Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Wilson and Dusty finished on their hoses and slid over to the tanker’s right wing. As the Hornets took their fuel, the sun slipped lower and lower in the sky until it was hidden behind a ridge of clouds. On the surface, the sun had set forty minutes earlier, but, at altitude, the western sky was a dramatic pink framed by gunmetal gray clouds and highlighted with distant strands of yellow stratus. The clouds were heavier to the west, the direction they would soon be headed. As he waited for Stretch to finish tanking, Wilson saw the lights of another merchant ship below. He turned his position and formation lights on, and Dusty, next to him, mimicked his action. Below and ahead, the four Blocker FA-18s edged away from their tanker to their briefed holding point. Wilson noted the time: 1903. Less than an hour to go.

Edgar Hernandez sat in his VIP quarters, alone, filled with regret.

Tomorrow night the Americans would come, and there was a good chance that tomorrow morning’s sunrise would be the last one he would ever see. He could hear the sounds of jet engines on the flight line as the young pilots prepared to fly on a training sortie — on what was likely their last night on Earth. He would take the place of one of them. Which one? Was there a married pilot with a large family and a good wife who loved and supported him, an honorable man with a bright future? There were dozens of such men in the AMV. He was once one of them. Once.

Daniel had brought him rank and power, money and privilege. And sex. Lots of it, with big girls who resembled child toys, who serviced him with giggling smiles. He knew nothing about them, not even their names. He never asked, and they never offered. He and the girls were both there in the employ of Daniel; he for high level influence, they as payment for services rendered. Once he passed out in middle-aged exhaustion, the girls disappeared, never to be seen again. Which was fine with him. He did remember the girl with hair down to her waist, stoned out of her mind like the others. Girls… with parents. Who loved them, or once did.

His own wife of 27 years had long ago become a lifeless shell with joyless eyes, knowing , but not daring to complain. Resigned to her existence, she functioned as an acceptable hostess at Caracas receptions and asked no questions, living apart from her husband even though they were in the same house. Daniel saw to her comfort, too, and so long as Hernandez didn’t embarrass her, all would be well. Daniel ensured there would be no embarrassment. Daniel took care of everything.

Hernandez stepped to the window, now darkened by the twilight, and saw two Vipers with twinkling anti-collision lights prepare to taxi out of the line. When the landline phone rang, it surprised him.

“Mayor General Hernandez,” he answered.

“Mí general, this is the Group Commander. We think the Americans are preparing to attack!”

“Yes, I know, dammit! You better prepare your people tonight to meet them tomorrow!”

“No, mí general… tonight… within the hour!”

Hernandez froze for a moment as the message sank in. “ How do you know this? ”

“A cargo ship in the Atlantic called the dock master at Rió Salta and reported formations of planes high overhead. Who else but the Americans could do this?”

“Early warning radar? What do they see?”

“Nothing yet, mí general, as there is a line of heavy storms to the east. But we are receiving both electronic bearings and signals intelligence on a bearing that corroborates with the merchant sighting.”

“Where was the ship when it reported?”

“A position ninety miles southeast of Barbados, in the middle of the ocean, mí general, and the airplanes were heading south.”

Hernandez’s mind raced. Where are they going? If this sighting report is true, it could be Rió Salta. Or the oil rigs offshore. Here!”

“Meet me at the command post at once!” Hernandez barked into the receiver. Fear and foreboding building in his mind, he summoned his aide to bring the car. This wasn’t supposed to happen tonight. He had planned to have tonight to prepare to die, to write a farewell letter, to repent to God . He was now afraid to man a fighter and spare the life of one of his pilots — and afraid not to. His breathing rapid, he needed to know more, but dreaded knowing more, and Daniel was nowhere in sight. Maybe the flimsy report from the merchant seaman was all wrong. Most initial reports were. He watched the F-16s taxi for takeoff with a sense of urgency. Is the boy Espinoza piloting one of them? he wondered.

He grabbed his cell phone and punched in a number. A familiar voice answered.

“Hola.”

“They’re coming! Now! ” Hernandez growled.

“We know.”

His tanking complete, DCAG backed out of the basket trailing from the left wing pod and slid under the KC-10. As he continued under the other three Hornets in his formation, a waiting Rhino took his position behind the basket. This FA-18E was carrying an in-flight refueling pod the aviators called a “buddy store” on its centerline station. It would stay with the KC-10s for now and trail the strike package if anyone needed emergency fuel once they returned feet wet near Trinidad.

With gentle pressure on the stick, Wilson turned away from the tanker, his three wingmen flying form on his right wing. Almost an hour after sundown on the surface below, it was getting dark. Wilson took them to a point thirty miles away where they could hold and save fuel before beginning their run in to San Ramón. The Blockers were about five minutes away from their push, and as Wilson neared his holding point, he saw the anti-collision lights of one of the other Slash formations. The strikers would push out individually and then ease together en route to form a gaggle, with the Blocker, Volt, and Lance formations on their own in support of the Slashes . The four Blockers would lead the airwing aircraft into the target area and knock down anything that came up to oppose them. The aviators noted lightning flashes to the west, and, as element lead, Wilson had the responsibility to avoid them. All the formation leaders did.

“ Slash one-one? Nightlight. ” Wilson was relieved knowing the AWACS was up, another potential disconnect averted.

“ Nightlight, Slash . Go ahead,” Wilson responded.

“Your signal, stepladder. Over.”

“Roger, stepladder .” Wilson responded. This code word was their briefed word to continue. In thirty minutes Wilson and the others would roll in on the dual runways of San Ramón to put them out of action — for the time being. He then asked, “Picture?”

“Picture clean. Looks like you have some weather en route.”

Wilson rogered and kept a wary eye to the west. Fifty other sets of eyes did the same, all knowing that, right now, a thunderstorm was a greater threat than Venezuelan fighters or AAA. All saw the distant flashes and hoped the storms were isolated or small enough to fly over. The high overcast made it darker than normal and only a pink glow could be observed to the west/northwest, but this glow was enough to prevent Wilson from donning his NVGs just yet. His thumb mashed down on the mike.

“ Slash , any alibis?”

He listened for any from his wingmen, and after a few seconds one did.

“ Slash two-four. Only got half my load.”

Wilson acknowledged Slash 24’s call. “Roger that. Stick with your aimpoint.”