by Joseph Badal
Bob tried to relax, to breathe normally. He offered no resistance while the two men hauled him into the woods. They stood him up against a tree. One man aimed his rifle at Bob while the other one leaned his rifle against another tree and searched Bob. He found the money belt and stripped it from around Bob’s waist, and then, laughing, waved it at his partner. He tossed the money belt by his rifle and grabbed a length of rope hanging over a branch.
The bandit looped the rope around Bob’s chest and then around the tree, but suddenly stopped when a voice from the road yelled something, and then Bob heard the sound of a car engine.
The man with the rifle looked over a shoulder toward the road. In that instant, Bob leaped forward, jerking the rope from the hands of one bandit, and lashing out with his foot kicking him in the crotch. The Serb bandit screamed and fell, dropping his weapon and holding his private parts. The other guard came around the tree at him, but Bob snatched the first guard’s rifle from the ground and swung the weapon at the second man’s head. Then he used the rifle to club the other one.
Bob snatched up the money belt and stuffed it inside his jacket, and then ran in a crouch back toward the Range Rover. Over the vehicle’s hood, he saw the other two bandits dragging Yanni into heavy brush on the far side of the road. Fifty yards up the road, a car rolled slowly toward the checkpoint.
Bob saw the bandits dump Yanni in the brush and then move back to the barrier blocking the road. They leveled their rifles at the approaching vehicle, which stopped just feet behind the Range Rover, and moved forward, one on each side, as they had before. Suddenly, the sound of automatic weapons firing shattered the night; muzzle flashes lit up the second car’s interior. The bandits were blown backward and fell to the ground.
The occupants of the car got out and quickly inspected the bodies. They fired bursts from their automatic weapons into the bandits. They then emptied the dead men’s pockets and dragged their bodies into the woods.
Bob gripped the bandit’s rifle and felt the comforting weight of the pistol in his jacket pocket. He had the option of melting back into the forest. But he couldn’t abandon Yanni. He stepped out from behind the Range Rover and shouted, “Do you speak English?”
Three men from the second vehicle pointed their weapons at Bob. He dropped the rifle and raised his arms in the air. “Hold it! I’m a Canadian reporter.”
An elderly man with sharp, hawk-like features stepped forward. “Your papers,” he demanded in English tinged with a mild Slavic accent..
Bob slowly lowered one hand, reached inside his jacket for his Greg Davis passport, and handed it over to the man, who scanned the document in the light from the second car’s headlights and looked back at Bob.
“Greg Davis?” the man said.
“Right!” Bob said.
“What are you doing here?” the man asked.
Despite the man’s accent, his English was flawless. “I’ll answer your questions. But, first, I need help for my friend,” Bob said. “They beat him badly.” He squinted against the glare of the Fiat sedan’s headlights, trying to get a better look at his saviors, while pointing toward where Yanni had been dumped.
The old man nodded and waved at two of his men. He shouted something at them.
They followed Bob into tall grass near the edge of the forest. Bob knelt next to Yanni’s still form. He checked his pulse. “He’s alive,” he said, “but his breathing is shallow. Let’s get him to the car.”
The two men carried Yanni to the back of the Range Rover. Bob climbed in first and helped pull Yanni into the vehicle’s cargo area. Cuts and abrasions showed on Yanni’s face. Blood oozed from his scalp. When Bob touched Yanni’s chest, the man moaned.
”I think he’s got broken ribs,” Bob said. “Maybe internal injuries, too.” He looked over his shoulder out through the open tailgate. “He needs a doctor.”
“There are no doctors around here,” said the hawk-faced man. “We need to get moving. These Serbs will be missed when they fail to report in. Where are the other two guards?”
“Over there, unconscious,” Bob said.
Hawkface looked at Bob and said, “Unconscious? I’m glad to see you reporters know how to defend yourselves.” Then he blurted an order in a language Bob didn’t recognize.
Two of the men moved swiftly in the direction Bob had indicated, where the two unconscious bandits were. Two shots rang out a moment later. Then the men returned.
Bob turned to Hawkface. “Was that necessary?”
The man shrugged and turned away without a word.
Bob’s stomach knotted. He moved back to the Range Rover and covered Yanni with a blanket from the cargo bay. Then he climbed out of the car and closed the tailgate. “What now?” he asked.
“Where are you going?” the leader said in English.
“The Albanian border.”
“We are, too. We can join forces until we get there.”
Bob shrugged. “Okay by me.”
“I’ll ride with you,” the leader said.
“What the hell is Stefan up to?” Kukoch asked Zoran and Zulkar while they followed the Range Rover. “I thought he wanted to kill that guy.”
“How do I know?” Zoran growled. “How can anyone understand what Stefan’s up to?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The USS Nassau plowed through high seas at the northern end of the Ionian Sea. Lightning streaked while thunderheads rolled overhead. The decks had been awash with heavy rain for hours.
The Nassau ran due north toward the Strait of Otranto on a course that would put her halfway between the Albanian coast and the boot heel of the Italian peninsula. From there she would turn forty-five degrees toward Albania. As part of a three-ship Amphibious Ready Group from Amphibious Squadron 4 (PHIBRON 4), she carried, in addition to her regular crew, the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit (SOC), Special Operations Capable, under the command of Colonel Dell Taylor.
Commodore Frank Petty, gray-haired commander of PHIBRON 4, paced in front of two men seated in the briefing room – Taylor and Lieutenant Commander Ernest Crowley, Operations Officer (N-3) for PHIBRON 4. The Nassau’s 30-by-15-foot briefing room resembled a miniature movie theater, with twenty-four plush chairs in six rows facing a raised platform. A podium was fastened securely in the middle of the platform. Maps and a blackboard hung on the wall behind the podium.
Petty, as thin and hard as an iron rail, stepped behind the podium and placed his palms on it. He glared at the other men. “I have to tell you both, I don’t think much of this cowboy mission. It stinks of CIA.”
Taylor and Crowley nodded, but remained silent.
“We’re putting those young men in harm’s way with inadequate intelligence,” Petty continued. “Any captured Marines will be executed as spies – after a show trial. If this thing turns into a clusterfuck, you can bet the spooks won’t be anywhere around to share the blame.”
Taylor shrugged. “What the hell choice do we have, Frank?” he asked.
“I know, I know.”
Petty walked over to a corner table and pressed a buzzer. An ensign entered the room almost immediately.
“Williams, find Lieutenant Garcia,” Petty barked at the young officer. “Bring him here ASAP.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ensign Williams replied. He turned sharply on his heels and left the room.
Taylor got up from his chair to study the map hanging on the wall behind Petty. Acid began to flow in his stomach and backed up into his throat. He opened the bottle of antacid he always kept in reach and took a swig. He hated to think what the combination of after-dinner stomach acid and pre-action adrenaline was doing to his insides.
There was a knock on the door. A Marine lieutenant entered the room and came to attention.
“Lieutenant Garcia reporting as ordered, sir.” His face was a stone mask.
Taylor strode over to Garcia. “At ease, Lieutenant Garcia. Take a seat” He pointed at a chair in the front row, then sat next to Garcia.
�
�It’s time for you to earn the big bucks Uncle Sam pays you,” Commodore Petty said, his gaze directed to Garcia. “As the Force Recon Direct Action Platoon Leader, you’re about to find out why your platoon is assigned to this Marine Expeditionary Unit.”
“Yes, sir,” Garcia said.
“Major Crowley, why don’t you get started?” Taylor said, leaning against the podium.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Crowley got up and walked briskly to the wall map. He grabbed a pointer propped in a corner of the room and tapped at the map. “This shows the land mass defined by the Adriatic, Black, Aegean, and Ionian Seas. Lieutenant, this mission has interest at the highest levels. You’re going to do grunt work for some very important people. Our information is that there will be a CIA observer near the target area.”
Crowley tapped at the map again. “Here’s where your platoon’s going. You and your fourteen Marines will take off at 0200 hours tomorrow in an MV-22 Osprey we have had deployed just for this mission. You’ll be inserted into Albania at its border with Kosovo, near the Drin River. You’ll have two AH-1W Super Cobras to provide fire support for the insertion.”
“Yes, sir,” Garcia said. “Glad to have those bad boys along.”
“At 0330 hours,” Taylor continued, “you will cross the border into Kosovo and take up positions on this ridgeline, just southwest of the city of Djakovica. A Serb general by the name of Antonin Karadjic will be on that ridge. Right here, on hill 652. At 0500, your team will move to capture Karadjic. You’ll take Karadjic five miles west to your extraction point – here.” Another rap with the pointer. “You must be at this point by 0800 hours. Sharp.”
Garcia sat as though frozen, studying the map. “A lot of distance to cover in a short time, Colonel,” he said. “Over pretty rough, steep terrain. And this rain will slow us down.”
“It’s the best we can do, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Miriana hurried through the maze of narrow streets on the outskirts of Belgrade. She carried a large straw bag against her chest and scurried along as fast as the slippery pavement allowed. Rain had been falling for hours.
Damn Karadjic for continually changing the location of their meetings, she thought. Following his directions, she turned a corner onto Kondraki Lane. A black sedan sat at the corner. A man jumped out from behind the wheel, opened the back door, and waited for Miriana to slide inside. He then slammed the door shut, got back in the car, and drove for fifteen minutes, continually checking his rearview mirror. The last few minutes of the drive took them down narrow residential lanes with three-story row houses facing each other. The space between the facing houses was so narrow cars had to park on the sidewalks to leave a single lane clear.
Finally, the man eased to a stop in front of a row house. “He’s inside,” the driver barked. He let Miriana deal with her door.
She got out of the car and looked first left, then right. The street seemed deserted, except for a man seated in a car a couple doors down the street. She would never have noticed the man if she hadn’t seen the red glow of a cigarette inside the car. Karadjic’s bodyguard, she thought. She climbed the steps to the front door and knocked.
“Ah, my little Gypsy is here,” Karadjic exclaimed after opening the door. He rubbed his hands together. The General was grossly overweight, with beady eyes and a bloated face. Miriana thought again that he looked like an apple with pencils stuck in it for arms and legs. The musty odor of the place told her the building had not been occupied in awhile. Even the strong smell of Karadjic’s cigar couldn’t hide that fact. There was no furniture in the front room.
Karadjic led her through the front room to a first-floor room furnished with nothing but a small, square table and four straight-backed chairs. Just another safe house the General would use once or twice, then abandon for another. He sat in one of the chairs and propped one of his legs on another. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray on the table. Karadjic lifted a tea glass filled with a cloudy, off-white liquid. “Would you like to join me, little Miriana? This is very fine raki.”
“No thank you, General,” Miriana said primly. “Alcohol and telling the future are not good companions.” Her father drank the stuff. She couldn’t stand the taste or odor.
“Ah, of course,” the General said. “We mustn’t do anything to taint the spirits.”
Miriana put her bag on one of the empty chairs. She took a bottle of water, a shawl, a candle and candleholder, and matches from the bag. She set the candle in the holder and lit it. When enough wax had dripped from the candle to fix it in place, she walked to the wall near the door and turned off the room’s overhead light. Moving across the room to the front room’s single window, she gripped the two curtains. She hesitated a moment, stared out at the grim row of houses across the street – now partially obscured by the pouring rain – and closed the curtains. She moved back to the room with the table and took a seat opposite Karadjic.
The General picked up his cigar and tamped out the embers in the ashtray. He put the four inches remaining in his shirt pocket. Then he put down his glass and laid his sausage-fingered hands on the table. His eyes bored into hers.
Without turning her gaze away, Miriana lifted the shawl from the table and draped it over her head and across her shoulders. Then she lifted the water bottle, sipped from it, and sprayed a fine mist at the candle flame through her teeth. The flame sputtered, then revived. Miriana prayed aloud for the protection of the Virgin Mother through the use of Holy Water.
Miriana laid her hands on Karadjic’s and closed her eyes. She fought to hide the revulsion she felt touching the man. They sat silently, without moving for several minutes, just as in all previous sessions.
Then Miriana held up both her hands and threw her head back as though jolted by an electric shock. Her mouth fell wide open and her pupils rolled back so her eyes showed white.
In an eerie, half-howling, half-wailing voice, she droned, “Antonin Karadjic, I see an ebony-black sky.” She paused. Then she shook as though suffering convulsions. The shaking stopped as quickly as it had started. Taking exaggerated breaths, her breasts lifting and falling with the effort, Miriana moaned, “The stars and the moon are dead.” Pause. “I hear the sounds of a million drummers.”
She shuddered, then continued in a quivering voice, “The blackness is coming at me . . . it has a million eyes. Help me! I’m afraid! I see bodies in the dirt.” A moan escaped her lips.
She clutched his hands with all her strength, digging her nails into his flesh. He yelled and jerked his hands away. Miriana shrieked, fell sideways onto the floor, and lay there as though unconscious. Karadjic knocked his chair over, jumping straight up.
Miriana sneaked a look at him with one slitted eye. The brave Serb general, victorious leader of a hundred battles, murderer of tens of thousands, is afraid. What a joke!
Finally, Karadjic reached for his glass of raki and knelt next to her. He held the glass under her nose. The strong whiff of alcohol made her cough, but she opened her eyes slowly. Shaking her head as though to clear it of confusion, she sat up on the floor. Karadjic took her arm, helping her off the floor and back into the chair.
“Te . . . tell me, Miriana,” Karadjic said. “Wh . . . what did you see?”
“I have to go, General. I must go home.” She stood and began hurriedly packing her things.
Karadjic shoved her back into the chair. “You’ll tell me what you saw!”
Miriana sighed and clasped her hands to her breast. “I saw nothing but blackness and heard a loud thrumming sound. The blackness came closer and closer, as though it would swallow me. And the closer it came, the louder the noise became. Then the blackness showed itself for what it really was – a mass of flying blackbirds. The sound of their wings became a roar.”
“What happened next?” Karadjic asked, his voice tremulous . . . respectful.
“I saw you being carried across the sky on the blackbirds’ wings. An
d behind you were thousands of corpses floating on air. Each one carried a sign reading: Prizla. They cried out your name. Oh, General! It was awful. Please, let me go.”
Karadjic’s eyes looked ready to pop from his head. White spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth. “Oh my God!” he cried.
“What does it mean, General?” Miriana asked.
Karadjic just waved her question away. He commanded her to continue.
She swept her hair back from her face, looking at him. “The birds flew with you over the land – nothing but burned out buildings, scorched fields, dead forests.”
“What about the bodies you saw?” Karadjic interrupted.
“They floated along after you.” She let this sink in. “You, the birds, and the corpses moved across the sky like storm clouds. Then the birds stopped. You asked the birds, ‘Why have we stopped?’ ”
Karadjic’s eyes were saucers.
“What happened next?”
Miriana paused, lowered her head for effect, then looked back at Karadjic. His lips quivered. His face had gone white. “Then the birds fell on you and consumed your flesh.”
The General shook his head and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers.
“This is bad, Miriana! You have to help me! What can I do to prevent my death? How can I save myself?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The recon platoon members went silent at 2015 hours when Lieutenant Emil Garcia entered the USS Nassau’s briefing room. Garcia looked around, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. “I’ve got orders to take a team on a special mission. In addition to Sergeants Messina and Sackett, I’ll need twelve men. Any volunteers?”
As one, all twenty-five men in the room stood and yelled, “Aruugahh!”
Garcia suppressed a smile and picked his team, trying not to let the disappointment of the men not selected affect him. He then directed the men selected to prepare their weapons and equipment and then return to the briefing room in three hours to receive the Formal Patrol Order.