Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Coral Sea transited south of Puerto Rico, and Wilson could feel the vibration of the deck plates as the carrier’s four giant screws, positioned almost 100 feet below him, propelled it through the water at thirty knots. Would they go into the Atlantic? Stay in the Caribbean? Who would they fight first? Cubans? Venezuelans? Wilson knew they had to be ready for any tasking with a few hours notice. And the fact Theodore Roosevelt was departing Norfolk to join them meant something could happen, soon.

And the Russians? Would they send more aircraft down the coast of North America and into the Caribbean, to see how high and how often the United States would jump? Wilson knew Coral Sea could now expect around-the-clock alerts. With live weapons. How far out would they have to intercept them? How would they intersperse themselves with “white” airline traffic? With tensions high in the region, would someone make a mistake? One of his young pilots? Would he?

Wilson’s mind drifted to thoughts of Mary and the kids. He realized he had not emailed Mary, or even thought of her, in days. Or the kids. Brittany was still playing with dolls, but Derrick’s sullenness and obsession with violent video games troubled him. Like father, like son . How Wilson wished he and Mary could raise them safely into adulthood, away from the poison of drugs and digital images offered to them on a daily basis, away from the pressures of hyper-sexualized music and dress that would have his daughter pining for heels and makeup before she turned ten. That would expect Derrick to have a “notch-in-his-belt” before he could drive. At least Weed and Mongo had done something about it. They had killed to keep drugs away from his kids. So what if it was a finger-in-the-dike effort. It was something, more than Wilson was doing for his family. He thought again about his children, wishing they could stay kids in a happy childhood as long as possible.

BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG…

Wilson jerked his head up and again sensed the others looking at him as the GQ alarm sounded over the 1MC. Now what?

“General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations! Up and forward on the starboard side! Down and aft on the port side!”

With the alarm blaring and the sounds of hundreds of sailors stamping forward and aft past the Firebird ready room to their stations, Wilson felt the ship heel to port. On the PLAT he noted the canopy close on a Super Hornet positioned on Cat 3. He could see flight deck personnel moving around it as if they planned to launch it on alert.

“This is the TAO. Now launch the alert fighters, initial vector zero-four-zero.”

Pilots came into the ready room — their battle station — and Wilson watched the duty officer mark them off as accounted for.

“ Vampire inbound! Fifty miles!”

Holy shit! Wilson thought. A cruise missile coming at us? Fifty miles? It will be here in minutes , he thought. Coral Sea was defended by the missile-shooting cruiser and destroyers on the horizon and by the carrier’s own defensive missiles and close-in weapons system Gatling guns. Who is shooting at us — from Puerto Rico?

As the crew dogged down watertight doors and hatches, they all listened to the Tactical Action Officer call down the range. The first Rhino went into tension and launched, followed by another on Cat 4. Both jets whipped it over to the left as soon as they cleared the deck and pulled to the northeast 200 feet above the waves in full afterburner

Aboard Coral Sea , in the Combat Decision Centers of the strike group ships, and in the cockpits of the two Super Hornets , watchstanders moved switches to arm missiles that would fire when commanded. With trepidation, they watched as the range to the contact decreased. At first, the watch officers on the carrier had thought the contact was a cruise missile inbound, put the Aegis ships identified it as an aircraft. Those in the CDCs breathed a sigh of relief at the momentary reprieve, while thousands of sailors at the battle stations listened to the 1MC speakers and prayed this was all a bad dream.

The two Rhinos were ordered to identify the bogey and escort. While he set up for an expeditious rendezvous, the flight lead, a lieutenant, had his fellow lieutenant go straight at the bogey to identify it. The bogey was right on the deck and moving at a high rate of knots. The wingman bore down on the contact and surprised everyone when he identified it while thundering past at 500 knots.

“ Alpha Whiskey , the bogey is identified as a business jet, heading two-two-zero approximately 300 knots at 200 feet! Looks like a Citation! ”

Captain Browne stood behind the TAO who looked over his shoulder for guidance. How were they to handle this contact coming at them at only 200 feet, well below a safe altitude for innocent passage and, in the current situation, a hostile flight profile?

Browne studied the screen. He had seconds to make a decision. Shoot down this bogey? Or risk the ship?

“Thump them,” he said.

“Sir?” the watch officer asked, puzzled.

“Have the damn Rhino’s thump them, weapons safe, but scare them off. Tell them to thump him. They’ll know what you mean. Now . Keep warning the unidentified aircraft that they are standing into danger.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the watch officer responded and relayed the message to both aircraft, using a tactical frequency for the Hobos and the emergency GUARD frequency for the Cessna.

In the cockpit of the lead Super Hornet, Hobo 203, the pilot was as low as he dared in a tight turn to affect the rendezvous. When he got the word to thump the contact, he pulled hard to an intercept heading and lit the cans. He then leveled at fifty feet over the waves which whizzed underneath him like white lines on an interstate highway. His wingman swung around hard to line up at the Citation’s six o’clock and make his own run. Recording his HUD and FLIR video the entire time, the lead bore in from the right side of the business jet, looking up at the white-painted Cessna to assess closure and range. The intruder continued straight ahead as the lead Rhino flew his aircraft to a position in front of its nose and pulled straight up in front of it, overbanking left to watch the result. The Citation seemed to veer left, then continue straight.

Hobo 207 was now a mile behind the bogey, unseen, and coming at it supersonic. The lead Hobo watched his wingman’s shock wave bounce off the surface of the water as it sprinted to catch its prey. Once it got to the Citation, the Rhino pulled hard up and to the left, within a wingspan of the unknown jet. Jolted by another unexpected fighter, the message sunk in. The Cessna now turned away from the ship, which it could see on the horizon, and headed back toward Puerto Rico.

With the speed brake extended, the lead Hobo joined on the Cessna’s right wing and his wingman soon joined on the left as the Citation headed away from Mother . The Hobo pilots watched the pilots of the jet and could sense that they were nervous. Behind the pilots, through the passenger windows, they saw people with big TV cameras. Soon, one person held up a flag against a window. The lead eased closer, accepting wingtip overlap, to get a better look. Within seconds, the lead identified the flag as a logo of a U.S. network news outlet.

Once this was transmitted to the ship, the lead Hobo received instructions. At one hundred miles from Mother , with the Puerto Rican coast in sight, the Super Hornet pilot pointed his finger at the Citation co-pilot, then pointed to Puerto Rico, and brushed his hand as if to sweep them away. In unison, both Rhinos pulled up and away from the media snoopers, watching the white jet over their shoulders as they climbed behind it. They orbited high off the coast for a time, keeping watch through the clouds below until summoned home by a relieved Tactical Action Officer.