Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Olive, take some offset, and, after my run, spray them with bullets. Don’t press it, and keep your knots up.”

“Roger,” Olive answered.

“Billy, lead your guys behind us and set up a strafe wagon wheel to keep their heads down while we escort the Rustlers . Ripper, remain high cover.”

Y ou go down and out. You go long. All rogered the impromptu plan as they armed up and took position. Showtime.

Now near the water and five miles from the yacht, Wilson reversed his turn and descended down to the surface at military power. As he held the tight turn, straining under the five g pressure, he struggled to crane his head out of the top of the canopy to keep sight. He saw the silhouette of the yacht in the gloom as he brought it to his nose and leveled off just above the waves. Station selected. Fusing set. FLIR — ON. LASER — ARMED. MASTER ARM — ARM.

Wilson sweetened the radar cursors and locked his target as he approached from the northeast. Again entering the shadow of the storm, he thought about how tracking an unmanned helicopter was one thing, but how doing the same with a transonic fighter moving in three dimensions was something else. So far, his ability to maneuver hard had posed a problem for the yacht, but the yacht had advantages. Wilson needed to lob the weapon in there, hold his FLIR on the aiming point, and fly his jet close to the water. If he pressed it too close… well, who knew what the laser was capable of?

Wilson took a glance behind at Olive about a mile on his four o’clock. Good . At his planned distance, he yanked the jet up and right. Fearful of looking at the business end of a laser, he watched the picture build on his FLIR and flew the jet “on instruments.” He pulled back into the yacht as he leveled off his climb, needing to stay underneath the cloud ceiling. He then watched the computer symbology give him steering indications and weapons release parameters on a delivery he had just dreamed up. He had never practiced anything close to it.

With the yacht obscured by his nose, Wilson held his heading for a bit. He wanted to take a look at the vessel, but at the same time appreciated the momentary “cover” the fuselage gave him. However, the Fire Scout was shot down by what the research guys called a laser cannon, and Wilson knew he could be in their sights right now.

He mashed the pickle down as he lofted the weapon toward the computed solution on his Head Up Display. Once he felt it come off, Wilson overbanked left and pulled across the horizon, watching the time to impact and keeping the aiming diamond on the fantail of the yacht. The twelve seconds after he pulled power to stay in position were an eternity. Fighting every urge to get the hell out of there, he held the aiming diamond and monitored his altitude over the water, making sure he didn’t get too low to spoil the computed weapons solution. He seemed to be flying in front of the yacht as the laser weapon guided, by spastic movements of the attached wing control surfaces, to its aim point. With three seconds to go, Wilson noted on his FLIR display a sudden light from amidships the yacht. Even “protected,” with his belly up to the threat, Wilson couldn’t tell if his jet was being burned right now.

Two seconds….

C’mon, dammit!

One second….

Once the weapon flew into the FLIR field of view and exploded near the yacht, Wilson overbanked again and pulled hard away from it. “Olive, they may have a lightpost. Just spray them and get out!”

“Two’s popping,” Olive called as she pulled her jet up and away from the water. Wilson watched her over his left shoulder as he leveled off and sped to rendezvous with the Rustler MH-60s. He watched Olive spray the vessel with a long burst from her 20mm cannon before she jinked away, safe.

Billy then called. “ Ridgeline lead, nice hit! Looked like twenty feet off the fantail. He appears to be circling. Not sure he’s in control. And nice strafing, wingman. Arrows take interval. Lead’s turning in.”

Wilson watched Billy lead his jets into a makeshift strafing “pattern” as he, with Olive following, made for the two Sierras holding north of them. Fuel, always an issue, was becoming a real factor. They had to get the SEALs aboard — and off — ASAP.

After Billy and his wingmen made one strafing run each, the vessel was dead in the water. Wilson and Olive escorted the helos in, directing the Arrows to hold clear. The yacht wallowed in the seas as Wilson called to the lead helicopter.

“ Rustler from Ridgeline , looks like it’s neutralized. I think they tried to laze me from amidships.”

“Roger, Ridgeline , we’re locked and loaded. Going to put a rifle into them before we insert. Stand by.”

“Roger that,” Wilson replied. Circling a few thousand feet overhead, he watched the helos approach the yacht, which was now smoking from the fantail. Without warning, a missile shot forward from the lead Sierra , and Wilson watched a yellow flame trailing white smoke streak to the yacht. Seconds later, a small explosion occurred on the yacht’s amidships superstructure.

The helos bored in, and Wilson thought they would overshoot the yacht before the lead pilot stood his aircraft on its tail as the wingman circled the damaged vessel. Wilson then observed the number two helo pump some machine gun rounds into it before the lead aircraft hovered over the bow to fast rope SEALs onto the smoking hull. The yacht didn’t appear to be fighting back.

The operation was now to capture survivors, collect intelligence, and put the derelict on the bottom. Wilson was surprised how fast things had moved since he had first learned of Trench’s blindness. While he was certain this had to be the vessel that had lased Trench and shot down the Fire Scout , unease gnawed at him.

The first helo flew away and assumed cover as the second one approached the bow with its load of SEALs. Wilson could see sporadic fire from the door gunners of both aircraft. The yacht picked up a list to port as white smoke continued to pour from the fantail. The white hull, as pockmarked with gunfire as it was, gleamed in the sunshine as the squall moved off. The thunderstorm was close at hand — they had to move fast.

The first helicopter returned and hovered over the bow. Wilson watched as it hoisted objects — probably people — inside. It took several minutes to complete, and the radio was full of pilot chatter about the approaching thunderstorm. On the southern horizon Wilson saw a ship, a merchant. He directed Ripper to stay high and check it out.

Wilson watched in fascination as the yacht rolled on its side. The helo crews screamed directions to one another on the radio as the thunderstorm moved over them. The aircraft cleared, and Wilson — suspecting there were SEALs still aboard — was horrified as the yacht’s fantail sank lower and lower into the turbulent water kicked up by the storm. Helpless, he saw figures on the upturned hull as the rain beat down on them and lightning flashed here and there. All the aircraft had to move away, and Wilson’s Hornets , lowest on fuel, had to return to the ship. Billy assumed on-scene commander as the helos waited for the storm to pass.

As Wilson and his wingmen climbed back through the buildups toward home, Wilson reflected on what had just happened. Unsure about whether or not the SEALs had suffered losses, or if they’d had time to collect evidence, he knew the United States had crossed a line. The yacht matched Trench’s FLIR tape, Wilson had seen it shoot down the UAV, and Condor had declared it hostile. Still, it bothered him… and the same two questions ran over and over through his head. What just happened? What is my role in it?