by Joseph Badal
“Hear you loud and clear, Bird Dog. I got the aircraft on my scope. Pop smoke so I can see your position. Keep your head down.”
Garcia jerked a yellow smoke grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed the grenade twenty yards to the front of their position. “Homing Pigeon, I’ve just popped smoke; advise what color you see.”
Two AH-1W Super Cobra helicopters peeked above the western treeline. Like a spectator at a sporting event, Garcia watched the Super Cobras emerge above the tops of the trees – from main rotor to windscreen to fuselage to skids.
“I got yellow smoke, Bird Dog. Over.”
“That’s us,” Garcia replied.
One helicopter loosed a Sidewinder missile, which streaked to its target, sounding like a giant hissing cobra. The Serb helicopter exploded. The shock wave crashed onto the meadow, followed by fiery rubble.
The two Super Cobras swooped down on the Serb positions. Their pilots softened the opposition by first firing 2.75” rockets. Then they fired their turreted cannons and spewed 20mm rounds. In ten seconds, the giant chain guns each fired more than half their 750-round magazines. The Serb soldiers were left bleeding into the Albanian turf.
The Super Cobras rose above the extraction point and a troop-carrying MV-22 helicopter swooped in.
The Marines moved quickly, carrying their dead and helping the wounded to the aircraft.
The last few Marines were boarding the MV-22 when Bob pointed out the door and said, “What’s that?”
A young woman, skirts flying and arms pumping, ran toward them. Lying just inside the helicopter’s open door, Karadjic shrieked, “Miriana, you bitch!”
Bob realized this must be the girl, the fortune-teller, who’d helped snare the general.
“Let’s get out of here,” the pilot shouted.
“Hold it!” Bob said. ”Wait for the girl.”
The pilot looked over his shoulder at Bob, then turned his head back toward the aircraft’s instrument panel and waited.
Stefan and Kukoch stood behind large trees. Stefan patted the front of his jacket and smiled at the thought of the money in the belt he’d taken off Danforth. He and Kukoch watched the carnage created by the American helicopters and watched the third, bigger helicopter drop into the grassy meadow. They’d observed the Americans clamber aboard. Then a flash of color moved from the left, diverting Stefan’s attention. A young woman in Gypsy dress raced toward the American aircraft. He recognized her clothing and the way she ran: Miriana.
“My God,” Kukoch said, “it’s your daughter. What’s she doing here?”
Stefan could not believe his eyes. He never knew exactly what would happen to Karadjic, but he had not for a moment thought Miriana would be anywhere near the action. She was supposed to be back in Belgrade, from where they were all supposed to be flown out of the Balkans. That bastard Karadjic! He’d obviously dragged her along with him to the Albanian border on the helicopter.
Then another movement distracted Stefan. A man rose in the clearing. He held a rifle. Stefan screamed, “No!” and ran toward him, willing his old legs to stretch to their limit, to run faster. It was the Serb officer, wounded – bloodstains on the back of his uniform. Stefan felt as though he was moving in slow motion. Everything seemed so clear – the bloodstained uniform, the man’s broad back, the rifle pointed in the direction of the Americans. Again Stefan screamed, “No!” He launched himself at the man just when the crack of the Serb officer’s rifle reverberated through the clearing.
Stefan ripped the knife from the scabbard on the man’s belt and sliced the Serb’s throat. He got to his feet and looked for Miriana. He saw the Americans lift her into the helicopter. She appeared limp . . . lifeless. His wail was washed away by the helicopter’s revving motor and whining rotors.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“How are you, Mr. Danforth?” Colonel Taylor asked, lack of sleep showing in the droop of his mouth and his knitted eyebrows. He pulled a wheeled metal stool over to the bed in the USS Nassau’s infirmary.
“Not so bad, considering I’m on a damned ship,” Bob said.
Taylor chuckled. “Don’t care for the sea?”
“I was Army, Colonel. I like good old terra firma.”
“How’s the shoulder?”
“A little stiff, but otherwise okay. The pain killers your corpsman gave me aren’t half bad.”
“Good! Glad to hear it,” Colonel Taylor said. “We’ll pull into Piraeus at 0600 tomorrow. From there you’ll go to the airport and fly to Landstuhl Army Hospital in Germany. You’ll be in D.C. before the week is out.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Bob said. “What’s the story with Karadjic?”
“He’s getting medical attention. But I gotta tell you, if we pull into Piraeus with him on board, the Greeks will take him from us.”
Bob smiled at Taylor and said, “You’ll be receiving instructions shortly. A pilot will land a chopper on board your ship and take Karadjic for a little side trip. He’s going to be interrogated before being taken to The Hague. Next stop for General Karadjic – the War Crimes Tribunal.”
“Any word out of Belgrade?” Bob asked.
“A spokesman from NATO has asked for a private conversation with the Serb President. Once he finds out Karadjic is in our hands . . . well, we’ll see.”
“What will you do with the Gypsy girl’s body? She was an important part of our getting Karadjic.”
Taylor smiled. “I’m a married man; I’m not going to do anything with her body.”
Bob’s puzzled look made Taylor laugh out loud. “She’s alive. The bullet just grazed her head.”
“There was so much blood,” Bob said.
“She’ll live,” Taylor said with a smile. “By the way, do you know anything about a million dollars? She keeps rambling on about us owing her a million dollars.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
On his third day back in D.C., Bob and Liz were sitting down to dinner when the telephone rang.
“Bob, it’s Jack. Am I interrupting anything?”
“Like that would make a difference, Jack.”
Silence.
“What’s up?” Bob asked.
“I thought you’d better hear this from me before CNN picks it up. Karadjic hung himself in his cell.”
“Damn!” Bob cursed. “We got absolutely nothing out of the sonofabitch.”
“And more of the 82nd has been called up, including Michael’s battalion,” Jack said. “They’ve been ordered to Macedonia.”
“Sweet Jesus!” Bob whispered.
“What is it?” Liz asked.
Bob waved to shush her. “When’s the unit ship out?”
“The President just made the announcement. They’ll leave in two weeks. NATO will mobilize all its resources to provide refugee relief. But you can read between the lines as well as I can. Ground troops are going in.”
“But I thought Congress voted against funding troops in the Balkans.”
“They did!” Jack said. “The President’s pulling a Teddy Roosevelt. He’s sending troops to the Balkans and daring Congress to withhold the money he needs to support them.”
“Assholes! The President and Congress are playing a game of chess, and a bunch of kids in uniform are the pawns.”
“Mike will be fine, Bob.”
“Thanks for calling, Jack.” Bob replaced the receiver, all the while looking at Liz.
“Michael’s unit is being sent to the Balkans.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Serb President looked at the man seated across his desk. Artyan Vitas had worked for him for decades. But, even though the man had been loyal to him for all that time, Vitas made him uncomfortable. The milky-white of his dead eye contrasted eerily with the dark blue of his good eye. His sharp features were evidence the Turks had conquered Serbia centuries earlier. Vitas, at fifty years of age, had been a hired killer for twenty-six years – first for the Yugoslav Communists, and now for Serbia. The leader collected his thoughts be
fore speaking.
“Antonin Karadjic and I grew up together,” he finally said, anger in his voice. “He was more responsible for carrying out my programs than any other person. And he was my friend. His death is a personal tragedy to me. Razumijes ti, Artyan?”
Vitas nodded. “I understand.”
The leader continued. “General Karadjic died a great Serb patriot. He killed himself rather than give information to our enemies and cause our country embarrassment. I want the people responsible for his kidnapping to pay for his death. I want you to track them down no matter where they are. I want them to suffer a thousand deaths.” The leader’s tone increased in volume as his words came faster and faster. “I want the enemies of the Serb people to know that no one dares violate our land. No one abducts a hero of the people.”
Vitas displayed his stained smile. A gold incisor caught the sun streaming through the office window and glinted. A smile creased his lips and his nostrils seemed to flare.
The leader felt suddenly chilled.
PART III
1999
CHAPTER ONE
Olga Madanovic’s eyelids fluttered while she slowly regained consciousness with an onslaught of pain that took her breath away. She came fully alert with a long, low moan. Her face felt burnt – she remembered the punches the rat-faced man had inflicted. Olga’s stomach cramped and a wave of nausea hit her. She retched and tried to lean over the floor, but the ropes held her too tightly and she soiled her clothes. Something wet ran from her nose and onto her split lips. She touched her tongue to it. Blood.
Olga was bound hands and feet to a chair. She cocked her head to look with her left eye at the metal-barred window set high in the wall of her cell. She couldn’t open her right eye; it seemed to be swollen. There was no light outside. Only darkness.
The man. Where was the rat-faced man? The beatings had been terrible, but somehow she’d endured. She tried to slow her breathing, to remain calm. Maybe he’s finished with me, she thought, a shred of hope fluttering in her brain.
Olga started at the sound of footsteps. Someone approached her cell. The metal cell door squealed open and then the rat-faced man appeared in the doorway. He stepped into the tiny room, the door creaking as he slowly closed it behind him. Leering at her with his gap-toothed smile, he took a pair of pliers from a canvas bag sitting in a corner of the cell. He licked his lips as though he were about to eat his favorite meal. He moved to Olga and took hold of the little finger on her strapped-down right hand, then placed the jaws of the pliers on the finger’s first joint.
Olga stared down at her hand. She tried to shake her head, but the tape securing her head to the high-backed chair allowed minimal mobility. She groaned through the gag in her mouth. She knew what was about to happen, but felt a sense of disbelief.
The man ripped the gag from Olga’s mouth. “I want to hear you yell, my pretty,” he said in Serbo-Croatian, licking his thin, purplish lips. He squeezed the handles of the pliers and the tool’s jaws bit into Olga’s flesh, then into bone.
Her screams reverberated off the damp stone cell walls. The pain shot through her, seeming to explode in every nerve ending of her body. She writhed helplessly against her bonds.
“Are you going to confess now, my pretty?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Olga moaned. “Plea-a-a-se! Why are you doing this to me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
The man answered her by moving the pliers and crushing her thumb, a smile creasing his face. His eyes seemed to sparkle with pleasure. “Lying puta. Who are you working for? You are a spy. I know it! I can smell it on you. Tell me!”
“No-o-o-o!” Olga screeched when the pliers bit through the flesh of yet another finger, crunching bone, splattering blood – a crescendo of pain. She felt her heartbeat accelerate higher and higher. She wanted to live but knew the rule: Hang on as long as possible.
The cell door creaked open and the rat-faced man turned abruptly toward it. A shadowy figure entered. Ratface walked into the shadows next to the door. Olga heard him whispering. Ratface came back to her, stepped behind her chair, and freed her from the too-tight ropes that bound her wrists and head. Then he bent down in front of Olga and untied her ankles.
She groaned when blood rushed to her hands and feet, bringing more pain to her body. Olga looked down at her mangled fingers and suddenly felt faint. She toppled from the chair to the floor, fighting to remain conscious.
“She stinks,” Olga heard the newcomer say. “Clean her up.”
Ratface picked up a bucket of water from a corner of the cell and threw its contents over her.
The shock of the frigid water washed away her dizziness. She felt a hand grab her upper arm and lift her back into the chair. Maybe they believe me, she thought. Maybe they’re going to let me go. I didn’t tell them a thing – about General Alexandrovic being a spy, about General Antonin Karadjic’s kidnapping, about the Gypsy girl. I made it! I held out.
She raised her face a few painful inches. Ratface stood in the hall just outside the cell, bathed in the light from a naked bulb hanging on a cord. He faced toward Olga and gave her a toothy smile. She could see no one else. Ratface slammed the cell door shut. She heard his hoarse laughter and footsteps recede down the hall.
Olga sighed. I made it, she thought again. Then she heard a click and bright overhead lights flooded the cell. She raised an arm to shield her eyes. The other man was still inside with her.
He stepped around the chair and stood in front of her. He bent slightly. His face made Olga shudder. One of his eyes, milky-white dead, seemed to zero in on her like the eye of a hunting shark. His thick eyebrows met over the bridge of his crooked nose and a jungle of long hairs matted his ears. His jet-black hair was slicked back. Light flashed off a gold upper tooth. Olga turned her head aside to avoid his rancid breath.
The man grabbed her chin and twisted her face back toward him. He slowly scrutinized her face, touching places that made her wince and moan with pain. Turning her head from side to side, he said, “Not too bad, my dear. Not nearly as bad as it’s going to be.” He took his hand away. Then he punched her in the mouth, knocking her off the chair. Olga tried to make her mind detach from her body, to pretend this was just a bad dream. The pain told her otherwise. She spit out tooth fragments through busted lips. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth. The man grabbed her hair and yanked her up off the floor. He shoved her onto a cot in a corner of the cell and slammed his fist into her stomach.
“Come on, my little spy, fight me. I like it so much better that way.”
Olga rolled into a fetal position and gasped for breath. She heard the man’s roaring laughter echo off the moldy cell walls. His hands ripped away her blouse, her skirt, her panties. He forced her to lie on her back again. She looked up and saw light reflect off the blade of a dagger.
He put the knife blade between the cups of her bra, her last piece of clothing, and sliced it away. Then he placed the knife on her stomach, its cold steel sending a shiver through her.
Olga tried to will herself to reach for the knife, but her body seemed frozen in place. The man reached down, lifted a length of rope from the floor, and dragged it slowly over her legs, her pubic area, her stomach and breasts. Then he tied her wrists to the cot’s top rail.
Olga watched him undo his belt and unzip his pants. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. Then he took the knife off her stomach. He climbed on the cot, straddling her. He ran the point of the cold steel blade over her breasts, down the center of her chest, and down the insides of her arms to the tips of her mangled fingers.
Olga stiffened, panic coursing through her, while the man moved the knife over her body.
Then he spoke, icily, dead calmly. “Now, my beautiful American bird, you will find out about pain.” He drove the dagger blade into the mattress, just above her head and mounted her.
“I wonder how long you will remain silent, my dear,” the man said between grunts. “Will you
finally talk after I am finished with you?” He laughed between thrusts. “Maybe I should have Drago return with his pliers.”
A wail escaped her lips. “I’ll talk, I’ll talk,” she cried.
The man grinned. “Oh, I know you will. But, not just yet. I can’t have you ruining my fun.”
Olga prayed for a quick death. Pain exploded inside her like a pane of glass shattering into a thousand shards. She prayed he would finish. Maybe then he would be too exhausted to continue. Maybe then he’d kill her. But the rape seemed to go on forever. His sweat dripped on her; he grunted like a pig.
Olga tried again to find the safe place inside herself, but it had disappeared. Now demons had taken control of her mind. She heard herself babbling, but none of the words made sense. She tried to tell everything about the plot to kidnap General Karadjic – about Alexandrovic, the Gypsy girl, the CIA, her boss, Bob Danforth. But her words sounded like gibberish. Her pain-crazed mind could no longer make sense of anything.
Finally, the man rose from her. He extracted the knife from the mattress and slit the ropes binding her wrists. Despite the pain and degradation she’d endured, Olga felt momentary relief wash over her. She heard the man open the cell door and leave. Her mind had become fuzzy with pain. She wanted to pray, but felt God had abandoned her.
My clothes, she thought. I have to find my clothes. She moved in stuporous slow motion, finally getting into a sitting position before rolling off the cot onto the chilled floor. Supporting herself on her knees and elbows – her hands useless – she crawled across the damp, uneven, cobblestone floor toward her ripped and bloodstained blouse. Just when she touched its fabric, Ratface reentered the cell. He dragged her back to the cot and took his turn with her.
There were others, too. But she soon lost count.