Warriors (9781101621189) (26 page)

“How's that?”

Webster explained that he was Air National Guard, not regular Air Force. And he wanted to get back to his civilian role and help prosecute Viktor Dušic.

“I'll even do it pro bono if I have to,” Webster said.

“Who's going to run Manas Air Base?” Parson asked.

“Are you kidding? There's fourteen colonels lined up behind me who want to get their tickets punched for command of an expeditionary wing. Get that star pinned on.”

“What about you? Don't you want to make brigadier general?”

“I don't know, maybe,” Webster said. “But right now there's something I want more.”

That impressed Parson. Most colonels would give their left kidney for a star. But he gathered that, for Webster, reaching the pinnacle of an officer's career was just an afterthought. Something less important than justice.

Dragan's cell phone rang. He opened it, looked at the screen.

“Excuse me, guys,” Dragan said. “I gotta take this.”

•   •   •

DUÅ IC HAD THOUGHT HIS INSTINCTS
never failed him. He could always judge a man's loyalty, character, and competence. He had seen Bradic in action as a field surgeon during the war, patching up patriots, a patriot himself. But something had happened to the doctor in the intervening years. Dušic realized it too late, on the third day after the bombing. Bradic had gone away in the morning with hardly a word and had never come back. Now Dušic understood why. Two police cars and an armored tactical vehicle rolled down the narrow road to Bradic's village. From inside the village, two other police cars approached.

As he stood at the window, Dušic's heart filled more with disappointment than anger. His nation could become so much more if its people would only see the hard things through. So many lacked vision. Evidently, so did Bradic.

“Stefan,” DuÅ¡ic called from the guest bedroom, “we have been betrayed.”

“I see them!” Stefan shouted from the front room.

At the front of the house, glass shattered. Dušic picked up one crutch, leaned against the wall. As he made his way down the hall he saw that Stefan had knocked out a window and now lay with his M24 pointed over the sill.

Dušic tried to think of escape routes. None existed. The police vehicles, slowing to a stop about two hundred meters distant, blocked the road in both directions. He could not get around them. The Aventador was fast, but in the soft soil of the surrounding fields, it would only bog down.

These lapdogs would not take him alive. He had known all along this operation could cost him his life. Dušic had made his peace with death, as a soldier should. Long ago he had tallied it better to die for Serbs than live with Turks. The Serbs he had killed were martyrs, deaths regrettable but necessary. If he must become a martyr himself, so be it. He tossed aside his crutch, lifted an AK-47. Dragged himself to the window beside Stefan.

“My friend,” DuÅ¡ic said, “we may not see our work's fruition.” DuÅ¡ic placed his hand on Stefan's shoulder. “But we will cross the river together as warriors.”

Stefan looked at him, eyes hollow. “The fruit of our work is right outside,” Stefan said, “and in Belgrade.”

Stefan's fatalism pained Dušic, but he had no time to ponder it. Now he had to consider the tactical situation. Bradic's house had been built with imported brick. Hardly blastproof, but a natural defilade for rifle fire. Dušic thought he might manage to hold out for a time, depending on police weaponry. However this ended, he hoped the traitor Bradic would return to a destroyed home. The doctor had said he'd seen enough of war. Apparently he had meant it. Dušic chided himself for not seeing Bradic's weakness.

Breeze through the window stirred the curtains. The air carried with it a cool mist descended from clouds scudding low overhead. Already Bradic's house hinted of desperation, the scene of a last stand. Then let it come, Dušic thought. This is my Kosovo, my Field of Blackbirds. He had wanted victory. He could settle for glory.

On the village road, police officers stepped from their vehicles, took cover in ditches and behind armored doors.

“Fire at will,” DuÅ¡ic said.

He unleashed a burst from the AK on full auto. Aimed generally at the nearest police car. Chips and white dust flew from the windshield. The glass frosted, crazed, buckled, but never yielded. No round holes. Bullet resistant, then.

Stefan's M24 whispered through its silencer. A man screamed. A police officer prone on a ditch bank had exposed only his elbow, and that had been target enough for Stefan. The officer disappeared beneath the lip of the ditch. Moans came from the grassy roadside as the man clutched what had to be an incapacitating wound.

“Good shot,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Stay low and keep your gas mask close.”

As Stefan racked the bolt on his M24, the police returned fire. Slugs slammed into the masonry around the window, tore through the remaining glass, stitched holes in the opposite wall. Chalky powder invaded Dušic's lungs, dust from bullets against brick. He fought the churn of fear in the pit of his stomach.

Of course he felt fear; strikes of rounds from high-powered rifles would cause anyone to fear. But that was just part of the combat environment. Dušic accepted his fear, moved through it, fired again. His rounds scored the plating of the police tactical vehicle. He hit none of the officers, but that hardly mattered. Dušic had plenty of ammunition. He needed only to make the officers keep their heads down. Buy time. Give himself time to think, even if it was only to think of last words.

“Stefan,” DuÅ¡ic said, “where is that grenade launcher?”

“In the hall.”

Stefan rolled away from the M24, left it standing on its bipod. He scurried across the room, came back with the RPG-7. Crouched low, handed the loaded launcher to Dušic.

“We shall show these lapdogs how to fight like men,” DuÅ¡ic said.

He yanked the safety pin from the round's fuse, pointed the launcher through the broken window. The HEAT round—high-explosive antitank—felt like a heavy lobe at the end of the barrel. Dušic's leg hurt now, but adrenaline carried the pain to someplace where it could not distract. He curled his fingers around the grip of the trigger mechanism. Aimed. Fired.

The weapon bounced on Dušic's shoulder. Backblast scorched the floor. The grenade traced a white path to the armored vehicle. A few meters from the barrel of the launcher, the round's rocket motor ignited. The rocket held true on a short flight to the target. As the round struck the side door of the tactical vehicle, it detonated.

Flying metal sliced through tires, fenders, fuel tanks. Sparks from propellant and explosive mingled with gasoline vapor. After the boom of the grenade blast came the whoosh of ignition, and flames engulfed the truck and the men around it. Writhing figures of fire danced within fire. Police officers sprayed their burning comrades with fire extinguishers. Black smoke lifted into dark clouds.

GOLD HAD FIRST ENTERED
her career field by acing the ASVAB—the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery. One needed a particularly high test score to become a linguist. That helped ensure recruits could hack the academic rigors of learning a new language. But no test could gauge whether she possessed the mental toughness to stare into the darkest corners of human nature. As she rode in a police van with Parson, Webster, and Dragan, she knew she'd need that part of her strength when she arrived at their destination.

They sped toward a village near Novi Sad. Dragan had received word of a tip on Viktor Dušic's whereabouts. But when the first police units arrived, things had turned bad in a hurry.

“The son of a bitch has heavy weapons,” Dragan said, “and he knows how to use them.”

“So why don't they just lob in some tear gas and shoot him when he runs out?” Parson asked.

“We want him alive if at all possible,” Dragan said.

“And I want witnesses,” Webster said. “That's our main job. Stay well back from the action, but keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, sir,” Gold said.

Webster explained that if police could take Dušic alive, his trial could serve as something of a truth commission—a way to defuse the new tensions, to show people how they'd been manipulated. Maybe prevent a new war. A dead Dušic would become only a one-day story that people might not believe.

“Do you think DuÅ¡ic will surrender?” Gold asked.

“I don't know,” Dragan said, “but they're sending a negotiator.”

Dragan did not sound hopeful, and Gold understood why. For Viktor Dušic to go this far, to restart a war and relive his glory days, he'd have to be a dead-ender. Someone who disliked the present so much he'd die to change the future.

Gold dreaded the things she might be about to see. She knew better than most the pains of extreme violence and its aftermath. That bullet through her chest in Afghanistan had collapsed her lungs and put her in the hospital for months. Her time for healing at Landstuhl had given her plenty of opportunity to ponder man's inhumanity to man.

She had reached this conclusion: Hate happened as a part of human nature, one of its common failure modes. For one group to blame another for its problems came easily, perhaps even naturally. The grammar and syntax of prejudice held a lasting appeal. Only in the next world would hate become a dead language.

•   •   •

DUÅ IC WATCHED THE AMBULANCES
carry away the burn victims. He and Stefan held their fire as the medics worked; the situation bought time. And in that time, Dušic observed that the police had removed their roadblocks so ambulances could get through. Smoke wisped from the wreckage of the police tactical vehicle, but the fire ignited by Dušic's HEAT round had nearly gone out. The remaining policemen gripped their rifles and peered at Bradic's home from behind the cover of their cars.

As Dušic held an AK-47 and pondered his next move, the telephone in the doctor's house began ringing. Perhaps Bradic's daughter was calling home, or perhaps it was that traitor Bradic himself, expecting police to answer. It didn't matter; Dušic had nothing to say to anyone. He let the phone ring.

After maybe twenty rings, the infernal racket stopped. Dušic was getting tired, and every noise annoyed him. When the rings started again, he cursed under his breath and ordered Stefan to answer it.

“I'll guard the windows,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Whoever it is, get rid of them.”

Better yet, Dušic thought, yank the cord out of the wall. But before he could speak again, Stefan was on the phone.

“Yes?” Stefan said. “No. Yes, he is here. One moment.” Stefan cupped his hand over the receiver and nodded to DuÅ¡ic.

Dušic felt a flash of anger. He was long past words and wanted only action.

“Man the weapons,” DuÅ¡ic said. “If anyone takes a step toward this house, kill them.”

Dušic took the phone, watched Stefan settle in behind his M24 and sight through the scope.

“Who is this and what do you want?” DuÅ¡ic asked.

“Viktor DuÅ¡ic,” the voice said, “I am Inspector Petrov of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. I am speaking to you from just outside.”

“Petrov,” DuÅ¡ic said, “you will withdraw from your position, and you will allow me to pass.”

Several seconds passed with only hiss on the phone line. In that time, Dušic took Petrov for a weakling. Indecisive even for talk, let alone for deeds.

“I am afraid you are in no position to make demands,” Petrov said finally. “But if you put down your weapons, I promise you will live. My men will treat you professionally.”

Professionally? What did this lapdog know of the profession of arms? Dušic fumed, considered whether simply to hang up the phone. No, perhaps he could intimidate this weakling, put this lapdog's tail between his legs.

“Petrov,” DuÅ¡ic said, “are you a Serb?”

“Of course I am a Serb.”

“Then you should know the forces at work here. Look around you. The Turks are rising again, and—”

“You are wanted for multiple counts of murder at the Patriarchate,” Petrov said.

“That was a Muslim act of terrorism!” DuÅ¡ic shouted.

“Then surrender and let the evidence speak. There is no need for anyone else to die. Everyone here is a Serb.”

Now Dušic s temper burned like white phosphorus. He slammed the receiver against the wall as if he could bash Petrov through the phone line. Then he put the receiver back to his ear.

“Don't you dare lecture me on what it means to be a Serb,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Where were you when the bombs fell on Belgrade and Novi Sad? Where were you when NATO cut out our hearts and handed Kosovo over to the Turks?”

“I was in the army.”

“And what oath did you take? What people did you serve? We have held back the Muslim hordes for centuries, and look at the thanks we receive.”

“Mr. DuÅ¡ic,” Petrov said, “this is not the 1300s.”

“I do not need a history lesson from you. I helped forge that history, and I am forging it now. You listen to me, lapdog. On 9/11 the Americans learned what we have known for a thousand years. Yet they still fail to understand. And you do their bidding like an errand boy.”

“My orders come from Belgrade, Mr. DuÅ¡ic. Nowhere else.”

“Your orders come from traitors.”

More silence on the line. This was a waste of time and breath. Petrov proved it with his next statement.

“Mr. DuÅ¡ic, we can end this peacefully. There is no need for further violence.”

Yes, there is, Dušic thought. More violence than you can imagine. A crucible of bloodshed that will lead to true peace, with a Greater Serbia for Serbs alone. A lapdog could never understand the mind of a wolf.

“Petrov,” DuÅ¡ic said, “how much combat have you seen?”

“I served in logistics.”

Logistics. This pale excuse for a police officer had no idea what he was doing, who he was facing. The police could have staged an assault on the house in the time they'd spent talking. Dušic judged Petrov and his men reluctant and afraid. He ripped the phone cord from the wall.

“Arm that grenade launcher,” he told Stefan.

•   •   •

FOR PARSON
, the scene at the village near Novi Sad presented a postcard setting with its rows of trees spreading over tiled roofs. Perhaps it could have served as the cover to a children's book of fairy tales. Yet police aimed weapons at one of the houses. Dušic was holed up in there, apparently with plenty of fight left in him. The burned-out hulk of some kind of police truck still popped and smoked.

Horrors in such pastoral locations carried an especially disturbing quality for Parson. He recalled flying an approach into Pristina, Kosovo, with defensive systems armed against shoulder-fired missiles. But on the ground, in a field beside the runway, he'd watched two boys fork unbaled hay into a wagon drawn by a tractor. The mowed field carried the smell of autumn. The farm setting looked so serene, he wanted to take part in it, to grab a pitchfork and gather wheat straw while wearing a sidearm and survival vest.

Crouching behind Dragan's police van with Gold and Webster, Parson focused on the present. Dragan and the other Serbian police faced an awful tactical problem: They needed to keep alive a suspect willing to die. This battle would end here one way or another, and Parson saw no way it could end well.

Clouds hung low, shrouded the plains of the Danube in the distance. Just beneath the layer of steel-gray mist, a helicopter buzzed toward the village. A police surveillance aircraft, Parson figured. He thought of Cunningham.

“Cunningham should be here,” Parson said to Gold.

“I know what you mean,” Gold said. “I keep thinking I'll turn around and he'll be there.”

For a moment Parson wondered if the departed were that close, just on some other plane. During his trek through the Afghan snows after getting shot down years ago, he thought he felt the nearness of dead crewmates. But that was a subject for another time; right now he had more immediate problems.

Webster had brought binoculars with him. With the optics, he scanned the house. He shook his head.

“What do you see?” Parson asked.

“Rifleman at the window. DuÅ¡ic has some help in there.”

“Do you think the police can pry them out?” Gold asked.

“I don't know,” Webster said, “but it doesn't look good.”

One of the Serbian police picked up a bullhorn. From the cover of his car, he began to speak. Serbo-Croatian phrases, artificially loud and tinged with the resin of electronics, echoed across the village. Parson wondered what words of persuasion the policeman spoke, whether he appealed to reason, mercy, or fear.

Though Parson could not understand the statement transmitted by the bullhorn, he had no difficulty deciphering the answer. A rifle shot spat from the house, nearly inaudible, fired from something tipped with a noise suppressor. The bullet tore into the car that shielded the officer. The policeman dropped the bullhorn and shouted words that could only be curses.