Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Suits.”

  After that, they needed to research the area. There was far too much wealth of information online, and as usual, half of it was dated, unsupported opinion, or flatout worthless crap. Confirming data from at least two primary sources was more work than finding the intel.

  Aceh certainly had a colorful history and present.

  Aceh was as rich in oil as they’d been told: 1.5 million barrels per day. Natural gas production was 38 percent of the world’s total. Other products of Aceh included iron, gold, platinum, molybdenum, tin, rubber, coffee, tea, and tropical timber. The locals were unhappy because all the income was taken away to Jakarta and they were left at the bottom end of the economic scale. Typical government thievery.

  There were several factions for independence— GAM, Gerakan Acheh Merdeka, also known as the Acheh Sumatra National Liberation Front (ASNLF). “Acheh” as opposed to “Aceh.” Apparently, the spelling difference was a point for them, which said something. Kyle wasn’t sure what, but if they couldn’t agree on a spelling in English, it wasn’t likely they could agree on much else. GAM/ASNLF was split into at least two factions, one of which was negotiating with the government, the other which decried that and called them traitors.

  There was also Hizb ut-Tahrir (HUT), the Islamic Party of Liberation, which claimed to not support terrorism but wanted a return to the Caliphate and hated the Saud family. However, there were indications that their condemnation of terrorism ended with the press release.

  “I need a dance card for this,” Kyle said.

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Who’s on first?”

  “I dunno,” Kyle said.

  “Third base.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Kyle replied, grinning. “Okay, actually, I do. You taking notes?”

  “Yeah. Can we get a degree in international relations in lieu of attending class, just on the research we’re doing?”

  “It would seem fair. But I doubt they’ll do it.”

  “Right. We probably have the wrong political viewpoint for college, too,” Wade observed.

  “Because we think that the way to solve this is to identify the trash and take it out?”

  “Got it in one.” It served as a mini break and to help them remember the dry data they’d just digested. Both men did it without conscious effort, and resumed silence again at once.

  There were a number of prominent women figures in Aceh’s military history. There had been an Admiral Keumalahajati in the late 16th century.

  There had been four queens who successively ruled the latter half of the 17th. Guerilla commanders in the Dutch Colonial War era included Cut Nya’ Dhien, Cut Meutia, Pocut Baren, and Pocut Mirah Inteun. During the 1945–49 fighting, the women of the “Revolution of 45” in Aceh not only served as service staff and medics (the Pasukan Bulan Sabit), but also involved themselves actively in fighting in groups such as Pocut Baren Regimen.

  Women as troops and leaders certainly didn’t sound very Muslim to Kyle. He said so.

  “I dunno,” Wade said. “This is all new territory to me.”

  GAM had had members trained in Libya. “I notice an ongoing pattern in all this,” Kyle said.

  “Oh, you do?” Wade asked sarcastically. It seemed as if every problem surrounding Muslim terrorism came back to Syria, Iraq, Libya, rural Pakistan, or extreme factions in Saudi Arabia. “I think if we took out about a hundred people worldwide, the whole problem would go away.”

  “Yeah, but they’ll never let us do it, we wouldn’t be able to find a lot of them, and it’d be suicide to go through their suicide squads to get to them.”

  “Yeah, why don’t so-called suicide squads just kill themselves? I’ll send the ammo.”

  “Heard it before,” Kyle said. He did smile, though. “Wish it worked that way.”

  “So they have Muslim extremist women soldiers toting AKs and trained in Pentjak Silat and other lethal hand-to-hand techniques,” Wade said. “Just what I want for a date on Saturday night.”

  “Reading this, I see why they’re upset, actually,” Kyle said. “They beat the Dutch six times over eighty years, costing the Dutch one hundred thousand troops. And then here: ‘On twenty- seven December, nineteen forty-nine, seven years after withdrawing from Acheh, the Dutch signed a treaty with the newly fabricated “Republic of Indonesia” on the island of Java to transfer their “sovereignty” of Acheh to Indonesia, without referendum of the people, and against all the UN principles of decolonization.’ ”

  “And the fight with Indonesia was on.” Wade nodded.

  “Yeah. They transferred title of an area they didn’t control and only owned on paper to someone else. Damn. Why did the Achinese have to side with the goddamn tangos? I could support these people.”

  “The point is they have,” Wade said. It was an unneeded reminder.

  “Yup. So we get to do the dirty work.”

  “So, the Free Acheh Movement has wide support from the local population. The Indonesian government sent the special forces, called Kopassus, to hunt down members of the movement. Aceh was declared as a Military Operational Area. There are allegations of atrocities that rank pretty high on the filthometer. The Achinese estimate twenty-five thousand casualties in custody and in ‘secret concentration camps,’ which is one I really wonder about, but they believe it, so it fuels the fire.”

  “What do we know about our allies?” Wade asked.

  “They’re a separatist faction, but they’re one that is trying to negotiate with the government. Of course, that means the nutcases want them dead, too, for betraying their vision of independence, conquering Java and imposing a New Muslim Order.”

  “What? Most of them can’t think like that.” Wade had studied a lot of sociology. He didn’t believe stereotypes easily.

  “No, most of them just want to be left alone and get the money going to Jakarta. But a few percent are just nuts.” And if it weren’t for the nuts, Kyle and Wade would be out of their current job.

  “Forward that link to me. I’ve got to read up.”

  “Will do. . . sent.”

  “Got it, thanks.” It was odd, Kyle reflected, to keep swapping messages with a person a few feet away.

  The two pored over the language, maps, cultural pages with things such as recipes and holidays. The more familiar one was with an area intellectually, the more easily and quickly one could acclimate. That was a huge plus when trying to be discreet.

  They were closing up the office at 1600 hours when Wade said, “We really should go visit the general before we leave.”

  “I agree,” Kyle said. He felt guilty about not having done so, even with duty interfering, and he did feel friendly toward the boss who gave him such excellent support. “What are visitation hours?”

  “Until nineteen hundred, I believe.”

  “Hit him now, dinner en route?”

  “Works for me. Be good to see how he’s doing.” Robash had been transferred to Walter Reed. It took a few minutes to find his location, an hour to drive through traffic, munching fast food on the way, and twenty minutes to get through security levels. Fortunately, senior NCOs visiting general officers was a very common and reasonable occurrence, and they were let through without too much hassle.

  Robash looked comfortable, but tired and in pain. He also looked a little less bulky than he had. He hadn’t been fat, he’d been big, but now he was just another patient in a bed, with a few wires and tubes.

  “Good evening, sir,” they said.

  “Gentlemen. It’s good to see you.” His voice was even more gravelly than usual, with a croak to it.

  “How are you feeling, sir?” Kyle asked.

  “Like I lost both canopies and hit the ground.”

  “Sounds like fun. You look okay.”

  “Bullshit. I look like hell,” he said. “But I’ll live.” His voice was definite when he said it. Kyle said, “That’s what we want to hear.”

  “Good. I didn’t die on you. You’re not allowed to die
on me. How goes the prep?”

  Kyle said, “HALO trained, lists made, orders on hand. Getting there.”

  “Good. How’s Colonel Wiesinger doing?”

  “Fine, sir,” Kyle said. “We’ll be ready on schedule.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, son,” Robash said, sounding stronger. “What’s your opinion as an SFC?” So much for not stressing him. Kyle met Wade’s eyes, then looked back.

  “We are managing, sir. He’s more of a micro-manager than I like, but I won’t let him push me where it’s not safe, and I won’t argue with him otherwise.” He blushed, because he was doing exactly that.

  “Yeah, listen, move in close for a moment, will you?” His voice was strong but quiet.

  They leaned in and listened.

  “Look guys, BS aside, I know you don’t warm to Colonel Wiesinger much,” he whispered. “But he’s the officer we’ve got. He can administrate, he understands the subject, and he knows where to get resources. Work with him, don’t just pretend, and try not to let him rub you the wrong way. He’s abrasive, but he’s not bad.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Wade said. Kyle was a moment behind. He suspected from what he’d encountered that Wiesinger’s competence was all behind a desk. Yes, one needed that, depended on that to get the job done, but it went better when the officer had a grasp of how things operated in the field. The book existed for a reason. At the same time, the book was a guideline that didn’t cover all situations and didn’t apply to some situations it did cover.

  “Anyway, I need to rest now. Good luck and good hunting. Rangers Lead the Way.”

  “All the Way, sir,” Kyle said.

  They stood and left, shaking hands as they did. Robash’s grip was weak, but Kyle could still feel the strength under it. That by itself reassured him the general would recover.

  *****

  Kyle showered quickly and threw on a shirt and slacks. He was already late. Janie would probably understand him visiting the general, but he’d also been wrapped up in work and busy with HALO. It wasn’t as if he could ignore her and expect her to hang around. They’d been dating for just over a month. And she was a nice girl. He wouldn’t mind having her around for a while.

  He drove fast, and was at her apartment by eight. She came walking briskly down off the steps, denying him the opportunity to knock on the door. He still got out and held the truck door for her, though. It might be old-fashioned, but the rules of etiquette and gentlemanly conduct had been drilled into him from an early age, and the Army encouraged polite behavior. It was a big plus for him in the social arena. He ushered her in, careful of her long satin skirt. He worried about lint. The truck wasn’t as clean as it could be; he’d been on the range. Black satin fabric would show a lot. Her blouse was opened enough to show some cleavage, so he figured she wasn’t too mad at him. If she wasn’t happy, she had no problem letting him know.

  “Where have you been?” she asked as she got in. She was upset and worried rather than angry. And he had called ahead.

  “I’m sorry, Janie,” he said, meaning it. Damn, she looked good, and it was great having someone to talk to about things other than shop. “General Robash is still in hospital. I had to go visit.”

  “He’s your commander?” she asked.

  “Well. . .” How to explain it? “He’s in charge of our operations. I respect him a lot. I’m worried about how things will change if he can’t recover. Can I leave it at that? I don’t want to talk shop.”

  She softened. “Sure. I didn't think you were ignoring me, but I got nervous when you were late. Let’s eat?” she hinted.

  “I’ll have to eat light, Wade and I grabbed a bite between the shop and the hospital.” He puUed onto 1-295. He was relieved. He didn’t want her mad two days before he left.

  “Good,” she said. “Then I won’t feel jealous of you plowing through enough food for three of me. You must work out a hell of a lot to eat like that.”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “In the field I might hit six thousand calories a day. And you look fine, really. Eat what you want.” Women were exasperating with their obsessions about diet and weight. She looked good and he didn’t understand her worry.

  She smiled. “Kyle, I plan on making love to you before you take off again. You don’t have to sweet talk me.” Then she gave him a sidelong glance.

  “You know I’m leaving?” he asked, suspicious and worried at the same time.

  “I assume if the Army sent you to a parachuting school and you’re spending long hours with checklists and research that you’re about to leave. Right?” She smiled again. It was coy, indulgent, mischievous, and exasperated all at the same time.

  “Uh, yes. I just try not to let people know, as professional paranoia, and I don’t like questions about it, because I can’t answer them.”

  “You teach sniping, right?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. It had come up in conversation.

  “So I assume you’re teaching either our people or someone allied, out in the field. You’re going to Iraq? Afghanistan?”

  “Janie, I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

  “Dammit. . .” She looked frustrated. “Okay, I guess I understand that. It must be hard on families. Is that why you got divorced?”

  “Part of it. A big part,” he admitted. Yes, it was hard to have a social life, with people worried that you might not return. Some spouses could adapt to that. Others couldn’t. He was also very wrapped up in his work and not as sociable as some other men.

  “Tell me when you’ll be back, at least,” she begged. She leaned far back and stretched, and he could see her curves. She was in good shape herself. He’d met her at a gym.

  “If I knew. . . but I don’t. At least three weeks. Hopefully not much more than that. I’ve left instructions for them to tell you if there’s a problem.”

  “If you’re dead or crippled, you mean,” she said. “Sorry, that was harsh. I appreciate you thinking of me. But, Kyle, there’s something I want.” She leaned over and whispered something in his ear that made him flush in anticipation. “And again when you come back. So come back? Please?”

  “Hon, I want to come back anyway. But I’ll be really careful.” He reached over and took her hand.

  “Good,” she said gripping back. “I’ve seen your dress uniform. Don’t get another Purple Heart. And I’ll have a steak tonight. Hot and naked. Then you the same way.” She smiled again and it was anything but coy. It looked like the smile of a wolf.

  *****

  In the office the next morning, still tired and elated from a long night in bed with Janie, Kyle printed out a checklist and started packing rucks. He had three, with duplicate items for each and personalized gear. Both Wiesinger and Wade had brought in spare uniforms and toiletries tightly rolled in plastic bags. He started with “personal items” and checked them off the list. After that, it was ammunition, MRE entrees in case local food wasn’t available immediately, water, maps, and compasses, all the essential military gear that is rarely thought of by civilians but must be carried. Batteries for radios, phones, sights, and accessories were on the list aplenty. Interceptor body armor was quite heavy, so Kyle had substituted police-weight vests that wouldn’t stop a rifle bullet but should slow it enough to reduce the wound. They’d stop most fragments and pistol calibers, and likely knives as well. But he’d taken enough fire to want something over his vital organs.

  Beyond those he had his and Wade’s pistols. Wade still took an issue M9 Beretta. Kyle had his gorgeous but slightly dinged Ed Brown that was as exotic as one could get. But it had saved his life at least twice by being available and flawlessly reliable. He’d thought of taking his Colt Mustang, too. It was pocket sized and had saved his life in Bosnia and Pakistan. He hadn’t carried it since. It didn’t weigh much, but they were on a tight chart. Besides, they weren’t likely to be in town much and in the field he’d just as soon have a few extra magazines of .45

  They had knives, Wiesinger had an M9 bayonet, Wade a KaBar, Kyle
his high-end Gerber. Pocket tools. Flashlights with infrared and red filters, both little Mini Maglites and the blindingly bright SureFires, which could be used to stun people.

  As he reached the end of that list, he dragged over a duffel bag and another, handwritten list. “So what’s in the bag?”

  “All the stuff Wiesinger told me not to take.”

  “Oh?”

  “And ammo. Standard seven point six two NATO ball.”

  “Don’t we have enough of that?” Wade asked.

  “We have US issue, that incredibly solid stuff that just bores holes. I have old ‘West German’ issue that will shatter at the cannelure when it tumbles like M193. But it is NATO spec, so no one can nail us for war crimes.”

  “You’re a sick and twisted individual. I’m proud to call you ‘friend.’ ”

  “Yeah. Funny story about this stuff. The Germans and Swedes complained about the fragmentation effects of 5.56 in Vietnam. Accused the U.S. of ‘atrocities.’ So Natick Lab demonstrated that their ammo fragmented worse. They shut up.”

  “Heh. I like it. How much do you have?”

  “Two battle packs of two hundred rounds.”

  “How are you transporting it?”

  “Since it’s all going in our rucks and dropping with us, it’s going in there. I'll mark off the issue stuff and load this instead. It’s NATO, he may not even notice it’s not U.S.”

  “And he can’t do anything if he does.”

  “Right.”

  “This was a whole lot easier with Robash signing blank orders and handing us cash.”

  “We need to ask about cash,” Kyle said, frowning. “I assume he’ll want to carry it personally, but we better have some.”

  “That’s your department. I don’t even want to try to negotiate with him.”

  “Yeah, I know.” The frown turned into a grimace.

  All four rifles were laid out ready. All had threaded can type suppressors. It increased the length slightly, but reducing muzzle blast by 36 dB and all but eliminating the flash made shooting much more secure. There were extra mags for the M-4s. One of the SR25s had light olive green furniture.