Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Breathing hard, he strained his ears as the Seahawks faded away. After five minutes, he could no longer hear the rotors, and the multiple miseries of his resting spot returned. He lay looking up at Orion, The Hunter , so named by ancient men, ancient men who, no doubt, were fighters.

Flying Flintlock 612 from the left seat, Sean Sullivan eased the helicopter to 100 feet as he crossed the surf line. “Comin’ left,” he said on the ICS to his co-pilot, Sandy. Behind them, 614 maintained position. Sandy checked in with them on the radio.

“Six-one-four from six-twelve. What luck?”

“Negative, twelve,” the pilot in the trailing Sierra responded. Neither aircraft had seen any sign of Commander Wilson.

Leaving four SEALs in Tobago, the Rustler aircrew had split the others among two aircraft. They had seen and heard nothing on their high-speed dash over Trinidad, and before Sean got near the offshore rigs a few miles on his nose, he initiated the turn into the Columbus Channel. Venezuela was ten miles south, the bright lights of the Río Salta complex clearly visible. With Sandy monitoring the altitude and tight angle of bank, the door gunners stayed alert. Sean rolled out on an easterly heading to fly south of the island as Sandy transmitted bookcase, the briefed code word for “Mission Complete.” The E-2 orbiting offshore then relayed it to Coral Sea and to Davies. With no previous transmissions from Flintlock , all knew this mission to find Wilson, or any clues about his fate, was a failure.

Staying a few miles offshore of Trinidad, the pilots conversed with each other and their crewmen as they conducted an informal debrief of their mission. All were on night vision goggles as they had been since they left the ship.

“Guys, did you see anything ?” Sean asked the gunners over the ICS.

They both responded negative as Sean eased the aircraft a few degrees to the right to give greater clearance to an oil rig on the horizon, standing out on the water as a cluster of dazzling lights and flare stacks.

Sandy added, “Nothing, and there weren’t a whole lot of clear areas for pickup either. Just some scattered huts…. Guess everyone in them is awake now.”

“Yeah, wonder what they do down there,” Sullivan said, more to himself than to the others. He then added, “Okay, we’ve got about another twenty miles before we can breathe easier and make the turn to the northeast. Remain armed up and keep your heads on a swivel.”

“Aye, sir,” the gunners answered.

Sean’s mind wandered back to the high-speed run they had just completed, covert and low level, varsity for sure. He was relieved to be out over the water and clear of obstacles but wondered if they would have to return.

Wilson awoke after another restless night, catching some sleep only as the sky lightened to the east. He knew what lay ahead: a dash, as best he could on his one good leg, to the sea and rescue. With an opening on a deserted beach, he could use his signal mirror and his flares if another helo happened by. The sea, and the chance of freedom it represented, would also be good for his mental outlook.

Get up! Wilson thought as he grabbed his water bottle.

He pulled himself to his feet and decided to keep the boot on his injured foot for one more day. After getting his bearings, he put the sun on his right shoulder and began to move along the stream.

Breathing through his mouth in the twilight, Wilson moved with his crutch, one slow step after another, the gurgling stream as his company. He dreamed of a beautiful Caribbean beach just ahead: palm trees, azure water, and white sand. This part of the forest was as thick as he had seen it. As he crunched along in pain, he saw no breaks in the canopy above him, which prevented the sun from warding off the morning chill. As least he was moving, and sweating. Cold with perspiration was not good, but at least he wasn’t freezing.

He took several breaks as the agonizing morning wore on, but, when the sun peaked at noon, he was exhausted. He was also discouraged, despite the fact he had caught glimpses of sea birds all morning. Trying to see ahead, all he could make out was forest, and craning his neck to hear the distant surf, he heard only the buzzing of insects. A sea breeze! He could feel it, and he could smell the salt water. He moved faster, hobbling on his painful foot, sprinting to the finish. Just a little farther!

His fatigue soon caught up with him, and he lowered himself to the ground, out of breath, hurting, dying .

Wilson was sure he was dying. The infection was getting worse, and the foot was no longer as painful, a fact that scared him. His wrist also concerned him, and his intestines had developed sharp pains. His heart raced like a jackhammer. Day. Sijan . He had to keep going, he was an American fighting man, and this was his fight now. Dengler .

Wilson got up, took several steps and fell. He let out a loud cry that he knew could be heard by anyone within earshot. He was spent. Let them come , he thought and closed his eyes.

Mary and the kids…. How are Mary and the kids?

“Please, God, help me,” he mumbled as the insects buzzed around his face. I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry.

Wilson opened his eyes and realized he was still on the ground in the forest, the sun lower in the sky to his left. His foot had begun aching again, but he now didn’t have the strength to cut the boot off. Guessing an afternoon rainstorm would appear at some point to add to his misery, he looked for potential shelter,

He then heard a sound… words … singing. A man was singing. He strained his ears to the east. English words. Another hallucination? He concentrated and listened… what do … sailor … way, hey …

Energized, Wilson got to his feet by concentrating on the source of the sound more than his debilitating pain. He crossed the stream… put him … and tried to identify what the man was saying. The words came with an accent, and, after taking a few more steps, he identified it. Irish! Wilson staggered toward the sound. What the fuck? Soon, he saw faint movement through the trees. He drew closer and saw a man in a shaded clearing. The man seemed to be singing to himself as he was moved to and fro. He was wearing an undershirt and appeared to be exercising. Wilson soon comprehended the lyrics.

Wilson thought he was hallucinating. An Irish drinking song, sung by some guy out here. In Venezuela! He got to an opening in the trees and stopped, propping himself up on a tree trunk. He could now see a clapboard cabin about 30 yards away, smoke coming from the chimney. He felt for his .45.

The man was elderly, balding, salt-and-pepper hair on the sides. He wore a white t-shirt and dark trousers. He was swinging his arms, doing deep knee bends and rotating his torso as he sang. He then started kicking ahead of him, hitting his outstretched hand. He switched to a new song he sang between breaths.