Confirmed Kill

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Kyle checked the screen. They were still filming.

  “Wade, light the bodies!” he said. He pointed as he swung a camera across. Wade shone his Surefire in blinding momentary bursts while kicking the faces toward the lens.

  “Thanks.” Kyle pressed STOP, typed a new filename of KYLE and saved and closed. He shut the laptop down, pulled the cord and reached behind to cram it into his patrol pack. Some things were too convenient to let go.

  Lei Ling carried her daughter. The girl wouldn’t let anyone else near her, and clutched tightly. Wade took point, Kyle took rear, with his better-rate-of-fire weapon, and Wiesinger stumbled along in the middle with the spare SR25, feet hurting from poor circulation and lack of shoes. He’d been bound tighter. Apparently, they’d perceived him as a threat. He seemed to be recovering somewhat, and increased his pace.

  The obvious problem was that any notice they got would make them a major target. At this point, there was no reason for the enemy not to kill the hostages. Kyle was dripping sweat, more than the water he’d drunk earlier. If things just held off another minute . . .

  Someone shouted and a bullet snapped past. Lei Ling howled and ran faster, which was probably the best reaction to have.

  More fire came, and Kyle spun. He fired two sustained bursts and the canister, then reached back and grabbed a hand grenade, heaving it in a long lob. He wasn’t sure of a particular target, he just wanted lots of noise to keep heads down. Once in the woods, he’d have the advantage against any reasonable number of opponents.

  The weapon was hot and jammed on the next round. He cleared it instinctively and latched the bolt back. A few seconds of cool air couldn’t hurt. Meantime, he grabbed his Ed Brown. It would make noise, and anyone close would find out just how hard 230 grains of lead hit, like that guy running to intercept and raising a fucking shotgun. Kyle clicked the safety, squeezed, rode the recoil, and squeezed again. The two heavy bullets crashed into the man, who stumbled and staggered. He might or might not die, but he was no longer a threat.

  Then they were heading into the trees, Wiesinger cursing loudly as he winced and danced, feet getting poked and toes getting jammed.

  Kyle speed-dialed. “Stephens, we’re clear, and thanks, buddy. ‘Go SAS!’ or whatever you say.”

  “We’ve been gone. They’ve been shooting at each other for five minutes, mate, with an occasional encouragement from our allies. ‘Who Dares, Wins.’ ”

  “Damn, sweet. And nice phrase. I’ve got to run. Later.”

  “Ciao.”

  “Bakri,” Kyle said, as the next number answered. “We’re in the woods at the south, you say there’s a road?”

  “Four kilometers ahead. You should hurry.”

  “Dammit, that’s a long hike. You can meet us?”

  “We can. Talk more as you close.”

  “Roger.” He was panting hard, putting distance between him and possible pursuit. There was a lesser deadline now—making sure everyone knew the hostages were alive. He dialed Gilpin. “We have them, we’re on foot, we’re departing. Awaiting local transport.”

  “Outstanding. Bring it on home and I’ll put the word out.” The civilian exec sounded thrilled.

  “We’re not clear yet. Possible pursuit, possible government risks. An hour to transport, another to the coast, then we have to get clear.”

  “That leg will be waiting. You just put distance on.” Kyle could hear Gilpin talking into another line, a landline. The word was going out.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They stopped for about a minute, Wade pulling spare pants from his ruck and ripping them to strips that Wiesinger could wear on his feet. Kyle dropped the bolt on the M4 again, and reholstered his pistol. Lei Ling was gasping and dry heaving, but showed no intention of stopping if she didn’t have to. “Three more kilometers,” Kyle said slowly, not knowing her grasp of English.

  “I can make it,” she said. Her voice was a raspy contralto with an obvious accent. “I won’t stop until we’re away from those sick fucks.” Apparently, she spoke English well enough.

  Kyle shared water all around. Suzanne wouldn’t drink, shaking her head and tucking into her mother’s shoulder. Wiesinger and Wade each gulped enough for Kyle to feel the load lighten. Then they were moving again, Wiesinger managing a slightly better pace in his improvised slippers.

  “We’re out,” Wiesinger muttered.

  Kyle wasn’t sure. It would be quite obvious to the enemy that they’d head for the city or the coast. Bakri’s cover was blown for certain. Putting that together, pursuit wouldn’t be far away. These people weren’t rational, were bent on killing, and they weren’t going to let their sacrifices escape easily. Random death in the street was one thing, but this was a picked target. They were determined to get Lei Ling and her daughter, and getting the Americans was gravy—it would prove they were a force to be taken seriously. As the U.S. couldn’t operate openly in Indonesia, and not on a large-enough scale clandestinely—probably not at all after this—it would be a net win.

  The whole solution, Kyle reflected morbidly, was best solved with large bombs.

  That was post-battle depression hitting him. He was shaky, jittery, and scared. He always was. It was part of doing the job. Then would come euphoria, and a desire to get drunk and screw. He didn’t drink anymore, and Janie was half a world away. He’d deliberately not been thinking about her, because he didn’t need anything holding him back or distracting him.

  He kept on, ducking leaves, dodging trunks, ignoring the birds and ground animals. None of the larger forms were present, which was good, as spooked herds could be a giveaway. He had to assume their enemy was smart, cunning, and right behind. He made periodic pauses and watched for signs of pursuit before hurrying to catch up. The dark didn’t scare him. The dark was his friend.

  “We’re about there,” Wade said. “Perhaps two zero zero meters.”

  “Roger. Stand by.” He dialed Bakri. “We’re there.”

  “There will be a car along shortly. Lights will blink twice.”

  “Better yet, blink them some other number and I’ll confirm.”

  “Very well, I think I understand.”

  It was an old trick. While Kyle didn’t think any faction could have a tap on the cell phones, it was possible the government did. If they knew any signs or passwords . . .

  Shortly, they all pulled up into a ditch. It was wet and cool and wonderful, even with slimy rotten things pooling in it. A car was far to the north, several minutes away. It was traveling perhaps thirty-five miles per hour.

  The lights flashed three times,

  “I see three flashes,” Kyle said.

  “Yes,” Bakri said.

  “Everyone up,” Kyle hissed.

  It was the worn, ugly Land Cruiser, and Kyle was delighted to see it. Fatigue was hitting him hard now. It stopped, and four of Bakri’s men debarked and spread out, acting as a rearguard. That was awfully nice of him, Kyle thought.

  Lei Ling and her daughter were ushered gently into the cargo Compartment of the Toyota, the little girl hiding her face from the men with guns. It was understandable. To her, virtually any armed man, and certainly any Indonesian, was a threat. They were cramped because the rest of the Americans’ gear was back there. Amazing. They were going to exfil with all their gear except what they’d expended. That might be a first.

  Wade stood to at the rear, weapon raised and ready. Kyle ran to the front. After the civilians were bundled in, Wiesinger climbed in the back. Wade ducked around and leaped feetfirst in next to him. Kyle swung around and took shotgun, as the four troops jumped onto the bumpers and fenders and Bakri revved up and popped the clutch. They juggled weapons around and he got an SR25 while Wade got the M4. He wasn’t going to worry about it. He checked the magazine and then reached a hand back. Wade dropped two more magazines into it. Easier to swap them than the rifles.

  Kyle didn’t remember much of the trip. Fatigue and stress had finally overwhelmed him. He knew he was conscious, and
once shot at a threat that turned out to be merely shifting shadows of leaves looking like a human outline. But he recalled neither the twenty kilometers of road nor how he acquired the dozens of bruises and scrapes that came from the rough track they drove on. There had to be several generous samples of his DNA in the truck, though.

  Then they jounced hard and slewed left out of the woods to race along a shore road that was in good repair. It had to be an oil-company access.

  Whatever had happened to cause Kyle to zone in the woods was over. He was alert enough to continue, even if ragged and worn as hell. But he’d been there before; he’d trained for that for fourteen of his sixteen years of service.

  *****

  Captain Sutrisno watched silently. Next to him, Murizal, his exec, growled.

  “Easy, soldier,” he cautioned. “There are rebels and there are rebels. If they kill these filth, let us not complain. At the same time, if any of them die in the process, that is Allah’s will. Bakri is smart and honest. We’ll watch him more closely. But there is no need to shoot him or arrest him yet.”

  Indeed. It was Napoleon who had cautioned never to interrupt an enemy when he was making a mistake. If the factions could kill each other, then the ones who survived would either be more reasonable or less of a threat. The hostages were alive, the attack on the terminal intercepted, and that was all to the good. Though there was still the issue of Americans and Australians operating in Indonesia without permission. That made Sutrisno far angrier than any dispute between GAM groups and Jemaah Islamiyah. The presumption and arrogance was insufferable, no matter the motives. Sutrisno’s people were quite capable of handling these missions. That his unit, and apparently their own government, had been kept in the dark was a grievous insult. But that was for the politicians.

  He forced calm upon himself, and let it radiate out to the others. Nothing should be done yet. The Americans had run away, Bakri’s men had departed, the Aussies has long since ducked, showing a canniness he had to respect. They were men not afraid to retreat, and who made a game of it.

  The faction here had suffered a huge loss. They’d taken perhaps twenty-five casualties in the fight, and some survivors were scattered widely. Others were pursuing the Americans. They’d be dealt with shortly. For now, the stillness returned. It was a patient twenty-minute wait before movement picked up again.

  First came two rebels, lightly wounded and terrified. They stared in despair at the wreckage and corpses. Sutrisno grudgingly admitted the foreigners were good troops. It was an impressive ratio of damage. These two simply huddled in shock, ignoring the occasional moan from a dying comrade. A dozen more wandered back from the road, confused at the disappearance of their attackers. Then someone figured out the hostages were gone. There were shouts and accusations.

  An hour later, an advance party of three arrived, scared and suddenly in a standoff with two of their wounded allies. That was most amusing, but no shots were fired. An hour after that, a larger force came in at the prompting of the scouts: sixty-seven GAM rebels, skinny and underfed and bearded, indicating strict Muslim beliefs. All had weapons. All wore fatigues of some kind. The combination marked them as a threat to the nation, and with the hostages gone, there was no reason to show any mercy, except for some few who might provide intelligence if motivated. The rest could be an object lesson.

  Sutrisno checked his kit. The flag was ready. It was a large, new Indonesian flag, which these people hated to see. Sometimes the Kopassus would attack with miniature flags hanging from their rifles. Today, they’d leave no survivors, but they would leave a full-size flag as a slap. This was Indonesia. It would stay Indonesia unless and until the government decided otherwise, and rebels, especially terrorists, were not going to change that schedule,

  Sutrisno whistled, and his company of Kopassus rose from the growth to bloom into a swath of death.

  CHAPTER 18

  The trip out should have been a chance to relax, but they weren’t free yet. Not until they were on the deck of a U.S. ship, and even then, they needed to get into friendly waters. Kyle was a Ranger. He could go a long time under stress, underfed, and without sleep. But he was groggy after moving so far, so fast in this climate.

  He was still hyperaware, too, and that took a toll. He listened to the chorus of insects as they drove, shifting with the greenery. The road noise and engine sounds changed. Occasional other noises were natural enough. Then . . .

  “Coming car, everyone down and weapons hidden,” Bakri said.

  The headlights grew and illuminated the inside of the roof as Kyle scrunched into the footwell. He drew the SR25 in tight, the muzzle past his ear. The lights swept across as what sounded like a truck roared past. He counted two and started to shimmy back up.

  Bakri swore in Achinese. “They are turning around. Coming in pursuit. It’s a security vehicle.”

  “Wade, make it go away,” Kyle said. He was having flashbacks to Romania and one of their too many car chases.

  “Roger,” Wade said. He leaned out the window, bracing a leg across Wiesinger’s lap, ignoring his momentary protest. He raised the M4, clicked the safety and squeezed. Four shots rang out, four empty cases tinged as they ricocheted inside, and then the lights swerved.

  “Tire and three radiator shots. That should slow them down.”

  “Yeah,” Kyle said. He already had his cell phone out.

  It answered. He’d known it would, but ever since the snatch, he’d been nervous. “Gilpin.”

  “Yeah, Monroe here. Is our transport ready?”

  “They’re hidden. Do you need backup?”

  “Not at this moment. We may any minute. I’ll keep the line open.”

  “Don’t. I’ll have them call you directly.”

  “Roger that, Monroe out.” He clicked off.

  Thirty seconds later, the phone vibrated in his hand.

  “Monroe,” he answered.

  “McLaren. We didn’t meet on the Black Sea, I’m told.” It was an American voice, and it was coming from very nearby. That helped Kyle steady out.

  “Good to not meet you again, McLaren.” He kept looking over his shoulder anyway. Nothing else at present.

  “Well, we’ll meet in about three minutes, according to my math. Unless I dropped a decimal and you’re actually in Albuquerque.”

  “I wish.”

  “Okay, you’ll come to a bend to the left in the road,” McLaren said.

  “Bend to the left, roger,” he spoke aloud for Bakri’s benefit.

  “Continue straight ahead on foot.”

  “Straight ahead on foot, roger.” They’d have to carry gear and the girl.

  “Distance is two zero zero meters.”

  “Two zero zero meters, roger.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “You’ll find us. Roger.” He hoped so. Fumbling in the dark on the coast would suck.

  “I’ll be wearing a black trenchcoat and fedora.”

  “Black trenchcoat and fedora you say.” He had to grin at that.

  “Would you settle for black camo over a wetsuit and boonie hat?”

  “McLaren, I’ll settle for you wearing a pink fucking tutu, as long as you get us out of here.” Hot damn, they were going to make it.

  “Tutu not an option. I’ll note choice for next task. I see headlights,” McLaren said, serious | again. “Flash them.”

  Kyle cupped the phone low and said, “Flash headlights twice.”

  “I count two flashes,” McLaren said a moment later.

  “Confirm two flashes. That’s us.”

  The road curved sharply just ahead. Bakri leaned into the brakes steadily, and they stopped right at the curve. The civilians necessitated a full stop, or Kyle would have risked bailing out on a roll. There was no additional pursuit from either oil-terminal security or terrorists yet, and hopefully there wouldn’t be. But the sooner they were gone, the better.

  Kyle rolled out to his feet, facing rearward. Wade sprang out and sprinted around back. He
threw open the hatch and motioned for Lei Ling to pass her daughter up. Kyle was past and scanning for potential threats.

  Then Suzanne started screaming.

  There was no way she was going to let a soldier take her again. Wade returned Kyle’s inquisitive glance with a shrug and a look of helplessness.

  They were both saved when Lei Ling jumped out, staggering slightly, and let her daughter clutch her around the neck. “I do it,” she said.

  “Run,” Kyle said, pointing, with his rifle held ready in the other hand. Wade grabbed his ruck , in one hand and Lei Ling’s arm in the other. They bounded forward, off the road, and down a rocky beach that turned sandy, dark from occasional oil spills.

  Wiesinger, already out, followed along, grunting in pain in his bandaged feet. The man lumbered and had an obvious silhouette, Kyle groused to himself after a moment’s glance back. But at least he wasn’t complaining anymore. And he was making respectable time on feet that had to resemble hamburger. The man wasn’t entirely a coward. He was more a self-centered ass.

  Then it was Kyle’s turn. He ran past the driver’s side. Bakri had his arm out and was looking as casual as one could under the circumstances. “For all of us, Bakri, thanks. This has been our smoothest mission so far.”

  “If that’s so, you are a brave man. Good luck, and salemat jalan.” Good travel.

  “And you.” He shook the offered hand.

  That was as much as there was time for. Bakri coaxed the truck forward as Kyle picked up three rucks. They had been packed in a hurry and were quite bulky, even with food and water depleted. They tangled on his back as he donned one and slung one on each shoulder, but it wasn’t a long trip; he could manage. He picked his way down the beach at a run.

  As the Toyota pulled around the curve, Kyle tripped. He threw the butt of the SR25 out and broke his fall. But he caught his right boot toe between two rocks, banged his knee, and skinned an elbow.

  Wincing, he stood and resumed his path, limping. It felt as if he’d torn the boot open, though a quick glance didn’t show any obvious rips in the leather. His foot was squelching, but that could be sweat as much as blood. But it burned like hell and was sharply painful. His right knee had either loose skin or sharp pebbles embedded in the skin and stung with every movement. His elbow lit up with every shift of fabric or breath of air over the open wound.