Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Señor, the AMV and all the forces of the Bolivarian Republic will fight to the death to uphold our sovereignty and freedoms. I will set about these tasks as you request.” He was trembling and wanted to get on with it.

“Excellent, General!” Daniel beamed as he poured them another glass of wine. “And when the Russians visit us, please throw them a large party. I’ll cover the costs, of course, and send you a list of entertainers all of you will enjoy. And I’ll have a handsome gift for our friends to take with them when they return to Moscow — or wherever they live! Come!”

With Hernandez’ heart pounding in anticipation, Daniel led him to a modest patio and small pool surrounded by high hedges to discourage prying eyes. The invitation to the patio was his reward for the Pavlovian stimulus/response to his master’s request. Under the shade, a folding table of warmed food and chilled wines awaited them, and plush couches, stacked with luxurious towels, lined the walls. In the pool, three showgirls in bikinis, new to him, smiled at the men, beckoning them to remove their clothes and join them. For a brief moment, Hernandez realized his own daughter was older than any of these girls. Aware of the cameras mounted on the eaves and trees to record the event, Hernandez wondered if Daniel would view these tapes himself. Who would he show them to? Would he share them after Hernandez was dead?

One of the girls stepped out of the pool and, dripping wet, picked up a silver tray. She smiled up at Hernandez as she offered it to him, the dog-treat reward for his faithful military service to the Bolivarian Republic. General Edgar Hernandez knew the drill and forced a smile as he picked up a straw and took a blow, shedding his inhibitions. He had shed his honor and dignity many years ago.

Since his encounter with Weed, Jim Wilson had gone about his day-to-day existence and command duties aboard Coral Sea in surreal disbelief. Read-in to a Top Secret program, he was now complicit in an undeclared and “black” war involving his airplanes and maintenance crews, although it was unknown to them. He couldn’t believe it. Unknown to the damn admiral! Each day Weed would fly a Firebird jet in an effort to seek drug runners and execute them on the spot. It rubbed him the wrong way, as unrestricted submarine warfare and destroy the village to save it had in earlier times. Weed was right, though; the United States was using drones overseas to good effect, and sniper operations had valid military legitimacy. If in combat he snuck up on an enemy aircraft, he would shoot it down and be proud of it. The difference between the circumstances was whether or not there was a declared war, or at least the legitimacy of clear orders passed down from National Command Authority, open and known to the public.

He was not so naïve as to think that classified or clandestine operations were in some way morally wrong. Wilson was a realist. Why should we telegraph our every move? He didn’t lament the lack of media involvement — they always got it wrong anyway — but the cover story troubled him. He wished the United States would just say the Caribbean drug trade is going to be shut down, effective immediately, in order to give the enemy in this phony war fair warning. Then, Wilson himself would blow any blockade runners out of the water without a second thought, and shoot down, without remorse, any non-squawking, low/slow flyers. Just say it and then do it. If you are going to take Vienna, take Vienna.

It had to be the media, he surmised. For all the platitudes to the military, they did not tell America the truth about much of anything. They seemed to just fill their programming with fluff. Contempt . That’s what Wilson and many of his shipmates had for the media, and maybe that contempt was shared by National Command Authority or the combatant commander to send them 2,000 miles to do “operational testing” and to “train” with the Colombian Air Force. At some point, that story would begin to crumble, and Wilson wondered what the next training evolution would involve.

He was at his stateroom desk going over work-center audit paperwork when there was a knock at his door. “ Come in ,” he called.

Weed opened the door and poked his head in. “Can we talk?”

Wilson motioned to his couch. “Yeah, c’mon in.”

Weed closed the door behind him and took a seat on the couch. At night, Wilson folded it out to make a bed.

“You fly today?” Wilson asked, knowing the answer.

“Yep, just got back.”

“Successful test?” Wilson asked.

Holding eye contact, Weed nodded. “Successful test.”

Wilson nodded back. “Good. What can I do for you?”

Weed gathered his thoughts. “Our friendship is important to me.”

“Me, too.”

“I have a job to do.”

“Doing it well from what I can see.”

As Weed hesitated, Wilson eyed him with disdain.

“I’m not sure why I came here, or what I was going to say, because…. Well, I’m here. And I want to…. How’s the squadron?”

“Fine,” Wilson answered. “Our new intel officer is the talk of the ship, and I can see the sharks circling. Stretch, Blade, and Olive are doing well. I’m concerned about one of my chiefs. The usual stuff.”

“I miss it,” Weed said.

“ Then why did you leave it? ” Wilson raged, surprising both of them with his intensity. “You were on track for command! You’d be here now with your own squadron, and don’t give me that bullshit guilt trip that it’s my fault!”

Weed shot back. “You tell me, Skipper . I wasn’t privy to the screen board results that selected you and not me. I went to operational test because I couldn’t get out of the damn Pentagon fast enough! Maybe that’s it. I got off the fucking career track because I couldn’t put up with the bullshit in the five-sided wind tunnel. Glad you could.”

“You think you’re making a difference?”

“I know I am.”

“At what cost? You’ve become an executioner .”

Weed shook his head. “Ha, and you aren’t? How about that truck you turned into Swiss cheese in Iraq? You didn’t give them a chance.”

Knowing Weed was right, Wilson didn’t have an answer.

“I thought so, Mister Holier-Than-Thou. You don’t want a fair fight. None of us do. The cartels don’t fight fair with uniforms and set-piece movements, but they’re fighting us and winning! How old is Derrick now? Ten? Eleven? Given the chance, they are going to poison him. And you are going to let them do that to your son because you follow fucked-up rules generated by lawyers. They don’t.”

“Are we a country of laws or not?” Wilson asked.

“Yes, and I am following them! Just because the news networks aren’t here doesn’t change that. You live by need-to-know, and they don’t need to fucking know! Hell yeah I’m following orders, valid orders delivered by National Command Authority, reviewed and blessed by the damn lawyers. You’re pissed because you’re missing out on the fun. Well, you’re the CO with a formal photo, twelve-piece band at your change of command, following your orders and tasking, a bright future in uniform ahead of you… you earned it so be happy with that. I’m happy with my lot…making a difference and protecting our kids.”

“You could have been a CO,” said Wilson.

Weed looked at him with a blank expression. “What makes you think that I’m not?”