CHAPTER 13
One hundred kilometers—sixty miles—was a trip of about four hours. That was due in part to the narrow, rutted back roads they took for security purposes. Not only were they in rough shape, but they lengthened the trip by about 30 percent. Still, despite rain, the roof worked and the weather was warm. Itchy and sweaty warm, in fact. But Kyle Monroe wasn’t one to be bothered by weather, after almost sixteen years of service. Wade and the Aussies were equally reticent. Wiesinger shifted uncomfortably and swore quietly, but had the grace to not complain any more loudly than that.
They were quite close when Kyle’s musing was interrupted by a horrific explosion.
Someone screamed. It might have been him. He snatched at the door handle, which wasn’t working. It flopped loosely in his grip. He shoved with his shoulder and the door flew open, letting him tumble into wet, friendly dirt. It hurt his shoulder, then his ear stung as he rolled across the butt of his M4. But he was alive and concealed: A quick self-assessment came up with minor burns that stung, a couple of scratches and a hellaciously aching foot as his injuries. At that he was lucky. A glance indicated a low-quality RPG round had torn the front off the truck, disabling the engine. It could just as easily have killed him and others. He didn’t see any bodies immediately at hand, but that was just a glance. He had no idea what the tactical situation was, other than that they’d been attacked.
There was sporadic shooting. He listened for a few seconds to place the sources. There was both outgoing and incoming fire, so they’d tripped something. Likely, Fiktif was being used and there were outer sentries. Either they didn’t know or like Bakri, or they’d suspected he was a threat. But that wasn’t important now. What was important was coordinating with his allies and defeating or retreating from the threat. Shaking off the daze, he got to work.
Cell phones. He used a phone more than he used a rifle anymore. But it made sense. “Mel, Kyle. No reportable injuries, alone, ready to respond,” he said once Wiesinger answered.
“Understood. We are grouping in two elements, five zero meters outboard from the vehicles. If you find it hot, withdraw rearward. We suspect a perimeter.”
At least they were all on the same page. “Roger. Line open. Transiting.” He slipped the phone into a pocket and got ready to move. At several dollars a minute, he guessed, the phone was a dirt-cheap way to keep him alive. And he better not see Wiesinger’s smartass criticism of phone charges this time.
No obvious threats nearby, sources of fire some meters ahead. Giving himself the okay, Kyle picked covered locations he would use for the movement. The place in question was about thirty meters away, but he couldn’t see a damned thing through this growth.
Sensing movement, he froze and tensed on the trigger. An Indonesian was ahead. Then he saw an Aussie with the man. Dammit, who the hell was who? This was getting bad in a hurry. When it was just you and the bad guys, it was easy. In uniform with professionals, it was doable. Now was a goatfuck in the woods with everyone in part uniform and part civvies. The only uniformed forces were officially allies to them and threats to their actual allies. He didn’t dare hold his fire against a possible threat, and didn’t dare shoot an ally.
Nor would he be distracted again.
Oh, shit, that hurt! He’d run into a limb that poked him in the cheek, right under the eye. He dropped and cringed, blinking as his eye teared up. Dammit, Kyle, get control, stop flopping like a fucking chicken! He’d twisted his left ankle slightly, too. Remember: Bad guys, good guys, and shooting. Methodical and professional.
Somehow, he made it another few meters, and was seen by someone who recognized him. They approached cautiously, leery of both pursuit and his trigger. Then he was being dragged into a hollow with a long, rotten trunk as cover. It was Haswananda, with one of the men helping her, as Kyle was near twice her weight, more with gear.
“I’m fine,” he motioned. “Saya tidik apa-apa.”
“Yo, buddy,” Wade said softly from a few feet away. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” he said. “A poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”
“Ouch,” Wade said without any real emotion. It was an acknowledgment rather than a commiseration. “Mel figures the village is defended.”
“You don’t say.” It didn’t take a lot of intel for that.
“Estimating the force about equal to ours. He wants to push in and capture if possible.”
Kyle grabbed his phone. He wanted to hear this straight even if it was going to be the same as Wade told him. Passing orders down the line could result in “Capture France” becoming “Invade Russia in the winter.”
“Mel, Kyle here, mostly functional and fully mobile. You say we’re to capture?”
“Correct. If we can acquire a prisoner we’ll get intel some way. Or else we overrun the position and look for what we need. If they’re making this much noise, they’re a target.”
“Understood. Where do you want me?”
Wiesinger’s basic plan wasn’t too bad. An initial counterattack heavy on the ammo and light on the movement. The Aussies were to encircle one side, the north, and their locals the south. Bakri’s remaining force—he’d taken another casualty—was to set a forward perimeter. Kyle and Wade were to attack designated targets. If they could get a good reversal, it was likely the enemy would rout. They didn’t have highly trained Western special operations troops and Army Rangers as backup. Skulk and retreat was likely what they did anyway.
And if the village was willing to make that much noise defending against a casual intruder, they had something to hide, that was certain. Serendipitous intel, if they could handle the situation.
Bakri’s men and women moved forward, slipping from tree to shrub to undergrowth. Kyle and Wade followed behind, SR-25s out, with Wiesinger behind them holding both M4s. Bakri’s RPG gunner had two rockets left. The RPK machine gun had one drum of seventy-five rounds. They couldn’t spend ammo at U.S. rates for this.
The village was barely visible as shapes. There were figures, but no clear targets yet. And they weren’t shooting. It wasn’t likely they thought the threat gone, so they had to be doing something else. Kyle paused, forcing his breath into long, slow, silent heaves, and watched for clues.
Then he pulled his phone out.
Dammit, Wiesinger had closed off. Probably a reflex, likely to save batteries or money, neither of which Kyle gave a damn about right now. Both were assets to be expended. He redialed in a hurry, and waited through three rings. While waiting, he donned the headset. Better to have it directly in his ears than trying to fumble it and a rifle.
“Mel,” Wiesinger finally answered.
“Explosives. I see possible crates and someone who may be capping something.”
“Shit. Understood.” Wiesinger clicked hold and apparently made other calls. He was back in less than a minute. “You and Wade will take targets designated by Stephens and Fuller.”
“Understood and standing by. Out.” He pulled the headset down around his neck.
Kyle had dealt with explosives far too often to be reckless. These sideshow freaks were perfectly capable of screaming, “Allahu akbar!” and blowing themselves to smithereens, taking any bystanders with them. That was bad enough when the amount was in kilograms. When it was in tons . . .
He’d been there once, facing a nutcase with a suicide switch and tons of explosives in the same room as he. He wasn’t eager to do so again, to put it mildly. His stomach flopped and felt acidic.
When his phone vibrated again, he clicked it as fast as a video game button. “Kyle.”
“Kevin Fuller here.”
“Go.” He slipped the headset on, so he could keep hands free. He didn’t like the wire hanging, but he could deal with it when not moving.
“Reference: central building. North side. Two men. Both targets.”
“Roger, but going to take a few minutes to get into position.”
“Better bloody hurry, mate. They’ve got what looks like a twenty-four-kilo crate.”
“Understood. Tell Wade, too. He may be better placed.”
“Roger.”
Kyle shifted laterally a few meters, to find a thin spot in the foliage. Yes, there were two men, who appeared to be fitting detonators to bags of gel as they looked around furtively. And fifty pounds wasn’t so much, really. If he could get it to detonate, it would solve several problems. But was gel sensitive enough to detonate if shot? Or could he hit the detonator?
Better try for the crate. If they ran, it averted the problem temporarily. If he scored a bang, it was gone, they were gone, and a message would be sent. The blast radius shouldn’t be great, the effect would dissipate in the open quickly, and the jungle would buffer it. It was worth a shot.
The range was about one hundred meters. The fire had slowed to an occasional pot shot, as the attackers strove to coordinate their efforts while the defenders were hesitant to move on the offense for fear of being flanked or running into an entrenched force. Standoff.
Luckily, the new injury had been his left eye. He winced as he closed it to aim. Add in the dust damage from earlier, and his eyes felt like hard-boiled eggs.
Through the scope, Kyle could see one of them place a bag on the crate and start twisting a detonator into it, with a fuse of some kind, probably Detcord, trailing. He took careful aim and dropped a round right through the block.
Blasting Gelatin would detonate if shot, or else he’d hit the cap. The flash caused his scope image to stutter. The bang shook the ground. His scope image returned at once and he could see lumpy red paint splashed across a wall. That was one of the two men. The crate became splinters in the air, falling, twisting lazily. The other shattered body fell several meters away, and wisps of steam arose from a hole in the loam. A few moments later, a stiff breeze swept past him in the woods. It was hot, chemical, and gusted in his ears.
All hell broke loose. He’d accomplished something, alright. He’d kicked a nest of hornets. The fire wasn’t accurate, but there was a lot of it.
Fuller read off another target. “Some arsehole just came out of the darker gray hut. RPG. Tracking . . . he’s moving left.” Weapons fire interrupted the conversation.
“Skulking behind a pile of rubbish and a Toyota?” Kyle asked between bangs. There was movement there.
“That’s him. I’ll tell Wade, too.”
“Got it.”
This was getting hot. There was something going down here.
The enemy grouped into two elements, with hard cover of the buildings and several prepared fighting positions. That gave them a significant advantage for defense. At the same time, they probably didn’t know what size force the Americans and allies were, or where the elements were. This was where snipers, serving as designated marksmen, could be the force multiplier that would break the engagement.
Only . . . Wiesinger wasn’t giving any orders, even for a frontal assault.
Kyle dialed again. “Mel, Kyle here, I recommend we take targets of opportunity, with just enough supporting fire to convince them we’re still here. Press the advantage with accurate fire and we can inflict substantial casualties.”
“Uh, yeah, sounds good. Not quite what I had in mind, but I approve. Stand by.”
Not quite what he’d had in mind probably meant he’d frozen. The fights were getting stiffer each time. Which should give him time to adapt, but didn’t seem to. And now he was de facto commander of a platoon, which he’d never done in wartime and barely done in peacetime.
So that explained the knot in Kyle’s guts. Usually at this point in a fight, he was icy calm and detached, coming back to reality and shakes afterward. His unconscious knew there was a problem this time, and he was nervous. Troops needed effective orders. If not, they needed ineffective orders so they had something to do and something to bitch about while they got shot to hell. No orders meant a goatfuck.
There was a slight increase in the rate of fire. Wiesinger had apparently ordered everyone to shoot accurately, which wasn’t a bad modification. If a handful of rounds came close and one hit, the psychological effect would be considerable.
Kyle sought what appeared to be an RPK machine-gun muzzle, and waited patiently. A head rose just slightly after a while, and he was able to punch a hole through the top inch. The resulting thrashing and waving of limbs indicated debilitating pain at least, maiming or death possibly. Either way, there was no more shooting.
The enemy was figuring out that they were outmatched. They fell back in a coordinated withdrawal, with suppressing fire at likely threats—a few bursts were within meters of Kyle, but far overhead. Then the fire tapered off. Kyle had no targets, and shortly, no one did. Silence reigned, part of it hearing damage from lots of shooting.
Wiesinger called through Kyle’s headset. “Kyle, we’re going in. Follow Stephens and cover the left, south.”
“Roger that.”
Kyle rose slowly and crawled forward. The silence could be a ruse or there could be a few suicidal types behind. He waited until he saw the Aussies spread on the ground at the edge of the cut growth, which was in the process of growing over the abandoned village. It was amazing how fast things grew here.
Then Kyle was easing out onto the grass, which was still eight inches deep and enough to hide him in part. Wade was a few meters over. Wiesinger wasn’t in view. Either he was slightly behind or was waiting to see what happened. Under the circumstances, if he really was acting as commander, that was reasonable. Kyle couldn’t help but feel it was an excuse.
But that assumed the man wasn’t just behind his field of view. And that wasn’t something to fret over with threats in front.
Bakri’s men moved in, and shortly, it was clear the village was vacant. There might be a few wiggling wounded or someone cowering behind, and those could be threats. But the main force had retreated in the face of their fire.
Which seemed too easy to Kyle. If he had a defended position with hard cover against small arms, he’d have held it until the attackers ran low on ammo, which on foot in the jungle shouldn’t take long.
But then, these groups were experienced, smart and trained, but not to the level of Rangers or the SAS. And they couldn’t afford casualties. Besides losing force, they’d lose manpower for working and income.
The force regrouped in the middle, still low and covered by buildings in case of a counterattack. They put sentries in an outer perimeter, and swapped ammo around to even things out. It was getting pretty tight on ammo. Wiesinger had shot a lot. The Aussies had been frugal, but had borne the brunt of the advances thus far. Kyle and Wade wound up with six thirty-round magazines apiece. Kyle gave four empty mags to Anda. They were compatible with her weapon. She grinned, nodded and stuffed them in her home-sewn pack.
There wasn’t time to do much cleaning, but he did open the receiver of his M4, wipe the bolt carrier down, and add some more oil. The SR-25 hadn’t been fired that much. He gave it a few drops of Cleaner Lubricant Preservative and grabbed an MRE to munch on. It was the last complete one he had.
The good news, he supposed, was that with ammo and food gone he had much less mass to haul.
It took less than five minutes to quarter the area, and everyone was ready to proceed.
“Time to search in detail,” Wiesinger said. Bakri nodded and sent a team of five men on a patrol.
“Considering the reception, we might not want to eat anything here,” Wade said.
“Good advice,” Stephens agreed. “Could be anything from worm-infested dog feces to strychnine waiting for us.”
A bang shook the ground. Kyle dove for cover with everyone else.
“Booby trap,” Stephens reported. “Some wounded arsehole had a grenade.”
“Right, let’s cover this slowly,” Wiesinger said.
“Not yet, Mel,” Kyle cautioned.
“Why?”
“How many bodies do you see?”
Wiesinger looked around. “Four . . . five.”
“We have two. We were attacking a defended position. If they have five casualties, where’s the rest of them? Could be fifty, a hundred of them.”
Wiesinger looked stunned. He apparently hadn’t even thought of that.
“I’ll take perimeter,” Stephens said. “Akbar,” he called, then rattled off some local language. Kyle didn’t need to catch the few words he did to grasp, Expect a counterattack and look for bigger booby traps.
“Mel, there could be entire buildings full of tons of explosive here.” The hair on his neck was standing up as he recalled a low building in the Carpathian mountains that was on the receiving end of this logistical chain. There’d been a ton there. How much could be here near the source?
“Yes, but we need intel.”
“I agree, but don’t open anything without a lot of peeking.”
“Understood, Kyle.” Wiesinger appeared to get it about five percent. Hopefully, that was enough.
If not, what happened next was. There was an outhouse behind one building, on the edge of a clearing that had once been a field. It was a modern composting type with a “turd gobbler.” One of the locals approached it and eased the door open. A flash, a bang, and the whole thing caved in, taking his body with it.
As the shouting died and the current bizarre state of normalcy returned, Kyle vowed to squat behind a tree if he needed to go.
But Wiesinger seemed to get it now.
“No one go into a building. Watch for wires. Scan windows first.”
The search was rather brief. It wasn’t that there were traps there: There weren’t any buildings not trapped or mined. The personnel had departed into the jungle on foot, leaving a mess that they hoped would nail anyone who found it.
Kevin Fuller was tasked with setting charges to detonate the whole mess. He moved cautiously but quickly. He did a recon and stared through a few windows before starting. He returned muttering curses.
“Whole bloody thing’s wired together,” he said as he took a crate and started fixing detonators. “Looks like about a thirty-second delay. We, or whoever, was supposed to discover one, start on it, and the whole shebang goes off, taking anyone in the radius with them. Looks to be about six tons total.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of having it stored to send elsewhere?” Wade asked.
“No, it’s not an efficient setup. Instead of fusing every charge, they’ve fused one crate per building. The rest will follow as at least a low order blast. There’s a wired remote, a radio, and the trips and timer. Moderately competent. Anyway, we put this there and run,” he said, pointing at a building that had been rather stuffed, including crates under beds. “Denies them this load, and will draw a lot of attention they don’t want.”
“Attention we don’t want either,” Wade noted.
“Right,” Wiesinger said. “But we’ve got to take it out or wind up facing it.”
“No argument, Mel. It just sucks to be us.”
Wiesinger admitted, “Gentlemen, I’ve learned in the last few days that there’s a lot not covered in the manuals.”
“Yes,” Kyle agreed. Just yes. Was the man getting a clue at long last?
Ten minutes later, they moved out in column, slowly and with lots of advance and flank. The Indonesian Army would be after them, as would the terrorists and any other groups who may have been told by either side that Bakri was a betrayer. The first time Kyle had done this in Pakistan, the risk was of a firefight with hicks. The second time, it was of arrest by non-friendly Romanian government agents with a reputation for brutality, or a confrontation with a mad bomber. This time, it was pretty much three different well-trained armies who might hunt him.
No pressure.
Nor had they acquired much intel. Anything sensitive had either been taken along by their enemy or was protected by bombs. It was frustrating and angering.
Still, they’d been accomplishing the secondary objective. A lot of explosives weren’t going to be used for terror. Seven or more tons so far, which had to represent a big investment on someone’s part. But they didn’t have the key figures behind it yet, so it wasn’t a solid win.
Their first two missions had been completed, even if as bloody messes. Not every mission could be perfect, but dammit, Kyle wanted to get the people, not the tools. The people were the real threat.
A tremendous roar announced a mass detonation behind them. That felt good. Several tons of explosive would not be used to attack civilians. But it was all a matter of shoveling back the ocean with a pitchfork. More would be forthcoming if they couldn’t hit the people behind it.
So they had to work on that.
Stephens and his locals were making phone calls, trying to get a few more hints. With active cooperation four ways, they might find a lead. Who had heard of the new hostages? Wasn’t it great? Did they need more? Who would know? Is there a number? Yes, please leave a message. It’s regarding some further supplies I may have for him. Yes, we both know what we’re talking about. Allah Akbar.
It wasn’t too suspicious. The rumor mill was in full swing. One source credited Bakri with taking the hostages. Another claimed Bakri had set up the last ambush by the Kopassus. Bakri took it in good humor, suggesting a few other rumors to be put out about himself. It was brave of him. He was effectively a marked man no matter who found them. Anda scowled. It was rather obvious her interest in Bakri was more than professional, and she didn’t want to see him dead.
Rumors they got aplenty. Facts were far fewer, and most were items they already knew.
Kyle noticed everyone bunching up. They were looking at something, and he headed that way, alert for any threats others might not notice. There was a break in the trees, which probably indicated a human feature. In this case, it was a road for lumber operations, well rutted, muddy and red. With tire tracks.
Fresh tire tracks. They’d either called or had vehicles waiting.
Bakri said, “I’ll send a team back for vehicles.”
“Yes,” Wiesinger said. “We’ll wait.” They melted back several meters, so they could just see traffic, but should be invisible themselves as long as everyone was still and low.
“We’ll take a gander a klick up or so,” Stephens said. “Try to find out how many and where.”
“Roger that.”
Kyle and Wade covered each other while doing a better cleaning of weapons. In this humid, warm environment it was necessary. Kyle had been amazed to find mildew on the nylon strap he used to carry the M4, but it was that soggy here.
Anda and a man he didn’t recall came by with fruit they’d gathered and some dried beef. The fruit was warm, obviously, but sweet even if there were some insect bites. The beef was tough and not very flavorful apart from a hint of salt. A couple of stringy bits stuck between Kyle’s teeth. He knew they’d be there a day or more before he could floss or pick them out. He’d had that problem before. Still, it was fresh fruit and more protein. He was grateful.
Stephens and his scouts returned. They infiltrated their own lines with barely a word or sound. Once alongside the Americans, he reported.
“Looks like a dozen vehicles. Heavily laden. Some signs of either a struggle or casualties with limps being loaded. All have new tires. Heading north and west, farther into rebel territory.”
“So we follow and ask as we go,” Wiesinger said.
“Bakri, can you pull off being a lost member of the party trying to catch up?” Kyle asked.
Bakri paused a moment. The idiom likely threw him off. “I can do so. Whether they believe I can’t say.”
“Do what you can,” Wiesinger said. “We must be close.”
They didn’t have to be, Kyle thought, but likely were. Which also had its dangers when dealing with men who knew they’d die and believed in a cause.
Bakri led one squad of his troops along the edge of the road. The rest stayed in the trees with Kyle and the others. They were several meters in, where they could hide easily from vehicles and still be close enough to provide fire. Sooner or later—hopefully sooner—a vehicle would come along. Anyone using these remote roads was likely to have at least rumors.
Of course, they might also not want to stop for a group of armed men, or they might be hostile.
Kyle crawled over and under brush, thick and green and rich with rot and fungus. The jungle was an organism that sometimes seemed to move visibly as it fought to reconquer the holes people scraped in it. Down below, Bakri and his friends walked through thick, yellow mud rutted by trucks and rain. Roots and grasses were already attempting to move back into those wet depressions. It was easier, not to mention safer, to be where Kyle was.
That explained the difficulty of tracking anyone here. A single sentry with a wired phone or cell could give an innocuous signal to shut down any threatening operation, once he sighted a threat on the road. Coming through the jungle limited one to carried gear only, and posed risks of terrain and traps. Helicopters were very viable, but one had to have a suspect before using them, and could expect to take fire on approach. It would take elite troops to handle an insertion fast enough to matter. This whole area was riddled with small villages scraping out a living in crops, which was quite easy with the climate and rainfall, or providing labor for oil and timber operations. It was a wonder there wasn’t more violence.
It was near dusk when a vehicle came along. Twelve hours of driving, fighting, and rucking. Kyle was as drained as his Camelbak. The only good news was that there were enough trickles and streams that they were able to filter water and refill the Camelbaks after a fashion. It took some time to pump the little filter, and twice in three days they’d had to scrape the element clean of mildew and sediment, but they did have fresh water. Far better than the cold desert of northern Pakistan. Not as nice as the hotels of Europe. Same assholes trying to kill people, including Kyle Monroe.
The incoming truck was a thirty-year-old Mercedes diesel stake-bed carrying timbers. Kyle and the others slunk into the growth so they wouldn’t be seen. The temptation was always to stand and stare, but the necessity was to stay out of view. Especially when the party might be nervous.
Kyle heard voices, including Bakri’s. They were loud but not antagonistic. Kyle felt his phone, wondering if Syarief with the remaining phone would call for backup, but nothing happened. Shortly, the gears clashed as the engine revved, and the truck drove on.
A few minutes later, Bakri called, “Come out!” He was past the treeline himself, barely visible in the grayness. “I think I know where,” he said. “We’ll need lorries. The fuel cost is starting to hurt me, too.”
Wiesinger took that as a hint. As they closed up, still squatting, he drew out a thousand dollars worth of rupees. “I can issue more if need arises.”
“You are gracious and I thank you,” Bakri said. Unlike the Pashtun, who would only take money as a carefully offered gift because of their pride, the Achinese were far more practical. This operation was costing them in people and money, and they saw no reason not to make the U.S. help defray costs. Kyle found that a lot easier to deal with. Which was good, because Wiesinger obviously wouldn’t have been able to handle Pakistan.
“Where, then?” Wiesinger asked.
“Closer to Lhokseumawe. That makes sense. They didn’t take the hostages far.”
“Is your source reliable?” Stephens asked.
“Yes, because they’re not a source,” Bakri grinned. “I just chatted, said we were patrolling for trouble, how were things? And they said they were fine, but had been ordered by members of the Movement to stay away from Impian, and we should, too. They expected a government fight soon. I can’t think why else they would order that.”
No, there wasn’t a reason. If they suspected trouble, they’d simply be silent. Telling people to stay away indicated a fear. It also wasn’t that smart to offer that information, as they had no idea of Bakri’s loyalties.
Which made sense. They were simple local workers and the exact type of intel source one looked for. The captors had to know their cover would be blown eventually, so were just stalling with the warnings to stay away. Tactically, they were better off in a village they controlled than the people who’d tried similar approaches in Iraq, where the neighborhoods were all shifting alliances and no one controlled an area.
They moved deeper into the growth and set up shop, with one third on, two thirds sleeping, and got a few hours rest. It was near midnight before the transportation arrived. Kyle awoke bleary-eyed but ready to move when Wade nudged him, and started down the slope. The trucks of their local transport element were getting to be pretty messed up. He made note to suggest to Wiesinger that any balance of cash be donated to the cause. These people had put out a lot of effort and resources at great personal risk already. Once aboard the vehicle, they were served packs of rice and chicken with fruit and peppers. It was cold but filling and welcome. Rations had been very scarce for most of a day. A solid cupful of food with a good drink of water filled his belly and helped revive Kyle, but he was still groggy. He went back to a fugue state between wakefulness and dreaming. It was too rough a trip to sleep, but he was too fatigued to stay conscious.
He’d passed days at a time in such states, reacting and responding as needed without actually recalling events until afterwards. Add in a tight position and slumped posture, and he was all aches within minutes. He knew it wasn’t going to be fun.
Thirty kilometers, less than twenty miles. They scattered the four trucks with drivers along a couple of kilometers of road, and left a couple of cell phones. Two trucks were hidden well enough to not be a problem. The other two were noticeable, and ripe for questions or robbery.
Back into the woods. They hunkered down again, well hidden under brush and deadfalls with ponchos for cover. They operated in darkness, using red-lensed flashlights sparingly, and set sentries. Anda and Iverson slipped off to recon the target. It was a wonder, Kyle thought, with all the skulking around, that they hadn’t run into one of the other national patrols. But it was a long archipelago and the numbers involved were small. He wondered why they were having so much success at recon, but that was because all the factions were theoretically allies. They didn’t fight each other. Except now they were.
He reflected now was a good time for this mission. In six months it was going to be ugly, with GAM possibly fratriciding and no one trusting anyone. The end result of this operation was going to make it much easier for the government to crack down on the rebels, because all cooperation would end. They’d be picked apart and defeated in detail.
Which wasn’t his concern. His concern was U.S. interests. The Indonesians needed to fix their own country. He couldn’t and wasn’t allowed to, and was smart enough not to get involved, even if it hurt like hell to see it coming apart. Anda, Bakri, Akbar, all the others could be dead before the winter.
He drifted into a restless sleep, not helped by the knotty root poking him in the back.