CHAPTER 2
When the phone rang at 0600, Kyle was just getting ready for the duty day. He was out of the shower, toweling his longish-by-Army-standards hair, and naked.
“Monroe,” he answered.
“Sergeant Monroe, Colonel Wiesinger. The general is in hospital.”
“What? Sir?” It was a shock he wasn’t ready for, this early in the day.
“We’re not sure,” the colonel said. He sounded worried. But there was an undertone of. . . eagerness? “Likely a heart attack is my guess. He’s been transported. I don’t have any other intel yet.”
“Roger that, sir. If there’s anything I can do to help, do let me know.”
“Will do, soldier. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.” Kyle hung up slowly, thinking that was an odd phrase to use. It was too cliche. Almost as if Wiesinger hadn’t had enough practice dealing with troops.
Just what was his background anyway?
The phone rang again. It was Wade.
“You hear?” he asked.
“Just now. Shit, pal, that sucks personally and professionally.”
“Yeah, tell me.”
“Listen, what do we know about Wiesinger?”
“Nothing, really. Want me to dig?”
“If you would.”
“No problem. See you at the shop in an hour?”
“Right.” Sighing, Kyle turned to get dressed.
*****
Wade was very good with intel. Kyle was better at politics, though at times like this he realized he was a rank amateur compared to the men, mostly officers, who spent their careers at desks figuring out where the bodies were filed. The proper innocuous paperwork could kill a career or make it. He had a battlefield grasp that matched his knowledge of first aid, but he was not a surgeon.
Of course, Wiesinger might be more butcher than surgeon. But he undoubtedly had friends to have gotten as far as he had. It was a game Kyle didn’t want to play. He drove mindlessly, parked, and got out. He unlocked the office, which was in an old but clean WWI1 building that was drafty in winter and had humid spots in summer. But it was discreet and private and theirs alone. He sat down and started on paperwork.
Wade had his cell phone to his ear as he strode in only a few minutes later. “I appreciate it, Sergeant Major. Yes, I will do so. You’ve been more than helpful. . . Sure, if he wants some range time, send him down, that’s what we’re here for. Thanks. Bye.” He clicked it closed. “Are we secure?” he asked.
“I don’t think we’re bugged and he’s not here,” Kyle said.
“Good. Well, I found out an amazing amount, my friend.”
“Yes?” Kyle prompted, figuring he wasn’t going to like this.
“Colonel Joseph Melville Wiesinger is the son of Brigadier General Joe Wiesinger, retired.”
“Never heard of him,” Kyle admitted, brow furrowed.
“Exactly. He was an administrative general in the Pentagon.”
“So he was nobody.” One-star generals were a dime a dozen at the Pentagon
“True. But he had enough pull to get his boy in through ROTC. He’s not Academy.”
“Didn’t think so. Academy grads can be assholes, but they typically know what they’re talking about even if they do quote the book. He just has the book.”
“Yup. He was a staff officer from Day One. Logistics mostly.”
“Hell, nothing wrong with logistics,” Kyle said. “You can’t fight a war without them.”
“Right,” Wade agreed. “But he wasn’t an issuing officer. He was a procedure-and- documentation wonk.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yes,” Wade said. “He’s done nothing but sort papers, except for a year each, commanding an infantry platoon and company.”
“One year?”
“One year, just to fill the box. And his year as CO was nineteen eighty-nine. He wasn’t in Panama or Kuwait. Nothing close to combat. But he had to be a commander to make major in time. And as a major and light colonel at the Pentagon he was obviously a staff officer. And now he’s a colonel detached from the Pentagon with half intel and half operations designators. So he’s had a career full of nothing but pretty uniforms and neat stacks of papers.”
The phone rang and Kyle snagged it. The normal Army greeting rolled off his tongue. “Sergeant First Class Monroe, this is not a secure line, how may I help you, sir or ma’am?”
“Sergeant Monroe, Colonel Wiesinger.”
“Ah, yes, sir?” he said, switching mental gears.
“Nothing new on the general, but he’s in critical care and is breathing and does have a heartbeat. I don’t know more about it than that.”
“Good to know, sir.”
“Agreed. He’s got a hell of a job here and I’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill. It occurs to me I don’t know as much about this operation as I need to, in case of ongoing problems.”
“Well, anything we can do to help, we’re at your disposal, sir,” Kyle said. It was good when officers admitted they didn’t know everything.
“Glad to hear it. Please calculate me into your travel arrangements. I’m coming along to get a firsthand look at how this is done.”
“Ah,” Kyle said, and then followed it with the only possible answer. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
“Good. See you tomorrow for the flight to Bragg.”
“Roger that, sir.”
After they hung up, he turned to Wade. “He’s coming along.”
Wade got his first joke off quick. “He sleeps with you.” He didn’t even look up from his desk.
“Oh, fuck me, how do we stop this?” Kyle ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly he was tired again.
“I’m not sure anything you say will change his mind,” Wade said. Considering, he added, “You might try just loading him down with details and stuff that’s intimidating.”
“I could,” Kyle agreed. “But no, I think we’ve just got to bite: this one.” He sighed again. “He is a sniper, right?”
“On paper . . . but he went through the course during the Clinton Years.”
“Oh.” For a long time, the sniper school had been audit only. Once selected by his home unit, an existing infantryman attended the course for credit and then returned. It wasn’t until later that the course became pass/fail.
Before that, candidates had been required to have both small-arms expert qualification and a maximum score on the Army Physical Fitness Test. Most commanders were good about selecting only those soldiers they felt could handle the job intellectually and morally. Then there was selection within the sniper teams for those who could handle the realities of it in the face-to-not-face conditions of battle.
But there were ways to pencil-whip qualifications and call favors to get any school slot. It didn’t take much of a stretch of imagination to think Wiesinger was one of those. He certainly didn’t have the physique to suggest great fitness, and his quick temper alone would contraindicate letting him handle any task requiring patience. “And he wants to come along,” Kyle said.
“Hey, it’s good that he realizes he’s behind the curve,” Wade said.
“Yeah, though realizing it ten years ago would have been better.”
“No doubt. Still. It can’t be all bad.”
“You are so cheerful, my friend,” Kyle said. “No, it’s not all bad. But the bad it can be is still plenty bad.”
“Hey, we’re in the Army to be screwed over. It’s the Army’s job to provide the screwing.”
“Yeah. But just once I’d like Vaseline.” He sighed and stretched. “Dammit, I’ve got to make lists and calls. There’s only one good part to this,” he said.
“Oh?”
“We’re so short on time he’ll pretty well have to approve what I call.”
*****
HALO School was at least fun. “Fun,” of course, assumed the attendee liked waking up early, PTing a few miles, loading up with a ruck and parachute, then jumping into free space.
“How can you jump out of a perfectly good aircraft?” was the standard question from those who would never consider it to be fun. The stock answers were, “Two perfectly good parachutes on my back” and “It’s not a perfectly good aircraft, it’s a U.S. Air Force aircraft.”
Physicals were necessary, as well as dental X-rays, presumably because the lack of pressure at altitude might loosen fillings. The two reported to Fort Bragg and were weighed, as always, to ensure fitness. While some soldiers always pushed their weight limit, Kyle and Wade had 20 pounds of leeway each and muscle tone that made it a mere formality. They were close enough in size to be buddied together and were assigned an instructor, a man ironically named Sergeant Storm. He was intense, and both blocky and short at five foot eight.
In a couple of days, they were rammed through the physics of ram-air parachutes, repacking and emergency procedures, and were hung in training harnesses to practice. It was a fairly simple procedure for them, just strenuous and intense enough to not be boring without being a strain. Wiesinger was slightly taller and a bit heavier. They didn’t see him much except in the evenings. The reports on Robash were that he was in hospital, critical but stable, and would be out of the picture for several weeks at least.
Then they moved to the Vertical Wind Tunnel, and practiced the rudiments of steering in free fall. It was easy enough for Kyle. He’d made a number of civilian skydives and knew the mechanics. It wasn’t appreciably harder for Wade. He followed the guidelines and picked up on proper arch, bending to steer, recovering from a tumble and other moves. It was fun all around as students from all services watched the fan-generated wind blow each others’ faces out of shape and billow up the loose, training jumpsuits that caught the 150 mph air to keep them aloft against gravity. Wiesinger had one advantage: he fell like a brick. Even cranked up, the buffeting winds couldn’t tumble him.
Their fourth evening, Wiesinger looked them up. “News, gentlemen,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“General Robash is in Walter Reed. It was a heart attack, but they think there may also have been a minor stroke. They’re looking at angioplasty.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wade said. “Damn, I hope he’s okay.”
“Yeah, he’s a fine officer and a good man to serve under. Anything we can do for his family?” Kyle asked. He was anxious. Losing Robash would mean a new commander, new ways of doing things.. .. and Wiesinger might be the one to assume that post.
“Nothing yet,” Wiesinger said. To his credit, the inevitable excitement and thrill he was getting from being in charge for the time being wasn’t shining through. He really was concerned about his boss. “I’ll let you know.”
Kyle was worried, and it wasn’t just having to deal with Wiesinger. It was that he really respected Robash as a good officer and a friend, as much as one could be friends with a general. And professionally, the good working relationship they’d built would change drastically if anyone else took over. Stability wasn’t a realistic expectation in the military, but catastrophic changes were rough.
From Benning they transferred to Yuma Proving Ground, Arizona, and jumped daily. Ten thousand feet with no gear under a 370-square-foot MC-4 canopy was even easier than a civilian jump. But the altitude increased each time, and more gear was added. The rig’s mass limit was 360 pounds of jumper and equipment. The three of them were going to not only bend but torture that limit on their insertion. They worked up to altitudes that required oxygen, and even higher. Twenty-five thousand feet was the standard maximum altitude, but they did a jump at 30K and another at 35K, the weather outside the plane being positively arctic. Tears could freeze, skin could get frostbitten. Insulated jumpsuits were necessary, to be discarded after landing.
The word came down that Robash was recovering slowly and would require surgery, but would most likely survive. His military career was still very much up in the air.
“Frankly,” Kyle said, “if Wiesinger takes over, I’m going to have to slip out to another assignment. I just don’t know if I can work with him.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Wade nodded. “The slot calls for a general, though. They’ll have to assign someone to it.”
“Unless they promote Wiesinger into it.”
“I was avoiding that possibility.”
The school was a good one. It was a no bullshit, all-fact-and-practice session that both snipers appreciated. They were confident of their ability to perform the jumps in question when they were done, and didn’t feel any time had been wasted. They thanked Sergeant Storm profusely.
“Glad to hear I’m doing my job well,” he said. “If you have any suggestions, by all means give appropriate feedback on the end-of-course questionnaire.”
Because of the speed they’d rushed through the course, there was no graduation party. Their class was only the three of them. They outprocessed quickly and departed.
*****
By the time they returned to Washington, there was more information. Wiesinger had his cell phone out as soon as they hit the terminal. “Angioplasty didn’t work,” he told them. “He’s got two fully blocked arteries. Surgery on Wednesday.”
“Damn. Prognosis, sir?”
“Oh, he should be fine,” the colonel said. “He was doing his morning four-mile run when he collapsed. So as long as nothing happens during surgery, he’s plenty healthy enough to recover, I understand. Meantime, I’ve got to run this.”
“Yes, sir,” Kyle said. There wasn’t much he could say, and he wasn’t going to make a scene over the issue.
Instead, he got to work on prepping for the mission.
Wiesinger basically left that to him, which was good and bad. Autonomy wasn’t a bad thing for a professional, but it did help to have feedback from one’s teammates.
“Who carries which rifle?” he asked Wade.
“Take two of each?" Wade suggested. "SR-25s for shooting, M-4s for support. Means one spare rifle we have to lug, but allows us the option of one shooter and two support, or two shooters and one support.”
“Good enough. I hate carrying extra weight, but flexible firepower is a good thing. Any idea what our local guides will have?”
“No,” Wade said, shuffling through a printout stack. “That’s not mentioned. Not much about them at all.”
“Yeah, we keep getting that. I’d really like to know more about these people when we can.”
“Indonesia uses a variation on the FNC. Insurgents may have that, or AKs, or M-16s, or some Singaporean clone with no license fees paid.”
“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind,” Kyle said. Wade had all kinds of information stuffed into his mind. “Is there an FNC we can examine for familiarization? ”
“Not officially, no. But Sergeant Major Lewis has a troop who owns a civvy semi-auto version imported in the nineteen eighties we can shoot and take apart on the range. Different trigger group, but same teardown and characteristics."
"God Bless the Second Amendment,” Kyle said. “Though it’s a hell of a world when the Army has to call civvies for intel on weapons.”
“C’est la guerre.”
Beyond the technical information was the political situation. Kyle picked up another stack and looked at what background they had.
The Bali club attack on 12 October, 2002, had been blamed on the Al-Qaeda-linked Jemaah Islamiyah network that operated throughout Southeast Asia. The network’s commander, Riduan Isamuddin Hambali, was captured in Thailand and handed over to U.S. custody. But someone else had taken over. As with all the linked groups, they were getting desperate. Propaganda said they were surviving and coming out in revenge. Many Americans even believed that. But the fact was that Kyle, Wade, other operations, and world opinion were hurting them badly. And as the smarter leaders were killed, the less experienced and less stable often moved into positions of authority. It was the vortices at the tail of a large storm. But such vortices often produced tornadoes.
“I’m just amazed at the extent of these operations of theirs,” Kyle said.
“Well, hell, look at their backing,” Wade said. “Bin Laden has or had two hundred and fifty million dollars, four wives, fifteen children, several large chunks of stock in major corporations, insurance on projects at the World Trade Center that made him money when the planes crashed. He’s loaded, and so are his buddies.”
“Yeah,” Kyle said, “Two hundred and fifty mil, four wives, fifteen children, a private resort and he calls Americans ‘excessive.’ Sure wish I could be as modest as him.” He kept reading. One of the problems they faced was that the United States and Indonesia were treading delicately toward improved relations, after Indonesian Army atrocities in East Timor in 1999. And if they were discovered, it would be a slap in the face. Once again, shooting a terrorist was only one small part of the mission.
“This just sucks, buddy,” Kyle said. “We’ll be teaming up with insurgents against another group of insurgents, both of whom are fighting a government we want to be friendly with who is officially on our side. All are filled with snakes, and all are fighting other factions at the same time. You’re black, I’m white, it’s half industrialized and half jungle, full of billions of American dollars, millions of terrorist rupiah, millions of black market yen, dong, dollars, pounds, and whatever.”
“Yes, and there are Dutch personnel with the oil companies, and mixed Malay and Chinese Indonesians who are Muslim, Christian, and Hindu.”
“And a population way too high to make sneaking in the woods safe for any length of time,” Kyle added. Alarm bells were sounding in his head, and part of him really wanted to bail on this one. But he couldn’t. Not only would Wiesinger be an asshole over it, he owed it to Robash to finish what they’d started.
And he owed it to himself and Wade to maintain their reputation. Not to mention the civilians who were being abducted, tortured, killed, and possibly raped.
“So it’s a challenge,” he said. “We could ask Delta Force to handle it.”
Wade snickered. “They’re trying to remain unseen, And they were likely smart enough to not accept this one. Or else they’re using us to see how not to do it.”
“You are so reassuring,” Kyle said with a shake of his head. “But hell, if we quit when it looked ugly, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t be hearing the stories about you in the bar two weeks ago.”
“Ah, hell, what now?” Kyle asked. “And never you mind the stories.”
“Heh . . . I’ll assume she’s a lady. Will she be waiting when you get back?”
“That’s a question I haven’t even looked at yet.” Nor was he sure how. “Janie, I’m going to fly halfway around the world to skulk in the jungle and kill some asshole who likes to hack people’s heads off and blow up wage slaves and schoolkids. Will you miss me?”
Somehow, that didn’t work, even if he could discuss it.
“The Army is sending me halfway around the world. I can’t tell you where or why, and I may come back with holes in me again, or not at all.” No, that wasn’t much better.
“Good luck with it,” Wade said.
“Thanks,” Kyle said.
Sighing, he leaned back over his desk to other issues.
It was up to Kyle to inventory every damned thing they would take. It called for computer and book searches for National Stock Numbers, prices for items not on hand, weighing everything to ensure it would all fit under the 360-pound total mass allowance for these parachutes.
“Man, I’ve got a problem here,” Kyle said.
“Yes?” Wade looked up from his console, where he was sifting reports on Indonesia.
“Wiesinger is seventy-two inches tall. Allowed one hundred ninety-five pounds. He claims two hundred ten and to make tape for body fat index.”
“Okay.”
“There is no way that bastard is under two twenty.”
Wade looked thoughtful. “I’d say you’re right.”
“Well, he insists he’s two ten. I can pack him a hundred and fifty pounds of gear. But if he’s two thirty, that’ll be twenty over. He goes splat. I’ve never seen the paperwork to do for a dead colonel. Pretty sure I don’t want to. If I leave that twenty out of the calculations, it could be twenty pounds of ammo we need and don’t have.”
“Sucks to be you, pal. Split the difference? Pack him at two twenty? Ten pounds shouldn’t break the chute. Actually, I’d assume the engineers put fifty pounds of leeway in there. He’ll descend faster, but likely not fast enough to rip fabric or go in.”
“Hmmm . . .” Kyle considered. “I might want to call Para-Flite and ask them to give me a no BS max.”
“Then figure that for Wiesinger at two thirty and us at our weight plus three pounds for safety? Still means a risk, but a calculable one.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Glad to help keep us alive,”
Kyle was still gritting his teeth at the thought of Wiesinger coming along. Wade and he worked well as a team. Adding in a third who hadn’t trained with them was a bad idea no matter how you looked at it.
But he didn’t get a vote. And he was the one who had to deal with Wiesinger the next day. That conversation wasn’t fun.
Wiesinger called in and said, “I’ve been looking over your list, Sergeant Monroe. Hell of a long list you’ve got here.”
“Sometimes, sir, yes.” Kyle was tense. There were things on that list he didn’t mind one way or the other. There were some he would argue to keep. There were some he’d consider a court martial over.
“I'll authorize you to take your forty-five,” Wiesinger said, “since it’s a military pattern and caliber. But you will carry ball ammunition only, none of that custom stuff. I don’t want to see any silencers or other doodads, and Uncle Sam sure as hell isn’t paying if you lose it.”
“That’s fine, sir, thank you,” Kyle agreed. He hadn’t expected even that much cooperation. Maybe Wiesinger was just a bit stodgy and wouldn’t be in the way, rather than turning out to be the tinplated asshole he’d come across as in the past.
“You can take the knives. I don’t have a problem with that, though why you want to carry all that crap is beyond me. But as long as you have your issue gear, have at it.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. Two for two so far. And he carried “all that crap” because it had saved his life more than once.
“SR25s, suppressors, and all related gear, that’s fine. I haven’t shot that one yet, but I’m told it’s good and you’d know.”
“It is, sir. Thanks.” That meant he’d have to get Wiesinger out on the range for some practice time.
“Aimpoints if you want them. That’s the standard, and the EOTech has not been tested as thoroughly.”
“Got it, sir.” He and Wade had their own EOTech sights anyway. They’d take them as civilian luggage. And there were rave reviews coming out of Iraq. Part of him realized there wasn’t that much difference, and he was doing it just because he’d been told not to. His independent streak got him in trouble at times.
“Please put together an appropriate list for me. Basic gear, an M4 and a standard M9 bayonet. I’ll work on our travel arrangements and finances.”
“Got it, sir. It’ll be ready.”
“Good. Don’t worry about any pre-mission briefings. We’ll deal with that in theater.”
“We’re not consulting our usual experts, sir?” he asked, confused.
“No, we’re going to dispense with that and work through local assets and phrase books this time,” Wiesinger said.
“Sir? Why not learn some basics? It’s been very helpful in the past,” Wade asked.
“According to your after-action reviews, it hasn’t mattered squat,” Wiesinger snapped. “Either you had translation books with you or a native. I don’t see any need to risk OPSEC by dealing with civilians.”
Kyle was aghast. He wasn’t sure what clearance Mr. Gober, the ethnologist who advised them on languages had, but he knew the man was utterly reliable, never knew their actual destination, and was no threat at all to Operational Security. To not utilize a resource seemed to invite trouble later. It was impossible to have too much intel.
“What about a cultural brief?” he asked.
“That’s what the Internet is for. It’s not as if we’re trying to blend in and assimilate like Special Forces. We’re just going in to take a shot and get back out.”
Wade seemed composed. Kyle was ready to throttle this idiot. The problems they’d had on the two previous missions all came down to a lack of intel on their part, and Wiesinger proposed to jump in blind.
But the basis of the military was order and discipline. There was nothing they could, do. Any appeal would stop at Wiesinger, unless it went farther up to a command level. The answer from there Kyle didn’t need to hear—it would be to follow orders from the officer leading the mission, unless they could prove his doctrine was unsound . . . which would take longer than the time available and likely be fruitless.
“Understood, sir,” Kyle said. “We’ll do it the way you suggest.” Officially, anyway, you fat clown, he added to himself. He hung up and sighed. It was sometimes harder to fight the chain of command than the enemy. You could at least shoot at the enemy.
That afternoon, they drove to Aberdeen Proving Ground to shoot. While Meade had a 600- meter known distance range, it was on land controlled by the Department of the Interior, and standard ball ammo was not allowed—only special environmentally safe rounds. As they needed to train with the ammunition they’d use, another facility was desirable.
The time they spent at the range was useful, and quiet between shots. They adjusted sights, practiced correcting for wind, and made slow, methodical shots. They were quite capable of longer distances, but the range they had was sufficient to maintain proficiency and technique.
It was seventy rounds each into it before Kyle said, “I’m happy. Let’s go to the office and talk.”
“Okay. And clean weapons?”
“Yes. It’s meditative.”
“So it is. But only for a select few.”
The vehicle assigned for their use didn’t get much of a workout. They drove it to and from the range, because military weapons couldn’t be transported in civilian vehicles, officially, and they used it for occasional supply runs. Otherwise, they found their own vehicles much more comfortable. Kyle was silent for the drive, and Wade followed his lead.
Once inside the office, papers spread on the floor, weapons cleared and stripped—a process that took them less than a minute apiece—Wade finally raised the specter.
“Kyle, you’re really not in your happy place regarding all this, are you?” He managed the sarcasm without sounding goofy. Quite a trick.
“No, but I’m working on some ways to improve that.”
“Oh?” Wade prodded.
“We can’t consult Mister Gober regarding a mission. However, I’ve developed an interest in Indonesia. It has a fascinating history, a varied culture and could be strategically important in die future. As far as language goes, Mister Gober is the best man I can think of to talk to. Let’s look him up.”
“It does sound like a fascinating place, and I think we should. Perhaps we’ll even vacation there, too.” Wade was grinning.
“And luckily for us, he’s based out of the D.C. area. I gather he does a lot of consulting on this type of thing, and I heard him mention a paper for Georgetown.”
“Meet where?”
Kyle considered. While public would be less likely to be connected to any activity, that was in part because communications security sucked in the open, where any casual passerby or anyone with a parabolic mike could hear them.
“My place,” he said. “Shouldn’t arouse suspicion to do it once.”