by Joseph Badal
“Remove your hand from inside your jacket and step back!” the man said in a hushed, but firm tone.
Michael showed his hands, slowly straightened up and took a step back. Try to relax, he told himself. Remember your training. He waited until the man began to stand and grabbed his gunhand in both of his own, shifted his weight, and threw the man over his shoulder. The man slammed the pavement with a whomp! Then starbursts of light exploded in Michael’s head and he felt himself falling. Then he felt nothing.
“That was careless, Dimitrov,” Captain Sokic snarled, grimacing at the soldier wheezing for breath. But Sokic wasn’t interested in a response. “Josef, you and Vassily put Danforth in the Jeep. Pyotr, you drive,” he rasped. Sokic then turned to Radko who was standing off to the side of the road. “You’ve got two seconds to disappear before I shoot your ass.” He watched Radko move off the road and go into the trees beyond.
Attila stepped out of the trees and slid down the embankment to the road. He was exhausted from his trek north and the return trip looking for his father. He saw the security lights of the refugee camp entrance far in the distance to his right and started to walk in that direction. But a slight sound distracted him. Off to his left, a vehicle was stopped on the road, just outside the ray of light cast by one of the security lamps mounted on the military camp’s perimeter fence. Its headlights were on. Its engine idled.
Several figures stood around the vehicle. Suddenly, another figure ran away from the road, toward the woods. He recognized his father’s walk and posture.
“Babo,” Attila screamed. “Babo, it’s me.” He ran up the middle of the road toward where he saw Radko enter the treeline.
Pyotr was about to put the Jeep in gear, when Sokic grabbed his arm. “Wait!” he said. “What was that?”
Stefan had heard a shout, while running away from the Jeep into the woods. But he hadn’t stopped. All he wanted to do was get away from the men who were obviously more than he’d originally thought they were. And they were damned sure not Bosnian farmers. It was okay with him if they murdered Danforth, but he didn’t want to be anywhere near them in case American soldiers showed up. After he was hidden, he peeked around a tree and looked down at the road. Then he heard the same voice shouting again.
“Babo!”
Stefan looked to the right. Attila stepped into the beam of the Jeep’s headlights.
“Go back!” Stefan screamed. He heard Sokic’s voice shout, “Go! Go!” Then the sound of the Jeep engine revving. The vehicle shot forward. He watched the vehicle speed down the road toward his son.
Radko shouted again. “Attila, run!” His words sounded to him as loud as though they’d been screamed into a bullhorn. But he knew they were wasted. The engine shrieked as the vehicle launched forward and smashed into Attila. His son was flung over the Jeep’s windshield like a pinwheeling sack of potatoes. He watched the boy land with a sickening thud in the middle of the road.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jack saw the red glow of taillights vanishing in the distance. He goosed the HUMVEE and felt it surge forward.
Then his headlights revealed something on the pavement. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop a few feet from a man bent over what looked like a heap of clothing. Jack pulled out his pistol and jumped from the HUMVEE. He saw flesh and blood in the heap of clothing. Walking closer, keeping his gun extended, Jack asked, “What happened?” The man kneeling beside the body did not respond. He just swayed back and forth.
Jack grabbed him by the collar, forcing him to stand, and shook him. “What’s going on? Who are you?” The man stood hunched over, staring down at the twisted limbs of a teenaged boy.
“Dammit, who are you?” Jack screamed.
The roar of engines speeding toward him from the Army compound deflected his attention. He put his weapon away and put his hands on his head while three vehicles bore down on him. They jolted to a stop a few steps away and a gang of soldiers jumped out and surrounded Jack. One of them roughly frisked him and took away his pistol.
A lieutenant who seemed to be in charge pointed at Stefan. “Who’s that?” he asked no one in particular.
A soldier – Jack recognized him as one of the sentries – said, “That’s the guy Captain Danforth drove off with.”
“So where’s Captain Danforth?” the Lieutenant asked.
The sentry just shrugged.
“Search him, too,” the officer ordered.
The sentry searched Radko and found his pockets stuffed with currency. He also found ID papers and handed them to the officer. The officer stepped in front of one of the Jeeps and held the papers down in the beam of a headlight to read them. “Your name is Stefan Radko?”
No response.
The officer repeated the question – louder this time. “Are you Stefan Radko?”
“Yes, I am Stefan Radko.”
“You sonofabitch!” Jack cursed. He broke away from the two men guarding him, grabbed Stefan by the front of his coat, and jerked him forward. “Where’s Michael, you bastard?”
Stefan glared at Jack. “He is on his way to hell,” he whispered. Then Stefan began to laugh, but he suddenly stopped and sank to his knees.
“Get him back to the camp,” the Lieutenant ordered, pointing at Radko. “We’ll take this other one to headquarters for interrogation.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Serb Special Forces team took the bypass road around Kumanovo and sped north to Preshevo. Sokic knew they had to put distance between them and the Americans. As soon as the Americans discovered Danforth missing, there would be a general alert. One Black Hawk helicopter would ruin everything; their mission would be a failure. Kidnapping Danforth was only half the mission. They had to get him into Serbia.
Danforth lay bound, gagged, and unconscious in the back of the Jeep. Sokic smiled with satisfaction at his target’s still figure. Luck had been with them, so far.
The last of the moon could be seen low in the sky. A few refugees already on the road, hiking south, had to scurry out of the Jeep’s path. Sokic tapped Pyotr on the arm. “Make sure you don’t run into any of these scum. We don’t want to damage the vehicle.”
Pyotr nodded his understanding, but Sokic thought he saw disappointment on the man’s face. It was still dark, so he couldn’t be sure.
When Sokic saw the rutted dirt road leading to the spot where the team’s cars were hidden, he yelled at Pyotr to make the turn. They stopped at the spot where they’d left the vehicles, camouflaged beside the road. But the cars were gone.
“Damn Muslim thieves!” Sokic growled. He turned to Pyotr and demanded, “How much gas do we have?”
Pyotr checked the fuel gauge. “It’s on vapors,” he said.
“We might as well dump it in a ravine,” Sokic said. “We’ll have to walk until we find another vehicle.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Michael returned to head-throbbing consciousness. He had a moment of disorientation. Then the memory of what had happened hit him.
His hands, gone numb, were tied tightly behind his back. His tongue was dry and swollen. He tasted dirt. Michael remained still and opened his eyes only enough to glimpse his surroundings. It was still dark. Clouds obscured part of the waning moon. The slight breeze carried a chill with it. Two men stood a few feet away. All Michael could see were their boots and the lower part of their pants. Somewhere just behind him, a man said something in Serbo-Croatian.
Serbs! Michael thought. Stay calm, he told himself, as he assessed his situation: Bound and gagged, killer headache, stiff with cold. In enemy hands. I’m in deep shit.
One of the Serbs poured water from a canteen over Michael’s face. He sputtered when some of it splashed into his nose.
“Well, our guest is finally awake,” one of the men said. “Get him to his feet.” Two men hoisted Michael by the arms. The apparent leader smiled at Michael. “I have a message for you from our esteemed President,” he said in English. “He says, ‘Welcome to Serbia,
where you will spend the rest of your miserable life. Welcome to Hell.’ ”
Michael no longer felt disoriented. But he was confused. He felt as though he’d dropped into some Alice-In-Wonderland nightmare fantasy world. What the hell did the Serb leader want with him?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sergeant Sean O’Hara and Private Tyrell Robinson couldn’t get Radko to say a word while they drove him to the refugee camp. The old man sat in the backseat, silent as a Sphinx.
“Ah,” one of the NATO guards from France said, “it is Monsieur Radko. Where have you been? Your wife and son, they drive us crazy with questions. The boy has gone out to search for you.”
Stefan just stared at nothing.
“What is the matter with him?” the other French guard asked.
O’Hara glanced at Stefan and lowered his voice to answer, “He saw his son get killed.”
“Merde!”
“Where’s his tent?” O’Hara asked.
The guard entered a wooden hut and came out looking at a sheet of paper on a clipboard. “Tent 346,” he said. “Go straight ahead until you come to the Red Cross building. Then take a left and go for about a half-mile. The numbers are on little signs in front of each tent.”
“Merci,” O’Hara said. But it came across like “Mercy,” in a West Texas accent.
“I n’y a pas de rien,” the French guard said, smiling.
As Robinson drove into the camp, he started laughing. “Nice accent there, Sergeant,” he said. “No wonder the French think we’re cretins.”
O’Hara scowled. “What’s wrong with my accent? And how would you know?”
“High-school French – four years.”
“Huh! What did Peppie Le Pew say when I thanked him?”
“He said it was nothing. Must have been talking about your French.”
They finally found tent 346 just when the sun peeked above the horizon. Robinson pulled in front. O’Hara helped Radko out of the vehicle, supporting him while he led him to the tent.
A woman stepped out into the morning light. “Stefan, where have you been?” she cried in English. “I have been so worried.” She touched the patches of dried blood on his jacket. “Are you hurt?” she asked, looking accusingly at O’Hara.
“He’s fine, ma’am. Help me get him into the tent.”
Vanja stepped between Stefan and O’Hara. Robinson helped her move Stefan to a cot. Three cots took up most of the space within the tent. Suitcases and boxes were piled on the dirt floor in the remaining space. The only light came from two lanterns hanging from a rope strung along the top of the tent.
When they had Stefan sitting down on one of the cots inside, Robinson said, “Maybe you should sit down, too, ma’am.”
She refused to sit. “What happened to my husband,” she demanded.
“We think he saw your son get hit by a vehicle out on the road,” O’Hara said.
Vanja covered her mouth with both hands. Then her hands flew to the top of her head. “Where is my son? How badly hurt is he?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s dead.”
Vanja’s shriek filled the tent. She collapsed on the dirt floor, wailing.
O’Hara and Robinson had almost reached the camp’s gate when they took a call on the Jeep’s radio: “Eagle Four, this is Eagle One. Come in, Eagle Four. Eagle Four, can you read me? This is Eagle One. Over.”
O’Hara picked up the mike. “Eagle One, this is Eagle Four. We read you loud and clear. Over.”
“Bring Radko to Colonel Sweeney. Over.”
“We already dropped the old guy at his tent,” O’Hara protested. “Over.”
“Well, go back and get him! Out!”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Vanja sat up, patted her face with the skirt of her dress, and glared at Stefan. “What . . . were you . . . doing out there? Attila would have been safe in the tent if you hadn’t left the camp.”
Stefan was rocking mechanically back and forth on the cot.
“Answer me, husband!” she screeched in a voice that shocked even her. She’d never spoken to Stefan like this before.
“Nothing, woman. Leave me be.”
“I want to know what happened!”
“I did nothing wrong! I was out getting us money. I was walking home when Attila found me. We were in the road. Some drunken American soldiers in a Jeep ran into him.”
Vanja stood and folded her arms across her chest. She stared at him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. She knew in every cell of her body he was lying.
Suddenly, the same two American soldiers who’d brought Stefan to the tent minutes earlier returned. One said when he stepped into the tent, “Stefan Radko, you’re to come with us.”
“What is it?” Vanja asked. “What has he done?”
“Ma’am, I must ask you to stay out of this. Don’t interfere.”
“Please tell me. Why are you taking my husband away?” Vanja’s chin trembled and her stomach contracted into a tight ball. She felt ill.
“Look, ma’am, you’ll have to talk to our commander about that.”
“Please,” she said. “First you tell me my son is dead; now you want to take my husband. What is happening?”
The black soldier looked Vanja in the eye and said, “We don’t know the whole story. But when we found your husband in the road where your son was killed, we heard something about Mr. Radko maybe being mixed up in the kidnapping of an American officer. A Captain Michael Danforth.”
Vanja’s chin stopped trembling. She clenched her jaw. Then she balled up her fists and whipped around and screamed at Stefan in Roma. “You lying, miserable bastard. You couldn’t leave it alone. Twenty-eight years have passed and you had to pay Danforth back. It was your fault from the beginning. You were responsible for Gregorie’s death. Kidnapping babies! This is God’s punishment! And now our son, Attila. And if anything happens to Danforth’s son, you’ll have broken your daughter’s heart, as well.”
Vanja turned back to the soldiers and, with her finger pointing back at Stefan, yelled, “Get him out of my sight!”
She stepped aside and allowed the two soldiers to take Stefan. She watched them drag him outside. When they had gone, she sat back down on the cot and sobbed, even after she had no more tears.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
After contacting NATO Headquarters, Colonel Sweeney mobilized a battalion of the 82nd Airborne. He ordered it to move up to the Yugoslav border, to stop every person moving north into Serbia. At 0430 hours – one hour after the kidnapping – his senior staff waited for him in the headquarters building.
“Attention!” someone shouted when Colonel Sweeney entered the room.
All stood.
“As you were, gentlemen.” Sweeney headed for a chair. “Jim, let’s hear what you’ve got.”
Major Jim Taylor, Sweeney’s Executive Officer, cleared his throat. “The old Gypsy we picked up on the road outside the base entrance claimed five men kidnapped Captain Danforth. The men claimed to be Bosnian farmers, but he didn’t buy their story. He thought they might be Serb paramilitary types. We’ve tried to get additional information out of him, but he’s not cooperating. Our best guess is Danforth’s abduction was a random act performed by a Serb special operations unit. Because of the heavy NATO night bombing missions, it’s highly unlikely the kidnappers would take Danforth through Kosovo Province. Albania and Bulgaria aren’t good alternatives either. And we know they wouldn’t have gone south, deeper into Macedonia. So they’re probably on the road running north toward Serbia.”
Sweeney asked, “Jim, how do we know they didn’t connect with a helicopter and fly out?”
“Because our radar units have detected no Serb aircraft activity within fifty miles of the kidnapping site.”
“Good,” Sweeney said. He looked at Captain Jess Dombrowsky, his Chopper Squadron Leader, and said, “I want gunships overflying the Yugoslav border from now on.”
“Yes, sir,” Dombrowsky said.
“So, what a
re our–” Sweeney stopped when Sergeant Major Luther Jewell walked into the room and nodded at him. Sweeney waved Jewell over.
The Sergeant Major approached the Colonel, bent down, and whispered, “I got a guy outside who wants to sit in with you. He’s got CIA credentials. Name’s Jack Cole. Says he’s a friend of Captain Danforth’s. What do you want me to tell him, sir?”
Sweeney scratched his ear. “Show him in, Sergeant Major. I’ll take all the help I can get.”
Jewell walked to the door, opened it and called out in his deep, rumbling voice, “This way, Mr. Cole.”
“Please take a seat, Mr. Cole,” Sweeney said. “Major Taylor here just briefed us on his analysis of the situation. It looks like the Serbs were looking to grab an American, probably for political and psychological reasons. Michael Danforth was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“With all due respect to Major Taylor, I don’t believe there’s anything random about Michael Danforth’s kidnapping,” Jack said. “Stefan Radko’s involvement–”
“Stefan Radko?” Sweeney interrupted.
Jack held up a finger and said, “Give me a minute, Colonel.” He then continued and said, “Stefan Radko’s involvement convinced me that this kidnapping is not random. We don’t have time to go into all the details, but Michael Danforth has now been kidnapped twice in his life. The first time was when he was two years old. Then it was random. Stefan Radko was behind that kidnapping, too. Michael’s father, now a colleague of mine, killed Radko’s son while trying to rescue Michael. Radko has never forgiven him.”
Jack paused to let his words sink in. He could see shocked looks directed at him.
“Recent events in the States,” Jack continued, “lead me to believe the Yugoslav leadership, the Serbs running the country, also have a grudge against Michael’s father because of a clandestine mission he headed up. Michael Danforth’s kidnapping is a blatant act of revenge against a U.S. citizen. The Serbs in the Yugoslav leadership will never admit they have Michael. He’s either going to be killed or will be kept in a slave-labor camp.”