Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Furious, Daniel looked at the phone and resisted the urge to hurl it against the window. Outside the window was a view of Trinidad, lush and inviting. Surely, he could swim across the gulf to answer the island’s invitation to escape —to be free of Ramos, free of the triangulating Eduardo who deserved to die, of Annibel, of business headaches, and of the damned Americans and their smart bombs. He could see the island, could reach out and touch it. It can’t be fifty kilometers away. It’s right there. While growing up, he had swum in the Pacific surf. In an instant, Daniel listed swimming to Trinidad as an option. He would miss the girls… Julianna would take it especially hard. Ramirez snapped him out of his daydream.

“Daniel! Daniel! Do you hear what I am telling you? If you don’t have your fools bow and scrape before the Americans right now, and put the genie back in the bottle, you are dead. And if you don’t pay reparations to Ramos right now, you are dead. You may already be a dead man walking, but, remember, I warned you!”

Daniel heard a click as the line went dead. How he wanted to strangle Ramirez with his expensive silk tie, to rip that moustache off his lip with the fingers of his clenched fist. Daniel had grown accustomed to having his wishes fulfilled with a casual wave. Did he, once again, have to do the thinking, too? Did he have to do it for Hernandez, a mayor general? Daniel realized his thinking was getting him into trouble. Regardless, no more safe house frolics for Hernandez. Bad dog .

Ramirez was right about one thing. With few exceptions, the Americans fought for a flag — the damn stars and stripes! Who said it? Napoleon? A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon. Would the American sailors and airmen also fight this way? Risk their lives for nothing, for their own inept politicians? For a piece of colored ribbon?

Daniel knew he had to find the exceptions, the traitors who would give up their country for a new jet ski, or simply to get attention. America had such men — and women — in their military. He would find them.

Ramos . Daniel stared at Trinidad as storm clouds gathered to his west but thought of Ramos instead of the island’s luscious trees.

Devil Davies wasted no time gathering his warfighters and gearing them up for a fight. Less than an hour after his arrival aboard Coral Sea, he received a perfunctory ten-minute “turnover” brief with a shell-shocked Meyerkopf.

Davies dutifully shook hands with him and then had Browne summon the “Warfare Commanders” and squadron COs to flag plot. Matson sent one of his Sierras to pick up the captain of Gettysburg, the Air Warfare Commander, and bring him to the carrier. He was the last one to arrive in the packed space. Squadron COs such as Wilson and Billy, two of the more junior officers in the room, stood along the bulkhead as the higher ranking officers took seats around the small table. The chair at the head was reserved for Davies. From above them the hmmmm generated by propellers of the turning COD resonated throughout the room.

With all assembled, Browne entered and announced, “Gentlemen, the Admiral.” The room sprang to attention.

Davies followed Browne into the room. “Seats,” he grunted as he took his chair. Davies’ aide set a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him. Only one woman, a commander IT officer, was present at this gathering. Davies got right to business.

“Gents, we are spinning up to strike the Venezuelans. Captain, I want us to get into the Atlantic to a position one hundred miles northeast of Barbados in 24 hours. I want you to blow through the Sombrero Passage and let the world see you doing it. Gettysburg , you are riding shotgun. Who the hell is the destroyer commodore?” Davies then asked, scanning the room for an answer.

“I am, sir,” a surface warfare captain answered, preparing for a legendary Davies blast.

“I want two DDGs in a launch window north of Aruba and to defend from any BMs they may launch. Put them in the right spot. The Dutch have a destroyer down there, and the Brits have one getting underway from Kingston. You are going to be the task force commander of this little flotilla, and I want you down there riding one of your shooters. Do they have hangars?”

“One does, sir. Norman Kleiss ,” the commodore answered.

“Fuck… okay. CAG? Where’s CAG?”

“Here, sir,” Matson answered.

“CAG, put anti-ship and CSAR helos on one small boy and a Sierra on the one with no aviation detachment, riding free. Load it up with ordnance. We’re expecting a surface fight and SOF delivery.” Davies turned to Browne. “And, Ed, we need some more rotary wing capability down there. Find me a solution in ten minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Browne said and eyed the staff operations officer who left to figure an answer.

Wilson was unnerved by Davies’ dramatics and suspected the others were, too. No welcome, no “pep talk” from their new strike group commander. Just a routine board of directors meeting with one agenda item: starting a war with Venezuela. Devil was a warfighter, and the collegial niceties of an officer and a gentleman social conduct were not important. Meyerkopf had come across as a social recluse, and Davies seemed to act like Chesty Puller with wings. Wilson had never met the man, but his reputation had preceded him, and it appeared to be accurate. While Davies was studying a chart of the Caribbean, the 1MC sounded.

“Ding, ding… ding, ding… ding, ding. Rear Admiral, United States Navy, departing.”

All heard the C-2 above them taxi out of its parking spot and toward the catapult. Wilson and the others took furtive glances at the PLAT as the white aircraft turned toward the bow catapults. Davies resumed.

“Gents, we are the first out of the gate with a strike on their air base at San Ramón. We are going to be in the Atlantic east of Venezuela in the open and away from the submarine threat. After we neutralize San Ramón, we are going to mine the approaches to Río Salta. We’ve got the eastern part of the country, and the Air Force is going to deal with the area around Caracas. And Aruba. The Dutch have asked for our help to defend it. Theodore Roosevelt is underway, but still days away from helping. And the Air Force also has to deal with GITMO. Once TR arrives, they are going to augment the GITMO force and Aruba defense force. For now it’s us and the boys in blue who will knock their lights out and neutralize the FAV. CAG, who’s leading the San Ramón strike?”

Matson motioned to Wilson. “Jim Wilson, sir, CO of VFA-16.” Wilson nodded an acknowledgement.

Davies studied Wilson for a moment. “Yes, nice to finally meet you. What’s your plan?”

Wilson was taken aback. He had a general idea of what he wanted to do but had checked none of the details with Matson. Despite that, he knew he had better sound confident.

“Sir, we are planning a large raid. About forty aircraft will simultaneously hit their integrated air defenses and target aircraft shelters and revetments. We’ll need big wing tankers from the Air Force, some Tomahawks , maybe a SEAL insert, a big defense suppression plan. We’ve only scanned the requirements, and the strike planning team meets once we finish here, sir.”

“Okay, CAG, I want the TLAM and SOF requirements ASAP, but Skipper, here’s your new tasking. I want you to cut their runways. Leave their damn jets alone. If they come up, then shoot them down and get you a Silver Star. But leave them alone on deck. We want a force-in-being to maintain the balance of power in this region. If they’re smart, they’ll hunker down and not come up.”