CHAPTER 6
Kyle woke to Wiesinger slapping his boot. He rolled up silently, hand on weapon. It was a trained reflex.
“Get ready, we’re moving,” Wiesinger said in a taciturn voice.
“Roger that,” he said.
Wade was already stretching and reaching into his ruck for a toothbrush. Health care is important, especially in the field. One can avoid soap so as to blend in with the brush, but hand washing, with at least water, and tooth care are vital. They tidied up in a few moments and were ready when Bakri stuck his head back in.
“Good!” he said. “We take trucks to a meeting point.” He turned and left with just a wave of his hand. The Americans followed him out. Three trucks were in the village, two Land Cruisers and an ancient Land Rover. There were troops to fill them, including one with an RPK light machine gun and another with an RPG, a rocket loaded and a spare sticking out of his pack.
As they gathered around the vehicles, Wiesinger asked, “What is the plan, Bakri?”
“Meet up with rest of unit. Then travel to where we can observe the target. We have avoid it so far to keep cover, as requested.”
Wiesinger faced Kyle and Wade. “The target at this point is the village of Khayalan. Our brief says explosives are going through there. This intel is secondhand from several sources. So we’re going to confirm on the ground. If we confirm, we’ll take appropriate action. If we do not confirm, we’ll have to determine where the target is and reevaluate.”
“‘Appropriate action’ means shoot the guilty parties, or call in fire?” Kyle asked. He hated euphemisms. Sometimes, they were just politeness to avoid scaring the more delicate personalities. Sometimes, euphemisms meant the mission was officially disapproved and the operator would get hung out to dry.
“Probably the former,” Wiesinger said, which was reassuring. “If we can take out the brains, it hinders the operation.”
“Yes, Mel.” Kyle knew the doctrine; he’d been doing this for a decade. Likely, Wiesinger was used to briefing non-snipers. This was one of those things you let slide, Kyle decided. Wiesinger turned to Bakri. “Is there enough room inside, or do we need to shuffle stuff around?”
“We’ll fit,” Bakri said. “We just need to put it all in.”
“Sounds good. We’re at your disposal to help load.”
“We load now.” Bakri grinned. “Climb in.” They all boarded the first Toyota, Wiesinger in front, Kyle behind, and Wade behind the driver. Wade and Wiesinger had their M4s convenient to the windows. Kyle’s longer SR-25 would be a bit harder to get into play. The other one was still broken down and cased in Wade’s ruck. The rucks were all in back.
For a first, their allies had hot food in paper cups. It was a chicken-and-rice mixture with what might be mangoes and spices. Sweet and hot, it was quite refreshing, and Kyle enjoyed it. So did the others.
“Native food adds so much to a mission,” Wiesinger commented.
“When it’s good, yes,” Wade said. “I can’t recommend Romanian style Mexican, or Pakistani dried goat and beans, though.”
“Mnnph,” the colonel replied around a mouthful of rice. “I’ll take your word on it. But this stuff is good.”
Wade agreed, “Yeah, I’m partial to it. All in all, I’m not going to jinx things by asking what could go wrong.”
“It’ll happen soon enough,” Kyle said, feeling pessimistically realistic.
With the other vehicles loaded with six troops each, the little platoon rolled off with cheerful waves. In this area, they could operate fairly openly, weapons ready in case of skirmish with government troops or another faction. But there were large sections of the country where weapons would get them shot on sight by overwhelming force. Kyle and Wade had both been under such circumstances before.
“How long is the trip?” Kyle asked Bakri, who was driving. Anda and another, even slighter, woman, Irta, were stuffed in back atop the gear. They were small enough not to be too inconvenienced, but they couldn’t deploy until Kyle and Wade cleared the back, unless they shot out a window and risked cuts.
“About four hours,” Bakri said. “One hundred kilometers.”
Fifteen miles an hour. Yes, that wasn’t a bad rate. American civilians were spoiled by super-highways and well-laid streets in good repair. Most of the world still had dirt tracks with the occasional two-lane road. Speed above 35 mph was very respectable. And under the circumstances, there was nothing to complain about. The vehicle was in decent repair, ran well, and didn’t shake.
It was even possible to doze, until Wiesinger snapped, “Kyle, wake up and pay attention.”
“Yes, Mel,” he said. He grumbled slightly. It wasn’t as if they could do anything as far as a fight. If fire came in, he’d wake at once. If not, he couldn’t help navigate. But if that’s how the commander wanted to do it, he could will himself awake.
The best way to do that was food and drink. He sipped a mouthful of water from his Camelbak and reached over his shoulder to dig a granola bar from an outer pocket of his ruck.
The key to staying awake was to nibble just a little every time one started to zone. He got an hour from the bar and a few sips of water and was thinking about a second one. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t use the calories anyway. Wade was reaching back to grab something from his own gear, likely the jerky.
A burst of machine-gun fire ripped across the convoy, stirring the thick air.
“Awas!” Bakri shouted. Take cover. The order wasn’t needed. The troops were already diving for cover. Wade kicked the door on his side and rolled out, and Kyle was only an instant behind him. The drivers were backing up rapidly, but the rearmost vehicle took a hit and stopped. The driver convulsed and gurgled, then died.
As long as we don’t land on a preset mine or a coordinated attack, Kyle thought as he rolled into the weeds. But staying in the vehicles would be suicide.
Another burst blew past, along with aimed shots from rifles. He heard the distinct snap of a bullet through the growth.
“Kopassus!” someone yelled.
“Oh, fucking shit goddamit no!” Kyle shouted. It didn’t mean much, he was just pissed. Of all the things that could go wrong, a firefight with government troops from an elite unit was about as bad as things could get.
“We need to attack!” Wiesinger said.
“Negative, Mel. Cover and low.” He scrunched lower into the ground. He was in a faint hollow between the roots of a tree.
“The proper response to an ambush is to attack, seizing initiative. Get them to attack!” the colonel shouted.
“Mel, you attack these badasses, you will die,” Kyle said. “And they’re friendly to the U.S. We stay low and attempt to disengage. Bakri, how many and where?”
The wiry little Indonesian was alongside in a crouch, and obviously scared but not panicking.
“Probably two squads,” he said. “One with machine guns and grenade launcher. One rifles.”
“Explosives?” Kyle asked.
“I assume yes.”
“And that’s why we don’t charge, Mel,” Kyle said. “Claymores, if this was a planned attack.” He ducked as a round snapped past. “Dammit, they’re along a long front. Suggestions?”
“Machine gun and grenade launchers,” Wade said. “Puts us as close to par as we get. Then you and I pick targets.” Kyle noticed he didn’t mention Wiesinger.
“Roger. Bakri, you know how to use this?” Wade offered the M4 with its underslung grenade launcher. He unfastened the pouch of grenades from his harness.
“I do.” The man nodded, appearing deadly serious while grinning widely.
Kyle passed it over and said, “Fine, get your men to drive them out, we’ll shoot.” He slid the weapon and grenades through the soft, damp dirt. He could clean them later.
“I understand.”
“Wade, spot and backup?”
“Can do,” he agreed. He slid the two halves of the other SR-25 out of his ruck and snapped them together.
“Mel, can you pick targets with the M4? Or should we swap?”
“I’ll manage, Kyle,” the colonel said. “I do know how to shoot.”
“No such thing as a stupid question in battle, sir.” He let the honorific in to try to defuse things slightly. “Stand by for targets.”
Another burst was followed by a scream. “Goddamit, they’re good,” Kyle said. “I don’t want to fight them if we don’t have to. For one thing, we’re supposed to be allies.”
“For another, they’re pretty goddamned good,” Wade admitted.
“Yeah. Bakri, flush them,” Kyle said.
Bakri spoke a few words, and his troops and he opened up with the RPK and the grenade launcher. With both support weapons and eight riflemen shooting at one area, it took only a moment for the troops there to pop smoke grenades.
“There they go,” Kyle muttered to himself. Behind concealment of smoke, they’d hopefully not advance.
“Reference twisted tree, target, running, two five meters.” Wade called it off in a rapid singsong.
“Sighted,” Kyle said, seeing the movement. As Wade spoke, it resolved from shifting leaves to a camouflaged something into a running man. He led, squeezed, and the man dropped, clutching at a thigh. The German 7.62mm should have well nigh shattered the femur and mangled the muscle. He might not be dead, but he wasn’t combat effective.
So, as Kyle realized he should have expected, Wiesinger wasted five seconds and a round putting the man out of his misery. No, it wasn’t a bad thing to do. But at this juncture of a battle, the idea was to inflict as many casualties as possible. If the enemy thought the count too high, they’d retreat. And they were theoretically allies, dammit. The goal was to not kill them.
“Mel, we want them alive,” he hissed.
“Right.” The colonel nodded. He seemed overly excited. That was better than fear for the first real firefight he’d ever been in, but goddammit, Kyle didn’t need to babysit anyone.
“Got ’im,” Wade said laconically as he snapshot another. There hadn’t been time to call the shot, and there was no need to pass it along. “I also see movement at five zero meters, clumpy bush that looks like oversized grass.”
“Roger. Pick anything that moves and nick it. Just nick it.”
“Understood,” Wade said. Wiesinger was silent.
“Bakri, can you see there?”
“I see,” he said. “I should shoot?”
“Just in front of it. If that doesn’t work, go into it.”
“I understand.” The little man squinted along the sights and fired. The shot was wide to the left. He cursed in Achinese in a way Kyle didn’t understand, but sounded very earnest. He clicked the breech and started to reload.
A shot threw splinters off the tree right over his head, the shards stinging Kyle in the face. He flinched, but Bakri didn’t, continuing with the motion to load and close the breech. Only then did he roll around the tree to a different position. That convinced Kyle that the man was very experienced.
The second grenade landed barely under the tendrils in front of the bush, blowing half of it away. The leaves were thick and stalky and absorbed much of the fragmentation, as did the soft dirt the grenade had landed in. Still, lots of growth was removed, and parts of what could be two figures started to bug out. Kyle slammed a round through someone’s upper arm, causing a rough thrashing motion. Wade hit something else and screams became audible over the fire.
Then it got quiet.
“They have retreated,” Bakri said. “They will move some hundred meters or so and regroup, then depart to treat wounded.”
“What about the seriously wounded and bodies?”
“What of them?” he asked with a grin and pointed.
Kyle looked out to where the first target had been, the one he’d shot in the leg and Wiesinger had finished off. There was nothing but a rut in the grass where the corpse had been dragged off.
The hairs on his neck stood straight up.
“Holy shit, that’s a good trick.”
“Never a body. They, we, both the same game,” Bakri said.
“You little bastards are the best skilled allies I’ve ever worked with,” Kyle said reverently. The Bosnians were competent but not imaginative. The Afghans were eager but unskilled. The Iraqis were constantly fearful of turncoats. But the Indonesians were competent, cool, and devious.
“We were lucky,” Bakri said. “They could have caught us from behind as well. Three more men made the difference.”
“I’m glad it was a small patrol,” Kyle said. “Back to traveling?”
“Yes, but we will be tracked. Kopassus always tracks.”
“Wonderful. There goes our cover. What do we do now?”
“Leave the area,” Bakri said. “They want stronger targets, is that how you say it?”
“Hard targets?” Wade asked.
“Yes. Operations. Not patrols they want. We were just a chance.”
“Makes sense,” Wiesinger said. “Where?”
“This way,” Bakri said, gesturing.
Wiesinger stood up and started walking. Stifling a curse, Kyle tackled him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Wiesinger snarled, his face hardening.
“Mel, there are still hostiles in the area.”
He bit off the second part of his statement. So stay concealed, you fucking idiot wouldn’t sit well. Wiesinger’s act was that of a man who was used to exercises that were called clear at the end, with no ongoing threat.
“Right,” the colonel said, looking sheepish. He stayed down.
They advanced in three elements, covering all arcs with additional weapons forward, slipping along a few meters from the road. Wiesinger wasn’t bad at concealment, Kyle thought. Nor was he good. He clearly had studied all the right books. But he had little practice.
It’s like having an older, fatter second lieutenant along, he thought. He sighed. It was uncharitable, but the thought he had was that at least the man was large enough to stop a few bullets.
They finished an advance and wiggled into the dirt, to cover the next element. With eyes shifting around, Wiesinger spoke softly.
“Sergeant Monroe, U.S. weapons are supposed to stay in U.S. hands. ”
“Yes, sir, they are. And when the shit hits the fan, I want backup and I don’t care who it is.”
“We have no positive confirmation of their loyalties.” Wiesinger really wasn’t getting it, Kyle thought.
“Then it’s a bad idea to have them behind us with rifles, yes?” he said reasonably.
Wiesinger jerked. It clearly hadn’t occurred to him that there were armed men and women behind him with M16s, FNCs, AK-47s, a Jagawana Forest Guard Gun that looked like a Sten and fired 9 x 21mm, and large machetes.
“Mel,” Kyle said, “things are never the way we’d like them to be on these types of ops. Our allies are usually poorly trained; we’re lucky this time. The food can suck or be nonexistent. Plans change, people screw us over, others help us. It’s all a guessing game. I’m guessing we can trust Bakri, because we have to. He could kill us in our sleep. Or turn us in.”
Wiesinger said nothing, but nodded perhaps a half inch.
Two more advances brought them to the vehicles. One had a hole through the radiator tank, but one of the men was at work with a propane torch and solder. Another had the windows well shot out. There was one lethal casualty, a man they’d only nodded to, never been introduced, and two wounds and an injury—sprained wrist from a fall. With some grunting of pain, the three were bandaged as best could be and they all gathered around to discuss plans, their hosts speaking Acehnese for their convenience.
“So where do we go?” Wiesinger asked. The man had no patience. Bakri looked at him, then resumed talking.
Kyle and Wade sat silently, alert, while the Indonesians jabbered quietly around a map spread out on the lead Toyota’s hood. It was Kyle’s experience that after the locals had hashed things out, then they’d talk to the Americans and finalize things. But they needed time. Especially as no one liked to feel the foreigners were trying to run the show. There was a diplomacy issue here that Wiesinger’s lack of self-confidence couldn’t help.
“Here, then Khayalan,” Bakri said, just as it looked as if Wiesinger would butt in. “But to get there we must go this way.” He indicated a circuitous route along the hills. “To avoid attention.”
“How long a drive?” Wade asked.
“Eight to ten hours.”
“Oh, that’s not bad,” Kyle said. Likely less than three hundred kilometers then. Narrow roads and convoy security would make a long trip even slower. “What’s there?”
“Just people we can supply with,” he said. “Then we go to Khayalan for the target.”
“Got it.”
It wasn’t a pleasant trip, cooped up in a small, cramped vehicle, sweaty and worried about attack. But Kyle and Wade had been through worse. Well-trained troops were a confidence builder, and they were literate and experienced. There was food along, more fruit and some cold chicken and rice. Kyle wasn’t a rice fan, but it was a staple for most of the world. The Indonesian spices varied from scorching to sweet, so at least it was interesting. This was a far richer area, resource wise, than the ass end of Central Asia.
Wiesinger was mostly reticent, which was a good thing. The man was just naturally abrasive. On the other hand, no matter how poorly one got along with teammates, knowing something about them was important for cohesion. But it just wasn’t the thing Kyle wanted to mention, so they stayed each with their own thoughts.
They sank down low in the seats as they passed through towns that were five or six blocks long. One had a divided main road with a central canal. Whether it was for water runoff or transport, Kyle couldn’t tell and didn’t ask. He was busy being not noticed. That road was asphalted, but others were cobbled. There was a motorcycle with a rickshaw sidecar he found really amusing. People wore native garb, Western clothes and American or Chinese hats. The ramshackle houses had steep roofs of tile or tin against monsoon rains, and were different but not dissimilar from the colonial styles in Asia. Dutch rather than French, but with obvious cultural roots.
There were militia fighters on patrol, and Bakri waved to one group but detoured around rice paddies to avoid another.
“They would collect toll,” he said. “Cost us time, money, and risk for you.”
“Appreciated,” Kyle said. “We’re not in a hurry.”
“Yes we are,” Wiesinger muttered.
“Not to die, Mel,” Kyle snapped back.
He did find the schoolgirls cute, on old-style bicycles in skirts and with traditional head coverings. They smiled and waved and were absolute dolls. He hoped they weren’t targets for anyone.
Then they were back out into the wilds again, occasional single and multiple dwelling settlements carved out of the forest. It was a constant fight as the humans tried to go one way and the jungle resisted, even grew back.
Shortly, they pulled into an open field that was terraced down a slope like stacked plates. It was the brightest green Kyle had ever seen, thick with rice and palms of some kind. The buildings were low wood.
They stopped and obtained ammunition and food, and swapped troops around. It was done quickly, and the Americans stopped for a momentary latrine break, then back into the vehicles.
“People are needed for the crops, and they will notice if we are gone for long. We can only patrol a few days at a time when the Army is here in force,” Bakri said. Though obviously that “in force” was still a fairly token presence.
“What is important is that you not be associated with groups like ours, who want to negotiate,” Bakri said. “Very risky. We must get you into area where rebels are common. Your target is there anyway.”
“We appreciate the risk,” Kyle said. “Good people all over the world are taking risks on this. We’ve been in other countries doing the same thing.”
“What is it like?”
Wade said, “Rough, dangerous, but rewarding. There’s no headlines over it. But you know you’ve done right.”
“Yes, the same with us. I do this for my children,” Bakri said. “They should not live poor, but they should not have to fight. If we can meet Jakarta partway, then ask for more, it is better. But if not, we’ll have to fight more.”
“Our government is trying,” Wiesinger said. “But paperwork takes a long time. This is the first time I’ve been away from it in years.”
Kyle felt a flash of empathy. He despised paperwork. Was Wiesinger pushed into it because of his father’s legacy? The perfect staff officer, even if he hated it?
“Yes,” Bakri said. “We were all happy when Timor-Leste became free. But the fighting was fierce. We would like that, too. And we could negotiate on oil and gas better than Jakarta. We are closer, so have less entangles.”
“I agree,” Kyle said. “But we can’t make that decision. Seems like every real soldier I’ve met, even among Bosnians, Iraqis, and Russians, was a decent guy I could drink a beer with and get along with. We all hate terrorists.”
“Yes, because they are cowards.” Bakri nodded vigorously. “We and the Kopassus and Army and Marines are all men, and fight like men. It’s frightening and dangerous, but that is the price.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Attacking journalists, drivers, women, children . . .” He spat forcefully out the window. “I would like a hut in the jungle and a week with each of them. Perhaps ten days.” His clenching jaw bespoke a far less cheerful and angrier side that Kyle hoped not to experience. “If you can, will you let one live for me?” Kyle was silent a moment.
“We’ve discussed that before,” Wade said into the pause. “As enjoyable as that would be, there’s the risk of escape.”
“Ah, yes. Better not to. But some deserve more suffering than life offers. There is Allah offering judgment.”
“I pray for that, too,” Kyle said politely. He wasn’t very religious. But he did hope for justice as it was deserved.
“We turn onto a road now. Keep guns out of sight.”
“Okay,” they agreed, and slid the weapons lower. They were all wearing camouflage of various kinds; still, people were more likely to twig on weapons than clothes. They came out into brighter light and onto a two-lane blacktop in good repair. Kyle removed his brimmed boonie hat and the others followed suit. That and keeping arms inside the windows should help reduce visibility. There were fields on either side, flat and a brighter green than any American growth. The forest stood back around them, tall and riotous.
Then they turned back off the road. They’d been on it only a kilometer or two and had passed one car going the other way at high speed. The three vehicles, spread widely and packed, could easily be mistaken for work trucks.
This trail was much rougher, but that was due to use. It was a dirt road and well worn. Sleeping was impossible, with heads bobbing around like toys as the suspension squeaked in protest. The light flickered occasionally as a fluke of nature left an opening in the thin rain forest. It wasn’t as thick as South America or Southeast Asia, but it was thicker than all but the heaviest, tangled second growth Stateside, and much taller.
Bakri waved and pointed, and the second vehicle pulled off in a very narrow shoulder area to keep watch. The trailing vehicle squeezed through the gap and took second place. Kyle approved silently. Far better than others he’d worked with, for certain.
These were roads under here, Kyle decided. About like access roads on an Army training range. Some were graveled in sections, old and scattered and pressed into the mud. Some were grown with low grasses from little use, and some were plain mud.
It rained one day in three here. The daytime temperature was steady near 30°C, 86°F. At night it dropped to a balmy 72°. The humidity did the same, from 90 percent down to 70 percent, day after year after century. They were so close to the equator that weather, apart from monsoons, didn’t really exist—only climate. It was hot and would stay that way, barring a few days here and there. The remaining escort pulled off onto a narrow path and disappeared.
Shortly, they were driving along a track so little used it was barely visible as a trace, the growth on either side brushing against the sides of the vehicle, scratching and scraping. The windows were still open, and everyone drew back to avoid getting jabbed.
Wade said, “I remember doing this once in Macedonia, along a trail.”
“Yes?” Kyle prompted.
“Well, the next time someone tells you that something is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, you believe them.”
Everyone, including Bakri, chuckled. Everyone except Wiesinger, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. But he was examining the terrain and the woods, so Kyle figured it was just concentration on his part.
“We stop just ahead,” Bakri said. “We are above and east of the target.”
“Understood. What then?”
“Can you get closer on foot to observe?”
“We can do that,” Kyle agreed. “Show me the map.”
They were 1705 meters from the target, by Kyle’s reckoning. He entered coordinates into his PDA, GPS, and on a paper notepad for backup. He planned to advance on foot the first kilometer, then on knees and at a crawl, and set up an OP—Observation Post—where they could see what was going on. Keep records of comings and goings, identify important persons and equipment, and then exfiltrate and determine proper action.
He explained what he intended, and consciously added an, “Is that okay, Mel? Or do you suggest something else?”
“No, Kyle, I concur,” he said. Whether he actually did, or really had no idea and was letting an NCO lead, Kyle didn’t know. But neither was really bad.
“Tell me about the area,” Kyle asked.
Bakri recited, “Khayalan is a small village. We avoided the road through, which is unpaved. We are at right angles to it. The houses are block and sheet steel, and there is a small administration building. Occupants are one hundred twenty-three according to the last census, taken in two thousand.
“They have a large number of young males, and I believe they have considerable small weapons. Vehicle traffic is approximately four cars per hour, including a patrol by the police every three to four days and vehicles transporting workers to the oil facilities at six and twenty hours daily. There is a small general shop, a bar, and a mosque. Two side roads lead into the woods for rubbish disposal.” He pulled out a sheet of paper with blocks drawn on it. Each block contained a routine Bahasa phrase so as to look like a shopping list. But with a few strokes of a pen and some words added, it became a passable map of the target area. Good operational and communications security.
Kyle was agog. He’d never had a local ally provide such a thorough pre-mission briefing. “That’s a very impressive report,” he said.
“Thank you. We’ve gathered what information we can.”
“But you don’t know if our target is there?”
“No. I was not told who that is. They said it was a sensitive matter.” He looked both amused and put upon.
Wiesinger must have felt everyone looking at him. “That was through CIA,” he said. “Pursuant to new rules of intelligence release after September eleventh.”
“Heck, sounds like we might have saved a trip,” Wade said, a bare tinge of disgust in his voice.
“Well, shall we head in, Mel?” Kyle asked. “Get an OP set up and see what happens?”
“Yes. You lead, serg . . . Kyle. Wade can guard the rear. I can offer support if needed. I’ll take this,” he indicated the M4. “Will you be using the SR-25s?”
“That’s likely best,” Kyle agreed. “Range and intel gathering. We’ll talk through phones, make sure they’re set on vibrate. Bakri, how will we meet up?”
“I will drive by, or you can call my telephone.”
“Sounds good. Assume twenty-four hours. If you don’t hear from us, be very cautious, and report it back. Do you have a number for that?”
“I do, to someone in Jakarta who speaks American English.”
Probably CIA. That wasn’t as desirable as the Army. CIA might take weeks or months to deal with it, based on their own assessment of how valuable the three men were. Army would go balls out to get them. But you worked with what you had.
“Shall we give them one of our numbers, Mel?” Kyle asked.
“I’d like to, but negative. Maintain security.”
“Understood,” Kyle agreed. He didn’t like it, but it made sense. The phone number could be tracked. If it was to an intelligence service, that might be expected. But if it was traced to a foreign military, that was another thing entirely. “Bakri, you have it?”
“Tomorrow at the same time, carefully if I haven’t heard from you and report it back. This is my telephone number.” He showed it to them on the lit screen.
“Got it,” Kyle said, as they all wrote it down in case of emergency. Goddam, this was almost like operating in the modern world, Kyle thought. He tried not to get too optimistic.
That done, Bakri got into the vehicle and quietly pulled away. Kyle led the way off the “road” and into brush. More concealment was desired.
“So, what is our probable target?” Kyle asked.
“Mosque,” Wiesinger said. “The current assumption is that if the presence isn’t obvious, it’s in a mosque. They’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“Right. And we’re looking for explosives?”
“Explosives, weapons, anything we can report as activity.”
“Got it,” Kyle agreed. Wade glanced over and thumbed up. He was busy digging the soft-cased rifle from its straps on his ruck. He took the one Kyle held, and handed over the modified one.
Kyle actually had it assembled before Wiesinger twigged on the green-colored stock and the rail covers over the hand guard. “That’s not paint on that weapon, is it?”
“No, it’s aftermarket furniture,” he said, and braced for the storm.
“From where?” The colonel was clouding up.
“An outfit called Cavalry Arms.” Kyle pretended not to understand.
“Acquired how?”
“Personal expense, Mel. Didn’t want Uncle to have to pay for it.”
“I wasn’t aware Uncle authorized it, and I know I wasn’t asked.”
“Sorry, sir,” Kyle said, slipping the honorific in again. “This was an experiment we’d already arranged, and I forgot to inform you.”
“Are there any other surprises I’m not aware of?”
“I don’t think so, Mel,” he said. Heh heh. He’d pulled it off. It was only one little victory in an ongoing bureaucratic battle, but it improved his morale.
“Good. Let’s get to it.” He accepted the ghillie Wade handed over, and started pulling it on. “But don’t try to cowboy this operation, Kyle. I will take you down.”
There was nothing to say but, “Yes, sir.” Goddam, the man got bent out of shape over piddly crap.
At least there was nothing the man could criticize about Kyle’s ghillie. In addition to strips of shredded burlap, he’d used sections of camouflage netting to improve it. It was a coat made shapeless with tans and greens, more of the former, that being the predominant color in woods, and certainly on the ground. It was disruptive enough in shape to make him near invisible at a matter of feet.
Each of them grabbed food and technical gear, then stowed their rucks in a hollow. Everything inside that could be damaged by water was sealed in freezer bags. They didn’t need the three hundred pounds of gear represented for recon. It would simply bulk up their profiles. Careful positioning under growth should hide it from any view. Kyle noted a tree and cut a blaze in the bark very low down, peeling it back with his Gerber. He marked the position on his GPS. That should be enough to let them recover it later. In a worst-case scenario, nothing inside had any names or official U.S. identifiers. It was just military gear.
The three were ready in a very few moments. Kyle stepped slowly forward, his weapon in a drag bag over his shoulder. With his face painted and dirtied, the ghillie tumbled over him and the growth around him, he looked like a shambling tree.
Behind, Wiesinger was a little noisier. It wasn’t anything most civilians would notice, but Kyle did. If he did, another professional might. He gritted his teeth. Hopefully, the man would steady out in a few minutes. If not, Kyle was at least leading, so he could set the pace. After years of instructing, he was afraid Wiesinger would be a rabbit, hopping eagerly forward and drawing attention.
The first seven hundred meters were largely uneventful. They shifted through the branches, careful not to shake them, watching for clumps of brush that might get crushed, soft spots that would hold boot prints and roots that could trip them, not to mention boobytraps or sensors. They didn’t anticipate any, but one doesn’t until it’s too late.
Once or twice they froze and sank into the growth because of noises. But none was threatening, and actual human noise was scarce at this distance. Trees and humidity damped a lot of vibrations. Still, the situation demanded caution. Hours of infiltration and weeks of intel were riding on this. A minor screwup could kill a lot of people and waste a lot of time and money.
The GPS Kyle held said they were a kilometer away. It was time to get romantic with the dirt. Slowly, he eased to his knees and down, gently laying the drag bag behind him. Gingerly, he put his hands down—he wore thin Nomex aviator gloves to avoid scratches, plant toxins, and insect bites. Behind him, he heard the very faint sounds of Wiesinger and Wade following suit.
It was hot. Under the ghillies, it was stifling. He sipped at his water, glad he had filled the Camelbak to overfull. He’d had 105 ounces forced into it, and had drank a good half quart before gearing up. He thought of water in quarts. This temp required a quart an hour when active. He sucked a couple of ounces when he paused again, and would bring the container to normal capacity in a few minutes. Bursting it would be bad.
At five hundred meters, he went from hands and knees to a belly crawl. It was essential to avoid a profile. From a secure position, he’d identify a new location, ensure the route was clear of debris or growth that would leave an obvious trail, free of wet or low spots, of which there were plenty, and not open to observation. That confirmed, he’d slink forward like a lizard after a fly, pulling with hands as much as pushing with feet and knees, to avoid leaving divots. Once he felt secure behind the mark, a tree with shrubbery at the base, he fished the phone out of his front pocket.
“Wade, Kyle. How do things look?” he asked when his partner answered.
“Clear, good. Did you know you rolled a limb as you crawled over it?”
Kyle felt a ripple of shock. That was an amateur’s mistake. “I didn’t even feel a limb,” he admitted. Was he tired? Or was it just one of those mistakes that happen? Either way, he had to avoid that.
“Yeah. Eyes open, buddy.”
“Will do. Please relay to Mel. Call me if you need me.”
“Roger that.” Here they were, on profile for a mission, halfway around the world. They were perhaps ten meters apart, and they were communicating through thousands of miles of space by Iridium phones. Were Iridium satellites, or the satellites they used, low orbit? Geosynchronous, high enough to orbit over one location? That was 23,000 miles and some, he recalled. But beyond that, he was hazy. Those details were out of his control, so he hadn’t dwelled on them much, but he was curious now and would check.
He resumed a slow advance from concealment to concealment. That was something he had control over, and was expert at.
A half hour later, he had the edges of the village in view. He figured their distance as 330 meters. And Bakri was almost certainly competent enough to have done this. Instead, they’d come halfway around the world.
Oh, it made some sense, he thought, as he slithered under a vine that drooped between a bush and a tree. They could ascertain the target and make the call, and confirm the kill. A local could claim anyone as the target, as had happened in Pakistan. That had set off a tribal war that almost got out of hand. The CIA’s after-action review had been very stern about confirming reliability of allies. And if the locals were paid money or favors for killing a target, it was hard to know if they actually had. It was hard to drag bodies in for confirmation, and claims of body counts were always inflated.
But that still made it annoying to see first-rate troops kept in the dark and used as taxi drivers for a mission they were actually better qualified to handle.
At 275 meters, he decided the view was good. That distance was based on the road and the approximate center of town, and assuming Bakri’s handwritten grid coordinates were correct. Somehow, he knew Bakri could handle a compass.
He dialed Wade. “We’ll set up OP here. Spread out and we’ll take shifts. Two on, one asleep, switching off every hour on watch, four hours to sleep.”
“Roger that.”
He relayed the same information to Wiesinger. “Does that work, Mel?”
“It does. Do you want to sleep first?”
“I could do that, yes, Mel,” he agreed. He wasn’t keen on trusting Wiesinger, but Wade would keep a good eye on him. One hour on, one off actually meant both were on, but one was responsible for notes and keeping an eye glued to a scope in case a shot presented itself. The “off” partner would still be observing while also watching for encroaching threats and other issues.
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 so 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.