by J E Higgins
With their interest peeked, Augin and Rommel walked over to the map and studied it intently. “The village is a remote part of the Neretva Valley. It is well hidden and enjoys both access to the Neretva River and close proximity to several key locations. It would be a good place to bring in supplies and personnel from across the river and launch attacks from seemingly unlikely places.” Augin compared the dot marking the village on the map to the sketches in Sauwa’s notebook.
Rommel scratched his bearded chin. “We have intelligence that the Pakistanis and other Islamic countries have been supporting the Bosnians with arms and advisors in direct defiance of the UN order. The Serbs must be concerned about the possibility of a new front developing against them. Especially now that we have re-established our previous alliance with the Bosnians. This must be in preparation for a front of their own.”
Sauwa felt somewhat embarrassed by her display. It had not been her intention to show off in front of everyone.
In the past, she had been content to let others take the lead when briefing or offering professional advice. However, that was when such advice or information had been given by MacMasters, Gilgood or Dumas. They had been the true professional soldiers of the squad with MacMasters and Gilgood both being former British soldiers who had seen considerable time in the fields of Northern Ireland. Dumas was a former French Legionnaire with an extensive record fighting in conflicts all across Africa. She had been rather suspect regarding the others. She had seen a less than stellar performance from them, so far.
She could feel the eyes of Gerald burning into her. Bad enough the self-proclaimed mentor to the squad had been shown up by a young upstart. That the insult was delivered by a female—who he had explained numerous times should be at the base camp tending to meals and the men’s more carnal needs—was pure heresy. Omery and Raker were less insulted than intimidated by her continuing ability to outperform them in a field where they had espoused to be seasoned professionals.
“Further action needs to be considered carefully.” Augin cautioned. He watched Rommel pacing nervously. “At this moment, we have only hypothetical assumptions about what is going on there. If these reports are correct, this village will be considerably more difficult to contend with.”
Rommel stopped pacing and returned to observing the map, Sauwa’s notes in hand. With nothing more to be said, Augin dismissed the remaining members of the squad. As tired and shaken up as they were from the recent ordeal, gleaning more precise information would be futile.
The mercenaries exited the church with Raker leading the pack followed by Omery and then Gerald. Sauwa came out last, not sure what reception awaited her once they were away from the command.
With a deep breath, Sauwa walked outside expecting to be berated. Instead, she watched her comrades head for the tent used as the cafeteria. Glad for the reprieve, she set off after them looking forward to her first hot meal in two days.
The ground was muddy from a recent rain shower. She trudged along feeling the soles of her boots sinking into the softened ground. Pulling the flappy curtains aside, she entered to see a nearly deserted room with several long tables surrounded by a strange assortment of old wood chairs, folding chairs, and benches.
Her squad members had collected their food from the makeshift kitchen and taken up residence at separate tables. Comradery and comradeship were not things shared by her squad. The relationship was more of a mild tolerance and utter indifference.
Collecting her food ─ a menu of brown mashed potatoes, some eggs, and a strange pudding-like substance that was supposed to be ground meat ─ she grabbed a seat at a nearby table.
She had no sooner taken her first bite when Gerald sat down across from her. He smiled a disingenuous, toothy grin. “You’re quite the little soldier enthusiast, aren’t you, young lady.”
Sauwa said nothing. She didn’t raise her head or offer the slightest acknowledgment of his existence.
Gerald continued talking, oblivious. “You know it was an okay brief that you gave in there, but it was still amateurish. In the future, you should run these things by me before you speak up. You know, so I can make sure you know what you’re talking about. I’ve been in this game a long time, and I have some wisdom to impart to youngsters like you who haven’t really seen anything of combat.”
Gerald knew nothing about Sauwa. He still believed from her accent she was British or maybe Australian. He had never even considered South Africa or Rhodesia. She had never felt the need to correct him as that would have only led to further conversation.
All anyone knew of her was that one day, several months ago, she mysteriously appeared in camp with a Croatian supply convoy coming from the seaport city of Rijeka. No one thought anything of the young foreigner until she was met by the Croatian’s chief advisor, Maurice Augin himself, who instantly ushered her off to a secretive meeting in his private office. Afterward, he made the unprecedented move of putting this woman in a combat squad of mercenaries.
At first, the others thought she might have been some sort of international reporter covering the war. When she was immediately given camouflage fatigues, an AK-47 and combat webbing, the journalist theory vanished.
Within her first week of being in camp, with no explanation given, she was in a vehicle with a squad of mercenaries heading out on a mission. Awaiting some sort of briefing or at least an introduction to the mysterious young woman, the men were awash with theories and questions.
The woman said nothing and neither did commander Augin. He only uttered to the girl, “Let me know your assessments,” before stepping back into his office.
Commander Augin had gained serious respect as a competent field commander from both the mercenaries and the Croatians. If he thought this young lady was fit to go into harm’s way, the career soldiers such as MacMasters and Gilgood felt it was good enough for them. They inquired no further. She was obviously conducting some sort of side mission for the command and that was all they were meant to know.
Out on patrol, she offered nothing in the way of conversation and very few words when responding to questions from others. In the vehicle with MacMasters, Gilgood, and Raker, it did not go unnoticed that she kept her attention focused on the landscape and the tree line. She held her weapon at the tactical ready, aimed outward prepared to engage any sort of threat.
She had been the first to notice strange movement in the bushes ahead only seconds before the lead jeep was hit in an ambush that exploded in a massive hail of gunfire.
MacMasters and Gilgood quickly leaped from the vehicle to the side of the road in the direction of the shooting. Predictably, Raker shot wildly in all directions from the back of the jeep. He whooped and screamed like a cowboy in an American western. His gunfire hit next to nothing. Equally distressing was the sight of Dumas and Gazzetti taking cover behind the jeep laying down some kind of return fire with Omery cowering behind them, and Gerald reduced to a bundle of nerves unable to do anything but scramble around on his hands and knees.
Expecting to see Sauwa curled up in a ball crying her eyes out, MacMasters and Gilgood were surprised when she hunched down next to them, her demeanor cool and calm, looking intense, scoping out the battle scene ahead.
“We haven’t entered the danger area,” she said. “We can move into the tree line and approach them in a flanking maneuver.”
The two men were frozen in bewilderment listening to this young lady speak to them with such tactical knowledge.
With Gilgood in the lead, the three scrambled behind the jeep and into the thickets at the tree line. Quickly, they fanned out getting some dispersion, keeping their bodies low in the bushes.
MacMasters started the move with a rapid push through the bushes hoping to close the distance between him and the assault team. Stopped by a dirt clod hitting him in the stomach, he looked over to see Sauwa glaring at him and pointing to the ground in front of him. At first, he couldn’t see what she was pointing to. He moved up a little closer to see a partiall
y hidden row of wooden stakes protruding from the dirt ─ a booby trap reminiscent of what the Viet Cong used against the Americans in the sixties.
Grateful, he nodded back.
She motioned to both men to continue slowly, bypassing the rows of dangerous sticks, inching toward the enemy who was only a stone’s throw ahead and well within the range of their guns. It wasn’t long before they could see outlined camouflaged figures lying prone, delivering gunfire onto the forces on the road.
Raising his rifle, MacMasters belched off a few rounds in the direction of the nearest attackers. His shots tore into the first man’s body. The dying man let out a wail that quickly alerted the rest of his squad. The other ambushers turned and looked up just in time to see the gunfire from Sauwa and Gilgood tearing into their positions.
The three kept up a good combination of talking guns, each one firing a short burst followed by the next.
The enemy soldiers found themselves in a crossfire between the trio flanking them and the rest of the team shooting from the road. The Bosnian shouts turned into a chorus of terrified screams. Panic-stricken, the ambushers broke from their positions and made off into the woods in a wild pack leaving behind three of their dead comrades.
Seeing Sauwa’s skills and calm reserve in a crisis, Gilgood and MacMasters realized they were dealing with someone different.
Since that time, she had had no trouble being accepted ─ at least by those who counted ─ working in the field as a soldier. In a world full of supposed professionals who greatly inflated their skills and resumes, it was easy for the genuine soldiers to spot the real thing.
And, she was it.
2
David O’knomo and his staff ─ the unit investigating war crimes for the African National Congress (ANC) ─ along with their new allies in British intelligence were hard pressed for answers.
Following her escape from Ireland, the professional assassin of the Civil Cooperation Bureau known as Sauwa Catcher had disappeared.
Her killing spree across Ireland over a period of two days ─ which resulted in twelve deaths ─ left the British, South African and Irish intelligence services humiliated. Despite their best efforts, the notorious agent of the Apartheid killing machine could not be located. The situation was intolerable.
The generally accepted assumption was the notorious Angel of Death would have gone home to her roots and attempted to link up with some group previously connected to the Apartheid regime or, at least, sympathetic to the cause. Dr. Eugene Walderhyn, the analyst who had pointed O’knomo and his team in the right direction to find her the first time, had argued that, with limited time and the police chasing closely behind, it was unlikely her escape would have been that well organized.
For several months she remained a ghost. O’knomo’s team pursued leads that were, at best, stabs in the dark. Then, three months ago, the British Secret Intelligence Service, known to the world as MI-6, approached South Africa’s National Intelligence Service with recent information that Ms. Catcher was possibly in Bosnia.
The intelligence was sketchy. It had been collected from former British soldiers serving as mercenaries and returning from the Balkan war zone. Operatives, posing as former soldiers, informally collecting intelligence over drinks at the pub, heard stories of a female mercenary operating in the country.
This information had somehow come to the attention of one Jeffery Talamadge, the MI-5 agent who had pursued her in Ireland and had since developed his own obsession with her capture.
Following up on the case he, along with officers from MI-6, found some former mercenaries who purported to have seen and met her. The descriptions they provided seemed to match those of his quarry. These mercenaries also described the young lady as someone with top-notch military training, presumably Special Forces level. These men had been former soldiers and marines in her Majesty's service. Talamadge and his colleagues could assume these were professional assessments and not the evaluations of some nitwit journalist who couldn’t tell Special Forces training from a military marching band.
What ultimately caught his attention was an additional piece of information. Although seemingly unrelated, the mercenaries had also discussed rumors of a series of mysterious assassinations of several Bosnian military and civilian officials as well as other acts of sabotage and terrorism. This was all believed to be the work of one phantom individual, whose identity remained unknown.
Of course, the mercenaries presumed this was some tall tale the Croats had put out to create morale issues amongst the enemy: the mythical killer who could walk through walls, sneak past details of armed security and become one with the shadows at will. But Talamadge’s interest was piqued. He had forwarded these reports to the South Africans, who reviewed them against their own records.
O’knomo held off discussing the matter with his superiors until he had more conclusive evidence than random accounts from dubious sources. British intelligence expanded their inquiry by reaching out to other intelligence agencies, who also had some of their populace serving privately in Bosnia. They reported a female mercenary matching their own descriptions and accounts.
In the past few months, NATO had begun preparing to go into the war-torn Balkans. As part of the preparation, the Royal Air Force flew regular missions over the conflict area photographing as much terrain and identifying as many military camps as possible.
With a great deal of wrangling and diplomacy, Talamadge had been able to get photos of Croatian military camps, particularly camps located in the central part of the country, north of Mostar, where most of the reports had placed the mysterious female mercenary.
Weeks of scrutinizing blown up pictures of various camps had finally born fruit when they caught sight of long black hair on a woman dressed in combat fatigues. It was possible she could have been just another Croatian volunteer. But, with the hair and features and more pictures of her rolling out with clearly identified mercenary units, the reports made it all too probable they had found their girl.
3
Sauwa’s attention remained on her meal while the Vietnam vet droned on.
“To be honest, we didn’t just lose half our squad. We lost the only other men who were remotely on a par with me as far as experience. I have to step it up now since you all don’t have anyone else to mentor you.”
Gerald’s voice had the twang she had come to associate with the southeastern United States. If that weren’t enough, his need to bring up the exploits of his ancestors and their service to the Confederacy would have led her to a similar conclusion.
“In fact, I should probably be giving the briefs from here on out.” Did this man ever shut up? “You know, ‘cause I’m thorough, and they can glean information to help plan their next mission. With Gilgood dead, I just know they’re gonna approach me about taking over this squad. When I was in Nam, I spent a lot of time working in black ops. I know they’re gonna remember that and demand that I step up and look out for all you youngsters. They begged me to take the job last time, but I said no. Said I was just a shooting man, a foot soldier for this little vacation. Time to let someone else take the reins.” None of what Gerald was saying was true in regard to his circumstances of employment.
It was nothing she or any of the squad had not heard numerous times. Even when Gilgood was alive, Gerald was constantly complaining about how badly Gilgood functioned running the squad, constantly second-guessing all of the plans. He did the same with Augin as well. Every time they left a meeting at headquarters, the Vietnam vet would launch into his diatribe about all the mistakes the Frenchman was making with the counsel he was giving to Rommel and the other Croat commanders. However, rarely did Gerald offer any alternative solutions. And those few times he did, they were poorly thought out, fanciful concepts easily torn apart by more logical minds.
She chewed her meal having tuned him out. The only thing she ascertained was how he was upset or something about how she had briefed. One could fill in the rest. In his subtler way, Ger
ald was telling her to keep her mouth shut from now on. He was the star of the show, as he saw it, and she was not to embarrass him.
Finishing the last few bites of her meal, she casually eyed her unwanted dinner companion. Gerald hardly looked the part of a soldier, his salt and pepper hair was long and unkempt, he had facial growth from several days of not shaving. His clothing choice for the field resembled more of what she saw from the Croatian youngsters and novices. He frequently sported civilian tank tops and a baseball cap or red greasy bandanna over his head ─ even when out on a mission.
She met his gaze for a moment. Neither one said anything. He looked at her with a sly, disingenuous look while she stared back with a blank expression of disinterest. Gathering up her tray and utensils, she rose from her seat. “We should clean up.”
Gerald resumed speaking. “When I take control of this squad, you can bet I’ll be training you all up good to make sure you actually know what you’re doing for a change. You’ll be elite fighters yet.”
Sauwa discarded her tray and headed out of the tent opening leaving the older mercenary to his lonely table. The message had been all too clear. Gerald didn’t like being shown up. She would need to tread carefully from now on.
Outside she started to walk toward another burnt out building that had been haphazardly rebuilt into a living facility. It was the housing quarters for the mercenaries on base. Her mind was filled with thoughts of a warm shower and several hours of needed sleep.