to survive — not only in the air force bureaucracy, but while currying favor with the politicians in Caracas. Having a friend in Daniel — who saw to it that one million dollars a year appeared in his offshore accounts and that some of the finest mistresses in Aragua State appeared at his plush safe houses — made life worth living.

Hernandez, in Daniel’s debt, knew the account had come due.

“Señor, we have a small number of open-ocean patrol planes. We will find the Americans and report on their movements….”

“Edgar, I do not want to know where the American are. I want my supply routes open. It’s the Americans that are stopping my shipments, I’m sure of it. They’ve changed their tactics, and I want to take their minds off me and focus them on you .”

“Señor?” Despite being ten years older, Hernandez deferred to Daniel, but the bill— starting a war with the United States— was more than he had ever thought he’d be asked to pay. He was now focused, but soon his mind wandered back to his conditioned obsession. He couldn’t help himself. Daniel continued.

“I want you to start a war, or make the Americans think you are. Rattle your sabers, move provocatively. I want to see an American aircraft carrier outside my window dealing with you and the threat posed by your expensive warplanes. I want them to ignore my little boats and bug-smashers. I want to hear — on the BBC and CNN — about war clouds, the threat of Russian overflights, partnering with Cuba, whatever. Invite the Russians to your bases and have a party when they arrive. The Americans will go loco with fear and will take their hands off me. All this is to your benefit, Edgar.”

“Señor, I do not see how increasing the American presence in the Caribbean can open the sea lanes and air corridors?”

“Edgar, in my experience the Americans, as they say, cannot walk and chew gum at the same time. They can focus on one thing only, and the AMV in the defense of the Bolivarian Republic is a worthy opponent.”

“While I work for you in private, señor, I work for the President in public. I must have orders.” Hernandez was too savvy in the ways of politics to proceed without all the bases covered.

“Yes, of course, orders from above. We have several friends in Caracas, men you are familiar with, who will assist you. Surely the Americans have committed some diplomatic slight or have designs on our nation’s oil wealth that our intelligence operators have uncovered. Perhaps we can accuse a diplomat or businessman of a trumped-up charge. Events will occur — within days — that will assist you in your efforts so you can send your men into battle with a clear conscience. All of us want a clear conscience, Edgar.”

Daniel’s words reminded Hernandez of another military commander who had served masters who did not appreciate what they asked of him. After masterminding the attack on Pearl Harbor, Admiral Isoruku Yamamoto was said to have lamented his orders. At least Yamamoto had been able to “run wild” for six months, which he did. Hernandez knew that against a determined United States, he didn’t even have six days.

But what choice did he have? Daniel was gracious and attentive, refined in speech and dress. However, Hernandez harbored no illusions that his friendship with Daniel would “save” him. He knew Daniel was ruthless, capable of killing him while smiling into his eyes. And, if that failed, the muscle who waited outside the door would do so the moment Daniel snapped his fingers. A quick bullet to the head or a slow squeeze with their bare hands. Hernandez had seen it with others over the years; Daniel had seen to it that he had seen it. Hernandez thought of some of his F-16 pilots — Falcon and Rico, Gunnar. In just a few days, he would be sending them to their deaths. At the memorial services, he would console their grieving widows and pat their small children on their heads in sympathy as his own wife stood next to him. The money, the girls….

Hernandez stiffened his back. He had known this day would come. Maybe I can lead a formation of fighters into battle. I’ve lived fifty-five years, many more than I deserve.