Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  A fluttering shadow would be Wade landing. Beyond that were occasional, deliberate shots. Deliberate was bad. Afghans would have been spraying the landscape with no hope of hitting anything. Slow, careful shooting was the mark of a professional. Several professionals. He marked several faint muzzle flashes for later reference.

  Wade had apparently seen where Kyle landed, and rolled and crawled toward where he was now hidden. Once under cover himself, Kyle slithered over to meet up. He came face to muzzle with Wade’s Beretta, which bothered him for only a moment. He knew his partner’s skill and nerves, and trusted him to identify a target. It looked eerie in the monochromatic green of the night vision.

  “We’re here. Where’s Mel?” Wade asked, lowering the pistol, sinking back down and all but disappearing into the ground. There was a ring of apparently clear air around them, a trick of the eye, but beyond that was a tarp of mist over everything, stirring lazily. Kyle made note to use that movement to watch for threats, who’d disturb the air as they approached.

  “Dunno,” he replied. “We need to figure out who we’re making contact with, too.” Great. A twerp of an officer, and he was missing, too. But it was reassuring in a way. A certain amount of trouble was inevitable. If it was going wrong already, they could hope for steady, minor screw ups rather than a precarious balance until it crashed totally. And goddamn, it was hot down here. Insulated suit over BDUs, helmet, and warm, humid, tropical air.

  “Well, the fire is coming from out there in at least two directions, and outgoing fire from the beacon area suggests our friends.” He pointed downhill to the eastern edge of the clearing. “If the beacon was captured, I’d hope our allies would attack in a more vigorous fashion, especially as we’re on the ground. Either that, or yell for us.”

  “Logical, assuming professionals. These are the rebels, however.” Professionals were predictable. Amateurs were fused explosives, just waiting for the hammer to fall. “But it’s either that, or wait until it’s over and hope the good guys win.”

  “So what do we do? Seeing as our fearless leader isn’t here?”

  “That way,” Kyle pointed, “and we’ll try to get attention. Any reason not to use flares to backlight the trouble?”

  Wade considered this as he drew his M-4 from his harness and snapped the stock open. He had inserted a mag aboard the plane in violation of Air Force regs, and the crew hadn’t even suggested he stop. They knew what troops on the ground faced, and they supported them. He clicked a shell into the M203 grenade launcher mounted under the little carbine and slid the breech closed.

  “Can’t think of any,” he said. “Anyone with ears knows there’s a fight here. If it’s big, they’ll be here before it’s over. If it’s small, we’ll be gone before they get here. I count three to five enemies over there, about fifty meters by ear,” he pointed.

  “I agree,” Kyle said. He was pulling the upper and lower halves of the SR25 from his ruck, and slapping the pins tight to assemble the receivers. He grabbed a twenty-round magazine and slid it in. At times like this, it didn’t hurt to “ride the bolt” forward until it was almost locked, then tap the forward assist to finish closing it quietly. But the SR25 didn’t have a forward assist. He let the bolt fly to close with the reassuring ratcheting clack of the locking breech. Then he removed his night vision again. It was bulky, eyes had advantages, and he had the scope if he needed it. He hesitated for just a second before unzipping his jumpsuit and squirming out.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m about to cook.”

  “No problem,” Wade said. He had shed his already. He leaned back with the stock low on his shoulder, sighted for distance, and then “aimed by ear” at the apex of the firing. He squeezed the trigger on the grenade launcher.

  Whoomp!

  “Let’s move,” he said, and shimmied out of the tangled brush into the open space between trees. They hid again before the illumination shell burst under its parachute. Both kept their eyes averted out of habit, to avoid affecting the night vision goggles, though the gear they had could compensate for the glare. The firefight paused for a moment, then rose to a brief, furious level. Most of the fire was generally outgoing from the snipers’ area, which was a good sign, assuming those were the allies they were to meet. Then it got dark again as the illumination burned out.

  They crawled forward, Kyle holding his weapon in his left handed. That meant they each had an arc of fire. If they’d had Wiesinger, he’d cover the rear and they’d be protected all around.

  Wade would shift a few feet, knees splayed and spine flexing like a lizard. He’d take cover and pause. Kyle would choose his next position from wherever he was and move to it. The growth was thick enough to provide good concealment and cover, and the air was humid and dense even though it wasn’t too warm. That meant noise would damp out faster.

  They’d covered perhaps thirty meters when Wade signaled Kyle forward.

  Kyle slithered up alongside. He said nothing, simply waited for Wade, who pointed. Ahead of them was an Indonesian with a Pindad Senapan Serbu 1, the Indonesian-licensed version of the Belgian FNC carbine. He was slowly approaching the parachutes they’d just left.

  The trick now was to get his attention, without getting shot by him or letting anyone else locate them.

  Wade reached a long arm out and shook a branch on a bush. It wiggled, and the Indonesian froze, weapon held ready. Wade shook it again, twice. Then three times.

  “Keluar,” the man said softly. Come out.

  “Americans,” Wade replied. “Coming out.” He led the way, after a moment’s glance to see if Kyle approved. The man simply faced him in a squat, ignoring another shot that was some meters away. Who or what the target was was impossible to tell in the dark, dank growth. Kyle slipped out and joined Wade.

  “You are?” the man asked in English, looking cautious rather than suspicious.

  “Kyle and Wade,” Kyle said. They were just “Kyle and Wade”; no last names, nothing to indicate military rank or an employer.

  “I’m Bakri. Pleased to meet you.” He was very slim, about five foot seven, and had a scraggly beard. It didn’t really suit him. Nor did the smile that revealed crooked teeth. But the name was right for their contact and he wasn’t shooting at them. The pattern of fire seemed to indicate his loyalties were with them. Good news, after a fashion.

  “And you,” Kyle said.

  “We’re under fire?” Wade asked, prodding for intel. The chat seemed out of place, under the circumstances.

  “Just a skirmish, you say? We have met a different rebel patrol, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s hard to say in the dark,” he admitted. “Where is your other man?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  Just then, a round crack-snapped through the leaves above them. They all ducked.

  “Wonderful,” Kyle said. “Do you mind if we return some fire?”

  Bakri grinned a mouthful of teeth. “Feel free.”

  Kyle and Wade had the best weapons in the area and were undoubtedly the best shooters. A quick glimpse through the AN/PVS-10 scope showed Kyle the shine of clothes that had been excessively pressed or starched. Someone was trying to look “professional” in their uniform, and was instead standing out like aluminum foil. He sunk lower for stability, aimed, and fired.

  There was a thrashing motion and then nothing. One down. Wade pegged someone else, and the locals hit another. It was eerie to be in a battle, yet to have everything be so clean. After another handful of shots, the enemy faded away. It had barely been rougher than a field exercise, other than the fact that a dozen bullets had passed overhead.

  “What now?” Kyle asked, as they finally shook hands.

  Bakri whistled and his troop scurried in. There were four of them. They were introduced as Rizal, Fahmi, Hassan, and Syarief. Kyle nodded, but in the dark they all looked the same; skinny, grinning Malays in camouflage with rifles.

  “What is your status?
” Bakri asked.

  “We’re down, someone knows that men with parachutes are down, and we’re missing a man,” Kyle said.

  “And this surprises you?” Wade asked.

  “No, not really,” Kyle admitted. He was lying. He was endlessly amazed by all the myriad ways things could drop into the toilet. “Bakri,” he said, “We need to look for our other man. Any ideas?”

  “Where was he when you last saw him?”

  “About two hundred meters below us and two hundred downwind.” The fat bastard had dropped like a stone, squeezed into his jumpsuit.

  Bakri looked around, considering things. “That way,” he indicated, pointing uphill and into the scrub. Then he turned and rattled off something in Achinese. Two of the others went off to check on the enemy and gather loot.

  “You lead, please?” Kyle asked. “I’ll navigate and Wade covers rear.”

  “Got it,” Wade agreed. Bakri nodded and slipped forward, twisting so as to minimize disturbance of the growth. It was a casual movement for him. The snipers were trained professionals with lots of experience in many terrains, but Bakri had grown up here. The leaves and stalks made barely a whisper as he passed by. His men spread out to patrol for threats. Kyle was reassured. They were quite professional, unlike the eager and brave but unschooled allies they’d had in Pakistan.

  It was a bit nervy, with the growth at the edge of the treeline thinning quickly in just a few steps. They all slunk down to the ground. Bakri had an old, crude night vision monocular Kyle didn’t recognize. He and Wade had state of the art American ones that were far more effective, but they were unfamiliar with the terrain. It was a toss-up who’d see Wiesinger first, if he was alive and in the area.

  Shortly, Wade spoke. “I see a figure up ahead. Large, armed with an M -4. Likely him.”

  “I hope so. If there’s anyone else here meeting that description. . .”

  “Yeah, one of him is enough,” Wade agreed jovially.

  Wiesinger had actually done the smart thing. Once down, he’d buried his canopy and container. He was sitting, back to a tree, scanning with his night vision. Kyle swallowed hard and stood slowly, arms out and weapon slung. He wanted Wiesinger to see him. He also didn’t want the man, whose capabilities were in question, to panic and take a shot. At the least, it would attract attention. At the best, or rather worst. . .

  “Halt, who goes there?” Wiesinger asked in a whisper.

  “Kyle, Wade, and local allies. Good to see you, Mel,” he said. Although it was only good in the sense of not having to fill out the paperwork for a lost colonel.

  “Ser . . . Kyle. What’s our status?” Wiesinger had almost forgotten to use names instead of ranks. Easy enough mistake, but they’d practiced to avoid that. Kyle wasn’t sure if he was just that military minded, or that in love with his rank. But he’d need to avoid it.

  Kyle decided to keep patient. The man had been out of the loop. “We’re down, uninjured, ready to travel, with our local contact and have repulsed a minor skirmish. We count two kills.”

  “Good start to the mission, then?” The colonel nodded as he rose and gathered his gear.

  “Sort of. We’re ahead.” The fact that a couple of easy kills made the man think things were “good” spoke volumes. “Good” came from not engaging until necessary, and not being seen.

  In two minutes they were all together. Kyle had an unvoiced theory that Wiesinger’s stealth had been predicated by fear, not strategy. Still, they were all down, had their allies and guides, and were ready to commence their operation. Kyle wasn’t enthusiastic.

  If fourteen years of service had taught him anything, it was that that meant things were about to drop deeper into the toilet.

  “Okay,” Bakri said. “We walk. About six kilometers. Downhill.”

  “I like that last part.”

  Bakri grinned, and chattered softly in Jawi, the Acehnese language. His troops spread out two ahead and two behind, with the Americans and him in the middle.

  It wasn’t a rough march, but it was no walk in the park, either. Each of them was carrying close to 200 pounds of gear, between ruck, harness, and weapons. Kyle and Wade tired but carried on quietly. Wiesinger was puffing in short order. Obviously, his PT had been pencil-whipped, too. But he did keep up.

  “Permission to sling helmets, sir?” Wade asked.

  “Yeah, it’s rough enough as is.”

  Kyle didn’t like that. Certainly, he liked removing his helmet in these conditions, and would have made that call. But officially, they should wear them anywhere it was potentially hostile. That Wiesinger, who loved the rules, would change them when the whim suited him was a bad sign. On the other hand, it did mean he could see reason, as long as it was poking him in the chest. Perhaps some field time would be good for him.

  It took three hours for six kilometers. The terrain was rutted and steep in spots, heavily grown and with tangled roots. Downhill was both blessing and hindrance as it meant watching one’s balance carefully. Despite the cool dampness, they were all sweating in short order. The Indonesians drank from canteens. The Americans sucked it from their Camelbaks. Kyle worshipped the man who’d invented the backpack-style water bladder with its drinking tube. He’d tried several times to build one when younger, based on mention of the idea in a Robert Heinlein novel from the 1950s. Some things just took a while to germinate, it seemed.

  Eventually, near dawn, they arrived at a well-maintained and well worn Toyota Land Cruiser being guarded by a sole female soldier, who appeared out of the scenery when Bakri whistled.

  “Haswananda,” Bakri said. “She is very good at stalking.”

  “Hello,” Kyle said.

  “Hello,” she answered with a nod. She was probably pretty under the sweat and grime, and had muscles like a runner showing on her arms. She was long in the limb and about as tall as Bakri. “I am called Anda.”

  “Anda it is,” Wade agreed. Wiesinger said nothing, but shook hands briefly.

  Rucks in back, weapons on laps, Anda and another troop sprawled over the gear, and two more soldiers on the roof rack, they started jouncing down a track that came to a road a few meters along. But the growth was thick enough it wouldn’t have been found without major effort.

  “Any updates?” Kyle asked Bakri, as Wiesinger dialed his cell phone to report them down.

  “We have another group involved, I think,” Bakri said as he drove. “Whoever was shooting at us. They seem to know where we were to be, and that makes me unhappy.”

  “Yeah, a leak somewhere,” Kyle agreed.

  Wiesinger asked, “Is there any way to split your group further? To avoid leaks?”

  “I have done so, Mel,” Bakri said. “That is why we are only six. But if I have men in their groups, they have men in mine. Some are hostile, some are seeking wealth or politic advantage, and some just talk much.”

  There was silence for a few minutes. The question and answer had both been obvious, and Kyle was embarrassed. Certainly, one should ask the obvious, but there were more diplomatic ways than suggesting one’s hosts had missed something so simple.

  “How far?” Wade asked, breaking the awkwardness.

  “About an hour. It’s only fifty kilometers.” Kyle nodded invisibly. He was glad for a helmet, and donned it again. The rutted road caused them to bump heads from time to time. Bakri was shorter and safe, but Wiesinger was even taller, and could be heard cursing quietly. At least it was quiet. The guys on the roof had to be taking a beating, especially when one considered the trees overhead. Then there were roots they banged over . . .

  The good news was there was a camp at the end of it. Rather more than a camp. It was a village with buildings. They were concrete and block, Spartan but weatherproof, and the three of them were bedded down on mattresses in short order. They weren’t much as mattresses went, but were better than torn car seats, truck beds of trash, airplane seats or cargo racks, muddy pits, dank caves, or any of a number of other things Kyle had slept on. And there w
as cold rice and fruit for snacking. They used flashlights sparingly in the growing half light.

  “We rise at nine and get back to it,” Bakri said. “Normal we travel by night. But we need to get start soon.”

  “Understood,” Wiesinger said. “Post watch, gentlemen. I’ll take third rotation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kyle said. It was a perfectly reasonable order and a fair privilege of rank to be last so as to get uninterrupted sleep. But it bugged Kyle anyway. He realized it was an overreaction on his part that he’d have to get over.

  Wade said, “You first, I’ll take middle. Works out to fifty minutes each.”

  “Thanks, buddy,” Kyle said.

  “No problem. You owe me.”

  “I always owe you.”

  Wiesinger snapped, “Keep it down!”

  “Sorry, sir.” Kyle sighed and sat back, weapon in hand and alert.

  A few minutes later, he knew he’d have trouble sleeping. Wiesinger snored like a B-52 on takeoff.

  CHAPTER 6

  Kyle woke to Wiesinger slapping his boot. He rolled up silently, hand on weapon. It was a trained reflex.

  “Get ready, we’re moving,” Wiesinger said in a taciturn voice.

  “Roger that,” he said.

  Wade was already stretching and reaching into his ruck for a toothbrush. Health care is important, especially in the field. One can avoid soap so as to blend in with the brush, but hand washing, with at least water, and tooth care are vital. They tidied up in a few moments and were ready when Bakri stuck his head back in.

  “Good!” he said. “We take trucks to a meeting point.” He turned and left with just a wave of his hand. The Americans followed him out. Three trucks were in the village, two Land Cruisers and an ancient Land Rover. There were troops to fill them, including one with an RPK light machine gun and another with an RPG, a rocket loaded and a spare sticking out of his pack.

  As they gathered around the vehicles, Wiesinger asked, “What is the plan, Bakri?”

  “Meet up with rest of unit. Then travel to where we can observe the target. We have avoid it so far to keep cover, as requested.”