Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“ Condor , three-zero-one is going to buster down close to Waterloo. Will ID what I can en route.”

“Roger, three-zero-one. Fly your pointer to first skunk.”

The E-2 sent data-link commands to Wilson’s navigation computer that provided him steering cues to an unknown surface contact. Wilson saw a contact close to the steering cue and locked it with the TDC. The FLIR image revealed the heat signature of a coastal merchant ship heading east at ten knots.

“ Condor , your contact is a merchant. We think our guy is booking it south at twenty-five for the coast.”

“Roger, Ridgeline. W e’ve got lots of traffic in your vicinity, but we’ll concentrate on the skunks heading south.”

While Ripper and Billy received instructions from Condor , Wilson continued south just under the supersonic “number.” His radar now showed him fewer than 60 miles from the coast, with the buildups increasing in size and number as he neared the South American landmass. Thirty miles to the west was a lone thunderstorm topping around 40,000 feet, and to the southwest a line of cells was approaching Barranquilla. Believing, through experience, that “a peek is worth 1,000 scans,” Wilson peered over his left LEX at the water four miles below. In the shadow of a little squall cloud, he saw something light on the water. He pulled power and slewed his radar way down to the surface and locked the object. Once the FLIR matched his radar, he studied the image. Sleek, with raked lines, the vessel was motoring south. Wilson determined this could be the yacht, but it appeared to be in no hurry.

A few miles to the east, he spied another coastal merchant, and to the south and west he observed other small boats. No matter what happened now, the Americans would have company.

“ Condor , three-zero-one is marking on top of what could be Lauderdale . I’m going to stay high above. Can you send the UAV to look?”

“Roger, Ridgeline. Will be a few minutes.”

Wilson acknowledged the transmission and scanned the surface for the Fire Scout . He took care to remain high above the contact, which, by the wake, seemed to have picked up speed. The clouds concealed the vessel, at times but Wilson knew it couldn’t get away from him. The UAV would fly close aboard to do what Wilson and the other pilots wanted to avoid — risking their eyes to identify it.

When Olive showed up, Wilson directed her to take an altitude above him and help keep eyes on the contact. Now transiting south at fifteen knots, the contact was headed for another squall. Olive’s Hornet was loaded with two bombs and, like Wilson, had a full load of bullets. They were inside fifty miles from the coast — an unexpected cushion from Colombian territorial waters, even if the suspected yacht kicked it up to full speed. They had breathing room for the moment, but Wilson knew he would have to return to the ship for fuel within an hour.

He saw the Fire Scout approach from the east and reported he had a visual on it. Three miles from the contact, the little unmanned helicopter bore down on it unafraid, taking pictures and gaining what intel it could. Wilson didn’t know if the UAV was armed or not, and thought of the Sierras and the SEALS who were about thirty minutes behind.

The contact slowed as it entered the squall — an innocent enough maneuver for any pleasure craft entering bad weather — but Wilson sensed they knew they were being watched and knew the rain squall could offer some concealment from the American aircraft. That sure looks like the yacht from Trench’s FLIR tape , thought Wilson. He was reminded of a small rodent hiding in a crevice from birds of prey overhead.

With the skunk on the outskirts of the rain band, the Fire Scout continued toward it at high speed. From overhead, Wilson watched the aircraft veer left to circle the vessel, but the movement seemed strange. The Fire Scout then appeared to tumble, and with a big splash it fell into the sea.

“ Condor , the Fire Scout just crashed about a mile abeam the skunk!” Wilson transmitted. He then called to his wingman on his Comm 2 radio. “Olive, you see that?”

“Affirm, and I may have it on my FLIR tape,” she answered.

“Roger.”

After a few minutes, the E-2 came up with a dire message to the Air Wing SIX aircraft circling above. “Ninety-nine Broadsword , we believe the UAV was downed by a lightshow .”

The contact, the last indication of innocence now gone, was not moving. It was in the middle of the rain squall that was drifting southeast, and the thunderstorm was nearing: two weather developments that would help the vessel hide from American eyes and weapon sensors. Because Wilson and the others didn’t have unlimited fuel, time seemed to be on the side of the contact.

Wilson knew this contact was the yacht that had blinded Trench. It had also just shot down the UAV before his own eyes. Sure, the lawyers could point to circumstantial evidence, but with the Sierras inbound and as the senior on scene, he needed to make a call.

“ Condor , this is Broadsword lead in three-oh-one. Declare the Lauderdale I’m marking on top of.”

Wilson and the other air wing aircraft waited for a reply. The tactical coordinators in the E-2 had access to secure communications with several tactical intelligence and signals reconnaissance sources in the region. Wilson knew it could be a while before they came back with an answer. Now joined by Ripper and Billy Martin’s Rhinos, he and Olive circled overhead, and Wilson directed traffic by assigning deconfliction altitudes.

The yacht remained in the relative safety of the squall, rain still beating on it, as the carrier aircraft remained overhead. As they waited for an answer from E-2, the pilots watched both their fuel and the thunderstorm bearing down on all of them.

The storm was now five miles away and pushing the squall ahead of it to the safety of territorial waters, but before that happened it would envelop the squall and yacht, escorting it in a cloak of rain and lightning. The Sierras were five minutes out. Wilson needed an answer, now.

“ Condor, Broadsword lead. What’s the story?”

“ Broadsword, Condor. Stand by.”

“No time, Condor . You’ve got sixty seconds to give me an answer. Lauderdale is going to escape.”

Wilson was now at 16,000 feet, with the other jets stacked above him, and, through the buildups, noted the Sierras coming from the north. He called to them.

“ Rustlers, Ridgeline three-zero-one is on-scene commander. Hold your position there until we straighten things out here. We’ve got the contact of interest in a squall, and we’re getting direction from above.”

“Roger, sir. We’ve been monitoring. Standing off.”

With the helos holding away from danger, Wilson knew the yacht now had plenty of time to recharge their laser to blind or to shoot down any aircraft that approached. Fuel was dwindling, and the thunderstorm bore down on them with no let up, blocking out the sun. As Wilson circled in its midafternoon shadows, he formed a plan.

“ Broadsword lead, Condor .”

“Go,” Wilson replied.

“Your contact is declared hostile .”

Wilson rogered and put his plan into action.

“Olive, take trail on me. Ripper, Billy, you guys hold high. You have me, Olive?”

“ Affirm! ”

“Follow me down.”

Wilson overbanked and traded his thousands of feet in altitude for airspeed as he accelerated toward the water and away from the yacht. With the yacht still under the squall, Wilson’s line of sight was obscured by the clouds, but he planned to disable the yacht so the SEALs could take it down. He would come in low and fast and “throw” his bomb into the crevice between the sea and cloud bottom, aiming for a position just aft of the fantail — a mobility kill. He radioed his wingman.