CHAPTER 19
Kyle was leaning back, limp, when they hit deep water minutes later. Whether it was wave pattern, or shelter from formations, Kyle didn’t know. But the motion changed from a light rocking to a heavy tilting. He understood why Wade got sick. He felt none too good himself. Though only part of it was the ocean. It was his medical state. He wasn’t sure how bad his foot was, but it was screaming at him. Surgery for certain, though he thought he had it all there. But hell, that meant they couldn’t use him for a couple of months. He snickered to himself.
“So, we meet at last, Sergeant Monroe,” McLaren said. He cleared all three rifles and stowed them in an open crate. Made sense. Random holes in the sides or people would be a bad thing.
“I think we’re meeting at first,” Kyle replied. Dammit, Wade’s humor was catching.
“Right. Anyway, what I’ve heard impresses me. Both you and Wade.”
“Thanks,” Kyle said. Wow. Yes, they were all on the same team and all good at what they did, but the SEALs were about as overall best as you got. For one of them to say he was impressed was praise indeed.
“What’s the camo?” Kyle asked. He looked his host over again. Young, bulky but lean, no nonsense about him.
“Standard BDU pattern in gray and blue. Civilian purchase, but great for beaches at night. Or nightclubs.”
“Good. I wonder if the Army would approve them.”
“Not likely, Monroe,” Wiesinger said.
It was annoying. He’d been making a joke and chatting to unwind, while being friendly with a man who was saving their lives, and the asshole had to prove he had no sense of humor.
“Ah, shit,” McLaren said, cutting off further conversation. Kyle shifted and looked astern, following the SEAL’s gaze. He couldn’t see much from this low level.
“What is it?”
“Some kind of small craft. But bigger and better armed than this one.” He stared a bit longer. “Looks like a fifteen- to twenty-meter patrol craft. Same kind that’s involved in quite a bit of piracy.”
“Define ‘better armed’?” Wade asked. He looked a bit queasy, but it wasn’t the enemy. He’d looked like that the whole way out.
“Oh, probably a twenty-three millimeter Russian. Enough to blow the hell out of us before we do more than love taps with the fifty.” He turned to the bow and shouted, “Mike, bring the fifty!” Turning back, he said for no one’s benefit, though they all heard him, “But we’ll damned sure try.”
Kabongo had been largely invisible up front. He was a massive black man, with shoulders that looked to be carved rock. The defined shape of them could be seen right through his wetsuit. He carried the dismounted .50 Browning at port arms as he came surefootedly astern.
In moments, the two SEALs had it mounted to a rear pintle that had obviously been retrofitted. The welds on it were crude but sturdy. Apparently, it was intended that the heavy firepower be used forward. That was a limitation they obviously didn’t approve of.
“Piracy?” Kyle asked.
“I dunno. Fifty attacks in this area this year. That were reported. Plus tramps who went missing in unknown conditions that might not be storms. Or it could be contracted to the companies. Or it could be your friends. They might have seen us come in and then waited for us to leave, I don’t think they’re government.”
Kyle’s phone buzzed. He started in surprise, and grabbed it.
“Kyle.”
“Bakri here.”
“Yes, Bakri?”
“I was just called and threatened with death.”
“Damn. There’s nothing we can do at this point.”
“That is not why I called. Our friends had observers. They said they would hunt you down at sea.”
“That explains the boat behind us.” He stared at the dot on the waves.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, thanks much. You protect yourself.” Damn.
“I will do so. It is to get violent here. Very.”
“Good luck. I’ll call with my home number if I get a chance.”
“I hope to be here. I may change phones.”
“If that happens, I won’t try to find you. Not safe.”
“I agree. Good luck and God be with you.”
“And also with you.”
He clicked off and turned to the others, painfully. “That explains that. Assholes aren’t willing to let go.”
“Didn’t we do that a couple of shows back?” Wade asked. They’d been chased from Pakistan into Afghanistan.
“That group wanted revenge,” Kyle said. “This group is still trying to bag the target and win points. They kill the Maddens, they get a war started.”
“Well, maybe they’ll turn away,” Kabongo mused. “It’s not as if they’ve got good odds.”
“We’ve dealt with these assholes before,” Kyle said. “They won’t turn away. A bloody nose won’t do it. You have to knock teeth out before they get the hint. And some of them never do.”
“Well, we’re not that easy to hit,” McLaren said. “We’re small, moving fast, have a very low radar profile, and a head start. That might be enough. On the other hand, we’re not going to make thirty knots in these seas with all this extra gear.”
“Should we jettison?” Wiesinger asked, coming from the front. He’d been talking to the civilians, or at least trying to.
“Don’t think it’ll make that much difference, sir,” McLaren said. “And truthfully, the mass is holding us deep enough for better propulsion. I don’t want to start tossing stuff around. Especially as we may need ammo. Call me a miser, but I hate to throw away even government property if I can avoid it.”
“Same here. Thought I’d offer.”
McLaren nodded. “I appreciate it.”
Wiesinger asked, “What about the Indonesian coast guard?”
“They’re a long way away, might not believe us and would be royally pissed. We’d all be in jail and on the news. Your call, it’s your mission.”
“Sir?” Kyle asked.
Wiesinger shook his head. “Let’s outrun them. I really don’t want that kind of attention drawn to us.”
Or to your next promotion, Kyle thought.
“Right. Do you want to call Gilpin or should I?”
“I will,” Wiesinger insisted. Kyle handed over his phone at once. The colonel dialed. “Wiesinger here. Yes, sir, injured but recovered . . . Thank you, sir . . . We’re aboard the boat and being pursued, last-ditch effort to get a kill, we think.”
Lei Ling cringed. Kyle thought, Nice going, asshole. Scare the civvies. But he should have been expecting it.
“Yes, sir,” Wiesinger said. “Understood. We are at sea, hope to call with better news soon. Out.”
“Oh, shit, they’re firing!” Kabongo said.
The blob on the horizon flashed occasionally from reflected moonlight. That was a silver light. This was redder, uglier. And it had a tempo that only comes from mechanical equipment.
The first burst was nowhere near the U.S. boat; Kyle didn’t see any splashes or hear anything. But it would be used to range them. By halving the difference every time, it would take less than five bursts to get the distance. After that, it was simply a case of pouring enough fire out to get lucky as the boat tossed on the waves.
The second burst was a lot closer. It splashed behind them.
“Can’t you stop them with the fifty?” Wiesinger asked before the next burst. He’d missed the earlier conversation.
“Not that easy,” McLaren said with a shake. “We can blow it full of holes, but it won’t sink at once. If they’ve got the pilothouse armored, they can keep closing. And they must have backup to recover them if they do sink. Closer than ours.”
“Time to call a chopper?”
“No, sir. Not while we’re in Indonesian waters. The twelve-mile limit is the minimum. We’re at an oblique course to clear various underwater obstacles. So it’ll be a half hour or so, and I’m saving the chopper. Would suck to have them show up, then leave because of fuel issues. We may need them a lot. Besides, we’re forty-five minutes from the USS Juneau, the amphibious ship picking us up,” he elucidated.
“Will some precision fire help?” Wade asked.
“Hell, if you think you can tag something, go for it.” McLaren shrugged. “Far be it from me to stop an ally from killing a bad guy. And fire downrange never hurts.”
Wade grabbed both of the long rifles from the locker and made sure he grabbed magazines of match grade. He tossed one to Kyle. Both snipers loaded and shouldered the SR-25s and sat down, Kyle wincing in pain.
He hunkered low to rest the handguard over the tubular gunwale. This was going to be tough shooting. It wasn’t helped by the odd angle he had to keep to stop his foot from being squeezed, and hence sending sharp pain shooting up to his testicles.
McLaren started popping off bursts every time the shifting waves brought the two boats into line. The .50 BMG is a big cartridge, verging on being a light cannon shell, but half inch holes in a boat with good pumps aren’t an immediate threat. And he’d have to hit it first. But a single 23mm hit on the smaller craft could cripple it. The engines were exposed to incoming fire, and there was no protection for the occupants. Nor could the hull take too many hits from explosive or even solid projectiles before it split and the boat foundered. Both craft had low radar signatures and manually aimed weapons, making it a game of visual chase and shoot in the growing dawn.
Kyle winced as he shifted his seat. Cold seawater swirled around his ass and testicles. His stance had his foot braced against the gunwale and it hurt. Whenever another slop of water rushed over the boot, it would sting again, coldly, then slowly warm back up. While he wasn’t getting seasick, the shifting waves were disorienting him. Every swell caused the boat to sway, and the gray horizon blended into the black sky and gray mist. And it was dawn again, dammit. He needed some serious sleep once the threats were diminished.
A snapping, ripping, popping sound was a 23mm projectile through the air nearby. That got Kyle’s undivided attention, until he forced himself into his shooting trance. Nothing he could do would stop the incoming fire, except to hit it at the source. No panic, no shakes, just take the fire and make the shot count. A swell slopped over and soaked his sleeve, burning the raw patch on his elbow. He squinted for just a moment and got it under control.
He brought the rifle into plane and caught the pursuit in the scope. Now he had to find a worthwhile target, and he wasn’t that familiar with even U.S. military boats, much less foreign ones. He could see a lit pilot house, a gun mount up front with two men crewing it, and some assorted spidery equipment of no real interest. The best targets were the gun and the gunners.
This would work out to simply be a shot at a moving target, he figured. Or not “simply,” as the target was moving, he was moving, and the platform under him was subject to sudden direction changes.
“Range?” he asked Wade.
“I’d say one four hundred meters,” Wade replied.
“Long ass shot. But okay. Guns and gunner.”
“Roger tha—” Wade replied, drowned out by another burst from McLaren and a wave breaking over, them. They were now soaked through, eyes stinging from the salt and chilling quickly.
Kyle put that out of his mind. The shot was what mattered. He closed his eyes for a second to clear salt and let his mind refocus, then opened them again.
The swells were fairly steady, and the boat was moving with that motion. The other boat was moving with that motion, so he should lead about there. And how high to compensate for range? Could he recall the chart? He was zeroed for five hundred meters, and velocity at that range was about 1548 feet per second, figure the additional range and . . . He relaxed and steadied the rifle. It didn’t do any good to fight motion, in fact it made things worse. He’d have to squeeze the trigger quickly, losing some small accuracy in exchange for meeting the window he had.
There . . . and there . . . and BANG!
Wade’s shot was a bare fraction of a second after his, and an empty case smacked Kyle in the head. It stung for just a second, but didn’t burn through the sheath of cold water.
By scope, both shots had missed, because nothing happened. But Kyle had caught a glimpse of what might have been a ricochet. It was the only evidence to work from, so lead there and . . . BANG! as another burst crashed overhead.
Miss, but it was the best he could do. So shoot again. Breathe, relax, squeeze . . . BANG! Another of Wade’s ejected cases caught him. He should move, but it was a minor annoyance and he had work to do.
One of the gun crew spun and tumbled. Good. It might have been his shot or Wade’s. It didn’t matter. Kyle knew how good he was, and how good Wade was, and they didn’t need to compete. That was the right lead, and he fired again as it came by, and again. The remaining man tugged frantically at the gun. Perhaps one of the shots had damaged it? Or it could have just jammed. And shoot. And shoot.
Then the gunner staggered back, ducking a round. He seemed to crash against the pilothouse and fall over as the boat swayed. He scrabbled to his knees and disappeared inside. At this range by starlight it was a tough call, even with a night scope.
“Score two,” Wade said.
“Yup. More targets.” They were in good shooting position, comfortable enough and able to stay here for hours, with range and windage for the target. There was no hurry to move.
“Looking,” Wade said. “Nothing. Want to try for the pilot house?”
“I have an idea. Get the scope,” Kyle said. An idea that was goofy, except that it might work.
“Stand by,” Wade agreed. He fumbled with the rucks until he found his, then inside until he found the spotting scope.
“Mr. McLaren, I have an idea,” he said. McLaren looked at him. “I need to borrow your shoulder.”
“Show me,” McLaren said, looking quizzical.
Kyle cleared the SR-25 and laid it down, rose and took the grips on the .50. “You stand in front, facing me, gripping the mount. I’m going to steady over your shoulder. You’re a strong man?”
“Strong enough. I got ya. How the hell are you going to aim, though?” he asked as he squatted and wrapped himself around the mount.
“I’m not. Wade is. Wade?”
“Ready!” Wade agreed.
Wiesinger said, “Monroe, you’re a fucking nut. But good luck.” He was wincing from saltwater on his feet.
“Thanks,” he replied shortly, as he lowered the gun back down over McLaren’s shoulder. The SEAL reached up and wrapped an arm around the heat shield, placing the hand over his exposed ear.
“Perfect,” Kyle agreed.
He fell back into trance, closing his eyes, opening them, judging the combined motions, picking a lead. “Shooting!” he announced and gave the paddle a press.
The .50 fired and slammed. A single round banged out. McLaren shouted, “OW!” from the noise so close to him and the recoil. The empty case whipped out and over the side, a flash of slightly heat-crazed brass.
“Need me to stop?” Kyle asked.
“High and right, several meters,” Wade called.
“Your ass! Keep shooting!” McLaren said. “I’ll deal!”
Kyle nodded and shifted just slightly. McLaren was inhumanly strong; even with a good part of the 85 pounds of the .50 balanced against his shoulder, it took effort for Kyle to move him. Which was good. He chose his new point of aim and settled back in. With no scope, the boat was just a toy on the horizon.
“Shooting!” The Fifty crashed, McLaren shouted, Wade called, “Roof, left, one point five meters,”
“Dammit, it’s not steady enough. Going to take a lot of luck.”
“More mass!” McLaren shouted. “Kabongo, time to make your swim buddy smile!”
“Will do, Dan. Stand by.” Kabongo had been gently offering water to the civilians and Wiesinger. He came running over like a boulder with legs. He got behind McLaren, reached around him and grabbed two of the three struts on the pintle mount. He strained until his arms bulged and hugged tight. Then he straightened up.
The end result was two shoulders under the receiver, braced with four feet and the metal structure.
“I’ll need to move it,” Kyle cautioned.
“You move, we’ll move. Shoot, damn you!” McLaren said.
“Roger. Targeting. Shooting!” Another round of crashing and yelling. He was off the mark from the shifting, but that couldn’t be helped.
The 23mm mount was working again. Several hornets on steroids and rocket fuel ripped through the air. Three voices yelled, “Shit!” simultaneously. Then they had to not laugh, because it was hysterical.
“High, right, about three meters,” Wade called. He was able to track the rounds by heat trace and by disruption of the dense, humid air.
“Roger,” Kyle agreed, and depressed ever so slightly. Both SEALs were bleeding from the side of the head. At least he hoped it was scalp and that he hadn’t blown their eardrums out. They were about three feet from the muzzle and facing the other way, but it couldn’t be pleasant.
Hell, he wasn’t enjoying the swells, the spray, or the incoming fire. These guys were just nuts. But a good kind of nuts.
A burst came in, and the pilot, who hadn’t been introduced, swore in a shout. Kyle glanced back. A round had blown through one of his instruments. One of the gunwales had been hit, too, but in an oblique crease along the top.
There was nothing to do about that. Kyle came back to his weapon and reacquired his position from muscle memory.
And fire. “Shit!” McLaren shouted.
“Glass gone!” Wade shouted triumphantly. “Nail him again!”
“Shooting!” Kyle said, and waited for the waves to match up again.
BANG! “OW, goddammit!” “Son of a bitch!”
“Hit inside the pilot house. They’re turning!”
McLaren slumped. “Holy shit, that was a workout. Wish I could have seen the shooting!” He turned to observe. “And they are leaving. Nice.” He heaved a deep breath. “My ears thank you for finishing.” He was greased with blood on the right side of his face.
“Kick ass, brother,” Kabongo said with a nod as he dropped to the other gunwale. “Call me officially impressed.” His face was abraded along the jaw line and under the ear. That was what the bleeding was. But he still might have suffered hearing loss.
“Yeah,” was all Kyle could say. It had been an athletic workout for him, too, and a mental drain. But he’d made the shot. Several shots.
Even Wiesinger said, “Monroe, while I never had any doubts I had about your shooting ability, that was fucking amazing.”
“Thank you, sir.” Yeah, the man wasn’t a total waste. Another couple of field ops and he might turn into a respectable officer. The problem, Kyle realized, was that he had a second lieutenant’s manners, experience, and ego, and a colonel’s service time. No one had done him any favors by keeping him in administrative slots.
Far off were the lights of another boat. A bigger one. Presumably official from somebody.
“Is it time to call the chopper yet, Mister McLaren?” Kyle asked, his voice high and tight.
“It’s time!” McLaren agreed. “By the time it gets here, we’ll be in good water.”
“Use your left ear,” Kabongo said. “We can bandage each other while you call.”
The chopper flew escort in the graying dawn. It would have been a faster trip aboard the aircraft, but would mean several winching operations. Kyle was happy enough to wait the extra two hours. The helo also flew interference when the Indonesian patrol boat came to inquire. It landed on the tail of the boat and someone debarked. After a few minutes of face to face, he reboarded. It was impossible to tell through the scope what the details were, but Kyle gathered another “training exercise” was being stretched until it could be seen through. But that wasn’t Kyle’s problem, and the intel could be freely shared, now. A few extra kills for the local forces always sweetened relations.
It took a subjectively long time to reach the Juneau. Kyle wasn’t up to date on ships. He knew an Amphibious Transport was designed for Marines and helicopters, and was a moderately large craft, but seeing it was substantially different.
“How big is that?” he asked.
“The Mighty J, LPD 10, displaces seventeen thousand, five hundred tons full load, is five hundred sixty-nine feet long. She carries eight hundred thirty-five Marines full load, plus a crew of about four hundred, plus flag crew for amphibious landing operations.” McLaren rattled off the specs. That helped Kyle see it for what it was.
“That’s the size of a small aircraft carrier,” Kyle said.
“Pretty much. The Wasp class are carriers, for practical purposes, with Harriers as well as helos. But Juneau is plenty big enough for this.”
“How do we get aboard?” Wiesinger asked.
“We steer right into the well deck at the stern. Slip this sausage right up her . . . ah,” he looked around at the two huddled civilians, who were wrapped in a blanket, wide-eyed and silent. “Well, in the stern. Nice and safe.”
“You’ve all saved our lives,” Lei Ling said. “Go ahead and swear. It can’t be worse than engineers.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but we should learn to use proper punctuation anyway,” McLaren replied.
The helo made another pass and Kabongo waved them off. It was past dawn now, and the ship was filling the northeast view. Kyle had never dealt with ships, though he had seen a bunch in port here and there, including the Black Sea. Being in this position to a major warship was a new experience.
The flight deck of the Juneau was crowded with running people as they approached. Then the crowd shifted as the chopper landed.
It really wasn’t long, according to his watch, but it seemed to take forever to approach the dark cave of the well deck. Juneau was sunk at the stern so they could guide the craft right in. A rail on the left, port side, was crowded with people, and cranes and winches stood ready. The pilot of the boat, a Petty Officer Murphy, was busy with controls and wheels. He hadn’t said much for the trip, but had stuck to the cabin area. Navigating a tiny boat in deep water had to be a difficult task, Kyle thought. Every time he ran into other military careers, he was amazed at how much was involved. There weren’t any dumb grunts, as certain frothing web posters and “reporters” implied. These people were all technical professionals.
Then they were inside, the bright morning light doused and replaced with the yellow-tinged glow of large spotlights. The smell of the sea mingled with machine oil and metal. The noise was a steady hum with mechanical clatters and bangs interspersed. They drew up to the rail and Kyle felt like a bug as people stared down. He was too tired to care, and these were all friendlies. It was damned good to see nothing but U.S. uniforms.
Two female medics, as McLaren had specified, wearing very feminine-looking makeup, and civilian clothes with no insignia other than ID packs on their arms, came to escort Lei Ling and her daughter. They were smiling and cheerful to reassure the little girl, and whisked them up the ladder and away to sick bay for observation. Suzanne looked suspicious but didn’t complain. There were running Marines in MARPAT camo with rifles, maintenance crews in color-coded uniforms, crewmen in dungarees, and the SEALs and their support staff in wetsuits.
“Who’re they?” someone asked, pointing at the shaggy, filthy soldiers, as three sets of hands helped Kyle scramble one-footed up a ladder. Kyle had to wonder just how bad he looked. Death warmed over? Or totally roasted?
“Army Delta or something. Rescued hostages, my man! U.S.A! U.S.A!”
There was no need to correct the error, and Kyle was too damned tired. He assumed Wiesinger would say something, but even he was quiet.
A medic came over and knelt down next to Kyle. “What’s wrong?”
“Superficials on knee and elbow,” he said. “My foot may be worse.”
“No problem. Sit here and lie back.” The man nodded as he inspected the injuries, and had a relaxed confidence that came only from knowing he could handle the situation. Even though the injuries couldn’t possibly be critical, and Kyle had seen, experienced, and inflicted worse, it still helped him relax. He lay back as they gurneyed him to sick bay through echoey metal corridors. Passageways? Companionways? Whatever the Navy called them. He was in a daze and didn’t even notice when he arrived.
He came alert again because his foot twinged as they cut the boot away. He risked a look down as they snipped and peeled the sock.
At first it was hard to recognize it as a foot. It was gray and wrinkled from days in the jungle and the water, curled and cramped from the cold. But it resolved to its proper shape, and the swelling and discoloration at the toes wasn’t bad. A slight encrustation of blood was under the nail of his big toe.
“Don’t even think it’s broken,” the medic said. Kyle could see the three stripes of a petty officer first class printed on his sleeve. “Got to hurt like hell, but we can drain the hematoma and you should be fine. We’ll X-ray anyway, of course.”
“Bring it on,” Kyle agreed. “I’m not going to complain. But I would like something warm to drink and eat if you can.”
“Not supposed to until after treatment. But you’re hungry?”
“Yeah, and cold. I’ll even eat Navy food,” he joked with a smile and a wink.
“Then I’ll have them bring you some Navy food, and you can tell the cooks what you think personally.” The medic grinned back.
“Done deal.”
He was unconscious before it arrived.
Four hours later, bandaged up, showered, fed excellent food, and wearing borrowed USMC utilities, Kyle felt human again. Dammit, it had been a good mission, even with that pusillanimous Wiesinger along. And they were heading for Singapore and ready to fly home. He dozed again, and the painkillers had nothing to do with it.
The next morning he rose early. He was having trouble getting back to a diurnal schedule, and Wiesinger’s order that he be up and about pissed him off. The allegation of “malingering”—while he tried to eat and drink enough to cover the ten pounds he’d lost in a week, plus the painkillers keeping him from screaming when he put weight on his foot—didn’t sit well. But he said, “Yes, sir,” and got up. He shaved and trimmed his hair back to Army specs, cleaned up and met the others on deck.
The three soldiers were finally back together, watching the sun rise somewhere over the Philippines as they stood at the starboard forward railing. The monstrous port of Singapore was ahead and around them. Ships and docks stretched literally for miles—everything from wooden sailing boats to supertankers and freighters. There were islands all around. A large percentage of the world’s ocean traffic came through here. It was the nautical equivalent of Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. The lanes were crowded in every direction.
Wiesinger said, “Good news: the Indonesian military stormed the site, finally. They found enough evidence to convince them, I assume, because they did raid Lhokseumawe. They shot the hell out of a bunch of people, but they did intercept a truck with bombs disguised as welding bottles and toolboxes. The target was one of the main tanks at the terminal. Could have taken the whole damned place up.”
“Yeah, good, sir,” Kyle agreed. “They don’t have security around that place?”
“Apparently it has holes. But the Australians have offered an intel brief about sources for explosives. Pisses me off that State won’t do it.”
“Yeah, that always sucks,” Kyle said diplomatically. Frankly, he preferred anonymity, and Robash was the man who could bump his career. What the rest of the world thought wasn’t that critical. “One more thing to deal with.”
“I’m glad we’re leaving,” Wade said. “I expect more bombs, and more fragmentation of the rebels. Bakri may be in for an even rougher ride.”
“Good luck to him,” Kyle said.
“Sergeant Monroe,” Wiesinger said after a few seconds of quiet.
“Yes, sir?” he replied.
“You are an insubordinate, impudent, rude little jackass.”
Kyle said nothing. It was all true, though “little” was only in comparison to Wiesinger’s bulk. The laundry list of complaints he had about the colonel would take a book.
“But you did do a respectable job. I’m going to ignore a lot of what happened the last few days,” the colonel finished.
“I appreciate it, sir. And I’m glad we were able to get the job done.”
“I will expect a full after-action review on events, specifying what you did against my orders and Army regulations, and why. While I won’t charge you, I want you aware of what you did.”
“I am aware, sir, and I’ll give you that report.” And I’d do it again in a second, you pencil pushing clown.
“Very good. If there are any areas where you feel changes are needed, write them up as suggestions and I will forward them. That’s how it is done. Sergeant Curtis, you also. ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will do, sir.”
So Kyle was going to get buried in paperwork for his sins. He realized he was just happy to have it over and done with, and would go along with the program without feeling disgruntled.
Besides, he thought, it was just barely possible his recommendations would be accepted.
He let the issue drop. They were all on the same side anyway.