Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Yes, sir,” Kyle said, frowning slightly at that. Wiesinger was very by the book, and had been a royal pain a time or two.

  “But the first thing on the schedule is to get you gentlemen to HALO School, fast. Can you leave Wednesday?”

  “Two days? Yeah, I guess. Good thing we’re both unattached. Mostly.” He had a semi-regular girlfriend, but he didn’t need to worry about plans for departure. They had their own homes and accounts and just got together for fun.

  “The Army greatly appreciates your dedication to the cause of freedom by not getting married.” Robash smiled.

  “Hell,” Wade said, “ ‘marriage’ and ‘freedom’ are kinda mutually exclusive, anyway.”

  “Tell me about it,” Robash said, flashing the ring on his finger. “Sometimes I think it’s on my testicles. But you gentlemen pack, I’ll work on the fragorder and arrange for the movement orders for all of this. See you soon, and good luck.”

  “Roger that, sir,” they both said automatically.

  CHAPTER 2

  When the phone rang at 0600, Kyle was just getting ready for the duty day. He was out of the shower, toweling his longish-by-Army-standards hair, and naked.

  “Monroe,” he answered.

  “Sergeant Monroe, Colonel Wiesinger. The general is in hospital.”

  “What? Sir?” It was a shock he wasn’t ready for, this early in the day.

  “We’re not sure,” the colonel said. He sounded worried. But there was an undertone of. . . eagerness? “Likely a heart attack is my guess. He’s been transported. I don’t have any other intel yet.”

  “Roger that, sir. If there’s anything I can do to help, do let me know.”

  “Will do, soldier. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kyle hung up slowly, thinking that was an odd phrase to use. It was too cliche. Almost as if Wiesinger hadn’t had enough practice dealing with troops.

  Just what was his background anyway?

  The phone rang again. It was Wade.

  “You hear?” he asked.

  “Just now. Shit, pal, that sucks personally and professionally.”

  “Yeah, tell me.”

  “Listen, what do we know about Wiesinger?”

  “Nothing, really. Want me to dig?”

  “If you would.”

  “No problem. See you at the shop in an hour?”

  “Right.” Sighing, Kyle turned to get dressed.

  *****

  Wade was very good with intel. Kyle was better at politics, though at times like this he realized he was a rank amateur compared to the men, mostly officers, who spent their careers at desks figuring out where the bodies were filed. The proper innocuous paperwork could kill a career or make it. He had a battlefield grasp that matched his knowledge of first aid, but he was not a surgeon.

  Of course, Wiesinger might be more butcher than surgeon. But he undoubtedly had friends to have gotten as far as he had. It was a game Kyle didn’t want to play. He drove mindlessly, parked, and got out. He unlocked the office, which was in an old but clean WWI1 building that was drafty in winter and had humid spots in summer. But it was discreet and private and theirs alone. He sat down and started on paperwork.

  Wade had his cell phone to his ear as he strode in only a few minutes later. “I appreciate it, Sergeant Major. Yes, I will do so. You’ve been more than helpful. . . Sure, if he wants some range time, send him down, that’s what we’re here for. Thanks. Bye.” He clicked it closed. “Are we secure?” he asked.

  “I don’t think we’re bugged and he’s not here,” Kyle said.

  “Good. Well, I found out an amazing amount, my friend.”

  “Yes?” Kyle prompted, figuring he wasn’t going to like this.

  “Colonel Joseph Melville Wiesinger is the son of Brigadier General Joe Wiesinger, retired.”

  “Never heard of him,” Kyle admitted, brow furrowed.

  “Exactly. He was an administrative general in the Pentagon.”

  “So he was nobody.” One-star generals were a dime a dozen at the Pentagon

  “True. But he had enough pull to get his boy in through ROTC. He’s not Academy.”

  “Didn’t think so. Academy grads can be assholes, but they typically know what they’re talking about even if they do quote the book. He just has the book.”

  “Yup. He was a staff officer from Day One. Logistics mostly.”

  “Hell, nothing wrong with logistics,” Kyle said. “You can’t fight a war without them.”

  “Right,” Wade agreed. “But he wasn’t an issuing officer. He was a procedure-and- documentation wonk.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Yes,” Wade said. “He’s done nothing but sort papers, except for a year each, commanding an infantry platoon and company.”

  “One year?”

  “One year, just to fill the box. And his year as CO was nineteen eighty-nine. He wasn’t in Panama or Kuwait. Nothing close to combat. But he had to be a commander to make major in time. And as a major and light colonel at the Pentagon he was obviously a staff officer. And now he’s a colonel detached from the Pentagon with half intel and half operations designators. So he’s had a career full of nothing but pretty uniforms and neat stacks of papers.”

  The phone rang and Kyle snagged it. The normal Army greeting rolled off his tongue. “Sergeant First Class Monroe, this is not a secure line, how may I help you, sir or ma’am?”

  “Sergeant Monroe, Colonel Wiesinger.”

  “Ah, yes, sir?” he said, switching mental gears.

  “Nothing new on the general, but he’s in critical care and is breathing and does have a heartbeat. I don’t know more about it than that.”

  “Good to know, sir.”

  “Agreed. He’s got a hell of a job here and I’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill. It occurs to me I don’t know as much about this operation as I need to, in case of ongoing problems.”

  “Well, anything we can do to help, we’re at your disposal, sir,” Kyle said. It was good when officers admitted they didn’t know everything.

  “Glad to hear it. Please calculate me into your travel arrangements. I’m coming along to get a firsthand look at how this is done.”

  “Ah,” Kyle said, and then followed it with the only possible answer. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow for the flight to Bragg.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  After they hung up, he turned to Wade. “He’s coming along.”

  Wade got his first joke off quick. “He sleeps with you.” He didn’t even look up from his desk.

  “Oh, fuck me, how do we stop this?” Kyle ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly he was tired again.

  “I’m not sure anything you say will change his mind,” Wade said. Considering, he added, “You might try just loading him down with details and stuff that’s intimidating.”

  “I could,” Kyle agreed. “But no, I think we’ve just got to bite: this one.” He sighed again. “He is a sniper, right?”

  “On paper . . . but he went through the course during the Clinton Years.”

  “Oh.” For a long time, the sniper school had been audit only. Once selected by his home unit, an existing infantryman attended the course for credit and then returned. It wasn’t until later that the course became pass/fail.

  Before that, candidates had been required to have both small-arms expert qualification and a maximum score on the Army Physical Fitness Test. Most commanders were good about selecting only those soldiers they felt could handle the job intellectually and morally. Then there was selection within the sniper teams for those who could handle the realities of it in the face-to-not-face conditions of battle.

  But there were ways to pencil-whip qualifications and call favors to get any school slot. It didn’t take much of a stretch of imagination to think Wiesinger was one of those. He certainly didn’t have the physique to suggest great fitness, and his quick temper alone would contraindicate letting him handle any
task requiring patience. “And he wants to come along,” Kyle said.

  “Hey, it’s good that he realizes he’s behind the curve,” Wade said.

  “Yeah, though realizing it ten years ago would have been better.”

  “No doubt. Still. It can’t be all bad.”

  “You are so cheerful, my friend,” Kyle said. “No, it’s not all bad. But the bad it can be is still plenty bad.”

  “Hey, we’re in the Army to be screwed over. It’s the Army’s job to provide the screwing.”

  “Yeah. But just once I’d like Vaseline.” He sighed and stretched. “Dammit, I’ve got to make lists and calls. There’s only one good part to this,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “We’re so short on time he’ll pretty well have to approve what I call.”

  *****

  HALO School was at least fun. “Fun,” of course, assumed the attendee liked waking up early, PTing a few miles, loading up with a ruck and parachute, then jumping into free space.

  “How can you jump out of a perfectly good aircraft?” was the standard question from those who would never consider it to be fun. The stock answers were, “Two perfectly good parachutes on my back” and “It’s not a perfectly good aircraft, it’s a U.S. Air Force aircraft.”

  Physicals were necessary, as well as dental X-rays, presumably because the lack of pressure at altitude might loosen fillings. The two reported to Fort Bragg and were weighed, as always, to ensure fitness. While some soldiers always pushed their weight limit, Kyle and Wade had 20 pounds of leeway each and muscle tone that made it a mere formality. They were close enough in size to be buddied together and were assigned an instructor, a man ironically named Sergeant Storm. He was intense, and both blocky and short at five foot eight.

  In a couple of days, they were rammed through the physics of ram-air parachutes, repacking and emergency procedures, and were hung in training harnesses to practice. It was a fairly simple procedure for them, just strenuous and intense enough to not be boring without being a strain. Wiesinger was slightly taller and a bit heavier. They didn’t see him much except in the evenings. The reports on Robash were that he was in hospital, critical but stable, and would be out of the picture for several weeks at least.

  Then they moved to the Vertical Wind Tunnel, and practiced the rudiments of steering in free fall. It was easy enough for Kyle. He’d made a number of civilian skydives and knew the mechanics. It wasn’t appreciably harder for Wade. He followed the guidelines and picked up on proper arch, bending to steer, recovering from a tumble and other moves. It was fun all around as students from all services watched the fan-generated wind blow each others’ faces out of shape and billow up the loose, training jumpsuits that caught the 150 mph air to keep them aloft against gravity. Wiesinger had one advantage: he fell like a brick. Even cranked up, the buffeting winds couldn’t tumble him.

  Their fourth evening, Wiesinger looked them up. “News, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “General Robash is in Walter Reed. It was a heart attack, but they think there may also have been a minor stroke. They’re looking at angioplasty.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Wade said. “Damn, I hope he’s okay.”

  “Yeah, he’s a fine officer and a good man to serve under. Anything we can do for his family?” Kyle asked. He was anxious. Losing Robash would mean a new commander, new ways of doing things.. .. and Wiesinger might be the one to assume that post.

  “Nothing yet,” Wiesinger said. To his credit, the inevitable excitement and thrill he was getting from being in charge for the time being wasn’t shining through. He really was concerned about his boss. “I’ll let you know.”

  Kyle was worried, and it wasn’t just having to deal with Wiesinger. It was that he really respected Robash as a good officer and a friend, as much as one could be friends with a general. And professionally, the good working relationship they’d built would change drastically if anyone else took over. Stability wasn’t a realistic expectation in the military, but catastrophic changes were rough.

  From Benning they transferred to Yuma Proving Ground, Arizona, and jumped daily. Ten thousand feet with no gear under a 370-square-foot MC-4 canopy was even easier than a civilian jump. But the altitude increased each time, and more gear was added. The rig’s mass limit was 360 pounds of jumper and equipment. The three of them were going to not only bend but torture that limit on their insertion. They worked up to altitudes that required oxygen, and even higher. Twenty-five thousand feet was the standard maximum altitude, but they did a jump at 30K and another at 35K, the weather outside the plane being positively arctic. Tears could freeze, skin could get frostbitten. Insulated jumpsuits were necessary, to be discarded after landing.

  The word came down that Robash was recovering slowly and would require surgery, but would most likely survive. His military career was still very much up in the air.

  “Frankly,” Kyle said, “if Wiesinger takes over, I’m going to have to slip out to another assignment. I just don’t know if I can work with him.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Wade nodded. “The slot calls for a general, though. They’ll have to assign someone to it.”

  “Unless they promote Wiesinger into it.”

  “I was avoiding that possibility.”

  The school was a good one. It was a no bullshit, all-fact-and-practice session that both snipers appreciated. They were confident of their ability to perform the jumps in question when they were done, and didn’t feel any time had been wasted. They thanked Sergeant Storm profusely.

  “Glad to hear I’m doing my job well,” he said. “If you have any suggestions, by all means give appropriate feedback on the end-of-course questionnaire.”

  Because of the speed they’d rushed through the course, there was no graduation party. Their class was only the three of them. They outprocessed quickly and departed.

  *****

  By the time they returned to Washington, there was more information. Wiesinger had his cell phone out as soon as they hit the terminal. “Angioplasty didn’t work,” he told them. “He’s got two fully blocked arteries. Surgery on Wednesday.”

  “Damn. Prognosis, sir?”

  “Oh, he should be fine,” the colonel said. “He was doing his morning four-mile run when he collapsed. So as long as nothing happens during surgery, he’s plenty healthy enough to recover, I understand. Meantime, I’ve got to run this.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kyle said. There wasn’t much he could say, and he wasn’t going to make a scene over the issue.

  Instead, he got to work on prepping for the mission.

  Wiesinger basically left that to him, which was good and bad. Autonomy wasn’t a bad thing for a professional, but it did help to have feedback from one’s teammates.

  “Who carries which rifle?” he asked Wade.

  “Take two of each?" Wade suggested. "SR-25s for shooting, M-4s for support. Means one spare rifle we have to lug, but allows us the option of one shooter and two support, or two shooters and one support.”

  “Good enough. I hate carrying extra weight, but flexible firepower is a good thing. Any idea what our local guides will have?”

  “No,” Wade said, shuffling through a printout stack. “That’s not mentioned. Not much about them at all.”

  “Yeah, we keep getting that. I’d really like to know more about these people when we can.”

  “Indonesia uses a variation on the FNC. Insurgents may have that, or AKs, or M-16s, or some Singaporean clone with no license fees paid.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind,” Kyle said. Wade had all kinds of information stuffed into his mind. “Is there an FNC we can examine for familiarization? ”

  “Not officially, no. But Sergeant Major Lewis has a troop who owns a civvy semi-auto version imported in the nineteen eighties we can shoot and take apart on the range. Different trigger group, but same teardown and characteristics."

  "God Bless the Second Amendment,” Kyle said. “T
hough it’s a hell of a world when the Army has to call civvies for intel on weapons.”

  “C’est la guerre.”

  Beyond the technical information was the political situation. Kyle picked up another stack and looked at what background they had.

  The Bali club attack on 12 October, 2002, had been blamed on the Al-Qaeda-linked Jemaah Islamiyah network that operated throughout Southeast Asia. The network’s commander, Riduan Isamuddin Hambali, was captured in Thailand and handed over to U.S. custody. But someone else had taken over. As with all the linked groups, they were getting desperate. Propaganda said they were surviving and coming out in revenge. Many Americans even believed that. But the fact was that Kyle, Wade, other operations, and world opinion were hurting them badly. And as the smarter leaders were killed, the less experienced and less stable often moved into positions of authority. It was the vortices at the tail of a large storm. But such vortices often produced tornadoes.

  “I’m just amazed at the extent of these operations of theirs,” Kyle said.

  “Well, hell, look at their backing,” Wade said. “Bin Laden has or had two hundred and fifty million dollars, four wives, fifteen children, several large chunks of stock in major corporations, insurance on projects at the World Trade Center that made him money when the planes crashed. He’s loaded, and so are his buddies.”

  “Yeah,” Kyle said, “Two hundred and fifty mil, four wives, fifteen children, a private resort and he calls Americans ‘excessive.’ Sure wish I could be as modest as him.” He kept reading. One of the problems they faced was that the United States and Indonesia were treading delicately toward improved relations, after Indonesian Army atrocities in East Timor in 1999. And if they were discovered, it would be a slap in the face. Once again, shooting a terrorist was only one small part of the mission.

  “This just sucks, buddy,” Kyle said. “We’ll be teaming up with insurgents against another group of insurgents, both of whom are fighting a government we want to be friendly with who is officially on our side. All are filled with snakes, and all are fighting other factions at the same time. You’re black, I’m white, it’s half industrialized and half jungle, full of billions of American dollars, millions of terrorist rupiah, millions of black market yen, dong, dollars, pounds, and whatever.”