by Joseph Badal
Ewing nodded, a disgusted look on his face. “What the hell are you doing over here, anyway?”
“The Director finagled me onto our team as an observer. That’s my official assignment.”
“And unofficially?”
“Now, Stan, you know better than that. Since when would I have an unofficial role?”
Ewing burst out laughing, slapped Jack on the back, and walked away.
Jack watched Ewing cross the compound to the building where generals and diplomats from both sides – NATO and Yugoslavia – would try to hammer out a peace pact. Then he backtracked and walked to the Jeep assigned to him and drove off in the direction of the 82nd Airborne Headquarters. While the Jeep bounced over the ruts in the road, Jack thought again about why he was so anxious to come to this godforsaken country. I’ve watched that boy grow from a toddler to a man. His father is my best friend. If the Army has gone back on its promise to keep him in Macedonia, far from the Yugoslav line, I’ll have some top brass ass put in a meat grinder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
General Plodic knocked on the door and, as instructed by the secretary in the anteroom, opened it and entered the Serb leader’s office. He walked confidently across the carpeted floor, holding Captain Sokic’s progress report in his hand.
“Plodic, what do you have to report?” the Serb leader growled, not even waiting for the General to get halfway across his office. The man stood behind his desk, his hands flat on the desktop, his eyes locked on Plodic like missiles locking on an enemy plane.
Plodic felt his confidence dissipate. Perspiration dripped from his underarms. He could tell from the President’s tone and the scowl on his face that he was in a very bad mood. “Everything is progressing as per your orders, Mr. President. The Special Forces team will be ready to go in thirteen days. Right on time, according to the schedule you gave me. They’re the best men in all of Yugoslavia. They’ll be ready, I assure you.”
“You have confidence in these men?” the leader asked, an implied message in his tone Plodic did not fail to comprehend. He knew the President had just warned him. If the mission failed, then Plodic’s ass would be on the line. People who failed this psychopath had a habit of disappearing.
“Absolutely, Mr. President. They are the best trained men in all of Yugoslavia. True patriots.” Plodic hazarded a smile, but quickly wiped it from his face. The leader’s eyes were beginning to make his bowels feel loose.
“Good! Then they should be able to start in two days.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Colonel Heinige rushed back into the room. “Captain Danforth, you should take the Radkos back to their camp. It appears we have Serb guerillas in the hills again, but this time they are close to the city. They must have knocked out the telephone lines. We are sending soldiers out to sweep the streets in case any of the guerillas infiltrated the city. You need to get these people out of here while you still can.”
“Yes, sir!” Michael said. He turned to the Radko family. “Let’s go. You’ll be safer at the camp.” He led the way out to the street and ran for the Jeep, leaving the Radkos in the building’s doorway. After starting the vehicle, he backed it up to the building entrance. When Stefan and his family had climbed aboard, he sped toward the refugee camp.
Vanja and Attila seemed worried about the sounds of small arms fire coming from the hills above the road. Neither of them said a word until they were a couple of miles from the refugee camp, after they could no longer hear the pop-pop-pop of weapons.
From the back of the Jeep, Vanja placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder and shouted over the noise of the engine and the wind rushing through the open vehicle, “I will never be able to thank you for what you did. You gave us back our daughter when we thought we had lost her forever.”
“I was glad I could do it. As they say, it’s a small world.”
Michael ignored the grunting sound that came from Stefan sitting in the front passenger seat. He’d already come to the conclusion that Miriana was right. Her father was “sonofbitch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
By Monday evening, Stefan was sick of the refugee camp. And the men he had fleeced seemed to suspect his winning streak with the dice had continued too long to be mere luck. Where could he find a new group of suckers? Stefan left the camp and walked north on the road to Preshevo, in search of new sheep to shear.
Although just before dusk, there was still enough light for him to see the campsites along the road and in the fields to the west. Idiots! Stefan thought. Waiting like children for the great Americans to save them. He patted the wad of bills in his pockets and smiled. He was confident he’d double his money before he returned to the refugee camp later that night.
On the other side of the border, north of Preshevo, Captain Sokic and his men hid their vehicles in trees along a dirt track connecting with the main road. They walked back to the main road to mix with the scattering of refugees still moving south. It appeared that most had stopped and camped, now that night approached.
Carrying their gear in packs, suitcases, and canvas bags on their backs and shoulders, they continued southward.
Sokic watched his men dispersing among the refugees, melting in amongst the stragglers, dragging their feet and walking stooped as though exhausted and demoralized. They fit right in as they shuffled along at a snail’s pace, their ragged clothing hanging on them like castoffs on scarecrows. Sokic trailed behind, placing himself next to a slow-moving, horsedrawn wagon.
While he walked, Sokic practiced his cover story – birth date, village, names of his family members. He had it all down perfectly, but Sokic was a careful man. At the outskirts of Preshevo, four hours later, he and his team encountered the first NATO refugee checkpoint.
After a long wait in barely-moving lines of refugees, they were cleared through to the next checkpoint. Most of the rest of the way, Sokic, his team, and a dozen other refugees hitched a ride on a tractor-towed flatbed trailer. Two kilometers north of Kumanovo, when it was fully dark, the Serb soldiers jumped off the trailer, climbed a hillside by the road, and rested among the trees.
“We wait here until all these Muslim pigs are asleep,” Sokic told his men. “Then we’ll go around Kumanovo and locate the 82nd’s encampment. Dimitrov, you and Pyotr take the first watch. Vassily, Josef, get some sleep. The next shift will be in two hours. We leave at 0200.”
By ten p.m., Stefan had unburdened several Kosovars of their money. He’d not gotten very far north of Kumanovo, but he wasn’t sure where he was. He tried to remember how many shots of raki he’d drunk, but all he could come up with was “a lot.” Although dead-tired, he felt ecstatic about the money filling his pockets. So many marks, so little time, he thought, laughing in the darkness, listening to his voice rebound off the hills on the east side of the road. At a curve in the road, he noticed a small group of men leave the crowd of refugees and climb a hillside into the trees.
Still more sheep, he thought. And no women with them. Good! No nagging wives telling their husbands not to gamble or drink. Rubbing his hands together gleefully, he thought, What the hell; I can’t pass up suckers like these. An hour is all it should take. He shook the loaded die in his hand while he plodded up the grassy incline toward the flat crest of the hill, no longer feeling tired. He’d made it halfway up the hill, when a man stepped from behind a large bush and stuck the point of a knife under his chin.
“Going someplace, old man?”
Stefan had dealt with all manner of men; he could identify the victims from the predators, the sane from the crazies. The tone in this man’s voice told him he needed to be careful with this one.
“Hello,” he replied in Serbo-Croatian. “I was hoping you might share some water with me.”
“Get fucked,” the man growled. “We’ve got nothing for the likes of you.”
Stefan began to turn around, when a second man appeared and placed a hand on his arm. “Who are you?” the man asked.
“Stefan Radko is my
name. I’m staying at the refugee camp down the road. I got tired of the Americans’ bullshit and decided to take a walk.”
The second man just continued staring at Stefan. He didn’t react to what Stefan had said.
“You look like you just arrived,” Stefan said in what he hoped was his most congenial tone. “Perhaps I can be of help; I’ve been here for many days and I know the people at the refugee camp. The paperwork is awful, but I can help you with it.”
“Thank you, sir; please join us,” the man said, turning around and going back up. “We left our farms weeks ago and have been traveling on foot since then,” he said over his shoulder. “We would appreciate your help in finding our families.”
Stefan followed, thinking none of them would have much chance of finding family in the mob of refugees. He sat with the men and learned their names – always better to break down suspicions by using first names, appearing to be friendly. He told them lies about his own escape from Yugoslavia.
Stefan noticed that this group seemed somehow unlike the other refugees – dirty, with tattered clothes, but not so downtrodden. They seemed more . . . alert, better educated. The more he talked, however, and the more of their liquor he drank, the more comfortable Stefan felt. Soon he seduced a couple of them into playing dice. The mood of the group became amiable.
“Where’s that other bottle of whiskey?” the one who seemed to be the leader said.
Another man took a bottle from a suitcase. Stefan smacked his lips. He would do more than his share in making the contents of this bottle disappear, too.
“Have you met any American soldiers?” one of them asked. “I hear they are well trained and equipped. We should be grateful they have come to protect us.”
Stefan began to relish his role as adviser to this group of farmers. It was wonderful to have an advantage over them. He looked across the campfire and squinted, trying to bring the man’s face opposite him into better focus. “Oh, yes, he slurred, “I met many Americans. Even the head of their 82nd Airborne, Colonel Sweeney.”
Sokic glanced at Dimitrov sitting across from him and saw the soldier raise his eyebrows, as though to convey the thought that this old man was either the biggest blowhard in the world or they had discovered a valuable resource. Or both.
“What other Americans have you met?” Sokic asked.
“Many, many,” Stefan said, throwing an arm in the air to indicate there were too many to name.
“I think you’re joking with us.”
Stefan shrugged. “Believe what you want,” he said. “But one of the American officers has even fallen in love with my daughter.”
“Big goddam deal,” Pyotr said loudly.
Sokic narrowed his eyes with contempt while he stared across the fire at Pyotr. Stupid idiot! If the Gypsy clams up . . . The soldier shrank back and lowered his head.
“It’s true; one of them has fallen in love with my Miriana,” Stefan said. He spat into the fire.
The name tugged at Sokic’s memory. General Plodic had spoken about Karadjic’s kidnapping and how a Gypsy girl named Miriana was involved.
“Your daughter, is she beautiful?” he asked.
Stefan smirked. “You won’t find a more beautiful girl in all of Yugoslavia.”
Sokic laughed. “Spoken like a loving father,” he said. “I hear the Americans are all rich. You must be pleased an American officer is interested in your daughter.”
Stefan scowled. “He’s the last American I would let my Miriana marry!”
“Why?”
“His father killed my son,” Stefan slurred. “I curse the Danforth name.”
Sokic was so surprised his jaw dropped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Michael had arranged to have dinner with Jack Cole in the officers’ mess tent on Monday night. His stomach growled when he walked into the tent at 2100 hours. He saw Jack sitting at one of the picnic tables lined up inside. The place was almost empty.
Michael sat and rubbed his face with both hands as though to wipe away the weariness he felt.
“You look beat, kid,” Jack said.
“My company guarded convoys again today. We made seven trips between here and Preshevo. The road’s still so packed with refugees, it takes an hour to go five miles. I’m physically exhausted and emotionally spent. Looking at their faces is . . . they’ve lost hope, Uncle Jack.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mike, to give them hope.”
“I guess. But from what I’ve seen and heard, I’d lay money that no more than half the Kosovars will willingly return to their former villages unless NATO stations troops all over the province. They’ll never trust the Serbs to leave them in peace. What kind of hope do these people have if they can’t return to their homes?”
“Let’s get some chow, Mike, and talk about something less gloomy – like that lovely young lady who has a crush on you.”
Michael’s face warmed. He smiled, then laughed. “Miriana is a subject I can put my heart into. But, as for the food, prepare for more gloom,” he joked.
Jack laughed when he got up from the bench. Michael led the way to the steam tables at the other end of the mess tent.
After picking from a selection of two meats, three vegetables – in addition to the ubiquitous potato – plus bread, dessert, and beverages, they returned to their table and sat across from each other, now the only persons in the dining area. Michael watched Jack remove his suit coat, exposing the .45 in his shoulder holster.
“What’s the matter, afraid of muggers?” Michael said, pointing at the weapon with his fork.
“They should be afraid of me,” Jack said. “But let’s talk about you and your girlfriend.”
“What do you want to know?”
After an hour’s conversation, Michael began to nod off. “I think I’d better hit the sack,” he said, “before I fall asleep right here.”
Jack smiled. “I was hoping you’d talk through the night. It would help with this jet lag.”
While they walked toward the exit, the canvas flap serving as the door flew open. Jack jumped, reaching for his pistol. Michael put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” he said. “Take it easy; I know him.”
Attila stood in the tent entrance, next to an American Staff Sergeant with an MP’s armband.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” the Sergeant said, “but this boy said it was an emer–”
“Captain Danforth,” Attila interrupted, clearly agitated. “Mama told me to come find you. Papa has not returned to our tent. She thinks something happened to him.”
“Calm down, Attila. I’m sure your father’s fine. He’s probably just visiting friends.”
“No, no, something’s wrong. He left camp–”
“He what!” Michael exclaimed.
“He said he wanted to find a dice game. He left more than four hours ago. He said he would walk north, toward Preshevo. Papa usually comes home earlier than this.”
“I’d better go out and try to find Attila’s father,” Michael told Jack. “Sorry. We can talk some more tomorrow.” Then he turned to the MP. “Sergeant, you can escort this boy back to the front gate now.”
“You can’t leave the camp at night,” Jack said after the MP led the kid away. “Wait until morning. You’re going to have to escort a supply convoy in that direction anyway, and you’ll have your men with you then.”
“I can’t just leave the old man out there. What if he’s gotten himself hurt?”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Jack said. “Think, Mike. It’s dangerous out there. Besides, who the hell is he to you?”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Jack. I should have introduced you. That was Miriana’s brother, Attila. It’s his father, Stefan, who’s missing.”
“Stefan Georgadoff. Sounds Bulgarian, not Roma.”
“Georgadoff is Bulgarian; but it’s the mother’s name. Miriana’s father is Gypsy. His last name is Radko.”
Jack’s face went white. “Did you say Radko? R-a-d-k-o?”
/> “Right. Why? What’s wrong?” Michael said.
“Nothing. I . . . I just thought I recognized the name. My Jeep’s right outside the tent. Come on, I’ll drive.”
Jack’s loyalty to the Danforths wrestled with his desire to tell Michael about Radko. He knew Bob and Liz had never told their son about the kidnapping in Greece. Would he be violating his friends’ trust if he told Michael the truth now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Where is he, Bob?” Liz asked, her voice strained.
“It’s a war zone, honey,” Bob said, making a Herculean effort to remain calm. He understood the fear showing in Liz’s eyes. The same fear had penetrated his gut. “You can’t just look up a name in the phone book and call. I contacted the Pentagon. The duty officer said he’d try to contact Mike’s commander.”
“Well, then where’s Jack? You’ve called him, too. Where the hell is he?” she shouted. “I can’t believe the whole damn CIA can’t find him.” She walked back and forth across the den, wringing the dishtowel she’d carried from the kitchen.
“Liz, we know where Jack is supposed to be. But you know Jack. He’s not happy unless he’s got his nose stuck under some tent. Can you picture him sitting in those peace treaty meetings as an observer? He’s probably out in the field somewhere doing real intelligence work. The damned cell phone relay towers are down, so his mobile phone is useless.”
“Twenty-four hours have passed since we talked to Michael. We’ve got to get him away from that bastard, Radko.” She began pacing around the kitchen table, her arms flailing the air. “That bastard!” she cursed, her voice suddenly quieter, the words coming out in a hiss.
“I understand, Liz. I left a message where Jack’s staying. He’ll get it sooner or later and will contact Michael. I’m just as worried as you are.”
