Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Hey, Alex. Get us a jerrycan off the back o’ the truck,’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘Look, I’ll tell the company in Gorni to send a Scimitar up to look after you,’ the lieutenant announced. ‘But we’ve got to get on. Let’s go, Corp’l Baker.’

  ‘Sorry mate,’ the soldier apologized. ‘You okay now?’

  ‘We’ll manage.’

  The towing vehicle growled off down the road, the Land Rover following.

  Soon they were alone.

  ‘What a place to break down . . .’ McFee muttered.

  An eerie silence had descended. Alex strapped his helmet tighter, but it gave him little comfort.

  Crack! A rifle shot zinged over their heads.

  ‘Shit! Get down.’

  They flattened themselves on the wet grit.

  ‘Where’d that come from?’ Alex breathed, his heart pounding.

  ‘God knows. They’re all around us here.’

  Then they heard a distant laugh.

  ‘Bastards!’ McFee swore. ‘Fucking playing games wi’ us.’

  ‘What the hell do we do now?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know. Suppose it depends if the sods decide to come and thieve the stuff out the back o’ the lorry.’

  They lay still. All they could hear was their own jerky breathing.

  ‘Can’t stay here all day,’ McFee hissed. He stood up and stuck his head back into the engine compartment. Alex raised himself to a crouch.

  Two more rifle shots thwacked overhead like a double whiplash.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’

  Both flat on their bellies again.

  ‘I think we’re in a wee spot o’ trouble here,’ McFee panted.

  Then from down the road came the growl of a high-powered engine and the slap of track pads on tarmac. Alex craned his neck. A small, white tank with a long, slim gun on its turret sped up the hill towards them.

  The Scimitar bobbed to a halt, its Jaguar engine burbling unevenly. Its commander peered from the top hatch at their prostrate bodies, then jerked his head back inside. The turret turned slowly, the gunner scanning the woods through his sight. It swung back and stopped. Then the machine inched past the Bedford, to get an unobstructed view.

  After a couple of minutes, a soldier climbed out and crouched beside them.

  ‘They’ve bogged off,’ he told them. ‘About six of ’em. Could have been nasty. Looked like they intended to ’ave you. You’re okay now. They won’t risk getting an HE round up the rectum.’

  ‘God . . . thanks,’ Alex croaked, easing himself upright and brushing the dirt off his coat. He swallowed to wet his throat.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Fuel contamination,’ said McFee. ‘Another five minutes . . .’

  ‘Okay. We’ll hang about.’

  Alex stood up gingerly. The last time he’d been under fire was twenty years ago – Lenadoon Avenue in Belfast. ‘Scares me shitless, this place,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, me too,’ McFee concurred.

  He worked on for a few minutes then told Alex to pour the fresh fuel into the tank.

  ‘Moment of truth,’ he muttered, hauling himself up into the cab.

  The engine churned, churned again, then rattled back to life.

  ‘Good stuff,’ the soldier shouted. ‘We’ll lead you into Gorni and pass you on to “C” Squadron at the bottom of the canyon. Okay?’

  Alex gave a ‘thumbs up’.

  The Scimitar rotated on its tracks then scooted ahead. McFee slipped the clutch and they were on their way again.

  Smoke rose from the centre of town. A shell whistled overhead then exploded somewhere unseen.

  ‘Some bloody cease-fire,’ McFee growled.

  They reached a crossroads. The Scimitar stopped, and the soldier waved them to the right across a bridge. A muddy river trickled beneath it.

  Two figures ran at a crouch across the road in front of them, clutching assault rifles. The truck bumped and jolted over mortar craters.

  ‘Be out of this madhouse in a minute,’ McFee muttered through clenched teeth.

  The destruction was unbelievable. House after house blasted to rubble, roof timbers shredded to matchwood.

  Another right turn and they were into woodland. Ahead, amongst the trees, another UN vehicle. McFee stopped the truck beside it and wiped his brow. A soldier came up to the window, encased in a thick flak jacket and a blue helmet which almost covered his eyes.

  ‘Convoy went through just a couple of minutes ago,’ he shouted. ‘If you’re quick you can tag on the back of it.’

  ‘When’s the next one due?’ McFee asked.

  ‘Haven’t a clue. Hours maybe. They never tell us.’

  ‘Okay, okay . . .’ McFee deliberated whether to wait. The next stretch of road was a hangout for bandits.

  ‘Couple of minutes you said, the convoy up ahead?’

  ‘Yeh. Just now.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll go for it, eh?’ He looked across at Alex for confirmation.

  ‘Up to you. I’ve never been here before . . .’ Alex wished McFee inspired more confidence. He had no idea what lay ahead.

  ‘Aye. That’s the trouble . . . The thing is you’re not supposed to go up the canyon on our own.’

  He had a sudden idea.

  ‘Can you call on your radio and tell ’em to hang on for us?’

  The soldier looked doubtful.

  ‘Yeh. I’ll give it a try. If it’s fuckin’ workin’.’

  He turned back to his Scimitar, putting a fist up to his ear in a gesture to his signaller.

  McFee crashed into gear and they lurched forward. ‘Dodgy bit of road, this . . .’

  Alex gripped the dashboard as they bounced up the rough track, the band of his helmet squeezing his temples. They were entering a gorge, the road hugging a limestone rock-face, twisting and turning in company with a raging stream.

  ‘With a bit o’ luck we’ll catch sight of the convoy round one o’ these bends,’ McFee suggested without conviction.

  Sweat broke out on his brow as he wrestled to keep the wheels in the ruts. He was driving dangerously fast. To the left of the track was a sheer drop into the river.

  ‘Is it long this bit of road?’ Alex shouted.

  ‘About twenty minutes . . . There’s a straighter stretch round the next bend, I think. Should get a bit of a view . . .’

  ‘Whose territory is this? Muslim or Croat?’

  McFee was silent. For the first time he looked seriously frightened.

  ‘Have ye heard of the fish-head gang?’

  Alex felt a hard lump in his stomach. The lower rim of the body armour pressed heavily on his thighs.

  ‘Didn’t they murder some Italian aid workers once?’

  ‘Aye . . .’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘At the fish farm. A couple of miles further on.’

  The road straightened. Nothing. Not a sign of the convoy.

  ‘Oh, fuck . . .’ McFee breathed.

  There was a brain-jarring crash as the left wheel hit a hole McFee hadn’t seen.

  He cursed again.

  ‘Take it easy, Moray,’ Alex soothed. McFee was losing his nerve. ‘Don’t wreck the truck.’

  McFee recovered his grip and eased the throttle. The road narrowed, the top of the lorry threatening to catch on the limestone overhang.

  The engine roared. Wheels spun in the mud. The canyon seemed endless. They lurched round another corner.

  ‘Sh . . . it! Look at that,’ McFee screamed.

  Ahead, a blue Volkswagen Golf was slewed across the track. From the far side climbed a man in grubby green, the lower half of his face obscured by a chequered scarf. He steadied his arms on the roof of the car, aiming a pistol.

  Alex felt the blood pound in his ears. He tried to shrink below the dashboard, but his body armour pinioned him to the seat.

  McFee panicked, swerving wildly. Alex clung on, transfixed by the dull grey of the gun. He saw it jerk and flash. Then the bang as the bullet pu
nctured the windscreen.

  ‘Stop! You’ve got to stop!’ Alex screamed. Ears ringing, he put his hand to his head, thinking he’d been hit.

  McFee stamped on the brake. The Bedford halted yards from the gunman. Arms rigid, hands clamped to the automatic, the man stepped from behind the blue car. Above the mask, the face was dirt-smeared. Green eyes darted from Alex to McFee, alert, dangerous eyes.

  He hissed something unintelligible.

  ‘What’s he want, what’s he want?’ McFee gabbled.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Alex replied through closed teeth. Stay calm, he told himself. Avoid eye contact. He’d read that somewhere.

  ‘Mish . . .’ the gunman repeated, closing steadily, waving his weapon to his left.

  ‘He’s pointing over there,’ McFee mumbled. ‘A track into the forest. He wants us to drive up it.’

  ‘No way,’ Alex snapped. That was the road to certain death. He’d better try talking to the bastard.

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  He opened the door to get out.

  The next shot deafened him. Seemed to explode in his head.

  ‘Christ!’ he heard himself yell.

  ‘Are ye all right?’

  The bullet had punched a hole in the roof inches above him. The gunman pushed the smoking barrel into Alex’s face, hot against his mouth. The green eyes were ready to kill.

  ‘Okay, Okay! Do as he says, Moray!’

  Then suddenly the nightmare ended. The bandit twisted round and backed away, lowering his weapon like a guilty child. Alex didn’t understand. Then he looked up. A huge, mud-spattered UN Warrior was thundering down the track from the opposite direction.

  The gunman sprinted for his car, the driver gunning the engine. The VW spun round and darted up the side track into the trees.

  ‘Whoo-ay!’ McFee bellowed. ‘Fifth Cavalry to the fucking rescue!’

  A grin slowly spread across Alex’s face, but he couldn’t speak.

  Four soldiers burst from the back of the APC, sprinted behind rocks and tree trunks and took up firing positions.

  A sergeant ran across to the Bedford, eyeing the bullet-crazed windscreen.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  Alex sucked air into his lungs and wiped a sleeve across his face.

  ‘No,’ he gulped. ‘No injuries. Just need a change of underpants.’

  Plain luck had brought the Warrior down the track at that moment. No radio message from the patrol at the foot of the canyon.

  ‘Radios are sodding useless in these mountains,’ the sergeant explained. ‘Designed for the north German plains. We can escort you to the top of the hill, gents. You’ll have no problem after that. The cease-fire’s pretty good everywhere except Gorni.’

  The sergeant looked at their frightened faces and shook his head. He wiped the mud from the logo painted on the side of the Bedford. Hadn’t come across Bosnia Emergency before.

  ‘First time out here?’ he asked wryly.

  ‘No,’ replied McFee defensively.

  ‘Then you should have bloody known better than coming up the canyon on your own!’

  ‘It was your bloody soldiers down the bottom! They said there was a convoy just a couple of minutes in front!’

  ‘Couple of minutes?’ the sergeant frowned. ‘More like thirty! I’ll have a word with those buggers later. Anyway, let’s move on.’

  He yelled at his infantry section to get back in.

  The thirty-four tons of armour gouged new ruts as it turned, then headed up the track, the sergeant in the turret glancing back to ensure the Bedford was following.

  From the top of the hill they were on their own again, running down through lush green valleys and villages, Muslim at first, then Croat, where children grinned and waved at them.

  The sudden tranquillity of the landscape enabled Alex to unwind. They’d survived their first brush with death. He’d learned a lesson too – not to rely on McFee’s judgement.

  The drama of the past few hours had wiped Lorna temporarily from his mind. Now she was back. Time to work out how to find her.

  An hour later, they rumbled into the outskirts of Vitez. It was the end of the day, and UN armour ground in from all directions, packing the old school yard which was the main British base in Bosnia.

  The sky had cleared, just a few streaks of cloud turning pink as the sun went down. It was a broad valley, hills on either side bathed green-gold in the evening light. Villages studding the distant slopes were pockmarked by the burnt shells of homes, ‘cleansed’ to make each hamlet ethnically pure.

  ‘This is it,’ McFee announced. ‘This is our billet.’

  He stopped the Bedford beside a two-storey house with a chalet roof, set back about twenty metres from the road. A pair of low, wrought-iron gates closed off access to a gravel drive.

  McFee had been subdued for the last part of their journey, still rattled that the decision he’d taken had nearly got them killed.

  ‘There’s an old couple live upstairs. We have the ground floor and their garage to put our boxes in,’ he explained. ‘Andrej and Dragana, they’re called. Don’t speak any English. Most nights Andrej has to put his uniform on and take his rifle down the trenches.’

  ‘They’re Croats, right?’

  ‘Aye. They call this the Vitez pocket. Croats surrounded by Muslims. Those villages acorss the valley are Muslim. The daft thing is both religions got along fine here until two years ago. Ludicrous really, if it weren’t so bloody tragic.’

  He unlatched the metal gate and led the way down the drive.

  ‘We’ll just say hello, before we drive the truck in. Can’t leave it in the road; the bastards would have everything out of it by morning.’

  ‘Dobro vece!’

  An elderly woman of indeterminate age called a greeting as she descended an outside staircase from the upper floor. A scarf covered her head; the rest of her clothing was thick, rough and woollen. The smoke from a wood fire blew down from the chimney.

  ‘Dobro vece!’ McFee replied. ‘Dragana, this is Alex, who’s come to help me.’

  The woman’s hand felt rough and prickly.

  With no common language, communication was by smiles and gestures. McFee pointed to the truck and waved his arms.

  ‘Da! Da!’ she said.

  ‘Okay, let’s back the truck in. Can you do the gates, Alex?’

  Soon they had the supplies secured in the garage, and took their bags into the house. Clean and tidy, rugs covering varnished floorboards, Alex was impressed.

  ‘I think they did B&B before the trouble started,’ McFee explained. He led the way through the hall. ‘There’s a bedroom which you can have; I’m okay on the sofa in the lounge.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Anyway, it’s warmer in there, with the stove!’

  He pointed out the bathroom, where the water flowed only in the early mornings. He flicked a wall switch.

  ‘Power’s off as usual. I brought a load of candles. Some for us, some for Dragana.’

  He looked at his watch. The cookhouse in the army camp a hundred metres down the road would be about to serve supper.

  ‘Let’s get some food. I’m starving.’

  As they stepped outside again, the still of the evening was broken by the noise of military generators powering the camp and the houses the UN rented. The moon had not yet risen. Somewhere out there, Alex thought, is Lorna, unaware their tracks were converging. So too perhaps was the man Milan Pravic, whom Chadwick had asked him to find.

  ‘Colonel lives there.’ McFee indicated a home two doors down. ‘And the next house is P. Info. The press office. Their evening briefings aren’t bad.’

  A spotlight dazzled them at the entrance to the camp.

  ‘’Scuse me sirs, could I see your passes?’

  The voice came from inside a sandbagged, wooden guardhouse, what the military call a sanger. The soldier’s breath steamed in the evening chill. His torch lit up their UNPROFOR cards and then their faces.


  ‘Okay, sirs. Enjoy your teas.’

  They walked on, picking their way through pools of mud, past rows of freight containers filled with stone chippings to protect the base from shrapnel.

  ‘It’s unreal . . .’ Alex whispered. ‘Like a wild-west fortress.’

  The camp had been a school until the war started. Now the sports field in front of it had been gritted over to make a Portakabin village and parking for trucks, Land Rovers and armoured vehicles.

  ‘Here we go.’ McFee pushed through the doorway into the cookhouse. ‘Have to sign your name on the visitors list, then pay at P. Info.’

  The large, warm dining-room steamed, the windows opaque with condensation. The mud-smeared floor glistened. About a hundred men and a few women sat at trestle tables. There was a separate, partitioned area for officers. Soldiers queued at hatches for steaks, curries and puddings, then took their foil trays to any space they could find, stopping to fill paper cups from dripping tea urns.

  ‘Bloody good grub, this,’ McFee proclaimed, heading towards some spare seats he’d spotted.

  ‘Who are the people not in uniform?’ Alex asked, looking around. ‘Other aid workers?’

  ‘And press. There’s a couple of TV crews there, look. Never go anywhere without their cameras. So they can film themselves being blown to bits!’

  Alex noted the equipment on the ground at their feet and peered at the faces. Would he recognize someone? It was a long time since Belfast but one never knew. He turned away, glad he’d not shaved off the beard that had helped hide him since then.

  McFee had been right about the food. Alex had a passion for bread-and-butter pudding with custard. If anyone was starving in Bosnia, it wasn’t the UN.

  ‘Evening.’

  They were joined by a man and woman in jeans and anoraks, who introduced themselves as working for Feed the Children. McFee picked their brains about where to find the neediest refugees.

  Alex was only half listening, preoccupied.

  The couple from Feed the Children stood up again and left.

  ‘Oh . ., Moray,’ Alex began. ‘Where would I find the Colonel? I. promised a mutual friend I’d say hello to him.’

  ‘Oh aye? You know the right people then!’ McFee snorted sarcastically. Then he shot a glance sideways. Someone had caught his eye.

  ‘He-llo!’

  A young woman with straggly dark hair and the bewitching mouth and eyes of a gipsy had paused at the end of their table, smiling.