Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Ninety-nine Broadsword , find a seam and punch through. Volts , if you have us in sight, take trail. Snuggle up on your leads. Slash two-one and three-one, take altitude sep.”

One after another the element leaders rogered him while their wingmen slid close to their leads in parade formation. Wilson knew the human hearts in two dozen cockpits were now beating faster as they approached the line of storms. No turning back now. Bolts of gnarled electricity shot between the clouds in front of Wilson as he led the Slashes in an easy turn to a course that was bad compared to really worse on either side. It was now dark, but the aviators kept their goggles stowed. They would have to concentrate on flying formation in the roiling clouds, which meant the wingmen would see nothing but a wingtip position light in the gloom.

Wilson rolled out, eyes locked on the radar to lead his four planes into the storm wall. He positioned his rear view mirrors to see his wingtips — and the Hornets flying tight form next to him. Below them, the cells boiled in disconnected flashes that illuminated the silhouettes of the formation aircraft. In the next two minutes, Wilson would be leading three aircraft, not thirty-three, and the clouds reached out to Slash 11 and pulled him and his wingmen inside at 500 knots.

At once the jets were buffeted by rain and gusty winds. Wilson fought to hold his jet as steady as possible for the sake of his wingmen. Dusty was welded to his right, and DCAG was holding position on the left as the rain lashed at them in driving sheets. Glancing at his mirrors, Wilson could barely make out the shadows of the Hornets until an explosion of lightning nearby lit up DCAG and Stretch next to him, who then disappeared into the darkness as suddenly as they had appeared. Wilson had been there himself, muscles tight and tense, squeezing the black out of the stick and fighting to hang on to the only reference he had, a green or red light some ten feet away bouncing in the turbulent clouds with blurred streaks of water running down the canopy, holding on, hanging on , praying that they would punch through soon. None of them was even thinking about the reception waiting for them at San Ramón less than twenty minutes away.

Trying to ignore the constant rivulets of water that obscured his vision, Wilson was concentrating on his attitude pitch lines when he saw wispy threads of electricity expand on his nose, run across the windscreen, and move aft down his canopy. Though harmless, it was disconcerting to watch St. Elmo’s Fire envelop his jet with its electric massage. He tried to see if his wingmen were similarly affected but could see nothing on Dusty’s nose.

A bolt materialized ahead, and before Wilson could process its presence, an arc of electricity slammed into his nose with a deafening crack. A painful shock caused him to release the controls. His heart jumped into his throat as the cockpit went dark. Fuck! After what seemed like an eternity, Wilson regained his grasp on the stick and throttles, and the green cockpit lighting and computer instrumentation of his returned. Noto transmitted on their tac freq.

“You okay?”

“Okay. Lost everything for a second.”

“A long second.”

“Affirm.” Wilson replied as he continued through the embedded storms, leading them only by radar and instinct. The rain pummeled the aircraft with no let up.

Wilson flinched as a thunderous bolt exploded off to their left and, for an instant, turned night into day. His already tense shoulders fought to hold his aircraft steady. Then, a sound like a shotgun blast went off next to him as the sky again burst into light. He checked his left mirror.

“Think I took a hit,” Stretch transmitted.

Wilson shifted his mirror but could not see beyond the faint outline of DCAG’s jet. “You still with us?”

“A-firm. Still running. Ears ringing.” Stretch answered. Wilson responded with two mike clicks.

With muffled flashes all about, Wilson’s radar display showed a reduced level of return ahead — with less than ten miles to clear air. He wanted his goggles and felt for them in the console. Once this formation popped into the open, he would don them first thing.

The visual and aural tension of the rain subsided, and, after blowing through a wisp of cloud, the formation burst into clear air as if they had flown out of a wall into a room. Thirty miles away on the dark surface below was the island of Trinidad with its brightly lit towns and settlements.

Wilson’s three wingmen opened up as soon as they could, drifting away from him and the tension of his position lights. They were all grateful for a break, if only for a moment. After the electric shock his aircraft systems had taken minutes earlier, Wilson did a careful and thorough recheck, deselecting and reselecting his weapons switches and completing another combat checklist. He then latched his goggles into place on his helmet, turned them on, and allowed his brain to absorb the greenish panorama of South America ahead of him. He saw the Blocker formation ahead, just a single light at this distance, and craned his neck to see the others in the strike package. “Let’s goggle up,” he transmitted, and reset his external lights. He looked toward San Ramón, and, with the last bit of luminance on the western horizon, detected tall clouds hovering near the field.

Their route funneled them into the Columbus Channel and along the southern coast of Trinidad. While descending the formation to their roll-in altitude, Wilson could make out the yellow flare stacks of offshore oil rigs in the distance, their flaming tongues flickering over the black velvet water. With the lightning ahead and the flares burning below, the view could have been a scene out of Dante’s Inferno. Wilson craned his neck to look for the others, abeam and behind, and saw some formations. After the confused cauldron they had just emerged from, he had to find out if his strikers were intact.

“ Slashes , any alibis?”

He received no response, a good sign in this instance. He queried the others.

“ Volts, Lances , you okay? Any alibis?

“ Volts up. No alibis.”

“ Lances up. No alibis.”

Amazed at their good luck, Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. Could San Ramón throw anything at them that would be worse than the line of storms they had just survived? Looking north, the weather seemed to curve away and appeared reduced compared to this brutal segment, and Wilson would take them through the sovereign airspace of Trinidad to avoid the heaviest stuff on the egress. Screw ‘em if they don’t like it , he thought. We’ll ask for forgiveness . Devil — and Washington — owed him that. After punching through the thunderstorm line, after jumping through flaming hoops to get off the deck — and doing it all on time — their leadership owed them a lot.

When the elements fanned out into position as they neared San Ramón, the Blockers started chattering about an airborne contact on their nose. The target was fifty miles away, and Wilson noted increased lighting flashes in its vicinity. On closer inspection, he realized the flashes were not from lightning. They were from AAA.

At 100 feet and lights out, the Seahawks sped over the waves, gunners at their mounts, and scanned the horizon for trouble.

The crews, and the eight SEALs, aboard the two aircraft had received twenty minutes notice to pack a change of socks and a dopp kit. They received orders to launch for a one-way trip to Tobago. Once there, they would fill the aircraft gas tanks and stand by for tasking if any fighter went down from Skipper Wilson’s initial strike, or from Skipper Martin’s strike later in the night. One of the squadron mechanics volunteered to go in order to help service the helos, and the mission commander was handed a wad of cash as well as a letter from Devil himself that requested they be given “all assistance” from the local authorities. The SEALs were there to help rescue any downed aircrew and to convince, if necessary, the airport fueling personnel to cooperate. Before launch, the ordies had delivered another miracle, arming each Sierra with two Hellfire missiles and a pod of rockets, as well as full belts for the door gunners.