Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“And your anti-aircraft defenses. How will you deconflict with our fighters once they are airborne?”

The Group Commander stammered as he tried to formulate an answer. Hernandez knew the answer would be a lie, so he threw him a lifeline.

“Let me ask you this then. Have your anti-aircraft gunners, fighter controllers, and pilots trained in point defense in a coordinated manner to avoid fratricide by anti-aircraft artillery or surface-to-air missiles?”

“ Sí, mí general! ”

“At night?”

The man looked at Hernandez with big eyes before answering. “Sí, mí general!”

“When? When was your last exercise at night, because we know that’s when the Americans come. We can set our watches! When did you conduct this exercise, Group Commander?” Hernandez was impatient for an answer.

“Ah, it was some months ago, mí general.”

“Some months ago, eh? When specifically? Show me the report. What did your group learn from it? What are your strengths? What are your weak areas?”

“We… met all required exercise objectives, mí general…. We….”

“Do your gunners have night vision devices? Do they know how to use them? Do they have fresh batteries? How often do you train with them? Are they coordinated with your target tracking radars? How often do you conduct live fire drills? Are your gun emplacements supplied with sufficient ammunition? Can your gunners tell the difference between an F-16 taking off and an American F-18 three miles up?”

Hernandez refused to be lied to anymore today and found his newfound focus on the truth to be refreshing, despite the answers to his questions, which he knew would be bad. Not waiting for answers from the now reeling Group Commander, he spun toward the nervous F-16 pilot standing by the aircraft ladder. He watched the Commanding General of the Venezuelan Air Force approach him with a determined scowl.

“You. What is your name?”

The surprised pilot snapped to attention and answered as Hernandez and the entourage moved toward him. “Capitán José Manuel Espinoza, mí general!”

“Capitán, when was the last time you flew at night?”

The young pilot glanced at his Group Commander for help, but Hernandez stopped him.

“I asked you , Capitán! When was the last time you flew at night! ”

“Last year, mí general!” the flustered pilot answered, his lip quivering.

“ Last year , you say. In the air defense exercise? With other aircraft in formation?”

The hapless pilot turned pale with fear, eyes darting between Hernandez and his Group Commander. “No, mí general! It was to calibrate the approach control radars!” All were silent as Hernandez bore in for the truth.

“I see. Did you fly during the daytime portion of the air defense exercise?”

The young man, beads of sweat on his forehead, did not know how to answer.

Hernandez continued his probe. “Are you aware of an air defense exercise conducted some months ago? ” While waiting for an answer, he could see the young pilot was petrified. I should go easy on him , Hernandez thought. He may have less than 36 hours to live . I may have less than 36 hours to live .

“Mí general, I heard of one a few years ago!” the pilot blurted. The Group Commander jumped in.

“Mí general, the training gained from an exercise lasts for two years! We have conducted training in accordance with written directives!” The Group Commander, too, was beginning to tremble, which would cause a scene in front of his men. Hernandez glared at him, ready to put an end to the charade.

“ Come with me, ” Hernandez muttered and headed to the hangar entrance adjacent the flight line, the Group Commander trailing as if to the gallows. Some of the entourage began to follow, and Hernandez stopped them cold. “ Just him! ” he bellowed to the dumbfounded group.

Once on the flight line and out of earshot, Hernandez turned to the Group Commander.

“That boy is going to his death tomorrow night, and you’ve done nothing to give him even a chance at survival! You are paid to think about what could happen and prepare this group for any contingency and you’ve fucked around by taking supersonic joyrides over the jungle and chasing pleasure yachts in the Paria Gulf. Your group has lots of pretty pictures of yourselves flying your airplanes in show formation, but that does nothing to defend the Bolivarian Republic from outside aggression! Don’t you know an American super carrier has been spotted passing through the Lesser Antilles and into the Atlantic? Do you even know the expected threat quadrant?”

“Mí general, who could have forseen the Americans—?”

“ You, dammit! Do I have to train your men for you? Seems I do. You are relieved of group command, effective immediately. That scared kid could do a better job leading you against the Americans, but I’m not letting you anywhere near a jet. You are grounded. I will lead him and the others tomorrow night, and you can watch us go to our deaths with honor. If you are lucky, an American bomb will fly right into your lying mouth. Then, you won’t have to live the rest of your life in shame.”

Shocked, the demoted officer pleaded with his former mentor. “Edgar, please…. Edgar, let me redeem—”

“No, and how dare you call me by my first name? Get out of my sight!”

Hernandez stormed back to the group waiting in the hangar as the cashiered Group Commander walked away in shame.

Hernandez spotted the Deputy Commander. “You. You are in command of the Group. I want you and your pilots airborne this afternoon, and again tonight, practicing forward quarter intercepts. We expect the Americans tomorrow night. Break out the air-to-air missiles, and get your people ready .”

“Sí, mí general!” the Deputy said as he popped to attention and saluted.

Hernandez, still furious, headed to his car, and his aide scurried behind. His beloved Fuerza Aérea Venezolana was not ready for the tsunami approaching from the north. Ultimately, it was all his fault — through his lies and through his disinterest while acting as a courtier in Caracas by day and being serviced by Daniel’s call girls by night. Cashiering the Group Commander in front of the others had made a point and had given them hope, but sacrificing him was an act to save himself from shame, displaying an act of leadership. He felt a deep personal guilt about serving the corrupt politicians and the cutthroat Daniel before serving his men. Edgar Hernandez had little hope for the ill-trained fighter pilots of San Ramón in their elderly Vipers . At least he would die with them — with honor , honor he had just denied to his subordinate commander.

The only thing that could save them now was if the Americans pulled their punch… or if the two Russian “toys” hidden along the outskirts of the field lived up to their billing. He directed the driver to take him home.

Approaching noon, Matson led his DCAG, Wilson and Stretch to flag plot for the lap brief with Admiral Davies. This was Wilson’s “show,” with CAG and Deputy in support. Stretch carried a classified folder of imagery and a chart of the target area that depicted the aimpoints and potential threat rings. Once inside, Wilson took the chart and laid it on the table, and Stretch thumbed through the photos to find a satellite view of San Ramón with the Designated Mean Points of Impact, or DMPIs, marked.

As they set up the conference room, and before eight bells sounded, Admiral Davies walked in unannounced. He didn’t say a word.