Warriors (9781101621189) (22 page)

“Fucking Americans,” DuÅ¡ic said, “and maybe the British. I do not know how but I know who.”

“Our men,” Stefan cried.

“Back in the truck—now,” DuÅ¡ic ordered. “Get me back to the radio tower.”

They scrambled back into the vehicle, and the driver made a three-point turnaround. When the truck topped the rise, the scene made Dušic sweat and shake.

The relay tower lay toppled. So did most of the trees around it. The low buildings at the tower base had been reduced to chunks of concrete. Flames flickered across churned and blackened soil.

Dušic's platoon seemed to have vanished. Some strange weapon had visited such destruction on the site that Dušic could not even recognize where the gun pits had been dug. He called names, but no one answered. He saw no intact bodies, only limbs and viscera in the dim light as darkness closed in. He realized that's all that would have been left of him and Stefan had they remained at the site for five more minutes. Silence reigned until one man, and only one man, began to scream. He yelled no words, simply howled an unintelligible animal sound. Fear and pain had taken him to a primal place.

Dušic and Stefan ran toward the cries. They found a young
razvodnik
with both legs and one arm ripped off. Blood and soil covered him so that he appeared like some shrieking ghoul that had crawled up from the grave. But he did not shriek for long. The shrieks turned to gurgles, and the boy died clutching Stefan's hand.

Later, Dušic learned what had rained down such hell. Not an airplane but a naval vessel. The USS
Normandy
, a Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser, had fouled the beautiful Adriatic with its presence. The warship had launched Tomahawk cruise missiles against air defense sites in Bosnia. The crushing blows helped force Serb leaders to sign that document of shame, the Dayton Accords.

The Americans had bested Dušic on that day. He would not let it happen again.

ON THE OPENING DAY
of the Holy Assembly of Bishops, the Rivet Joint powered through a cloud layer and leveled above a pearl undercast. Gold glanced outside through the cockpit windows when she got up to stretch her legs. The mist spanned from horizon to horizon; it appeared to wrap the entire earth in a peaceful embrace. Gold felt a twinge of irony as she gazed out from behind her sunglasses, knowing what lay beneath the clouds. She returned to her seat beside Irena, took off her shades, put on her headset, and began listening.

Now that authorities knew Muslim fighters were trickling into Bosnia, attracted by the new tensions, Gold owned a bigger piece of the mission. The Rivet Joint flew mainly to zero in on Dušic and his men, and that remained Irena's focus. But Gold tuned to a broadband setting, listening to a wide spectrum of channels to pick up on signs of more triggermen arriving from abroad. Whatever she heard might not help capture Dušic, but it might measure how dangerous the atmosphere had become. With her fluent Pashto and smattering of Arabic, she was glad to help. She just wished the circumstances were different.

Gold adjusted a volume setting, clicked her ballpoint pen. She tapped the pen on the top page of a fresh notepad. The effort left a pattern of little black dots.

“Nervous?” Irena asked.

“More like worried,” Gold said. “I hope Lieutenant Colonel Parson and the other guys don't run into trouble today.”

“Me, too. Have you heard anything interesting?”

“Negative. You?”

“Snake eyes. It's like DuÅ¡ic has dropped off the grid.”

Gold did not like the sound of that. You could call a man like Dušic a lot of things, but not stupid. He had figured a way to exploit religious and ethnic hatreds so deftly that he might just start a new war almost by himself. What a tragic human failing that people so often killed over what they found most holy. After years of reflection, Gold thought she had finally begun to understand why. God was eternal and unchanging. But religion—how man approached God—was a human institution. So of course religion could be as flawed and misused as any other human institution.

The airplane banked into the initial turn of a holding pattern. Gold heard one of the officers up front check in with Parson on the ground in Belgrade.

“Dragnet,” the crewman called, “this is Motown on station. How copy?”

“Dragnet has you five by five,” Parson said. “Got anything for me?”

“Negative. We'll advise. Everything normal down there?”

“Pretty much. Just a lot of people who don't like to have to wait.”

That relieved Gold a little. Parson seemed safe enough for now with Cunningham and Dragan close by. So far so good, but the day had only begun.

Irena loosened her shoulder straps and leaned back in her seat. Fiddled with the controls on her console.

“Still nothing,” she said.

Gold listened to her own channels. Eventually she picked up a conversation in Pashto. Pakistani accent.

“I have made it to Bihac, my brother,” the voice said. Gold tried to bring up a map of the Balkans in her head. She did not have a photographic memory, but like most experienced soldiers she possessed a fair knowledge of geography. Where was Bihac? Oh, yeah. Northern Bosnia.

“What mood did you find?” An older voice in Pashto. Maybe some organizer or middleman.

“The faithful are tense, but things remain quiet at the moment. The crusaders burned a mosque a few days ago.”

“If they try to wipe out our people again, we will take revenge.”

“Indeed. The supplies have arrived in good order.”

Supplies? Probably weapons and ammunition. With the cycle of mosque and church burnings, Dušic had created the perfect backdrop for what he wanted to do, and it continued to feed on itself.

“Are we recording this?” Gold asked on interphone.

“Always,” a crewman answered. “What do you have, Sergeant Major?”

“Foreign fighters coming into Bosnia, I think.”

“Lovely.”

•   •   •

AT THE SPECIFIED TIME
, Dušic met Stefan and the
razvodnik
s at Pionirski Park. Dušic drove Stefan's van. Stefan arrived in the Citroën, now heavy, wired, and deadly. Nikolas, Andrei, and the other men came in two Land Rovers. Mist drizzled from an overcast sky. In the distance, a church bell tower tolled a
trezvon
while Dušic addressed his team. Though Dušic still held to the agnosticism taught by his earliest Communist teachers, he took the triple rings of soprano, alto, and bass bells as an auspicious sign. As a commander on the verge of his signature mission, he wanted his words to inspire.

“History teaches that any war left unfinished must be fought again,” DuÅ¡ic said. “And so we shall. I know you may find today's operation distasteful. I share your feelings. But today we only set the priming charge. The real explosion comes later. A few of the good must die so that we may eliminate the evil, the Turks who have infested this land long enough. Go with courage. If you survive, I will reward you and offer you further missions. If I should fall, press on without me. Stefan will know how to see that you get the other half of your checks.”

Dušic explained how the tactical situation had changed, and he outlined his plans for addressing that problem. The
razvodnik
s would no longer fire indiscriminately, at least not at first. They were to aim for police officers and any defensive snipers on the rooftops. Stefan had his own specific targets: the machine gunner and anyone else who looked particularly dangerous. Further, Dušic himself would drive the car bomb. When he finished speaking, he slipped his arms into his body armor, hefted the armor into place, and began snapping the fasteners closed. He held out his hand for the key to the Citroën.

“Are you sure about this, Viktor?” Stefan asked.

“I am. I need you for your marksmanship now. Any fool can drive a car.”

Stefan smiled faintly, handed over the key. “And you have the number to call to detonate the weapon?”

“I do.” DuÅ¡ic patted an outer pocket attached to his body armor, which contained his mobile phone. “But if something happens to me, you know what to do.”

“I have the number as well. Do not forget that you must turn on the trigger phone and your own cell.”

“Then all is in readiness,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Gentlemen, execute the mission.”

Stefan pumped his fist into the air and sat down in the van. The
razvodnik
s climbed into their SUVs. At the wheel of the Citroën, Dušic inserted the key into the ignition. As he started the engine, he eyed the trigger phone duct-taped to the console. Two wires led from the phone. The wires ran under the seat and back toward the trunk.

•   •   •

INSIDE A MOBILE COMMAND POST
on Kralja Petra, Parson listened on VHF through a lightweight headset. He still felt a little strange performing official duties in civilian clothing. Performing those duties surrounded by Serbian policemen made it all even weirder. At one time, these guys might have been his enemies; he even wondered if any of them had ever manned antiaircraft guns. But today they nodded to him politely enough. Maybe they'd gotten word he and Cunningham were friends of Dragan.

Through a window, Parson could see Dragan and Cunningham working outside, making the rounds of the checkpoints and the machine-gun pit. To give them any news from the Rivet Joint, Parson had only to change frequencies. But so far he had nothing to report. Dragan walked with his Vintorez rifle at the ready. Traffic had backed up behind the nearest checkpoint, which was positioned to keep uncleared vehicles well away from the Patriarchate. Officers patrolled the line of cars. A few of the men held the leashes of bomb dogs; Parson recognized a Labrador, a Belgian Malinois, and two German shepherds. The drizzle dampened the Labrador's fur enough that the animal stopped, shook itself, then resumed sniffing fenders and wheel wells.

Bishops and priests gathered at the Patriarchate's entrance. To Parson, they all looked like ancient men of wisdom with their black vestments and long beards. He wondered if any of them had been wise enough to speak out against ethnic cleansing back during the war. That would have required both wisdom and guts.

At the checkpoint, Dragan and Cunningham conferred about something. Dragan pointed to one of the dog handlers and appeared to give some kind of order. Parson switched to their frequency.

“Anything the matter?” Parson asked.

“I noticed a car in line that's riding low like an overloaded boat,” Cunningham said. “Maybe just bad shocks, but—”

Cunningham stopped talking. He turned around as if he sensed something wrong.

At the machine-gun pit, the gunner's face exploded in a spray of red.

ABOARD THE RIVET JOINT
, Gold stood at the galley and poured cups of coffee for Irena and herself. As she made her way back to her seat, she heard a thump. Very strange. The noise came from somewhere underneath her feet. Felt like driving a car over a shallow pothole. Hot coffee sloshed over Gold's fingers.

She put down the cups by Irena's console, wiped her hands with a handkerchief. From the murmurs and furrowed brows, she could tell the crew was puzzled by the noise.

A louder bang shook the jet. The airplane began to vibrate. Gold strapped into her seat, glanced over at Irena. Irena yanked her shoulder straps tight. She met Gold's eyes with an expression that said,
I have no idea what's going on.

Gold's ears popped. She swallowed hard and they popped again. She put on her headset and listened to the crew on interphone and the radios.

“What the hell was that?” a crew member asked.

“I don't know, but we're depressurizing.”

“Everybody on oxygen.”

Gold donned her sweep-on mask. The first whiff of pure oxygen flooded her lungs with coolness. Irena donned her own mask, gave Gold a thumbs-up. The blinkers on their oxygen regulators flipped from black to white with each breath. Gold felt light in her seat. She heard the crew sort through the emergency in clipped voices.

“Control, Motown Eight-Six is in an emergency descent to flight level two-five-oh. Rapid decompression.”

“Motown Eight-Six, we copy your emergency. Report level at two-five-zero.”

“Can you give us vectors for Sarajevo?”

“Affirmative. Turn left heading one-seven-zero.”

“Crew, check in.”

“Markovich up on oxygen,” Irena said.

Gold fumbled for her talk switch. “Gold up on oxygen,” she called.

The rest of the linguists and aviators checked in—nearly thirty people—and the aircraft commander addressed his crew.

“I have no idea what just happened,” he said, “It sounded like something near the landing gear, so we'll see if all the wheels come down. Whatever it was obviously opened a hole in the pressure hull. We've lost some hydraulics, too. Just stay on oxygen for now. We'll get on the ground in a few—”

The aircraft rolled hard to the right. Gold felt the g-forces press her into her seat. Someone cried out off interphone, clearly startled by the wounded airplane's spasm. Unlike airlift crews used to low-level banking and yanking, these linguists usually cruised in more tranquil flight. Now the Rivet Joint pitched down. Irena grabbed her armrests. For this jet to pitch and roll like a C-130 zipping through mountain passes, something had to be
wrong
.

The plane leveled for a moment, yawed left. As the pilots fought for control, something else seemed to draw Irena's attention. She tapped at her keyboard. What the heck was she doing? Gold realized Irena was still monitoring her channels even as the aircraft staggered on the edge of controlled flight in an emergency descent. The hole in the plane be damned, she still had a job to do.

“Two-alpha again,” Irena said. “Lock it up.”

“We're on it,” a crewmate called. “What you got?”

“Signal but no voice. DuÅ¡ic just turned on a phone. Where is he?”

“Right where we thought he'd be.”

•   •   •

THE MACHINE GUNNER
at the checkpoint lay sprawled against sandbags, most of his head blown away. Parson was trying to see where the shot came from when the call came.

“Dragnet,” the Rivet Joint crewman said, “we have a signal lock at your position.”

Strange tone of voice. The man sounded scared, with a lot of ambient slipstream noise behind him. What was wrong up there? Parson wanted to ask but had no time.

“Copy that,” Parson said. He switched frequencies and transmitted to Cunningham and Dragan, “Motown advises they have a lock.”

“Copy that,” Dragan radioed.

The murdered gunner proved Dušic was here, and now Dušic had turned on a cell phone. So where was the son of a bitch? Parson did not have to wonder long.

A black Citroën nosed out of the backed-up traffic and jumped the curb. Policemen shouted orders in Serbo-Croatian. The car charged toward the Patriarchate's entrance.

Oh, God, this is it, Parson thought. Just as in his worst dreams, he could not make his mind or his body work fast enough to do any good. Nothing seemed to move quickly but the Citroën. Must be the car bomb. In an instant, the theoretical worst case became reality.

Rooftop snipers opened up on the Citroën. The booms of their heavy-barreled rifles echoed through the falling drizzle. Rounds punched into the car's hood and windshield, but the vehicle kept coming. Rifle fire chattered from points all around the Patriarchate. Who was firing? In front of the mobile command post, Dragan kneeled, brought up his Vintorez. Before he could fire, something knocked him sideways as if he had been kicked.

Now Parson understood. Dušic had sent an assault team to take out the checkpoint, to clear the way for a vehicle-borne IED. The front of the Patriarchate had become a kill zone. Next, it would become ground zero.

Parson tore off his headset and ran outside. A bullet scorched past his face and slammed into the side of the command post. These bastards had their own sniper.

Men with AK-47s came from somewhere within the traffic. They sprayed on full auto, firing at policemen. One officer fell; others took cover behind police vehicles and returned fire. Shots from the rooftop dropped one of the gunmen, then another.

Parson grabbed Dragan by the arms and pulled him behind the command post. The Serbian officer groaned.

“I'm all right,” Dragan said. Saved by his body armor.

Rounds peppered the Citroën as it lurched to the Patriarchate's facade. Parson expected flame and steel to swallow him at any moment. But a strange thing happened. The driver's door opened and a man got out and ran. Not a suicide attack, then.

The sound of automatic fire lifted in a crescendo. One sniper atop the Patriarchate slumped over the edge of the roof. His weapon plummeted to the concrete below. Someone shouted
“Allah-hu akbar!”
The man who'd leaped from the Citroën stumbled, fell, regained his footing, and ran toward a side street.

•   •   •

A SEARING PAIN
from a bullet wound burned Dušic's left calf. The round had hit him just after he'd exited the car. Run, he told himself. Just run. Covering fire has got you this far.

Bullets cracked in front and behind. He could not tell if they came from his team or the policemen trying to kill him. Spray-and-pray from the
razvodnik
s seemed at least to force the officers behind cover. And the odds improved every time Stefan pressed the trigger of that M24.

He saw the van on the street perpendicular to Kralja Petra, Stefan barely visible behind it, aiming over the hood. The vehicle's rear door stood open, waiting. His deliverance. Victory so near. Had Prince Lazar felt like this as he fought his way to death and glory across the Field of Blackbirds?

Dušic dived into the back of the van. Stefan racked the bolt of the M24, fired once more. He threw the rifle into the van and swung himself into the driver's seat. Slammed the door shut, put the vehicle into gear, and stomped the accelerator. Dušic closed the rear door as the van sped away. He heard the impact of rounds hitting the engine compartment. Blood all over the floor now. He paid it no mind. Dušic dug for his cell phone.