CHAPTER 3
Bill Gober was a little thinner than last time they’d met him. He was still portly and cheerful, but seemed to be more lively. His shirt and slacks were as casual as always, and the case and backpack he carried were stuffed with a laptop, disks, and books. He studied languages, and seemed to have a stack of references on the most obscure ones—Dari and Pashto for Pakistan, and no doubt something for here. Last time, he’d briefed them on Romanian.
"Good morning,” he said.
"Morning, Mister Gober,” Kyle replied. “Coffee?”
"Please,” he agreed. "Some cream, some sugar. Languages?”
“That will be fine,” Wade agreed. “Some familiar, some gobbledygook.”
"That should be easy enough,” he agreed as he sat. Kyle had moved his coffee table closer to one chair. It wasn’t as if he ever used it for anything other than piles of reference material anyway.
“So, you mentioned Indonesia, and you specified Aceh. That’s a rather contentious area.”
“So we’ve heard,” Kyle agreed.
“Well, the national language is Bahasa, and most people will speak it. However, Aceh also has the language of Aceh or Atjeh, with eight dialects. Officially, it’s Austronesian, Malayo-Polynesian, Western Malayo-Polynesian, Sundic, Malayic, Achinese-Chamic, Achinese. It’s actually distantly related to the languages of Madagascar and Hawaii. It’s fascinating to track the development of languages across such a large area.
“Anyway, about three million people speak that. Actually, a phrase book should suffice, and some basic Bahasa, and some Dutch, as a lot of people still speak some Dutch.”
“Dutch?” Kyle asked. He knew they were involved in the oil industry.
“Yeah,” Wade said, “that was the Dutch East Indies until some bright boy decided to make it all one nation.”
“Correct,” Gober said. “There are fifty-two languages in Sumatra alone, and a total of seven hundred and thirty-one for the whole nation, of which five are extinct or nearly so. It’s a very mixed area with a lot of cultural clashes.”
“Sounds like,” Kyle said. Seven hundred languages. Damn. “Do you have phrase books for Achinese and Bahasa?”
“No, but I can acquire some. Many military and technical words are actually English.”
“Well, this isn’t a military mission,” Kyle said.
“Yes, but I assume you will be talking shop?” Gober was obviously curious as to why they were pretending not to be running a mission. But he didn’t ask, and was simply offering the information he thought they could use. Kyle had to respect that, and was disgusted at the situation. The man was no security threat at all, and yet they were ordered to treat him as such.
“We might talk shop with some Indonesian military people, yes. Actually, we might talk about oil, too. There’s a lot of jobs opening up out there.” That left the hint that he was looking for security or mercenary work after his enlistment was up. That should be all the misdirection needed.
Not, he thought, that Wiesinger would give a crap. He’d be pissed about them “breaching security” and “going outside the approved sources.” Not that Kyle gave a crap what Wiesinger thought. Which, he reflected, was one hell of a way to start a mission.
“Very well, I’ll put together some common phrases for military and industry. I can send you online links to recommended phrase books you can buy. Will email work?”
“Yeah, it’s not as if it’s a military secret or anything, we just don’t want any unfriendlies learning that U.S. personnel are coming, even off duty. My email should be fine.” He hoped that explanation would cover any potential allegations that Gober had been informed about the mission. As far as Kyle knew, Gober had never been informed about any mission, only that “troops are deploying to somewhere and need a brief on languages.”
“Okay, then here’s what I have on Bahasa,” Gober said, pulling out a couple of burned CDs and a thick book. “Face price on the book. I can let you have the CDs for free; they’re public-domain sources. They’re dictionaries and basic grammar, the book is a proper style manual. And these,” he said as he pulled out four more slim, bright books.
“Those are children’s books,” Wade observed.
“Yes, with simple words and bright pictures that are easy to remember. An excellent way to learn some rudimentary vocabulary. And this is a CD of a speech, which is transcribed in Bahasa and phonetic English to display with the audio. It will help with aural recognition and inflection and accent.”
“That’s incredibly helpful. Thank you,” Kyle said. They were loaded for bear, if they could find the time to review it.
“You’re very welcome. I appreciate the business, and let me know how things go if you can.”
“Once we return, we will.”
“Good. And if you ever have a mission in Indonesia, you’ll be prepared.”
Was that a hint that he suspected more than he was being told? Kyle didn’t let anything show. But he was amused at the potential irony.
“Well, anything’s possible with all the training we do. I don’t think we’re sharing tips with Indonesia yet, but things are improving.”
“Excellent. Keep me informed on General Robash’s progress if you can. He’s a good man.”
“Will do, and thank you, sir.” They all rose. Gober hefted his backpack and they escorted him to the door.
Once the ethnologist left, Wade said, “Look through the stuff now?”
“Sure, why not?” Kyle agreed. “At least a quick overview.”
Wade brought out his laptop and plugged in. A quick connection with a LAN cable and they were ready to share data. They started downloading from the CDs.
“Wow, this is weird,” Kyle said.
“What?”
“The number of words that are straight English. I see ‘white paper,’ ‘telkom,’ ‘konstruksi,’ ‘elektronika,’ ‘transportasi.’ ”
“Lots of those could be from Dutch,” Wade said. “But yes, that does help. Quite a few tech words.”
They continued reading. Several minutes later, Kyle did a double take.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
“Yeah, I saw that,” Wade replied. “So it’s not just me?”
“I don’t think so,” Kyle said.
The phrase on the screen in front of him was, “Prajurit itu tidak kompeten.” That officer is not very competent.
Below that was, “Kolonel itu telah berbuat salah.” The colonel made a mistake.
Beyond that were comments about engineering or artillery errors. But those two phrases together seemed to be telling.
“Gober knows,” Kyle said.
“So it seems,” Wade agreed. He was smiling a tight-lipped smile. “Which explains why he came over on less than twenty-four hours’ notice, without needing to prep. He was ready.”
“Doesn’t help much,” Kyle said. “But it’s nice to have the support.”
“I wonder if Robash had already contacted him and Wiesinger cancelled?”
“Could be. But why? It seems like he’s trying to cover all bases himself.”
“I think that’s exactly it. Cut the budget, keep the cards real close to the chest, keep all the credit within the unit, and proclaim his genius.”
“Great. A glory seeker.” Kyle had several decorations and a couple of wounds from his missions. He’d never made the papers or even the military press. He didn’t care. They were all on the same team, and as long as the mission was accomplished, everyone knew who’d done what.
“Let’s break for lunch.” He needed to unwind his brain for a few minutes.
“Suits.”
After that, they needed to research the area. There was far too much wealth of information online, and as usual, half of it was dated, unsupported opinion, or flatout worthless crap. Confirming data from at least two primary sources was more work than finding the intel.
Aceh certainly had a colorful history and present.
Aceh was as rich in oil as they’d been told: 1.5 million barrels per day. Natural gas production was 38 percent of the world’s total. Other products of Aceh included iron, gold, platinum, molybdenum, tin, rubber, coffee, tea, and tropical timber. The locals were unhappy because all the income was taken away to Jakarta and they were left at the bottom end of the economic scale. Typical government thievery.
There were several factions for independence— GAM, Gerakan Acheh Merdeka, also known as the Acheh Sumatra National Liberation Front (ASNLF). “Acheh” as opposed to “Aceh.” Apparently, the spelling difference was a point for them, which said something. Kyle wasn’t sure what, but if they couldn’t agree on a spelling in English, it wasn’t likely they could agree on much else. GAM/ASNLF was split into at least two factions, one of which was negotiating with the government, the other which decried that and called them traitors.
There was also Hizb ut-Tahrir (HUT), the Islamic Party of Liberation, which claimed to not support terrorism but wanted a return to the Caliphate and hated the Saud family. However, there were indications that their condemnation of terrorism ended with the press release.
“I need a dance card for this,” Kyle said.
“Yeah, tell me about it. Who’s on first?”
“I dunno,” Kyle said.
“Third base.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Kyle replied, grinning. “Okay, actually, I do. You taking notes?”
“Yeah. Can we get a degree in international relations in lieu of attending class, just on the research we’re doing?”
“It would seem fair. But I doubt they’ll do it.”
“Right. We probably have the wrong political viewpoint for college, too,” Wade observed.
“Because we think that the way to solve this is to identify the trash and take it out?”
“Got it in one.” It served as a mini break and to help them remember the dry data they’d just digested. Both men did it without conscious effort, and resumed silence again at once.
There were a number of prominent women figures in Aceh’s military history. There had been an Admiral Keumalahajati in the late 16th century.
There had been four queens who successively ruled the latter half of the 17th. Guerilla commanders in the Dutch Colonial War era included Cut Nya’ Dhien, Cut Meutia, Pocut Baren, and Pocut Mirah Inteun. During the 1945–49 fighting, the women of the “Revolution of 45” in Aceh not only served as service staff and medics (the Pasukan Bulan Sabit), but also involved themselves actively in fighting in groups such as Pocut Baren Regimen.
Women as troops and leaders certainly didn’t sound very Muslim to Kyle. He said so.
“I dunno,” Wade said. “This is all new territory to me.”
GAM had had members trained in Libya. “I notice an ongoing pattern in all this,” Kyle said.
“Oh, you do?” Wade asked sarcastically. It seemed as if every problem surrounding Muslim terrorism came back to Syria, Iraq, Libya, rural Pakistan, or extreme factions in Saudi Arabia. “I think if we took out about a hundred people worldwide, the whole problem would go away.”
“Yeah, but they’ll never let us do it, we wouldn’t be able to find a lot of them, and it’d be suicide to go through their suicide squads to get to them.”
“Yeah, why don’t so-called suicide squads just kill themselves? I’ll send the ammo.”
“Heard it before,” Kyle said. He did smile, though. “Wish it worked that way.”
“So they have Muslim extremist women soldiers toting AKs and trained in Pentjak Silat and other lethal hand-to-hand techniques,” Wade said. “Just what I want for a date on Saturday night.”
“Reading this, I see why they’re upset, actually,” Kyle said. “They beat the Dutch six times over eighty years, costing the Dutch one hundred thousand troops. And then here: ‘On twenty- seven December, nineteen forty-nine, seven years after withdrawing from Acheh, the Dutch signed a treaty with the newly fabricated “Republic of Indonesia” on the island of Java to transfer their “sovereignty” of Acheh to Indonesia, without referendum of the people, and against all the UN principles of decolonization.’ ”
“And the fight with Indonesia was on.” Wade nodded.
“Yeah. They transferred title of an area they didn’t control and only owned on paper to someone else. Damn. Why did the Achinese have to side with the goddamn tangos? I could support these people.”
“The point is they have,” Wade said. It was an unneeded reminder.
“Yup. So we get to do the dirty work.”
“So, the Free Acheh Movement has wide support from the local population. The Indonesian government sent the special forces, called Kopassus, to hunt down members of the movement. Aceh was declared as a Military Operational Area. There are allegations of atrocities that rank pretty high on the filthometer. The Achinese estimate twenty-five thousand casualties in custody and in ‘secret concentration camps,’ which is one I really wonder about, but they believe it, so it fuels the fire.”
“What do we know about our allies?” Wade asked.
“They’re a separatist faction, but they’re one that is trying to negotiate with the government. Of course, that means the nutcases want them dead, too, for betraying their vision of independence, conquering Java and imposing a New Muslim Order.”
“What? Most of them can’t think like that.” Wade had studied a lot of sociology. He didn’t believe stereotypes easily.
“No, most of them just want to be left alone and get the money going to Jakarta. But a few percent are just nuts.” And if it weren’t for the nuts, Kyle and Wade would be out of their current job.
“Forward that link to me. I’ve got to read up.”
“Will do. . . sent.”
“Got it, thanks.” It was odd, Kyle reflected, to keep swapping messages with a person a few feet away.
The two pored over the language, maps, cultural pages with things such as recipes and holidays. The more familiar one was with an area intellectually, the more easily and quickly one could acclimate. That was a huge plus when trying to be discreet.
They were closing up the office at 1600 hours when Wade said, “We really should go visit the general before we leave.”
“I agree,” Kyle said. He felt guilty about not having done so, even with duty interfering, and he did feel friendly toward the boss who gave him such excellent support. “What are visitation hours?”
“Until nineteen hundred, I believe.”
“Hit him now, dinner en route?”
“Works for me. Be good to see how he’s doing.” Robash had been transferred to Walter Reed. It took a few minutes to find his location, an hour to drive through traffic, munching fast food on the way, and twenty minutes to get through security levels. Fortunately, senior NCOs visiting general officers was a very common and reasonable occurrence, and they were let through without too much hassle.
Robash looked comfortable, but tired and in pain. He also looked a little less bulky than he had. He hadn’t been fat, he’d been big, but now he was just another patient in a bed, with a few wires and tubes.
“Good evening, sir,” they said.
“Gentlemen. It’s good to see you.” His voice was even more gravelly than usual, with a croak to it.
“How are you feeling, sir?” Kyle asked.
“Like I lost both canopies and hit the ground.”
“Sounds like fun. You look okay.”
“Bullshit. I look like hell,” he said. “But I’ll live.” His voice was definite when he said it. Kyle said, “That’s what we want to hear.”
“Good. I didn’t die on you. You’re not allowed to die on me. How goes the prep?”
Kyle said, “HALO trained, lists made, orders on hand. Getting there.”
“Good. How’s Colonel Wiesinger doing?”
“Fine, sir,” Kyle said. “We’ll be ready on schedule.”
“Don’t bullshit me, son,” Robash said, sounding stronger. “What’s your opinion as an SFC?” So much for not stressing him. Kyle met Wade’s eyes, then looked back.
“We are managing, sir. He’s more of a micro-manager than I like, but I won’t let him push me where it’s not safe, and I won’t argue with him otherwise.” He blushed, because he was doing exactly that.
“Yeah, listen, move in close for a moment, will you?” His voice was strong but quiet.
They leaned in and listened.
“Look guys, BS aside, I know you don’t warm to Colonel Wiesinger much,” he whispered. “But he’s the officer we’ve got. He can administrate, he understands the subject, and he knows where to get resources. Work with him, don’t just pretend, and try not to let him rub you the wrong way. He’s abrasive, but he’s not bad.”
“Roger that, sir,” Wade said. Kyle was a moment behind. He suspected from what he’d encountered that Wiesinger’s competence was all behind a desk. Yes, one needed that, depended on that to get the job done, but it went better when the officer had a grasp of how things operated in the field. The book existed for a reason. At the same time, the book was a guideline that didn’t cover all situations and didn’t apply to some situations it did cover.
“Anyway, I need to rest now. Good luck and good hunting. Rangers Lead the Way.”
“All the Way, sir,” Kyle said.
They stood and left, shaking hands as they did. Robash’s grip was weak, but Kyle could still feel the strength under it. That by itself reassured him the general would recover.
*****
Kyle showered quickly and threw on a shirt and slacks. He was already late. Janie would probably understand him visiting the general, but he’d also been wrapped up in work and busy with HALO. It wasn’t as if he could ignore her and expect her to hang around. They’d been dating for just over a month. And she was a nice girl. He wouldn’t mind having her around for a while.
He drove fast, and was at her apartment by eight. She came walking briskly down off the steps, denying him the opportunity to knock on the door. He still got out and held the truck door for her, though. It might be old-fashioned, but the rules of etiquette and gentlemanly conduct had been drilled into him from an early age, and the Army encouraged polite behavior. It was a big plus for him in the social arena. He ushered her in, careful of her long satin skirt. He worried about lint. The truck wasn’t as clean as it could be; he’d been on the range. Black satin fabric would show a lot. Her blouse was opened enough to show some cleavage, so he figured she wasn’t too mad at him. If she wasn’t happy, she had no problem letting him know.
“Where have you been?” she asked as she got in. She was upset and worried rather than angry. And he had called ahead.
“I’m sorry, Janie,” he said, meaning it. Damn, she looked good, and it was great having someone to talk to about things other than shop. “General Robash is still in hospital. I had to go visit.”
“He’s your commander?” she asked.
“Well. . .” How to explain it? “He’s in charge of our operations. I respect him a lot. I’m worried about how things will change if he can’t recover. Can I leave it at that? I don’t want to talk shop.”
She softened. “Sure. I didn't think you were ignoring me, but I got nervous when you were late. Let’s eat?” she hinted.
“I’ll have to eat light, Wade and I grabbed a bite between the shop and the hospital.” He puUed onto 1-295. He was relieved. He didn’t want her mad two days before he left.
“Good,” she said. “Then I won’t feel jealous of you plowing through enough food for three of me. You must work out a hell of a lot to eat like that.”
“Sometimes,” he said. “In the field I might hit six thousand calories a day. And you look fine, really. Eat what you want.” Women were exasperating with their obsessions about diet and weight. She looked good and he didn’t understand her worry.
She smiled. “Kyle, I plan on making love to you before you take off again. You don’t have to sweet talk me.” Then she gave him a sidelong glance.
“You know I’m leaving?” he asked, suspicious and worried at the same time.
“I assume if the Army sent you to a parachuting school and you’re spending long hours with checklists and research that you’re about to leave. Right?” She smiled again. It was coy, indulgent, mischievous, and exasperated all at the same time.
“Uh, yes. I just try not to let people know, as professional paranoia, and I don’t like questions about it, because I can’t answer them.”
“You teach sniping, right?”
“Yes,” he admitted. It had come up in conversation.
“So I assume you’re teaching either our people or someone allied, out in the field. You’re going to Iraq? Afghanistan?”
“Janie, I can’t say. I’m sorry.”
“Dammit. . .” She looked frustrated. “Okay, I guess I understand that. It must be hard on families. Is that why you got divorced?”
“Part of it. A big part,” he admitted. Yes, it was hard to have a social life, with people worried that you might not return. Some spouses could adapt to that. Others couldn’t. He was also very wrapped up in his work and not as sociable as some other men.
“Tell me when you’ll be back, at least,” she begged. She leaned far back and stretched, and he could see her curves. She was in good shape herself. He’d met her at a gym.
“If I knew. . . but I don’t. At least three weeks. Hopefully not much more than that. I’ve left instructions for them to tell you if there’s a problem.”
“If you’re dead or crippled, you mean,” she said. “Sorry, that was harsh. I appreciate you thinking of me. But, Kyle, there’s something I want.” She leaned over and whispered something in his ear that made him flush in anticipation. “And again when you come back. So come back? Please?”
“Hon, I want to come back anyway. But I’ll be really careful.” He reached over and took her hand.
“Good,” she said gripping back. “I’ve seen your dress uniform. Don’t get another Purple Heart. And I’ll have a steak tonight. Hot and naked. Then you the same way.” She smiled again and it was anything but coy. It looked like the smile of a wolf.
*****
In the office the next morning, still tired and elated from a long night in bed with Janie, Kyle printed out a checklist and started packing rucks. He had three, with duplicate items for each and personalized gear. Both Wiesinger and Wade had brought in spare uniforms and toiletries tightly rolled in plastic bags. He started with “personal items” and checked them off the list. After that, it was ammunition, MRE entrees in case local food wasn’t available immediately, water, maps, and compasses, all the essential military gear that is rarely thought of by civilians but must be carried. Batteries for radios, phones, sights, and accessories were on the list aplenty. Interceptor body armor was quite heavy, so Kyle had substituted police-weight vests that wouldn’t stop a rifle bullet but should slow it enough to reduce the wound. They’d stop most fragments and pistol calibers, and likely knives as well. But he’d taken enough fire to want something over his vital organs.
Beyond those he had his and Wade’s pistols. Wade still took an issue M9 Beretta. Kyle had his gorgeous but slightly dinged Ed Brown that was as exotic as one could get. But it had saved his life at least twice by being available and flawlessly reliable. He’d thought of taking his Colt Mustang, too. It was pocket sized and had saved his life in Bosnia and Pakistan. He hadn’t carried it since. It didn’t weigh much, but they were on a tight chart. Besides, they weren’t likely to be in town much and in the field he’d just as soon have a few extra magazines of .45
They had knives, Wiesinger had an M9 bayonet, Wade a KaBar, Kyle his high-end Gerber. Pocket tools. Flashlights with infrared and red filters, both little Mini Maglites and the blindingly bright SureFires, which could be used to stun people.
As he reached the end of that list, he dragged over a duffel bag and another, handwritten list. “So what’s in the bag?”
“All the stuff Wiesinger told me not to take.”
“Oh?”
“And ammo. Standard seven point six two NATO ball.”
“Don’t we have enough of that?” Wade asked.
“We have US issue, that incredibly solid stuff that just bores holes. I have old ‘West German’ issue that will shatter at the cannelure when it tumbles like M193. But it is NATO spec, so no one can nail us for war crimes.”
“You’re a sick and twisted individual. I’m proud to call you ‘friend.’ ”
“Yeah. Funny story about this stuff. The Germans and Swedes complained about the fragmentation effects of 5.56 in Vietnam. Accused the U.S. of ‘atrocities.’ So Natick Lab demonstrated that their ammo fragmented worse. They shut up.”
“Heh. I like it. How much do you have?”
“Two battle packs of two hundred rounds.”
“How are you transporting it?”
“Since it’s all going in our rucks and dropping with us, it’s going in there. I'll mark off the issue stuff and load this instead. It’s NATO, he may not even notice it’s not U.S.”
“And he can’t do anything if he does.”
“Right.”
“This was a whole lot easier with Robash signing blank orders and handing us cash.”
“We need to ask about cash,” Kyle said, frowning. “I assume he’ll want to carry it personally, but we better have some.”
“That’s your department. I don’t even want to try to negotiate with him.”
“Yeah, I know.” The frown turned into a grimace.
All four rifles were laid out ready. All had threaded can type suppressors. It increased the length slightly, but reducing muzzle blast by 36 dB and all but eliminating the flash made shooting much more secure. There were extra mags for the M-4s. One of the SR25s had light olive green furniture.
“What did you do to the weapon?”
“Aftermarket furniture from Cavalry Arms. I’ve bought a bunch of AR components from them, they have a rough, sanitized idea of what I do, and they mentioned prototypes last time I spoke to them. So they agreed to send me some.”
“Looks good, but why add the green plastic if all it will really do is piss off Wiesinger?”
“That by itself is enough.”
“Gotcha.”
“But it’s also very stable and has better ergonomics.” He showed the sculpted, adjustable ErgoGrip and the stock, which let the rear swivel be mounted sideways as well as underneath. The front free-float tube had rails on four sides for mounting accessories. Those rails were now green. “The color will help disrupt the outline of the weapon even before taping and camo. I’d endorse them if we could make endorsements.”
“Yeah, I can see that. ‘I’m Sergeant First Class Kyle Monroe, a U.S. Army Sniper. I shoot terrorist assholes. When I’m out dropping them like used rubbers, I always swear by Cavalry Arms furniture for my rifles.’ I’m sure that phrase would sell a thousand sets.”
“Wade, you have to see it,” Kyle said, “they do the desert tan everyone’s getting in the Middle East, they do black, green, brown. Yellow and orange if you’re trying to be found in the Arctic or at sea, and blue, purple, and frigging pink for style.”
“I’ll bet that would go well with your pumps.” Wade was not going to let this go.
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, if it helps me hide and pisses off Wiesinger, I’ll do it.” He really was enthusiastic about the plastic, though. Shooting was his life, and he tried to have the best of everything related to it, and he wasn’t ashamed to extol the virtues of good hardware to others. “I’ve also got Bowflage tape to hide things.”
“Fair enough. I’ve got a bit more on Indonesian culture.”
“Good.”
“Mostly secular. Prayers are announced every day, but most people don’t bother. They do smoke. They do drink and it’s accepted. The national philosophy of Pancacila stresses religious tolerance among other things. They really don’t approve of religious curses of any kind, so keep the ‘Goddamns’ to a minimum.”
“Useful, and good. I don’t object to prayer, but watching it five times a day creeps me out. I guess I’m too Western.” Kyle frowned. He didn’t like being uncomfortable with other people’s beliefs, but he also didn’t care for those beliefs.
“So, we’re dealing with a modern but different culture, not people stuck in the Stone Age.”
“That’s nice for a change.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Wade said.
“No worries.” Kyle wasn’t a pessimist. But after fifteen years, he had a certain pragmatic realism.
*****
Kyle got everything packed in rucks and harnesses and palletized for the flight to the Philippines. As he’d expected, Wiesinger didn’t even look at his before it shipped, just asked Kyle if everything was accounted for and signed off. As everything he’d asked for was to the letter, it shouldn’t be a problem. Wade’s and his were different, but that fact would only come out if, or rather when, things went to hell. By then it would be too late, and hopefully he’d approve or at least ignore it. Kyle was going to do what he thought was right no matter what happened. The tricks he’d learned were the tricks that had kept him alive.
They briefed Wiesinger with everything they’d studied, except for the bits they’d gotten from Gober. Wiesinger had his own data, some of it woefully dated, some new to Kyle and Wade. But it would have worked better had he not been so remote throughout this. There were times when a unit needed to dispense with formality, sit around and bullshit and work the edges off. This was one of those. But Wiesinger had to do it the Army way, which worked fine for standup battles. This, however, was COIN—COunter INsurgency. It was almost always messy and in the dirt, and the rules were different. Kyle had a lot of reservations, but did his damnedest to impart what he could. He wasn’t going to short the man on intel just because of personal issues.
“One important thing, sir,” he said. “Terms of address.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s a bad idea in these circumstances, where we might be overheard, to be formal. ‘Sergeant’ or ‘sir’ or ‘colonel’ can twig a listener that we’re military. We want to come across as journalists or common thugs or even mercs. If they think we’re actually soldiers, it could escalate badly. So we need to use first names.”
“I guess that makes sense. I go by Mel.”
“Got it, Mel. We may use a ‘sir’ now and then, but generally, we need to start practicing now.”
“Roger that. . . Kyle. I can’t say I’m happy with the concept of missions that require that kind of skulking. In the future, we may need to address that.”
Kyle didn’t think there was any way to address that. “We can see, sir,” he said. He was eager to end this processing and get on with the mission.
The next day, they boarded an Air Mobility Command C-141 toward California and Hawaii, there to transfer to Guam and the Philippines. After more than twenty hours in transit, the best Kyle could say was that Wiesinger had been mostly silent. The plane hadn’t been silent, and his ears ached from hearing protection and pressure changes.
Then it was into another C-141 for the final leg, with their gear pallet with them, and the inevitable nerves.