The Balkan Assignment

by Joe Poyer

  He didn't answer, just nodded his head and stared toward the fence before he swung around to face me and slid down to the bottom into a sitting position where he ducked his head between his knees. Mikhail gagged several times and then sat motionless while he regained his strength. After a while, he sloshed down the ditch a few feet and scooped up several handfuls of muddy water to

  rinse his mouth and he crawled back to where I was sitting, sank down heavily and leaned his head back against the muddy wall.

  "I think . . . that . . . I am becoming . . . too old . . ."

  "Yeah, ain't we both," I muttered and eased across the ditch and raised my head carefully until I could see over the edge. For a moment, I could make out nothing in the light of the dying flare. The fence was almost invisible in the darkness and rain, and at first I could spot no movement around the go-downs or along the base of the fence. I continued to peer into the semidarkness and then I saw the two men working near the fence . . . at work with long handled bolt cutters. The men who had hit us on the flanks had been a diversion to allow the two with the bolt cutters to rip a way through the fence.

  I hissed at Mikhail and shoved my carbine up and over the edge of the ditch. Mikhail changed clips and I waited a moment to give him time to get into position. I pointed out the two men working on the fence and whispered for him to take the man on the left.

  "Now!" We opened fire simultaneously and the carbines rapped out sharply. Both men looked up in astonishment, one half rose as if to run and the other just stared for a soundless moment and then both thrashed backwards and disappeared.

  Mikhail swore feelingly, I grabbed his arm and swung him around.

  "We've waited long enough. In another couple of minutes they'll cut through the fence and we won't be able to stop them. I'm going to make a run for the DC-3. Are you coming?"

  Mikhail snatched his arm away and stumbled back. "No . . . I told you, I'll kill Klaus if it is the last thing I do alive."

  "So long you sonofabitch," I snarled and sprinted away down the ditch toward the end of the airfield. I ran for nearly fifty yards, bending low in a desperate effort to stay below the level of the ditch. There was gunfire behind me again and as I. ran, a vague feeling of uneasiness began to grow. Were they expecting us to try for the DC-3. If so, they were sure as hell going to be waiting .. .

  I jumped from the ditch to sprawl in the wet grass, having decided that there was no sense in racing straight into a bullet when I caught the heavy beat of a helicopter's rotor and saw twin landing lights stab out and race toward the burning oil barrels. Two more beams appeared out of the rain directly behind and twin whirlwinds of water and air pressed down on me in instant succession. Chinooks . .. thirty or more troops each!

  Two eye-searing magnesium flares exploded inches from the ground etching every blade of grass, every drop of rain, every human being in white and black; stark razor-edged white and black.

  The first helicopter swayed down and the troops poured out in disciplined leaps to disappear instantly in the long grass as firing again erupted from the area around the go-downs. A metal voice yammered suddenly in German, repeated the words and switched to a different sing-songy language; most likely Burmese or one of the local Chin dialects.

  Then the first copter was away and the second hovering in and again the figures of battle clad troopers poured out of the double cargo doors. Ley had arrived with the Burmese Army.

  I was on my feet and running forward toward the skirmish line of troops and apparent safety, when it occurred to me that I could get myself shot.

  Coming up on their flank like that, they could easily mistake me for one of the camp's defenders. I had no wish to find myself blown to tiny pieces and dropped back into the grass.

  Battle lines developed quickly. The Burmese troopers poured a heavy concentration of fire into the go-downs, lacing the night with red tracer paths. Two flanking machine guns were set up on either end of a line that curved inward on both edges and began to fire steadily along the fence boundary. The first helicopter thumped back over the airfield and dropped two flares on the far side of the fence before whirling up into the rain.

  Desultory muzzle flashes from the other side of the fence indicated that the defenders were beginning to abandon their positions. I could imagine the consternation that must be raging from the go-downs to the center of the camp as they poured back to the administration area. I lay where I was and watched the show.

  The Burmese were pretty damned efficient. They could not have been on the ground more than five minutes before they had pushed up to the fence. Five minutes more and two small explosions knocked down three fence posts and ripped the half-cut fence apart. They carried the two go-downs in a rush. I caught the faint sputtering of a truck engine as it started up and drove away. Unless a prompt surrender developed, I knew the evening's work was just beginning. And I also knew that Klaus would never quit now; he would see the world end first.

  When I turned back to watch the activity around the landing area, I found a half dozen troopers almost on me. I had been so engrossed in what was going on along the fence that I had forgotten that I could be seen in silhouette. I stayed right where I was and slowly raised my hands, still holding the carbine over my head. One soldier snatched it away, while another began to speak rapidly into a walkie-talkie. The rest just stared at me while they waited.

  A brief silence descended over the airfield now and one of the helicopters settled slowly onto the field. The two big rotors swung lazily, catching glints of light from the oil drum markers. The second copter trundled around the far end of the field, lofted two flares into high arcs that sent them up and over the main part of the camp and disappeared again into the rain and darkness.

  The big, main cargo doors on the copter that had just landed swung wide and three men jumped down, bending low to escape the flurry of spray and mud kicked up in the wash of the rotors, they clutched their rain slickers about them and scurried toward me. As they drew closer, I could see that two were Burmese, both carrying carbines. The third man, of course, was Captain Frederick Ley, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

  Suddenly I was too weary to do more than nod in greeting.

  "Chris, you are all right?" he shouted in my ear, grabbing me up in a rib-shattering bear hug in his enthusiasm.

  I nodded, grinning in spite of myself. "Yeah, I'm all right. I'd be even better off if you would let go of me."

  Ley laughed heartily and set me down.

  "I apologize for the delay . . . we must blame the weather," he explained as we walked toward the helicopter. "Never have I seen such rain. The pilots did not want to fly- and when we- finally did take off, we became lost searching for your beacons. You were right, they were not very bright."

  "Well, I'll tell you," I muttered. "Another five minutes and you might have had to chase me down country. I was heading for the DC-3 when you arrived."

  Ley laughed once more and helped me into the helicopter. The officer shouted in Burmese and a moment later, a soldier handed me a steaming cup of coffee. The officer obviously was in charge of the raiding party because he promptly forgot about me and turned back to the two non-coms standing at a small map table and went to work.

  "We must get you dry clothes," Ley said with concern. "In this rain," I laughed in spite of myself, "they'll only get wet again."

  Ley chuckled . . . his good humor infectious. This was the end of his crazy chase nearly halfway round the world. Between us we had traced the pipeline to its terminus and it was now being closed off. There was nothing that could be done about the legal and illegal banks and exchange houses in India, Hong Kong and Macao, but at least the flow of Neo-Nazi support money would close.

  "How well do you know the plan of this camp?"

  "Pretty well. I explored thoroughly this afternoon. They left me on my own and no one seemed to care what I was doing."

  Ley nodded. "Very good. Then please look at these photographs and tell us exactly where we are."
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  He took me over to the table where the Burmese officer had gathered with his staff and was muttering orders in a low voice that peeled them off one by one and sent them dashing out into the rain.

  Ley pointed to several large photo maps that were tacked to the writing surface and stepped to the side to let me have a good look.

  I took a cigarette from him, lit it and inhaled deeply and bent to study the photographs.

  They were relatively old and rather faded. I noticed the legend in one corner that said they were prepared by Royal Air Force in 1944.

  At first glance, the details were terrible. The campsite was heavily overgrown and there had been a light cloud cover the day the photos were taken. But as I studied them, I found that I could trace the outlines of the camp proper and the peculiar V-shaped road that divided the camp into two sections. To the northwest was the outline of the airfield, complete with two stubby black shadows marking the go-downs. After a bit more study, I spotted

  the round black tops of the oil storage tanks and dots that indicated numerous drilling towers.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Where are we right now in relation to the main portion of the camp?" Ley asked.

  I nodded and traced out the airfield for him. The Burmese officer nodded and wanted to know where he could expect the largest concentration of resistance to be. A good question. From what I had learned in my afternoon of exploring, I could only guess that the camp inhabitants would congregate at the centrally located administrative buildings when they heard the gunfire and spotted the helicopters landing. Conceivably, in panic, they might run for the main gate and the forest. But party members would stay to fight it out. Klaus had too much at stake here, and at this point he would have no clear idea who was attacking.

  No, I guessed that Klaus would stay and fight. I doubted that it would take them long to organize and strike back in earnest. There had to be at least three hundred men in the camp, and from what I had seen so far, most of the Europeans—perhaps close to one hundred—could be depended on to fight. I explained this and then handed my carbine to Ley, the one taken from the German guard.

  "Chances are they will be well armed. That's an M-16 carbine. It's also possible that they have heavier weapons as well, machine guns and possibly even mortars."

  The Burmese officer frowned. "Where the devil would . . ." Ley didn't finish the question. The three of us knew the answer. After twenty-five years of war in Southeast Asia, any black market worth its salt could furnish military weapons from China, Russia, the U.S. and Australia ranging from hand grenades to half tracks.

  Ley and the Burmese officer discussed this for a few moments and decided to call for more troops. An oil field is not an easy place to defend if you are trying to prevent capture and damage. But if you do not care about damage to the installation . . . it then becomes exceedingly difficult to dig out defending forces. There are a million and one places to hide; there are innumerable perches and escape routes for snipers. All in all, the Burmese troopers were facing a pretty tough night.

  "Let's go," Ley muttered abstractedly and swung out through the open cargo doors. The Burmese officer followed and even though the invitation had not included me, I picked up my carbine and followed. I wanted to be there when Klaus was wrapped up. There were four murders to his credit, directly or indirectly: Mistako, Bowen, Vishailly and Pete's. I was sorry about the other three, but Pete had been a close personal friend. He was going to answer to me, one way or another, for that.

  The rain had begun to slacken as midnight approached. Ley slogged across the quiet airfield, adjusting the carbine that he had slung over his shoulder. Two troopers were just coming out of the second go-down as we approached leading the staggering and disoriented radio operator. The officer stopped to say something to them and Ley and I continued on to join the main body of troops receiving orders and dispersing from there to assigned positions. The scene was one of carefully controlled chaos, picked up in the wavering light of the dying flares.

  Ley stopped abruptly and grasped my arm. "All right, Chris, I want you back in the helicopter out of the way. I do not want anything to happen to you . . ."

  I jerked my arm away and swung round on him. "Keep your hands to yourself, you dope.

  You got me into this mess and you're not going to put me out now."

  Before he could reply I turned and walked through the gate. I knew that if I did anything less, showed even a moment's hesitation, he would have me taken back to the helicopter under guard.

  Only scattered lights showed from the direction of the administrative compound and these were rapidly being extinguished. Silhouetted against the trees was the trailer-mounted searchlight with its shattered reflector. A heavy truck engine started up in the distance and then shut down abruptly. Over all, the flickering torch of the waste stack burned with its faint, almost lightless flame. The silence was becoming oppressive. I heard an occasional low mutter of a trooper's voice, stilled instantly by a growled reprimand from a non-com. Ley strode up to me, clearing his throat. Before he could get started with his speech, I swung round on him. "One of the four people killed by these bastards was a good friend of mine."

  Ley backed up, surprised at the intensity in my voice. "The man who owned that DC-3

  was killed by one of

  Klaus's people. So, do what you want, but leave me alone, understand?"

  Ley nodded and turned away without a word leaving me standing in the rain by the fence, feeling deathly sick to my stomach with sorrow, fear and tension.

  A few more minutes were spent in detailing the troopers off to their posts and then I heard the sound of the helicopter starting up its engines. The high-pitched turbine whine was gradually superseded by the thump-thump of the twin rotors and moments later the copter was airborne, climbing for altitude. It swung out and away from the airfield and roared in over the main part of the camp to drop several flares in quick succession. The troopers moved forward in a wavering line. At the same time, the iron voice of the copter-mounted loudspeaker boomed away again first in Burmese and then in German. It repeated the message twice more in each language, dropped more flares until the entire campsite was lit as brightly as dawn and flapped away to the southwest to gather up reinforcements at Lashio. I guessed that the message had called on the Germans to surrender and warned any Burmese citizens remaining in the compound to stay out of the line of fire.

  The troopers advanced under the flare-lit sky in silence, moving cautiously from cover to cover. The magnesium parachute flares cast harsh black shadows that hid details in their depths, and the troopers were understandably reluctant to race forward. And it is well that they did not. Klaus, or his staff, had organized an amazingly efficient defense-in-depth. Experience with bandits over the past two years had perfected their system; when hard fighting began it became clear that only superior weapons and overwhelming strength were going to carry the compound.

  Completely unexpected, a mortar barrage fell ahead of the first line of advancing troops.

  It was short-lived but murderous and brought the advance to a complete halt. Right behind the barrage came the first wave of heavy fire from the defenders as they rushed forward into the fringing trees. The troopers went to ground but refused to give way; instead, inching forward where they could, taking and giving heavy and accurate fire all the while.

  It is to the everlasting credit of the Burmese troopers that not once did they give ground in the face of the intense fire to which they were subjected. Their line had stabilized in a long sweeping curve, its middle anchored to the fence separating the airfield from the compound. In all, the line was nearly half a mile long with the heaviest concentrations of troops spotted along the line of the main road leading toward the administration area. The counter-attack, when it came, was from this direction; a brutal, head-on rush with massed firepower and almost no attempt to strike at the weaker flanks.

  The mortar fire —there could not have been more than two or
three launchers—came from the center of the camp with amazing accuracy. During the next hour, the battle seesawed back and forth. The gunfire from the compound, supported by sporadic mortar fire, was extremely heavy and well organized. The Burmese troopers gained ground slowly and by the end of the second hour had crossed the two hundred yards of open ground to push into the trees fringing the center of the compound. The battle was being fought in almost total darkness. Only the colorless flame from the exhaust stack furnished any illumination at all.

  It was close on three o'clock before the first helicopter returned with fresh troops. They spilled from its side and raced across the airfield to take up positions inside the line of trees. As the last trooper cleared the copter and it swung round to lift-off again, a fresh salvo of mortar shells crashed around it. There was a blinding flash and the big Chinook disintegrated as one of the mortar rounds scored a hit. The fuselage crumpled over on its side and began to burn fiercely.

  Minutes later, the second helicopter had landed its load of reinforcements on the far side of the field. The mortars followed it in, dropping pattern after pattern of shells, all of which fell short. Again, troopers charged across the field in open order. I saw two mortar crews racing across the field to the concealment of the go-downs. They would have a tough time at best, I thought, remembering the soggy, muddy surface of the field. For accuracy, mortars need a firm footing.

  The added weight of the additional troopers began to tell and the rate of advance increased swiftly. The forward line rushed dug-in firing points established along the main road. Burmese bayonets and massed automatic rifle fire did the trick. The way was now open to the main compound, and they wasted no time in taking advantage of the change in circumstances. The major contingent of troops dropped back into the trees alongside the road and moved forward at a swift walking pace.

  I found Ley at the center of the line discussing the situation with the commanding officer and peering at a map with the aid of a flashlight. The drizzle had died away but the close-packed rain clouds were still threatening. Ley finished his discussion and turned to me with a grin.