Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Confirmed Kill

  Michael Z. Williamson

  Confirmed Kill

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Michael Z. Williamson

  Originally Published August 2005

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  eISBN: 978-1-62579-804-6

  Electronic Copy by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  To Morgen Kirby, for bad puns, worse jokes, and a disgustingly delightful acronym

  Confirmed Kill

  Michael Z. Williamson

  CHAPTER 1

  Sergeant First Class Kyle Monroe tried to think about other things than an impending parachute jump.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like jumping. He did— though he preferred “admin jumps” to maintain proficiency, or an occasional civilian free fall, to a combat jump over hostile territory. At least he assumed so. He’d made over a hundred jumps. He’d been in more than enough combat, too, but this was the first time he’d jumped in to meet it. It was also the first time he’d done a free fall military jump outside of the High Altitude, Low Opening course he’d been rushed through in a few days. HALO was supposed to be a four-week school. He’d done it in nine days. Officially, that was impossible.

  That was the Army. There was never time to do it right. But there was always time to do it again after screwing it up the first time . . . if they could replace him.

  Of course, they’d also have to replace his buddy and spotter, recently promoted Sergeant First Class Wade Curtis, sitting next to him. Replacing the third member of their team, Colonel Joseph Melville Wiesinger, who was sitting across from them, wouldn’t be hard and would be a very good idea, Kyle thought. He had no idea why the man was along, except to grandstand and try to hog glory. That was typical of this type of officer, and likely the only reason he had come. It wasn’t as if Wiesinger had a lot of depth to him.

  The C-141 wasn’t the most comfortable craft to ride in, though there were a lot worse. Still, the inside was all metal and harsh. The steel frame had an aluminum skin, with tracks and padeyes for pallets on the deck. Harnesses and webbing hung here and there. The latrine was much like a Porta Potti, tucked under the cockpit. They were pressurized for now, but it was still cold. The USAF jumpmaster and flight engineer wandered through periodically to check the craft, and they were happy to share the huge cauldron of coffee they had with the three soldiers.

  The problem was that Kyle and Wade tried to avoid caffeine because it affected their nerves. As snipers, they needed to be and wanted to be as steady as possible. While the coffee would warm them, it was contraindicated.

  Wiesinger was theoretically a sniper, too. He was drinking coffee by the gallon. Kyle studied him again. The man looked very unmilitary, as did Kyle and Wade. The two NCOs had learned to do that as camouflage, to blend in. It was often useful to look like grubby bums rather than soldiers. In Wiesinger’s case, he was simply a slob, in uniform or out—overweight, shaggy-haired, and with little regard for his uniform or civilian clothes. Kyle grimaced. Amazing how fast things went to hell every time.

  As usual, it had started out with a good idea. . .

  *****

  Kyle had previously been an instructor at the U.S. Army Sniper School. He’d been pulled out for two temporary duty missions to stalk and kill terrorists, first in Pakistan, then in Romania. Following that, it had been decided—and he concurred—to reassign him to avoid damaging the class schedule again and again. Wade Curtis had changed units twice in that time, from 10th Mountain Division to 3rd Infantry Division, and he’d also been given orders. The two of them were now assigned to an innocuous numbered detachment at Fort Meade that sounded like an administrative position. That put them closer to their boss General Robash, made deployments a lot easier, and let them use the range at Aberdeen Proving Ground for practice, as well as get some face-to-face practice time with the outrageously highly-paid professionals from Blackwater Security, whom State Department hired to guard foreign leaders against terrorists and rebels.

  Those worthies had even tried to recruit him. He’d been offered $300,000 a year plus expenses, based on his experience. He’d thought long and hard before turning that down. Perhaps when he was ready to retire in a few years . . .

  Though honestly, it was more likely he’d be forced out with High Year of Tenure than voluntarily retire. He couldn’t say why, except that the Army was his life and he was a patriot. Why else would he let them send him to exotic, distant lands to meet exciting, unusual people and kill them?

  Unless he was a masochist?

  He’d come into his office one cool, crisp morning, feeling very comfortable and confident, and found Wade and General Robash already talking. The general nodded and indicated a chair. Kyle would have stood otherwise, out of respect, even though he knew the general was casual about such things.

  “We have another one?” he asked, sitting easily in his Army standard swivel chair.

  “Indonesia,” Wade said. “All-expense-paid tropical vacation. Gorgeous Balinese dancers, equatorial sunshine, fine crafts and artifacts . . .”

  “Kraits, saltwater crocodiles, and Jemaah Islamiyah terrorists,” Robash had finished. Even when he sprawled, he looked professional.

  “Endangered species.” Wade grinned. It was a cheerful, grin, but not one to reassure potential enemies. Wade was a hair over six feet, a coffee-skinned black man with rock-solid, lean muscles and the quiet confidence of a man who didn’t need to prove how good he was.

  “Not endangered enough,” Robash said, his expression half smile, half grimace. The general was broad and bulky with a gravelly, resonant voice that rarely needed a microphone. He’d aged a bit over the last two years, directing the two snipers and possibly other units—they didn’t need to know—to hunt down, dig out and exterminate terrorist leaders and bombers. The massive activity in the Middle East was proof it was working. The enemy was getting desperate as real professionals closed off avenue after avenue, closing inexorably in on what would be a bloody finale.

  Then it would have to start all over again. Old enemies changed and evolved; new ones were created. But as long as there’d been civilization, there’d been those who hated it and wanted to tear it down. It was job security for those who defended it. A security many of them would be happy to do without.

  “Good,” Kyle said. He took professional pride in his part. He and Wade would never be known in any history book, but the results were their trophy.

  “Good,” Robash agreed. Not that there had been any doubt the two snipers would take the mission. Kyle was vaguely aware that he could refuse if he didn’t like the op, and either other arrangements would be made, the op would be changed to suit him, or, if the general or others didn’t like his reasons, he could be replaced. But so far, as rough and violent as things had been, he and Wade had come out okay, and the terrorists had become usually nameless statistics in unmarked graves.

  Dead, along with two close f
riends of Kyle’s. Old news now, but still a cold part of his soul. Jeremy, his spotter in Bosnia, before all this, and Nasima, their local guide in Pakistan, a stunning and brilliant young Pashtun who’d been their translator before things went to hell and she got shot during their escape.

  Kyle wouldn’t turn down a mission lightly. His friends were worth a hundred terrorists each, easily. The score wasn’t even close, though revenge didn’t enter into it other than as a faint glimmer in back. As he’d told his last target right before shooting him, any scumbag can hate things and blow them up. It takes a real man to leave others alone. Kyle had nothing against Muslims, he’d met too many good ones. And that made him despise the bad ones even more, for tarnishing the image of his friends and allies.

  “So, what’s the mission?” he asked, making it official.

  “Aceh.”

  “Ahchay?” He had to look at the map Robash was fingering on the table. A province of Indonesia at the far west end of Sumatra.

  “Aceh. It damned near floats on oil, and could be the next Brunei. The sultan of Brunei was the richest man on Earth until Bill Gates came along, so you can imagine the political stakes. Most of the nations on Earth aren’t even in the same universe as that kind of money, and Indonesia doesn’t want to let it go. Jemaah Islamiyah is linked to al Qaeda, of course. They blew up the nightclub in Bali, have attacked other targets including hotels, and are now moving after Indonesian and corporate interests. They figure the civil war in Aceh and the antigovernment insurgents are good support for them. This group, the ‘Fist of God,’ are sadistic sons of bitches who like to be more discriminating. They choose very visible targets on an individual basis.”

  He continued, “There have been more ambushes, which are symptomatic and not really our problem. There have been a handful of hostages taken, and all killed in that gruesome hack- through-the-neck-with-a-rusty-saw method these pigfuckers have taken up. Those are our problem. Last month a ship was intercepted on the way in, with a large amount of explosives. Read: ‘several tons.’ Intel and traffic indicates they’re planning something big. It might be in Jakarta, it might be in Singapore just to play hell with things, or it might move up into India or Pakistan or across to the Gulf. There are a lot of routes out of there.

  “Much like Pakistan, we have a fairly friendly government which is full of leaks. They have some decent intel and forces, but they can’t get in close without being exposed. So we made our offer, and with the recommendations of Pakistan and Romania, they agreed. You gentlemen are getting quite the reputation.” He flashed a thin, cruel smile.

  “What’s the target?” Kyle asked.

  “We have no names, but we’re working on them. We want you to take out the so-called brains behind either the explosives smuggling or the executions. There’s an excellent chance they’re one and the same. The first means you stop the source of those explosives you were dealing with in Romania. The second means you save civilian lives.”

  “Sounds good,” Kyle said. “What’s our terrain?”

  “Jungle, mountain scrub, and some smaller urban areas,” Robash said, indicating on the map. It was large enough to show crude features but not details.

  “SR-25s and M-4s, at an initial guess,” he said.

  “Makes sense,” Wade said. “That gives us range and concealment and some grenades for support.”

  The Knight’s Armament SR-25 was an updated version of the Armalite AR10—the predecessor to the M16 and AR-15. It was in 7.62 x 51mm caliber, the Winchester developed round that was the standard for Western snipers and many deer hunters. It had been in production for decades, but had only recently been accepted into the military.

  It had come about during operations in Afghanistan, where, for the first time since World War II, there was sufficient range to justify a larger caliber round. The M16’s 5.56mm cartridge was great up to 300 meters—far better than many shooters gave it credit for. But at long ranges, size does matter. Old M-14s from the 1950s had been hurriedly pressed into service, and they served well. But it was a sixty-year-old platform lacking a lot of modern modular features. The SR-25 shared a trigger group and operating mechanism with the M-16 and M-4; could accept different upper assemblies and barrels, and different stocks, grips, sights; scopes, and bipods; and was inhumanly accurate—as accurate as the men who used it, for precise killshots on enemy leaders, support personnel. . . or terrorists.

  The SR-25s would mate well with M-4 carbines that the two were so familiar with. Those had short barrels, collapsible stocks for ease of carry and for adjusting length of pull to match clothing and armor. They could and would be fitted with 40mm grenade launchers to provide additional firepower and some combination of night vision scopes or EOTech’s holographic sights for quick targeting. An Aimpoint model was the standard issue, but both men preferred the EOTech.

  They were given some leeway on their missions, because General Robash understood the need for a certain amount of individuality, and trusted their judgment. Unlike movie snipers, the two men were highly technical professionals, able to gather intelligence silently, select a target, determine the range and trajectory, and take it out, whether “it” was a generator, a facility to be illuminated with incendiaries for a passing Air Force jet to demolish, or a terrorist surrounded by sentries and sure of his immortality. They didn’t boast, didn’t show off, and when they parted ways with the manual it was for a good reason.

  “The first thing is to get you gentlemen to HALO School,” Robash said. “It’s remote enough the easiest insertion is just to drop you in to our allies. Saves security issues at airports and we don’t need to smuggle the weapons and gear in, like last time.” For their mission in Romania, they’d flown commercial, met with CIA and State Department personnel, and transferred weapons around clandestinely. It was certainly doable, but there was no need to expend the political effort and money if they could just slip in, or in this case, drop in.

  “Has to be HALO?” Wade asked. It wasn’t asked out of fear, just out of curiosity.

  “Yup,” Robash nodded. “We’ve got scheduled flights going through that airspace from the Philippines. You just bail out as they fly over. No one will even know.”

  “I like that part of it,” Wade agreed.

  “And we can just carry all the gear with us this time,” Kyle said. “Why does that sound too easy?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Wade said. “I’m sure something else will screw up, just to keep us feeling at home.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Wade,” Kyle said. “You’re so optimistic.”

  “Yeah, something will get FUBAR’d,” Robash said. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. “But we’re going to try to stall it as long as possible. And I’ve got messages at my office and State ready to drop, if something happens. Unlike Pakistan, you’ll be within range of a whole battalion of Indonesian special forces—the Kopassus. They hate terrorists, and the only reason they’re not doing this now is because there’s one or two leaks no one can track down. But the unit as a whole is clean.”

  “Nice to have backup,” Kyle said. “Though frankly, I’m tired of getting into situations where we need to be bailed out.” It had nothing to do with sharing credit. Kyle was fine with that, and certainly didn’t mind letting other soldiers play when it came to shooting bad guys. But when things got to that level, it always sucked to be him. His wounds had been minor, so far. But he’d lost two friends and come within three tenths of an inch and a hundredth of a second of dying last time, being saved by a perfectly placed shot from Wade. If you bet your life, sooner or later you lost.

  “Hey, practice makes perfect. Third time’s a charm. Proper Planning Prevents Previous Piss- Poor Performance. I’ve got all the cliches we need to get through this,” Wade said.

  They all chuckled.

  “Okay, so we HALO in, ruck our gear, we’re meeting an ally?”

  “Yes,” Robash said. “And most of them speak at least some English. Reduces the burden.”


  “Oh, this is too good so far. Please give me some bad news.”

  “Very well, ninety percent of the people you’ll meet will as soon kill you as look at you.”

  “See?” Wade said. “Don’t you feel better now?”

  “Right.” Kyle nodded to Wade. “Why is that, sir?” he asked, turning back.

  “Aceh is riddled with anti-Indonesian sentiment. They’re all Muslims of one type or another. Some few in charge support the government because they’re siphoning enough money. The rest feel put upon. Some are rebels, some are allies with the terrorists, some are having tribal feuds. And now you’re going to give them a reason to hate Americans directly, not just intellectually.”

  “Got it. So, discreet, make nice, don’t offend any sensibilities, don’t hit on the local women, be model advisors?” he guessed.

  “Pretty much.”

  “And then drop some tangos quick and wave politely as we leave. How are we leaving if not with a battalion of Kopassus?”

  “We’re figuring you walk to the beach, call by cell and transponder, and the SEALs pick you up in a boat.”

  “And then we puke all the way home,” Wade said. “Sorry, but my skin looks horrible when I turn green.”

  Kyle looked over his spotter’s coffee-colored skin and said, “I'd figure it’d just add to the camouflage.”

  “Yeah. Oh, I’ll do it. But I do get seasick in a hurry.”

  “Sorry about that,” Robash said. “But you’ll only be aboard ship a few hours to Singapore, then you’ll just fly back on another Air Force jet. No need to entrust your gear to anyone.”

  “Yeah, that’s not bad, really,” Wade agreed. “Kyle?”

  “Sure. I assume you have a detailed plan for us, sir?”

  “I’ve got a rough itinerary and outline. You take care of the rest of it, and Colonel Wiesinger will handle the logistics.”