The American strike near Caracas had yielded some good news: A Super Hornet had been downed by one of his Vipers. With the pilot in a raft not too far offshore, the Army and Navy were doing everything they could to capture the pilot. The Americans, however, had fighters orbiting nearby, and they were doing all they could to rescue him first. It was a race against time to capture the two downed pilots separated by over 300 miles. With the Americans concentrating on their downed airman off Caracas, Hernandez felt sure he could get his helicopters across the channel and into Trinidad unmolested by enemy fighters. He called Daniel to give him a status report.
Hernandez found it ironic — in a very pleasing way — that two Americans would guarantee his safety.
Pink smoke rising above the wooded expanse of The Devil’s Woodyard drew attention, the kind that Wilson wanted. A U.S. Embassy special agent and two Marines were in a Ford Explorer en route to pick up Wilson from the cabin of the mission priest. Special Agent Gillian “Jill” Fischer, a 12-year veteran of the FBI who grew up in St. Croix, rode shotgun in the vehicle with two Marines and the staff physician. By the time they had gotten the word on Wilson, it was midmorning, and the traffic getting out of Port of Spain was heavy. Then, although Father Dan’s cabin was several miles inland, they had made a wrong turn and headed to the coast.
“See the pink smoke?” she asked the driver, a Marine.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “That’s the kind the airedales use when they are signaling.”
“Guess he knows we’re coming, but how?”
They drove along in silence for another minute, the route taking them to the vicinity of the heaviest smoke concentration. “Pull over,” she commanded.
The Marine pulled over, and Jill lowered her window. “What do you think?” Doctor Larry Woodruff asked. She lifted her hand and listened for a moment. In the far distance she heard a gunshot, with its echoing pop.
“Hear that?” she asked. After several seconds, they heard two more pops in rapid succession.
“There’s a firefight out there, so get ready. Let’s go. Chop, chop.”
The driver accelerated as Jill listened through the open window. The weapon reports were from pistols. Were they stumbling on a drug turf war? Was Wilson involved in it?
“Stop here,” she commanded while looking at her GPS. Around the bend was a driveway, but Jill wanted to go the rest of the way on foot. The firefight could be heard right through the trees.
“Let’s get out and go on foot. Doc, do you have a sidearm?”
“I do.”
“Good. Smith, Garcia, lock and load. Not sure what we’re going to find here.”
The Marines broke out flak jackets and helmets from the rear of the vehicle. One picked up an M-16, the other a BAR. Armed with her.9mm, Jill wore a Kevlar vest. Woodruff had his.9mm at his side and a medical bag. “Doc, stay with me and behind me,” Jill ordered.
They entered the tree line, separated into two groups, and crunched, as quietly as possible, through the woods, listening and looking. After a few minutes they came upon a man who sat with his back against a tree. He had a pistol, but appeared wounded. He was shouting, and they could hear two others answer him in Spanish. Shots rang out beyond them. Through the trees, Jill could make out a cabin. She turned to Doc Woodruff.
“We’ve stumbled onto a firefight, and the pilot Wilson is probably involved. Call the office and have Captain Carpenter, the attaché, call the Pentagon first. Then, tell the chargé d’affaires to call Washington. We need backup now! Head back toward the vehicle and monitor the radio.” Jill handed him a walkie-talkie so they could communicate near real time. She then turned to the Marines.
“You two, take sides on me and fan out, keeping sight. And stay out of sight.”
As Woodruff placed the call, the other three spread out and crept ahead, listening to the shots and shouts.
“El Americano, ahora. No muerte. No kill.”
Jill then heard a voice shout in pidgin English. “Weel-son! Why you risk? Ven aca—leave them free. You man? Hide con mujer. Afraid man?
“Wilson is inside, I know it,” she said. “Probably with the missionary, and there may be a woman, too. Do you see the wounded man by the tree?”
The Marines nodded.
“Okay, he doesn’t look too good so let’s go around him. The others are to the south. Take out the active shooters when you get a bead on them with the BAR. Then we’ll capture the wounded guy.”
“Got it,” Smith answered.
They crouched and scooted through the trees, around the wounded man. He appeared delirious and no threat. They continued south, and then east toward the gunfire until one of the Marines saw a man. “Tallyho. Guy in a black shirt. See the big tree. Look about three feet up the trunk to the right.”
Jill did and saw movement. “Yep, there’s one. Sergeant Smith, take him out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With Jill keeping watch, the Marines moved behind the trunk and set up the BAR. The light was receding; they had to work fast.
“Eighty meters,” Garcia whispered to Smith as he looked through the sight at the man, who was hiding behind a tree and watching the cabin.
“Concur.”
“Take him.”
Garcia squeezed a burst, and Smith saw the man fall.
“Got him.”
“Okay, let’s move out!” Jill said.
They heard another man cry “Jose! Jose!”
The trio moved 20 yards and crouched down, looking and listening. They heard nothing but the sound of gentle trade winds through the trees.
“Throw a rock,” Jill commanded Garcia.
He picked up a stone and threw it high into an opening between branches. They heard it fall and waited as Smith aimed his M-16. Nothing.
Light was now becoming a real factor. Then, they heard rotor blades.
CHAPTER 73
From 14,000 feet, Annie backed out of the basket as Whisk 14, a Super Hornet, waited his turn with his refueling probe extended while flying on the Rhino tanker’s left wing. The pilot inside was a lieutenant and went by Woody. The sun was about 20 degrees above the horizon, and it would set in 33 minutes.
Both Annie and Macho carried two Sidewinders and bullets, plus two empty drop tanks. The Whisk FA-18Es had similar loads, and two of them had AMRAAMs left. The air-to-air missiles were all but useless in an air-to-surface attack. All of Annie’s wingmen had full drums of 20mm, and that forward firing weapon would keep the Venezuelans’ heads down until the helo could arrive, with one, maybe two, Hellfire missiles, and its own door guns. However, guns required getting up close and personal, and the Venezuelans on those boats had guns, too — and, likely, handheld SAMs.
Coordinating with Condor, Annie learned the Flintlock CSAR bird was 40 miles away and en route to the datum. With the Whisk, Lumber, and Jelly sections either on station or en route, Annie would have to manage their fuel and direct aircraft to tankers or back to Mother, all while finding and escorting the Flintlock to the scene and defending it as it moved in for the rescue. Whisk 11 reported a large flotilla of small craft were five miles away and closing fast. They would be upon Lemur in about ten minutes. The jets on scene could hold them off — they would have to.