Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Twenty minutes later, as everyone was settling in, Stephens arrived.

  “So that’s him,” Stephens said, indicating the trussed body.

  “Yes. He hasn’t said anything yet,” Kyle replied. God, it was good to sit down. He’d never admit to fatigue when his hosts were so stoic, but he was drained.

  “We haven’t asked anything yet,” Bakri said. He nodded to his henchmen.

  The interrogation was ugly enough to push Kyle away. The imam kept invoking Allah, and vowing to do vile things to the children of his captors. Unfortunately, they needed his mouth intact to tell what he knew. The diatribe and invective continued. Even though it was in Bahasa and Achinese, Kyle could hear the viciousness. He wasn’t going to be an easy man to break.

  While they pretended not to know what was going on behind a cluster of trees, Wiesinger broached the subject.

  “Kyle, we’re on very shaky legal and moral ground back home if anyone hears of this.”

  “I don’t endorse it, Mel,” he said. “Officially, I asked that it not be done.”

  “Yeah, and that’ll get you what? We could see Leavenworth for this. ”

  “Mel. . . sir, it often happens out here that the realities go beyond the theory. There’s every chance of doing one’s job right, and getting courted or dying anyway. It’s one of those things that just doesn’t offer any good answers.”

  Wiesinger hesitated, his round face squinting and working. “I want it to stop. Can you tell me how?”

  “The only way I can think of is for you to ask. Bakri might listen. He might move it farther away so you don’t have to know about it. He might tell you to go screw. At best, you’ll delay our acquisition of intel. At worst, you’ll piss off our host and blow the mission. And as best as we can tell, this bastard helps blow up vacationing families and children of blue-collar workers. I detest the necessity. I can’t say I’m morally bothered by the suffering. It’s something I have to struggle with all the time. I don’t know what the answer is.”

  Wiesinger was silent again.

  Kyle fell asleep. If he was needed, they could wake him.

  He woke refreshed. He’d slept deeply. So deeply he didn’t recall hearing any more torture. He blinked and stretched.

  Wiesinger was asleep next to him. He’d stripped to his T-shirt this time. Wade was on watch, talking to one of the other Aussies and two Indonesians. Two M4 carbines and two Senapan Serbu rifles pointed in different directions. That seemed safe.

  Wade saw Kyle move and came over. “Wiesinger was asleep. I suggested not waking him.”

  “Okay. Now what?”

  “Bakri suggested letting everyone rest. We’ve got intel.”

  “I’m awake. Tell me.”

  “We’ve got a story of a facility nearby that produces product for income, and configures explosives. From there, it moves to the coast. Some is shipped, some is kept for insurgency. He couldn’t or wouldn’t specify what, where, or how much.”

  “Probably didn’t know,” Kyle guessed. “Was it bad, the interrogation?”

  “If we might get captured, I want you to shoot me,” Wade said. He didn’t reveal much emotion, which was a hint, also.

  “Damn,” Kyle said. When younger, he would have paid money to see terrorists tortured to death. Or thought he would have. Then the realities of it had disgusted him. Now, listening to it was just a job.

  He wasn’t sure what to think about that, either. But second-guessing himself out here was a bad idea. That could wait for return stateside. The only thing to worry about now was the impending risks to himself and civilians.

  By late afternoon, everyone was awake. Stephens boiled tea. Several of the Indonesians cooked up a pot of rice with local fruits, leaves, and a couple of chickens someone had managed to swipe during the raid on Khayalan. It wasn’t much, but it was hot and refreshing. The Americans passed around some MREs and a hoarded tub of Kyle’s shoestring potato snacks. There was dried meat from a previous expedition. As a feast it wasn’t much, especially with all the walking they were doing. But Bakri had called for his trucks again—they were needed at farms but could be broken loose for a day here or there— and said he was having them bring food, too.

  Food, fuel, batteries, water, and ammo. Everything else was secondary. It took a lot of supplies to keep even a short platoon going more than a day. They had no real logistics tail to support them. That greatly impeded their operation. In Pakistan, they’d had the same problem. In Romania, they’d had cash, credit cards, and were in a modern environment. They had cash here... and nowhere to spend it.

  “I have another report,” Bakri said, and everyone moved in except the sentries. “We have a location on an explosives site. It is here.” He pulled out a map. “A village once called Impian. It was abandoned after a flood in November 2002. Our enemy is said to be there.”

  “Advance as two squads, overwatch?” Stephens offered. “Encircle, observe, gives us a good position for attack or retreat? I’m happy to help if there’s a big payoff in intel or damage.”

  “We’ll get there first,” Wiesinger said. “I’ll do a commander’s reconnaissance, then we’ll see. We want to nail the people behind it, primarily. Destroying it is secondary. Further intel is an ongoing issue.”

  The colonel was standing far enough away not to hear what Kyle heard, which was Stephens muttering, “That presumes you’re in charge, lardbum.” He didn’t snicker. He understood exactly how the man felt.

  Stephens was lucky. He could refuse to listen to Wiesinger. Sergeant First Class Kyle Monroe didn’t have that option.

  No one argued about it. Really, there wasn’t much to do until they did get a look at the area. Stephens was too bright to get in a pissing contest with a foreign officer. Wiesinger assumed he was in charge. Bakri of course had his own ideas.

  An hour later, the trucks arrived, four of them. It was incredibly tight with all three Americans crammed in the backseat, their gear in the rear, and an Indonesian with his gear up front. The Aussies filled a second one with another local. That left nine more shoved into the other two vehicles.

  It was a ride like any other, though Kyle prayed they would not get attacked. There simply wasn’t any room to swing a weapon into play. Still, between riding uncomfortably or marching forty miles, he’d take the painful ride. Wade and he kept elbowing each other in the ribs accidentally, and gouging their knees on the receivers of their rifles.

  Then it was late afternoon and they arrived. With the need for stealth, Kyle was used to operating at night. The near twelve-hour days this close to the equator gave lots of dark. So he’d spend most of the time as a nocturnal hunter. Still, he was pushing the envelope this time.

  “Arrived,” of course, meant a solid ten kilometers away, for safety. They’d do the rest on foot, with Anda and Corporal Rod Iverson out front. They were both reputed to be the best trackers anywhere. Hopefully, their skill would be reinforced by competitive nature and they’d catch any hint of a perimeter before it knew it was being attacked.

  Wiesinger was still too loud when he moved, but better at it than he had been. He might eventually shape up. In the meantime, Kyle stayed close enough to let the man follow his lead. Usually the colonel would.

  Stephens crawled up close. “According to Iverson, Anda, and GPS, it’s fifteen hundred meters that way.” He pointed.

  Kyle asked, “What now?”

  Wiesinger said, “I’ll do a recon and determine where we stand. Kyle, you have a notebook? I’d like it, please.”

  Kyle knew better than to argue. He peeled off the pages he’d used and secured them in a chest pocket, just as a security measure. He handed the book to Wiesinger, along with a pen.

  “You’re going in there?” Stephens asked, brow wrinkled through his camo.

  “I’ve got to know what we’re facing before planning the assault,” Wiesinger said, his voice half reasonable, half condescending.

  Of course, Kyle had never heard of anyone doing a “commander’
s reconnaissance” in that fashion after they graduated Ranger school. It was an easy way to die, as one lieutenant had learned in Grenada. He’d go along with Wiesinger and pray he wasn’t going to wind up a statistic.

  “It’s seventeen twenty,” Wiesinger announced as he looked at his watch. “I will be back by nineteen hundred. Monroe, you’re with me, Curtis, take charge of U.S. material.”

  “Yes, Mel,” they echoed. Wade didn’t look unhappy. His expression was carefully neutral. Kyle looked at him just as neutrally. He wasn’t sure that, if they’d been able to, they’d grin, sigh, or look disgusted. So with nothing further to say, he turned and followed his officer.

  Iverson squatted nearby. He looked somewhat miffed at his recon being second-guessed by Wiesinger. Or maybe “somewhat miffed” was too mild. The man was lean, but muscled like a wrestler, and had a very dark, clenched-jaw expression. Kyle gave him a shrug and a shake of the head as he passed. Not my decision pal.

  CHAPTER 11

  Half an hour later, Kyle reconsidered. Maybe I’m getting too cynical in my old age, he thought. Wiesinger directed him where to go and let him take the lead.

  “You’ve got more time in the field, so I’ll tell you what I want and you get it done,” Wiesinger had said. Which was one part of doctrine that had been wise advice for thousands of years. Tell the NCO what you want and he’ll do it for you.

  So Kyle led in a crawl, fast enough to be worthwhile, slow enough for silence, around a substantial arc of the village. It had block and tin buildings, a road that dead-ended into it and electricity from what Kyle reasoned was a propane generator. On second thought, it had to be liquefied natural gas. There was enough of it here.

  And the place was silent.

  Khayalan had been quiet. This was dead. A few cautious looks through night vision confirmed it. There was evidence of a fight, including bullet spalling on walls. Add in scavengers trotting through, and the smell. . .

  “This is supposed to be an operations center, and I see nothing. But it’s not been down for long.”

  “I’d say a day, tops, or we’d see more scavengers,” Kyle agreed.

  “So who took them out, and why?”

  “Unknown. Government, other rebels are all that comes to mind.”

  “Okay, let’s call the others,” Wiesinger said. He looked scared, badly. Kyle didn’t blame him, though. His own fear was more internalized, but just as real. The pending morning twilight didn’t help.

  The rest of the ersatz unit moved in quickly. The evident lack of a perimeter, the darkness, and thick air let them approach upright at a skulk instead of down at a crawl. Within an hour, they were all present.

  “Talk to me,” Stephens said as he came up.

  “Let’s wait for Bakri,” Kyle suggested.

  “Righto.” They huddled under broad leaves and inhaled the dank air, redolent with rot and chlorophyll.

  When Bakri arrived, Kyle said, “Mel and I have covered the perimeter from here to there.” He pointed. “No signs of action or habitation. Spalling and other light-arms damage, including fractures suggestive of grenades, are present. It appears no one is home. Obviously, we’d like to test that theory carefully.”

  Wiesinger nodded. “Suggestions?”

  “If you want mine,” Stephens said with faint sarcasm, “I’d pull us into thirds, split around the perimeter and then have one element approach with crossed lanes of fire in case they need support. Assuming we all trust our marksmanship.”

  “The cover is good, the men are all adequately trained from what I can see,” Kyle said. “Sounds good. Bakri?”

  “I will be happy to cover fire,” he said. “I would not want to tell my men to stand in the middle of the fire.”

  “Right,” Wiesinger agreed. “We’ll go in with three volunteers. You each take your teams around one hundred to one hundred twenty degrees, then we’ll call for the advance.”

  Syarief, Rizal, Iverson, and an Aussie named Fuller, their demolitions expert, joined them. The locals were armed with AKs and were excellent in the jungle. Iverson and Fuller each had an M4 that was almost a clone of the U.S. issue. They knew how to handle their weapons. Still, Kyle wanted the locals flanking, not behind him. Eagerness got people shot. Iverson and Fuller he was comfortable with. The SAS had a first-class reputation.

  Kyle had to agree with Stephens on the utility of satellite cell phones. No bulky radios for this, no codes, no worries about transmitters being located, no battery issues. Radios were often necessary, though, especially with air support. That they had no radios also meant no air and no arty. These operations were quite lonely. Even more so when fire came in.

  They waited while Bakri’s forces moved closer to the road, and Stephens’s around a good chunk of the circle. It was twenty minutes later when Wiesinger grabbed his phone. “Roger that. We’re ready.” He punched it off. “Let’s move.” It was dark. Very dark. NVG showed little, except when he used the IR illuminator, which had limited range. He only used it in momentary flashes, since it could be easily detected by other night vision.

  They slipped in closer, weaving through the boles and vines, bushes and leaves. The silence was foreboding. Kyle’s nerves stuck out like naked wires. There was something here, he was sure. He didn’t believe in supernatural inputs. Fifteen years of instinct told him so. He didn’t know what, but he felt the threat. He took another glance at the M4 he carried. Chambered, safety off, finger poised. He had a canister round—basically a 40mm shotgun cartridge— loaded in the grenade launcher in case he needed more oomph. It should be plenty. Wade also had a canister; Iverson and Fuller, the Aussies, had HE loads in theirs; and two of Bakri’s men had RPGs. Add two machine guns, and it was actually an effective infantry platoon.

  Except they were four units, really, and hadn’t done more than a couple of marches together. There was plenty that could go wrong in the dark, should something spook someone.

  They reached the cleared area, the ground beyond grassy and even. This place had been burned out of the jungle a long time ago. And it was empty, but had certainly been occupied since 2002. The trash and debris lying around was proof of that.

  Kyle stepped out first in a low crouch, weapon shouldered and ready. Wiesinger moved in front and went prone with the SR25. Wade took one side and the Indonesians the other. They waited several seconds, ears cocked for anything beyond the cacophony of animal life.

  Wade made the phone call. “Seems clear. Close in.” He tucked the instrument away and resumed his guard.

  Jack Stephens and two of his natives swarmed in the other side so quickly and silently they seemed to be wraiths. Damn, but there were good troops around here, Kyle thought. Which meant that if—when—this got nasty, Kyle would be in the midst of a battle of professionals, not a brawl of amateurs.

  Well, he had wanted a challenge. Here it was. Be careful what you wish for . . .

  Bakri came in from across and to the right, along the road edge. They were all through the village now. That meant they were targets from the buildings, but to hit them up close would expose the attackers to multiple shots and no backstop. That was the best they could manage.

  Wiesinger said, “We need to control that large building near the center. I assume that’s an administrative center.”

  “Sort of,” Bakri said. “Official meetings would take place there, yes.”

  “I want to go in fast and hard, just in case.”

  “Of course.”

  The elements recombined into two large squads, front and back. Kyle felt his phone buzz, and he checked his watch as he raised his fist. When the second hand hit 12, they’d storm this building. He coiled himself like a spring, ready to explode. He took a quick glance around that showed everyone ready, fingers twitching near but not yet on triggers.

  Then it was time. As one they rose. Kyle was prepared to blow the hinges off the door, but it hung askew. Wiesinger, the largest by far, kicked the door as two of Bakri’s men went in low. Kyle went in high, exp
ecting to take some kind of defensive fire.

  Nothing.

  No, not nothing.

  Dear God!

  There were bodies galore, bloated and rotting, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. He’d expected bodies. It was the apparatus and the wall decorations. For they weren’t maps or charts. They’d all been desecrated, torn down or ripped, but it didn’t take much to see them for what they were.

  Wade came in the rear.

  “Child porn studio?” he said, voice tight, disgusted, as if he might vomit at any moment. Kyle felt the same way.

  “Yeah. And the terrorists . . . killed them.” He looked at one of the bodies. Even before the flies and scavengers, it had been ugly.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I agree with and support the terrorists.” Wade sounded a cross between revolted and amazed.

  “Here,” Wiesinger said, pulling a grubby sheet of paper from the wreckage. It was a color printout of. . .

  “Yeah, why don’t you take this, sir,” Kyle said, fishing a lighter from his pocket.

  “Thank you, sergeant. Much appreciated.” Wiesinger struck the paper alight, dropped it, and vigorously wiped his fingers in the dirt on the floor, then on his pants.

  “Man, it never ceases to amaze me how far some people can sink,” Wade said. They all stared as the picture disappeared into ash, ghostly outlines still hinting at the scene on the photographic paper. The colonel stomped it with his boot and ground it to nothing.

  “At least there’s some places the terrorists won’t go,” Wiesinger said. It wasn’t much comfort. It simply pointed out how far they did go, if this extreme was what they wouldn’t do.