Mahmud squinted in surprise and puzzlement.
From its markings, the tank appeared to be Serbian, but the black boiler-suit overalls worn by the men around it identified them as HOS members. What would armed Croats be doing in the company of Serbs? What unholy alliance was taking place below? Then Tadim answered, and Mahmud reported the appearance of the convoy and described the puzzling events in action below.
Once again, his orders were to remain in position.
* * * * *
Spider spiralled his right hand in an upward motion, and the convoy sprang back to life. Drivers pulled themselves up into cabs, doors slammed, and heavy diesel engines roared as the convoy readied itself for the descent into the valley. The first truck rolled forward, closely followed by the second. Soon, the whole column was under way and picking up speed. Returning familiarity, confidence and skill in their own ability dissipated the inhibiting influence of the events of the immediate past on the drivers.
Within no time at all, the all-terrain trucks were bouncing robustly down the mountain road, pushing through the rain that was growing heavier by the minute.
The sun’s rays, becoming ever weaker, reluctantly probed the edges of deep pockets of mist, which thickened and muted the strident colours of the valley floor. The blue of the lake faded, then diluted to the reflected grey of the sky. The rims of the mountains blunted as the peaks lost their definition. Dark green shawls of pines on the middle and higher slopes turned to black and merged with the dimming plant hues of the lower reaches.
The valley darkened.
A horseshoe of glowering mountains appeared, forbidding and formidable, in the distance. Spider knew they were virtually impregnable and, with the exception of the road to Tuzla, there were no breaks in their fortress-like walls. The way forward, the only way they could take at this point, lay through those mountains. In places, the road would be nigh impassable, but he had committed the convoy and even if he wanted to, there could be no turning back.
* * * * *
The Commander of the HOS detachment munched on a mouthful of bread and pork fat as he watched the camouflaging of the T-72. Unscrewing the cap from the metal flask, he wiped his greasy lips and took a long swallow, relishing the bite of the harsh liquor.
It would not be necessary to devote time and effort to making the tank invisible, or even disguising its shape too much.
He belched.
It would be enough that in its present position the tank would remain out of sight until too late. The netting, with branches and twigs from the surrounding trees and bushes, would be sufficient.
Encroaching darkness provided an additional guarantee. The oncoming convoy would be well within range of the tank’s heavy main armament and secondary machine gun before anyone in the convoy could see it. Hull down behind the wooded bank that bordered the road, its weapons had a clear field of fire from the curve of the bend down the approach stretch of road. The JNA markings, removed when the Croats captured it west of Konjic several months ago, were repainted. If there were survivors from the impending onslaught, they would be convinced that Serbs had attacked them.
He pulled the sheepskin jacket over his shoulders while still on his knees and buckled on the holstered Makarov. Pushing his dirty plate and the remaining lump of bread into his knapsack, he threw the bag to Marcos. He would collect the excess kit and place the black uniforms in the barn until the action was over. The camouflaging of the tank was complete.
His men assumed their assigned positions in the area in front of and around it. He watched as the two with the machine gun pushed their way through the undergrowth to a position several yards in front of the tank but to the left. They would be able to fire down the slope and into the side of the convoy and cut off any attempted flight.
Satisfied that his preparations were complete, the commander lowered himself into a prone position and settled down to wait for the convoy to enter the ambush.
* * * * *
The Bosnian-Serb general slammed the door of the car, then scowled at his watch.
“Two hours,” he snapped at the driver through the open side window. Flexing his powerful shoulders, he eased his neck muscles by swivelling his head in from side to side. He turned away from the car and scanned the rows of windows above his head. There were no curious onlookers.
With a bodyguard on both sides and one in front, he strode forward briskly to climb the six steps to the entrance of the government building in Pale. Waiting for him at the top was the president’s aide.
“Good morning, General,” the assistant said, almost on tiptoe as he tried to see around the leading escort to talk to the general directly. He caught the glowering scowl before the rush of bodies forced him to pirouette, and then sidestep. He broke into a trot after the bulky figure in a futile attempt to keep pace, as they swept past.
“He’s waiting for you in the conference room,” he squeaked breathlessly as the uniformed figure mounted the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. The civil servant gave up any attempt to follow, and, with a piqued shrug, slowed to a walk. He ignored the mocking grin that one of the minders threw over his shoulder.
The general did not pause at the door to the conference room but, indicating with a short gesture that his guards should wait, he shoved open the heavy oaken door. The room was empty except for a seated figure, which appeared dwarfed by the massive table. The soldier strode to the end of the long room, approached the head of the table, and gave a curt salute.
“Thank you for coming, Druga General,” the president of Republica Serbski said, half rising. He ran a hand through a heavy mane of grey hair, crowning a pallid face, then indicated that the soldier should sit.
“If you will give me a moment.” He waved a slack-fingered hand at a sheaf of papers he had been reading.
“Naturally,” responded his visitor pulling a heavy chair away from the table and placing his holstered pistol and cap in front of him. As the other read, the general studied him openly.
What shall it be today, Mr Poet.
Despite the impression of closeness given by the two men in public, the general had no high regard for this would-be verse monger. He had been a less-than-mediocre practitioner of psychiatry. His wife, also his partner in the practice, was more competent. The president was an erstwhile peasant who had considered himself Montenegrin rather than Serb until a few years ago. Now he was a convicted fraudster who had chosen politics in his thirst for power.
The man’s megalomania did not allow him to empathize with anyone whose presence on the world’s stage could challenge his own. The general knew there was little or no danger to his own position of authority by this Fuehrer, since his standing and reputation amongst the troops in the field guaranteed all the protection he needed. His military prowess, validated by the success of the Republic of Bosnian Serbia Army, ensured the support of the People’s Assembly. Though ruthless and ambitious, the general did not frown per se on others with the same trait, but as a soldier, he could not but distrust politicians.
Discretion, when needed, was another of his traits, and he was astute enough not to let the other see his distaste. The square face remained impassive. For the time being, their mutual aim of an ethnically pure Greater Serbia harnessed both in a formidable yoke.
As he read, the president was under no allusions as to the loyalty of the man seated on his right. In all probability, he was still Milosevic’s man. The Bosnian Serb directed the efforts of his soldiers with a cold sense of purpose, and he could very easily turn this against him. World opinion, for what it was worth, considered them bedfellows and, for the present, this suited his plans.
Today, as usual, this prima donna would require careful handling, especially in view of the pressure from Gospoda Milosevic in Belgrade, whose own position could turn out to be untenable if sanctions continued against Serbia.
“Belgrade is very uneasy over our...” the president carefully used the plural pronoun in all conversations with the gener
al. “our reluctance to negotiate on the subject of boundaries.”
“Mr President, I feel that I am about to be asked to agree to something that will be unacceptable to me.”
“No, no, please. I have no demands to make of you, Druga Ratko. I just want you to understand my position.”
“Let me reiterate. On each occasion that I have allowed military strategies to bow to political considerations, we have gambled with the success of our aims. No one should be more conscious of this than comrade Slobodan.”
“General, when have I ever hindered your efforts?”
“With all due respect, there have been several instances where I have reluctantly conceded for the sake of political expediency. I have accepted the lines laid down, initially by Belgrade and subsequently from here in Pale. You will remember that in ‘91 my plan to take Zadar and Sibenik failed to meet with approval, despite the fact that this would have split Croatia in two. In ‘93, I could have easily taken Srebrenica, Zepa and other enclaves along the Drina but received directions to withhold action. It is becoming more and more difficult to accept that restraint is beneficial to our aims.”
“General, it is not, and never has been, my intention to restrict your efforts, and please accept that this is not why I asked you here today.” He brushed away a stray lock of unruly hair. “No one is more aware than I am that a snake is never held by its tail, but by its throat. But we have to be sure that retaliatory action by the UN does not undo all our efforts.”
“If, God forbid, you should be coerced into agreeing to relinquishing territory my men have died for, then would it not be better to have more than we have now, with the Turks driven out in such a way that the memory of their expulsion would smother any desire to return?”
“But of course, General.” The president turned his gaze to the mountains framed by the window and fixed his eyes on a faraway peak. “My concern at present is Sarajevo and the likelihood of its capitulation in the very near future.” His voice rose, implying a question.
“Mr President, you obviously want a realistic and frank appraisal.” The general barely hid his satisfaction. “Despite the concentration of troops I have around the city, I cannot contemplate its fall. UNPROFOR has a strong presence in Sarajevo and, despite their reluctance to oppose us substantially in the past, a concerted effort to crush the city might very well be the trigger.”
The president’s face darkened as he belatedly realized where Mladic was heading. The general was not slow to notice and hurried on.
“In the short term, politically, it may be expedient, but militarily the game is not worth the candle. If our aim is to control the greatest land mass possible, prior to a cessation of hostilities, then I would recommend a scaled withdrawal from the area to allow me to concentrate on the other pockets; Srebrenica, Gorazde, Zepa and,” he paused for effect, “Tuzla.”
Karadzic’s mind was furiously working overtime. What his general was saying did have possibilities. However, there were complications.
“Tuzla would indeed be a prize, but UNPROFOR have armoured troops there, and of course, they hold the airbase. The risk would be enormous.”
“Not necessarily, Mr President. The Norwegian and Danish joint units are professional, I admit. I am not gambling on their inability to strike back, but rather on the indecision and lack of backbone of their politi—civilian masters in the UN. I would not attempt to wear the defenders down but, given leave, blitzkrieg Tuzla so that within 24 hours — 36 at the outside, it would be ours.”
“I like your proposal, General. Indeed I do. But I cannot agree to the withdrawal of the guns from Mount Igman.”
“It was not my intention to propose such a thing,” replied the general, enjoying the nonplussed expression that flooded Karadzic’s face. “Only the armour. Only my tanks.”
The president stared at the soldier. Trust this Serb from Kalinovic to know how to have one’s cake and eat it. Slowly, he smiled in begrudging admiration.
“When would you propose to redeploy?”
* * * * *
The dawn sun strengthened and chased the remnants of night from the valley. Dewdrops glistening on the pines surrounding the clearing reflected the rays and glowed in the grey diffusing light, like a myriad of miniature campfires dying as the day pushed its way through the thick foliage.
Crowther stared blankly through the condensation on the windscreen. How long he had been awake, he did not know. He did not even know if he had been asleep. Stiff and cold, he shivered as the stale reek of body odour filled the cab and assailed his nostrils.
Blinking, he stretched to relieve the cramp and tried to orientate himself. The panic, triggered by the events of the previous night, that had unnerved him, and caused him to bolt, flooded back. He wound the window down to thrust his head into the moist dawn, gulping the fresh morning air which slowly, gradually, subdued the shivering which had taken over his body.
His fear abated, but not the helplessness that accompanied it. He had no plan of action, no survival scheme, not even a rational thought. Lowering his head to his crossed forearms on the steering wheel, he wept. What could he do? Where he could he go? Where could he be safe?
Until yesterday, the distance he was from Paroski, and the fact that he had survived the various tribulations of the convoy, had seeded in him a resistance that was slowly burgeoning into defiance. Until yesterday, when the colonel deadheaded any semblance of courage or right thinking that he might have regained.
It was obvious that the woman had had no liking for him prior to the contact with Paroski, but afterwards—she could not control the loathing in her face. It was clear that the Croat had told her everything. She had thrust the phone into his hands, and the colonel had told him who was now in charge. She demanded his knife, which he handed over.
Hardly had his fingers left the hilt, when a forearm of steel barred his neck, and he was on his knees between her legs. The bitch had pricked him with the blade under his ribcage, forcibly enough to draw blood. Moreover, she had enjoyed it!
She had asked him if he could get his hands on any of the Kalashnikovs. Not if Spider was around, he had told her. And, if Spider was not around, she persisted? He told her that if they could nobble the convoy leader, he felt sure he could get one.
In reality, he thought it unlikely, even if the other drivers were unarmed.
After she had dealt with Spider, he was to get a Kalashnikov and give it to her. While she was dealing with Rath and the other drivers, he was to prepare the vehicles for torching. It was cold-blooded but seemed straightforward enough. He had closed his mind to the fate of his comrades; in his thoughts, they had already become “the others”.
There might have been a chance of success if they had taken out the Irishman first, but they had not, and that is how it was. The woman was dead and now he was out here in the wilds of Bosnia, alone and with no hope.
He had been on the other side of the vehicle with the cab door open when he heard the shot.
He knew, instinctively, that everything had gone wrong.
Closing the cab door quietly, he had run in a crouch along the vehicles, before coming into the clearing behind the other drivers. They were milling towards Spider’s truck. No one gave him any special attention in the gloom.
The convoy leader was not dead but the woman, recognizable as such only by her naked form, certainly was; most of her head had gone.
The shooting had made each one conscious of his vulnerability. The drivers nervously rechecked their vehicles for parking position, fuel availability, quick starts, and security of the load - everything that drivers do, so as not to dwell on the present situation.
He had joined in.
Then the thought struck him. Dawke and Scouse had been with him in the old part of Split when he had bought the knife. Scouse might not be a threat, but the talkative Dawke had paid great attention to the knife. It was the only one at the stall, and Dawke, who had seen it first, was irritated because he had offered cash be
fore Dawke could. How long would it be before someone realized that it was his knife? If they suspected him and recollected he had been alone with the woman, then a resultant search would reveal Paroski’s phone.
As some of the drivers repositioned their vehicles, he was able to get his truck onto the forward slope, release the handbrake, then slowly, gradually, allow it to pick up speed and momentum. Several miles away from the original location, he turned off the northern route and followed a track leading into another of Bosnia’s ubiquitous pine forests.
In a clearing, he pulled over and switched off his engine. He called Paroski, and with trepidation, told the colonel that the woman had failed. The silence at the other end was more intimidating than any abuse would have been. The Croat said nothing and then the connection was broken. The tension and stress of the night, together with the strain of driving solidly flooded his consciousness.
His eyes closed and he slumped in his seat, the instrument dropping from his nerveless hand.
* * * * *
Thin beams of vehicle lights far down the valley flicked left and right to pierce the darkness as the trucks negotiated the winding road, disappearing periodically as the convoy snaked down through the dips and then reappearing as the convoy mounted the rises.
Even at this distance, Mahmud could see they were travelling at speed. Yet there was still no sign of Tadim or any of the other warriors. What would he do if the unbelievers attacked the convoy?
Peering down over the edge into the denser darkness below, he spat to one side in disgust. Despite the effort the HOS had taken to conceal their presence, three or four glowing red fireflies showed in the darkness; his keen sense of smell detected the aroma of tobacco.
The Tuzla Run Page 18