Minutes later, the searchers jumped down from the fourth vehicle and gathered round the leader who gesticulated and pointed under the trucks. The four returned to the first vehicle and, crawling on all fours, resumed their search.
* * * * *
Rath coasted his vehicle down through the wide section, searching ahead and then, as he caught sight of the white-painted trucks, pulled up. Several hundred feet below him, he could see the halted convoy in its entirety.
The trucks had stopped, because a van blocked the track just before a sharp, left-hand bend. From his vantage point, Rath saw one individual holding the drivers at gunpoint, while three or four others were crawling under the trucks.
The road was not especially narrow and a germ of an idea began to form.
* * * * *
The leader of the Serbs stepped forward and indicated that the men should empty their pockets. He removed his combat cap to receive their valuables.
As Spider started to take off his watch, an immediate but muted movement to his right caused him to look back up the mountain. Rath’s ten-tonner, only yards away, hurtled silently but relentlessly towards them, like the sweeping white wall of an avalanche. With both arms spread wide, Spider swept Crowther and Rusty up against the rock wall, roaring a warning to the other drivers as he did so.
The leader of the hijackers threw his rifle into the shoulder and took aim at the onrushing truck. Spider grabbed him from behind and pulled the weapon across his throat. Three of the searchers, on hearing the noise, had crawled out from under the vehicles, into the path of the oncoming truck. Pitched against the unbending sides of the stationary trucks, they then bounced back to fall under the wheels of the oncoming mammoth as it swept into the narrow gap between the standing vehicles and the side of the rocks.
Spider increased the savage pressure on the leader’s throat as Rath’s truck rocketed by. His cheek flamed and tears rushed to his eyes as the end of a tarpaulin rope on the hurtling vehicle lashed out and burned his face. It passed so closely, missing him by inches, that he could not be sure that he had not been the intended target.
The apparent runaway crashed into the parked van and propelled it to the edge of the drop where the smaller vehicle teetered then toppled from view. The Serb in Spider’s grip had ceased to struggle and only the rifle under his chin kept him upright. Throwing the corpse from him, Spider brought the rifle into the firing position as he stepped forward to seek out the fifth Serb.
He moved alongside the row in a crouch, but several feet from it, peering under the trucks and cursing himself for not having kept a check on the specific location of each attacker.
As he neared the end of the line, the sudden appearance of the man as he rolled out from under the chassis of the second to last wagon gave him no time to consider. Reflexes took over, and he fired.
The Serb, who had already reached his knees, caught the burst in his groin and abdomen. Thrown onto his back, his legs thrashed fitfully, and his heels drummed against the dry clay of the track.
With his weapon still trained on the figure, Spider approached. He grasped the small of the butt of the downed man’s weapon and pulled it clear. The body had stopped shuddering, and its sightless eyes stared upwards. He turned back to the others and saw Rath had joined them.
“What’s next?” asked the big Irishman, watching Spider closely.
“First let’s tidy up here. Throw them over with their vehicle. If they send anybody else out to check for them, we don’t want to make it too easy. And get those rifles and all the ammo.”
Rath continued to stare at Spider, then grinned widely, “Why not? Shouldn’t litter, anyway.”
He turned, and reaching down, grabbed a fistful of collar. Picking up the dead man’s weapon with his free hand, and with little effort, he dragged the body to the edge of the divide and then released his grip.
“The rest of you mount up,” Spider ordered. “Rath, a quick word.” The two stood close together.
“If I thought for one moment that you intended to down me with that truck. . .” He left the sentence unfinished. Rath watched him stony-faced.
“We’ve passed no side roads. Grabovica is up ahead, so that’s where these bastards came from. There are probably more of them there but we can’t go back. We’ve got to go through there or give it up.”
At the mention of going back Rath shook his head.
“It still makes sense to press on.”
He nodded at the Kalashnikov in Spider’s hands.
“And at least you’re armed now.”
* * * * *
The gradient had decreased, and the hillside fell away more gradually. The forest started to thin out, with the dark green of the pines giving way to the lighter hues and less compact shapes of deciduous trees.
Grabovica lay before them across the ragged patchwork of fields, some no larger than the area of three or four English gardens.
Spider slowed. Over the roar of the truck’s powerful diesel engine, he could hear the ominous crackle of small-arms fire. Warning the convoy over the radio, he gave the order to halt several hundred yards from the first house.
The village straddled the road, the only passable way over this section to Jablonica. The sporadic firing was clearer now and seemed to be concentrated in one location. From the tempo and sound of the bursts, the ex-soldier recognized the desultory shooting that takes place during mopping-up operations.
Spider jumped from his cab to join Rath.
As he jogged forward, the Irishman saw a thick black cloud blooming into the sky and then falling back to blanket the rooftops on the other side of the hamlet.
“Smoke to your right,” he said with a nod towards the village.
Spider turned to look but did not respond.
“And we’ve got to go through? No other way round?”
“Afraid so,” grunted Spider as he scanned the red roofs of the village.
“We could try the fields and open country.”
Still looking in the direction of the smoke, Spider nodded, “If you want to risk the mines.”
“Which direction do we take on leaving the village?”
“Any other time we’d take a left in the middle and be on the stretch to Jablonica, but now your guess is as good as mine. If we do go on, it’s a case of balls to the wall; stop for nothing.”
Rath nodded.
“Hang on here,” said Spider, “but make sure all their engines are running. I’m going up there to see if we can get through. Be ready to push through and get the hell out of here if the proverbial hits the fan. Wish me luck.”
Rath grinned but said nothing as he turned back to his truck.
* * * * *
Spider pushed through the meagre bushes that edged the fields and then broke into a crouching run. He hoped that the people firing had not posted sentries, or were at least too preoccupied to catch sight of him beetling across some peasant’s land.
He reached the safety of a stone dyke behind the dwellings and started to edge towards a break in the wall that ran parallel to the buildings. Bent double, he crept through the gap as the roof of the nearest house collapsed, showering him with burning ash. Dark smoke billowed through the wrecked door and jagged windows.
He reached the rear of the next house and, keeping close to wall, edged round to the front.
The garden of the house bordered the main street. Keeping to the shelter provided by a dividing wall between the properties, Spider scuttled into the angle they formed, dropped to one knee and looked around. The ground appeared well cultivated and heavy with a ripening crop of vegetables. Fig trees, laden with fruit, lined the paved path leading to the front of the building.
He stiffened, as he heard shouts, then, risking a slow movement, he peered over the stones. Ten or twelve elderly villagers were in a group in the centre of the road.
They cowered in abject terror, as they tried, and failed, to avoid the blows of their tormentors. Four gunmen herded them towards the wall
of the cemetery on the opposite side of the street. They were silent, their pallid faces streaked with blood, but Spider could feel their fear.
He looked beyond them down the street.
Ragged, crackling flames flared from shattered windows; fire was spreading unchecked through the torched houses. Mingled with the smell of wood smoke was a stronger, unmistakable stench. Sweet and cloying, hanging heavy in the air, it was so strong that Spider could taste it. He spat to clear his mouth. As the wind, drawn by the fires, swept along the street, the smoke at ground level cleared to reveal several bodies sprawled on the roadway. He ducked back down, his thoughts racing.
Back to the trucks and wait it out? The Serbs had to leave sometime. He bit his lip in disgust as the realization struck him that it was possible they could leave from his side of the village and discover the convoy. He could hammer through at speed, relying on the heavy vehicles to force a passage. That had worked before, unless they had blocked the road with a stronger barricade.
He raised his head to see if the street was clear of obstructions.
* * * * *
Crowther sat motionless in the cab, his pupils fixed and glazed, his face deathly pale. Perspiration glistened on his cheeks, and a tic pulsed under his left eye.
Holy Mother of God, what were they doing here in Grabovica in the middle of a massacre? A burst of automatic fire rattled into his consciousness.
The Serbs seemed to be moving closer. Terror smothered his senses. His limbs felt heavy, lethargic, and incapable of movement, like a fly snared in gossamer, waiting for the spider to gorge itself on him.
He struggled to think constructively. Paroski’s face, callous and indifferent, flashed before his eyes.
“Bastard,” he screamed aloud.
His dread of Paroski alternated with the threat of butchery at the hands of these animals. He did not want to die in godforsaken Grabovica—a crude, peasant village in the depths of medieval Bosnia, the unwashed armpit of the Balkans.
Christ, he did not deserve this. He was going to die because of damned, stupid, useless Bosnians! Vivid, crimson pictures of hacking and stabbing blades swirled in his brain. His limbs felt leaden and lumpish: this was insanity, to be defenceless, weak, unarmed and waiting for slaughter by lunatics. He shuddered. All because the Bosnians needed weapons, weapons that his lot were crass enough to be carrying.
He locked his arms around his knees, and started to rock back and forth. Sweat poured down his cheeks, mingling with tears of desperation that trickled from his closed eyelids.
He started to moan softly.
He did not know how long he had been rocking, but gradually he became aware of his surroundings again, and of the mission Paroski had assigned him. God, how he hated the man!
Awash in his terror of physical harm, Crowther would have thrown caution to the wind and ignored the colonel’s orders, but now calm was returning to his tortured thoughts. If he failed to follow the orders, he would risk charges in Croatia. Moreover, he could face jail for life or execution. Paroski would see to that—the man had even told him so. He bit his lip. He had not completed his other given tasks. The radio used by Spider to maintain contact with base and to reach UNPROFOR still functioned. Paroski had been specific about the early hamstringing of that set.
Its loss would gag the convoy.
Crowther lifted his wrist and stared at his watch. It would soon be time for him to contact Paroski, and he dare not make the contact without being able to report the sabotage of the convoy’s radio.
It was now or never.
A look in the side mirror confirmed that the vehicle behind was empty, its driver probably having a nervous leak or a consoling cigarette with another driver. Crowther climbed out and edged around to the front of his vehicle. Peering around him and using the bulk of his vehicle for cover, he edged forward to the jeep.
He wrenched open the door and scrambled inside the vehicle. Pulling himself over the sleeping bag and cooking utensils, he reached the rod antennae mounted at the rear.
From his wallet, he pulled a thin wooden nail, which Paroski had instructed him to sharpen and take with him specifically for this moment. The colonel said that the nail would leave the radio ostensibly operable, but short-circuit the range-finding capacity of the antenna.
With a furtive look through the rear window to ensure he had avoided detection, he pushed the nail into the base of the aerial.
* * * * *
Forty or so yards beyond the villagers at the wall, a larger group knelt under the rifle muzzles of three other raiders. Spider searched the rest of the street. He saw no sign of a roadblock or additional gunmen.
A scream of pain brought his attention back to the prisoners.
The thick squelch of wood pounding bone and flesh reached him, with nauseating clarity, as one of the gunmen swiped an old man with his rifle butt. The other guards used their weapons, held chest-high in both hands, to push the terrified victims brutally into line against the wall. Grabbing the fallen man by the collar of his jacket, they dragged him to the wall and threw him at the feet of the others.
The enormity of what was about to happen bludgeoned Spider’s senses. The gunmen stepped back a few paces, then threw their weapons into the aim. The prolonged burst of automatic fire cut the villagers down.
Spider ducked and chewed on his lower lip. These bastards were ruthless murderers, pure and simple. He swallowed hard, and then raised his head again. The executioners were prodding the bodies with booted feet. One fired a burst into the corpses.
A shout from a guard of the other group caused them to sling their weapons over their shoulders and move down the street to re-join the larger gathering. Two stopped to share a light for their cigarettes before swaggering after the others.
A slight rustle behind him prickled the hair on Spider’s neck, and before he could move, he felt the cold metal of a gun muzzle against his skin. He tensed, and then slowly, very slowly, looked round. Only inches away from his surprised eyes, he took in the face of Rath, devoid of expression.
Neither moved for what seemed to Spider like an eternity.
His thoughts raced. Surely, the Irishman could not be so short-sighted as to believe this an opportunity to settle the score?
Both men tensed, but as Rath shifted his gaze and studiously looked past him, Spider expelled his breath in a harsh whisper. Rath grinned malevolently, then removed the muzzle of his Kalashnikov from the Englishman’s neck. Spider did not, could not, smile, knowing that Rath had shown him that their antagonism had not abated but remained in abeyance only until the current difficulties were resolved.
“Here,” mouthed Rath, as he removed a full magazine from his shirt pocket. He raised his head to look over the wall, and then ducked almost immediately. Using his fingers and facial signs, he indicated that the Serbs were coming back to the wall with more villagers. Pointing towards his own chest and then Spider’s, he signed that both should go into the house behind them.
Low to the ground, both men scurried towards the doorway and dived inside the house. Spider nodded at the stairs and, without a word, they ran up and entered a bedroom where they crossed to a window overlooking the street.
Spider pulled the bed away from the window and pushed it to one side.
“You take the group down the street. I’ll sort these bastards,” he said in a low voice. Rath nodded, then adopted a kneeling position behind a second window. Both quietly opened the casements.
In the street, four gunmen had returned to the wall with more villagers. Spider knelt on one knee, then settled back on his heel. He cocked his weapon and flicked the setting to single shot. With the point of his left elbow in the loop of the sling, he moved it up and around his upper arm to pull it tight. He lined the foresight up on the baseball cap of the leading guard and took up the slack in the trigger.
“Now!”
Both AK 47s opened up at the same moment. The head of the leading gunman exploded and showered the nearest villagers in
blood and white bone splinters. Letting out a collective, wailing moan the prisoners half-collapsed, half-threw themselves at the base of the wall.
The remaining Serbs spun around, their shocked faces lifted with widened eyes as they searched for the source of the shot. One had raised his arm in a reflexive protective action.
In the ensuing seconds, Spider swung the muzzle of the rifle and snapped off two more shots. Before the raiders could identify his location, both rounds had struck home. Two men dropped, one remaining motionless, but the other, hit in the neck, rolled and thrashed wildly on the dusty road. The third dropped his weapon and ran in the direction of the larger group. Spider trained his rifle on the fleeing back and squeezed the trigger. The man staggered, then lost his footing as though pushed violently on ice. He crashed face down.
Rath’s first shot hit a bearded gunman who, thrown backwards into the cluster of kneeling villagers, knocked several to the ground. Many had covered their heads in their hands. Others had turned inwards, trying to avoid the bullets by pushing and burrowing under the person nearest to them. An incongruous vision of puppies at their mother’s teats flashed across Rath’s consciousness. It disappeared as rapidly as it had come.
He switched his aim and sighted on another guard. He squeezed. One of the wiggling bodies bucked, then stiffened. The guard remained standing as though rooted to the spot. Rath sucked in his breath and grimaced. The next shot did not miss and the gunman went down heavily. The remaining militiaman took to his heels, and, despite two more shots by Rath, made the safety of the nearby houses.
Both men stopped firing. In the silence that followed, one of the villagers climbed to her feet and started to run towards the side of the road and the comparative safety of a doorway. Within seconds, others had followed her and were running along the street. Spider stood and applied the safety catch to his weapon.
The Tuzla Run Page 13
