by Mike Maden
His finger slipped from the guard to the trigger.
And squeezed.
* * *
—
The pulled trigger ignited the electronic fuse of the PG-29V, a 105-millimeter tandem rocket with a shaped HEAT charge capable of penetrating 750 millimeters of homogeneous armor, far thicker than the frontal composite sloped plating of the M-84 tank, let alone its far thinner sides.
The gunner whipped around in his hatch at the familiar sound of the rocket motor launching in the woods to his left, and gazed in horror at the long plume of exhaust racing toward his tank.
The shaped HEAT charge slammed into the thin steel wall behind the wheels. The eruption produced a hypersonic jet of molten metal and flaming gases, cutting through the twenty-millimeter steel hull like a plasma laser, incinerating the driver’s atomizing corpse before his first scream.
The thirty-nine rounds of ammunition stores inside the hull ignited in a near-instantaneous chain reaction. The lower torsos of the gunner and commander were sheared away by the overpressure and shrapnel, but their upper bodies were still intact as the flaming turret cartwheeled high into the air before tumbling into the road with a thunderous clang.
* * *
—
The Serb tank commander in the rear of the column ducked instinctively back into his hatch when he saw the plume of rocket smoke racing out of the woods at the lead tank, shouting orders at the driver to break right, away from the trees.
The gunner, meanwhile, took the opposite tack and threw himself off the turret and onto the road, about the time a second HEAT round slammed into his vehicle. His act of cowardice saved his life, at least for another three seconds, when the white-hot shrapnel of the exploding tank shredded him like creamed chipped beef as he screamed in the dirt.
Some of the panicked White Eagles dove out of the trucks as they lurched off the road in a cloud of diesel fumes away from the nearby woods, racing for the relative safety of the tree line on the far side of the lush, green meadow.
Automatic-rifle fire erupted from the woods behind them now, kicking up turf around the lumbering vehicles as they swayed and bounced on the soft grass.
WHAM!
Three of the trucks plowed into buried land mines. Flesh and canvas and steel erupted in a cloud of screams and boiling fire.
The remaining two trucks slammed their brakes just in time. The survivors leaped out of the cargo beds and bolted for cover as a hail of 7.62-millimeter bullets stormed into them, fired by the line of shouting mujahideen, rifles up, faces twisted with pious joy and battle rage as they charged out of the trees toward the broken Serb column.
Suddenly, a line of twenty-millimeter shells stitched across the surging wave of jihadis, breaking them open like clamming knives, spilling their butchered torsos into the pine needles in a spray of blood and shattered flesh.
The rotors of the Serb SA 341 Gazelle helicopter beat the air as it whirled around for a second pass with its GIAT M621 twenty-millimeter cannon, but its cabin-mounted 7.62-millimeter machine gun started pouring on the fire toward the trees. More jihadis fell as the Serbs gathered their courage, opening fire from prone positions across the road in the tall meadow grass.
The French-built Serb aircraft with its enclosed Fenestron tail rotor assembly swooped in a broad arc overhead to regain altitude and to draw a bead on the tree line.
* * *
—
Sadayev felt the overpressure of the metal-jacketed 7.62s buzzing past, cutting tree branches above his head and smashing trunks behind him.
CRACK!
A round slammed into the tree he lay next to, stinging the left side of his face, his left eye blinded with his own hot blood. He wiped it away with his hand as he pressed himself into the dirt and pine needles, waiting for the Serb volley of fire to cease. When it did, he jumped to his feet, pulled out his pistol from his leg holster, and shouted orders to his men to follow him to glory.
He bolted out of the tree line, keeping the flaming lead tank between himself and the Serbs in the far meadow, but as his feet hit the dirt he heard the sickening whir of a twenty-millimeter chain gun far above him. He glanced up just in time to see the rooster tail of dirt a hundred yards away racing toward him, cutting down more brothers in their tracks.
Sadayev shouted, “Allahu akbar!” knowing that his death was a blink away, until a speeding finger of smoke reached into the sky, smashing the Gazelle in a crushing, fiery fist.
Sadayev shouted again as the flaming wreckage tumbled toward the earth, his good right eye tracking the smoke trail back to its source on the ground.
Red Wing lowered the 9K38 Igla “Needle,” a Russian MANPADS—man-portable air-defense system. He stood completely exposed in the middle of the road, dust kicking up all around him from Serb bullets fired in his direction. Sadayev nodded his thanks as Red Wing tossed the Igla aside and pulled out his own pistol, following Sadayev toward the Serbs in the meadow at a full run.
* * *
—
The surviving Serbs knelt in a line in the dirt of the village square, close enough to the smoldering wreck of the BOV-30 scout vehicle to smell the burnt flesh inside.
Wounded in battle or bleeding from their brutal interrogations, the seven White Eagles struggled to stay on their knees, their hands clasped behind their heads and their uniform collars secured by the hands of the Saudi and Tunisian jihadis standing behind them.
Sadayev nodded his command. His left eye was heavily bandaged and his tunic blackened with his own dried blood.
Seven razor-sharp serrated blades flashed in unison above the Serbians’ heads, and the seven jihadis shouted “Allahu akbar!” as one. To the Serbs’ credit, none of them wailed like women, Sadayev noted, as the blades opened up their throats and hot blood spewed into the dust. But they all struggled as the sharp blades continued their gruesome work.
Minutes later, the severed heads were set on a wall and several of Sadayev’s men posed smiling and laughing next to their grimacing trophies. They held up a black AQAB flag between them for a picture. A Jordanian shouted encouragement as he snapped photos with his thirty-five-millimeter film camera.
“I understand the brothers have carried out similar operations against the Orthodox in the east,” Red Wing said, watching the other fighters cutting off the White Eagles unit patches from the corpses’ uniforms.
“We mujahideen are the sword of Allah. Our Bosniak brothers haven’t the stomach for such things. But with more weapons, we will prevail against these Serb wolves, even if the sheepish brothers won’t join us.”
“What will you do after you win the war?”
“It’s good country here. I will take a Bosniak wife. Perhaps even change my name. Raise up an army of sons to keep the land and raise the flag over all of Europe someday.”
“I have no doubt you will prevail, my friend. But if you should lose? Then what?”
Sadayev laughed. “The same! We never lose. We only wait.” He clapped Red Wing on his shoulder. “You are a good fighter. We can use you here. I wish you would stay.”
“There are as many wars to fight as there are trees. I go where I am needed.”
“Like a bird, flying to your next branch. Where to next?”
Red Wing only smiled. He wasn’t at liberty to say.
Sadayev understood. “Perhaps we will meet again. In this life, or the next. Inshallah.”
“Yes. In this life, or the next. But this life would be better for both of us, eh?”
43
NEAR VIŠEGRAD, REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Brkić’s unmarked panel van straddled the narrow asphalt lane, blocking the only road leading to the restaurant overlooking the river.
Through his Gen 3 night-vision monocular, he watched his men gathering in the trees above the restaurant, guns at the ready, faces masked. Bloodstained
White Eagles patches were sewn to their camouflage uniforms, trophies from an earlier war.
The same war, Brkić corrected himself. Twenty-six years and counting.
Or was it five hundred?
He swung his monocular down to the dining area, a covered porch with candlelit tables and a spectacular daytime view of the rushing turquoise waters of the Drina River down below. Each table was crowded with hungry, happy wedding guests. The bride and groom’s table stood at the end, their backs to Brkić’s night-vision device. Even from here he could smell the bitter tang of cigarettes and the smoky-sweet aroma of grilled beef wafting in the soft breeze.
It was a festive, joyous gathering, judging by the laughter and wide smiles. Heaping plates of steaming food and ice buckets full of beer and champagne were shuttled from the stucco two-story house across from the dining structure to the guests by servers in dark slacks, silk vests, and red bow ties.
Brkić lowered his monocular, preparing to give the order.
He paused.
These were Sunni Muslims, like himself, celebrating a wedding. The joining of two families in the presence of God. This was a sacred time, a holy thing, wasn’t it? He had no qualms about shedding the blood of kafir Serbs and Croats. But this? Wasn’t everything he was planning designed to bless and save these very people?
Several champagne corks popped all at once to cheers and clapping down below, followed by the tinkling of long-stemmed fluted glasses, a reminder to the fervent Chechen that these were secular people for whom Islam was a mere cultural expression with no more meaning than a guide for manners. If they had faith at all, it was weak, and tempered by the pagan culture that surrounded and infected them.
Red Wing was right. This was a hard thing, but necessary. The plan to save his people from the predations of the Christian West must move forward. Tonight, these Muslim people of such little faith would bring glory to Allah in their unwilling martyrdom.
Brkić raised the radio to his mouth, gave the first order, then the second, unleashing the fires of hell.
* * *
—
Ten kilometers away, a small charge of C-4 plastic explosive decimated the unoccupied blue-striped POLICIJA van parked next to a roadside bar.
The two officers on duty that night were inside. This was their regular stop in the middle of the shift, to consume their free meal of flaky beef-stuffed bureks and strong coffee to get them through the rest of the night.
They dashed outside at the sound of the thundering explosion, the catchlight of the wrecked and burning van dancing in their eyes.
The firelight blocked the sight of the two masked White Eagles militiamen in camouflage stepping out of the shadows, but they caught the flash of their suppressed pistols. Both Bosniak cops crashed against the cinder-block walls in a spray of blood from the force of the slugs slamming into their unprotected chests.
They crumpled into a heap where they fell, and White Eagles death cards were shoved into their gaping mouths.
* * *
—
Brkić watched the unfolding mayhem as gunshots sparked inside the dining porch and echoed inside the restaurant. He barely heard the radio confirmation of the police assault above the plaintive screams of the wedding party. Men begging for their lives were shot in the mouth as their women were dragged outside by the hair to suffer the brutal frenzy of unleashed animals.
He checked his watch. Another fifteen minutes would be enough to finish the assault. His men had orders to spare the lives of the women but not the men. They had already cut the one phone landline they could find, and a portable cell-phone jammer in his van would take care of any guest who might try to call for help.
Red Wing would be pleased that his loathsome orders had been carried out tonight.
But soon Red Wing would discover that he wasn’t in charge after all, when his world burned to the ground.
44
NEAR DOLVIĆI, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Aida picked Jack up the next morning at his building. He met her at the curb. She was driving the same Volkswagen T5 Happy Times! tour van they had ridden in yesterday. She greeted him with a smile, obviously glad to see him.
She was as beautiful as he remembered. Maybe more so. It would be well worth the verbal ass-whooping Gerry would be handing him sometime later today for not getting on that plane.
“I’m so glad you decided to come.”
“Me, too,” Jack said, as he climbed into his seat.
Thirty minutes later they were up in the pine-covered hills surrounding Sarajevo and pulling up to the entrance of the refugee center with a banner proclaiming PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP CENTER! WELCOME! in Bosanski, English, and Arabic. It hung from the newly installed cyclone fence that surrounded the refurbished facility. The dated buildings were mostly made of rough-hewn logs and stacked stone, recently repaired with concrete, and were laid out in orderly fashion on relatively flat, open ground surrounded by trees.
“What was this place?” Jack asked as Aida pulled through the front gate.
“It was a summer camp for the League of Socialist Youth. It was abandoned years ago, after the socialists evaporated. It’s perfect for our needs. Let me show you.”
She parked the van and led Jack into the first log-and-stone building, the medical clinic. Inside, there were examination rooms, a nurses’ station, and doors marked X-RAY, LAB, and the like.
“We renovated the original, adding some basic medical equipment. We can perform routine health, dental, and eye exams, X-rays, and bloodwork.”
“No surgeries?”
“No. We can send them to the hospital in Sarajevo for an emergency. These people have all been screened earlier for serious illnesses back in Greece or their point of entry. We’re just taking care of basic needs like fevers, coughs, headaches, small cuts—that sort of thing. And to make sure big issues weren’t missed earlier.”
Aida introduced Jack to a nurse passing by with a chart in her hand, and then a young female doctor who appeared with a hijab-clad mother and her young daughter. Aida knelt down and cooed with the shy child, provoking a wide smile from the mother and the child when she offered the girl a piece of candy from her pocket.
They spent another few minutes meeting other staff, along with several more patients, all women in hijabs and their young children. The staff clearly respected her, and the patients all adored her, especially the children.
Jack was impressed.
She was pleased that he was. “There’s much more to see.”
She led him to the rest of the camp, almost a village unto itself: a large kitchen and dining area, an administrative office, an education building, sleeping quarters for families and singles, along with storage and maintenance sheds.
Aida explained that when the refugees first arrived, they were processed through the administration building, where they were enrolled for whatever Bosnian or international financial aid they qualified for.
Next, they were assessed in their health, education, and employment status, and finally assigned sleeping quarters.
“The Peace and Friendship Association that sponsors this place also generously supplies a monthly stipend for the first six months they are here. Many of the people coming here are surprisingly well educated and professional: doctors, lawyers, accountants. But they’re willing to do any kind of work to survive.”
“Where are all the men? I’ve only seen women and children,” Jack said, as they walked around the camp. The women appeared to be from all over the Middle East, to judge from the wide variety of ethnicities, but all of them were covered to one degree or another.
“For the men who can find regular employment, we use our tour vans to run a shuttle from the refugee center to the city. But for the others who are still in transition, we operate a small furniture factory a few kilometers from here, and sell the furniture to help support the
center, while giving them something meaningful to do and the chance to learn a new trade.”
“Why do you use your tour vans?”
“It’s one small way my company can help, and save the center the expense of hiring an outside firm.”
“It’s amazing what you’re doing here. How many people can you accommodate?”
“At full capacity we can serve two hundred people. The idea is to move people in and out of here as quickly as possible, depending upon their employment status. Most families move on within two months of arrival.” She looked around. “It’s not exactly a five-star hotel, but I think it is rather pleasant.”
“I’ve been in worse places, believe me.”
“You? I think you are one of those rich one-percent Americans I keep reading about.”
“Hardly. Not that we were ever poor when I was growing up. My parents work very hard, and raised us to do the same.”
“Good. Then let’s put you to work.”
Jack smiled broadly. “That’s why I’m here.”
* * *
—
Aida dropped Jack off in the kitchen and pointed him at a giant stack of dirty breakfast dishes. Without batting an eye, Jack rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and filled up one of the big sinks with steaming hot water and sudsy soap.
“I will check on you later,” Aida said, heading back to the clinic.
When she did check back an hour later, not only had Jack cleaned and dried all of the dishes, he’d swept and cleared the dining hall, and he was just finishing up scrubbing the toilets.
“I am impressed, Mr. Ryan. You know how to work.”
“What else do you need done?”
Aida dragged him from building to building. The two of them worked together, cleaning, moving, and stacking as the need arose. Aida was as willing as Jack to get her hands dirty. There was a kind of friendly competition between them.