CHAPTER 17
“He’s dead,” Wade said.
“Damn,” Kyle muttered. He tried not to let it affect him, to take it in stride. Hell, the man had sawed Keller’s head off! But he’d figured out it was wrong, come around at considerable risk to himself, and died. Kyle felt more anguish over losing him than he would have over Wiesinger, who had theoretically always been an ally.
But Wiesinger was still alive, along with two civilians, and it was his duty to see them free. He put the matter behind him and resumed shooting.
“Ready,” Wade said, and Kyle slapped his left hand down to help push off the ground. He drew the SR-25 closer to his side, like a football, and came up at forty-five degrees, like a sprinter off the blocks. He heard Wade fire at some threat or other as he crabbed sideways, ran two long steps, shifted past the corner of the building, and could see the building front at last. He’d have to shoot off hand now, standing. But the range was eighty meters and that was very easy shooting for him. He could see a side window that had dim backlight from the moon and operations up front. So he could provide more cover. They might pull this off yet.
He brought the rifle up to his shoulder, snugged into the sling with his left elbow on his harness, tight behind the pocket on his vest, and took one deep, measured breath to slow his pulse.
“Ready,” he announced.
Movement! It was inside, but just under the window where he couldn’t see or shoot. All he saw was the top of someone in a crouch.
The problem with suicidal nuts, he reflected, was that they didn’t care if you killed them. When their purpose was to kill hostages, there was nothing you could offer or threaten them with. Only now one was about to kill Wiesinger or a little girl. He hoped it was Wiesinger, and it really wasn’t personal.
His mind, experienced in dozens of firelights, honed by years of study and practice, whipped through an intuitive calculation no computer could ever match.
Those walls won’t stop 7.62, he thought to himself.
All he had to do now was figure out where the crawling body was. Or at least, where the child was not. It wasn’t efficient to simply fill the space with bullets, but it might be the only option.
Then Wiesinger appeared in his sights, apparently kicking out at something.
Kyle dropped his aim and fired three rounds, rapid.
BA-BA-BANG! It was almost fast enough for automatic fire, and his skill, the improved grip, and the weapon’s mass allowed him to put all three in a very tight group. Dust blew up inside and out from the block shattering. Yes, hard-ball 7.62 ammo would punch through block. There was a substantial fan of gray in front and a hole through. If anyone had been behind that, he wasn’t going to move soon enough to be a problem.
There was a definite gaggle of people outside the door. The rest were all tied up with the assault up front. But they’d have to sneak out or do some massive damage to disperse the enemy. This wasn’t over yet. But first, they had to get to the hostages.
“I’m down,” Wade said.
“Down how?” In the area, covered, wounded? The statement wasn’t clear.
“Ready to roll.”
“Understood. Fifty meters and closing.”
A loud explosion was a bomb landing in front of the building. Wade’s throwing arm was as good as his shooting. There were no friendlies there now, Kyle recalled. Damned shame. “Dying like a man” wasn’t a bad thing, but living was far better. He’d say a prayer for Faisal’s soul when he had time.
He was seen now, and badly aimed fire came his way. He couldn’t plan on that to last; these people had proven competent. He was at extreme range for a canister load, but he needed something fast. He slung the SR-25, letting it bang against his legs, and replaced it with the M4. He reached forward, aimed coarsely and triggered the canister load in the grenade launcher, the recoil thumping his wrist. He followed it at once by raising the carbine to his shoulder and rapping off quick shots into the mass. He dropped to one knee, then the other, then to his left elbow, getting low so he could pour out more accurate fire with a lower profile. Also, Wade would be on the other side, doing likewise. They could shoot over each other.
Between grenade, canister, and bullets the locals were disrupted. They scattered for cover. Now was when it got dangerous.
In a moment, Kyle was on his feet, calling into the phone, “Running!” as he did. It wouldn’t do to have Wade shoot him.
“Likewise!” was the reply.
Weapons low, they sprinted toward the building. Kyle would twitch his arm now and then, to pan the muzzle across someone on the ground. Alive, wounded, dead, it didn’t matter. He was paying insurance with bullets. He wanted them all down before he made it in, so he wouldn’t have to face them on the way out.
He saw Wade skipping and crabbing for the door. “I’ve got the right,” he said. He was better left-handed than Wade was. They’d cross over as they entered. Kyle reached into a pouch and pulled out a small bag of gelatin with a jury-rigged timed detonator built from a stopwatch. The timer was set for three seconds. The start button was protected by a thick piece of tape. He peeled that back, cautious of where his thumb went.
“Roger.”
“On three. One, two, threeee,” he grunted as he piled on the power. Two seconds later, they crashed into the thin door, Kyle having a flashback to a hut in the Carpathian Mountains, where he’d done that and come face to face with a ton of explosives and a loon with a suicide switch. He lobbed the improv flashbang and stepped aside. A moment later, it exploded and shook leaves off the roof.
He spun through the doorframe and swung right. Wade swung left a half step behind him. Three bodies were on the floor, and Wade paid the insurance with three bullets, the sound echoing loudly and hollowly despite the suppressor. A rifle with 36 dB of reduction was still louder than a shouted conversation.
“Clear!” Wade announced.
“Clear!” Kyle agreed. “Glad to see you alive, sir,” he added.
Wade went back to the door, got low, and resumed shooting. That left it to Kyle to get the hostages unbound. The dimness was occasionally lit by explosions from outside. Kyle needed some light and had his Mini Maglite ready. With an amber lens it wasn’t quite as obvious, but gave enough light to work by. There was another faint source behind him. A laptop.
Both Wiesinger and Suzanne, the child, had wet themselves. It might have been fear, stress, or simply the long wait. It wasn’t something Kyle would hold against the man, except it was so representative of the mission so far.
They hadn’t blindfolded the girl, and she stared at him with huge eyes. Her head swiveled like an owl’s as he stepped deliberately behind the chair she was lashed to. She didn’t cry or utter a sound, but when he cut the bonds and the pressure slipped off her wrists, she stumbled out of the chair and ran for the corner, curling up in a ball, back to the wall and arms over her face. Then she started bawling with huge, wracking sobs.
“Good,” he said to no one in particular. “She needs to get the stress out.”
Lei Ling, her mother, was apparently conscious of being rescued, but still stiff and frightened behind her blindfold. Her daughter’s distress didn’t help. Kyle realized he probably should have freed her first. He’d been sentimental.
He pulled the hood off her head, and she blinked, head darting around to see what was happening. She recognized them as Western and soldiers, deduced they weren’t terrorists, and that she was safe. Her eyes teared up from both the light Kyle was shining, and from relief. Kyle cut her hands free, then reached down for her feet, laying the rifle within inches of his hand as he did. He wanted it close by just in case of another altercation.
As he pulled the shredded rope away and stood, she pointed at her daughter.
“Please?” she asked.
He nodded, and she gave an almost smile as she staggered, stumbled, and finally crawled over that way. Her legs were likely numb from hours or days of inaction. But she gathered her daughter up in her arms and cuddled her, leaning back against the wall. The expression on her face might be grateful, under the sunken eyes that had seen too much fear.
Kyle wondered if he’d looked like that last time, as he’d faced down a lunatic with a backpack full of explosive and a trigger in his hand.
“Gentlemen,” Wiesinger said, panting slightly. It was hard to blame him. “That was some very, very fine shooting.” He appeared about to say something else, but just sat while Kyle cut the ropes and removed his hood.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “As long as it’s a happy ending, who cares if it’s by the book?” He shoved another grenade—canister again, into the launcher.
“There is something to that, Sergeant Monroe.”
Wade had redialed his cell phone. “Contact made with Mel. All elements intact and movement capable. Last two referenced persons accounted for, alive and able to travel with transport. Need transport to Point X-ray . . . waiting.”
Wiesinger was rubbing his wrists to restore circulation. They were badly abraded. Presumably, he’d been fighting the rope. He twisted his ankles and stomped his feet a few times.
“I think I’m able to move. Are my boots around?”
“Don’t think so, sir,” Kyle said, taking in the rubble in a sweep of his eyes. And the corpses. Some rail-thin little imam in a hat and prayer shawl. That had been who Kyle had hit through the block wall. He’d been disabled but hadn’t died fast with that gutshot. Pity. Not. That was the freak who’d told Faisal it was holy to chop the heads off people. Even second hand, that information made Kyle quiver in disgust. One of the other bodies had a shattered wrist.
“You might have to barefoot it a bit,” he said to Wiesinger.
“If I have to, I have to. Is there any reason to stick around?”
“Not that I can think of,” Kyle said. “This way.” He indicated the door.
Wiesinger accepted the SR-25 and checked the load, limping badly. The battle was mostly at the front still, long bursts, short ones, individual shots, occasional explosions. With both sides dug in, it could last hours. Kyle only wanted it to last a few more minutes while he got everyone into the brush. After that, they should be fine.
Kyle stopped for just a moment. The cameras, two of them, were feeding into a laptop. They had been recording. They were still recording. They looked to be modern models that might shoot infrared, or be able to be processed to show dim features.
That was not only prime intelligence either way—of who the snipers were and how they accomplished the recovery, and of who the terrorists were—it was potentially a propaganda bomb that would scare many more of these assholes into quitting the game.
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 SR-25, 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 SR-25 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.