by Joseph Badal
Michael looked at the co-pilot’s leg and felt his stomach heave at the sight of white bone protruding through flesh. The man’s face was pale to the point of being snow-white and his body shook. Damn, Michael thought, he’s in shock.
An Apache helicopter whipped up clouds of dust while it set down seventy feet away. Two men climbed out of the helicopter and rushed over to where the injured pilots lay. One of them yelled at Michael over the noise of the helicopter’s idling engine and the roar of the circling jets, while he looked at Dombrowsky’s wound. “Scooter James. This is Billy Herrera. You guys all right?”
“You got a first-aid kit on board?” Michael yelled back.
“Yeah!” Billy ran back to the Apache, retrieved the kit, and returned to where Dombrowsky lay – still unconscious. Billy Herrera and Michael worked on cleaning Dombrowsky’s wound, while Scooter covered Ernie Patten with a field jacket and wrapped the man’s leg with a cotton bandage.
“I can’t stop the bleeding as long as this piece of metal’s stuck in him,” Michael told Billy. “We’re going to have to pull it out,” Michael said. “Get ready with the pressure bandage.”
Michael took a pair of forceps from the first-aid kit and clamped the ends of the tool on the edge of the palm-sized piece of shrapnel. He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “Ready?” he asked. Billy nodded, his face gray. Pressing down on the forceps’ grip with all the strength he had left, Michael pulled on the metal piece. He felt resistance, at first, then the shrapnel slid out of the wound. Blood suddenly erupted in a gush from the gaping slash in Dombrowsky’s back. Billy slapped the pressure bandage over the wound. Once the bleeding had abated, Michael draped Dombrowsky’s flight jacket over him.
They’d barely finished their first-aid work when Michael heard the rotor beat of more helicopters. He turned to see two more Apaches escorting a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. The Apaches hovered and formed an aerial perimeter while the Black Hawk landed fifty yards from the four Americans. Michael watched two men leap from the chopper, one with a large first-aid kit in hand, the other hefting a folded stretcher. When Colonel Sweeney exited the aircraft, Michael began to think he was hallucinating. He thought he’d totally lost his mind when his father followed Sweeney out of the Black Hawk.
“Man, am I glad to see you guys,” Scooter said to the medics. “Take care of Jess; he’s lost a lot of blood. Looks like Ernie’s got a compound fracture and has gone into shock.”
The medics were putting Dombrowsky on the litter when Colonel Sweeney and Michael’s father ran up.
“Well, I guess we’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Bob said to Michael, a strained smile on his face.
“Probably enough for a lifetime,” Michael answered, a wave of fatigue hitting him while the adrenaline in his system subsided.
“You all right, son?” Bob asked. Before Michael could answer, Bob stepped to him and embraced him. When Bob finally released Michael, he stepped back and said, “What say we get out of here?”
“Sounds good to me,” Michael said.
Scooter James interrupted them when he shouted, “See ya around.” He laughed, while he and Billy Herrera ran back to their aircraft and climbed behind the controls.
“I hope so,” Michael answered, knowing the pilot hadn’t heard him.
Michael watched Scooter’s Apache rise off the ground. Then he watched as Ernie Patten was carried to the Black Hawk to be placed next to the litter Dombrowsky was on. He and Bob followed Colonel Sweeney over to their ride out of Yugoslavia. Michael looked one last time at his surroundings, and over at the road in the distance. He couldn’t make out the ditches, but he could imagine them. He knew he’d never forget this place.
Michael climbed aboard the helicopter. Bob followed, then Colonel Sweeney. The pilot looked over his shoulder from the cockpit and said, “Welcome home, Captain.” Michael gave him a thumbs up sign and settled back against a corner of the aircraft’s personnel bay, next to his father. He fell asleep before the Black Hawk lifted off, his head resting on Bob’s shoulder.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
“Liz, Michael’s safe!” Bob shouted into the telephone. “He’s safe.”
“Oh, Bob,” Liz cried. She dropped down into the chair next to the telephone. “I need to talk to him. I want to hear his voice.”
“Honey, he’s coming home ”
“Thank God! Thank God! When will he be here? How soon can I see him?”
“Soon, honey.”
Liz paused for a moment and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Couldn’t be any better,” Bob said. “I’m coming home, too. I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I’ll bring you up to date on everything when I get home.”
“Okay, Bob. Just get here as soon as you can.”
“Oh, and Liz, they got Radko. He’s finished. He’ll never be a problem again. Ever.”
Liz replaced the receiver in its cradle. She brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them. The fear she’d carried with her for the last two days, since learning Miriana’s father was Stefan Radko, sloughed off her like a second skin. She sensed the anger she’d borne for twenty-eight years, since Radko had taken her only child, would take longer to dissipate.
She rose from the chair and looked in the hall mirror. Strands of her graying blonde hair had escaped the barrettes and now lay over her face, across her ears. She reflexively moved her hands toward her head, her eyes meeting their twin reflections. And then her emotional dam burst. She broke down and cried with deep, quaking sobs.
CHAPTER SIXTY
The Serb leader’s face appeared dark and menacing. His eyes looked red, satanic. He glared at the aide approaching the other side of his desk. The man stopped in mid-stride.
“I gave you an order,” the leader said, his words unnaturally constrained, as though someone were choking him with a rope. “I told you to bring that sonofabitch Artyan Vitas to me. Where the hell is he?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” the aide said, his face flushed with fear. “He . . . Mr. Vitas is . . ..” The man’s Adams apple bobbed and his hands began to quiver.
“Speak up, you imbecile.” The leader picked up the brass base to his pen set and hurled it across the room, narrowly missing the aide’s head. The man dropped to the floor, cowering, his arms covering his head in anticipation of further missiles coming his way.
“Stand up, you sniveling dunce,” the President screamed.
The aide scrambled to his feet. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He rubbed his hands together, all the while staring at the floor, an eye cocked in case he became a target again. “Mr. Vitas is dead. The doctor says he died of rabies.”
The President hesitated. He couldn’t believe what he’d been told. Artyan Vitas couldn’t be dead. The man was indestructible. But he knew his aide was telling the truth. The sniveling idiot didn’t have the guts to lie to him. Besides, if Vitas were alive he would have been here by now. “How appropriate,” the President said coldly. “He always was a mad dog.” A short, bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Well, don’t just stand there. Bring that fat-assed General Plodic to me.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“Morning, Captain,” Sergeant Major Luther Jewell said. “How ya feelin’?”
Michael sat on the side of his bed in the almost empty, giant hospital tent, holding his breath and slowly tying his bootlaces. He looked up at Jewell and grimaced. “Like I just played four quarters against the Washington Redskins – without pads.”
“A little sore, huh?”
“Yeah, just a little,” Michael said, groaning as he stood up.
“Jeez, Captain, you sound like my old granpappy.”
“I feel like your old granpappy, Sergeant Major. But it could’ve been a lot worse. Now tell me what you’re doing here. It can’t be just a get-well visit.”
“Colonel Sweeney wants to see you. He knows you’re being released and wanted me to escort you to his tent.”
“Well, lead the way. But take baby steps.
”
Jewell chuckled and set out toward the headquarters tent with Michael walking stiffly beside him.
When they reached Sweeney’s headquarters, Michael waited just inside the entrance while Jewell walked across the enclosure and said a few words to Colonel Sweeney. The Colonel looked at Michael, smiled, stood up, and walked toward him. Michael met him halfway and came to attention. He started to salute, but he found he couldn’t raise his right hand all the way up to his forehead.
Sweeney saw the grimace on Michael’s face. “We will dispense with the military courtesy until you’re fully recovered,” he said with a smile.
“Thank you, sir. I don’t even remember doing anything to my arm. I got aches where I didn’t know I had muscles.”
Sweeney laughed. “The surgeon tells me you’re going to be fine. Just need a couple weeks of rest.”
“The only way I’ll get any rest is to get away from the field hospital. They checked for signs of concussion, cleaned up about a hundred cuts and abrasions, and hooked me to an IV for dehydration. That was bad enough. Now they poke me, prod me, and, every time I fall asleep, they wake me up to take my blood pressure or give me a pill, or something.”
“How’s the head?”
“No concussion, sir. But I’ve still got a bad headache, and a heck of a bump.”
“Major Krumka briefed me on the report you gave him,” Sweeney said. “You’ve done us proud, Mike. What you did out there took guts.”
Michael blushed. “Thank you, sir. But if it hadn’t been for those helicopter and jet jockeys, I’d be sitting in a cell somewhere in Belgrade right now. By the way, how are the wounded pilots?”
Sweeney smiled again. “Captain Dombrowsky’s doing fine. No permanent damage. But I hear he’s going to have a helluva scar on his back. Patten’s probably going to have a limp. His flying days are over.”
Sweeney touched Michael lightly on the shoulder. “Listen, Mike, the S-1’s cutting orders for you. You’re going back Stateside.”
Michael’s face dropped with disappointment. “But, sir, I’m fine. Just a little stiff, that’s all.”
“The Pentagon wants you out of here. You’ve been kidnapped once too often. I don’t know the entire story; but the decision’s been made. You’re out of here.”
Michael knew the meeting was over. This time he succeeded in getting his hand six inches from his forehead. “It’s been an honor serving with you, Colonel.”
“The honor’s been all mine, Captain Danforth,” Sweeney said, returning the salute.
Sweeney watched Michael turn and limp out of the tent. Then he walked over to Sergeant Major Jewell’s desk. “You got the papers completed on those decorations for Danforth and the pilots?”
“Yes, Colonel,” Jewell responded. “Distinguished Flying Crosses for the helicopter crews; Combat Infantry Badge and Bronze Star, with V device for valor, for Captain Danforth.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Michael hitched a ride back to his tent. His father and Jack Cole were there waiting for him, along with Miriana’s mother, Vanja.
“We need to have a talk, Mike,” Bob said. “I’ve got a story to tell you.”
Michael sat down on his cot. He looked from his father, to Jack, to Vanja and said, “What’s up?”
Jack turned to Vanja. “Why don’t you go ahead?” he suggested.
The woman cleared her throat. She tried to speak, but only a squeaking sound came out. She cleared her throat again and began. “About twenty-eight years ago your father” – she looked at Bob – “was stationed in Greece with the U.S. Army. I was very young woman at the time . . . and Stefan’s mistress. He was married to his first wife then and had one son, a teenager named Gregorie. The Bulgarian Communists employed Stefan to . . ..” Vanja swallowed and looked down at the dirt floor.
Michael saw tears well in her eyes.
“Stefan and I worked for Communists,” she resumed. “We kidnapped Greek babies, took them north, and sold them to Bulgarians. One day, our team make mistake and kidnap American baby.” She paused again, raised her head, and looked directly into Michael’s eyes. “That baby was you.”
“What?” Michael gasped. His hands tightened, his knuckles white. “I was kidnapped?” He shook his head and, almost to himself, said, “My parents never told me about it.”
Bob leaned forward and placed a hand on Michael’s knee. “It’s true, Mike. Let her explain.”
Vanja squirmed on the cot. She said, “We carried you north to orphanage in Bulgaria. Your father and another man came to rescue you. They were in orphanage looking for you, when Stefan and Gregorie arrived to deliver another baby. There was shooting. Gregorie was killed. Stefan has always blamed your father for his first son’s death.”
Vanja stopped and looked at Bob. He took his cue and said, “A little over a month ago, I master-minded a CIA kidnap plot against a senior Serb General. We recruited Miriana to help us execute the kidnapping. She was acting as the Serb General’s fortune-teller. Of course, we had no idea Miriana was related to Stefan Radko. Everything went off pretty much as planned. We got the General. And we also brought Miriana out. Based on what you told Major Krumka about comments the Serb Captain made to you, your kidnapping here must have been planned as an act of revenge. The order must have come from the very top. From the Serb President himself. Part of the plot was to kidnap Miriana in the U.S. They would’ve killed her if she hadn’t escaped. You know about that. What you don’t know is they also tried to kill your mother and me in Bethesda.”
Michael mouthed the word “What!” but he made no sound.
“Mike, when they failed to kill us, they came after you.”
“And Stefan was part of your kidnapping this time, too,” Vanja said. “I don’t know how Serbs made contact with him. And . . ..” Vanja lowered her head again and began crying. “And he got Attila killed. Stefan is so full of rage against your father that when he found out about you and Miriana he could not control himself. He could not stand idea that you – son of man who killed Gregorie – would take Miriana away from him.”
Michael shook his head. Why hadn’t his parents told him about his being kidnapped? But he understood almost instantly. Why give a kid nightmares about kidnapping, Communists, and Gypsies? And when he got older, they might have figured it just wasn’t necessary to rehash old nightmares. He looked at Vanja again. “What about Miriana?” he asked.
Vanja put her hand on the cross hanging around her neck. “I swear to God, she knows nothing of this.”
Michael suddenly felt disoriented, as though he’d been sucker-punched. He was suddenly exhausted.
Jack stood and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll come by later tonight to say goodbye. I know you’re flying out early tomorrow morning.” He took Vanja’s arm and helped her to her feet.
As they left the tent, Vanja stopped and turned back to him. “I am sorry, Michael. I hope you will not hold any of this against Miriana. ”
Michael could only stare at her.
Bob stood and looked down at his son. “If I’d been home, instead of at work, Radko could never have taken you away the first time. And none of this would have happened. I’m sorry, Mike.” Bob turned and began to walk away.
“Dad,” Michael said, causing Bob to stop and turn around. “Did you really sneak into Bulgaria to rescue me?”
Bob nodded and said, “Along with a very brave man named George Makris, who died in the effort.”
“And you risked your life for me again yesterday when you flew into Serbia.”
Bob just stared at Michael.
“You’ve sure given me some great stories to tell when I’m out with my friends. You think you could tell me the whole thing when we get back home?”
Bob laughed and said, “No more secrets, son.”
As Jack Cole drove Vanja away from the 82nd Airborne’s camp, she stared straight ahead through the Jeep’s windshield.
“My son died somewhere on this road,” she said.
Jack didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say.
“What will happen to Stefan?” she asked.
“He’s a criminal, Vanja. He helped kidnap an American officer. Maybe, because of his age, he won’t go to prison. But there’s no way he’ll ever be allowed to go to the United States. He’ll probably be deported back to Serbia. There’s nothing I can do to help him.”
“If he goes back to Serbia, the Serbs will kill him.”
Jack shrugged.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
General Plodic crossed the wide expanse of carpet and came to attention in front of the President’s desk. He felt sweat break out on his back and roll down his spine. He silently cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have run when he had the chance. Now it was too late. He didn’t have to hear the President say a single word. He knew what was about to occur. I’m sorry, Tatiana, my dear wife, he thought. I should have listened to you months ago. We should have fled to France.
“You useless pile of manure!” the President screamed, pulling Plodic away from his reflections. “Your men accomplished nothing. They were our best soldiers?”
Plodic flushed. Resentment swamped his fear for the briefest of moments. Five of his finest men dead, all because of this asshole politician’s need to avenge the death of a psychotic General. But then the fear returned. He tried to control it. He didn’t want to give the President the satisfaction.
“You shall be an example to all Serbs, my dear General Plodic. No one disappoints me. You hear me?”
Plodic pushed out his chest. He’d been a soldier his entire adult life. In spite of his fear, he wouldn’t let this shithead speak to him like this. He would put the leader in his place. But when he opened his mouth to say the words that had formed in his mind, nothing came out.
