Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Witnesses . With all the vessels around, he knew this could be world news by the time he returned to the ready room. He snapped out of it and concentrated on the return home, only sixty miles away, and obtained fuel states from his wingmen via hand signals.

Wilson called the ship with a mission report…. He figured the admiral and CAG were listening real time to their operations. He then checked in with Marshal for landing instructions.

The controller acknowledged radar contact as Wilson and his low-fuel wingmen maneuvered to enter the low holding pattern overhead the carrier. With a free moment, he couldn’t bear to wait for the end of the story and called Billy on his tactical frequency.

“Billy, Flip. What’s the latest?’

“The yacht just went to Davey Jones’ locker. Rustlers are still here picking up survivors. Hope our buddies made it. They got two captives — male and female.”

Sunk. Wilson thought about the implications. The potential loss of the SEALs aboard was primary, followed by the loss of actionable intel and exploitation of the laser. He wondered if the bad guys scuttled it on purpose or if the hull took too many holes from a combination of bombs, missiles, rockets and .50 cal fire. And two captives…. Wilson wondered if the woman was one Trench saw, but she was there with bad guys who had gone down with the ship. They are probably already dead.

Wilson lowered his tailhook. The others followed suit and prepared their cockpits for the recovery. Hidden by the buildups, he locked Coral Sea on radar and noted her still heading south toward them. He took an offset heading to avoid launch traffic and continued his easy descent to 3,000 feet. He, like CAG and the admiral, would have to wait for the repercussions — and the cost — of this quick-reaction strike.

Rear Admiral Roland Meyerkopf had never seen anything like this in his career.

Submariners lived in a world of rigid procedure and strict accountability, and he did not know how to react to the aviators aboard Coral Sea. They were making weapon release decisions on the spot and then justifying their actions. Century Ratchet be damned! He was the strike group admiral and had not been consulted before his jets attacked the helpless yacht. That his staff and the frickin’ Century Ratchet assholes devised rules of engagement with positive identification conditions that were met didn’t mean that the flyboys could just go ahead without him. Or did it? This was a new Navy, one he little understood. As Ed Browne tried to calm him down for the second time in one day, Meyerkopf wished for the “comfort zone” of a submarine control room.

“Admiral, when the ROE were met and the yacht positively identified through several network inputs, your strike lead, Commander Wilson, acted on your behalf to disable the vessel and effect conditions for our SEALs to board it. The druggies scuttled it, but we got some intel and two captives.”

“We are damn lucky the SEALs survived,” Meyerkopf shot back.

“We are, sir. They chalk it up to another day at the office, but they got photos of the laser and the laptop and other stuff. We are putting them in for medals. Commander Hofmeister and his team will interrogate the captives, and we’ll send all we collected off ship for analysis.”

“Get me on the phone with General McGovern at JIATF South.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Head us north toward GITMO at a 20-knot speed of advance. I want to get out of these waters and get the captives off the ship by tomorrow.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Then get Matson and Sanders in here. When I finish with Jimmy McGovern, I want them waiting for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I want to have a one-on-one with you.” Meyerkopf held Browne’s gaze to convey that it was not going to be a friendly chat.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Commander Hofmeister led Shane down four ladders to the mess decks where they proceeded forward to medical. The ship’s Master at Arms had secured the portside passageway so foot traffic could not pass by the entrance to sick bay. When Hofmeister identified himself and his business, the petty officer nodded to allow them to pass, after giving Hofmeister and Shane a skeptical if not contemptuous look. Ignoring the disrespect for the time being, Hofmeister brushed past, and the Ensign followed. They entered sick bay and were met by a chief who led them to the secured area where the male captive was being held. In critical but stable condition, the man’s right arm was missing below the elbow.

Hofmeister and Shane entered with an armed escort. The captive, about thirty, was strapped down on his back on the hospital bed, his dark hair matted with dried perspiration. His dark, hostile eyes followed the officers as they stepped to the foot of his bed. Hofmeister pulled a cigarette from his pocket and motioned toward the captive. The man looked back at him, confused, then understood and nodded. The chief objected, “Sir, we don’t allow smoking—”

Cutting her off, Hofmeister answered, “I have a waiver from Captain Sanders. Will that suffice?”

“Yes, sir,” the chagrined chief replied.

Hofmeister handed the cigarette to the captive. He took it without a word, staring him down with contempt, his hate-filled eyes conveying more ill will than his broken body. Shane thought she was looking at the face of evil. Hofmeister then produced a lighter and held the flame so the captive could light the cigarette. The MAA moved closer, ready in case the captive were to grab Hofmeister’s arm.

The man took a puff and seemed to relax. Hofmeister began.

“ Como esta usted, señor. Que es su nombre ?”

The captive stared back with cold eyes.

“Please forgive my grade-school Spanish,” Hofmeister continued. “And how presumptuous of me… Please, what is your name?”

The captive took a puff and said nothing.

“You are not in uniform. You refuse to give your name. And you make war against the United States. Would you care to visit Guantanamo Bay? Because that is where you are going, mi amigo . Or, you can answer my questions, and we can turn you over to the Coast Guard who is equipped to deal with law enforcement problems like you. A little criminal smuggling? Or illegal combatant status? It’s up to you, señor. A short jail stay in Miami, or years and years at GITMO with the jihadists. You decide. Now, what is your name?”

The captive looked at Hofmeister, and then turned away, mumbling.

“ Que? ” Hofmeister prodded.

The captive mumbled something again, and Hofmeister leaned in.

With no warning, the captive lunged and spit at Hofmeister who, without hesitation, slugged him across the jaw and swatted the cigarette from his hand. The guard punched the captive’s rib cage, and he screamed in pain, cursing them in Spanish.

Wiping his face, Hofmeister nodded. “Very well. GITMO it is. Chief, until further notice, bread and water for this one.”

With her aircraft aboard, Coral Sea sped north toward GITMO some 500 miles away and to distance itself from the South American landmass. While surface traffic was prevalent in all parts of the Caribbean, it tended to cling to coastal waters and funneled into and out of the approach to the canal. Meyerkopf wanted to get away from the scene of his greatest humiliation. In the dark! He still couldn’t believe it, and, after speaking with higher authority, he would have a one-way conversation with his warfare commanders.