Paroski lit another cigarette from the butt of the first one. He leaned forward to extinguish the stub in the ashtray behind the driver. As they waited for the lights to change, he saw the Englishman, Cheatham, walk down the steps of the bank into the square. As he walked towards the taxi rank, Paroski leaned forward and ordered the driver to pull up alongside Cheatham.
Paroski barely waited for the car to stop before jumping out and grabbing the surprised convoy manager by the arm. He pushed the Englishman roughly towards the open rear door of the car and bundled him inside. Shoving Cheatham further into the car, Paroski climbed in and slammed the door.
“Drive on,” he snapped at the driver. “Pleso, and go straight to the hangars.”
He half-turned to Cheatham.
“So, what do you know about the whereabouts of your vehicles?”
Cheatham swallowed and tried to get his thoughts in order, but did not reply. Paroski stared at him for what seemed an eternity.
Without warning, Paroski slammed his elbow into Cheatham’s solar plexus and as the man’s head shot forward, the Croat swung the back of his fist upwards into the unprotected face. Cheatham felt his ribcage explode and then excruciating pain barrelled its way through his nose, mouth and head.
As the Englishman spluttered, then gasped for breath, Paroski picked up the fallen briefcase and opened it. He tore open the manila envelopes and emptied the notes into the open case. He pulled out the passport and airline ticket, and then turned his attention back to Cheatham.
“You will not need these any time in the near future.”
* * * * *
Markovic stood with the co-pilot, Peter Naric, at the entrance to the hangar, watching the red and white Air Croatia planes that landed, taxied and took off from the civilian part of the airport, with clockwork regularity. There was nothing more for them to do.
He had devised a flight plan and calculated the necessary airspeed to maintain sufficient fuel for the mission. The helicopter, which had been ‘sanitized’ so that no trace of evidence existed to suggest it was Croatian, stood on the concrete apron in front of the shelter. He and Naric had also cleared all traces of their identity and nationality from their flying gear; not even identity disks remained.
Despite Paroski’s assurances, he still felt uneasy about the next few hours. UNPROFOR had a standing ban on all aerial activity over central Bosnia, and although he was convinced there was little they would do to enforce it, he was not confident that they would reach Vares without incident. Fuel, too, would be at a premium since they would be operating at extreme range for the aircraft. Naric, who would be the gunner on this mission, in addition to his usual duties as navigator and observer, had prepared the SA 341H that stood ready on the concrete apron.
As the colonel had ordered, the cantilever tubular weapon beams, mounted on both sides of the helicopter, now held the UV 16-57 pods containing the rockets. The 7.62mm calibre machine gun, belted up and loaded, jutted out from under the nose of the Gazelle. With all safety and control checks completed, the aircraft, like a sleek thoroughbred at the stable door, was ready to leave as soon as the colonel appeared.
Markovic heard his name called across the floor of the workshop and above the roar of the engines. Turning back to the hangar, they saw that the colonel had arrived. Naric moved across to the helicopter as he walked inside to meet Paroski.
They briefly clasped rather than shook hands. Paroski was impatient to leave, and it showed when the flyer asked for more specifics on the mission ahead. Paroski then curtly briefed Markovic on the purpose of the flight and his intentions.
He brushed aside the major’s concerns about the flying ban, assuring him that it was improbable that they would experience problems en route. They would be able to deal with the convoy once there with little difficulty, since it was unescorted and unarmed. The mission was straightforward, and there would be no complications.
Paroski did not feel it necessary to inform Markovic that all his own best efforts to date had failed.
Markovic nodded, and then noticed the civilian who accompanied the colonel. He looked at Paroski then nodded, with raised eyebrows in question, at the presence of the man.
“He comes with us,” Paroski answered.
“That is not possible—”
“He is coming with us and—”
“—as the aircraft will be on extended capacity already. I have not calculated for the extra weight.” Markovic completed his sentence. He stiffened noticeably as he said, “I must insist, Colonel.”
Paroski bit his lip in vexation, then spun round to address Cheatham.
“You are free to go for the time being. But this,” he snarled holding the briefcase at shoulder level, “goes with me!”
Cheatham stared at him in mute dismay.
The major indicated the aircraft at the front of the hangar and, lightly touching the colonel on the arm, walked towards it. Naric, already helmeted and waiting beside the helicopter, opened the passenger side and assisted Paroski into his place behind the co-pilot seat, then passed the colonel a helmet. When Paroski had put on the helmet, he then plugged in both sets of radio and intercom cables and climbed in.
* * * * *
Cheatham walked, with leaden legs, to the entrance of the hangar and watched the helicopter. He could not believe his bad luck. The fact that he was temporarily free meant nothing. He could not run without a passport. More importantly, and more immediate, was that his money, the result of months and months of intricate plotting and hard work, was in the hands of that psychopath heading out to deepest darkest Bosnia.
His lower lip started to tremble. He could not control the movement. He blinked several times, but his eyes filled with tears of frustration and self-pity. He struggled vainly for self-control.
Of its own volition, his mouth forlornly formed the words.
“My money, my money.”
* * * * *
Markovic belted up and then, after adjusting the position of his throat mike, called for a three-way test over the system. Satisfied, he switched on the ignition, and the Astazou 870shp engine sprang to life. With all checks carried out and completed several minutes before, he turned to the colonel with raised eyebrows and gave the thumbs up sign, jerking his thumb skywards. The colonel nodded his assent.
Feet comfortably resting on the rudder pedals, the pilot reached for the collective lever with his left hand, and gently worked it until the upward thrust of the rotors dissolved the pull of gravity. This reduced the weight of the aircraft until its wheels were resting lightly on the concrete. He held his hand steady as he scanned the instrument panel. Reassured that all functions were stable, he applied collective to increase power. Simultaneously, he applied pressure to the left pedal to counteract the increased torque and keep the nose of the Gazelle in line.
The helicopter lifted several feet off the ground, nose-down and swinging gently under the rotating blades. Instinctively, he edged the cyclic stick minimally towards him, adjusting into a level hover. Another brief glance at the engine instruments on the panel assured him that all was well. Increased pull on the collective lever, together with simultaneous forward pressure on the cyclic stick, and on the left pedal, allowed the airspeed to increase.
A moment later the aircraft shuddered as it passed through transactional lift. A soft constant pull on the cyclic stick continued the climb. His feelings of disquiet about the mission had disappeared now that they were actually airborne. The Gazelle climbed swiftly and steeply over the hangars, up and away from the rapidly shrinking trees and buildings.
Moments later, it broke through the light cloud layer, above the airport.
Markovic eased the stick forward and increased airspeed as they headed west toward the coast.
Still heading west, and soon after leaving Karlovac behind, they gained height as the helicopter followed the climbing gradient of the wooded valley up towards the narrow Vratic pass.
As the huge panorama of the wide seascape
leapt up before them, they swooped down across the snaking bends of the road towards the coast. The cabin, almost completely glazed with transparent mouldings, was flooded with the early morning sun like a huge translucent bubble. The sudden beauty and the latent power of the sea, unveiled as a broad expanse of blazing ultramarine, never failed to affect Markovic, whether he travelled over the pass in the air or through it on the ground.
The helicopter chattered over the red roofs of Senj to the water, then, as he banked to change course heading south along the coast, swung steeply to port.
He adjusted the airspeed, then noted the fuel level and time. The metallic surface of the Adriatic, under an azure arch of cloudless sky, glistened as far as he could see ahead of the aircraft. Later, he checked the fuel and time again, to verify the burn-rate and was pleased to see that his previous computations were correct. There should be no problem with fuel on this flight.
To their right, clusters of islands, reflecting myriad hues of greens and reds seemingly propelled by an invisible current, swept past below like multi-coloured flotsam. For Markovic, sights such as this made flying a joy. He glanced sideways at Naric, then turned to grin happily at Paroski.
The colonel returned his smile with a sour stare.
A short time later, the dry, barren, pink-tinted contours of the Kornati islands, denuded of trees by the insatiable appetite of the medieval Venetians for wooden piles on which to support the expansion of their city-state, rushed towards them. Then just as rapidly, they receded. To their left, the grey jawbone of the Dinaric Alps yawed jaggedly alongside the narrow strip of fertile coast.
Markovic checked his watch. In a few minutes, the horseshoe formed by the towns of Split and nearby Trogir, with their outer ring of white tower rises, would appear below the mountains. Naric tapped his arm and, with gestures, pointing inland then turning an open palm over and under several times, asked whether they should fly over the port to the interior. Paroski pre-empted Markovic’s response over the intercom, and leaning forward between them shook his head violently.
“—kovic,” he shouted, then repeated it, as he realized the voice-activated intercom had dropped the first syllable. “Metkovic,” this time less loudly but more emphatically. Markovic gave a thumbs-up to signal that he understood and would comply.
Forty minutes later the colour of the sea changed as the Neretva delta spread like an open fan below. The Gazelle banked, whirring noisily, across the stark skeletal derricks and angular cranes of Ploce. These showed up dark in contrast to the lighter shades of the ships moored alongside.
Soon they were flying over the dark green lines of Opuzen’s orange and lemon trees towards the Herzegovina border. Markovic dropped the aircraft down low over the groves and commenced nap of the earth flying.
They were now operational.
* * * * *
The heat from the sun increased as it rose, but Crowther was not aware of it. He remained motionless in the vehicle with the sweat running unheeded down his face. His thoughts were in a feverish cyclic turmoil. I’ve got to do something, but what? I don’t know; think man, think! I’ve got to do something, but what, I don’t... The cacophony of gibberish thrashed and jerked in his head. Should he try to head for Tuzla? How could he, without using the same route as the rest of the convoy? Back to Mali Prog, and Croatia? And Paroski? He shuddered. Think, man, think!
Try as he might, he could think of nothing logical that would help. He tilted his head back against the rest and closed his eyes. He drifted off into a disturbed and restless sleep, twitching and turning and dreaming of Paroski.
It was either afternoon or early evening when he woke—he could tell by the shadows—and still he had not worked out a plan of escape. He would have to dream up some lie to tell Paroski. He pulled out the phone but was not yet ready to dial the number.
* * * * *
The jolting and swaying of the vehicle increased and eventually broke through into Zelim’s consciousness. He woke from the light sleep realizing that he had been dozing. Leaning forward between the Afghans, he peered through the windscreen.
“This is not the best way to Vares,” he said, tapping Tadim on the shoulder. “You must have turned off?”
“We turned off.”
“But why? It will take hours to get there on this track. You should have stayed on the main road.” He pointed up ahead. “Just up in front, soon, there’s another track going back down into the valley. It’ll be easier.”
“Easier is not always safer.”
“But—” The young captain tried weakly to make his point.
“Captain,” said Tadim evenly but not unkindly and placing a forefinger on his lips, “Captain, you are along for the ride. I decide the route we take. We are not amateurs. We have been operational in your country for more than a year now. We will remain operational, because we are always alert and never take things for granted. We remain vigilant. This route is difficult and not used often, and that is why we take it.” The vehicle continued to sway and bounce as Mahmud fought it up the steep incline. “We will be in Vares soon enough, have no fear. Besides, we are eagles. It is in the mountains that we live, fight and travel.” He smiled at the young Bosnian.
Zelim sighed but nodded.
Tadim reflected on the mission he had been given. His orders were to intercept an aid convoy and escort it to Tuzla. The convoy should be heading towards them on the road below. It had done well to get this far. He thought of the HOS unit and was convinced that the convoy they had engaged was the one that he now had to escort.
He grinned mirthlessly. The Serbs would no doubt be the first to endorse the efficiency of his men in protecting travellers in Bosnia. The interest his military command was now showing in this convoy indicated that its problems were not all over.
The Land Rovers reached the top of the climb. He nudged Mahmud, signalling that he should pull over, under the trees. They would stop here while he surveyed the land ahead. As the vehicle rolled to a halt, he sprang out and, jogging easily to the crest, leaned against a pine on the edge of the track while focusing his binoculars on the valley below.
* * * * *
The mood among the drivers had lightened and, although the chitchat that had broken out was a breach of radio discipline, Spider allowed it to continue. They were in better spirits, and the thought that the end of the journey was near was obviously uppermost in all of their minds. A hot bath and a decent meal filled his thoughts too, but faded as the valley started to close.
Running parallel to the road was a river whose flood leapt and gurgled over the rocks, racing the road to the base of the mountain ahead. For centuries, these wild waters had sought the line of least resistance, and over time had dissolved part of the limestone base of the mountain. The constant worrying and frenetic gnawing of the water enlarged the fissures into which it vanished, and slowly but implacably, had fashioned a huge cavern which now penetrated the barrier and acted as a tunnel through to Vares.
This type of natural action was, Spider recalled, named Karst after a barren limestone plateau in Slovenia where it occurs. As the rain descends through the atmosphere, it picks up small amounts of carbon dioxide, and when this mixture makes contact with limestone it initiates a dissolving action. In Karst landscapes, many burns, streams and even rivers disappear down into these cracks, which are enlarged into holes and vents in the limestone. They flow for miles underground, forming sinkholes, subterranean lakes and caverns where rainwater percolating from above forms stalactites and stalagmites. The flowing waters reappear on the surface, often at great distances from the point where they submerged, when the geology changes and no longer provides the line of least resistance.
Casting an apprehensive glance at the river once more, he saw that the water level seemed to be very high. The mass of the mountain loomed, throwing the end of valley into deep shade. Beyond the shadow, like an empty eye socket, was the gaping black yaw of the cave that they had to negotiate to reach Vares.
Spider made up his mind to reconnoitre the tunnel and gave the signal for the convoy to halt.
* * * * *
“Jablonica Jezera,” said Naric, pointing down.
Paroski could see the aquamarine links of lakes stretching from the dam at Jablonica to the outskirts of Konjic that lay at its eastern end. They were now close to Vares. His hands sweated in anticipation. Without warning, the helicopter veered to the right, causing him to look sharply at Markovic.
“No problem, colonel, just standard practice. We do not normally cross open water because of the danger of radar interception. I am also going to take us nearer to the mountainside from here on in. It will increase the probability of turbulence because of the danger of downdrafts, but if there are any UNPROFOR fighters roaming above us, it will make it just that little bit more difficult for them to spot us down here.”
The helicopter gained some height in its slide to the right to avoid the centre of the valley. The sight line of any pilots flying above them funnelled naturally into the bottom of the valley.
Paroski showed no great interest and returned to the map on his lap. No longer in the centre of the valley, the helicopter followed an invisible line close to and halfway up the mountain.
Naric reached above and pulled the down tube of the gyro-stabilized sight across in front of him. It connected to the Ferranti AF532 mounted on the port side of the roof of the cabin. He adjusted the settings to 2.5 magnifications for search, and then checked the weapons systems once again.
Twenty-eight minutes later, Naric reached round, tapped the colonel’s arm and pointed to the valley below. A solitary white vehicle was slewed across a narrow track, partially hidden by the surrounding trees. Paroski could not help but feel excited. If there was one nearby, then the rest could not be too far away.
“I want that vehicle destroyed, Major Markovic.”
The Tuzla Run Page 20
