by A P Bateman
“What about my wife?” Tembarak stared at him. “I have to try and save her!”
“Forget it,” King paused. “This is far too personal. If she is in there, then I will get her back to you. Just stay in the vehicle with your son.” He looked down at the boy who was wedged between the front seats with the sheet wrapped around him. He smiled to himself, as he noticed the child’s face break into a tiny grin as he looked around the cab of the vehicle. “He needs his father…”
***
King breathed deeply, taking in a huge lungful of the humid air. He needed to ready himself, to calm his nerves and ease his mind. There was so much that should have been done, so much that had gone wrong. The operation should have been carefully planned, carefully orchestrated, but Tembarak’s betrayal had put a halt to that. Instead, he had been forced to rush in like a fool and strike while the iron was hot. He should simply have aborted the mission and gone to ground, blend in with the tourists and work out his exfiltration. It was pride that had made him continue. And pride came before a fall. If he was honest with himself, it was the Iraq affair that had spurned him on. To have been sent back to kill the Faisal brothers grated on him. He did not want this operation to be seen as a failure. But now, inside a military base in an unfamiliar country, about to try and kill a figure like General Soto, he could care less about pride and failure. But he was here now and the only way to go was forwards with the plan, such as it was. If General Soto had got wind of his team’s failure at Purwodadi, then the man might have gone to ground indefinitely. King had seen no other option; he had made the best of the situation as it stood.
Grogol turned around hesitantly and looked at him as they reached the entrance to the house, which looked like any other storage hut in the compound, except for the fact that it was surrounded by a white picket fence and flowering gardens. Among the other utilitarian buildings it looked peculiar to say the least. “This is your last chance,” he grated, looking at the two men. “Give yourselves up, and I will see that your lives are spared.”
“You’re just worried that if we fail, General Soto will have your life for helping us.” King stepped aside, allowing the soldier enough room to stand at the solid looking door. “Well, just remember this, if an assassin fails to take down a target, the next course of action is a cruise missile or a laser guided bomb,” he paused. “Hardly as selective as a bullet. Could you guarantee that you would not be standing near General Soto in such an event?”
Grogol stared at him curiously, then nodded. “Well, if you put it like that, you leave me very little choice in the matter…” He winced as he took the weight off his injured leg, which seemed to have stopped bleeding.
King watched the man carefully, then felt a little relieved, as Sergeant Grogol stepped forwards purposefully and knocked hard upon the heavy wooden door.
77
“This is Sergeant Grogol! I need to speak with the general urgently!” He gazed nonchalantly into the lens of the surveillance camera, then waited for the reply.
“General Soto does not wish to be disturbed,” the bored voice replied. “Leave a message, and I will pass it on to him in the morning.” The voice came from the intercom.
“On your head be it, soldier!” Grogol growled. “But if I do not see General Soto immediately, your neck will be in a noose!”
There was a long pause, as the soldier obviously weighed his unhappy options. At last, “What's it about?” came the reply.
“What’s it about?” Grogol stared into the camera and sneered. “It is about something way above your pay grade, soldier! Now open this door, let me in and get the boss out of his damned bed!”
There was another delay, then came the sound of several bolts being unlocked. King stepped forward and pushed Grogol out of the way, then kept the Colt held firmly between both hands, as he waited for the door to open.
Todi prodded the Indonesian in the ribs with the barrel of his SLR, then nodded his head towards the vehicle, where Jusi and Tembarak were keeping their rifles at the ready.
King breathed deeply as the last of the bolts was unlocked and the door opened slowly inwards. He took his chance and barged the door with his shoulder, in a bid to catch the bodyguard by surprise. The door gave way as the bodyguard was caught off balance, then suddenly halted, as the brass security chain locked tight.
King’s mind raced as he quickly assessed the unforeseen obstruction. He had never encountered something so simple, something so out of place in a military scenario. A ten pound security chain from Yogyakarta’s equivalent of B&Q had thwarted him. Millions spent on his training, but MI6 hadn’t trained him for something as simple as that. He barged the door again with his shoulder, then struggled to regain his balance as he was met with the same effect. The chain held firm, allowing a gap of only a few inches. He stepped back from the door, aimed the weapon at the middle of the door and fired a single shot. He cocked the weapon again, moved his aim quickly to the right by a foot or so, then fired one more controlled shot. The bodyguard cried out as he was hit and King cocked the Colt again and fired a third shot. He heard the bodyguard fall to the floor, but King could still hear the man moving. He put the muzzle of the silencer on the chain, pushed the door as hard as he could to alleviate any slack and fired. The door gave way, and as he charged his way in, he pulled back the slide and manually engaged the next bullet.
The bodyguard had been hit twice, both times in the chest, but the bullets had been slowed considerably by the thick wooden door and had merely embedded themselves in the man’s Kevlar vest, leaving their tails sticking out. The guard had fallen onto his back, thoroughly shocked and winded, and was now struggling backwards, reaching for the pistol in his belt holster.
King darted forwards to kick the man’s hand away from the pistol, then dropped down onto his knees, straddling his chest. He wrapped both legs over the man’s thighs, his insteps pinning the man’s legs to the floor. The guard couldn’t even attempt to knee him in the back, all four limbs were pinned down tightly. The bodyguard looked up at the intruder, completely helpless. King looked away, keeping the pistol aimed at the hallway, as he searched for a second target. Satisfied that the man had been alone, he returned his stare to the helpless soldier, then drove a left hook into his temple. The man went limp, concussed by the powerful blow, but King hit him again for good measure and then rolled back onto his heels, satisfied that the bodyguard was out of action. He laid the heavy .45 on the ground and picked up the man’s Heckler & Koch MP5-SD machine pistol. It was a silenced version with a thick integral silencer. King checked the magazine, saw from the inspection ports that it was full, then checked the breach for a round and flicked the selector to single shot. Now the weapon would fire one 9mm bullet each time the trigger was pulled. Thirty of them. He felt more confident now. This addition would make him feel a little more comfortable as he went in search for his next target.
The next target was not long in coming. As King stepped over the unconscious bodyguard’s outstretched legs, the man’s partner came charging into the room with a Steyr-AUG carbine held firmly to his shoulder.
King raised his weapon, doubting that the bodyguard had learned that particular method of room entry from the SAS instructors at Hereford. He sighted quickly, almost instinctively, and fired a double tap into the man’s face. The force of the two bullets spun the dead man like a top and sent him spinning into the wall behind him where he suddenly halted, then slumped in a sitting position.
Two bodyguards down, but he could not take Grogol’s word for it, there might well be more security to take care of. His eyes darted everywhere, but wherever he looked the MP5 followed as if it were an extension of his vision, viewing everything through the peephole sights.
Grogol had briefed King on the layout of building. The rooms were lavishly furnished for military accommodation, the actual structure was deceptively large. According to Grogol, General Soto’s bedroom was the fourth room on the left, between the kitchen, the dining room and th
e bathroom. There were also more bedrooms, some occupied by a rotation of security personnel.
He walked slowly, breathing deeply and steadily as he advanced. The kitchen was small but functional and looked to be used only for preparing snacks and beverages. It was also empty, which was all the British agent was looking for. He continued on his way, listening out for the slightest sound.
The bullets impacted in the wall near his shoulder. It was a short burst from a machine pistol, but unsilenced in the confined space it sounded like canon fire. King dropped to one knee, using a desk as makeshift cover. The second burst came from the end of the lounge from behind a large leather sofa. King saw the muzzle flashes, aimed at them and sent four rounds into the wall. He lowered his aim to the sofa and fired three rounds into each of the four segment cushions. He heard a shout or cry of pain and aimed a couple more in the same direction. A man charged out from cover but made it into one of the rooms before King could take aim. He was a soldier with body armour and a machine pistol. King got up and ran towards the doorway. He flicked the selector to full-auto as he ran. As the man swung out of the doorway with his weapon aimed King fired a full burst from just a few feet away and the man went down. The man had looked shocked, clearly he hadn’t expected King to charge at him so fast. The MP5 was empty. King threw it down and tugged the tiny 9mm pistol out of his back pocket. The soldier was laying dazed having taken the brunt of the bullets in his body armour. He was reaching for his pistol on his low-slung leg holster as King dropped on top of him, tucked his pistol under the man’s chin and caught hold of his arm in time to stop him drawing his pistol. King fired once and the top of the man’s head painted the wall behind.
He breathed a few deep breaths and quickly took stock. It had gone noisy now, so he unslung the Uzi and tucked his pistol back in his pocket. In his left trouser pocket he had the two spare magazines for the Uzi. He was thirsty, hot and tired. His heart was thumping through his chest. Still, the deep breaths calmed him a little. He edged his way along the wall, listening intently for any give away signs. There was much at stake now. It would be too easy to burst into the target’s room and fire the weapon into the man’s bed, but Abdul Tembarak’s wife was supposed to be here, he had to make sure that she was safe first. It was also a different scenario now that the gunfire had erupted throughout the building. If it had been heard outside, then he was done for. He had to work fast, but Soto would know he was under attack. He could have alerted help or be armed. King eased the handle of the bathroom door, then felt his pulse race as it gave way and slowly opened inwards. He edged himself closer, then peered inside and relaxed a little when he saw it was empty.
It was all to be found in the main bedroom. The house was effectively clear. General Soto, if he was inside, was most probably sleeping with the Indonesian agent’s young wife. He could not just burst into the room and shoot, he had to identify then take appropriate action. The woman’s husband was waiting outside in the truck, cradling their first-born. It would be all too easy to simply get the job done in his customary manner, but he had seen the Indonesian’s happiness at being reunited with his child; not only seen, but somehow felt a part of it. His world was so bitter, so vicious and cruel that he had felt a sudden urge to see more happiness.
He stepped forwards hesitantly, feeling a strange concern that another person’s life was under threat. To date, it had simply been a question of his own life, or the target’s. Now there was a third life in the equation and he was suddenly nervous. Not that his own life was without value, but death was something which he had never seriously considered. He was confident, sure that he would always win against any opposition.
He took another deep breath, then reached for the door handle. If the room was lit, then he would be able to identify the target immediately, if the room was dark, then hopefully the light from the hallway would be sufficient. His mind raced as he attempted to recall what the Indonesian sergeant had said. The bedroom was approximately twenty-eight feet by twenty, and doubled as the General’s private office for more ‘sensitive’ matters. These matters usually involved prisoner’s wives. The double bed was situated directly ahead and slightly to the right of the doorway. There was only so much he could take on trust, and if the truth be known, he would rather have gone in blind. At least he would not be relying on information from one of the target’s personal aides. He took another deep, calming breath, then gently pulled down on the door handle.
The first gunshot caught him completely by surprise, as they always do. The woman screamed hysterically and the second gunshot drowned her out for a moment. King had to decide what action was best to take. There was only a split second for that, as the third bullet would surely find its target. King barged the door with his shoulder, then dropped to the floor and rolled into the room out of the light of the lounge which was flooding a patch just inside the dark room. He brought the Uzi up to aim, then frantically searched for his target. The next two shots were fired in quick succession. His ears were ringing. A painful thud each time a gunshot sounded. He knew it was a magnum revolver simply by the noise. He processed the information to be sure – sharp report, no metallic sounds of working parts or ejected cases, obviously a revolver and not a semi-auto. Loud. Incredibly loud. A .357 magnum for sure. Not that the calibre really mattered; bullets were bullets. But a magnum handgun round was a game changer. The only handgun round that could completely penetrate the engine of a truck.
Down on the floor, his ears ringing, King tried to work through what he’d seen and heard. The woman was making a noise, but she was muffled. Maybe Soto had his hand clamped against her mouth. There had been muzzle flashes to his left, four shots fired in total, two shots left in the cylinder. He rolled forwards again, then aimed the Uzi exactly a foot above the last muzzle flash and about six inches to his left. Soto was right handed, he would be behind the woman with his left hand keeping her quiet. King fired a short three round burst. A shot fired back, briefly lighting the bed up in the darkness. There was no time to hesitate, no time to assess his marksmanship. He dived forwards on his belly and took refuge behind the bed as he listened intently for any trace of a sound, anything which could give him information and an edge.
The silence was deafening. King’s ears were ringing from the gunshots and the blood which pumped and thudded in his ears from the release of adrenaline made it almost impossible to hear anything in the silence. But then came the whimper, the high-pitched snivel of a woman trying to suppress her tears. The sound was audible and had changed direction. Soto had moved, was moving around the bed. How was that possible? King realised that the bed was centered and not against the wall. He had not imagined that. Instead he had pictured the traditional set-up. But Soto was a beast, a man you raped women. Who raped the wives of his prisoners. Nothing was going to be traditional about this man’s sleeping arrangements.
“I have a hostage!” The voice was deep, and highly accented. “Abdul Tembarak’s woman!”
King breathed quietly. He tried to be as silent as he could. There was always more to a close quarter battle than simply shooting at your target. Mind games always came into play at some stage – Soto’s was to declare the presence of an innocent, King’s was to play dead.
“Shoot at me, and you will hit the woman,” a pause. “That wouldn’t be very British of you, would it?”
King kept still, the next move would have to Soto’s. He would have to confirm his hit at some stage. There was an underlying tone to the man’s voice, as if he were under more than extreme duress. And then King heard it. Faint, but easily identifiable in the eerie silence - a sharp intake of breath through the man’s teeth. He was injured, fighting to control his emotions as the simultaneous dull ache and burning of the gunshot kicked in and started to burn like acid on raw flesh, becoming more unbearable by the second.
King gripped the Uzi and closed his eyes, heightening his senses in an effort to hear more. The man would have to make his move soon. The pain of his wound would af
fect his judgement, a mistake would soon follow. But King could not stay indefinitely, he was sure the alarm would be raised at any moment.
“I will count to three, and then I will shoot the hostage!” There was a long pause, and then; “I mean it, I will kill her!”
King remained silent. Mind games were the worst, the other man could never feel lonelier than he did at that moment.
“One!.. Two!...” This time the pause was long, but decidedly more desperate. “Three!..”
King waited but was confident the man would not shoot. He had counted off five shots. He only had one left. The man would be a fool to throw away his only bargaining chip and he most probably knew it as well.
“I will shoot her!” There was a grunt as he moved, the pain obviously biting at his resolve. “Throw out your weapon, stand up and put your hands on your head!” There was a faint click, then suddenly, the light flickered briefly and illuminated the room brightly.
King kept still, lying on his stomach, completely masked by the bed. He heard a tentative footstep, then cursed inwardly. The light had changed his hand, he was no longer holding the trump card. From this position, he would not be able to make a move quickly enough in the brightness. If Soto eased himself forwards a pace or two he would be able to see the lower half of King’s body as he neared the bed.
There was nothing else for it. He still had an advantage, but would just have to play the game a little differently. He threw the weapon into the middle of the room, then slowly rolled onto his back. “All right, I’m coming out! Don’t shoot, I am unarmed!” He slowly eased himself up, then stared into the eyes of the evil, would-be dictator.
