Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  *****

  Captain Hari Sutrisno looked at the reports. There was something more here than was immediately apparent. When a group of rebels was dropped into his lap with a phone call, he took the opportunity, and this source had proved reliable repeatedly.

  At the same time, he didn’t like being played for a fool or used as a toy in someone else’s game. It was obvious in retrospect that he’d been meant to find the faction at the porn facility. Clearly, they were outsiders or mere guards, not participants. The firefight he’d interrupted had also been a side issue. So who had been running the vile operation? Who stopped it? Who found it? Who had called him in right on top of them? He had answers to none of these questions at present. But he would. No mistake about that, he would have an answer.

  In the meantime, GAM was increasingly factional. That boded well for crushing it at last and maintaining a unified Indonesia. Any part he could do for his homeland he was honored to do. If promotion came with it, he wouldn’t turn it down. But that wasn’t his motivation. Duty was his motivation.

  *****

  It was a good day for terrorism.

  Pakistan was a safe place to hide, but operations there were not viable. Any disruption caused massive government response. Saudi Arabia was the same way, with Iraq becoming so. There was little to strike in Afghanistan or elsewhere in Asia. Europe had battened down tight. The current U.S. leadership had indicated a willingness to retaliate, and unless elections put in a more “sensitive” president, threats were all that could be offered, not any practical attack. Iran was Shia, not Sunni, but had a certain popularity for its hardline leadership, even despite doctrinal differences. Turkey already had its own factions, and the Balkans were too close to Europe and had received major setbacks recently, in part due to Kyle and Wade and the CIA operations there. The African Muslim states were staunch allies of the terror networks, even if they didn’t say so. That left a handful of places where attacks could be made with impunity and effect.

  So it was that small bombs were detonated in Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, Quezon City in the Philippines, and Surabaya and Medan in Indonesia. Another in Lhokseumawe ripped through a pipeline, spilling thousands of barrels of oil before cutoffs worked to staunch the flow. Flames roared as the crude petroleum wicked through the growth and vaporized. Panic ensued as it neared an Arun gas line, but it was brought under control with a lot of effort and resources, and not a few casualties.

  The Fist of God claimed credit, and vowed a much larger blast in three days, plus other unspecified actions, if several GAM prisoners were not released and money from petroleum production not directed toward Aceh.

  *****

  Early the next morning, Kyle was blinking sleep from his eyes as he sat on a dirt floor. He’d been woken in a hurry.

  “We’ve got a major fucking situation here, gentlemen,” Wiesinger said. He had them in a hut, as if it were a briefing room. Stephens and his men were along, too. Still, it felt like a stateside lecture rather than a field strategy discussion. The news of the attacks and capture had come in overnight.

  “Indonesia is making the correct response, which is to pour another ten thousand troops in here and shoot anything that is a threat. Unfortunately, their assessment of threats includes our allies. It’s a ‘if you’re not with us you’re against us’ gesture. So we can’t stick around with our allies.

  “At the same time, I’m reluctant to abandon our local help, because operating without them will be a considerable handicap.”

  Yeah, Kyle thought. And utterly inhuman, crass, and rude. But don't let that bother you, sir. At least it was a good reason to be woken up. The shit had hit the turbine.

  “At least two groups are actively trying to get us nailed. Ideally, we let the government handle them while we pursue the threats to U.S. interests. But we can’t get the intel we need to do that, and after the fiasco last time we tried an urban encounter”—he fixed Kyle and Wade with his glare—“it’s not advisable. This has escalated beyond what we’re set to handle. But if we withdraw, we admit defeat, which is something I’m not prepared to do.”

  No, Kyle thought. No medals that way, sir. Got to put on a brave front. Even if we should have shared intel first and called for backup earlier. And the urban screwup last time had still got the mission accomplished.

  To be fair, much of the trouble the snipers faced was from higher up and from outside Department of Defense. But the snipers were on the spot.

  Wiesinger continued, “And there’s hostages. Fist of God has captured the wife and daughter of a U.S. executive. The bitch is, his wife is a Hong Kong native, meaning Chinese now. That seems to have been planned. If we wind up with dead Chinese nationals as well as American nationals, we’ll have knots that will take months to deal with. The fear is that China will make incursions like ours, or even more overtly. They might deploy naval forces in these waters, for example, which is near India as well. They don’t get along well, and Indonesia can’t defend against a force like that and may just kill everything moving in Aceh to show they’re dealing with the problem.

  “So we’re facing an international incident that could create a dozen wars, and has already got troops out in Indonesia and the P.I. There’s a lot of diplo crap flying between China and everyone else. No one wants them here, but everyone agrees they have the right to. We’re being asked for intel and action. I am open to suggestions.”

  “Vaseline,” Stephens said. He wasn’t in this chain of command and could feel free to kibitz. “Apart from that, I’m for calling my government and bailing. We’ve got an amnesty offer for my group and families, if we can extract them. With our casualties of the last month and a half, I can take four more people from your allies, if you can't get Washington to make the same deal.”

  It was sensible and fair, Kyle thought. This was a full-scale war, even if shadowy at the present. Two fireteams with local insurgents had no business trying to do more than radio out troop movements and enemy targets. And that was a job the SEALs or Air Force Combat Control or Marine Recon were much better equipped to handle than two Rangers and a desk officer. Not that it mattered worth a damn. There wasn’t much to stop this. The government wouldn’t be able to make a decision fast enough to matter, and Kyle didn’t like the idea of abandoning civilians.

  “Do the Chinese actually care about a civilian?” Australian Kevin Fuller asked. “I wouldn’t imagine they care about an expat.”

  “Probably they don’t,” Wade said. “But it’s a convenient excuse to bring ships down here and rattle sabers. They might also grab some more islands in the South China Sea on their way, as forward operating locations.”

  “Can’t accuse them of being stupid,” Iverson said. “Scheming, conniving, soulless, but not stupid.”

  “I guarantee both we and India will respond to Chinese vessels in the Straits of Malacca,” Stephens said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you, the Brits, and the Japs came in, too.”

  Kyle said nothing about that. He agreed with what he heard and saw no reason to comment. Instead. . .

  “Can we find the hostages, at least?” he asked. “If the bomb threats are urban, to hell with them, that’s not our gig. I agree with you on that, Mel.” Did I just say that? he thought. “But if we can find the hostages, we can at least report that. If they’re in one of these little villes, we may be able to do something. That will take the Chinese pressure off, if we can accomplish that.”

  Wiesinger considered. “Good. I like it. Where do we look?”

  “That’s what the locals are for,” Kyle admitted. “But they must be able to find something. Even if we can just localize it, it helps a rescue force.”

  “I’m not sure how much we should share,” Wiesinger said. “Our objectives are different from theirs.”

  Wade said, “Hell, Mel, should we put our feet in buckets of concrete? Washington isn’t on the spot, they don’t have the information we do. Decisions have to be made here.” He sounded closer to an outburst than he ever
had.

  Wiesinger stared at him, looking as if he was about to start shouting. Obvious rage was boiling up. Stephens interrupted with, “I concur. I can call and tell my chain that I need to stay. I have that much autonomy. Stick with our locals. I’ll trust yours if you trust mine. Any intel helps. I don’t want to read about two dead civvies in the news.”

  Wiesinger closed his mouth. The comment about a mere sergeant having autonomy to make that decision obviously stuck in his craw. He’d been content so far to relay the orders from above and report back. He wasn’t stupid, but he was lacking in imagination. The idea of handling the mission was obviously new to him.

  “I agree,” Kyle said. “I’d rather be recognized as a savior than a killer. This might do it.” It wasn’t much of a statement, but it might get the colonel to see the promotion potential of acting without orders. Of course, that might get him started on a path of throwing the book away. Which wasn’t what Kyle and Wade did. They knew the book, they used it when applicable, and strayed only when the situation called for it. Soldiers, not grandstanders.

  Wiesinger agreed to the inevitable. He was clearly struggling with authority and autonomy. He nodded acquiescence and called in Bakri and Akbar, who’d been outside and clearly weren’t happy about being barred. Akbar especially had been second fiddle all the way along, with only his five men versus Bakri’s nineteen, now fourteen, and the foreigners. He was older, and twitched in annoyance at the insult to his status.

  The gruffness was very visible. Kyle watched as Wade tried another dose of battlefield diplomacy.

  “Our government doesn’t trust anyone, even us,” he said. “It’s not like running a unit in the field, the way it was in World War Two. Now, everything has to be passed up and certified. But we’re still expected to be responsible. It’s the world we live in.”

  The locals were slightly mollified, and more so when Wiesinger relayed the suggestion that they find intel. It wasn’t his idea, but there wasn’t any point in fighting about it. Let him have the credit if it got done.

  Bakri nodded and grabbed his phone. “But I can only do this once,” he said. “If I’m overheard, I’ll be called a conspirator.”

  “Understood,” Stephens said, twitching his moustache. “We’ll back you and evac you if needed.” It was probable that a phone tap existed somewhere in the chain.

  Nodding again, Bakri dialed. The conversation was fast and jabberish, and switched between Bahasa, Achinese, and some other language. The Americans looked askance at Stephens and Akbar, who motioned them to retreat away.

  Once in the far corner of the room in a huddle, nostrils full of mildew and sour sweat, the Australian and Akbar began translating for the others.

  “He’s asking about the Chinese bitch, way to strike a blow for Malays everywhere, show those Javanese bastards how things will be. But he’s asking them not to blow up the oil, because it’s money. It fits what his position is, and he’s not a friend of the government, so no one should twig. Doesn’t mean they’ll tell him anything, though.”

  The local and the Aussie conferred, and Stephens continued, “He’s really playing the ‘Chink bitch’ angle, because the Chinese minority runs most of the country. It’s a good act. I’d believe him if I didn’t know better. He’s asking for a piece, asking about more hostages, and can he get some taped footage, but again, we need the oil, don’t blow it up. He’s offering more hostages, government officials, says he’s heard of some Americans and Brits and will try to get them, wouldn’t mind a few car bombs on those American assholes. Okay, he’s done, more some other time, how’s the wife and kids.”

  Kyle almost choked to avoid laughing. It couldn’t have ended quite like that, but still.

  Bakri closed his phone, pulled the battery, dropped the phone to the ground, and smashed it flat with his rifle butt.

  “And now the government thinks I am part of those scum,” he said, his mouth tight. “Between phone calls and abandoning my crops for weeks at a time. But I know who to talk to. Of course, he may only know someone else . . .”

  “Good man,” Kyle said. “We’ll back you up. And if we gap these assholes, you’re clean anyway.” Though that wasn’t a guarantee, and nothing Kyle had any control over.

  “Where to, then?” Stephens asked over tea. He brewed every time they might have fifteen minutes. It was good tea, too, the times Kyle had tried it.

  “Almost to Lhokseumawe,” Bakri said. “Long drive. Then I must ask more questions.”

  “So let’s roll,” Wade said.

  It sounded to Kyle a lot like their first mission in Pakistan, where Nasima had guided them around, gaining intel by asking at places a well-bred lady should avoid. Then they’d gone there anyway. Then she’d died, shot. He didn’t feel the same way about Bakri, obviously, but he still didn’t want to see the man die.

  Anyway, they were all soldiers this time.

  “Less than a hundred kilometers?” he asked. “Yes. We do not wish to go into the city. We seek Fiktif, south of there and inland.”

  Another hamlet in the jungle. “What do you know about it?” Wiesinger asked.

  “I suspect it,” Bakri said. “It was site to a certain situation. The army protects the government-claimed oil fields. There was rebellion and threat against surveying for more gas and oil. So they killed a number of rebels. U.S. Mobil lent bulldozers to bury the dead in a mass grave.”

  Kyle had seen mass graves in Bosnia. He didn’t imagine they were any prettier in fetid jungle humidity. “U.S. Mobil did that?” Besides the moral considerations, that sounded diplomatically foolish.

  Bakri shrugged. “I didn’t see it. But it’s not the first story. And bulldozers were used. Perhaps some manager allowed them to be borrowed and didn’t complain. But that’s why people want Mobil gone. The money doesn’t help us and the Army attacks us. I’m thought crazy or criminal to want to keep it and work with Jakarta. But we could use the money here. Better that than poverty worse than we have now. The money that is supposed to be used for development is used for ‘security issues,’ meaning more soldiers.”

  “Anyway,” Kyle said, uncomfortable with the situation, “you suspect the town is still involved?”

  “I suspect it is largely empty, due to an attack by the Army. But it would be another good, empty place to stage from.”

  “Let’s do it,” Stephens said.

  CHAPTER 13

  One hundred kilometers—sixty miles—was a trip of about four hours. That was due in part to the narrow, rutted back roads they took for security purposes. Not only were they in rough shape, but they lengthened the trip by about 30 percent. Still, despite rain, the roof worked and the weather was warm. Itchy and sweaty warm, in fact. But Kyle Monroe wasn’t one to be bothered by weather, after almost sixteen years of service. Wade and the Aussies were equally reticent. Wiesinger shifted uncomfortably and swore quietly, but had the grace to not complain any more loudly than that.

  They were quite close when Kyle’s musing was interrupted by a horrific explosion.

  Someone screamed. It might have been him. He snatched at the door handle, which wasn’t working. It flopped loosely in his grip. He shoved with his shoulder and the door flew open, letting him tumble into wet, friendly dirt. It hurt his shoulder, then his ear stung as he rolled across the butt of his M4. But he was alive and concealed: A quick self-assessment came up with minor burns that stung, a couple of scratches and a hellaciously aching foot as his injuries. At that he was lucky. A glance indicated a low-quality RPG round had torn the front off the truck, disabling the engine. It could just as easily have killed him and others. He didn’t see any bodies immediately at hand, but that was just a glance. He had no idea what the tactical situation was, other than that they’d been attacked.

  There was sporadic shooting. He listened for a few seconds to place the sources. There was both outgoing and incoming fire, so they’d tripped something. Likely, Fiktif was being used and there were outer sentries. Either they didn’t know
or like Bakri, or they’d suspected he was a threat. But that wasn’t important now. What was important was coordinating with his allies and defeating or retreating from the threat. Shaking off the daze, he got to work.

  Cell phones. He used a phone more than he used a rifle anymore. But it made sense. “Mel, Kyle. No reportable injuries, alone, ready to respond,” he said once Wiesinger answered.

  “Understood. We are grouping in two elements, five zero meters outboard from the vehicles. If you find it hot, withdraw rearward. We suspect a perimeter.”

  At least they were all on the same page. “Roger. Line open. Transiting.” He slipped the phone into a pocket and got ready to move. At several dollars a minute, he guessed, the phone was a dirt-cheap way to keep him alive. And he better not see Wiesinger’s smartass criticism of phone charges this time.

  No obvious threats nearby, sources of fire some meters ahead. Giving himself the okay, Kyle picked covered locations he would use for the movement. The place in question was about thirty meters away, but he couldn’t see a damned thing through this growth.

  Sensing movement, he froze and tensed on the trigger. An Indonesian was ahead. Then he saw an Aussie with the man. Dammit, who the hell was who? This was getting bad in a hurry. When it was just you and the bad guys, it was easy. In uniform with professionals, it was doable. Now was a goatfuck in the woods with everyone in part uniform and part civvies. The only uniformed forces were officially allies to them and threats to their actual allies. He didn’t dare hold his fire against a possible threat, and didn’t dare shoot an ally.

  Nor would he be distracted again.

  Oh, shit, that hurt! He’d run into a limb that poked him in the cheek, right under the eye. He dropped and cringed, blinking as his eye teared up. Dammit, Kyle, get control, stop flopping like a fucking chicken! He’d twisted his left ankle slightly, too. Remember: Bad guys, good guys, and shooting. Methodical and professional.

  Somehow, he made it another few meters, and was seen by someone who recognized him. They approached cautiously, leery of both pursuit and his trigger. Then he was being dragged into a hollow with a long, rotten trunk as cover. It was Haswananda, with one of the men helping her, as Kyle was near twice her weight, more with gear.