Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Annie took a few steps and addressed Dusty with a confident smile. “For now, I’m following orders as a fleet strike fighter pilot on this ship, not accepting stupid stuff, taking care of you in formation. I am free to stop anytime I want. I’m going to trust the chain of command until they lose my confidence, because I can think for myself. Just as your sailors trust you, as the yellow shirts trust you and you trust them on the roof. That sound good?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Dusty answered, ready to follow. Annie continued.

“So, what we are doing is hitting our assigned DMPIs with everything we’ve got, on time and on target with fused weapons. That is our job. We concentrate on that and on taking care of each other. We need to be as tactically smart as possible and not give an inch to their defenses. Like last night. If they come up to fight, we knock them down. If they sortie out of the harbor, we find them and sink them with no remorse. That is a message I hope they get from us — fighting back means certain death, so don’t fight back. This will demoralize the Venezuelans and aid us in whatever Washington has in mind. And, again, I don’t know what that is. Long answer, but if we hit the assigned targets on time and fight like hell to defend each other we are doing what is expected of us. We’ll let Washington worry about the policy.”

Dusty again nodded his understanding, still not 100 % convinced, but willing to fight alongside Annie and his squadronmates. Annie was a warrior and was now the de facto leader of the Firebirds . She had earned their respect.

Annie dismissed the officers, and, as they headed out, she caught Olive’s attention and motioned her over.

“Yes, ma’am,” Olive said as they stepped to the pull-out charts.

“I know you are planning your strike for tomorrow. Where are you going?”

“There’s a SAM site at the top of the Peninsula de Paria. We need to eliminate it for TR before they start working in the central part of the country.”

“Okay, but please take an hour and try to reconstruct Skipper’s track and where Kid last saw him. Winds at altitude, the terrain below, areas offering concealment, landing zones. Maybe we can ask for a recon mission to find wreckage, with a follow-on SOF mission to check an area of interest. We need to find intel on what the Venezuelans are doing, so get with Shane and have her do the legwork, and you direct her efforts. I’ll ask CAG to give you some help from his staff.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to lead your strike. Then, I want you to be the Skipper Wilson rescue officer, the go-to expert. You can fly wing on other strikes as required, but we need you to concentrate your efforts on helping us find the skipper… after your strike lead.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Olive acknowledged with a smile.

“Great, we’ll touch base tonight after my hop.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wilson spent the night where he landed, miserable and wet, gnats buzzing about his head. The pain from his shoulder and leg shot through him each time he shifted his weight. Lying in his own filth, he was exhausted.

As the rain stopped and returned at intervals, Wilson had managed to unhook and roll out of his inflated vest, panting for breath from the exertion. With his right leg and left arm immobile, he found it difficult to maneuver out of his flight gear. He did manage to crawl a few feet through the mud to a tree trunk in order to prop up his back. It took most of the night to get out of his harness, and, during the process, he dozed a few times from fatigue and tension. Now that the sky had begun to gray to his right, he at least knew where east was, and the light would perk him up for what he knew would be a long day.

He knew the Venezuelans were out looking for him, and, injured as he was, he could not move ahead of them toward the coast, which he now knew was off to his left, north. Wilson saw a dead tree about 50 yards distant among the others of the forest. He would make for that before selecting another orienting landmark. Fifty yards . With dread, he realized that short distance could take hours.

During the night, Wilson had heard the sounds of tree branches snapping or small animals crunching on the forest floor. Each snap had been terrifying, not knowing if he was being stalked by a soldier or a panther. He thanked God for the light.

God. Wilson needed Him now more than ever and found himself praying for strength — and for the ability to make decisions that would deliver him from the evils that surrounded him. Please help me, God, he repeated over and over. He took a drink from his small pocket canteen and thought of Mary, Derrick and Brittany. He guessed Mary knew by now, but the kids? Eleven-year-old Derrick could comprehend all of it, and Brittany, at eight, could understand Daddy was in trouble, just by watching her mother. He said another prayer asking God to give comfort to his family.

I need a walking stick. Wilson looked about for a sturdy branch, something two to three inches thick. After a few minutes, he found a stick to get him to the dead tree, and wedged it next to him. Then, he alternately pulled with his right arm and pushed with his left leg, which allowed his back to slide up the trunk of the tree. With determined effort, he managed to stand, and gasped for breath for the next five minutes to recover.

Earlier, after salvaging some seat-pan items and stuffing his vest pockets with them, Wilson had removed his flotation gear and harness and hidden them under a fern. He draped the vest over his back and pulled it around his left hand to fashion a makeshift sling. His mosquito net hood was a welcome relief as he placed it over his head. The sun now cast patches of direct light throughout the trees, and the warmth felt good. He hoped for a nice day.

He took his first step. Resting his right shoulder on the stick, he dragged his right leg over the forest detritus. He had to take a step and stop, take another step and stop, but he was moving.

He reached the dead tree in good time, less than an hour. He allowed himself to rest as he took a chug of water and read his compass. He figured a heading of 045 was as good as any until he got to another reference point or to a clearing from which he could assess the situation. He was alert to the guttural rumble of fighter engines above and had his signaling mirror in his pocket ready to go — if he could ID one of the jets as a Hornet or Rhino.

What had hit him? He had lost everything in the cockpit at once, the flight controls going into MECH as the jet dove toward the ground. It seemed to have been an electrical glitch, but one he had never seen or experienced. Directed energy? Was that it? Did the Venezuelans have such a weapon? Something that could fry every circuit in his highly vulnerable “electric” jet?

His mechanical watch, the one he wore only during combat, showed 10:35, and he looked up through the trees to see a lone contrail overhead. He traced it to its source and saw an airliner heading north. That guy is way up there , he thought. His Coral Sea boys wouldn’t be back this morning, but probably this afternoon and tonight. He thought of Annie’s strike and tried to remember if it was scheduled for this afternoon at Río Salta. He would get a ringside view if he could find a clearing.

Through a break in the trees, Wilson saw more trees in the distance, as if on a hill to the south, a quarter mile away. He could hear a stream gurgling and headed toward it to drink his fill and top off his canteen for the night.