by Bob Mayer
Chapter Thirteen
Floodlights illuminated the interior of the hangar-like building. Thorpe estimated a C-141 cargo plane could fit inside. Instead, there were simply rows and rows of oversized wooden benches. At one end of the building about fifty men milled about. Closer by, there was only Lieutenant Colonel Kinsley and a handful of reservists destined for two-month assignments in Europe.
The building was called the Green Ramp and was the launching point for the rapid deployment forces from Fort Bragg. All parachute training jumps conducted by the paratroopers stationed at Bragg also originated in the large building. The benches were designed to hold jumpers with a parachute on their back and a hundred-pound rucksack dangling from straps between their legs. Early in his career, while attending the Special Forces Qualification Course, Thorpe had participated in a jump with the 82nd Airborne staging out of the Green Ramp. The one thing that had been impressed upon him was how early the 82nd prepared for a jump. In Special Forces, a team might show up at the airfield an hour before loading time. In the 82nd, because of the large numbers involved, it was not unusual for the jumpers to be there six to eight hours before the scheduled load time. And to rig four hours before loading, in order to make sure everyone was properly inspected in time.
In Thorpe's experience there were few things worse than sitting around fully rigged for a jump. The weight of the parachute—main and reserve—along with rucksack, load-bearing equipment, weapon, helmet—over a hundred and sixty pounds—rested squarely on the jumper's shoulders. Even sitting, it was a most uncomfortable arrangement.
Thorpe had been visiting Bragg several years previously when an air force jet had crashed into a C-141 cargo plane waiting to take on a load of parachutists. The resulting fireball had killed and maimed dozens of jumpers waiting outside the Green Ramp. The price of training, something Thorpe was familiar with.
"Major Thorpe." Kinsley's voice cut in on his meditations on another reason he had been glad to "retire."
"Yes, ma'am?" Thorpe had just a rucksack with a couple of spare uniforms and some gear at his feet. He had been amused to see Kinsley make three trips in and out of the Green Ramp, hauling a duffel bag, a suitcase, briefcase and a ruck. He wondered how long she planned on being in Europe.
"I want to be very clear about something," Kinsley said.
Thorpe waited, not saying anything.
"You work for me," she continued.
The whine of jet engines pierced through the thin walls of the Green Ramp. An air force enlisted man was walking toward them.
"I think our flight is ready," he noted.
"You work for me," Kinsley repeated.
"Yes, ma'am, I work for you." Thorpe shouldered his ruck and headed for the airfield side door, leaving Kinsley standing among her pile of bags. As he walked out the flightline door, a small figure dashed out of the shadows.
Takamura thrust out a sheaf of papers. "Here. The names of soldiers who were in all three places." He looked nervously toward the interior, where Kinsley was picking up her duffel bag, the air force NCO grabbing her ruck and briefcase. "I was up all night doing that."
"Thanks." Thorpe shoved the papers inside his shirt. He sniffed the air. The familiar smell of jet exhaust.
"There's a lot of names," Takamura said. "I’m going to go back on the computer and see if I can't reduce the number for you."
"Good," Thorpe said. He took out his own set of papers. "This is a thumbnail sketch the FBI profiler gave Colonel Parker. Use it to narrow the list down. Then call Dublowski if anything else comes up. He'll know how to get hold of me."
"Yes, sir." Takamura scuttled away into the early morning dark.
***
The countryside was wet and flat. A few roads and rail lines cut through it, on berms built above the stagnant water. Villages were few and far between. The north side of the Sava River was a no man's land and was now essentially worthless to the country's economy, but not to the people who used it to hide in.
Given that it was on the border between Croatia and Bosnia, the swamp was not only a place for people to hide in, it also allowed them to travel across the border. Since the UN peacekeepers had crossed the Sava and were centered around the towns to the south, more and more Serb forces had headed into the swamp.
Along one of the few rail lines that crossed the swamp, a group of twenty men, well armed, deployed themselves. Their motley collection of camouflage uniforms were covered in mud and worn. Their weapons, though, were clean and well oiled.
The leader of the band stood on the rail tracks, noting the rust. He knew the rail bridge over the Sava was down. He had supervised its destruction over a year ago, personally pulling the fuse igniter that fired the charges that dropped the steel frame bridge into the river.
He looked in both directions, the embankment running as far as the eye could see both ways. Nothing. The sky was dark and overcast, with lightning rumbling to the south. He watched the lightning for a few seconds, wondering if perhaps it might be artillery or air strikes, but decided it was indeed the hand of God rather than man.
The leader wore mottled fatigues, the same style worn by the elite Spetsnatz, Russian Special Forces. He still had the subdued insignia of a major pinned to the epaulets, but where his name had been sewn there was only the less faded remains indicating the tag had been ripped off.
He cocked his head as his ears picked up a faint sound. He checked his watch. The timing was right, but one never knew.
He barked orders in Russian and his men faded into the swamp. He waited, alone on the embankment. The helicopter was very low, following the rail line from the west. The man turned and faced it. A Bell Jet Ranger, one of the most popular makes in the world. He noted the mini-gun bolted to the right skid. He didn't flinch as the chopper dipped even lower, the bottom passing less than two feet above his head, the rotor wash whipping him with air.
The chopper flew another fifty feet, then banked under the guidance of what must have been an expert hand. The marking hastily painted on the side indicated it was an IFOR aircraft. Even seeing that, the man didn't move, other than to continue to face the aircraft as it came closer, settling down on the rail bed, the skids on either side of the old tracks, the chain gun pointing down the rail line at him.
The man waited as the engine whine descended to a low hum and the blades slowed their rotation, gradually coming to a halt. A door on the right side opened and a tall man stepped out, submachine gun slung over his shoulder. The door on the pilot's side opened and a smaller man exited. He had no weapon in his hands, but the glittering rings that adorned each finger drew the man in camouflage's attention. He had a gas mask dangling from his neck, resting on his chin.
"You are Kiril?" the ringed man asked in accented Russian.
"You had best hope I am," Kiril responded. He gestured and his patrol materialized out of the surrounding swamp, weapons at the ready, all pointing at the two men and the helicopter. "And what is your name?"
"My name is not important." The man folded his arms across his chest and stared at Kiril. "What is important is what I can do for you, is it not?"
"Why should I trust you?" Kiril asked.
"You don't have to trust me," the man said.
"I have been thinking," Kiril said. "With NATO forces in-country, the situation has changed somewhat. It will be more difficult for us to do what you desire."
"What I desire?" The man laughed. "It is I who am helping you achieve your goal. To achieve your desires."
"For pay," Kiril spit.
"As good a reason as any. Speaking of which . . ." The man spread his hands.
"I have no proof you can deliver what you say you can," Kiril said.
"I am prepared for your doubts," the small man said. He turned back to the chopper and opened the back door. Kiril and his men brought up their weapons as the man pulled a third, previously unseen person out. The weapons went back down when they saw that the third person was a young girl, her arms bound behind he
r back. Her white smock had blood on the left side. A blindfold was over her eyes.
"What is this?" Kiril demanded.
"Proof," the small man said. The girl could not stand on her own, collapsing to the rail line, making a low whimpering sound. The small man barked something to his companion, who walked around the front of the helicopter. The larger man picked the girl up by the back of her smock and held her up.
Both men pulled their gas masks on. Kiril took a step back.
"You are safe at this distance." The smaller man's voice sounded distant, passing through the mask's filter.
The small man had something in his hands, a small vial. He screwed off the top and waved it once under the girl's nose, immediately screwing the top back on and putting it back in his pocket.
The girl immediately spasmed, her spine arching back. Her eyes bulged, an inarticulate sound escaping her lips. The larger man let go of her, stepping back. Her knees buckled and she collapsed onto the ground. After a minute, both men removed their masks.
"That fast?" Kiril whispered.
"Yes, that fast," the smaller man said. "I think a down payment is in order."
Kiril spoke into the small FM radio attached to his combat vest. A man came out of the swamp carrying a faded green backpack. He gave it to Kiril, who tossed it toward the chopper.
The smaller man retrieved the package and looked in. Precious stones glittered. The man folded the cloth and put it back in the backpack.
"My people took many risks to gather those," Kiril said. "It is everything we have. You have five days to deliver what you have promised. We will be waiting for you here. Do not think you can fly away beyond our reach."
"Do not waste your breath threatening us."
The two men got on the chopper without another word. The engine whined as power increased. The blades turned faster until finally it lifted and went back the way it had come. Still Kiril did not move. He watched the helicopter until it disappeared over the horizon.
He walked forward to the girl's body. With the toe of his boot, he turned her over. Her face was rigid, pain etched in the dead skin. He stared at it for a minute, imagining thousands of faces showing the same agony in death. A smile crossed his lips. He ordered the body thrown in the swamp.
Only then did he signal for his men to follow him.
***
Hancock listened to the weekly intelligence summary briefers with mild interest. He had the seat to the left of the director, who sat at the end of a long mahogany conference table inlaid with the seal of the CIA. Directly across from Hancock was the chief of Operations, Kim Gereg, to the right of the director.
This briefing was always held the evening before the weekly National Security Agency briefing, where the director briefed the NSA—and the President, when an issue was particularly hot—on the highlights culled from this meeting.
Right now, Bosnia was the number one issue, with the discovery of the slain Polish peacekeepers, the movement of Serb heavy arms nearer to Sarajevo and the deterioration of conditions in Kosovo and the massacre of ethnic Albanians. After years of "maintaining" the peace, the situation was sliding back to the status of the early days when the IFOR first moved in.
"What are the Serbs' intentions?" the director asked. He turned to Gereg first.
"My sources indicate the Serbs want to end the stalemate. They want to make Sarajevo a repeat of Dien Bien Phu."
The director digested that blunt summary. Going first meant one was the favored person of the moment, but it also meant one had to define his or her position first. Hancock had always preferred having the black pieces in chess—the second to move. Some initiative was lost, true, but he had rarely encountered an opponent who could maintain initiative against him and he believed the advantage of seeing an opponent's opening move far outweighed the disadvantages.
The director turned slightly to the left. "Concur?"
"That they plan to fight?" Hancock said. "Yes, sir."
"And if they fight?" The director turned back to his right.
"IFOR will have air superiority but will be outgunned on the ground," Gereg said. "The Serbs are hoping the upcoming winter weather will assist them, but given the all-weather capability of NATO aircraft, even bad weather won't help them too much."
"So what do the Serbs hope to gain?" the director asked.
"Given the outrage over the loss of the six Polish peacekeepers, the Serbs are hoping that further bloodshed will cause NATO countries to pull out, rather than commit more force."
"Will it?"
"That's a political issue," Gereg said. "The State Department will have a better feel on—"
"What's our feel?" the director snapped. "Will NATO cut and run or will it fight?"
"I think NATO will fight," Gereg said.
"Think or hope?" the director asked. He didn't wait for an answer, turning to Hancock with a raised eyebrow, wanting his assessment.
"Does it matter, sir?" Hancock asked, then proceeded to elaborate. "Either way will end the quagmire."
"The President thinks it matters," the director said. "If IFOR pulls out of the Balkans, there will be a bloodbath the world hasn't seen since Cambodia and the killing fields."
"But it won't be our bloodbath," Hancock noted. "History is full of bloodbaths. This won't be the last one. We pulled out of Somalia and no one gave a damn what happened afterwards. All they cared about were the bodies of American soldiers being dragged through the streets."
"Most Americans don't have a clue who is who in the Balkans. Serbs, Bosnians, Muslims, Christians, Albanians. All are just words."
"You want me to go to the President with the recommendation we do nothing? He has to make a decision about our forces that are part of IFOR."
"Yes, sir," Hancock acknowledged. "But if the rest of NATO pulls out, we won't have much choice." He leaned forward. "The bottom line is the media. Given the current scandals in this country, coverage of the Balkans is down thirty-seven percent and I predict it will continue to go down. And no one can truly tell me that we have any sort of national security interest in that region."
"Ms. Gereg, what is your recommendation given the intelligence readouts?" the director asked.
"That IFOR enforce the Dayton Peace Accord. The President signed that accord."
"Mr. Hancock?"
Hancock spread his hands. "I agree theoretically that IFOR should do what it signed up to do. It is more a question of what the cost of that enforcement will be."
"The Serb heavy weaponry can be targeted by the NATO air forces," Gereg interjected. "The Serbs are hoping their campaign of terror can do what their force of arms can't. I believe they are hoping for the same reaction from the media that occurred after the Tet Offensive. We won the military battle then but lost the media one."
"Even if IFOR defeats the Serb military force, they hope the bloodshed will cause the people of the countries that contribute troops to IFOR to demand their soldiers be pulled out." She stared across the conference table. "There are many that agree with Mr. Hancock's assessment that the Balkans are not worth the lives of American soldiers."
"And the reaction is going to depend on how much blood the Serbs draw," the director noted. "The President is going to ask me for an intelligence estimate on that. The Pentagon will have theirs—what's ours?"
"Given the current military balance in the area," Gereg said, "I think the President should commit to enforcing the Dayton Accord. I don't think the Serbs can do significant damage."
" 'Significant damage'?" Hancock returned her stare across the conference table. "How many deaths do you consider significant damage? A hundred? A thousand?"
"What's the purpose of military force if it isn't going to be used?" Gereg asked. "Clausewitz said that war is an extension of politics. The politicians have tried to resolve this mess in the Balkans for a long time. Now the stakes have been raised."
"Clausewitz?" Hancock shook his head. "He was outdated half a century ago. The face of war and p
olitics has changed dramatically since Clausewitz."
"Hancock?" the director asked. "Your final word?"
"There's one thing that bothers me," Hancock said.
"What's that?"
"It's why the Serbs are doing this now. What's changed? They started this war during the Gulf War, hoping to achieve their goals while the world was preoccupied. They weren't successful then. Why are they choosing to act now when NATO can focus force against them? Why do they think they'll be successful now?"
"Why is that a worry?" the director asked.
"Because I think Ms. Gereg's analysts are missing something," Hancock said. "I'd like permission to prepare a CDA strike team and stage it in Sarajevo."
While the director considered that request, Hancock stared once more across the table at Gereg. Her forehead was slightly furrowed, trying to figure out what angle he was playing.
"I'll ask the President tomorrow, but I'll recommend we do that," the director said. "Let's move on to other business."
Chapter Fourteen
The C-141 touched down at Rhein-Main Air Base, the U.S. military's air base adjunct to Frankfurt International Airport, German's largest airfield. Thorpe waited patiently as the plane taxied, glancing out the small, round window to his right. Known as the gateway to Germany, Rhein-Main was the primary port of call for U.S. personnel stationed in Europe.
During the Berlin airlift, Rhein-Main had been the center for most of the aircraft departing for that beleaguered city, loaded with the supplies that kept it running from 1948 into 1949. Despite the fall of the Berlin Wall, there were still over one hundred thousand American troops stationed in Germany, along with their dependents. The troops' mission had shifted from protecting Western Europe from the now-defunct Warsaw Pact, to trying to provide stabilization in an area of the World that had been thrust unprepared into a capitalistic society. The new domino theory was not one that worried about communism spreading from country to country, but rather economic destabilization spreading like a virus from country to country and damaging the world economy.