Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Wiesinger faced Kyle and Wade. “The target at this point is the village of Khayalan. Our brief says explosives are going through there. This intel is secondhand from several sources. So we’re going to confirm on the ground. If we confirm, we’ll take appropriate action. If we do not confirm, we’ll have to determine where the target is and reevaluate.”

  “ ‘Appropriate action’ means shoot the guilty parties, or call in fire?” Kyle asked. He hated euphemisms. Sometimes, they were just politeness to avoid scaring the more delicate personalities. Sometimes, euphemisms meant the mission was officially disapproved and the operator would get hung out to dry.

  “Probably the former,” Wiesinger said, which was reassuring. “If we can take out the brains, it hinders the operation.”

  “Yes, Mel.” Kyle knew the doctrine; he’d been doing this for a decade. Likely, Wiesinger was used to briefing non-snipers. This was one of those things you let slide, Kyle decided. Wiesinger turned to Bakri. “Is there enough room inside, or do we need to shuffle stuff around?”

  “We’ll fit,” Bakri said. “We just need to put it all in.”

  “Sounds good. We’re at your disposal to help load.”

  “We load now.” Bakri grinned. “Climb in.” They all boarded the first Toyota, Wiesinger in front, Kyle behind, and Wade behind the driver. Wade and Wiesinger had their M-4s convenient to the windows. Kyle’s longer SR-25 would be a bit harder to get into play. The other one was still broken down and cased in Wade’s ruck. The rucks were all in back.

  For a first, their allies had hot food in paper cups. It was a chicken-and-rice mixture with what might be mangoes and spices. Sweet and hot, it was quite refreshing, and Kyle enjoyed it. So did the others.

  “Native food adds so much to a mission,” Wiesinger commented.

  “When it’s good, yes,” Wade said. “I can’t recommend Romanian style Mexican, or Pakistani dried goat and beans, though.”

  “Mnnph,” the colonel replied around a mouthful of rice. “I’ll take your word on it. But this stuff is good.”

  Wade agreed, “Yeah, I’m partial to it. All in all, I’m not going to jinx things by asking what could go wrong.”

  “It’ll happen soon enough,” Kyle said, feeling pessimistically realistic.

  With the other vehicles loaded with six troops each, the little platoon rolled off with cheerful waves. In this area, they could operate fairly openly, weapons ready in case of skirmish with government troops or another faction. But there were large sections of the country where weapons would get them shot on sight by overwhelming force. Kyle and Wade had both been under such circumstances before.

  “How long is the trip?” Kyle asked Bakri, who was driving. Anda and another, even slighter, woman, Irta, were stuffed in back atop the gear. They were small enough not to be too inconvenienced, but they couldn’t deploy until Kyle and Wade cleared the back, unless they shot out a window and risked cuts.

  “About four hours,” Bakri said. “One hundred kilometers.”

  Fifteen miles an hour. Yes, that wasn’t a bad rate. American civilians were spoiled by super-highways and well-laid streets in good repair. Most of the world still had dirt tracks with the occasional two-lane road. Speed above 35 mph was very respectable. And under the circumstances, there was nothing to complain about. The vehicle was in decent repair, ran well, and didn’t shake.

  It was even possible to doze, until Wiesinger snapped, “Kyle, wake up and pay attention.”

  “Yes, Mel,” he said. He grumbled slightly. It wasn’t as if they could do anything as far as a fight. If fire came in, he’d wake at once. If not, he couldn’t help navigate. But if that’s how the commander wanted to do it, he could will himself awake.

  The best way to do that was food and drink. He sipped a mouthful of water from his Camelbak and reached over his shoulder to dig a granola bar from an outer pocket of his ruck.

  The key to staying awake was to nibble just a little every time one started to zone. He got an hour from the bar and a few sips of water and was thinking about a second one. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t use the calories anyway. Wade was reaching back to grab something from his own gear, likely the jerky.

  A burst of machine-gun fire ripped across the convoy, stirring the thick air.

  “Awas!” Bakri shouted. Take cover. The order wasn’t needed. The troops were already diving for cover. Wade kicked the door on his side and rolled out, and Kyle was only an instant behind him. The drivers were backing up rapidly, but the rearmost vehicle took a hit and stopped. The driver convulsed and gurgled, then died.

  As long as we don’t land on a preset mine or a coordinated attack, Kyle thought as he rolled into the weeds. But staying in the vehicles would be suicide.

  Another burst blew past, along with aimed shots from rifles. He heard the distinct snap of a bullet through the growth.

  “Kopassus!” someone yelled.

  “Oh, fucking shit goddamit no!” Kyle shouted. It didn’t mean much, he was just pissed. Of all the things that could go wrong, a firefight with government troops from an elite unit was about as bad as things could get.

  “We need to attack!” Wiesinger said.

  “Negative, Mel. Cover and low.” He scrunched lower into the ground. He was in a faint hollow between the roots of a tree.

  “The proper response to an ambush is to attack, seizing initiative. Get them to attack!” the colonel shouted.

  “Mel, you attack these badasses, you will die,” Kyle said. “And they’re friendly to the US. We stay low and attempt to disengage. Bakri, how many and where?”

  The wiry little Indonesian was alongside in a crouch, and obviously scared but not panicking.

  “Probably two squads,” he said. “One with machine guns and grenade launcher. One rifles.”

  “Explosives?” Kyle asked.

  “I assume yes.”

  “And that’s why we don’t charge, Mel,” Kyle said. “Claymores, if this was a planned attack.” He ducked as a round snapped past. “Dammit, they’re along a long front. Suggestions?”

  “Machine gun and grenade launchers,” Wade said. “Puts us as close to par as we get. Then you and I pick targets.” Kyle noticed he didn’t mention Wiesinger.

  “Roger. Bakri, you know how to use this?” Wade offered the M-4 with its underslung grenade launcher. He unfastened the pouch of grenades from his harness.

  “I do.” The man nodded, appearing deadly serious while grinning widely.

  Kyle passed it over and said, “Fine, get your men to drive them out, we’ll shoot.” He slid the weapon and grenades through the soft, damp dirt. He could clean them later.

  “I understand.”

  “Wade, spot and backup?”

  “Can do,” he agreed. He slid the two halves of the other SR25 out of his ruck and snapped them together.

  “Mel, can you pick targets with the M-4? Or should we swap?”

  “I’ll manage, Kyle,” the colonel said. “I do know how to shoot.”

  “No such thing as a stupid question in battle, sir.” He let the honorific in to try to defuse things slightly. “Stand by for targets.”

  Another burst was followed by a scream. “Goddamit, they’re good,” Kyle said. “I don’t want to fight them if we don’t have to. For one thing, we’re supposed to be allies.”

  “For another, they’re pretty goddamned good,” Wade admitted.

  “Yeah. Bakri, flush them,” Kyle said.

  Bakri spoke a few words, and his troops and he opened up with the RPK and the grenade launcher. With both support weapons and eight riflemen shooting at one area, it took only a moment for the troops there to pop smoke grenades.

  “There they go,” Kyle muttered to himself. Behind concealment of smoke, they’d hopefully not advance.

  “Reference twisted tree, target, running, two five meters.” Wade called it off in a rapid singsong.

  “Sighted,” Kyle said, seeing the movement. As Wade spoke, it resolved from shifting leaves to
a camouflaged something into a running man. He led, squeezed, and the man dropped, clutching at a thigh. The German 7.62mm should have well nigh shattered the femur and mangled the muscle. He might not be dead, but he wasn’t combat effective.

  So, as Kyle realized he should have expected, Wiesinger wasted five seconds and a round putting the man out of his misery. No, it wasn’t a bad thing to do. But at this juncture of a battle, the idea was to inflict as many casualties as possible. If the enemy thought the count too high, they’d retreat. And they were theoretically allies, dammit. The goal was to not kill them.

  “Mel, we want them alive,” he hissed.

  “Right.” The colonel nodded. He seemed overly excited. That was better than fear for the first real firefight he’d ever been in, but goddammit, Kyle didn’t need to babysit anyone.

  “Got ’im,” Wade said laconically as he snapshot another. There hadn’t been time to call the shot, and there was no need to pass it along. “I also see movement at five zero meters, clumpy bush that looks like oversized grass.”

  “Roger. Pick anything that moves and nick it. Just nick it.”

  “Understood,” Wade said. Wiesinger was silent.

  “Bakri, can you see there?”

  “I see,” he said. “I should shoot?”

  “Just in front of it. If that doesn’t work, go into it.”

  “I understand.” The little man squinted along the sights and fired. The shot was wide to the left. He cursed in Achinese in a way Kyle didn’t understand, but sounded very earnest. He clicked the breech and started to reload.

  A shot threw splinters off the tree right over his head, the shards stinging Kyle in the face. He flinched, but Bakri didn’t, continuing with the motion to load and close the breech. Only then did he roll around the tree to a different position. That convinced Kyle that the man was very experienced.

  The second grenade landed barely under the tendrils in front of the bush, blowing half of it away. The leaves were thick and stalky and absorbed much of the fragmentation, as did the soft dirt the grenade had landed in. Still, lots of growth was removed, and parts of what could be two figures started to bug out. Kyle slammed a round through someone’s upper arm, causing a rough thrashing motion. Wade hit something else and screams became audible over the fire.

  Then it got quiet.

  “They have retreated,” Bakri said. “They will move some hundred meters or so and regroup, then depart to treat wounded.”

  “What about the seriously wounded and bodies?”

  “What of them?” he asked with a grin and pointed.

  Kyle looked out to where the first target had been, the one he’d shot in the leg and Wiesinger had finished off. There was nothing but a rut in the grass where the corpse had been dragged off.

  The hairs on his neck stood straight up.

  “Holy shit, that’s a good trick.”

  “Never a body. They, we, both the same game,” Bakri said.

  “You little bastards are the best skilled allies I’ve ever worked with,” Kyle said reverently. The Bosnians were competent but not imaginative. The Afghans were eager but unskilled. The Iraqis were constantly fearful of turncoats. But the Indonesians were competent, cool, and devious.

  “We were lucky,” Bakri said. “They could have caught us from behind as well. Three more men made the difference.”

  “I’m glad it was a small patrol,” Kyle said. “Back to traveling?”

  “Yes, but we will be tracked. Kopassus always tracks.”

  “Wonderful. There goes our cover. What do we do now?”

  “Leave the area,” Bakri said. “They want stronger targets, is that how you say it?”

  “Hard targets?” Wade asked.

  “Yes. Operations. Not patrols they want. We were just a chance.”

  “Makes sense,” Wiesinger said. “Where?”

  “This way,” Bakri said, gesturing.

  Wiesinger stood up and started walking. Stifling a curse, Kyle tackled him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Wiesinger snarled, his face hardening.

  “Mel, there are still hostiles in the area.”

  He bit off the second part of his statement. So stay concealed, you fucking idiot wouldn’t sit well. Wiesinger’s act was that of a man who was used to exercises that were called clear at the end, with no ongoing threat.

  “Right,” the colonel said, looking sheepish. He stayed down.

  They advanced in three elements, covering all arcs with additional weapons forward, slipping along a few meters from the road. Wiesinger wasn’t bad at concealment, Kyle thought. Nor was he good. He clearly had studied all the right books. But he had little practice.

  It’s like having an older, fatter second lieutenant along, he thought. He sighed. It was uncharitable, but the thought he had was that at least the man was large enough to stop a few bullets.

  They finished an advance and wiggled into the dirt, to cover the next element. With eyes shifting around, Wiesinger spoke softly.

  “Sergeant Monroe, U.S. weapons are supposed to stay in U.S. hands. ”

  “Yes, sir, they are. And when the shit hits the fan, I want backup and I don’t care who it is.”

  “We have no positive confirmation of their loyalties.” Wiesinger really wasn’t getting it, Kyle thought.

  “Then it’s a bad idea to have them behind us with rifles, yes?” he said reasonably.

  Wiesinger jerked. It clearly hadn’t occurred to him that there were armed men and women behind him with M-16s, FNCs, AK47s, a Jagawana Forest Guard Gun that looked like a Sten and fired 9 x 21mm, and large machetes.

  “Mel,” Kyle said, “things are never the way we’d like them to be on these types of ops. Our allies are usually poorly trained; we’re lucky this time. The food can suck or be nonexistent. Plans change, people screw us over, others help us. It’s all a guessing game. I’m guessing we can trust Bakri, because we have to. He could kill us in our sleep. Or turn us in.”

  Wiesinger said nothing, but nodded perhaps a half inch.

  Two more advances brought them to the vehicles. One had a hole through the radiator tank, but one of the men was at work with a propane torch and solder. Another had the windows well shot out. There was one lethal casualty, a man they’d only nodded to, never been introduced, and two wounds and an injury—sprained wrist from a fall. With some grunting of pain, the three were bandaged as best could be and they all gathered around to discuss plans, their hosts speaking Acehnese for their convenience.

  “So where do we go?” Wiesinger asked. The man had no patience. Bakri looked at him, then resumed talking.

  Kyle and Wade sat silently, alert, while the Indonesians jabbered quietly around a map spread out on the lead Toyota’s hood. It was Kyle’s experience that after the locals had hashed things out, then they’d talk to the Americans and finalize things. But they needed time. Especially as no one liked to feel the foreigners were trying to run the show. There was a diplomacy issue here that Wiesinger’s lack of self-confidence couldn’t help.

  “Here, then Khayalan,” Bakri said, just as it looked as if Wiesinger would butt in. “But to get there we must go this way.” He indicated a circuitous route along the hills. “To avoid attention.”

  “How long a drive?” Wade asked.

  “Eight to ten hours.”

  “Oh, that’s not bad,” Kyle said. Likely less than three hundred kilometers then. Narrow roads and convoy security would make a long trip even slower. “What’s there?”

  “Just people we can supply with,” he said. “Then we go to Khayalan for the target.”

  “Got it.”

  It wasn’t a pleasant trip, cooped up in a small, cramped vehicle, sweaty and worried about attack. But Kyle and Wade had been through worse. Well-trained troops were a confidence builder, and they were literate and experienced. There was food along, more fruit and some cold chicken and rice. Kyle wasn’t a rice fan, but it was a staple for most of the world. The Indonesian spices varied fro
m scorching to sweet, so at least it was interesting. This was a far richer area, resource wise, than the ass end of Central Asia.

  Wiesinger was mostly reticent, which was a good thing. The man was just naturally abrasive. On the other hand, no matter how poorly one got along with teammates, knowing something about them was important for cohesion. But it just wasn’t the thing Kyle wanted to mention, so they stayed each with their own thoughts.

  They sank down low in the seats as they passed through towns that were five or six blocks long. One had a divided main road with a central canal. Whether it was for water runoff or transport, Kyle couldn’t tell and didn’t ask. He was busy being not noticed. That road was asphalted, but others were cobbled. There was a motorcycle with a rickshaw sidecar he found really amusing. People wore native garb, Western clothes and American or Chinese hats. The ramshackle houses had steep roofs of tile or tin against monsoon rains, and were different but not dissimilar from the colonial styles in Asia. Dutch rather than French, but with obvious cultural roots.

  There were militia fighters on patrol, and Bakri waved to one group but detoured around rice paddies to avoid another.

  “They would collect toll,” he said. “Cost us time, money, and risk for you.”

  “Appreciated,” Kyle said. “We’re not in a hurry.”

  “Yes we are,” Wiesinger muttered.

  “Not to die, Mel,” Kyle snapped back.

  He did find the schoolgirls cute, on old-style bicycles in skirts and with traditional head coverings. They smiled and waved and were absolute dolls. He hoped they weren’t targets for anyone.

  Then they were back out into the wilds again, occasional single and multiple dwelling settlements carved out of the forest. It was a constant fight as the humans tried to go one way and the jungle resisted, even grew back.

  Shortly, they pulled into an open field that was terraced down a slope like stacked plates. It was the brightest green Kyle had ever seen, thick with rice and palms of some kind. The buildings were low wood.

  They stopped and obtained ammunition and food, and swapped troops around. It was done quickly, and the Americans stopped for a momentary latrine break, then back into the vehicles.