CHAPTER 11
Half an hour later, Kyle reconsidered. Maybe I’m getting too cynical in my old age, he thought. Wiesinger directed him where to go and let him take the lead.
“You’ve got more time in the field, so I’ll tell you what I want and you get it done,” Wiesinger had said. Which was one part of doctrine that had been wise advice for thousands of years. Tell the NCO what you want and he’ll do it for you.
So Kyle led in a crawl, fast enough to be worthwhile, slow enough for silence, around a substantial arc of the village. It had block and tin buildings, a road that dead-ended into it and electricity from what Kyle reasoned was a propane generator. On second thought, it had to be liquefied natural gas. There was enough of it here.
And the place was silent.
Khayalan had been quiet. This was dead. A few cautious looks through night vision confirmed it. There was evidence of a fight, including bullet spalling on walls. Add in scavengers trotting through, and the smell . . .
“This is supposed to be an operations center, and I see nothing. But it’s not been down for long.”
“I’d say a day, tops, or we’d see more scavengers,” Kyle agreed.
“So who took them out, and why?”
“Unknown. Government, other rebels are all that comes to mind.”
“Okay, let’s call the others,” Wiesinger said. He looked scared, badly. Kyle didn’t blame him, though. His own fear was more internalized, but just as real. The pending morning twilight didn’t help.
The rest of the ersatz unit moved in quickly. The evident lack of a perimeter, the darkness, and thick air let them approach upright at a skulk instead of down at a crawl. Within an hour, they were all present.
“Talk to me,” Stephens said as he came up.
“Let’s wait for Bakri,” Kyle suggested.
“Righto.” They huddled under broad leaves and inhaled the dank air, redolent with rot and chlorophyll.
When Bakri arrived, Kyle said, “Mel and I have covered the perimeter from here to there.” He pointed. “No signs of action or habitation. Spalling and other light-arms damage, including fractures suggestive of grenades, are present. It appears no one is home. Obviously, we’d like to test that theory carefully.”
Wiesinger nodded. “Suggestions?”
“If you want mine,” Stephens said with faint sarcasm, “I’d pull us into thirds, split around the perimeter and then have one element approach with crossed lanes of fire in case they need support. Assuming we all trust our marksmanship.”
“The cover is good, the men are all adequately trained from what I can see,” Kyle said. “Sounds good. Bakri?”
“I will be happy to cover fire,” he said. “I would not want to tell my men to stand in the middle of the fire.”
“Right,” Wiesinger agreed. “We’ll go in with three volunteers. You each take your teams around one hundred to one hundred twenty degrees, then we’ll call for the advance.”
Syarief, Rizal, Iverson, and an Aussie named Fuller, their demolitions expert, joined them. The locals were armed with AKs and were excellent in the jungle. Iverson and Fuller each had an M4 that was almost a clone of the U.S. issue. They knew how to handle their weapons. Still, Kyle wanted the locals flanking, not behind him. Eagerness got people shot. Iverson and Fuller he was comfortable with. The SAS had a first-class reputation.
Kyle had to agree with Stephens on the utility of satellite cell phones. No bulky radios for this, no codes, no worries about transmitters being located, no battery issues. Radios were often necessary, though, especially with air support. That they had no radios also meant no air and no arty. These operations were quite lonely. Even more so when fire came in.
They waited while Bakri’s forces moved closer to the road, and Stephens’s around a good chunk of the circle. It was twenty minutes later when Wiesinger grabbed his phone. “Roger that. We’re ready.” He punched it off. “Let’s move.” It was dark. Very dark. NVG showed little, except when he used the IR illuminator, which had limited range. He only used it in momentary flashes, since it could be easily detected by other night vision.
They slipped in closer, weaving through the boles and vines, bushes and leaves. The silence was foreboding. Kyle’s nerves stuck out like naked wires. There was something here, he was sure. He didn’t believe in supernatural inputs. Fifteen years of instinct told him so. He didn’t know what, but he felt the threat. He took another glance at the M4 he carried. Chambered, safety off, finger poised. He had a canister round—basically a 40mm shotgun cartridge— loaded in the grenade launcher in case he needed more oomph. It should be plenty. Wade also had a canister; Iverson and Fuller, the Aussies, had HE loads in theirs; and two of Bakri’s men had RPGs. Add two machine guns, and it was actually an effective infantry platoon.
Except they were four units, really, and hadn’t done more than a couple of marches together. There was plenty that could go wrong in the dark, should something spook someone.
They reached the cleared area, the ground beyond grassy and even. This place had been burned out of the jungle a long time ago. And it was empty, but had certainly been occupied since 2002. The trash and debris lying around was proof of that.
Kyle stepped out first in a low crouch, weapon shouldered and ready. Wiesinger moved in front and went prone with the SR-25. Wade took one side and the Indonesians the other. They waited several seconds, ears cocked for anything beyond the cacophony of animal life.
Wade made the phone call. “Seems clear. Close in.” He tucked the instrument away and resumed his guard.
Jack Stephens and two of his natives swarmed in the other side so quickly and silently they seemed to be wraiths. Damn, but there were good troops around here, Kyle thought. Which meant that if—when—this got nasty, Kyle would be in the midst of a battle of professionals, not a brawl of amateurs.
Well, he had wanted a challenge. Here it was. Be careful what you wish for . . .
Bakri came in from across and to the right, along the road edge. They were all through the village now. That meant they were targets from the buildings, but to hit them up close would expose the attackers to multiple shots and no backstop. That was the best they could manage.
Wiesinger said, “We need to control that large building near the center. I assume that’s an administrative center.”
“Sort of,” Bakri said. “Official meetings would take place there, yes.”
“I want to go in fast and hard, just in case.”
“Of course.”
The elements recombined into two large squads, front and back. Kyle felt his phone buzz, and he checked his watch as he raised his fist. When the second hand hit 12, they’d storm this building. He coiled himself like a spring, ready to explode. He took a quick glance around that showed everyone ready, fingers twitching near but not yet on triggers.
Then it was time. As one they rose. Kyle was prepared to blow the hinges off the door, but it hung askew. Wiesinger, the largest by far, kicked the door as two of Bakri’s men went in low. Kyle went in high, expecting to take some kind of defensive fire.
Nothing.
No, not nothing.
Dear God!
There were bodies galore, bloated and rotting, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. He’d expected bodies. It was the apparatus and the wall decorations. For they weren’t maps or charts. They’d all been desecrated, torn down or ripped, but it didn’t take much to see them for what they were.
Wade came in the rear.
“Child porn studio?” he said, voice tight, disgusted, as if he might vomit at any moment. Kyle felt the same way.
“Yeah. And the terrorists . . . killed them.” He looked at one of the bodies. Even before the flies and scavengers, it had been ugly.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I agree with and support the terrorists.” Wade sounded a cross between revolted and amazed.
“Here,” Wiesinger said, pulling a grubby sheet of paper from the wreckage. It was a color printout of . . .
“Yeah, why don’t you take this, sir,” Kyle said, fishing a lighter from his pocket.
“Thank you, sergeant. Much appreciated.” Wiesinger struck the paper alight, dropped it, and vigorously wiped his fingers in the dirt on the floor, then on his pants.
“Man, it never ceases to amaze me how far some people can sink,” Wade said. They all stared as the picture disappeared into ash, ghostly outlines still hinting at the scene on the photographic paper. The colonel stomped it with his boot and ground it to nothing.
“At least there’s some places the terrorists won’t go,” Wiesinger said. It wasn’t much comfort. It simply pointed out how far they did go, if this extreme was what they wouldn’t do.
“Any evidence we can use?” Stephens asked. “Sources, ID of any kind?” He looked rather perturbed himself.
“Not without substantial digging, I’d say,” Wade answered. “I’m hoping we don’t have the time.”
“We probably have the time,” Wiesinger said. “But we’re not going to take it. Let’s call this a map marker and move on. If it wouldn’t blow cover, I’d torch the place.”
“Roger that, Mel,” Kyle agreed firmly.
Stephens jogged out to go to the adjoining building where his team was. Kyle turned and ducked for the door. He started to lower his NVG.
It was then that a torrent of fire shattered the frame, tossing splinters of block into his face.
He dropped at once, eyes closed, and crawled back. His eyes were stinging from chips, not burning from dust. He’d have to get them clear enough to fight with, and hope the injuries didn’t require more sophisticated treatment. But he was inside the door and covered, he hoped, as several crashes echoed. Outgoing fire was good. He blinked his eyes carefully, not wanting to gouge them with any sharp fragments. Then he pulled at the lids to let tears flush the dust. They still ached and itched, but he could see, even if his vision was a little blurry.
Alert again, he listened before sticking his head out. There was a lot of fire out there. Whatever the force was, they were large. Small arms. Few automatic weapons. No grenades so far. Wiesinger and Stephens were shouting back and forth between buildings.
“Force to the rear is about a squad. One RPK machine gun. Mostly AKs,” Stephens called.
“In front is two support weapons,” Wiesinger replied. “One RPK, one RPG not in use.” That was potentially disturbing. A rocket-propelled grenade would kill everyone in the building.
“Mel, do you want any targets?” Kyle asked in a lull as his ears rang. If not, he could just shoot. But he was a precision shooter first.
“Wade, Kyle, find that RPG. Then the machine gunner.”
Wade said, “Roger, Kyle, far left, second block building, rear corner, under bush.”
“Sighted,” Kyle said. He aimed and squeezed, but the pain and the sudden shock of rounds in an enclosed space had him shaking. His first round missed, high.
“He’s relocating,” Wade said. “Look for him two buildings south, same position.”
“Sighted,” Kyle said. The first shot winged his target, possibly a shoulder. That shook him up enough that Kyle’s second shot was center of mass, just before the missileer could move. Just to make sure, he followed the body down and carefully put another sideways through the ribcage.
He shook his head. The concussion of rounds fired wasn’t helping his vision or his hearing. Still, three shots wasn’t bad for a valuable threat. “Where’s the gunner?” he asked.
“Stand by!” Wade said. “He’s gone!”
“Shit, that’s bad!” Kyle said. Gone where? Behind another building? The next notice they got could be large amounts of autofire.
Wiesinger was shouting orders. “Bakri, have your RPG gunners take out those two buildings there.”
“It will take a moment,” Bakri yelled back. They were split up now, with part of the force inside Kyle’s building, and most of the rest scattered for cover.
Wiesinger yelled into his phone, “Stephens, consolidate to the west and hold against that element. We will secure here. As soon as we are in control of our own territory, we will combine reserves to attack them . . . Yes, that sounds good. Out.”
Kyle flinched momentarily as Bakri’s RPG team demolished two buildings. The explosion slapped at them even here, a visible wave front tossing dirt and leaves ahead of it. It inflicted several casualties on the enemy, including one body tossed like a rag doll. But Kyle still didn’t see that machine gun, and there were other support weapons out there, among troops who knew how to use them.
To highlight that point, a roar washed over him from behind. Screams and shouts, some of surprise, some of injury followed it, faint and hard to discern under the pain that meant he had hearing damage. He wasn’t sure what had come in, but it was dangerous.
It was a good time to relocate. Kyle shifted over to a crack under the window he could just see through, flopped across a chair cushion and got ready.
No, it wasn’t a cushion. It was a gas-bloated corpse on the splintered wreckage of a folding chair. He grimaced in distaste. But the bastard was dead, and nothing was leaking from the body, and he’d seen worse. Screw it. He’d take his shots and then move.
“There!” Wade called. “Reference: Building to left of the one we just blew. Window on right side. Target: machine gun crew. Range five five meters.”
“Sighted,” Kyle agreed. There wasn’t much of them visible; they were being cagey. Or maybe they were as afraid of getting blown away as he was.
They were more afraid in a moment. He fired and missed, but took splinters out of the frame. He’d been trying to peel off the top of one man’s head, but he’d ducked. Still, they were both staying down for now, which meant they weren’t shooting. It wasn’t a win, but it didn’t hurt anything.
“Roger that,” Wiesinger said into his phone. “No dice. They’re covered, we’re covered, this could go on a long time. Might consider regrouping and retrograding under fire.” He didn’t sound happy.
“I advise it, Mel,” Kyle said. “We’re not here for a protracted battle. We’re here to find a target.” He gratefully hopped off the body and found another loophole to shoot through.
“Roger. We can move into the jungle in squads and cover as we go.” He flipped open his phone. “Stephens . . . Yeah, that’s where we’re thinking. Roger that. You, us, locals. Out.” He spoke again. “The Aussies are first, we’re second, providing cover for Bakri.”
“I am not happy being last,” Bakri said. It was the first open admission that he wasn’t entirely sure of his allies.
“No one would be,” Kyle said. He was pretty sure it came about because Wiesinger didn’t trust the locals. And, while they were better than any others he’d worked with, they still weren’t a professional force, and other than Bakri, he couldn’t be sure of their loyalties. So he reluctantly agreed. Besides, he had to back up his commander. That was his duty.
“Very well,” Bakri said, twitching. “Be sure we get lots of support fire.”
“Count on it,” Wade promised him, pulling out a spare mag. The first was likely more than half full. But the fresh one meant one hundred rounds. That was support fire. Kyle copied the gesture. He also checked for a canister load in the grenade launcher. Anything in front was the enemy, as far as he was concerned, and he’d light it the hell up at every opportunity.
Wiesinger cut into his thoughts. “Stephens is ready, our turn.”
“Roger. Good luck, Bakri. See you in two minutes.”
“Yes,” the man said with a simple nod. He sounded a lot surer of Kyle than of the colonel.
Kyle rose and slipped back, panning across an arc in case of threats up close. It wasn’t likely, but it never hurt to be sure. A grenade tossed in would end the party real quick. But if he shot the thrower beforehand, it was just more fireworks outside. He did wish he could do something about the bursts of machine-gun fire alternately beating at the blocks and slapping through the door. At least, being dark inside, the shadow would help protect him even from night vision.
Wade turned, assessed the move and followed, while Kyle took the cue and slipped out the back. That meant scrambling through a hole that had been a window and still had broken frame and glass. He tore his pants but avoided anything worse than a stinging scratch. Wiesinger was outside, squatting, back against the wall. He seemed very glad of backup. Kyle nodded and took the other side. Then Wade dropped between them.
“We’re clear, fire around either side,” Wiesinger said into his phone. He dialed again. “Bakri, move.” Closing that, he said, “Gentlemen, that way,” and pointed into the woods.
The incoming fire was much stronger. Poor Bakri was taking a beating from a substantially larger force. The Aussies and their allies dumped a few hundred angry lead hornets between the buildings, and the incoming fire slackened for several seconds. But once the enemy realized they were retreating and shooting largely blind, it picked up again.
“Dammit,” Kyle said. He dodged trees and headed into the jungle, seeking cover, concealment and a good; clear field of fire. One out of three would suffice. Two would thrill him.
Wiesinger cursed. He had his phone again. “Bakri’s got five men in a building with no rear exit. They’ll have to come out the side into fire.”
“Grenade,” Kyle said at once. “One of ours.” RPG rounds were too powerful.
“You can’t be serious. That’s—”
“Which building, and tell them to duck,” Wade said. He was already closing the breech on his launcher, having swapped canister for high explosive.
“That one there,” Wiesinger pointed. “But you can’t really mean to—”
Wade cut him off with a Whump! followed by a loud bang, as a flash cracked the wall. The resulting hole was about eighteen inches at best. But it was enough for skinny, dazed Indonesians to wiggle through, after peering to be sure they were safe from further fire. The third man beat at the opening with his rifle butt to enlarge it. Bakri and his others were slipping into the dark woods. It had gone well enough, it seemed.
There was a roar overhead, that turned into a thumping, angry drone.
“Oh, shit,” Kyle said as he looked up. Choppers. That meant military. Fast meant Special Forces, the Kopassus.
“Who the fuck called them?” Wiesinger asked angrily.
“Not a bad ploy,” Wade shouted. “Use a porn shop to generate income. Use it as a cover. If the government captures anyone, you blow the cover, destroy it to show your good graces, then call the government and claim the kill. Icing on the cake to catch your enemies right there.”
“It may be more chance than that,” Bakri said. “But I do not wish my name here. It is beyond sin.”
“Son of a bitch!” Kyle said. “Fucking move, sir.” The helicopters were hovering over the village. He assumed ropes and troops would follow. Wiesinger took the hint and started dodging.
The three squads broke into a ragged retreat, occasionally returning fire to threats. Kyle hoped, hoped the Kopassus would stick to the immediate area and not pursue further. But if they had backup on the ground or another assault, they could encircle. There was no good answer then. He was an American, an ally, but siding with rebels who were not, without diplomatic clearance. Best case, they offered a bunch of intel and got freed, while blowing the entire mission. Worst case, an Indonesian jail. And Bakri would likely wind up there either way. Indonesia jailed people for ten years for just flying the Free Acheh flag. Actually bearing arms . . .
And that assumed the Indo troops didn’t just shoot them as mercs without asking any questions, which seemed the most logical and likely response.
The pursuit wasn’t immediate, but Kyle wanted to put a few kilometers between them quickly. He didn’t crave the headlines that might come: us cia snipers, indonesian rebels associated with al qaeda, and child porn studio. Nor did he crave to get shot. Distance and dark were friends.
A long, loping time later, through tangled skeins of brush, he hunkered down and camouflaged himself. He scurried over and through a patch of thick weeds, then under them. He was far enough removed from the edge of the glade to not be visible at a glance. The spreading leaves would help deflect any heat signature, which he had to be putting out, as hard as he was breathing. He forced that breath to a slow, measured heave and listened. The rotors were steady, hovering, which meant they didn’t anticipate any anti-aircraft fire from below. Under that droning, hypnotic beat . . .
Shooting and shouting, sparser now than they had been. A couple of final shots, and then the beating of rotor blades rose to a thrum. One helicopter swept overhead, shaking the air and trees and then dopplering away.
His phone buzzed a few minutes later as he was pondering his actions. He slid it out slowly and carefully. Departure of the aircraft didn’t mean all patrols were off the ground. It was a possible ploy that would easily catch the eager or untrained.
“Kyle,” he whispered.
“Mel. We’re going to approach and recon.”
“I advise against that, Mel,” he said. Dammit, no.
“Bakri is missing five men. They were in a building with no rear exit and no commo. Another building, not the one we blew.”
“Shit. Understood.” That was a potential disaster. He listened to Wiesinger’s orders. They were pretty much from the book, and in this case, were good enough. He saw no need to quibble.
Twenty minutes later, a marathon approach by the standards involved, they were at the edge of the clearing. It didn’t take much effort to count the five stripped, decapitated bodies in the middle, nor the pile of five heads, each shot through from the back.
Bakri quivered, tears in his eyes. “I suppose this is better,” he said. “They could have been tortured, exposed, jailed. But they are thought part of this . . .” He waved his hands around at the smoking remains of the operation. “They are shamed.”
“We know, Bakri,” Kyle said. “It doesn’t matter otherwise. And I think their names are safe.”
The sadism of the act was that they were dead . . . That meant that any guilty parties, or any party worried about guilt by association, would be relieved at the killing of their own people. Subtle. Kyle respected that in a way. It also made him want people dead.
A quick recon revealed other bodies. Their opponents had likewise been stripped, clothes and weapons taken. It was thorough and impersonal, a revealed contempt for the capabilities of the locals.
There just weren’t any good guys here, Kyle decided. Respect and compassion took energy these people used to either stay alive or kill with.
“Where to, then?” Kyle asked diffidently.
“We bury them. Then home,” Bakri said. “We must think on the threats.” He stared for a moment, then turned determinedly and trudged into the clearing. Kyle followed, and looked around for something to use as a shovel. The others followed.