Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Not giving up, Wilson persisted. “ Dusk, sir? CAG, please.”

Matson’s face tightened into a frown as he locked eyes with Wilson.

“The White House wants to go on national TV in the eight o’clock hour to announce the strike — after it happens. As soon as you go feet wet on the egress, the President informs the nation.”

Wilson shook his head in disbelief and frustration. Now he had to inform his fellow strikers, his squadronmates, his friends , about this flawed plan, his flawed plan. He had to sell it to their disbelieving faces. Matson continued.

“Flip, if you had two days to plan you would take the full two days. If you had a week, it would take a week. An 81 % good plan tonight, executed with violence , is better than a 95 % plan in two days. Now, you have my word that my staff and I are going to support you fully. I’m going to the bridge now to run interference for you. Whatever Commander Wilson needs, he gets. What is your game plan?”

Wilson answered, “Three divisions of strikers, slick Mk 80 series bombs in a high dive to cut two runways and a taxiway. A dedicated sweep ahead of us, lots of HARM and jamming from the Growlers . Will we have signals recon with an EP-3?”

“Expect it, and AWACS.”

“And big wing tankers, sir. Gotta have them to get all these jets down there. At least two, three would be great.”

“Already working it,” Matson said as he nodded.

“And Tomahawk …. Request a TLAM strike to soften their defenses and degrade their comms.”

“Will ask, and I think that’s doable. But we need to keep Gettysburg close by to intercept any sea-skimmers.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilson replied. He then made another request. “CSAR. Can we stage some Rustlers in Trinidad if we need them?”

CAG shook his head. “That’s a tall order for a couple of reasons. Getting diplomatic clearance is number one, Number two, it telegraphs our intentions. It’s a long drive from here, even from our expected launch posit. You’ll have to plan that it isn’t available.”

“If one of us goes down?” Wilson responded.

“Evade until we can get to you. You guys will have plenty firepower to handle the threat. Look, take a quick look at all this, assign tasks to your people, make a list of questions and requests and get them to my staff. I’m sending DCAG down here with orders to make your life easier. You’ve got all the senior firepower you need to handle any request of the ship. I’d get them to build the bombs ASAP.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks,” Wilson said, resigned to his fate. “When do you want us to give you a run down?”

Matson checked his watch. “Noon, with the admiral. I’m outta here, and I’m at your service. All of us are. Task us.”

“Thanks, CAG, appreciate it,” Wilson smiled. Eight hours to launch, six hours to brief. Sonofabitch! he thought.

He walked over to his planning team. They had seen him talking to the Wing Commander, and Wilson could tell they were uneasy. He took a breath.

“We’re going tonight.”

The aviators’ faces fell as they absorbed the news.

“Twenty hundred time on target, three divisions of bombers, a fighter sweep, suppression element with jammers and escorts. Expect AWACS and big wing tankers. Probable on the EP-3 and Tomahawk . No CSAR. Day launch, night recovery. And expect 400 miles — each way.”

The aircrew let it sink in. Thirty aircraft launched from 400 miles at sea, major tanking evolution, hitting a well-defended target at dusk for some stupid reason, then back through the tankers to the ship for a night trap. The silver lining was a day cat shot. Shane hovered in the background. She knew something wasn’t right and wanted to help if she could.

As the boss, Wilson wouldn’t give them the opportunity to bitch. Going around the table, he assigned tasks.

“All right…. Stretch, you’ve got the strike element plan and weapons delivery. Get Gunner Short to get the Ordnance Handling Officer up to speed on the load plan ASAP so they can start building. Dusty— tanking plan and launch sequence plan. I want you to be the fuel and timing expert. Get with CAG OPS to coordinate the tankers and get one of the catapult officers in here to help you with the launch sequence plan. Find our expected launch position. Get help.” Wilson then looked at Irish and Shane.

“Irish, make us smart on the threat. Shane, help him with the enemy order of battle and EW frequencies, training, tactics, all of it. You’ve got ninety minutes. Go . Midol, comm plan. Pokey, fighter sweep element — want four Rhinos with four AMRAAM, two ‘ Winders and bullets. Wizard, want your jamming plan — two jets and enough HARM shooters who can also escort the jammers. Get with Irish and Shane. Go .”

The junior pilots nodded and got to work as Wilson continued issuing tasks to the rest of the planning team, pilots and aircrew who would be flying on this strike in mere hours. Wilson noted the forlorn helicopter pilot. Wilson knew he wanted to help, but, with no combat search and rescue option, he would be unable to unless one of the jets had trouble near the ship. Wilson took him aside.

“Chan, we have no lily pad.” The young aviator nodded his understanding, but Wilson could see his disappointment. He then pointed to the chart.

“Except this island…. Look at Trinidad. Study it. Assess the distances from here and the distance from the island to the target. Tell me what’s possible. Give me something for my back pocket.”

The lieutenant smiled at Wilson. “Will do, sir.”

Wilson slapped the lieutenant’s back as he went to work. He then checked his watch. Seven and a half hours until launch.

Edgar Hernandez led his entourage through the blast doors of the aircraft shelter at San Ramón. The early model F-16A was painted in earth tone camouflage and loaded with four Python missiles. The canopy was up and the boarding ladder attached. The Group Commander was saying something about readiness in his ear. He hadn’t shut up since he arrived, and Hernandez was growing weary of it. He had flown this very jet many times as a younger man, over the Gulf of Paria, over the Amazon basin, even to some of the Antilles islands. Adoring crowds came to the airport to gawk at the sleek jet — and the stud pilot climbing out of it. Happier days.

“Senòr General, we have eight Vipers on full alert able to get airborne with less than five minutes notice. Our early warning radars are manned 24/7, and, once the Americans are detected in any direction, the group’s aircraft can be airborne to defend the Bolivarian Republic.”

Hernandez was a realist. We have no chance against the Americans, he thought.

“Group Commander, why are no Sparrow missiles loaded?” Hernandez asked. He sensed the fearful eyes of the others, wondering how their group commander would react to the question.

“Because of the foresight of the leaders of the AMV and the abundant resources of the Bolivarian Republic, the Flanker interceptors will destroy the American formations well out to sea. Then we will engage any leakers that dare to penetrate our sovereign airspace. We have a supply of missiles that can last days —enough time for us to destroy all the American aircraft sent against us.” The entourage now turned to Hernandez to gauge his reaction.

Hernandez glared at the man with disgust. “You said the Flankers would destroy the American formations.”

“Senòr General, in the unlikely event any survive, we have more than enough airborne force to repel them.” The man’s face betrayed him. He realized Hernandez knew he was lying, so he gave the only answer he could in front of his subordinates. In the small, insular AMV, he and Hernandez had known each other for over 20 years. Lying to superiors was a way of life as the truth led to demotion — or worse. Now, after advancing up the ladder, they were lying to each other on a daily basis, as most all did as the Venezuelan society adapted to its new normal. Hernandez would lie to his superiors today, too; the only question was how many times.