Confirmed Kill Read online

  But they were nice people, and between game and fruit didn’t seem to have to work much. One of the few tropical paradises left, and assholes were trying to tear it apart.

  “Where do we go from here?” Kyle asked the group.

  “West,” Bakri said. “We should come up on the road and then set our ambush.”

  “Ambush?” Stephens asked. Wiesinger looked unhappy. There was just no way to keep track of the information here. It would be better if he just shared everything, Kyle thought. They were all on the same side and the enemy would know soon enough.

  “We’re going to capture what we hope is a leader and get more intel,” Kyle said, watching Wiesinger to see if he objected to sharing the information.

  “Right. Leave us out of that, then,” Stephens said. “Intel sharing, fine. An attack on anything concrete that will get headlines, even if we’re not in them, fine. In between is a whole range of items that don’t fall under ‘winning the war’ or ‘staying discreet.’ ”

  “Any way to get back together afterwards?”

  “As long as there are no embarrassing bodies to talk about, certainly. Call my mobile. I’d kiss the arse of the man who invented those. Before that, it was pay phone, weeks with no reports, or lug a radio with all that entails and the risk of discovery.”

  Wiesinger accepted the number, and Kyle made note of it. That earned him a look of disgust from the colonel.

  “Always good to have a duplicate, sir,” he said. He wrote it as a simple series of digits with no breaks. It shouldn’t be readily identifiable if found.

  “Right,” Wiesinger agreed. That was from the book. And it was something Kyle used because it made sense. An error or a casualty could leave them without contact information. “We’ll call in a day or two. Good luck to you.”

  “And you.” In seconds, Stephens’s unit had disappeared into the brush.

  “Our turn,” Kyle said. “And we need to hump fast.”

  Bakri had a map out. “Here’s where I recommend. It’s where the trucks have been coming through.”

  “So we seize a truck and roll into the village?” Wiesinger asked.

  “That is what I suggest. If they notice the driver is different, we can delay them a few seconds and apply force. Most of them don’t carry weapons at hand.”

  “Could get nasty up close.”

  “Yes, but we should win. We have enough soldiers, and surprise.”

  Kyle was willing to risk it. Enough fire fast would make most people duck for cover. It wasn’t sniping, but it should be over quickly. Wiesinger took a few moments to assess the risk, and agreed.

  They headed out at a fast walk, two locals leading, two trailing, and the others switching off two on each flank. After an athletic hour of sweating and gasping for air, they reached a road.

  “Not the safest way to travel,” Wiesinger hinted.

  “No,” Kyle said, “but the traffic is light and we have a scout well ahead in case of trouble. As long as it doesn’t get too mushy, we won’t leave much sign.”

  “Very well,” the colonel conceded. He did seem to be coming around, albeit slowly.

  It was one of those marches where one quickly zoned and didn’t notice the passage of time or distance. Kyle had done this for years, all over the world. He had good-fitting boots, a well- designed MOLLE ruck with contents suited to him personally, and a weapon he was comfortable with. There was nothing to do but pick up the feet, put them down, and pace off the distance. They were covering about three kilometers, two miles an hour, and would do so for a solid eight hours. That would put them where they needed to be for the ambush, hopefully with time to set it up. If not, they’d camp a day and try again. If that didn’t work, they might need to actually assault the village and kill a few.

  Kyle wasn’t opposed to that on moral grounds. Most of them had to know what was going on. The darkness was merely a cover. But there were undoubtedly children, women, and a few men who really weren’t in the loop. Besides, taking out towns was sloppy and attracted attention. That’s why he’d opted for the surgical task of sniping. He’d changed entire battles with less than five bullets.

  They were in darkness again before 1900. It was perhaps the darkest night Kyle had ever experienced. There was no light pollution from cities, the moon was invisible behind clouds and canopy, and no one was using any lights. Even Kyle’s night vision goggles showed little detail. All was fuzzy and indistinct. But he could see ruts and worn ground well enough, and kept moving, occasionally feeling with his foot or shifting when he found a dark spot. “Dark” on NVG meant a hollow, but whether three inches or three feet deep was much harder to tell.

  They took no breaks, eating and drinking on the march, no smoking, stopping with a buddy on guard to take a leak and then catching up quickly. Wiesinger seemed very bothered when the two women stepped off the track and squatted. But hell, they had to drain too. The act wasn’t of any interest to Kyle other than as an intellectual observation that they were adequately hydrated if they needed to go. The process was familiar. That it was a little more awkward for women than men in these circumstances was a minor note, but if they didn’t complain he saw no reason to. Wiesinger really needed to relax.

  It was hard to tell how many of them there were, and Kyle was within the group. The noise discipline and movement skills of these people were excellent. That was of far more interest. On the whole, it had been a lot smoother so far than it could have been, and that was with sporadic firefights.

  “Twenty-three hundred,” Wade said as they stopped. He was panting. “Should give us an hour. We’re about five kilometers east of Khayalan, I think.” He pulled out his GPS to confirm.

  “What’s your suggestion?” Wiesinger asked.

  “Well, Mel, they seem to have a driver, shotgun, and someone in the back. Two good shots will deal with the shotgun and cargo guy, but someone will have to tackle the driver of a moving vehicle. Ideas?”

  Bakri said, “I think Syarief can do that. Syarief?” he switched to rapid fire Achinese. The man smiled and nodded. “Sya is a master of pentjak silat. I think he can silence the driver and keep the vehicle on the road.”

  “Good. Both shots from the left?” Kyle asked. He knew silat was an Indonesian martial art. He wasn’t aware of any details.

  It was agreed that on a blank signal from Wade, spotting, Kyle and Wiesinger would shoot the passengers. Syarief would swarm up the side of the truck and subdue the driver, who would be kept alive if possible. Then they’d see about securing the imam.

  There wasn’t time to waste, as the truck could be along anytime. The forward scout was only two kilometers away, which would be only a few minutes of warning. Syarief darted across the road. Wade cuddled up to a tree and laid his scope over a low branch. Wiesinger stood by another bole, and Kyle ascended a few feet with the help of two men. He wanted to have his sight plane a good ten feet up to ensure plenty of window for the man riding shotgun.

  He stood on two men’s backs, scrabbled up over a branch, and wrapped himself around the trunk. It wasn’t a largish tree, but it was thick enough to hide him. And, he discovered, thick enough to make shooting awkward.

  Then it was time to wait. This was the approximate time the vehicle had been observed on previous nights, but there was a variation of nearly an hour. Nor did it come every night. But it did seem they were moving a lot of stuff at present.

  His phone buzzed. It was Bakri announcing the truck. “Two kilometers, forty kilometers an hour. About three minutes.”

  “Understood.”

  Kyle found a position with his rifle steady, both feet twisted and placed for something approaching stability, and the truck came over a slight rise.

  Wade fired the empty cartridge from his pistol, the primer explosion a loud snap like a firecracker, and the slaughter was on. A thrown coat spread across the windshield surprised the driver and causing him to let off the accelerator. Kyle’s bullet blew through the skull of the passenger and out in front of th
e driver. Wiesinger caught his target in the shoulder with the first round and finished him off with the second, though a solid scream escaped. The man’s weapon tumbled over the side. Syarief clambered up the cab in a move Kyle would like to have seen, since the truck was still going at a respectable sprint, and grabbed the driver, who was busy staring in horror at his passenger. With a quick twist of Syarief’s hands, the driver was thrashing and choking, panic evident on his face as his breath was cut off. Syarief wrestled his victim away from the pedals and the truck slowed.

  In a matter of moments, the corpses had been carried far back from the road and left, guts slashed, for the scavengers. Both rifles from the truck’s security detail were in the hands of Bakri’s men, who engaged in a quick shuffle down the pecking order. Lesser weapons were handed down to those in need, kept as trophies, or stripped for needed parts as called for. The remains wound up in someone’s backpack. The corpses’ possessions were looted, as were the driver’s: cash, web gear, boots. The clothes were stripped and dumped elsewhere. Likely, there’d be nothing in a day or two.

  That done, Wiesinger and Wade boarded the back and stashed themselves between crates. There were not only explosives here, but there also were three AK47s and a box of clothing and gear, as well as two other large cartons of produce and dry goods. Kyle now swapped for the M4. He left the SR25 behind with one of Bakri’s men, whom he cautioned not to use it. Wiesinger still looked shocked at letting non-U.S. troops handle the equipment, but it wasn’t possible to carry a ruck and a spare rifle for this. Kyle was worried, too; he didn’t want the weapon jarred or the sight played with.

  Bakri slipped in alongside the driver. From what Kyle had overheard, the driver had the muzzle of a pistol against his testicles and was being told that cooperation would save them, trouble would get them shot off.

  Still, Kyle was nervous. Was there some sort of signal to be given as the truck arrived? Had they already been sighted? A firefight with him on a raised platform in the middle didn’t appeal. Worse, he’d not donned even the light body armor he’d brought. He hadn’t had time. It was still in his ruck, being watched by one of the Indonesians. He had grabbed his helmet and wished he hadn’t. It had an obvious profile and made it harder to squeeze in.

  But there was nothing to do but soldier on. In six minutes, more or less, they’d know. He checked the chambering on the carbine, hefted it again, and got ready. He and Wade would try to subdue the imam and load him into the track. If need be, Kyle wasn’t opposed to a leg shot to make the bastard easier to carry.

  One other thing bothered him. The passenger had been a woman. She’d held a rifle and was definitely a combatant, and a probable supporter of terrorism. Still, he’d never shot a woman before, and hadn’t been expecting to. It bothered a chivalrous part of him. It didn’t reassure him much to realize she would have done likewise. There were Anda with her Pindad SSI carbine and Irta with her AK47 on this side, both of them fair targets for any opposition. People armed and ready to shoot were combatants.

  Then he stopped worrying, because they were slowing and there were voices. Bakri had said he’d face the driver, so as not to be seen himself. But would the driver cause problems?

  That was answered when Bakri fired. The driver screamed. Kyle cursed and came up.

  Luckily, the men unloading the truck were not armed. He dropped off the bed and grabbed the imam by the shoulder.

  The cleric was skinny, bearded, and wearing a black cap. He spun and started to shake Kyle off before realizing Kyle was considerably stronger. Then Wade caressed him with the stock of his M4, leaving a butt imprint in the fabric of his cap, and probably in his skull as well. The man staggered and fell.

  Kyle heaved the limp form straight up and Wiesinger caught him. Then someone behind Kyle grabbed for the carbine.

  He shoved, punched, and pulled away. He really didn’t want to fire a burst. Their stealth was obviously blown, but bodies would make things worse.

  Then the truck was rolling backward as Bakri reversed them out of the area, and Wiesinger was pulling at the back of Kyle’s shirt. It cut into his throat momentarily, until he got an arm on the bed and heaved. His left leg caught on the wheel and was pushed up, causing him to swing.

  Suddenly, he was up, Wade pulling on his arm. He wasn’t sure how Wade had beat him to the bed, but he didn’t care. They were moving.

  As they picked up speed, there came a shot, and the sound of revving motorcycles.

  “Well, at least they’re all combatants,” Wade said. Bakri was driving now, the old driver having been unceremoniously dumped out. The truck careened into one of the turnarounds, then spewed dirt as it accelerated. Kyle scrabbled around, unchoked himself and got a good grip on his weapon. The cycles came in pursuit, and he started firing.

  It wasn’t sniping. It did take calm nerves and precision, but it wasn’t sniping. They were all moving, the terrain shifted and there was nothing to call a baseline. He rapped out bursts and kept them low. He could get ten bursts per magazine.

  Overhead, Wiesinger was trying to snipe. The bullets snapped over Kyle’s head. They didn’t hit anything. Moving platform to moving target was a tough shot. It was something Kyle wouldn’t attempt, and he had had a hell of a lot more practice than Wiesinger.

  He and Wade each fired a half dozen bursts before the first bike went down. Two others collided with it and the rest gave up in a slewing, swerving tangle.

  “Well, that was royally screwed up from the word ‘go,’ ” Wade said.

  “That’s because we’re playing this like cowboys and not soldiers,” Wiesinger said. “Dammit, from now on I will be the voice of reason.”

  “Oh, can it, Mel,” Kyle said, anger welling over. “We’re all unhurt and we have the objective. We’ve got good intel from allies and locals. We’re in a better position to follow up on our primary objective. All that despite you falling asleep on watch.”

  Silence reigned. He wasn’t going to look at the glare on Wiesinger’s face; he could feel it. Wiesinger wasn’t going to discuss his mistimed nap. Wade wasn’t going to get in the middle. Absolute silence and stillness reigned for several minutes. Wade took the time to check the imam for injuries and lash him into a pretzel. Kyle watched the rear. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what Wiesinger did.

  They were well ahead of pursuit for now, but there were no turns on this road. Additionally, radios or phones could have a roadblock waiting for them. It would only take a log or a few seconds of rifle fire to stop the vehicle. They had to ditch the truck soon.

  “Here!” Bakri announced. The road angled downhill. Everyone dismounted, two of them carrying the bound and gagged imam. Bakri slipped the vehicle into neutral and bailed out.

  The truck spent most of a kilometer oscillating in greater sways until it hopped the ruts and caught enough brush to stop. That should help confuse the issue. There was a solid 1500 meters on both sides they might have taken. So the crucial thing was to take the opportunity now and maximize that cover. There would definitely be more forces coming.

  Meantime, an entire shipment of the explosives was in Bakri’s hands. His troops each carried a few pounds stuffed into their bulky, shapeless packs. They slipped into the woods along a broad front, shifting past protruding branches so as not to leave any obvious sign.

  “I hate to destroy it,” Bakri said, indicating his pack. “But I can’t use most of it.”

  “Then don’t hate destroying it. You took it away from the terrorists. And we’ll take some, too.” Kyle wasn’t proficient with explosives, but he could insert a detonator without blowing a finger off. And it gave them more power. “And the Aussies might want some too.”

  “Ah, I see value in this commodity. Perhaps I should broker.” His sense of humor appealed to Kyle.

  “Then we’ll have to come back and hurt you,” Kyle said, deadpan.

  “But don’t worry,” Wade said. “It’s not personal, just business.” He smiled. Bakri returned it, not quite sure if it was a j
oke.

  Wiesinger had his phone in hand. “I’m not sure why I’m doing this,” he muttered loudly enough to be heard. He punched it, raised it, and spoke. “Stephens. Wiesinger. Shipment acquired. Employee acquired. Where do we meet you? Understood. Out.” He turned back to the others.

  “We’re going to head south and up into the hills to meet.”

  “Where?” Bakri asked.

  Wiesinger fumbled with a map. “Here, as near as I can tell.”

  “Ah. . . no, here, I think,” Bakri said. “I know the place.”

  Chagrined, Wiesinger nodded. Kyle wondered how shaky he was on other things. His shooting was good but not sniper quality. His navigation was good but not Ranger quality. On so many things, the man was “good” rather than “exceptional.” Which meant an office was the right place for him, as Kyle was tired of thinking.

  “Twelve kilometers uphill,” Bakri said, “Can you handle it?”

  “Certainly,” Kyle said, feeling as if he would die from the heat. But if two skinny little Indonesian teenagers could lug a struggling prisoner, he could manage himself and his ruck.

  He was glad of the MREs, but they couldn’t last much longer. The locals were eating cold rice from their packs, and fruit in plastic bags.

  Cold rice. He shuddered. Rice was something he tolerated, as long as it was spiced or sauced somehow. The thought of a diet based on the stuff didn’t appeal to him. Whether or not his American diet was healthy, it was what he was used to and very tasty.

  They reached a clearing, almost a meadow at 1500 feet, and Bakri called a halt. They’d traveled a thousand feet vertically and several kilometers horizontally, and Kyle realized he was mixing measurements. It was amusing. Quarts for water, feet for elevation, meters for shooting, and of course everyone here used metric. Grains for bullet weight, inches for drop. He had to be tired if he was starting to laugh at the technicalities of the job.

  He didn’t realize how tired until he sat down harder than he expected and had trouble when he tried to get up. That let him lean back against his ruck, however. That little rest felt good. Sleep was a luxury on this mission, rations were on the low side and would get lower, and energy expenditure was outrageous, with all the walking. It wasn’t the distance. It was the terrain. Between rough surfaces that took a toll on the ankles and detours around growth to avoid leaving signs, actual distance was more than double the map distance. Any break was a good thing. The others seemed to think so, too. They all packed in and set up a bivouac.