Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Good morning, sir,” CAG greeted him. “You remember Jim Wilson.”

“Yes, Flip, ready to go?”

“Yes, sir,” Wilson said as they shook hands. “This is my OPSO ‘Stretch’ Armstrong.”

“Ted Armstrong, sir.” Stretch added, extending his arm to shake hands with Davies.

“Nice to meet you. Okay, gents, we’re going to remain standing, and you’ve got five minutes. Skipper, let’s have the overview,” Davies ordered in an abrupt tone.

Wilson swallowed and got to the point.

“Admiral, our tasking is a mission kill of the runways at San Ramón. We are launching at eighteen hundred from our expected launch posit here, northeast of Barbados. Thirty-seven aircraft with a dedicated sweep, radar and comm jamming, and three divisions of strikers loaded with laser guided bombs we are delivering in a dive to cut two runways and one taxiway at San Ramón at twenty-hundred local time. It’s a Viper base with one squadron assigned, but they have two fixed SAM sites in the vicinity of the field and one at Río Salta. We launch, join up south of the ship in elements, then head south to rendezvous on two KC-10’s. Once we get our gas, we push on timeline with the sweepers out front pretty much from the east, skirting Trinidad here, and avoiding the Río Salta defenses. We have a HARM suppression plan, two Growlers with escort, and two Hummers to augment one AWACS and one EP-3.”

“Okay, lemme stop you. How about TLAM?”

“Sir, we’ve asked for TLAM to hit their early warning radars, C2 facilities, two 85mm AAA sites and the control tower. We’ve—”

Davies shook his head in disgust. “Why not the damn fuel farm?”

“We were refused, sir,” Wilson replied.

“Who the hell refused you?”

“SOUTHCOM, sir. This is a mission kill on the runways, which will be out of action for several days before they are repaired, nothing more.” Wilson was taken aback that Davies did not have a working knowledge of the tasking his aviators had been assigned.

Davies frowned. “Go on.”

“Sir, we’re going to come off left and circle back to the east to feet wet, then meet up with the KC-10 for another drink and back to the ship. About five hours total.”

Davies was on a roll. “Where are the Flankers? ”

“Imaged at Caracas, sir, and probably dispersed. We expect the Vipers to be dispersed. We’ve got plenty of firepower if the Vipers come up — and if the Flankers come over to help.

“What’s the weather?”

Wilson drew a breath. “Not great, sir. Convective weather over the continent with high broken to overcast clouds in the vicinity of the islands. Winds at altitude are out of the east, which will help us on the run-in.”

“When is astronomical twilight?”

“Sir, sunset is at 1821 local, so astronomical twilight is 1909 and night is 1936. The good news is we can affix our goggles as we approach the IP. The bad news is no moon tonight.”

“When is your time on target?”

“Twenty-hundred local, sir.”

“What time is that in Washington?”

“Nineteen-thirty, sir, thirty minutes behind.”

Davies nodded as he studied the chart. “Combat SAR?”

“Sir, we don’t have a lily pad, and the target is almost 400 miles from the launch posit. No, sir.”

Davies nodded his understanding, unspoken between them that any downed aviators were on their own, at least for the night. Davies resumed.

“Thirty-seven aircraft. How many are going on the next strike?”

“A raid to Río Salta, sir, using SLAMs against the sub docks there. I think it’s a division of strikers and a small suppression package. They’ve got lots of standoff and won’t even go feet dry.”

Davies studied the chart, breathing deeply. “Okay, what do you need from me?”

“Sir, do we have overflight rights for Trinidad?”

“No… yes,” Davies said, grimacing. “We don’t want to tip our hand and ask. Do what you have to.”

CAG jumped in.

“Admiral, regarding the CSAR distance, we don’t have a destroyer down there to keep a Sierra turning on deck, but what if we put one here?” CAG pointed to the island of Tobago on the chart.

Davies extended his thumb and middle finger on the chart to measure the distance between Tobago and San Ramón.

“That’s about an hour’s flight time, as the crow flies.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s better than nothing. What we need is fuel, and if we show up at this airport, Arthur Napoleon Raymond Robinson International with three or four SEALs to ensure the right attitude — and a bag of fifty dollar bills — they’ll fill up the aircraft themselves.”

“And if they don’t?”

“We’ll just take it, sir — and leave them the bag of money.”

“So you want my SEALs?”

“Two CSAR aircraft with door gunners, rockets, and two SEALs each.”

“With no dip clearance, no permission, a sovereign nation—”

“Yes, sir,” CAG said.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Devil Dog answered. “Formations spilling over a fucking island is one thing, but Americans landing in a Banana Republic and taking their fucking gas at gunpoint?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll pay for it, of course.”

“You are serious?”

“Sir, with very little notice, my guys are being asked to fly down there in six hours in less than optimum light conditions, damage some freakin’ runways , and fly back in a five-hour round trip with no CSAR. Just so the White House can announce it on TV.”

“Dammit, Matson, I would get my ass handed to me in a sling.”

“Sir, look at these pilots. They are going down there. Flip here just briefed you on this strike with a straight face, but I assure you he and his lieutenants know how screwed up this is. Jumping through our ass because of some artificial media timeline. If my recommendation is unacceptable, sir, then please get us a small boy as a lily pad. But yes, sir, please ask higher authority to cover you, to cover them .”

Aware of the others watching them, Davies glared at Matson, taking his measure, surprised that Matson had confronted him in this way. Wilson was impressed. CAG’s doing battle with Devil for us!

“Do not send helos anywhere until I give the word.” Davies said, but with newfound respect. He was leaving the matter open to at least save face in the short term.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Matson nodded, his backbone strengthened. Davies then turned to Wilson.

“Skipper, I expect you are able to lead a strike and cut a runway, that your sweepers can shoot down any bandits they send up, and that your HARM shooters know how to keep their heads down. What do you need in the next three hours?”

“Sir, I worry about the bombs being built and loaded on time, about the tankers being on station, about real-time ISR, about the ship launching us in sequence, and about briefing 60 guys in three hours, the comm lash-up with AWACS. The weather, sir…. What’s the go/no-go on that?”

Davies pursed his lips. “This strike must hit the target on time, as close as you can. Do what you must. I’ll talk to the Captain. Expect to get whatever you need. CAG, I’ll call Miami. Stand by for their ruling on TLAM and CSAR, but, regardless, this is going.”

“Yes, sir,” Matson replied. Wilson and the others nodded their understanding.

“Good hunting,” Davies said and left the way he entered.

Time was slipping away from Jim Wilson, fast.

He was shocked at the speed with which it melted away as he and the others concentrated on each part of the strike. Wilson, as the strike lead, needed to be an expert on every aspect of the strike and needed to know where each aircraft was and what they were doing at any time during the five-hour mission, but he was overwhelmed. He wasn’t ready . Everything had been rushed, and he wasn’t certain that the yellow shirt directors had the launch sequence plan, wasn’t certain the tankers would be where they planned with the gas, wasn’t certain the TLAMs would hit on time. He was uncertain about the weather, and as he trudged up the island ladder in full flight gear with nav bag in hand, he felt Coral Sea rolling in the powerful Atlantic swell.