The second plunge of the steel grated on bone as his left hand struggled furiously but ineffectively, failing to lock onto one of her wrists. She held the weapon in a two-handed grasp and, now restricted to being one-handed, he was no match for her. With a grunt, she heaved her arms upwards, breaking the tenuous clasp of his fingers, and then reared above and away from him in a determined attempt to strike the coup de grace. He was as helpless as the day he was born.
The blast bludgeoned his eardrums.
Simultaneously with the explosion, she was no longer above him. The shot triggered in him the desperate exhilaration of his survival instinct, and he rolled wildly to his left coming to a halt against a pair of muscular legs. His nostrils detected the smell of cordite, and he heard the reassuring and calming flat tones of the Irishman.
“Easy, man, easy.”
Rath bent and pulled him to his feet. Despite Spider’s efforts, dizziness swamped him, and he could only look bemused as he turned his head to Rath.
“For someone who’s called Spider, you know shit about arachnids.”
Spider tried to smile but could only produce a pained grimace. There seemed to be an indistinct yet increasing buzzing as he took in the other drivers around him. Then, as Rath said something else, and the meaning of the additional words seeped through the mire of darkness that was swallowing him, he grinned vacantly. His legs crumpled and he muttered inanely as he slumped to the ground.
“ ’Specially Black Widows.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The light filtered through the trees and cast dappled images onto the windscreen. Their movement flickered over Rath’s face and was enough to waken him. He opened his eyes, stretched, appreciating the sensation that flooded his arms and back as the movement eased the sleep-cramped muscles. He yawned.
He wiped the thick condensation from the inside of the windscreen with a piece of rag. There was no movement outside. Opening his cab door, he jumped down. Arms above his head, he enjoyed another luxuriant stretch then went to the tool compartment, where he unloaded the small gas stove and kettle. He fired up the stove and enjoyed the sibilant sound of the released gas as its flames licked at the bottom of the kettle.
Standing upright, he looked around him. He took a deep breath, and relished the strong sharp aroma of pine in the atmosphere. Tantalizingly, it conjured up thoughts of home and it was moments before he recognized it as the familiar scent of his mother’s freshly scrubbed kitchen.
He smiled. His spirits were always higher at this point than at any other time of the day.
The air, at first damp and cool, began to warm. Needles of the surrounding pines glistened with sparks of liquid in the rays of the sun as it climbed in a sky devoid of clouds. The only sign of yesterday’s torrential downpour was the occasional wisps of vapour rising from the floor of the forest, where the heat of the sun warmed the overlay of pine needles.
“Mornin’, Rath.”
Rath looked up from his stove to see Spider, whose flushed face threw the pallid scar into prominence. The convoy leader nodded wordlessly and then stood shakily beside him.
“Thanks for last night. I owe you,” Spider held out his good, left hand.
Rath touched it briefly, then diverted his attention to the soggy bandages on the injured man’s shoulders.
“I’ll have a look at that and change those dressings. Sit down.” He helped Spider to sit and then removed the dressings, somewhat brusquely, but without causing too much discomfort. Spider could not turn his head, but from the corner of his eye, he could just see what appeared to be large black spots, which he guessed were stitches. He could remember nothing of the sewing-up operation and realized that Rath must have completed it, while he was unconscious.
“Not too bad even if I say so myself,” said Rath.
The subdued whistle caused them both to turn towards the small kettle; the Irishman removed it from the flame and dropped two teabags into its stained interior. He turned to the vehicle cab and brought out two mugs and a plastic container of sugar. Spider opened the container with one hand and the aid of his chest, and held it while the other spooned sugar liberally into the teas. A dash of milk provided the final touch.
He sipped the hot tea, staring reflectively at Rath.
“Morning.”
The dark eyes twinkled, and the big man grinned at him as he chuckled, “Civilized, now that you’ve had a cup of tea?”
“Never make the mistake of thinking I’m ever civilized,” Spider warned with a tight smile.
Both men knew that something—intangible, indefinable—had changed in the nature of their relationship.
“Before you start asking embarrassing questions, let me tell you what happened,” said Rath with a wide grin that was so infectious that Spider found himself smiling too, though he had no idea what the other was about to say.
“Last night, I heard noises,” his grin faded as Spider flushed. “But I didn’t come to the conclusion you did. So, after I got one of the AKs, I looked around. I saw you with the woman and thought, what the hell? Then I saw the knife, but not quickly enough.”
Spider tried to shrug but failed as the pain sweltered across his neck and shoulder.
“She’s over there.” Spider looked over at the woods and felt a sense of relief.
“But there’s more,” said Rath.
“Bad?” asked Spider.
The other man shrugged.
“Crowther has disappeared with his truck and load.”
“Didn’t anyone see him go? Or hear him?”
Rath shook his head.
“After the fracas, some of the drivers relocated their trucks, you know, pulled them up closer. Crowther must have taken the opportunity to get his on the rear slope. When he was ready it was just a case of releasing the handbrake and coasting down until he was out of earshot.”
Spider frowned.
“Why?”
The big man flipped an evil-looking blade, thick with congealed blood, to stick in the ground at Spider’s feet.
“From last night. Dawke says that’s Crowther’s knife.”
* * * * *
“So what time are we leaving?” Rath asked.
“We’ll wake the others soon but let’s enjoy the world for a few minutes while we’ve got the chance.”
Spider sipped from his mug, relishing the pleasure the drink gave him.
“We’ll continue to lead the convoy with a truck and keep the jeep in the body of the column. We’ll have more chance crashing through roadblocks with the weight of a truck up front. The driver of the truck must still keep his wits about him, though, and go for broke if a barrier looms up.
“Would you be up for lead truck today?”
Rath swallowed the last of his tea and threw the dregs to the ground.
“No problem, as long as the radio stays open.”
“Great. Let’s get the others up and on the road.”
* * * * *
“Okay, that’s your numbers for order of driving. Switch on.” Engines coughed, barked and spluttered into noisy life as the vehicles started.
“Any problems? Everyone up and running? I will call your numbers now, so give me a response. Okay, One?”
“One, okay.”
“Okay, two?”
“Two, okay.”
The radio check continued until the last vehicle responded.
“Right, get ready to pull out in sequence. And keep the convoy closed up. Okay, One, when you’re ready.”
Rath slid his vehicle into gear, released the handbrake, then as he increased the pressure on the accelerator, he pulled the steering wheel in a long turn. He leaned toward the mouthpiece of the radio,
“One, pulling out, now.”
The convoy had been under way for three-quarters of an hour. The sun had climbed high above the ridges, and it was unbearably hot. Several miles behind them, the forest faded, and as the road descended, they were once again travelling through barren rocky wasteland.
; All around, the rocks threw the reflected glare of the sun onto the road. Rath licked the sweat from his lip and wiped his wet forehead with his sleeve. Rolling his window down, he was grateful for the initial coolness of the breeze caused by the forward motion of the truck as it coasted downhill and round the bends.
Unexpectedly, his eyes caught sight of three or four irregular bumps in the road ahead.
He slammed his foot hard down on the brake pedal and dragged the handbrake upwards. As the rubber bit, the heavy vehicle slewed to a shuddering awkward halt, and he snatched at the radio.
“Problem up ahead. Slow down, slow down, and get ready to stop.”
The convoy behind braked, reduced speed then one by one pulled up.
“Spider, it looks like mines on the road up ahead. I’m going forward to check.”
“Careful. If they’re mines, they might be under observation by paramilitary.”
“Understood. You had better standby to hightail it. Over and out.”
Rath reached for his rifle and climbed down from the cab. He cocked the weapon, then scanned the way and banks ahead. There appeared to be no one lying in wait in the immediate vicinity of the road, but he could not be a hundred per cent sure, as he could not see both sides from his present viewpoint.
He turned his attention back to the objects in the path of the convoy. They appeared to be of varying sizes but were like circular shallow domes, in silhouette. It looked as if they were made of dark brown and green plastic, and from this distance looked to be several inches in diameter.
He inhaled. Then, rifle at the ready and turning his head constantly to watch both sides of the highway, he moved slowly forward. As he drew closer to the suspected mines, the shapes took on an almost familiar definition. They looked just like... No, they couldn’t be. He had seen one as a boy.
Silent laughter started to shake his shoulders; then as the incongruity of the situation became stronger, and the sense of relief heightened, he threw back his head and roared. His impish sense of fun surfaced and he looked back at the convoy where the others were sheltering under the trucks. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and went forward to pick up one of the ‘mines’.
“Jesus, what’s he doin’? Oh, he’s not, is he...?” Scouse croaked.
“He bleedin’ well is”, Dawke gasped. “He’s bringing the fuckin’ thing back here.”
The group tensed collectively, ready to take to their heels.
“Bloody mad Irish...”
Scouse had risen to his feet as Rath drew closer. The remainder of the drivers edged in retreat but without taking their eyes off the approaching figure. Spider frowned and moved forward to meet him.
“That’s far enough. We don’t need...Rath, that’s far...” but he broke off as he caught sight of the other man’s broad smile. Rath raised both hands in front of him, and the group exploded into laughter as they too recognized the distinctive shape of—a tortoise!
* * * * *
Mahmud leaned back against the stunted wild olive and sucked his teeth. A sun that, for the first time in weeks, was reaching a temperature to which he was more accustomed, was now burning off the haze that had lasted most of the morning. The rays seemed to bounce in a white glare off the rocks, and he revelled in the harsh heat.
If he closed his eyes, which of course he would not, dare not, since Tadim had ordered him to observe all movement in the valley, he could be back in Nuristan. True, he did have to stretch his imagination. Much of his country was not as fertile as these valleys, and the Bosnians, although always complaining, were rich men in comparison to his people. In these valleys much was different—even the enemy.
The Russians. Ah, now there had been a worthy foe. As the enemy in Nuristan, they had been highly proficient, more ruthless and far more pervasive than these wearisome Serbs. In the early days, one would dread the darkening of the skies and the huge prehistoric shapes of the forecasters of doom.
The high mountain passes that had been the invasion and trade routes of bygone times, and which had cost attackers and travellers alike a high price, were no longer easily defended due to the aerial leapfrogging by the Soviets. Their helicopters, capable of transporting incredibly heavy loads of front-line cargo, weapons and ammunition, would swoop down in flocks. Each would disgorge eight fully-equipped battle-ready troops to surround villages, and create mayhem and destruction.
The Mi-24 or Hind was ubiquitous, and, according to Simmons, the CIA agent in Pakistan who had trained him and three other villagers on the Stinger, was the world’s number one combat helicopter. It had deadly wing-tip launchers and nose gun turrets that spat wholesale death. It could hear, see and render ineffective, weapons aimed against it. It was invulnerable, unbeatable—until the arrival of the Stinger.
The mighty Stinger, destroyer of Russian sons; the ‘widow maker’. He, Mahmud, had played a great part in taming the eagles of the peaks. Twelve missiles he fired in all, not including training rounds, and the mighty wings of twelve Hind-Ds had ceased to beat. Their ruptured carcasses plummeted into the walls and depths of the Hindu Kush canyons. His proficiency became legendary, and his skills as a warrior caused Tadim to choose him, as one of the first, to carry the flame of Jihad to Bosnia.
From his vantage point, high on a southward facing slope of the Bitovjna Mountains, he could see a huge stretch of the Neretva valley. The deep, wide river, reflecting an artificial hue of lapis lazuli, took up most of the valley floor, but grudgingly made space for the road.
The surrounding mountains that edged tightly against both were unbroken until the Grogtu gorge, which cradled the Limojica and breached the walls of the valley. At this natural fork, the main road then branched and sent a tendril close to the tributary. It mimicked its form to steal into the gorge before climbing far above the river. The lower reaches of the road were clearly visible.
Holding the circular mess tin in his left hand, he shaped a ball of cold rice. Flapping his wrist to shake the clinging excess grains free from his fingers, he carried the lump to his mouth and chewed stolidly.
With two others, he had been laying mines in a protective cordon around Konjic, but Tadim reassigned him post-haste to act as forward scout. His orders were to pay particular attention to that part of the road leading to Grabovica. He was to report movement of any kind. He glanced down and nodded at the mobile phone resting on the flat stone beside his water bottle, as though confirming its presence.
He pulled his bag containing the plastic-bodied TMA-2 landmines closer. His rifle lay across his lap, making it immediately accessible. Kneading another ball of rice, he continued to enjoy the warmth of the sun as he ate. Without taking his eyes from the panorama below, used as he was to scanning rolling mountainsides from distant points, he continually adjusted his focus.
His thoughts had started to drift towards his homeland when a movement far below him, which would have been imperceptible to many other eyes, brought him back to Bosnia.
He concentrated on the spot where the movement occurred. A miniature doll-like soldier, clad in black, scuttled across the yard of a peasant’s smallholding. Within seconds, several more figures in dark uniforms left the barn to join the first, near the road. At that point, a long narrow strip of trees shielded the road from view.
After several minutes, they had still not emerged from the line of trees. An ambush perhaps? Possibly, but not for my group. The HOS, an extremist Croatian militia, had members who were brutal, cruel and greatly feared but, in his opinion, only by women and children. Perhaps, maybe, even crippled men but the Croats could not intimidate true believers. They could not share the field with holy warriors.
He thought it unlikely that the paramilitaries below him could have any inkling of his or his comrades’ presence, since they had made the move from Konjic during the previous night. No, the infidels were lying in wait for some poor road travellers. He picked up the phone.
* * * * *
Tadim took the mobile phone from the pocket of his camou
flaged jacket, flipped it open, then answered. He listened to Mahmud’s description of the deployment of the HOS, and ordered him to remain in position and continue to observe the ambush. Snapping the instrument closed, he told the driver to pull over. The Range Rover, stolen from Salzburg only three weeks earlier and now brush-painted a matt olive green, rolled to a halt.
Tadim lit a cigarette and expelled the smoke with a hissing sound. He was surprised. The Croats were not what he expected. His latest intelligence, based on information from local people, who meant well, but were not always reliable, indicated that a group of Serbian paramilitaries, Arkanoci or even White Eagles, were in the immediate area.
No one had mentioned Croatians. The nearest Croatian enclave would be Grabovica, but most of their men, the able-bodied ones at least, were serving in the HVO. Despite the village being devoid of fighting men, a HOS unit would not be here to defend it in their absence; that would be too dangerous. They shunned armed confrontation.
Their skills and preferences lent themselves more suitably to looting and rape under the guise of ethnic cleansing. The likelihood that they were present to do battle was zero. Something must be about to happen, and he currently did not know about it. However, since he controlled the real fighting men in this part of Bosnia, he would make it his business to find out.
One thing was certain; it would not take place without his consent.
* * * * *
The sun slid from view behind the distant peaks, darkening the sky and bringing a chill to the air. Mahmud had just pulled up his collar and hunched back against the rock when he saw the first white truck emerge from the gorge. United Nations’ vehicles. He raised the glasses. They were not armoured vehicles. No UNPROFOR insignia. No soldiers, no weapons. Could these be aid vehicles?
He nodded to himself in appreciation of Tadim’s skills and respected his all-seeing wisdom. The leader must have known that the food vehicles were coming and had placed him here to give early warning. They had hijacked food trucks before and were obviously going to do so again. Mahmud reached for the mobile phone and pressed the number, keeping his eyes on the valley floor. At that same moment, the doors to the barn on the smallholding below swung open and a tank, bearing the insignia of the JNA, rolled forth.
The Tuzla Run Page 17
