Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Issues such as weather. Kyle could hear rain beating on the leaves far above. He shrugged mentally, confirmed that Wade had the same info as the colonel, and hunkered down to sleep. It was hot and itchy under the ghillie, soon to be hot, damp, and itchy. That was the nature of the job. He placed his phone back in his chest pocket, where it was somewhat uncomfortable, but where he would certainly feel the buzz if he was called.

  He folded his arms in front, laid his head down, and focused on a blade of grass. Things went fuzzy and he was asleep.

  It was a restless sleep, as rain and sweat mingled and soaked his clothes, grass and dirt shifted and brushed him, and bugs ran over him. There were other animals in these woods—wild boars, orangutans, assorted rodents. None came near, but the small ones were annoying enough.

  He felt the buzz of the phone, and woke at once. Years of practice kept him from jerking. He simply snapped awake and shifted a fraction of an inch. He reached gingerly for the phone with his right hand, keeping eyes and ears alert for a threat.

  “Yes,” he whispered softly. He had it close enough to his lips that he should be heard. A move that combined head and hand brought his ear to the other end, smoothly enough that it shouldn’t show as movement, and quickly enough to catch anything that might be said. He also started flexing his muscles, to get circulation going and prepare for anything from a crawl to a charge.

  “Wade here. Wakeup call.”

  “Roger that. You’re next?”

  “I am. You and Mel have it until twenty hundred.”

  “When is sunset and EMNT?” He realized it was getting dark. End Mean Nautical Twilight would put the Sun twelve degrees below horizon and their bare eyes would no longer adequate.

  “One eight one six hours, another one seven minutes for sunset. Nominal four eight minutes for EMNT, but I’d guess three zero minutes with those hills.”

  “Roger that. Go sleep.”

  “Out,” Wade agreed.

  Kyle dialed Wiesinger.

  “I’m on watch, sir, you’re off, Wade asleep.”

  “Understood. We tracked a vehicle and personnel. Approximately two zero men arrived by bus at one seven four three hours.”

  “Understood, noted,” Kyle said. Most of what they’d observe was routine or meaningless. Only if they saw one of the three targets or suspicious activity would they follow up. Whatever was here might not arrive for days, or might have moved on, or might never have been here. But with Bakri’s initial recon, the odds were good there’d be trouble. Then they’d troubleshoot, to use a pun. Kyle smiled very slightly. Jokes like that and random thoughts kept him alert and sane hour after hour on missions like this.

  He reached back into the drag and drew his rifle and scope. Assembling them, he now had a sturdy, bipod-mounted scope he could use in near total darkness, with a weapon to support it and to provide fire if need be.

  Nothing happened by 1900, other than dinner that he could smell from here, with fresh fruits, hot peppers, and rice. His slow sweeps of the scope had acquired nothing of military note, though he identified vehicles, and a mosque service. It was sparsely attended that he could tell, perhaps thirty or forty people, mostly male. Though others might be worshipping in their homes, within earshot of the imam’s prayers.

  He buzzed Wiesinger and ended the call before he answered. A buzz in response indicated acknowledgement. Gratefully, Kyle came off the scope, blinking his eye. It had been sweaty against the rubber guard. He allowed himself two minutes to zone while he dug for an MRE. He’d chew it slowly, component by component for the rest of the shift. The remains would be stuffed into the outer envelope, which he’d keep in his shirt so as not to leave any evidence. Shortly, he’d have to relocate slightly and dig a small hole to piss in. He’d been holding it since they left the vehicle and geared up.

  It was incredible, Kyle thought, that with technology so crude and in an area so remote, a terrorist group could pull off the attacks it did. Not for the first time, he was disgusted that such effort wasn’t put to productive ends. Or that brave and eager young men could meet real military recruiters rather than terrorists. He recalled the story of a Foreign Legion veteran who’d gone on to become a billionaire. And very many senior politicians and executives were veterans. Aggression was a very human trait. But it didn’t have to be destructive.

  Christ, it was hot, even in the “cool” evening at less than 80°F and 75 percent humidity. Sweat was not just running off him, it was running out of him as if he were a squeezed sponge. That would cause problems. While the book said to keep water in your body, in a case like this, one might as well pour it out. Instead, he decided to wait until he just barely felt heat effects, and his sweat thinned, before drinking. His water supply would last slightly longer, and that was important.

  And perhaps it would rain again and he could suck absorbed water from a rag. But it was going to be a rough night. He blinked his eyes as liquid ran. At least the salt content was low, as much as he was leaking. His eyes didn’t sting, but certainly were uncomfortable.

  He kept ears alert for anything that might approach. Certainly Bakri had patrols in the area, but it made sense to be wary. Then there was the road. That had to be watched while Wiesinger watched the village.

  At 1948, there was action. A group of men slipped out of the mosque, each with a backpack, and boarded motorcycles. Kyle made note of time and activity as they slipped away. He thought there were nine. He’d confirm with Wiesinger in twelve minutes.

  Wiesinger didn’t call at 2000. Kyle gave it five minutes, then called himself. He had a creepy feeling he knew what had happened.

  It took three rings, which made sense if Wiesinger was expecting a single only to alert him. Or unless it meant. . .

  “Mel,” was the answer, sounding very sleepy and confused.

  “Oh, Jesus H. Fucking Christ on a crutch in a tutu!” Kyle swore in a whisper with his hand over the mic. Asleep, on watch. Something no soldier should ever do. Something inexcusable. And the man had in theory been to Ranger school, so he should know how to force consciousness when needed, even for days at a time.

  “Did you get a count on that motorcycle activity, Mel?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  There was a long pause. “I didn’t. Do you have it?”

  “I have an estimate only, Mel. I was covering security.” And it was taking every ounce of strength he had not to shout, scream, call the man an incompetent, reckless, derelict fucking idiot.

  “Understood. I’ll take next watch.”

  Kyle wanted to tell him not to bother. Instead, he decided to bull through the remaining two hours and cover both security and observation. Wade needed his sleep.

  “Understood,” he said, hating himself for lying. There was just no good going to come of this. He dug out a small camera that would take photos through the scope. Had he had any inkling Wiesinger would dope off, he would have had it all along.

  It was a relief to wake Wade at 2200 and the two of them to go on together, even if Wiesinger should by rights take another hour. He’d worked with Wade and trusted him. They’d saved each other’s lives several times, and Wade had pulled him out of deep depressions over dead friends. He synopsized the situation.

  “Well,” Wade said, “he’s obviously lacking in field experience. So we need to cover him and us. Consider it a tradeoff with the better allies, who are really good, my friend.”

  “Yes they are, and I know we can’t get a perfect mission,” Kyle said, watching a caterpillar of some kind worm along a long leaf. “We’ll manage. Wanted you to know. Here’s the activity I’ve got—” He read off his log.

  “Roger that,” Wade agreed. “I’d say nine or ten men on motorcycles with backpacks leaving a mosque simultaneously is unusual. But I’m not sure what it means.”

  “Neither am I.”

  The forest was loud even at night, with bugs, birds, and larger forms all chittering, whooping, and cackling. It scared many people, but Kyle had spent s
o much time outdoors he only noticed when it stopped. Around here, he’d learned that such things presaged a vehicle arriving. So he was unconsciously leaning over his scope without realizing why when the truck arrived.

  The truck pulled into the village using only parking lights and was ground guided by a man with a flashlight. It stopped quietly in front of the mosque. At once, a dozen men formed a line to unload it.

  Boxes. The labels weren’t English and weren’t Bahasa, but were some Asian language. Kyle thought it might be Korean. It wasn’t Japanese. It could be Chinese or something else. Kyle snapped a dozen pictures.

  Boxes at night, lights out at a mosque, pre-arranged and being off-loaded in a hurry by a small group of young men might not mean anything to a peace-love-dope dove who wanted to believe in the good of mankind, but it did to Kyle. He wanted to believe in the good of mankind, too. But years of experience had taught him that those boxes were probably explosive.

  Should they exfil now with the intel they had? He had sketched the markings as best he could, and would track down a translation somewhere. Meantime, more might happen.

  There was activity at the mosque until dawn, after 0500. As the sun rose, things went back to normal village-in-the-boonies mode, with a few men catching a bus to the oil fields and a small patch of agriculture.

  With a few thumb strokes he called Bakri.

  “Pagi.” That was selemat pagi, or “Good morning.”

  “Bakri, Kyle. We need to catch that ride now.” His satellite cell was about as secure as one could get. But Bakri’s went through an Indonesian telecom. It might be monitored.

  “Okay, I’ll send a boy over,” Bakri said conversationally. “As soon as he gets off work.”

  “No hurry. We’re outside waiting. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Then he dialed Wade. “That’s enough. Wake the lump and let’s start moving.”

  “Understood.”

  Wiesinger had other ideas, though. “The plan was to do twenty-four hours of surveillance,” he said.

  “Yes, Mel, but nothing is happening daytime. All the activity is now over.”

  “You don’t know that.” The voice was stubborn.

  Kyle gritted his teeth for a moment. “Mel, I’ve already called to exfil. I apologize for not waking you, but it didn’t seem the kind of detail a colonel needed to be bothered with. I believe we have what we need, and while we might get a little more, it’s important to act on this quickly.”

  After a pause, Wiesinger said, “Very well. But remember who’s in charge here, sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir,” he agreed as he disconnected.

  Kyle should be in charge. He’d worked at this, studied it, done it. Wiesinger was a staff puke, and an egotistical one.

  But he had a bird on his shoulder, even if it sat atop a chip. So it was necessary to follow orders a lot, humor him a little, and just pray the man wised up. The only other options were all capital crimes, and not the sort of thing Kyle Monroe would ever entertain. He was too professional, too dedicated to violate the Army regs.

  But he might beat the hell out of them on this mission.

  CHAPTER 7

  In Lhokseumawe, another element of the operation was quite pleased. Agung received the current shipment of incoming explosives and had it quietly stowed in the warehouse.

  It was certainly an impressive sight, Agung thought. Part of him had a craving to take a photograph for the Movement’s archives, and so he could remember this and smile. But that would be a risk. Evidence like that would get him shot in the spine by the Allah-cursed Kopassus, or executed publicly. It could get others killed or jailed, and there was the risk of rape and torture for the women. So he would settle for fond memories.

  Instead, he would cause tears for others. He had 850 kilograms of explosives in five packages. One would kill the lackeys of Pertamina, who sold out to the Americans’ Mobil Oil for money. One would attack an Army administrative office in Lhokseumawe. That one was pleasure, for what they’d done to his cousin, though it was business, too, as it would spread fear.

  Two of the remaining were shipping overseas, through the Philippines and Pakistan. Whether or not those were the final destinations, he neither knew nor needed to. They’d go aboard ships, and as of then, his responsibility for them was ended.

  That left one package of fifty kilograms of PETN-based breaching charge. That had a very special purpose. The thought of that one made him smile even wider. It would light a conflagration Allah himself would be able to see. The satellites in orbit should have a great view, and the images would certainly make worldwide news.

  And a few thousand crisped corpses, plus the panic in the market, should drive the cost of doing business so high that the West would have to make, the Javanese bastards come to terms.

  *****

  Faisal was not smiling. He had never killed a man before.

  Of course, he wasn’t going to kill a man now, technically speaking. Decapitating a man would be like decapitating a goat. Or so he was told, never having done so. He was a city dweller from Medan. A decapitation death would cause blood to gush everywhere.

  So instead, the man would be stripped and shot. Then, as the camera was turned on the dressed and set corpse, it would be knocked over.

  Then Faisal would hack off the head with a large knife, in this case, a golok—an Indonesian tribal knife.

  The video would be sent out to the press to prove the act. Faisal’s face wouldn’t be visible, but his eyes would, beaming in triumph.

  Except he wasn’t sure they would be. There was little honor in killing a helpless, handcuffed man. There was little pride in butchering a corpse. It might be necessary, he believed action was called for, but was very distraught over it.

  What Agung said was true: the West, particularly America, needed to know that its imperial ventures weren’t popular with the typical Muslim, only with the elitists in power, who had sold out faith for money. It was true that the hostages they were taking were part of the military or industrial operations against Islam and could be considered combatants. It was true that they were infidels and nonbelievers, and thus by their own beliefs not harmed by being decapitated or dismembered. It was true they were taking Achinese oil and leaving the people bereft, then abusing them.

  But it was also true that the Quran taught not to violate bodies, to allow them to be buried quickly, and, even if oil industry workers were helping the military indirectly, they were merchants and exempt from attack.

  The different interpretations of the same scripture troubled him. He prayed as he should, hoping for guidance. So far, none had come.

  *****

  Back at Bakri’s village, tactics were discussed. First was to identify the boxes Kyle and Wade had seen.

  “I don’t recognize the language,” Bakri admitted.

  “No problem, we know someone who does,” Kyle said.

  “If you’re thinking of your civilian, forget it,” Wiesinger put in. “He doesn’t know we’re here, and to tell him now would create all kinds of hassle.”

  “Mel,” Kyle said, “he’s an ethnologist. He’s the best chance to recognize a bad photograph from a scope image, and be at least able to guess the language.”

  “And if that picture says ‘TNT’ or ‘Pentolite’ and he knows we’re in Indonesia, it tells him a lot more than that. Compare to images online.”

  That would be totally fruitless, but, “Yes, Mel,” Kyle agreed.

  An hour later, even Wiesinger was convinced. Without knowing what language, one couldn’t even guess the meaning.

  So Wade file transferred and painted it up in an art program on the laptop, a copy of a copy of a photo taken through the image intensifier of a scope looking through humid air late at night. They attached it to an email and politely asked Gober if he could identify it. Oh, and by the way, could he hurry, they were in Time Zone 7. Please forget any reference to Indonesia you may have heard implied. Kyle phoned Robash’s office, where a
polite sergeant took note to call Mr. Gober and let him know there was a message waiting.

  Lunch was brought in as the conference continued. Bowls of rice with aromatic seasonings, chicken, and more mangoes. It was good, Kyle reflected, that he liked tropical fruits. There were a lot of them in these dishes. And one of the bowls could legally pass as an incendiary. He’d had Pakistani curries, Tex-Mex chili and genuine Thai cuisine. But this stuff was flaming gasoline by comparison. He nibbled at it in between bites of the sweet stuff, which was a combo he’d have to remember. It was quite interesting.

  “We never saw a truck with crates before,” Bakri admitted around a mouthful of the firebomb. “And it sounds as if it was sent away quickly. Also the men on motorbikes are curious.”

  “We’ll need to follow up on that,” Wiesinger said. From his tone, Kyle guessed he wasn’t sure how.

  “I was surprised at the low attendance at the mosque,” Kyle said.

  “Oh?” Bakri asked.

  “It couldn’t have been more than a third.”

  There was silence for a few moments. Then Bakri spoke. “One third is quite high. High enough to be of note. I would expect that for a holy day, not for a normal workday.”

  “Oh,” Kyle said. He’d assumed near 100 percent attendance, as in Pakistan and Iraq. “They were mostly young males.”

  “Then that is certainly a sign of one of the more militant factions,” Bakri said.

  “Damn.” He hadn’t realized how secular people were here. Actually, he’d only heard Allah mentioned once in a day and a half, now that he thought about it.

  “We need a better look, then,” Wiesinger said, “to figure out what’s there.”

  “You stand out,” Bakri said. “Better if one of my men goes in.”

  “How do we do that?” Wade asked.

  “Watch.” The grin on his face was inscrutable. Wade was as antsy as Kyle, and had been checking mail constantly. “Response from Gober,” he said.

  “What do we have?” Kyle shifted attention at once.

  “ ‘Gentlemen: As near as I can tell, that pictogram is a logo that closely resembles the Thai word for “explosive.” Hope this helps. Signed: E.’”