Who knew how many seamen had died trying to capture the downed American off Caracas? Even though the Americans had again snatched one of their own from under the noses of the Venezuelans, the effort had at least claimed another Hornet whose pilot did not get out. However, one dead American pilot and two downed Hornets, compared to numerous destroyed surface-to-surface missile sites, a half dozen fighters and ten or more helos, was no comparison at all. The Bolivarian Republic could not sustain these losses, not even one more day. This was their maximum effort, and it had all ended in failure. Capturing one American alive would have made the toll worth it — but it was not to be.
Buoyed by a second shot of liquid courage, Hernandez summoned his aide. “Prepare a Viper, wingtip missiles only, and full twenty millimeter.” The reluctant aide went off to do as he was ordered while Hernandez scanned the flight line, now quiet, nearly empty of aircraft. He looked up at the moon and studied the way the silvery backlit clouds to the south clung to the mountains, the mountains of his childhood.
The taxiway was the runway least damaged by the initial American raid, and the repairs were complete. It allowed plenty of concrete for Hernandez, and he suited up in silence while forming his plan. Expressionless, he strode to the jet, conscious of the crewmen who snapped to attention in an orderly row. His aide appeared, face full of sorrow. “The aircraft is prepared, mí general.”
“Good,” a stoic Hernandez replied as he preflighted the jet. The crewmen followed him through each step, ready to address any anomaly he found. Hernandez completed his inspection as if on autopilot, and once he was again at the ladder, he gave his aide his wedding ring and took his St. Christopher’s medallion from around his neck. The somber ground crew knew the meaning of his actions, but they were unwilling and unable to stop him. Hernandez reached into his vest and pulled out his parachute shroud cutter. He reached up to his forehead, grabbed a length of dark, wavy hair, and cut it. He then placed the hair inside his garrison cap emblazoned with the insignia of a Mayor General of the Fuerza Aérea Venezolana and handed it to the shaken capitán.
“Señor—”
Hernandez silenced him with a look, and turned to salute the crew who once again had formed into a rank next to the jet. Whatever the AMV lacked in capability, these men made up for in spirit. Despite failing them, Hernandez had been proud to lead them.
Hernandez finished strapping in as the plane captain descended the ladder in tears, and he soon signaled to start. The huffer air inflated the hose with a rigid whoosh, and the engine cranked over and soon reached a piercing whine. Hernandez lowered the canopy.
The men did their normal checks, and Hernandez signaled to pull chocks. The crew saluted as the F-16 taxied past them. The solemn pilot returned their salutes and turned right to the taxiway, cycling the controls as if to wave goodbye.
With lights out, Hernandez took the taxiway and lined up. His radios were off. He had no need to talk to anyone, ever again.
Hernandez roared down the taxiway and got airborne. The dazzling white-hot burner cone illuminated the jet against the darkness as those on the ground watched. Pulling out of burner, Hernandez rolled right at 100 feet and held the jet just above the treetops as he set a course to the northwest. As the booming rumble of his engine receded, he disappeared behind the trees, and after three minutes, his men could no longer hear it.
Hernandez flew past Río Salta and over the channel, still at 100 feet and now 420 knots. With the dark outline of Paria on the horizon, he aimed at Daniel’s compound on the ridge and stayed low on the water, lower than he had ever been at night. As the peninsula loomed up, he climbed so he could pass over it in near level flight and not break the radar horizon. The American radar horizon, not his own.
Hernandez accelerated, pushing past “the number” just as he approached Daniel’s mountaintop retreat. He didn’t know if Daniel was there or not, but he concentrated in order to stay level and out of the trees. The crest of the mountain and a palatial hacienda flashed underneath as he rocketed past, and a man outside on the grounds blinked in disbelief as he saw a silent apparition approach at incredible speed. It exploded above him, and the sonic boom knocked him to the ground and shattered large panes of glass throughout the house.
Over the waters of the Caribbean, Hernandez transitioned from supersonic to transonic flight. Although held by the straps, Hernandez slid forward in his seat and felt as if he had hit an invisible wall. His intelligence officers thought the American carrier was another 200 miles ahead, so he would keep his emissions under control until he passed by Grenada. He would then energize his radar and hope to dash his jet into the American control tower and take their admiral with him to Valhalla. But, first, he had to find the carrier and selected a fuel efficient engine setting as he again descended to the deck.
Hernandez was taking the easy way — what some would call the coward’s way — but was it “cowardly” to man a fighter jet and dash it into the side of a ship? At night? No, the AMV was no match against the Americans. Everyone knew it. But if he could sacrifice his life to bloody the Americans where it hurt them most — their damned floating airfields — he would do it. That should dissuade them from further action against his beloved Venezuela. He had grown up learning that taking one’s life was a mortal sin. As he concentrated on maintaining altitude, he knew that he had crossed the mortal sin threshold long ago. How could God ever forgive him his many sins? Hernandez knew he would be dead within the hour, probably sooner. He could no longer live with shame and dishonor and could no longer face anyone, even himself. It is in God’s hands now, Hernandez thought as he continued north. He then dismissed that thought, unable even to face the thought of a merciful God. Considering the vastness of eternity, this was the most courageous thing he had ever done.
After twelve minutes he saw on his inertial navigation moving map that Grenada was fifty miles to his right. He also saw a dark ship with running lights to his left and avoided it. Once clear, he energized the radar and kept his eyes scanning for a large, flat silhouette, the moon providing a satisfactory level of light. He didn’t have enough fuel now to return to his homeland — he would die over the Caribbean. Indifferent to it all, he noted the stars and silent clouds above him,
Ten more minutes passed, and Hernandez saw nothing but water. Where are they? His radar warning receiver picked up an emission at his one o’clock, and he deflected the side-stick to center it. He bumped up his speed to 540 ground, nine miles per minute. Then at forty miles his radar picked up a large and sharp return, with a smaller return next to it. Several miles away was another slash. Ships! And the big return must be the carrier. He eased left to center it. Thirty miles.
Hernandez selected mid-range burner and increased speed to over 600 knots, edging up to supersonic. Two thousand pounds of fuel left. Plenty. The carrier is right there! He had never seen one before, but now, inside ten miles, he had no doubt that was it. Ahead of him was a long object, a little square with yellowish lights resting on it… lights that suddenly extinguished! His threat receiver had multiple indications, and sensing the wave tops as they glistened below him in the faint crescent moonlight, he got down to fifty feet, concentrating as never before on maintaining altitude with his radar altimeter.