Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “People are needed for the crops, and they will notice if we are gone for long. We can only patrol a few days at a time when the Army is here in force,” Bakri said. Though obviously that “in force” was still a fairly token presence.

  “What is important is that you not be associated with groups like ours, who want to negotiate,” Bakri said, “Very risky. We must get you into area where rebels are common. Your target is there anyway.”

  “We appreciate the risk,” Kyle said. “Good people all over the world are taking risks on this. We’ve been in other countries doing the same thing.”

  “What is it like?”

  Wade said, “Rough, dangerous, but rewarding. There’s no headlines over it. But you know you’ve done right.”

  “Yes, the same with us. I do this for my children,” Bakri said. “They should not live poor, but they should not have to fight. If we can meet Jakarta partway, then ask for more, it is better. But if not, we’ll have to fight more.”

  “Our government is trying,” Wiesinger said. “But paperwork takes a long time. This is the first time I’ve been away from it in years.”

  Kyle felt a flash of empathy. He despised paperwork. Was Wiesinger pushed into it because of his father’s legacy? The perfect staff officer, even if he hated it?

  “Yes,” Bakri said. “We were all happy when Timor-Leste became free. But the fighting was fierce. We would like that, too. And we could negotiate on oil and gas better than Jakarta. We are closer, so have less entangles.”

  “I agree,” Kyle said. “But we can’t make that decision. Seems like every real soldier I’ve met, even among Bosnians, Iraqis, and Russians, was a decent guy I could drink a beer with and get along with. We all hate terrorists.”

  “Yes, because they are cowards.” Bakri nodded vigorously. “We and the Kopassus and Army and Marines are all men, and fight like men. It’s frightening and dangerous, but that is the price.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Attacking journalists, drivers, women, children . . .” He spat forcefully out the window. “I would like a hut in the jungle and a week with each of them. Perhaps ten days.” His clenching jaw bespoke a far less cheerful and angrier side that Kyle hoped not to experience. “If you can, will you let one live for me?” Kyle was silent a moment.

  “We’ve discussed that before,” Wade said into the pause. “As enjoyable as that would be, there’s the risk of escape.”

  “Ah, yes. Better not to. But some deserve more suffering than life offers. There is Allah offering judgment.”

  “I pray for that, too,” Kyle said politely. He wasn’t very religious. But he did hope for justice as it was deserved.

  “We turn onto a road now. Keep guns out of sight.”

  “Okay,” they agreed, and slid the weapons lower. They were all wearing camouflage of various kinds; still, people were more likely to twig on weapons than clothes. They came out into brighter light and onto a two-lane blacktop in good repair. Kyle removed his brimmed boonie hat and the others followed suit. That and keeping arms inside the windows should help reduce visibility. There were fields on either side, flat and a brighter green than any American growth. The forest stood back around them, tall and riotous.

  Then they turned back off the road. They’d been on it only a kilometer or two and had passed one car going the other way at high speed. The three vehicles, spread widely and packed, could easily be mistaken for work trucks.

  This trail was much rougher, but that was due to use. It was a dirt road and well worn. Sleeping was impossible, with heads bobbing around like toys as the suspension squeaked in protest. The light flickered occasionally as a fluke of nature left an opening in the thin rain forest. It wasn’t as thick as South America or Southeast Asia, but it was thicker than all but the heaviest, tangled second growth Stateside, and much taller.

  Bakri waved and pointed, and the second vehicle pulled off in a very narrow shoulder area to keep watch. The trailing vehicle squeezed through the gap and took second place. Kyle approved silently. Far better than others he’d worked with, for certain.

  These were roads under here, Kyle decided. About like access roads on an Army training range. Some were graveled in sections, old and scattered and pressed into the mud. Some were grown with low grasses from little use, and some were plain mud.

  It rained one day in three here. The daytime temperature was steady near 30°C, 86°F. At night it dropped to a balmy 72°. The humidity did the same, from 90 percent down to 70 percent, day after year after century. They were so close to the equator that weather, apart from monsoons, didn’t really exist—only climate. It was hot and would stay that way, barring a few days here and there. The remaining escort pulled off onto a narrow path and disappeared.

  Shortly, they were driving along a track so little used it was barely visible as a trace, the growth on either side brushing against the sides of the vehicle, scratching and scraping. The windows were still open, and everyone drew back to avoid getting jabbed.

  Wade said, “I remember doing this once in Macedonia, along a trail.”

  “Yes?” Kyle prompted.

  “Well, the next time someone tells you that something is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, you believe them.”

  Everyone, including Bakri, chuckled. Everyone except Wiesinger, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. But he was examining the terrain and the woods, so Kyle figured it was just concentration on his part.

  “We stop just ahead,” Bakri said. “We are above and east of the target.”

  “Understood. What then?”

  “Can you get closer on foot to observe?”

  “We can do that,” Kyle agreed. “Show me the map.”

  They were 1705 meters from the target, by Kyle’s reckoning. He entered coordinates into his PDA, GPS, and on a paper notepad for backup. He planned to advance on foot the first kilometer, then on knees and at a crawl, and set up an OP— Observation Post—where they could see what was going on. Keep records of comings and goings, identify important persons and equipment, and then exfiltrate and determine proper action.

  He explained what he intended, and consciously added an, “Is that okay, Mel? Or do you suggest something else?”

  “No, Kyle, I concur,” he said. Whether he actually did, or really had no idea and was letting an NCO lead, Kyle didn’t know. But neither was really bad.

  “Tell me about the area,” Kyle asked.

  Bakri recited, “Khayalan is a small village. We avoided the road through, which is unpaved. We are at right angles to it. The houses are block and sheet steel, and there is a small administration building. Occupants are one hundred twenty-three according to the last census, taken in two thousand.

  "They have a large number of young males, and I believe they have considerable small weapons. Vehicle traffic is approximately four cars per hour, including a patrol by the police every three to four days and vehicles transporting workers to the oil facilities at six and twenty hours daily. There is a small general shop, a bar, and a mosque. Two side roads lead into the woods for rubbish disposal.” He pulled out a sheet of paper with blocks drawn on it. Each block contained a routine Bahasa phrase so as to look like a shopping list. But with a few strokes of a pen and some words added, it became a passable map of the target area. Good operational and communications security.

  Kyle was agog. He’d never had a local ally provide such a thorough pre-mission briefing. “That’s a very impressive report,” he said.

  “Thank you. We’ve gathered what information we can.”

  “But you don’t know if our target is there?”

  “No. I was not told who that is. They said it was a sensitive matter.” He looked both amused and put upon.

  Wiesinger must have felt everyone looking at him. “That was through CIA,” he said. “Pursuant to new rules of intelligence release after September eleventh.”

  “Heck, sounds like we might have saved a trip,” Wade said, a bare tinge of disgust in his voice.

  �
��Well, shall we head in, Mel?” Kyle asked. “Get an OP set up and see what happens?”

  “Yes. You lead, serg . . . Kyle. Wade can guard the rear. I can offer support if needed. I’ll take this,” he indicated the M4. “Will you be using the SR-25s?”

  “That’s likely best,” Kyle agreed. “Range and intel gathering. We’ll talk through phones, make sure they’re set on vibrate. Bakri, how will we meet up?”

  “I will drive by, or you can call my telephone.”

  “Sounds good. Assume twenty-four hours. If you don’t hear from us, be very cautious, and report it back. Do you have a number for that?”

  “I do, to someone in Jakarta who speaks American English.”

  Probably CIA. That wasn’t as desirable as the Army. CIA might take weeks or months to deal with it, based on their own assessment of how valuable the three men were. Army would go balls out to get them. But you worked with what you had.

  “Shall we give them one of our numbers, Mel?” Kyle asked.

  “I’d like to, but negative. Maintain security.”

  “Understood,” Kyle agreed. He didn’t like it, but it made sense. The phone number could be tracked. If it was to an intelligence service, that might be expected. But if it was traced to a foreign military, that was another thing entirely. “Bakri, you have it?”

  “Tomorrow at the same time, carefully if I haven’t heard from you and report it back. This is my telephone number.” He showed it to them on the lit screen.

  “Got it,” Kyle said, as they all wrote it down in case of emergency. Goddam, this was almost like operating in the modern world, Kyle thought. He tried not to get too optimistic.

  That done, Bakri got into the vehicle and quietly pulled away. Kyle led the way off the “road” and into brush. More concealment was desired.

  “So, what is our probable target?” Kyle asked.

  “Mosque,” Wiesinger said. “The current assumption is that if the presence isn’t obvious, it’s in a mosque. They’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

  “Right. And we’re looking for explosives?”

  “Explosives, weapons, anything we can report as activity.”

  “Got it,” Kyle agreed. Wade glanced over and thumbed up. He was busy digging the soft-cased rifle from its straps on his ruck. He took the one Kyle held, and handed over the modified one.

  Kyle actually had it assembled before Wiesinger twigged on the green-colored stock and the rail covers over the hand guard. “That’s not paint on that weapon, is it?”

  “No, it’s aftermarket furniture,” he said, and braced for the storm.

  “From where?” The colonel was clouding up.

  “An outfit called Cavalry Arms.” Kyle pretended not to understand.

  “Acquired how?”

  “Personal expense, Mel. Didn’t want Uncle to have to pay for it.”

  “I wasn’t aware Uncle authorized it, and I know I wasn’t asked.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Kyle said, slipping the honorific in again. “This was an experiment we’d already arranged, and I forgot to inform you.”

  “Are there any other surprises I’m not aware of?”

  “I don’t think so, Mel,” he said. Heh heh. He’d pulled it off. It was only one little victory in an ongoing bureaucratic battle, but it improved his morale.

  “Good. Let’s get to it.” He accepted the ghillie Wade handed over, and started pulling it on. “But don’t try to cowboy this operation, Kyle. I will take you down.”

  There was nothing to say but, “Yes, sir.” Goddam, the man got bent out of shape over piddly crap.

  At least there was nothing the man could criticize about Kyle’s ghillie. In addition to strips of shredded burlap, he’d used sections of camouflage netting to improve it. It was a coat made shapeless with tans and greens, more of the former, that being the predominant color in woods, and certainly on the ground. It was disruptive enough in shape to make him near invisible at a matter of feet.

  Each of them grabbed food and technical gear, then stowed their rucks in a hollow. Everything inside that could be damaged by water was sealed in freezer bags. They didn’t need the three hundred pounds of gear represented for recon. It would simply bulk up their profiles. Careful positioning under growth should hide it from any view. Kyle noted a tree and cut a blaze in the bark very low down, peeling it back with his Gerber. He marked the position on his GPS. That should be enough to let them recover it later. In a worst-case scenario, nothing inside had any names or official U.S. identifiers. It was just military gear.

  The three were ready in a very few moments. Kyle stepped slowly forward, his weapon in a drag bag over his shoulder. With his face painted and dirtied, the ghillie tumbled over him and the growth around him, he looked like a shambling tree.

  Behind, Wiesinger was a little noisier. It wasn’t anything most civilians would notice, but Kyle did. If he did, another professional might. He gritted his teeth. Hopefully, the man would steady out in a few minutes. If not, Kyle was at least leading, so he could set the pace. After years of instructing, he was afraid Wiesinger would be a rabbit, hopping eagerly forward and drawing attention.

  The first seven hundred meters were largely uneventful. They shifted through the branches, careful not to shake them, watching for clumps of brush that might get crushed, soft spots that would hold boot prints and roots that could trip them, not to mention boobytraps or sensors. They didn’t anticipate any, but one doesn’t until it’s too late.

  Once or twice they froze and sank into the growth because of noises. But none was threatening, and actual human noise was scarce at this distance. Trees and humidity damped a lot of vibrations. Still, the situation demanded caution. Hours of infiltration and weeks of intel were riding on this. A minor screwup could kill a lot of people and waste a lot of time and money.

  The GPS Kyle held said they were a kilometer away. It was time to get romantic with the dirt. Slowly, he eased to his knees and down, gently laying the drag bag behind him. Gingerly, he put his hands down—he wore thin Nomex aviator gloves to avoid scratches, plant toxins, and insect bites. Behind him, he heard the very faint sounds of Wiesinger and Wade following suit.

  It was hot. Under the ghillies, it was stifling. He sipped at his water, glad he had filled the Camelbak to overfull. He’d had 105 ounces forced into it, and had drank a good half quart before gearing up. He thought of water in quarts. This temp required a quart an hour when active. He sucked a couple of ounces when he paused again, and would bring the container to normal capacity in a few minutes. Bursting it would be bad.

  At five hundred meters, he went from hands and knees to a belly crawl. It was essential to avoid a profile. From a secure position, he’d identify a new location, ensure the route was clear of debris or growth that would leave an obvious trail, free of wet or low spots, of which there were plenty, and not open to observation. That confirmed, he’d slink forward like a lizard after a fly, pulling with hands as much as pushing with feet and knees, to avoid leaving divots. Once he felt secure behind the mark, a tree with shrubbery at the base, he fished the phone out of his front pocket.

  “Wade, Kyle. How do things look?” he asked when his partner answered.

  “Clear, good. Did you know you rolled a limb as you crawled over it?”

  Kyle felt a ripple of shock. That was an amateur’s mistake. “I didn’t even feel a limb,” he admitted. Was he tired? Or was it just one of those mistakes that happen? Either way, he had to avoid that.

  “Yeah. Eyes open, buddy.”

  “Will do. Please relay to Mel. Call me if you need me.”

  “Roger that.” Here they were, on profile for a mission, halfway around the world. They were perhaps ten meters apart, and they were communicating through thousands of miles of space by Iridium phones. Were Iridium satellites, or the satellites they used, low orbit? Geosynchronous, high enough to orbit over one location? That was 23,000 miles and some, he recalled. But beyond that, he was hazy. Those details were out of his contr
ol, so he hadn’t dwelled on them much, but he was curious now and would check.

  He resumed a slow advance from concealment to concealment. That was something he had control over, and was expert at.

  A half hour later, he had the edges of the village in view. He figured their distance as 330 meters. And Bakri was almost certainly competent enough to have done this. Instead, they’d come halfway around the world.

  Oh, it made some sense, he thought, as he slithered under a vine that drooped between a bush and a tree. They could ascertain the target and make the call, and confirm the kill. A local could claim anyone as the target, as had happened in Pakistan. That had set off a tribal war that almost got out of hand. The CIA’s after-action review had been very stern about confirming reliability of allies. And if the locals were paid money or favors for killing a target, it was hard to know if they actually had. It was hard to drag bodies in for confirmation, and claims of body counts were always inflated.

  But that still made it annoying to see first-rate troops kept in the dark and used as taxi drivers for a mission they were actually better qualified to handle.

  At 275 meters, he decided the view was good. That distance was based on the road and the approximate center of town, and assuming Bakri’s handwritten grid coordinates were correct. Somehow, he knew Bakri could handle a compass.

  He dialed Wade. “We’ll set up OP here. Spread out and we’ll take shifts. Two on, one asleep, switching off every hour on watch, four hours to sleep.”

  “Roger that.”

  He relayed the same information to Wiesinger. “Does that work, Mel?”

  “It does. Do you want to sleep first?”

  “I could do that, yes, Mel,” he agreed. He wasn’t keen on trusting Wiesinger, but Wade would keep a good eye on him. One hour on, one off actually meant both were on, but one was responsible for notes and keeping an eye glued to a scope in case a shot presented itself. The “off” partner would still be observing while also watching for encroaching threats and other issues.