CHAPTER 7
In Lhokseumawe, another element of the operation was quite pleased. Agung received the current shipment of incoming explosives and had it quietly stowed in the warehouse.
It was certainly an impressive sight, Agung thought. Part of him had a craving to take a photograph for the Movement’s archives, and so he could remember this and smile. But that would be a risk. Evidence like that would get him shot in the spine by the Allah-cursed Kopassus, or executed publicly. It could get others killed or jailed, and there was the risk of rape and torture for the women. So he would settle for fond memories.
Instead, he would cause tears for others. He had 850 kilograms of explosives in five packages. One would kill the lackeys of Pertamina, who sold out to the Americans’ Mobil Oil for money. One would attack an Army administrative office in Lhokseumawe. That one was pleasure, for what they’d done to his cousin, though it was business, too, as it would spread fear.
Two of the remaining were shipping overseas, through the Philippines and Pakistan. Whether or not those were the final destinations, he neither knew nor needed to. They’d go aboard ships, and as of then, his responsibility for them was ended.
That left one package of fifty kilograms of PETN-based breaching charge. That had a very special purpose. The thought of that one made him smile even wider. It would light a conflagration Allah himself would be able to see. The satellites in orbit should have a great view, and the images would certainly make worldwide news.
And a few thousand crisped corpses, plus the panic in the market, should drive the cost of doing business so high that the West would have to make, the Javanese bastards come to terms.
Faisal was not smiling. He had never killed a man before.
Of course, he wasn’t going to kill a man now, technically speaking. Decapitating a man would be like decapitating a goat. Or so he was told, never having done so. He was a city dweller from Medan. A decapitation death would cause blood to gush everywhere.
So instead, the man would be stripped and shot. Then, as the camera was turned on the dressed and set corpse, it would be knocked over.
Then Faisal would hack off the head with a large knife, in this case, a golok—an Indonesian tribal knife.
The video would be sent out to the press to prove the act. Faisal’s face wouldn’t be visible, but his eyes would, beaming in triumph.
Except he wasn’t sure they would be. There was little honor in killing a helpless, handcuffed man. There was little pride in butchering a corpse. It might be necessary, he believed action was called for, but was very distraught over it.
What Agung said was true: the West, particularly America, needed to know that its imperial ventures weren’t popular with the typical Muslim, only with the elitists in power, who had sold out faith for money. It was true that the hostages they were taking were part of the military or industrial operations against Islam and could be considered combatants. It was true that they were infidels and nonbelievers, and thus by their own beliefs not harmed by being decapitated or dismembered. It was true they were taking Achinese oil and leaving the people bereft, then abusing them.
But it was also true that the Quran taught not to violate bodies, to allow them to be buried quickly, and, even if oil industry workers were helping the military indirectly, they were merchants and exempt from attack.
The different interpretations of the same scripture troubled him. He prayed as he should, hoping for guidance. So far, none had come.
Back at Bakri’s village, tactics were discussed. First was to identify the boxes Kyle and Wade had seen.
“I don’t recognize the language,” Bakri admitted.
“No problem, we know someone who does,” Kyle said.
“If you’re thinking of your civilian, forget it,” Wiesinger put in. “He doesn’t know we’re here, and to tell him now would create all kinds of hassle.”
“Mel,” Kyle said, “he’s an ethnologist. He’s the best chance to recognize a bad photograph from a scope image, and be at least able to guess the language.”
“And if that picture says ‘TNT’ or ‘Pentolite’ and he knows we’re in Indonesia, it tells him a lot more than that. Compare to images online.”
That would be totally fruitless, but, “Yes, Mel,” Kyle agreed.
An hour later, even Wiesinger was convinced. Without knowing what language, one couldn’t even guess the meaning.
So Wade file transferred and painted it up in an art program on the laptop, a copy of a copy of a photo taken through the image intensifier of a scope looking through humid air late at night. They attached it to an email and politely asked Gober if he could identify it. Oh, and by the way, could he hurry, they were in Time Zone 7. Please forget any reference to Indonesia you may have heard implied. Kyle phoned Robash’s office, where a polite sergeant took note to call Mr. Gober and let him know there was a message waiting.
Lunch was brought in as the conference continued. Bowls of rice with aromatic seasonings, chicken, and more mangoes. It was good, Kyle reflected, that he liked tropical fruits. There were a lot of them in these dishes. And one of the bowls could legally pass as an incendiary. He’d had Pakistani curries, Tex-Mex chili and genuine Thai cuisine. But this stuff was flaming gasoline by comparison. He nibbled at it in between bites of the sweet stuff, which was a combo he’d have to remember. It was quite interesting.
“We never saw a truck with crates before,” Bakri admitted around a mouthful of the firebomb. “And it sounds as if it was sent away quickly. Also the men on motorbikes are curious.”
“We’ll need to follow up on that,” Wiesinger said. From his tone, Kyle guessed he wasn’t sure how.
“I was surprised at the low attendance at the mosque,” Kyle said.
“Oh?” Bakri asked.
“It couldn’t have been more than a third.”
There was silence for a few moments. Then Bakri spoke. “One third is quite high. High enough to be of note. I would expect that for a holy day, not for a normal workday.”
“Oh,” Kyle said. He’d assumed near 100 percent attendance, as in Pakistan and Iraq. “They were mostly young males.”
“Then that is certainly a sign of one of the more militant factions,” Bakri said.
“Damn.” He hadn’t realized how secular people were here. Actually, he’d only heard Allah mentioned once in a day and a half, now that he thought about it.
“We need a better look, then,” Wiesinger said, “to figure out what’s there.”
“You stand out,” Bakri said. “Better if one of my men goes in.”
“How do we do that?” Wade asked.
“Watch.” The grin on his face was inscrutable. Wade was as antsy as Kyle, and had been checking mail constantly. “Response from Gober,” he said.
“What do we have?” Kyle shifted attention at once.
“‘Gentlemen: As near as I can tell, that pictogram is a logo that closely resembles the Thai word for “explosive.” Hope this helps. Signed: E’.”
“Well, we had guessed that,” Kyle said.
“Is there any legitimate reason they might have explosives there?” Wiesinger asked.
“Not without government people bonding and delivering it. Foreign marks are a sign of smuggling,” Bakri said.
“Definitely the right track then.” Wiesinger smiled in satisfaction.
Kyle wondered why. It wasn’t a difficult conclusion. It didn’t bring them a target or any way to stop whatever events were happening. It was only a report.
But, he realized, the colonel lived for reports. To him, this was a major event. He sighed. There were two types of soldiers in the Army. Wiesinger would never understand Kyle’s type, and he would never understand Wiesinger’s.
After a nap, they were back out on the road, on a slightly different route. There was still a Kopassus unit south and east that might come looking for them, and anyone tromping around in the woods from the village might see traces. They circled wide and came down from the hills south of the town, moving through thicker brush as they did so.
Kyle was again impressed. Snuggled under weeds and a ghillie, sweating a little less than the day before now that he’d had some time to acclimate, he watched two of Bakri’s men, Rizal and Fahmi, slip to the edge of the village. They were young, and eager, and grinned a lot, but had shrewd looks when faced with problems. Both were very mature and wise for their ages. He wasn’t sure, but he thought both were about fifteen.
The buildings on this side were older. Trash didn’t seem to get dragged into the woods as often, but rather was left carelessly against the back walls or just tossed a few feet. Disgusting. Even animals knew to shove waste out of the nest. The professional in Kyle, who had studied camp security from day one, was appalled.
There was another truck tonight. It was smaller, a decrepit old stake-bed with canvas covering something in the back. In front of the mosque, two figures peeled the cover back. With a faint whistle, the line of men materialized to unload it.
And Rizal and Fahmi stood up and walked into town.
It took serious balls to do that. But it would probably work, Kyle figured. If you acted as if you belonged, people generally didn’t question you—though there was the risk that everyone in the group knew everyone else. Still, it was dark. They joined the line and passed crates for about three minutes. As the last few were being dragged along the splintered wooden bed, Fahmi took the box in his hands and walked straight into the mosque. Less than a minute later, as the last crate came down, he appeared outside the back door. He gingerly picked his steps through rotten timber and packing boxes meant for mundane stuff, and headed into the woods at an oblique angle, quickly but with caution. Rizal appeared around the side, dropping into the undergrowth and starting to crawl. In seconds, he was lost to Kyle, who was a trained professional with a night vision scope. No amateur should find him, certainly not ones who had no reason to suspect him.
Two hours of crawling and sweating later, they were back in the vehicles and heading for safety, the crate in the back unopened as of yet.