Casca 44: Balkan Mercenary Page 3

  Lastly there was the wiry but tough Burmese Gor Knai. Knai hailed from some jungle village with an unpronounceable name close to the Thai border. Knai was an expert in survival and stealth. He was coldly efficient with the knife and most other bladed weapons, and Lonjic wondered how he would match up against him. Knai had been one of many young males conscripted into the local drug baron’s army and had received his weapons training from them, but his distaste for what they were doing meant that as soon as he was able, he escaped, by killing his entire squad including the officers. Not surprisingly, he’d changed his name and identity and gone to Singapore where he joined a group of mercs recruiting for a job in one of the islands off the coast of Vietnam. Since then he’d found mercenary work much to his liking.

  “Very well,” Lonjic faced his new companions. “I’m Lonjic, I’m in command here. If you like I’ve got the equivalent rank to that of a Major, at least as far as this job’s concerned. We’re due to meet up with the last of our group at the army camp we’ll shortly be off to. If you have any issues then come to me. I’ll appoint a sergeant soon enough when I’ve seen you all at work and in training. Don’t go trying to impress me any; just do what you do and I’ll make my mind up. I’ll tell you about the job once we’re at camp. Once there we’re as good as signed up, so now’s your last chance to back out.” Nobody moved or said anything. “Very well. From now on you’re under my command. All I ask is for you to do your job well. We’ll be off in a few minutes, so grab your belongings and make sure nothing is left here. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been here.”

  He waited till all six were ready, standing before him expectantly; he knew they were all eager to get going. Sitting around in hotel rooms tended to strain the nerves and that’s where fighting was inclined to break out. Getting them to move was a good way to defuse any rising tempers. He himself felt a growing excitement. Whether it was the thought of action or getting a chance to waste that bastard Vardaric he didn’t know, but that old familiar thrill coursing through his veins was beginning once again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The army camp was twenty miles south east of Zagreb. They got there in a beat-up former JNA truck, canvas covered and with a tailgate. The rear was blocked off with the canvas flaps tied together so they endured the bouncy ride trying not to be thrown off the hard, narrow wooden benches that ran the entire length of the compartment. Croatian drivers were insane, Lonjic reckoned. He’d once, many years ago, been a passenger of a Mercedes taxi at midnight in Istria that had hurtled along the narrow country roads at 100kph and the driver had been totally unfazed by the possibility of hitting something. It had been a memorable drive.

  Maybe that guy’s younger brother was driving the truck. Whatever, this night drive seemed to have the condition that they found every pothole and bump along the entire stretch of road. It was around 1am when they finally, with relief, slowed and came to a halt. Shouts in Serbo-Croat filled the petrol-ridden air and there was a long discussion between the guards and the driver and his mate. Lonjic’s fingers reached for and closed round the butt of his .380 Beretta 70 automatic, resting in his ankle holster.

  Then they were clearly waved through for the engine gunned again but this time there must have been a speed limit for the driver took his time. They went round a few long curves in the road, and finally swung round to face the way they’d come and halted for the final time. Footsteps from outside came close and then the canvas was untied and thrown aside, and the tailgate unfastened and dropped.

  “Welcome to the training ground, gentlemen,” came a throaty, deep Croatian voice. “Please follow me.”

  Lonjic was the last out, following the six others, stretching legs and easing the kinks and aches in muscles. Each man carried their own pack. Lonjic had his meager possessions slung over one shoulder. Not the first time he looked round for Gus, then corrected himself. He still missed the big German who had been a part of his life for so long. Gus had been dead fifteen years now, but he had made such an impression in the scarred Eternal Mercenary’s life that he was still in his thoughts, especially when on a mission.

  The darkness was kept at bay by a number of harsh lights suspended from mobile trailers, powered by a nearby generator. Guards moved in the distance, dark silhouettes, and one would be by the off switch just in case Yugoslav air force planes suddenly came at them. They were on full war alert, which made their presence here much better; being so meant nobody casual could ‘happen by’, and the presence of eight to ten new men in combat fatigues would go unnoticed.

  The main camp was up the hill and fenced off from the mercenary training area, but gates led to and from both, and the entire compound was fenced off from the outside world. Guards cradling the inevitable AK-47-type assault rifle patrolled both day and night to make sure security was maintained.

  The training zone had three huts with semi-circular roofs and a door at the end of each. One was not used but the other two were currently lit from within. The right hand hut appeared to be full of equipment, while the middle one was where they were being shepherded. At the door stood Druzic, now dressed in Croat army fatigues and a black beret neatly perched atop his head. He waved them in and as the last passed by, followed and shut the door behind him, closing the outside world to them.

  Lonjic quickly noted the twin rows of wooden bunks and army-issue blankets, then threw his pack onto the nearest one and turned round. “How many guards do we have patrolling outside?”

  “Ten. Four inside the perimeter, six outside.” Druzic was wearing the insignia of a colonel, so maybe he was a regular.

  “Get rid of the four inside. We will see to our own security within the wire. I don’t want anyone here who isn’t on the mission or connected to it.”

  “General Mandaric was insistent you had sufficient security.”

  “Colonel – I assume you’re a colonel, yes?”

  Druzic nodded.

  “Then, Colonel, you address me as Major. Let’s keep this proper, shall we? Colonel, General Mandaric has duties and I don’t want to be an additional headache for him. My headache is security; no matter how trusted his men may be and patriotic too, I do not want even the slightest possibility of a leak. Get them away from us, and keep them outside. I’m not being disrespectful, all I want is to maintain a distance between the Croat army and ourselves. After all, what we’re going to do isn’t exactly going to be unanimously approved by the outside world, and its best the Croat army is kept ignorant of it. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

  Druzic took a deep breath. “Very well, Major, I shall take care of that. Be aware that I am regular army.”

  “But you’re the liaison officer so we accept the fact you have to be here. Nobody else. Allow your men to keep anyone away from the wire or in sight and I’ll be happy. We’ll be training in daylight so nobody is to spy on us.”

  “The perimeter is secure,” Druzic replied.

  “As far as you know, Colonel. Have you checked recently?”

  Druzic caught his breath and stared at Lonjic. He swore softly under his breath. “I shall check.”

  “Please do.”

  Druzic pointed to the three men who had been in the hut when the mercs had arrived. All three were, like the mercs, in combat fatigues with berets, and were standing smartly to attention. “Do you want to be introduced?

  “I shall take care of that, Colonel. Thank you.”

  Druzic knew when he was being dismissed. He saluted stiffly, received one back, then marched with a straight back out of the hut.

  “Pissed him off no end, Major,” an Australian drawl cut through the heavy atmosphere.

  Lonjic grinned and turned. The middle of the three men stood to attention was grinning too. “Marko Godan. Good to see you.”

  “You too, Major. When I heard you were asking for me I knew it would be a tough job; you don’t go to places like this without a proper bunch of jokers to look after you.”

  The others grinned. Being international so
ldiers they all understood English, whether it be British, American or Australian in tone.

  “True, but you’ve been called specifically because I need to knock some semblance of order into your undisciplined manner. Straight spine, soldier!”

  Godan, a muscly thick-necked man who could easily pass for a rugby or grid-iron football player, snapped into a smart stance, arms straight down his sides. Lonjic ambled up to him and gave him a close examination.

  “Africa taught you anything, Godan?”

  “What, in two weeks? Jeez, Major, I just got my feet under the table in Somalia.”

  “Somalia? Bad place.”

  Godan nodded. “The collapse of the Soviet support has thrown the whole bloody place into chaos; dictators now have lost their paymasters, they can’t pay their protective mercs who are deserting in droves – opposition smell blood and it’s all going to kick off. It’s all gone tribal again.”

  “Shit. Sorry I hauled you out of there.”

  “Don’t matter. Doubt it’ll get sorted any day soon. Once this job is done I can go back.”

  “Hmm. So, who are these two?”

  Godan jerked his head to the one to his right. “Croatian merc. Petar Trifunovic. Flew here by himself from the Caribbean. Volunteered for the first merc job that came up.” He looked to his left to a dark complexioned man with sharp features. “Says he’s Albanian – Enver Rrallos, or something like that.”

  “Rrallos?” Lonjic stared at the slim man. “Albanian?”

  “Sir,” Rrallos said with a thick accent. “Kosovo.”

  “Ah.” Rrallos was one of those Albanians living in territory claimed by Serbia. It all went back to the fourteenth century. Lonjic remembered it well. It had been in the days when the Ottoman Turks had been on the offensive, spreading deeper into Europe from the south-east. The Serbs had made a stand at what they called the Field of the Blackbirds, which became known as Kosovo. It had been in 1389, and although Lonjic hadn’t been there, he had heard of the battle pretty soon afterwards. The Serbian army had been annihilated and it had plunged them into centuries of rule by the Turks. Kosovo had become a symbol to the Serbs, a symbol of revenge, a cultural touchstone. They would not give up Kosovo without a fight, no matter that the ethnic composition of the region was now mostly Albanian. It would be like asking the English to surrender Sherwood Forest or Runnymede, or the Americans Philadelphia.

  As a result Serbia suppressed the indigenous Albanians of Kosovo, and the Kosovo Albanians had no say in their region. Rrallos would therefore be quite happy to partake in a mission to kill Serbs. It was likely that organized bandit group such as the Arkanovci or Vardarovci, as they were known, would have been sent to Kosovo to make sure Serbian rule was maintained.

  “Welcome aboard, all of you,” Lonjic grunted. “Right, gather round and listen well.” The group grabbed handy chairs or sat on nearby bunks. A couple still remained standing. “Our job is to seek out and eliminate a warlord working for the Milosevic regime called Vardaric. He’s a well-known murderer of entire villages so he’s no angel. We’ve got covert authority from the UN on this, too. They badly want shot of someone like this, both to try to prevent as much slaughter of civilians as can be managed, and to send a message to Milosevic and his regime that harboring and utilizing of these sort of people won’t be tolerated.”

  “Why not go after Arkan?” Trifunovic asked. “He’s as bad.”

  “Arkan is too tight with and protected by Milosevic. He’ll be too hard to isolate and take out. Vardaric has a smaller group with him; he’s lower down in status so he isn’t so well protected. Also he needs to prove to the Belgrade government that he’s up to the job, so I think this is a test given him to see if he can do as good a job as Arkan. What we know is that he’ll be sent by road towards Vukovar in Eastern Slavonia, which is Croatian territory, but occupied by the Serbs and the JNA. They’re clearing out the villages around Vukovar before the assault on the town itself, displacing hundreds of Croats. All those poor bastards are at the mercy of the death squads, Vardaric’s included.”

  “So is this a hit and retreat job then?” Mendez queried. “What support do we have?”

  “That is being assembled by Druzic and Mandaric. We’ll be trucked to the frontier, but then we’ll have to sneak past the front line and get to the ambush spot in good time. Intelligence says we’ve got seven or eight days or so before Vardaric’s lot are ready and the JNA and Serb forces have cleared the way for the siege artillery. Vukovar’s almost certainly had it but they’ll hold out as long as they can. There’s a small corridor left open but I don’t want us making our way there if we can help it – only in a dire emergency.”

  “It’ll be tough,” Linderroth commented. “We might risk shooting civilians in a firefight.”

  “That’s a possibility, so you’ve got to be pretty sure about your target. I don’t want us being plastered over the world’s newspapers, or to give our paymasters a bad name; Croatia are the ‘good guys’ at the moment, at least in the Western press. They wouldn’t be happy if we wasted a stack of women and children. They might put out contracts on our lives.”

  “Equipment?” Godan asked. “Just what we carry?”

  “Pretty much. So no unnecessary stuff. Keep it as light as possible. It’s a couple of days in, a day for the ambush and a couple out. No more than a week. There’ll be more details in the next day or so, especially when the Croats get hold of more intelligence.”

  The others nodded. “So now what? Sleep?” Baja asked, grinning widely.

  “Yep. We’ll be up at first light. I’ll be testing you all – you’ll need good legs and lungs on this one so I’ll be pushing you hard. Godan here will be my sergeant; I know him and trust him. I’ll need a couple of corporals so whoever impresses me the most will get those jobs. I want two squads of four. The composition I’ll think up as we go along, and by the time we get the go-ahead we should be working well as a team. If you’ve got any issues then bring them to Sergeant Godan or myself – I don’t want you harboring any problems about one of the team. I won’t want to get into the mission and suddenly someone turns on another. We’ll be up against a bunch of killers with no scruples; they’re loosely working for the Serbs but believe me, this man Vardaric cares not one bit about that. As long as he can go about butchering people that’s all he cares about. We’re the cure; the UN is turning a blind eye to what we do provided it’s only against him and his men. I don’t want any of you shooting defenseless Serbs.”

  The few Croats there pulled faces.

  “Look,” Lonjic slapped a palm onto the top of the small table next to him. “You want the press to turn against you? Then go round killing civilians. Who cares about one psychopath and his murderous friends? No-one. But the moment you start wasting women and children and grandfathers – and believe me, the press will milk that endlessly – then you’ll be cast as the bad guys. Nobody takes out a civilian unless I give my express permission. If you start, then I’ll think you’ve gone rogue, and there’s only one end to that.” He produced his automatic and weighed it in his palm. “I’d have no problem in putting a bullet through your head. So behave and get paid.”

  The men grunted and eyed Lonjic warily. They turned in, leaving Lonjic and Godan to step outside where Lonjic produced a pack of cigarettes and handed one to Godan. Both lit up and shared a silent smoke for a moment. Godan finally spoke, spitting a shred of tobacco from his lower lip onto the ground. “What do you think of our group?”

  “You mean do I trust any? Not yet – and one or two are certainly here to kill Serbs. They’re not worried whether they belong to Vardaric or not. I want them watched carefully.”

  “Trifunovic and Rrallos?”

  “Yeah. Both hate the Serbs for different reasons. Wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up hating each other. They’re both nationalists – you can see it in their faces. That makes them dangerous.”

  “I’m a Croat by blood, too.”

  “True, but you’re e
qually a mad Aussie. That makes you different.”

  “Yeah. I understand cricket,” he grinned.

  Lonjic coughed in amusement. “There you go, what did I say? Mind you – so do I. At least I think I do.”

  “Really? Thought you were an American.”

  “No – just operated from there a long time. I knew some other Aussies a long time ago and they taught me the rules.”

  “Oh? Where was that?”

  Lonjic grinned. “Oh, when I was on a job once. Can’t go into it that much.” He didn’t want to tell Godan it was in World War One, in the trenches in Gallipoli, when he had been part of the ANZAC force fighting for their lives against the Turkish army. If he did then Godan would have thought him mad.

  “You a bowler or batter?”

  “Me? Christ – a bowler, with my build. Just about know which end of the bat to hold.”

  Godan chuckled. “Well, same here, although I know how to bat. I either score fifty or nothing. All bloody fireworks with me.”

  Lonjic nodded, then took another long pull. As he exhaled, he looked out into the darkness. “What about our international soldiers? Baja, for example?”

  “Bad bastard if you ask me,” Godan grunted. “Looks a killer, born and bred. Would have your guts out without a thought – and probably eat them, too.”

  Lonjic chuckled. “Yep, he looks capable. Or Jerzy Toloba?”

  “Don’t trust him. Anyone a member of one of the commie secret police forces has got to have something wrong with them. He looks like there’s something deep in his head that’s waiting to come out, and I tell you, I don’t want to be around when it does.”