Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

The Americans don’t want me, Daniel thought. They want the Venezuelans, Hernandez. Yes, let them concentrate on Hernandez around Caracas while I snatch the pilot and negotiate a separate peace.

Daniel’s plan was coming together.

Annie smiled at her sailors as she headed up the flight deck. Her jet, 302, was parked over Cat 2 on the bow. Coral Sea was making bare steerageway as it maintained her expected launch position and it was a pleasant afternoon with a light breeze. A high overcast had formed, and there was a squall line to the west that would be a factor for launch. Behind Annie, on Cat 3, a Hummer’ s props turned in preparation for the early go, and, to her left, a Sierra was also turning to take station as plane guard.

Annie’s strike brief had been well received by the 40+ aircrew in attendance, and, over the continent, the weather was the usual: afternoon buildups with probable scattered thunderstorms. She would have to assess run-in lines and make a weather audible once they were down there. The threat was high, and the Whisks were likely to have their hands full as they skirted the coast and the SAM rings. The chance for an air-to-air kill got everyone excited, but the aviators had to temper this excitement and not follow a contact into a SAM threat ring that could bag them with an unseen shot.

Annie got to 302 and returned the salute of 302’s plane captain, Airman Davidson, a lanky kid from Tennessee.

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Afternoon, Davidson. How’s your jet?”

“Good to go, ma’am! Topped off. Good pressures. Power hooked up.”

“As usual!” Annie responded with a smile as she bounded the ladder to stow her Nav Bag. When she got back on deck to begin her aircraft preflight inspection, Shane Duncan, wearing a float coat and cranial helmet, stood in her path.

“Ma’am, there’s a development. The embassy in Trinidad got a call that Skipper Wilson is hiding there. We think the Venezuelans believe the skipper is in Trinidad.”

“What have you learned?” Annie’s eyes peered at Shane from under her dark visor.

“National assets intercepted cell phone conversations that lead us to believe the Venezuelans know he is being harbored in the south of the country, right where Lieutenant Commander Teel said he might be. He may be receiving help from a missionary.”

“Are we going after him?”

“There is a team from the Flintlocks in CVIC now with CAG and Commander Hopper. They are adding on a late afternoon CSAR. Two helos from here and one that’s already on the lily pad off Grenada.”

Commander Hopper, Annie thought. CAG is pressing him into service. Good. She then thought about the tactical environment they would soon face.

“It’ll be dark by the time they get down there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shane replied, unable to offer more than that.

Hers is not to reason why , Annie realized and shifted gears. “Great. Thanks for letting me know, Spy. Good intel.”

Shane smiled, and as she turned to go below, Annie grabbed her arm.

“You’re making a difference out here,” Annie shouted near her ear.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” Shane nodded with an appreciative smile as she turned to leave the flight deck and go below.

Annie’s mind wandered as she continued her preflight. There’s a good chance Flip is alive and still evading. Maybe Weed and the helo guys will get him tonight. Annie knew the dusk light condition was not ideal for a rescue, and that her strike would be 200 miles west as they egressed for home, and that straight-line distance meant an overflight of the Paria Peninsula. Annie wanted to help—200 miles could be covered in fewer than 30 minutes — but Weed and his team could do it. There just wasn’t enough gas in the air to support all the jets hundreds of miles south of Mother . Still, she was glad Shane had delivered this real-time report.

Annie bounded the ladder again and dropped into the ejection seat as Davidson followed to strap her in. The other aircrews were in their cockpits, including Macho next to her. Annie tried to assess Macho’s mood as she watched her set cockpit switches in preparation for engine starts. Macho didn’t seem nervous as she readied for the long-range strike. Her first step would be to launch with a heavy weapon hanging from her left wing, an asymmetric load the nugget was capable of handling. Then, if they encountered FAV fighters at delivery range, Macho would get a crack at one if they leaked through the Whisks . A lot was about to happen in the next two hours.

Annie finished her preflight checks and had just taken a breath when the familiar voice of the Air Boss came over the 5MC.

On the flight deck, aircrews have manned for the 1530 launch…

Wilson was glad to be back in his flight suit and reunited with his ID card. His right boot was off, and he wanted to see if he could put it back on his foot and bind it with a cord or rope. The medicine Father Dan had given him seemed to be working, but the foot was still swollen.

He was also worried. Where were the embassy guys to rescue him? Did Monique call the right number? The right office? It was midafternoon, almost 24 hours since he had revealed himself to Father Dan. He had to get back to the ship, to the Firebirds , to Mary… to God.

“Here you go, Jim,” Father Dan said as he handed Wilson a baloney and cheese sandwich. “Not the kind of feast Monique would make for us, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”

Wilson thanked him and waited for Father Dan to join him.

“They say the finest chefs in the world are men, but most of us men, for decades, have depended on the good graces of women to keep us fed. Haven’t we, Jim? Who does the cooking at home? You or your wife?”

“My wife.”

“Yes, common I’m told. Is she a good cook, your wife?”

“Yes, the best.”

“Well, then, you are truly blessed.”

Wilson was growing impatient. “Father, how far is Port of Spain?”

“Oh… well, it depends, of course. I should say two hours by car. Weather is clear, so yes, roughly two hours. Let’s give thanks now.”

Wilson listened as Father Dan said grace. Once he was finished, Wilson took a big bite of the sandwich. His strength was returning, despite his crippling wounds.

“So Jim, in the few hours we have left, I do want to know. Why do ya fight?”

Unsure if he was being set up for another attack, Wilson eyed him with suspicion. Just let me eat, Father.

“I’m not trying to be difficult. I just don’t know many soldiers, and certainly no pilots. Now Ireland doesn’t have much of an air force, ya know. Why do you?”

Wilson took a drink of water and gathered his thoughts.

“Father, the world is dangerous and it’s governed by force. I love my country and the people of my country — and the freedoms we enjoy. I took an oath to support and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. There are countries, and Venezuela is one of them, that want the United States weakened, if not destroyed, so they can subjugate their own peoples, and peoples around them, in a quest for power or money. I believe my country is the last best hope for freedom on this earth, that we are given freedom from God, and we have a responsibility to free people.”

“Yes, but by killing them?”

Wilson appreciated the hospitality of the priest, but could not take his sarcastic body blows anymore.

“Father, we try to deter war by showing strength and will. We talk— Lord, do we talk— and try to sway countries from courses of action that will lead all of us to ruin, and if they do not cease in attacking us, or otherwise cease in aiding and abetting our enemies, then, yes, I am legally ordered to take action. War is politics by other means , isn’t it Father? We warn and warn and try not to escalate, but they don’t believe us. And, at some point, when they force us to act, they almost welcome it.”