Confirmed Kill Read online

  The negotiation would be as delicate as seducing a virgin, Kyle realized. They both knew what the other was doing, but neither wanted to be the first to say so. They likely had a lot of intel in common, and some peculiar to their respective services that could prove useful, or horribly wrong or worthless. The trick was to not give away bad intel, or swap good intel too cheap, or wind up offending erstwhile allies, or letting anything slip to locals of untested loyalties, or. . .

  Kyle grimaced to himself. He wasn’t a diplomat. He was a shooter. He should pass this off to Wiesinger, except the man clearly had no clue.

  “Yes, we’re hunting Jemmies,” Kyle admitted quietly, but in a rush. “Specifically, ones interfering with our personnel and interests, though we’re open to others if they’re in the way.”

  Stephens was partially hidden under a broad leaf, shadow disrupting his silhouette. It was an unconscious move that marked him as a true professional.

  “Makes sense,” he said. “We’ve been handling PNG, and there’s ties to Timor-Leste, Sulawesi, Borneo, and here.” He pronounced them correctly, rather than in Aussie Strine.

  “You probably have far better intel than we do,” Kyle admitted ruefully. The Aussies had been in and out of Papua New Guinea for decades. He knew of it vaguely, had read a brief on East Timor, and knew of attacks on the others. That was it, done for intel.

  “Well, if you’re not adverse to lending a hand, I don’t mind swapping some for what you need. Tea?” Stephens asked, his smile broken by camouflage paint as he held up a small cooking pot, a “billy.”'

  “Sure, why not?” Kyle agreed.

  Wiesinger proved again to not be as bad as he came across. He’d been quiet so far. When he spoke again, he said, “I assume the ties you’re referring to are Laskar Jihad from Sulawesi, and Organisasi Papua Merdek from Papua?”

  “Indeed,” Stephens agreed as he unfolded a small trioxane stove, pulled open a previously used and tightly folded fuel package with his teeth and broke another third of a bar of fuel off. He slipped it in place, flicked a butane lighter, and pointed at his back. One of the reticent locals pressed on his Camelbak, squeezing water up through the plastic straw and into the pot.

  “But they’re all linked, about like we are,” he continued. “They scratch each other’s backs and share intel on targets and techniques. Better than we do, a lot of the time. They really care less about the credit than they do about killing Americans and ‘your lapdogs.’ ”

  “You, the Brits, the Saudi government, the Poles, the Filipinos, the Japanese . . .” Wiesinger offered.

  “And Bali and India for daring to be Hindu. Then there’s Singapore across the water.”

  “Singapore is involved?” Wiesinger asked, surprised now. So was Kyle.

  “Yeah, they have a team around here somewhere, too, because of Kumpulan Mujahedeen Malaysia. The Kiwis don’t yet, but likely will if they ever catch some fire or think they will. The Filips do. The Brits have had teams in these parts since Malaysia in the sixties.”

  “Pity we can’t all team up,” Kyle said.

  “Yeah, that’d be nice. Of course, Indonesia wouldn’t like that, and the Kopassus is running a lot of ops, too. Some of which get out of hand.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Kyle said. He didn’t admit to having a shootout with them. “Christ, what a mess.”

  “Yeah, a big one. Even if we settle out the Middle East, we’ll still be fighting this one in twenty fifty.”

  “So who are you after?” Wiesinger asked.

  “Straight to the point, eh?” Stephens asked. “We’re looking for Ibrahim Beureueh, who we think was the thug behind that second Bali bombing. But he’s with the GAM and they’re slippery—not all of them are bad, and we’re not opposed to GAM in principle.”

  “Yeah,” Kyle admitted. “I’ve got to say these are some of the most respectable indigenous forces I’ve ever worked with.” He nodded to Bakri, who returned it.

  “Indeed. We don’t want to help the Indo government, but we don’t want to step on their toes. It’s ripe for being used as someone’s bitch to settle a score.”

  “Heh. Been there, done that, somewhere else,” Kyle said, recalling being used to fight a tribal war in Pakistan. He sat back on a damp log. It didn’t matter. He was soaked with sweat and humidity anyway. He reached into his gear for a canteen cup.

  “Sorry to hear that, mate,” Stephens said. The water was boiling and he fished the pot off the stove with his hooked finger through the bail. He dumped in a handful of tea leaves and set it down to steep. Then he blew the stove fuel out before leaning back again.

  “So we’re creeping around until we find this bugger.”

  “We’ll add him to our list, but we’re mostly west of here,” Wiesinger said.

  “Right. So what about you?”

  Kyle glanced at Wiesinger, who nodded at him.

  “We’re looking for incoming explosives, and whoever’s been snagging hostages,” he said.

  “We heard about the hostages. Fucking animals. But what about explosives?” Stephens asked. He looked interested.

  “Whole pallets full. Wade and I stopped some last year on—” he glanced again at Wiesinger— “the Black Sea. Coming out of Russia, most likely, through the ’stans, then into Europe and now down here. Literal tons. Mostly just commercial HE. But enough to blow craters.”

  “Keerist. That’s something I should report,” he hinted.

  “Go ahead,” Wiesinger agreed.

  “Thank you,” Stephens said, waving at one of his troops, who’d been professionally silent. The man handed him one of two phones. Stephens was going to report it anyway. Doing so now meant they all agreed to it, and the Australian military would have more lead time on what it was doing. Meanwhile, Wiesinger whipped out his cell phone.

  Wiesinger said, “Wiesinger here. We’ve met an Aussie SAS patrol seeking Ibrahim Beureueh, I spell, Bravo Echo Uniform?” He looked at Stephens and relayed the rest of it, “Romeo Echo Uniform Echo Hotel. Have agreed to swap intel on my authority. Discussed deliveries being made to this location. Recommend our assets communicate with theirs. Mission on profile otherwise. No additional intel. . .” There was a long pause. “Yes, that is good to hear. Thanks. Relay our support. Wiesinger out.” He closed the phone and said to Kyle, “Robash is out of the hospital, recovering at home on convalescent leave. His heart looks good, his cognitive function is back and he should be back on duty in a few weeks.”

  “Kick ass,” Kyle said. That was cheering news. Stephens finished his own call to some Royal Australian Naval vessel, and then poured tea into the Americans’ cups, just a few mouthfuls each, then some for Bakri, his own men and his local liaison. The billy was refilled and put back to brew another batch. It wasn’t that a hot drink was needed; it was more of a social issue. They were agreeing to sit, talk, and share a supply, no matter how small. Kyle recalled with bemusement the serious issues around such in Pakistan, where you weren’t fed until they decided they weren’t going to kill you.

  “So where did you meet the Singaporean unit?” Kyle asked. He wouldn’t have expected that one. The others he could deduce.

  “Tiny island called Sulawan in the Karimata Strait. Friendly natives, lovely beaches, and a gorgeous crater lake. Oh, and kraits, saltwater crocodiles, roving pirates, and typhoons.”

  “Sounds like a charming place.”

  “Actually, I could retire there. I just might. One of the girls . . . anyway. They were staging from there to Borneo for some Irian Jaya mixup.”

  “We really should pass that to State to follow up with, don't you think, Mel?” Kyle asked Wiesinger.

  “Yes, but let’s hear more.” Wiesinger was attentive as Kyle had never seen him. The man thrived on details and reports. He was probably great in the Pentagon. Better than he was out here.

  Stephens nodded. “The Filipinos are operating in Sulawesi Utara, of course. Stuff comes from there up into Mindanao, which makes it their problem. The Brits and Mal
aysians and Singaporeans are worried about stuff flowing up the Malay Peninsula, and of course from Irian Jaya, and through India to Pakistan. That tells you how effective we’re all getting at stopping their shipping.”

  “That’s odd,” Kyle said. “We just found explosives coming in from Thailand.”

  “Not really,” Wiesinger said. “They sanitize it by doing that, and draw attention from it going the other way. Also, it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s being stolen or is pirated. These routes are never efficient. That’s the one major advantage we have.”

  It was amusing to hear the government bureaucracy referred to as “efficient,” but under the circumstances it was probably accurate in this context.

  “So this is becoming a major point?” Kyle asked.

  “Yes,” Bakri said. “Some of my brothers will take any ally, no matter the reputation. And they have taken these. For transporting the explosives, they get a portion. They get training in it. They get to cause trouble for the government. But there is trouble the government will negotiate over, and that which they won’t. The terrorism . . .” he tapered off.

  “Right. And we can’t tell said government,” Wade said.

  “Wish I could help you,” Stephens said. “But we can’t do anything that might wind up jeopardizing us. I’ll give you support, but I can’t get directly involved.”

  “Fair enough,” Wiesinger said. “Likewise, I can share certain data, but I can’t get into your op without clearing it through our government. That would take some time.” That was an understatement, Kyle thought. That would take years.

  Stephens concurred. “Right. So what more should we talk about, and should we head somewhere with better shelter? I think I feel a storm coming.”

  “We’re heading south and east,” Kyle said.

  “We’re south. If we hurry.” Stephens looked at the patches of cloud through the canopy.

  They rucked up and started slogging. With a combined unit this size, there was little to worry about. They made good time.

  “What’s with pirates?” Kyle asked. He’d heard of that, but not in detail.

  “Various,” Stephens said. “Sometimes they grapple a pleasure boat or small tramp. Steal the valuables, kill the men, gangrape the women to death, and abandon it.”

  “Oh, charming.”

  “Worse sometimes,” one of the other SAS men said. “Rod Iverson, sorry. Good to meet you. Anyway, they’ve been known to fake lights or logos and pretend to be customs inspectors for some nation. Same story. And some of the customs inspectors are pirates, or as close as you find—milking the job for sex and cash bribes. Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s where some of the explosives are coming from.”

  “Always a way to make money,” Wade said.

  “Yeah, pretty much. Also some people buy scrap vessels and register them with valid names, then hunt down an appropriate matching ship in good shape and take it and all cargo, minus crew of course. They sell the cargo, and sometimes sell the fucking boat for a few million, then skip. By the time insurance for the real owners and a government catch up, they’ve got a small fortune.”

  “Devious,” Kyle said. It pissed him off. With his skills, he could be rich if he didn’t have a conscience. A highly trained soldier who could kill at two thousand yards? He could charge a hundred grand a hit anywhere in the world and get it.

  Two hours of forced march and eight kilometers later, they were in a clearing with very crude huts—timber and woven boughs with leaves, some with tin roofs. The rain started beating the upper canopy as they slid into a large hut that belonged to a local headman.

  Whatever language he spoke was quite different from Bahasa. Kyle could barely recognize one word in twenty as being close to something he’d heard. He settled for listening to Stephens and his guide-interpreter, Akbar, jabber away, while he studied their host.

  The man was Malay, with a slight paunch. He looked sixty but might be forty. He was adequately fed and had all his teeth, save one up front. He wore Adidas shorts acquired from some Western source and was armed with a kris, a spear, and a revolver. It appeared to be an ancient Webley .455, and held only three cartridges. The canvas holster was worn in front, somewhat like a codpiece. The kris was buried in its wooden scabbard and looked to be rather old. Clearly, these were more ceremonial than functional. Several of his advisors, guards, hunters, whatever they were, were gathered around with light bows and spears and blowguns.

  All smiles, the chief, whose name Kyle wouldn’t even try to pronounce, came over and clapped him on both shoulders. Glancing at Stephens and getting a nod, he returned it. Then Wade and Wiesinger did, too, and Bakri. It appeared there were status issues. The other Indonesians were ignored.

  The rain was reaching a torrent, though not as much as it would during monsoon season. Quickly, they were broken into groups and ushered into other huts. Kyle and Wade wound up alone in one, the occupants apparently hunting or gathering.

  Outside, the rain poured down, splashing craters in the mud and the puddles already growing. It was dark, almost twilight, as the pools merged into a lake, then a sea, with stalks of greenery fighting to float above it and twist in the current. The tin roof shed water well, but the sound was a cross between being inside a snare drum and standing under a waterfall. Conversation was near impossible for several minutes.

  Kyle stood, watching the water rise until it lapped at the lip of the floor, then slowly oozed in in a growing arc, then spread out to cover the worn, smooth gray planks. Through the frame of the door,, the forest was a dark green-and-gray world, still in stark contrast to the flatter, artificial color of the walls.

  With no one else nearby and Wiesinger gone, it was safe to actually talk about him. Still, Kyle looked surreptitiously around before speaking, and kept his voice low.

  “You know, it’s not that he’s wrong so often, or shits a screaming worm about it. . .” he offered.

  “It’s that he never comes out and says, ‘I was wrong’ or ‘I’m sorry,’ ” Wade supplied.

  “Right.”

  “He can’t be the first officer like that you’ve met.”

  “No, not at all. I just don’t understand why they stick around so long.”

  “In his case, he’s a daddy’s boy.”

  “Yeah, I sorta noticed.”

  “Right. He wants a star so bad you can see the hard-on in his eyes. Just to prove he’s as good as Daddy. And he’s insecure enough to be a micromanaging ass.”

  “How did he wind up under Robash? They’re nothing alike.”

  “Dunno,” Wade said. “I’d guess he pulled strings but. . . how often do we have to deal with him?”

  “Briefly on logistics last time,” Kyle said, thinking, “and I had the general slap him down on some stupidity. We’re dealing with him now. Other than that, maybe a dozen unpleasant phone calls.”

  “Right. He doesn’t like the job. He doesn’t like any job. He just wants to be a general like Daddy.”

  “Perfect problem for the Pentagon weenies; they can shuffle him off. Not so good for out here.”

  “You have a gift for understatement I envy, my friend,” Wade said, smiling. It wasn’t a happy smile.

  “And he’s not stupid. He’s studied a great deal. But it’s all book knowledge. Like that sleeping in full uniform in the middle of a jungle. It’ll kill him from dehydration.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard about officers like that in Vietnam. Damn near or did get their men killed.”

  “Well, time to kill. Euchre?” Kyle grabbed a barely used deck of cards from a pocket on his ruck. They were sealed in a plastic bag.

  “If we must.”

  The hut had two chunks of carved log to sit on, a table of bamboo and split wood, and a window with a shutter. It was rustic but well built, and apart from the wet floor, quite tight and dry.

  There were two pallets at one side, presumably for adults and children, and a hearthplace. With the oppressive humidity inside and the hissing rain outside, it was q
uite soothing. Kyle felt lulled.

  He kept busy and awake by sorting through his ruck. No matter how careful one was, trash built up, and that was weight one didn’t need to carry. He stuffed all the odds and ends into an empty MRE packet, and placed it in the top compartment where he could easily reach it for disposal at a convenient time—fire by preference, buried if not, civilian trash if need be. There was nothing that specifically linked him, but there was no need to advertise anything American.

  Wade beat him three rounds in a row. “Damn, I’m tired,” he said.

  “That’s what they all say. Want to take a nap? I’ll cover.”

  “Yeah, if we can get fifteen minutes each or so, we should. Thanks.”

  He leaned against a timber and barely heard Wade’s, “No problem.”

  CHAPTER 10

  They were refreshed by late afternoon, and invited for roast buffalo. Kyle ditched his trash in the fire, and the local children were delighted at the chemical colors of the flames. The Malay were an attractive people. He could see why Stephens had found a girlfriend on whatever island it was. Even the few overweight ones had nice skin tones and features. A couple of the women were absolute babes, and knew it—they batted eyelashes and the works. He thought of Janie and wondered how this mission would end up. He was only a little dinged so far—scratches, aches, bruises. It would be nice to avoid major wounds or stress that would hospitalize him.

  This time.

  The families stayed mostly in their huts, though it was from politeness. The children played around the edges, in awe but not afraid of the strangers. The buffalo, roasted in thin strips rubbed with local herbs, was quite tasty. “Good grub,” Stephens said. “We encountered the village by accident, and occasional gifts keep them quiet. Pocketknives, flashlights, lightsticks. They’re too savvy for trinkets, but are in a rather remote location.”

  Actually, they weren’t more than thirty miles from a huge industrial operation. But in this jungle, that was a considerable distance. There was little road other than the coastal highway and in the cities.