Warriors (9781101621189)

by Young, Tom

  Maybe he’d given up on taking Dušic alive. But shooting him dead seemed a better option than letting him escape. Gold put the transmission into drive and peeled out in pursuit.

  • • •

  DUŠIC COULD NOT BELIEVE his luck. No, not luck. Initiative, enabled by Stefan’s self-sacrifice. His friend no doubt was dead by now. Dušic would mourn later. In days to come, he knew, he would have much to consider about his brave but troubled war comrade, addicted to drink and haunted by needless guilt. But now the mission demanded Dušic’s full attention.

  The winding road from the farming village denied the Aventador’s main advantage—top-end, flat-out speed. But the Lamborghini still took curves better than anything those lapdogs were driving. In the rearview mirror Dušic could see them coming now in a police van. He almost laughed; that thing would never catch him. He braked for a bend in the road, felt the car’s suspension compress and expand. The turn placed a screen of trees between Dušic and the vehicle giving chase. He steered out of the curve and saw a tractor on the road in front of him.

  The tractor was cresting a rise; Dušic could not see beyond the hill.

  Taking chances had carried him this far and would have to carry him further. He jerked the wheel, sped around the tractor. Glimpse of a surprised elderly farmer and the plows bolted to his machine.

  The top of the hill revealed an onrushing truck. Dušic steered hard again, swerved back into his lane. Blast of a truck horn.

  Short straight stretch ahead before the next curve. Dušic pressed down with his right foot, held his left foot poised. Dismissed the pain from the bullet wound and the torn stitches. He would slip to the nearest highway, make a speed dash, and disappear into back roads again. Surely General Mladic and President Karadžic had endured close calls like this.

  When at Bradic’s house, Dušic had nearly decided his struggle was over. But now he felt renewed, with great deeds ahead of him. For his cause, he might yet draw a blade, chamber a round.

  • • •

  PARSON SWORE when he lost sight of the Lamborghini. He faced a difficult enough task already: to hit a moving target from a moving platform with an unfamiliar rifle. As a lifelong hunter, he had developed the skills of an experienced marksman. He’d also taken some training; in his wallet he carried a military firearms authorization. The gun card said he was qualified on the M9 aircrew pistol, but it said nothing about a Soviet-bloc automatic weapon that fired tungsten-tipped ammunition.

  The van careened through a curve in the road. Gold took the bend so fast, Parson feared the vehicle would roll over. A truck speeding in the opposite direction rocked the van with a wave of displaced air. Gold accelerated out of the curve, topped a hill, and hit the brakes for a damned tractor.

  “Hold on,” Gold said.

  She took her foot off the brake, stomped the accelerator, and whipped around the tractor. Rifle in his lap, Parson braced himself against the dash as he rolled down his window. The old man driving the tractor shouted something Parson couldn’t understand. Seconds later, the tractor became a speck in the rearview mirror. Parson stuck the barrel of the Vintorez out the window. He knew his only hope was to catch Dušic with a crossing shot on the far side of a curve. If the bastard made it to a long straightaway, he’d be gone.

  Ahead, Parson caught a glimpse of the Aventador, snatches of blue flashing behind trees. Dušic had a long lead that was getting longer. Parson surveyed the road ahead.

  The pavement vanished into another copse of trees. Beyond the trees, the road curved beside a disked field and rose to a higher hilltop.

  “When you get past those trees,” Parson said, “I want you to stop.”

  “Stop?”

  “Stop.”

  Gold pressed harder on the gas, and the van groaned with the higher rpm. Mist collected into droplets on the windshield, and the trees flitted by like an irregular picket fence. When the van cleared the woods, Gold hit the brakes.

  The vehicle shuddered to a stop as the antiskid engaged. Up the road and uphill, Dušic’s car snapped through the curve and accelerated away.

  Parson now had a stable shooting platform, with a target moving left to right above him. A fighter pilot would have called it a deflection shot. Parson sighted through the PSO-1 scope, guesstimated the range. That car had a rear-mounted engine, right? For lead, Parson held on to the passenger compartment. Fired a burst.

  The noise-suppressed weapon practically whispered, but Parson heard it when three armor-piercing bullets slammed into the Lamborghini’s engine. Sounded like three strikes from a jackhammer.

  The car showed no immediate sign of damage. If not for the sound of bullets impacting, Parson would have thought he missed. The Lamborghini topped the hill and disappeared. Now Dušic would get away clean if he still had a good power plant.

  “Okay,” Parson said, “follow him.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “I think I hit the engine. We’ll know when we get over that hill.” Parson held out hope. He had made long shots before.

  Gold hit the accelerator again. Parson felt himself jerked back against his seat. He appreciated the doggedness of Gold’s pursuit, but speed didn’t matter anymore. He’d taken his one chance; he’d either connected or missed. They’d find out on the other side of the rise. Parson held his finger across the trigger guard of the Vintorez, strained to see the road ahead.

  When the van cleared the crest, Parson spotted the Aventador closer than he’d expected. The car trailed gray smoke. Its engine made a popping noise, and the gray smoke turned black.

  On that stretch of country road, the shoulder had eroded. Driving too fast and probably distracted by his wounded engine, Dušic skirted the edge of the road. The Aventador rocked when the wheels left the pavement, and Dušic overcorrected. The car swerved to the opposite shoulder, departed the hard surface completely, and veered into a ditch. Rolled side over side into a field. The Lamborghini came to rest upright on its tires, spattered with mud and smoking.

  Flames guttered underneath the engine compartment. Something, perhaps a hose, burned as it melted, and fire in liquid form dripped into the grass.

  • • •

  THE PAIN IN DUŠIC’S LEG spread as if acid were being poured over it. But the pain did not center on the old gunshot wound. The agony came higher up, where the bone had just broken. Walking had been difficult. Now it was quite impossible.

  Where was his weapon? Dear God, that pistol had been on the seat right beside him. He should have known better than to leave it unsecured.

  There. On the floorboard. Dušic released his safety belt, leaned forward. The movement magnified his pain so much that he cried out in a growl, but he wrapped his fingers around the grip of the CZ 99.

  Heat rose inside the Aventador. Black smoke churned from the engine. Dušic could see no flame, but, damn it to hell, the car had to be burning.

  He had come so close. So close. And Stefan had sacrificed all.

  But perhaps Dušic had not failed. War seemed imminent all over the former Yugoslavia. He had lit the match, and it yet burned. The burning would continue as long as Serbs never learned the details of his operation.

  He knew that if he got captured, his trial would reveal those details day by day, inch by inch, repeated in every news cycle. So he must do one more thing to ensure the success of his mission. Such a shame that he would never get to see that success.

  One day, Serbs would dance kolos in his honor, like in his dream. Only they would dance without him.

  • • •

  SMOKE FROM THE BURNING LAMBORGHINI drifted over the police van and stung Parson’s nostrils. He’d had Gold stop the van in the middle of the road; there was no place to pull over. Other police vehicles caught up. Out of the corner of his eye, Parson noticed Webster and Petrov emerge from a car.

  But Parson kept his gaze focused on Dušic. He
could see the man moving inside the car; at least the rollover hadn’t killed him. Would he fight or give up now? Parson got out of the van, rested the Vintorez across the hood.

  More police officers pulled up. Some got out of their cars, poised with their weapons. One or two held fire extinguishers. Petrov shouted something in his native language, probably “Surrender!” Dušic looked toward Parson and the gathering of police. He said nothing, and he made no effort to get out of the Lamborghini. Parson peered unblinking through the rifle scope. Moved the fire selector off the full-auto setting. And waited.

  He had a fleeting thought of Cunningham. If the OSI agent had lived, he’d probably be the one holding this weapon. The last time Cunningham had fired a gun, he was in full forward motion. But Parson remained still. As he watched Dušic, he considered all the things he’d witnessed in this part of the world. For Parson, Dušic personified atrocity. This guy didn’t deserve to breathe the air. After all the deaths he’s caused, Parson thought, we’re supposed to go around our asses to bring him in alive? After he helped cause the death of Cunningham, a young man with such a bright future? Webster had said a trial would settle things down. But wouldn’t that just give Dušic a forum for his ideas? With the Vintorez in his hands, Parson faced a choice. Under the circumstances, no one would question his decision.

  Flames now wrapped around the entire engine compartment. Parson wondered if Dušic was trapped, or if he’d decided to end it all here.

  The answer came as Dušic placed the barrel of his gun into his mouth. In the weird center arrow of the Russian scope’s reticle, Parson had a good side view of Dušic’s arm, hand, and the semiautomatic pistol. Time for justice.

  Dušic would have known well the mess small arms make at point-blank range. Perhaps for that reason he hesitated.

  Parson did not.

  He touched his finger to the trigger of the Vintorez. A single round slammed through the Lamborghini’s side window. Blood spattered the glass.

  Through window, now nearly opaque from crazing caused by the bullet, Parson could not see exactly where his round had struck. But he could discern movement; at least he’d not blown off Dušic’s head. He had aimed as precisely as he could, minding breath control and trigger squeeze, for Dušic’s hand.

  • • •

  WEBSTER AND PETROV RAN toward Dušic’s car. Gold caught up with them. Other officers began dousing the engine with fire extinguishers, and the sharp smell of halon mingled with the odor of burning oil, paint, and rubber. Spray from the extinguishers spattered Petrov as he yanked the driver’s door.

  The open door revealed Dušic with his right hand torn off at the wrist.

  Blood covered his shirt, and more blood stained his trousers. Flecks of safety glass tinted red lay in his lap.

  Dušic screamed in Serbo-Croatian. Curses and threats, Gold presumed.

  Petrov held his pistol on Dušic, but Dušic paid it no mind. With his good hand, he lunged toward the passenger seat where his own weapon had fallen. Webster grabbed him by the arm, and Gold took hold of him by the shirt. Dušic struggled pointlessly. It occurred to Gold that although she’d seen and done much in her career, she’d never put her hands on a war criminal resisting arrest. She pulled with Webster and dragged Dušic out of the car.

  Dušic lay on the ground, bleeding from his mangled wrist. He continued spewing curses. Petrov shouted back at him. The inspector gripped his weapon with both hands and kept the muzzle trained on Dušic’s head.

  “Does he speak English?” Webster asked.

  “Some, I think,” Petrov said.

  “Tell him he’s charged with murder, violations of the Law of Armed Conflict, and crimes against humanity.”

  Petrov began speaking in Serbo-Croatian, but Dušic interrupted him.

  “Fuck you,” Dušic said.

  Webster folded his arms. The gesture had an air of completion about it.

  “I’ll see your ass in The Hague,” Webster said.

  • • •

  PARSON WATCHED A POLICE MEDIC bandage Dušic’s wound. The medic had trouble applying the dressings; the bullet had exploded Dušic’s hand and left shredded tendons and muscle that dangled and dripped. The injury looked a lot like some of the blast wounds Parson had seen at the Patriarchate.

  Rain began to fall from a leaden sky. Big droplets hit the pavement like pistol rounds, stung Parson’s face. He leaned on the police van, clicked the safety on the Vintorez’s fire selector, and made no move to get out of the weather.

  Gold came toward him. She had blood on her arms from manhandling Dušic. Parson said nothing to her, and she said nothing to him. He liked it that way; he had a lot of thoughts and memories to process right now, and chatter would not have helped. But he appreciated her nearness.

  She took the Vintorez by the forward hand guard. Parson gave her the weapon, and she placed it on the hood of the van. Gold put a hand on his chest, placed her other arm around his waist. Her touch flooded Parson with relief like an injection of morphine. Finally she spoke, but only two words.

  “Nice shot.”

  He pulled her closer, shivered in the cold rain. In the distance he could see a line of harder rain advancing across the fields and hills. It came down in sheets, fell with such force that a mist formed at ground level. Parson watched how vapor seemed to rise up out of the soil. The mist thickened and shifted, obscured the terrain, and swirled among the fog and shadows and ghosts of this tormented land.

  EPILOGUE

  TWO YEARS LATER

  (THE HAGUE, NETHERLANDS)—Serbian war criminal Viktor Dušic has received a life prison sentence from the UN’s International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia.

  Dušic was convicted on multiple counts of murder of Bosnian Muslims during the 1990s. Witnesses testified that he took part in the 1995 Srebrenica massacre.

  He maintained that the court had no authority over him, and he refused to take the stand or even enter a plea. The trial revealed that Dušic and a small band of supporters bombed the Patriarchate of the Serbian Orthodox Church two years ago in an effort to rekindle the Bosnian War.

  Orthodox leaders denounced the defendant during testimony that began soon after Dušic’s arrest. Though riots and skirmishes had broken out across Bosnia and Serbia, the trial dampened tensions in the region, and an uneasy peace continues to hold.

  American attorney Terrence Webster, a veteran of NATO missions in Bosnia and Kosovo, led the prosecution. He accepted no compensation for his services.

  “The world hunted down Nazis until they were in their nineties,” Webster said. “We will do the same for those who committed genocide in the Balkans.”

  Dušic remains under heavy guard, on a twenty-four-hour suicide watch.

  THE STORY BEHIND

  THE WARRIORS

  EVEN NOW, WHEN I HEAR music from the 1990s, it puts me back at Delta Squadron headquarters at Ramstein Air Base, Germany, preparing for a flight into Bosnia or Kosovo. Those Air National Guard missions seemed otherworldly, flying relief supplies to a region where an ethnic group had been targeted for extinction.

  This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. After the Holocaust, the world had said Never again. But it turned out the world didn’t really mean it. Marshaling the forces to stop what was taking place in the former Yugoslavia took far too long. While thousands died, politicians vied for political advantage. Whether American congressmen supported or opposed action seemed to depend on party affiliation. Academics split hairs over whether it was really genocide. (During that time, I worked as a journalist in civilian life, and the discussion reminded me of a macabre newsroom joke about when to use the word “massacre.” Not enough dead? Then here’s the lead: Five people shot to death today narrowly avoided being massacred.)

  While the debate in government halls and academia turned Kafkaesque, the dying on the ground was all too r
eal. Images coming out of the Balkans—civilians shot dead by random sniper fire, prisoners so emaciated their ribs protruded—looked like something from the 1940s, except the pictures came in color, transmitted by satellite.

  We flew our C-130s over shelled villages and besieged towns, sometimes delivering food and medicine, sometimes delivering weapons for NATO combat missions. In operations with names like Noble Anvil and Provide Promise, allied military personnel gave their best effort. But that effort came too late for at least a hundred thousand people.

  We owe those dead, some of whom rest in mass graves, remembrance. Yet the conflict in the former Yugoslavia has become a forgotten war. Perhaps this novel offers a small reminder.

  My villain, Viktor Dušic, is entirely fictitious. I know of no Serbian war criminal who became a wealthy arms dealer. But that would have been less outlandish than other events that did happen, such as Radovan Karadžic’s transformation into an “alternative healer and spiritual explorer.” The real-life Karadžic has published poetry, and the lines attributed to him in The Warriors are his own.

  The literary masterpiece that Dušic misunderstands, The Mountain Wreath, is one of the most important works of the Serbian canon. Published in 1847, it is a play written in folk verse, not a political tract.

  My novel’s historical references, including the murder of the Bosnian Romeo and Juliet, come right out of the era’s headlines. On May 19, 1993, Admira Ismic and Bosko Brkic were shot to death on the Vrbanja Bridge in Sarajevo. According to reports, Ismic and Brkic had dated for years, and they were buried together. She was a Muslim; he was a Christian. In my novel, the character Stefan pulled the trigger. The real gunman has never been identified.

  Dušic’s flashback to a cruise missile strike by the USS Normandy is also based on an actual event. During the Bosnian War, the Normandy launched an attack on an air defense control site. As of this writing, she remains in active service.