Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Well, we had guessed that,” Kyle said.

  “Is there any legitimate reason they might have explosives there?” Wiesinger asked.

  “Not without government people bonding and delivering it. Foreign marks are a sign of smuggling,” Bakri said.

  “Definitely the right track then.” Wiesinger smiled in satisfaction.

  Kyle wondered why. It wasn’t a difficult conclusion. It didn’t bring them a target or any way to stop whatever events were happening. It was only a report.

  But, he realized, the colonel lived for reports. To him, this was a major event. He sighed. There were two types of soldiers in the Army. Wiesinger would never understand Kyle’s type, and he would never understand Wiesinger’s.

  After a nap, they were back out on the road, on a slightly different route. There was still a Kopassus unit south and east that might come looking for them, and anyone tromping around in the woods from the village might see traces. They circled wide and came down from the hills south of the town, moving through thicker brush as they did so.

  Kyle was again impressed. Snuggled under weeds and a ghillie, sweating a little less than the day before now that he’d had some time to acclimate, he watched two of Bakri’s men, Rizal and Fahmi, slip to the edge of the village. They were young, and eager, and grinned a lot, but had shrewd looks when faced with problems. Both were very mature and wise for their ages. He wasn’t sure, but he thought both were about fifteen.

  The buildings on this side were older. Trash didn’t seem to get dragged into the woods as often, but rather was left carelessly against the back walls or just tossed a few feet. Disgusting. Even animals knew to shove waste out of the nest. The professional in Kyle, who had studied camp security from day one, was appalled.

  There was another truck tonight. It was smaller, a decrepit old stake-bed with canvas covering something in the back. In front of the mosque, two figures peeled the cover back. With a faint whistle, the line of men materialized to unload it.

  And Rizal and Fahmi stood up and walked into town.

  It took serious balls to do that. But it would probably work, Kyle figured. If you acted as if 1 you belonged, people generally didn’t question you—though there was the risk that everyone in the group knew everyone else. Still, it was dark. They joined the line and passed crates for about three minutes. As the last few were being dragged I along the splintered wooden bed, Fahmi took the box in his hands and walked straight into the mosque. Less than a minute later, as the last crate came down, he appeared outside the back door. He gingerly picked his steps through rotten timber and packing boxes meant for mundane stuff, and headed into the woods at an oblique angle, quickly but with caution. Rizal appeared around the side, dropping into the undergrowth and starting to crawl. In seconds, he was lost to Kyle, who was a trained professional with a night vision scope. No amateur should find him, certainly not ones who had no reason to suspect him.

  Two hours of crawling and sweating later, they were back in the vehicles and heading for safety, the crate in the back unopened as of yet.

  CHAPTER 8

  Captain Hari Sutrisno didn’t like filing reports that would lead to greater interference from Jakarta. Still, certain events required a report, and this was one of them. Nor was it the first such, and that angered him. Indonesia was quite modern, a producer of electronics and raw materials, but the damned Europeans and their lackeys seemed to think it was a backwater like Iraq or Yemen.

  He started the page with date, rank, name, and unit, then noted the incident by date and time from his records.

  “While on patrol for operations or training missions by GAM elements, encountered three technical vehicles with suspected insurgents.

  “Upon sighting weapons, improvised ambush and attacked. One vehicle was disabled.

  “Unit consisted of rifles and RPGs with one known machine gun and a 40mm grenade launcher. Estimated force of 15-20.

  “During the engagement, private Edi Sudradjat was killed, two wounded. Estimated enemy casualties four wounded.

  “Faced with strong opposition, I withdrew my forces and planned for pursuit and observation. Enemy disengaged in a fast, professional fashion and took casualties and all equipment.

  “For note: estimate two Caucasian males in unit. Possible Australian or European. Concern is potential mercenary forces assisting rebels. Recommend all units be alert for other incidents of this type.

  “For note: force was quite highly trained, far better than typical for GAM. Consider possibility that Caucasians are military advisors. No purpose comes to mind other than to foment insurrection and separate Aceh, thus leading to negotiations for resources.”

  He listed routine operations, requests for supplies, and wrote, by hand—for he was formal about such things—a letter to Private Sudradjat’s family, praising his service.

  The email report went out at once, and should be looked at by 0900. The handwritten letter would take days, but it was best, he thought, to have a personal memento to go with the harsh truth.

  While a competent enemy was a challenge, it also was a threat. And who were these foreign troops? Could someone be trying to split Aceh? Cash in on arms sales? Create trouble with Mobil and put pressure on Jakarta?

  He didn’t have enough intel to guess. Nor was that his problem. But he would find and if possible capture these strangers.

  *****

  The crate contained bags of blasting gelatin. Seven of them, about seven pounds each. That was a standard size for most of the world. Fahmi also had a bright yellow detonator, marked Trojan NB, DynoNobel as the manufacturer.

  “How many crates were on those trucks?” Kyle asked.

  “More than twenty last night, ten more tonight,” Wade said.

  “At least twelve hundred pounds of HE. Someone is planning a party.” Kyle had seen lots of HE—high explosive— military and civilian. He was fine with it as a military materiel. The thought of sociopathic freaks with it gave him the creeps.

  “Could be more than that,” Wade reminded them.

  “I am most unhappy,” Bakri said.

  “Why, specifically?” Kyle asked.

  “Because if this is used against Mobil or the government, it will make our struggle that much harder. If someone has this kind of resource, they should be sharing their skills and helping us. This can’t help. And if it’s being sent elsewhere, it will make my people look like terrorists.” He was quivering in anger.

  “We’ll report back what we can,” Kyle said. “We are usually listened to as a source of intel.” But inside, he knew if State wanted a scapegoat and couldn’t ID the real culprit, they’d use Bakri’s men to take the fall, to improve relations with the Indonesian government.

  Wade offered a more useful comment. “And if we ID these bastards positively, we’ll dispose of them.”

  “Good,” Bakri said, nodding vigorously. “But we must find where this is going, or at least where some of it is going.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Wiesinger asked.

  “I am guessing some of it will head for other groups. I can inquire carefully. But I don’t know where else they might be using it.” Bakri looked rueful.

  “Well, what do we know, Mel?” Kyle asked. “Any specifics as to groups?”

  “We really aren’t supposed to discuss that outside of our own channels,” the colonel said. He looked at the glares he was getting from those around him. Disgust from Kyle and Wade, offense from the Indonesians. “But I think we should,” he added, almost too quickly.

  “The group in question, the Fist of God, is a fringe group of Jemaah Islamiyah.” His pronunciation wasn’t the best. Obviously, he’d read but not talked about it much. “They’ve been conducting attacks on U.S. personnel near Lhokseumawe. So far, there are two hostages unaccounted for, just disappeared and presumed dead, and a third was decapitated two months ago. We have another hostage at present. They—Fist of God—are believed to be one of the sources for the explosive that you . . . t
racked on your last operation,” he said, referring to Kyle and Wade’s mission in Romania, intercepting explosives as they came across the Black Sea into Europe.

  “And we now have that explosive to compare,” Kyle said. “And it looks much like the stuff we intercepted, only in different crates.”

  “It also looks like the stuff they’re finding in Iraq and Pakistan,” Wiesinger confirmed.

  “I know of that group,” Bakri said, and they faced him. “Very dangerous. They are threatening to attack the oil.”

  “Why?” Wade asked. “Isn’t the oil necessary to Achinese independence?”

  “Yes,” Bakri agreed. “But they have come beyond independence to jihad. They want an imaginary paradise according to the oldest form of the Quran. They want to kill all hindus and Christians, split away from the modern government in Jakarta, and live as wanderers, nomads. It won’t work.”

  “So they’ll attack a refinery? A well? A terminal!”

  “Perhaps all of them,” Bakri nodded. “But we’ll need to find out. I may actually have to talk to the government and tell them of this.” The expression on his face was at once amused, perturbed, and amazed.

  “No,” Wiesinger said, shaking his head. “They don’t know we’re here, and the repercussions would affect U.S. interests.”

  “What about my interests? And those of my family?” Bakri asked.

  Wiesinger froze. Obviously, this had gone from an office plan to a real world fight in his mind. He now had no idea what to do.

  “First we find who and where,” Kyle said firmly. “Then we sit down and discuss who’s affected how. Then we decide what to do. We may need silence, backup from your government or ours, or a quick raid and vanish. It’s too early to make calls. But Khayalan isn’t the root source, merely a way stop, right, Mel?”

  “Yes, so it seems.”

  “I would have said so, if I had been asked,” Bakri said. He was smiling, but obviously exasperated underneath.

  “Sometimes State and the CIA really piss me off,” Kyle said. “I’m sure they meant well, but they didn’t cross-check well enough, and now we have a dead end.”

  Wiesinger said nothing. He had his phone out, and wandered away for privacy. Kyle let him. Hopefully, he’d get some guidance from somewhere. As it stood at present, the mission was a wash. Oh, they could still shoot a player in this and hinder the operation, and that was better than nothing. The brains behind the program were still at large, however. Depending on where, he or they were probably unreachable.

  If it came to an urban engagement, Kyle intended to refuse. That had worked in Romania with lots of CIA backup on scene and favors from the host nation, and it had still resulted in several international incidents. Then it had taken a crack anti-terror squad as well. There was just no way to set all that up here, he figured.

  The colonel came back. “Okay,” he said, “that took a three-way with our people, State and Intelligence. They want us to acquire more intel at Khayalan and determine the source if we can, or follow further up the chain. Then they’ll tell us whether we shoot or pull out.” He looked quite unhappy.

  Kyle knew the look. Wiesinger felt the mission was a wash, and he’d just become a cog for a possible future one, rather than a commander. Kyle had felt that way several times early in his career. It was the nature of the business. And no mission was ever a waste: Just ruling out bad intel was useful, though it could be hard to be so objective halfway around the world.

  “We know which way they traveled,” Bakri said. “We can travel that route and observe. Also, we can set up posts to see what else comes along there.”

  “How many men do you have for that?” Wiesinger asked.

  “Enough,” Bakri said. “But I’m not sure I should discuss such matters.” His grin was cruel.

  Thankfully, Wiesinger didn’t take the bait. He didn’t manage to hide his anger and distress, though. The man wanted control, and wasn’t getting it.

  Bakri had two cell phones for his group. The Americans had three. That suggested five groups with a total of nineteen people. Fahmi would lead one group, Bakri another, and each American one. Each group would take a different part of the route and watch for traffic in and out of Khayalan.

  Kyle wasn’t keen on letting Wiesinger operate without Wade or himself along. But it was just observation, and the man was steady enough under fire and could move adequately. Sighing, he realized he was running the show while maintaining the pretense of a subordinate. And everyone knew it. If Wiesinger could just come out and say he was an observer and advisor and let Kyle run things with the locals, it would be easy. But the ego the colonel carried would never let that happen.

  And maybe he’d fall asleep again, leaving the work to soldiers. No, it wasn’t a kind thought.

  *****

  By nightfall, they were distributed in five groups along two roads that diverged from the track through Khayalan. A third route was, as Bakri put it, “An easy way to meet the Kopassus.” It was unlikely the explosives had gone that way.

  Kyle was sure enough of his element, four of Bakri’s men including Rizal, who spoke some basic English. Combined with Kyle’s very rudimentary Bahasa and the commonality of many technical words, they were able to communicate adequately.

  His phone buzzed and he grabbed it. “Kyle.”

  “This is Mel. First item, truck, one one three zero hours. Same vehicle as last night. Eight items same as last night. Over.”

  “Roger.”

  “Item Two. Six motorcycles departed zero zero one five hours. Backpacks medium. Likely capacity three zero pounds each. Over. ”

  “Roger.” So they might see stuff their way soon.

  “Item Three. American Mobil employee Frank Keller reported killed, decapitated according to video released by Fist of God. State Department and Indonesian ministries following up. Over.”

  “Roger. Shit.” Someone else dead, just as a childish gesture. Kyle gritted his teeth.

  “Any chance of recovering one biker and contents of ruck interrogative. Over.”

  “Yes, Mel. If I see any, we’ll get one silently. Shall I relay to Wade interrogative. Over.”

  “Have done so. Plan to intercept one rider. Over.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  “Out.” The exchange wasn’t entirely by the book. He suspected Wiesinger was shaky on radio operations. Besides, these were cell phones. One could be a bit more conversational.

  Kyle looked carefully around, then relocated by several feet. He wanted to be well away from the road in case of observation or attack, or some geek hopping out to take a leak on the side of the road. He also wanted to be where he had a good field of fire. If the opportunity presented itself, he intended to take out the last rider in line. The goal was to make it appear an accident or have it be beyond sight of the leaders. That would give them time to get the road swept clear and neatened.

  He found a nice spot, a slight depression still damp from the rain the night before. There was a ridge next to it, likely caused by some near-surface root. It was shielded from the road by some thick, leafy scrub that would make him effectively invisible. The mound would provide cover, and he had a great long oblique view along and across the road. Two trees marked the right and left limits of his weapon. So it would be like skeet shooting through a window.

  A couple of soft whistles brought Rizal and the other three over. He explained what he was going to do. He used a lot of gestures and simple words.

  “I understand,” Rizal said. “You will shoot, we will catch.”

  Then it was back to waiting. It could be twenty minutes or more, assuming the bikes were even coming this way. Two lonely trucks had passed all evening. This was about as far into the boonies as one could get.

  Far in the distance, Kyle heard the sound of engines whining. He quivered alert. The sound faded out, then came closer. So they were probably heading this way, but that could mean business for Wade, too. Or both of them if the group split up.

 
; Then the whine rose and came up the slope of the road.

  How many? At least three were present, but were all six? It was critical to hit the last bike and not one in the middle. No matter how good a shot Kyle was, and he was perhaps the best anywhere, a target that fast was hard to hit. If the bikers thought it was an attack, it was probable the rest would just ride on, but would definitely report the matter. One disappearing could be any number of issues and gave them stall time. He snuggled into the rifle and checked his scope.

  Then they came into view.

  The riders were in a perfect bell curve distribution. One machine was out ahead, then another, two side by side right behind that with the fifth close in and the sixth a good twenty meters back. Kyle could take a shot, but there was no margin for error.

  The first cycles flashed through the field of view, and Kyle assessed the lead at an unconscious level. He stretched his left hand far forward on the handguard. This would be like shotgunning a clay pigeon on a sharp left launch. He grumbled to himself for not taking the other side of the road.

  But then the last one was in front and he swung, using a technique he’d learned from Peter Capstick, an outdoor writer long dead but whose books had fascinated Kyle. With his left hand out and the rifle pulled tight into his shoulder, he waited as the image of the speeding rider in the blur of trees passed through the swinging scope. The reticle aligned with the rear wheel’s upper arc and he snapped the trigger, letting the rifle finish its swing.

  The suppressor caught most of the gases and muzzle blast, but still left the supersonic crack of a boattail match bullet. But that wasn’t obvious as a weapon sound to people not trained to recognize it. Indeed, the other riders didn’t seem to have heard it above the banshee howls of their engines. They disappeared in a whirlwind of leaves.

  Meanwhile, the last rider skidded on the edge of control. The bike slewed and went down. He’d held it just long enough for the others to be over a slight rise. So unless the rider ahead was very nervous or well trained, it could be minutes before he noticed his buddy missing.