CHAPTER 8
Captain Hari Sutrisno didn’t like filing reports that would lead to greater interference from Jakarta. Still, certain events required a report, and this was one of them. Nor was it the first such, and that angered him. Indonesia was quite modern, a producer of electronics and raw materials, but the damned Europeans and their lackeys seemed to think it was a backwater like Iraq or Yemen.
He started the page with date, rank, name, and unit, then noted the incident by date and time from his records.
“While on patrol for operations or training missions by GAM elements, encountered three technical vehicles with suspected insurgents.
“Upon sighting weapons, improvised ambush and attacked. One vehicle was disabled.
“Unit consisted of rifles and RPGs with one known machine gun and a 40mm grenade launcher. Estimated force of 15-20.
“During the engagement, private Edi Sudradjat was killed, two wounded. Estimated enemy casualties four wounded.
“Faced with strong opposition, I withdrew my forces and planned for pursuit and observation. Enemy disengaged in a fast, professional fashion and took casualties and all equipment.
“For note: estimate two Caucasian males in unit. Possible Australian or European. Concern is potential mercenary forces assisting rebels. Recommend all units be alert for other incidents of this type.
“For note: force was quite highly trained, far better than typical for GAM. Consider possibility that Caucasians are military advisors. No purpose comes to mind other than to foment insurrection and separate Aceh, thus leading to negotiations for resources.”
He listed routine operations, requests for supplies, and wrote, by hand—for he was formal about such things—a letter to Private Sudradjat’s family, praising his service.
The email report went out at once, and should be looked at by 0900. The handwritten letter would take days, but it was best, he thought, to have a personal memento to go with the harsh truth.
While a competent enemy was a challenge, it also was a threat. And who were these foreign troops? Could someone be trying to split Aceh? Cash in on arms sales? Create trouble with Mobil and put pressure on Jakarta?
He didn’t have enough intel to guess. Nor was that his problem. But he would find and if possible capture these strangers.
The crate contained bags of blasting gelatin. Seven of them, about seven pounds each. That was a standard size for most of the world. Fahmi also had a bright yellow detonator, marked Trojan NB, DynoNobel as the manufacturer.
“How many crates were on those trucks?” Kyle asked.
“More than twenty last night, ten more tonight,” Wade said.
“At least twelve hundred pounds of HE. Someone is planning a party.” Kyle had seen lots of HE—high explosive—military and civilian. He was fine with it as a military materiel. The thought of sociopathic freaks with it gave him the creeps.
“Could be more than that,” Wade reminded them.
“I am most unhappy,” Bakri said.
“Why, specifically?” Kyle asked.
“Because if this is used against Mobil or the government, it will make our struggle that much harder. If someone has this kind of resource, they should be sharing their skills and helping us. This can’t help. And if it’s being sent elsewhere, it will make my people look like terrorists.” He was quivering in anger.
“We’ll report back what we can,” Kyle said. “We are usually listened to as a source of intel.” But inside, he knew if State wanted a scapegoat and couldn’t ID the real culprit, they’d use Bakri’s men to take the fall, to improve relations with the Indonesian government.
Wade offered a more useful comment. “And if we ID these bastards positively, we’ll dispose of them.”
“Good,” Bakri said, nodding vigorously. “But we must find where this is going, or at least where some of it is going.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Wiesinger asked.
“I am guessing some of it will head for other groups. I can inquire carefully. But I don’t know where else they might be using it.” Bakri looked rueful.
“Well, what do we know, Mel?” Kyle asked. “Any specifics as to groups?”
“We really aren’t supposed to discuss that outside of our own channels,” the colonel said. He looked at the glares he was getting from those around him. Disgust from Kyle and Wade, offense from the Indonesians. “But I think we should,” he added, almost too quickly.
“The group in question, the Fist of God, is a fringe group of Jemaah Islamiyah.” His pronunciation wasn’t the best. Obviously, he’d read but not talked about it much. “They’ve been conducting attacks on U.S. personnel near Lhokseumawe. So far, there are two hostages unaccounted for, just disappeared and presumed dead, and a third was decapitated two months ago. We have another hostage at present. They—Fist of God—are believed to be one of the sources for the explosive that you . . . tracked on your last operation,” he said, referring to Kyle and Wade’s mission in Romania, intercepting explosives as they came across the Black Sea into Europe.
“And we now have that explosive to compare,” Kyle said. “And it looks much like the stuff we intercepted, only in different crates.”
“It also looks like the stuff they’re finding in Iraq and Pakistan,” Wiesinger confirmed.
“I know of that group,” Bakri said, and they faced him. “Very dangerous. They are threatening to attack the oil.”
“Why?” Wade asked. “Isn’t the oil necessary to Achinese independence?”
“Yes,” Bakri agreed. “But they have come beyond independence to jihad. They want an imaginary paradise according to the oldest form of the Quran. They want to kill all Hindus and Christians, split away from the modern government in Jakarta, and live as wanderers, nomads. It won’t work.”
“So they’ll attack a refinery? A well? A terminal!”
“Perhaps all of them,” Bakri nodded. “But we’ll need to find out. I may actually have to talk to the government and tell them of this.” The expression on his face was at once amused, perturbed, and amazed.
“No,” Wiesinger said, shaking his head. “They don’t know we’re here, and the repercussions would affect U.S. interests.”
“What about my interests? And those of my family?” Bakri asked.
Wiesinger froze. Obviously, this had gone from an office plan to a real world fight in his mind. He now had no idea what to do.
“First we find who and where,” Kyle said firmly. “Then we sit down and discuss who’s affected how. Then we decide what to do. We may need silence, backup from your government or ours, or a quick raid and vanish. It’s too early to make calls. But Khayalan isn’t the root source, merely a way stop, right, Mel?”
“Yes, so it seems.”
“I would have said so, if I had been asked,” Bakri said. He was smiling, but obviously exasperated underneath.
“Sometimes State and the CIA really piss me off,” Kyle said. “I’m sure they meant well, but they didn’t cross-check well enough, and now we have a dead end.”
Wiesinger said nothing. He had his phone out, and wandered away for privacy. Kyle let him. Hopefully, he’d get some guidance from somewhere. As it stood at present, the mission was a wash. Oh, they could still shoot a player in this and hinder the operation, and that was better than nothing. The brains behind the program were still at large, however. Depending on where, he or they were probably unreachable.
If it came to an urban engagement, Kyle intended to refuse. That had worked in Romania with lots of CIA backup on scene and favors from the host nation, and it had still resulted in several international incidents. Then it had taken a crack anti-terror squad as well. There was just no way to set all that up here, he figured.
The colonel came back. “Okay,” he said, “that took a three-way with our people, State and Intelligence. They want us to acquire more intel at Khayalan and determine the source if we can, or follow further up the chain. Then they’ll tell us whether we shoot or pull out.” He looked quite unhappy.
Kyle knew the look. Wiesinger felt the mission was a wash, and he’d just become a cog for a possible future one, rather than a commander. Kyle had felt that way several times early in his career. It was the nature of the business. And no mission was ever a waste: Just ruling out bad intel was useful, though it could be hard to be so objective halfway around the world.
“We know which way they traveled,” Bakri said. “We can travel that route and observe. Also, we can set up posts to see what else comes along there.”
“How many men do you have for that?” Wiesinger asked.
“Enough,” Bakri said. “But I’m not sure I should discuss such matters.” His grin was cruel.
Thankfully, Wiesinger didn’t take the bait. He didn’t manage to hide his anger and distress, though. The man wanted control, and wasn’t getting it.
Bakri had two cell phones for his group. The Americans had three. That suggested five groups with a total of nineteen people. Fahmi would lead one group, Bakri another, and each American one. Each group would take a different part of the route and watch for traffic in and out of Khayalan.
Kyle wasn’t keen on letting Wiesinger operate without Wade or himself along. But it was just observation, and the man was steady enough under fire and could move adequately. Sighing, he realized he was running the show while maintaining the pretense of a subordinate. And everyone knew it. If Wiesinger could just come out and say he was an observer and advisor and let Kyle run things with the locals, it would be easy. But the ego the colonel carried would never let that happen.
And maybe he’d fall asleep again, leaving the work to soldiers. No, it wasn’t a kind thought.
By nightfall, they were distributed in five groups along two roads that diverged from the track through Khayalan. A third route was, as Bakri put it, “An easy way to meet the Kopassus.” It was unlikely the explosives had gone that way.
Kyle was sure enough of his element, four of Bakri’s men including Rizal, who spoke some basic English. Combined with Kyle’s very rudimentary Bahasa and the commonality of many technical words, they were able to communicate adequately.
His phone buzzed and he grabbed it. “Kyle.”
“This is Mel. First item, truck, one one three zero hours. Same vehicle as last night. Eight items same as last night. Over.”
“Roger.”
“Item Two. Six motorcycles departed zero zero one five hours. Backpacks medium. Likely capacity three zero pounds each. Over. ”
“Roger.” So they might see stuff their way soon.
“Item Three. American Mobil employee Frank Keller reported killed, decapitated according to video released by Fist of God. State Department and Indonesian ministries following up. Over.”
“Roger. Shit.” Someone else dead, just as a childish gesture. Kyle gritted his teeth.
“Any chance of recovering one biker and contents of ruck interrogative. Over.”
“Yes, Mel. If I see any, we’ll get one silently. Shall I relay to Wade interrogative. Over.”
“Have done so. Plan to intercept one rider. Over.”
“Roger. Out.”
“Out.” The exchange wasn’t entirely by the book. He suspected Wiesinger was shaky on radio operations. Besides, these were cell phones. One could be a bit more conversational.
Kyle looked carefully around, then relocated by several feet. He wanted to be well away from the road in case of observation or attack, or some geek hopping out to take a leak on the side of the road. He also wanted to be where he had a good field of fire. If the opportunity presented itself, he intended to take out the last rider in line. The goal was to make it appear an accident or have it be beyond sight of the leaders. That would give them time to get the road swept clear and neatened.
He found a nice spot, a slight depression still damp from the rain the night before. There was a ridge next to it, likely caused by some near-surface root. It was shielded from the road by some thick, leafy scrub that would make him effectively invisible. The mound would provide cover, and he had a great long oblique view along and across the road. Two trees marked the right and left limits of his weapon. So it would be like skeet shooting through a window.
A couple of soft whistles brought Rizal and the other three over. He explained what he was going to do. He used a lot of gestures and simple words.
“I understand,” Rizal said. “You will shoot, we will catch.”
Then it was back to waiting. It could be twenty minutes or more, assuming the bikes were even coming this way. Two lonely trucks had passed all evening. This was about as far into the boonies as one could get.
Far in the distance, Kyle heard the sound of engines whining. He quivered alert. The sound faded out, then came closer. So they were probably heading this way, but that could mean business for Wade, too. Or both of them if the group split up.
Then the whine rose and came up the slope of the road.
How many? At least three were present, but were all six? It was critical to hit the last bike and not one in the middle. No matter how good a shot Kyle was, and he was perhaps the best anywhere, a target that fast was hard to hit. If the bikers thought it was an attack, it was probable the rest would just ride on, but would definitely report the matter. One disappearing could be any number of issues and gave them stall time. He snuggled into the rifle and checked his scope.
Then they came into view.
The riders were in a perfect bell curve distribution. One machine was out ahead, then another, two side by side right behind that with the fifth close in and the sixth a good twenty meters back. Kyle could take a shot, but there was no margin for error.
The first cycles flashed through the field of view, and Kyle assessed the lead at an unconscious level. He stretched his left hand far forward on the handguard. This would be like shotgunning a clay pigeon on a sharp left launch. He grumbled to himself for not taking the other side of the road.
But then the last one was in front and he swung, using a technique he’d learned from Peter Capstick, an outdoor writer long dead but whose books had fascinated Kyle. With his left hand out and the rifle pulled tight into his shoulder, he waited as the image of the speeding rider in the blur of trees passed through the swinging scope. The reticle aligned with the rear wheel’s upper arc and he snapped the trigger, letting the rifle finish its swing.
The suppressor caught most of the gases and muzzle blast, but still left the supersonic crack of a boattail match bullet. But that wasn’t obvious as a weapon sound to people not trained to recognize it. Indeed, the other riders didn’t seem to have heard it above the banshee howls of their engines. They disappeared in a whirlwind of leaves.
Meanwhile, the last rider skidded on the edge of control. The bike slewed and went down. He’d held it just long enough for the others to be over a slight rise. So unless the rider ahead was very nervous or well trained, it could be minutes before he noticed his buddy missing.
“Go!” Kyle whispered hoarsely, and Rizal nodded.
The driver had laid the bike down well, and was just standing to dust himself off as he was swept off his feet by a torrent of small figures. He was beaten senseless and carried off. Rizal righted the bike and began rolling it as the other two scuffed over the tire marks with branches. Unless the other riders dismounted and made a good search, they should have trouble seeing any signs.
Kyle was already on the phone. “One target recovered. Stand by.” He left it at that as his small squad sought deeper cover. Sooner or later, the riders would notice. They might return, press on or call for someone else to investigate. It wouldn’t do to be around.
A kilometer later he was badly out of breath. It wasn’t the distance, it was the encumbrance of the ghillie, the mass of his ruck, the weapon and the very uneven terrain that required a loose-jointed, shifting run. The distance should give them plenty of time to respond to happenings on the road.
Twenty minutes later, the other bikers hadn’t returned. That meant either they were calling for other forces, or more likely, had no idea where the incident had actually happened. They might have no idea it had happened at all, depending on how observant they were.
The bike had been pushed a good two hundred meters back the other way and dumped on the other side as misdirection, in a small rivulet. Kyle’s shot had taken it through frame, rim, and tire. He figured the odds of a perfectly aimed shot at the wheel having about a one in three chance. Sometimes, luck did matter.
Rizal had the captive trussed with parachute cord and duct tape. He hadn’t taken any liberties, but he hadn’t been gentle about it, either.
Back on the phone, Kyle called Wade. He gave his coordinates. “Relay and we’ll meet here. I’d like extra firepower just in case, and I don’t want to try to drag a prisoner too far.”
“Understood.”
While they waited, Rizal left the man gagged but started softening him up. His methods were direct and brutal. By the time Wade showed up, the victim was wincing and crying, snorting for air through his nose because of the gag. Rizal handled that by gripping the man’s nose shut with pliers.
The snorts turned to whimpers and moans. Wade arrived, then Bakri and his other man, Syarief, with Anda covering the rear. Wiesinger was last and following GPS. He still held a compass but wasn’t using it. Kyle said nothing, but he and Wade exchanged glances. GPS could be spoofed, batteries could die. If you couldn’t find your way with a compass, you didn’t belong in a task like this.
Wiesinger was smart enough or scared enough not to mention the battered and bleeding body in the middle of the group. He simply remained nearby in. a squat, as most of the troops spread out for a perimeter. Kyle decided to tweak him. He pulled out an MRE and started slurping cold spaghetti and meatballs. The colonel faced away.
There was trouble when Bakri stepped over and peeled off the gag. The man started to scream, either curses or cries for help. A boot to the teeth shut him back up, but it was clear answers wouldn’t be forthcoming.
That was, until Anda snapped off the man’s belt and tugged at his trousers. Rizal clacked the pliers suggestively and the response was nodding so hard it might cause a sprain.
Kyle didn’t approve of torture, and officially should have stopped it. But this wasn’t his country, or his troops. They weren’t even legally troops. And this scumbag was helping kill people anyway. Innocent people. Kyle didn’t approve. But he wasn’t about to stop it,
“Ruck contains five bags,” Wade reported. “He claims a destination of . . . where was that?”
“The oil terminal,” Bakri said. “They are planning to attack that, as well as civilians.”
Kyle frowned. There were literally billions of gallons of petroleum at the terminal. A properly staged attack would destroy it beyond any hope of salvage, and kill hundreds, perhaps thousands of people.
Those were headlines that would cause corporations to pull out. Add the death toll to that, and it could be considered a victory for the terrorists.
Or would they pull out? There were trillions of dollars at stake here. Perhaps Indonesia would respond with more military force. If so, that escalation could be as bad. Thirteen hundred islands, 200 million people held together by a government bureaucracy, not any common heritage. What was the term he’d heard? Disintegrasi. Not something that was considered funny here. Indonesians were either very protective of their nation or wanted out. There was none of the humor that accompanied the comments of say, Massachusetts or California seceding from the United States. National disintegration was something most feared.
Some more cuffing and kicking yielded very little more information. The “man” was about fourteen and scared. He knew little more than hearsay. But he had the explosives and an address to deliver them to. When it was clear he wouldn’t be of more use, Rizal drew a large, leaf-bladed knife, bent over and made two brutal chops. The first split the skull like a bloody melon. The second severed the head.
Wiesinger looked rather green. Obviously, he hadn’t seen many, if any, deaths before. Kyle couldn’t say he was enthused by the activity. But there wasn’t much he could do, and they did need the information. He had to deal with his conscience on the grounds that he had neither suggested, encouraged, nor endorsed the activity. But a lot of things in this job were disgusting.
“What shall we do?” Bakri asked. “I am reluctant to start a local war against other Achinese. It could only spread.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Wade said. “Their friends, your friends, and the government all on you.”
“Is there any way to share that intel with the government?” Kyle asked. “Without admitting we’re here?” he added for Wiesinger’s benefit.
“There are sympathizers in the Army,” Bakri said. “But the Army would claim in propaganda that we were all involved. They’d send more forces after us to thank us.”
To which Kyle said, “Oh.” Of course. He knew that and had been briefed on that. Were it mentioned to the government, the operation would disappear overnight and crop up somewhere else. The Army would attack what rebels it could find to show it was doing something. That would make things worse for their friends and do little about the real threats—a hostage and an imminent attack on the oil terminal.
“We need a more informed captive,” Wiesinger said. “Can we arrange that?”
Bakri considered. “I’m sure we can, given time. But who would know? The lorry driver is not likely to know. These message boys,” he pointed at the corpse, “don’t know.”
“What about the imam at the mosque?”
“He would make a good target,” Bakri agreed, “if we could get him to come out.”
“He always greets the truck, right?” Wiesinger offered.
“He did twice,” Wade agreed. “It’s a pattern.”
“Hijack the truck?” Kyle asked.
“If there’s a way.” Wiesinger wasn’t stupid, Kyle realized. Just bad-tempered, inexperienced, insecure, and conceited.
“But will he talk?” Bakri asked. “The imams are quite agitating in the news. Very stubborn.”
“Bakri, it’s my experience that such men talk a lot, and are happy to send young men to die, but have no balls for a real fight.” Kyle had seen such press releases. Men who vowed to “fight to the last drop of blood” when the blood wasn’t theirs.
“You may be correct. Certainly I’ve not heard of their exploits.”
“Camp out here today?”
“I think we must. And at nightfall we must move quickly.” Bakri looked around at the growing dawn. “And we should travel some more distance now for safety.”
“Let’s move, then,” Wiesinger said, sounding as if he was in charge. Kyle wouldn’t mind that if the man actually did take charge and do it well. He seemed to want the glamour but not the work.
They compromised on moving south, toward the hills. The ground rose only a few meters overall in the five kilometers they traveled. Rain started to fall, large drops splatting through the trees, and they were well soaked in short order.
They traveled a narrow path that might be for game or people. Such paths were often dangerous, but it was fast and they carried substantial firepower. Several wild boars trotted by, but upon seeing a large armed party, snorted and gave them a wide berth.
They passed a troop of orangutans who squeaked, which made Kyle nervous. Certainly there were other reasons for them to sound off, but he was still worried about the attention. And the squeaking was almost creepy. He’d expected bellows or shouts from orangutans, not the high- pitched sound.
It could be worse, he thought. Various parts of this archipelago had saltwater crocodiles, kraits, and komodo dragons. There were tigers around here, too. Life seemed so much more interesting away from home. But it didn’t interest Kyle that much. Each was a challenge and a curiosity, but he preferred to go home afterward.
The sun began pattering through the trees after the rain lifted, and they sought shelter. Various downed giant timber, broad, leafy bushes, and hollows served as such. They posted watches and tried to sleep in the oppressive heat and humidity. Kyle was down to just a T-shirt, over Wiesinger’s complaints about camouflage and insects. But if he couldn’t sleep, he’d be no use, and the bugs weren’t deterred by thin fabric. Wade followed suit. Wiesinger didn’t, no doubt to lead by example. Kyle saw him sleeping while on watch. He tossed and twitched, sweat running off him in rivulets rather than beads. Kyle was merely beaded and his shirt stuck. That was enough for him. He shook his head at the mentality of his officer and turned his attention back to potential threats.