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  “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 starte
d 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.

  CHAPTER 9

  Faisal rippled with excitement as he stood before the camera. An hour earlier, the man beside him had been tied down and shot through the heart. After a few seconds of thrashing and screaming that echoed over the gunfire still ringing in Faisal’s ears, he’d stared and stiffened and died. A couple of large bandages and a change of clothes, and the stiffening corpse “sat” on a chair, propped from behind by well-directed hands.

  “Everyone look at the camera,” Erwin said. “Good. We’ll add the audio in a moment, so get ready . . . and . . . now!”

  Screaming “God is great!” Bambang and Wismo wrestled the chair and body over, fighting each other as much as it. Wismo was a monster of a man, almost six feet and near a hundred kilos. The head struck the floor with a thunk, and that was a good pretense for unconsciousness. Faisal took his cue and jumped astride the dead man’s chest.

  He was dizzy and remote as he worked. It almost felt as if another were using his hands. The long, slim golok grated off bone and gristle, slicing and sawing and hacking. The lime and arsenic etched blade left streaks of black oxide in the flesh as blood smeared the knife. Erwin moved in close with the camera, to get a nice shot of the opening gap. Bambang got close to the body and the microphone and gurgled a scream that sounded horrible. This really would come across as a killing.

  Then it was done. Faisal took the head by the hair and held it up so Erwin could get a close shot. Then, in carefully rehearsed Arabic, he said, “Thus to all infidels who oppose the will of Allah.”

  Then the camera was off and they were all singing, shouting, and dancing. “God is great! God is great! Now you are a man!” and clapping him on the shoulders.

  He smiled, but wasn’t sure he felt it. How much of a man did it take to butcher a corpse? How honorable? It wasn’t something he felt like boasting of. His brother had shot men, soldiers in battle. This couldn’t possibly compare.

  But he did smile, and took the accolades. This could be a start to greater triumphs.

  *****

  The video would receive attention in the press, though it wouldn’t have the effect the Fist of God desired. In America and to a lesser extent in Europe, the TV-watching public had seen enough beheaded corpses to not be shocked. Every week or so, another headless corpse. Every day, another twenty Iraqis, Palestinians, Afghans, or some other people dead. Every month, a few Israelis. It was a status quo that they didn’t really have any hope of changing.

  Beneath that, however, was a growing undertone of disgust. Some knew that the killings were a violation of the Quran’s teachings. Many others didn’t care, and simply wanted revenge. The military and intelligence services were frustrated and angered at the inability to respond because of the political and diplomatic hogties they wore. In short, the problem was growing, neither side willing to back down, and one far more powerful than the other, even if it was showing restraint so far. But sooner or later, something would snap.

  Then the terrorists would get the rivers of blood they prayed for. But much of that blood would be theirs, and those of the people they spoke for, whether those people supported them or not.

  *****

  Kyle heard the shot through his sleep. He wasn’t sure if it was incoming or outgoing as he rolled over. Trained reflexes kept him on the ground as he snicked the safety off his rifle and got ready to rock. Someone had discovered them and was deemed hostile. But Kyle needed to know who and why before shooting. Fratricide was bad. He twisted to his belly but stayed under the leaves.

  Wiesinger woke, too. “Report!” he snapped, loudly enough to be heard but not give away position.

  “Unknown, Mel, I’m standing by.”

  Wade dove in nearby and said, “Hostiles, small arms. South and closing.” He was close enough to talk and spot, not close enough to be caught by the same area effect weapon.

  “Roger that,” Kyle said. “Outgoing!” and hunched down for a target.

  Except it was very tough to see in this terrain. Nor did he want to stick his head up. Bakri was shouting something, and the machine gun opened up with a two second burst. Another fired back, shredding leaves a dozen meters away.

  In the pause before more rifle fire, other voices were yelling.

  “Was that English?” Wade asked.

  Kyle had heard it, too. “I think so.”

  “Hold fire,” Wiesinger said quietly. “What’s the phrase?”

  “Jangan tembak,” Wade supplied. There was no need for it; Bakri spoke English.

  Bakri looked at them quizzically from his position, but relayed the order. The outgoing din died down, and everyone hunkered behind cover. A few seconds later, their opponents also slacked off. Into a momentary lull, Kyle yelled, “Do you speak English?”

  “Bloody right. Who wants to know?” The English was clear, but there was an accent. Whoever spoke it was well educated.

  Wiesinger shouted, “U.S. Army. Who are you?”

  “Australia.” Nothing happened for several more seconds, until the other party said, “Want to call truce and parley?”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Kyle said. “Weapons down, everyone.” He turned to Wiesinger and quietly said, “Is that okay, Mel?”

  “Do it,” the colonel said.

  Cautiously, Kyle stood, his right side behind a tree and ready to dive for cover. Ahead, a man dressed in Indonesian camouflage, but clearly Caucasian, also stood. He was carrying an M4A1 with an M203 grenade launcher and an Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight, pointed at the ground.

  Kyle cautiously hefted the SR25 into a low port and stepped forward. The other did likewise. In the thick growth, they were only about twenty meters apart, but had been well hidden from each other until they stood. It was a wonder they’d met up at all. They could, have skulked . within meters and not known.

  Wiesinger had been way too incautious by adding the “Army” to “U.S.,” in Kyle’s opinion. “We’re Americans” would have been enough to start the negotiations. There’d been no reason to announce their identity to an unidentified force, which still could contain hostile elements.

  They stopped about ten feet apart. The other man was skinny, about five foot eight, and had a rugged moustache. They looked each other over, then looked around surreptitiously for any observers or other presence. They’d been doing that as they walked, of course. The obvious act was just part of
a meeting between two soldiers unsure of each other.

  “Kyle Monroe,” he identified himself softly.

  “Jack Stephens,” the other said. “U.S. Army?”

  “Ranger, Sniper, sergeant first class.” He nodded.

  “Staff sergeant, Special Air Service. This is Akbar.” He gestured at his local guide, who was shorter but stockier than Bakri. “What the bloody hell are you. doing here?” His trained speaking voice slipped for a moment, to a Western Australian accent.

  “I could ask the same thing,” Kyle said reasonably. He eyed Akbar. Presumably he was loyal, but he was still only vouched for by a probable ally. Akbar nodded back with a surly but not unfriendly expression.

  “Right,” Stephens agreed. “Should we both guess, or admit we’re hunting Jemmies?”

  “Jemmies. I like that.” Kyle grinned. It was hard to find an obvious but rude term for Jemaah Islamiyah.

  “Yeah, what do you call ’em, mate?” Stephens asked.

  “Dead, whenever possible. Scum when not.”

  “Good man.” He returned the grin.

  “Do we need to get together and talk?” Kyle asked. “All of us?”

  “I reckon that’s an idea,” Stephens agreed with a curt nod. He turned and whistled a sibilant note.

  Slowly, his unit stood. There were two other Aussies and six Indonesians.

  Kyle nodded to Wade, who turned to both Wiesinger and Bakri, and their force rose and moved forward. Shortly, all twenty-five of them were in a loose huddle, a circle of squatting and lounging men and women in the trees, with three of each team, including one Aussie and Wade, facing out on watch. It was quiet now, except for dripping condensation. As his hearing recovered, Kyle could hear the fainter sounds of animals and shifting growth.

  “Wiesinger, colonel, U.S. Army. I’m in charge of our op.” Kyle could see he’d started already, insecure and making sure everyone knew it, while imagining he was coming across as confident.

  “H’lo, sir,” Stephens nodded, then turned his attention back to Kyle. Kyle forced himself not to grin. That the colonel was a REMF was obvious to an operator like the Aussie. “So what shall we talk about?”