Casca 44: Balkan Mercenary Page 6

  A fuel tank exploded, sending gouts of flame up from the second truck. More bursts of fire now, but some of these were coming from men behind or under the trucks. Some of them had gotten out and were now returning the compliments.

  Lonjic rolled to the cover of the first truck, behind the nearside driver’s wheel. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw Baja and Trifunovic scuttling around the wrecked armored car, M70s cradled in their arms. He threw away his empty clip, shoved a replacement in and slammed the cocking lever fully back.

  Shots were being traded all round. With Toloba’s MG empty their firepower had slackened, but he was now switching to his assault rifle while Knai and Rrallos sprayed the trucks behind the burning pyre that had been Vardaric’s. Lonjic hoped that evil bastard was being cremated even as he squeezed off a three second burst under the truck. A knot of Serbs were shooting back from there. One yelled in pain and rolled on the concrete surface of the road clutching his leg.

  “Use grenades!” Lonjic roared. This was taking too long and the Serbs had far too many men left shooting back. After the death of the man to the Claymore the rest had realized what the trap was so were sticking to the road. Professionals. That made things tougher. He had been led to believe they were mere brigands released from Milosevic’s jails. Another piece of shit.

  A line of bullets rattled up the road and cut through Trifunovic. The Croat screamed, threw his arms up and fell heavily onto his back, jerking spasmodically. Cursing, Lonjic wheeled left and went round the front of the smashed truck and emptied his magazine along the length of the vehicle, riddling two of the enemy who were reloading. Both were transformed into gyrating marionettes, dancing to Lonjic’s tune of death, and collapsed into a heap.

  A long burst came his way and he hastily jumped back. Baja came scuttling over, shaking his head to the unasked question. “Killed. They fight hard.”

  “Damned pros, that’s why.” Next moment the air was rent with explosions as grenades went off, setting off more fuel tanks. Men screamed and figures were seen staggering away from the scene into the undergrowth. Another explosion took care of them.

  Lonjic glanced up into the sky. The smoke from the burning trucks was rising high into the summer sky. Anyone for miles around could see it. Time to be gone. He nodded to Baja to lay down covering fire. As the Nigerian sent a deadly burst down the line of the truck, Lonjic clambered up onto the top of the cab of the first truck and peered along the line. Smoke and flames filled his vision, the smell of the fires overwhelming.

  It was getting hard to make anything out. Time to get out of there. A JNA jet might be on its way as he stood there. Jumping down he waved Baja to get into cover. Toloba was shooting from a prone position.

  “Get back!” Lonjic snapped. “Where’s Rrallos and Knai?”

  “Dead,” Toloba said grimly. “Shot.” He pointed to two huddled shapes by the roadside.

  “Fuck,” Lonjic muttered. “Get out! Now!”

  Toloba nodded and scuttled back. Lonjic sent a small burst at the burning vehicles just to keep the enemy’s heads down, and made his way to the two dead. He examined both briefly and moved on. Keeping off the road he found Godan trading shots with a group of Vardaric’s men. “We’re bugging out,” the Eternal Mercenary said. “The others alright?”

  “De Klerk has an arm wound but he’s alright. What happened back there? Couple down?”

  “And Trifunovic. All dead. Get the others out now. We’ll have the JNA on our asses before we know it.”

  Lonjic took cover round a thick beech trunk and watched as Godan, de Klerk and the other two retreated. One last burst and he, too, was running. They had taken out most of the enemy but too many things had gone wrong. Way too many.

  He paused behind a large bole and glanced behind him. No sign of pursuit yet, but he was certain it would come. Time to make for the river and get over it before things got too hairy. He followed Mendez, the Argentinian’s shape bounding from one piece of cover to the next, and to one side he caught sight of Linderroth pounding through the brush.

  Suddenly they were out and faced with farmland again. Neat rows of corn ran along the line of the field. Lonjic waved his men on into the field and they plunged in, making hell for leather to the other end.

  They got almost to the end when shouts came their way. Pursuit. Damn! Lonjic turned and saw a distant figure pointing in their direction. Now they would send down hell from the sky at them. A fence at the end and a leap, then into scrub and then the land dipped and ahead was a watercourse, twenty meters wide. Toloba was already wading into it, covered by Baja and Godan. Linderroth, de Klerk and Mendez arrived, breathless, and Lonjic pointed to de Klerk and Baja to cross too.

  As they forged into the slowly moving waters, he followed. His arms high, he trod forcefully and planted his feet firmly into the mud of the river bottom. As it was late summer, the level was much lower than normal, and they got across only getting wet up to their midriffs.

  Now providing cover, they waited until the two others made it, then they peeled away and ran across a narrow strip of vegetation into a wheat field and headed for a distant set of buildings. How far they could get was anyone’s guess but they would keep going. The plan of escape was clear; make due south after the river and get to the road where the escape vehicles were – hopefully – waiting for them.

  Some hope. Ten minutes later as they came towards the road there was a roaring from the skies. They flung themselves flat as a dark shape screamed overhead. Two Mig21s banked sharply and swung round from the north. “Scatter!” Lonjic yelled. “We’re sitting ducks!”

  The MiGs split. One circled above while the other flew south, then looped lazily in the huge azure sky. It came back, low, and aimed straight down the road ahead where their vehicles rested in a small group of trees. There came a flash and two missiles flew from the wings, erupting amongst the trees, sending the truck waiting for them into oblivion.

  Lonjic swore. The MiG rose up and banked again. He twisted round, on his knees. Eight distant figures were coming their way. He grabbed his glasses and swung them from one figure to the next. “Shit!” Vardaric was clearly there. They had missed the motherfucker.

  “Get out of here,” Lonjic rose up, waving to the countryside beyond the road. Their immediate escape mode was wrecked; they’d now have to get out of there another way. “Onwards towards those hills!”

  Bosnia lay that way, and if they could get over the border then they’d be safe – at least in theory. He wouldn’t put it past the JNA or Serbia to ignore Bosnia’s territorial integrity. The seven survivors rose up and ran, zig-zagging, across the wheat field towards the road. One MiG swung its wings and came towards them, clearly on a strafing approach. “MiG!” Lonjic roared and threw himself to one side. Two rows of small dust and dirt eruptions sped across the ground, rattling and spitting across the road, then it was gone, except for a deep ear-splitting roar and the smell of kerosene.

  Lonjic got to his feet and ran again, making the far side of the field. Off to the right the wrecked truck burned merrily, a marker of death. Godan loosed off a burst at the departing MiG. “Leave it be, we’ll need to save our ammo for those bastards,” he jerked a thumb behind him. “Vardaric is still amongst them.”

  “We missed the bastard? Shit.” Godan heaved himself up and ran at an angle, M70 cradled in his arms. Off to the left Toloba and Mendez vaulted the wooden fence and plunged into undergrowth. Safety.

  With Linderroth and Baja close behind, Lonjic made it into the scrub and ran twenty meters before coming to a breathless halt. He waited till the other six had all arrived, then nodded towards the field.

  “In a few minutes Vardaric and his survivors are going to come our way – yes he survived, damn his black heart. We’ve got no choice but to make for Bosnia. We’re going to be hunted – I think the only reason the MiGs haven’t really tried to waste us is that they want us alive for interrogation. They’ll be calling elements of the local militia to close in on us – and we know just how nasty they can be. Take no chances; we have to use Plan B. Get to Bosnia and the friendly farm house I was told about.”

  “What do we do – split up or keep together?” de Klerk asked.

  “Both. We split into three groups. I’ll go with Toloba. Godan, you go with de Klerk and Linderroth, while you, Mendez, take Baja. Split up but make for that hill there in the distance with the triangular peak. We meet up after dark. Good luck – see you then.”

  Waiting till the other two groups moved off, Lonjic nodded to Toloba to follow him through the brush to the far side. They saw the other two groups running into the distance, the other MiG than the one that had strafed them circling in the distance. “Damn them. They’ll be giving Vardaric and the local militia our heading. They can encircle us in no time.”

  “Any chance of escaping?” Toloba asked, looking back towards the undergrowth.

  “Some. We need darkness. That comes at about nine at this time of year. That gives us eight hours. They’ll have us long before then. Come on,” he grunted and began loping off across a patch of uncared-for grassland.

  Toloba followed, looking behind him in worry. They plunged through the gently waving stalks of corn and wheat, then cut right and headed for a thick growth of willow, standing on either bank of a narrow watercourse. The MiG banked and came screaming at them, a burst of cannon fire smashing into the ground ahead of them.

  The two mercs hit the dirt and tried to bury themselves. As the roar of the jet engines diminished, they got up. “Trying to stop us reaching the trees!” Toloba gasped.

  “Yes – he may well cut us down if we carry on. C’mon, let’s go left. Its more open but it won’t make our friends up there nervous.” They stumbled through a field full of beet, trying to avo
id tripping over the low-lying root crop. Ahead the fields ended and the grass grew tall. Off to the left they caught the sound of an engine. Mendez and Baja were over that way but were out of sight.

  “Truck?” Toloba guessed.

  “Yeah or some APC. Let’s get into cover.”

  The MiGs banked and flew off, their fuel low, leaving the mercs to wade through the crops and undergrowth. Ahead the hills mocked them, giving them illusory comfort. The engine revved and was much closer.

  Lonjic knelt and peered to his left, Toloba crouching close by. Behind them the pursuit would be coming their way, but would it be to them or the other groups? Ahead and to the left a narrow two-rutted track ran, and the vehicle was coming along there. Lonjic slid onto his belly, his M70 pointing forward.

  Along the track, he could see a soft-bed truck making an unsteady way along the track, preceded by three men cradling semi-automatics. They were taking no chances. Lonjic turned, waved to Toloba, pointed in the direction of the track and put his thumb down, then held up three fingers.

  Toloba nodded and slipped to one side, vanishing from view. The engine noise filled the air and gas fumes came to Lonjic as he waited. Now the three men could easily be seen and they were looking left, right and ahead, but not as alert as they ought to have been.

  Lonjic held his breath, gathered his feet under him, then swung the barrel and loosed off a four-second burst, sending an arc of bullets smashing into the three men who span and toppled, cut down before they could even react.

  As they struck the ground Toloba rose up and sent a burst into the cabin, shattering the windscreen and riddling the two men sat there. He ducked and Lonjic pulled a pin from a grenade and tossed it under the truck which had shuddered to a halt. The detonation engulfed the underside of the vehicle, igniting the tank which went up like an incendiary. Screams came from the rear and men tumbled from the canvas rear section, some ablaze. Both mercs stood and emptied their clips into the knot of struggling men, sending them all to their own personal hells.

  Lonjic jerked his head to Toloba and both ran across the track and into the undergrowth on the other side, leaving the scene of devastation in their wake.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The pursuit was relentless; the Serbs were full of vengeance, and Vardaric had determined that Lonjic and Toloba deserved to die for their part in the death of the Serbian militia squad. The daylight had been their enemy and the friend of the Serbs, but now with dusk, things swung in the favor of Lonjic and his men.

  They had taken cover in a group of bushes, hiding from the return of the MiGs which had refueled and were again acting as eyes in the skies. They had split and one each had zeroed on the other groups. What was going on with them was anyone’s guess. Lonjic was more concerned with seeing off the pursuit of Vardaric’s men. The warlord had obviously decided to ignore the other two groups, sending the militia after them, while he went after the men who had destroyed the truck and its occupants.

  There had been a moment when their pursuers had almost caught up with them, but by staying still the searching Vardarovci, as they were called in this part of the world, passed by. Lonjic took a sneak look at the number and judged there were only nine of them left. They had taken out around forty in the ambush. No wonder they were pissed and after blood.

  He wondered about the list they’d been given in Zagreb. Clearly it wasn’t fully accurate; no doubt some of them had been the criminals that had been written down on it, but many of these were trained military. Lonjic knew his craft and could spot soldiers a mile off. Vardaric he knew, and he was bringing up the rear with a tall and black-haired man whom Lonjic recognized from photos. That was an equally odious individual by the name of Koc, a Turk who had been active in eastern Anatolia as part of the Turkish army fighting the Kurds until he went too far, gassing a village, and had been court martialed under pressure from the UN. Koc had shot his way out of the hearing, helped by a few of his cronies, and had gone into the international murder game. A perfect sidekick for a sadist like Vardaric.

  The rest, well they seemed like Serbian soldiers. They had decent uniforms, weapons, and acted as though they’d been sent through the proper official training soldiers of any legal government undertook.

  So, two criminals and seven soldiers. They were scattered widely, which in one way was good but it was also bad. Good, because it left gaps through which the hunted could slip, and that was why Lonjic and Toloba had escaped detection. Bad, because it meant they couldn’t be taken out in one go. Shoot two or three and the rest could come at you from three directions, and that would be it.

  The Vardarovci passed on, now cutting off Lonjic and Toloba from their escape route. It was getting dark and the MiGs had gone. It was down to the ground troops to hunt the fugitives down from now on. That suited Lonjic; who cared where the planes went? North or west to the fighting. It didn’t matter, as long as they were left alone to battle the footsloggers.

  The land sloped down gently, the approach to the border. Once there it would be doubly hard for Vardaric to find them, and that was why they were heading that way. One big obstacle stood in their path; the River Sava.

  That marked the frontier with Bosnia, and crossing it would be tough; border guards would be there watching, and the alert for the seven men would be out. He expected more militiamen would be there to get through by the river.

  “Let’s go,” he said softly to Toloba, crouching silently to one side. He waved his hand briefly and led the Czech up over a mound of earth – possibly a badger set – and down the other side, slipping through a knot of slender birches. On the other side was a narrow road, a metaled one. They knelt in the roadside undergrowth.

  “Military road – got to be,” Lonjic commented. “A civilian road here of this size would be packed earth.”

  Toloba grunted. “We wait?”

  “Mmm… let’s see what comes, shall we?”

  They slid into the long grass and lay flat as the night descended fully on them. They waited twenty minutes, then a pair of lights came into view in the distance from the south-east, and the changing of a gear clearly carried. Lonjic left quick instructions and then jabbed Toloba in the ribs and scuttled across the road. Now they were on either side of whatever was approaching.

  The sound was of yet another truck, and it was on its own. Possibly a search truck returning to barracks or base. Whatever, this was their ticket to Bosnia. Toloba staggered out of the undergrowth fully in the light of the truck and slumped across the road, moving feebly.

  The truck slowed, then came to a stop twenty feet from him. Lonjic slid through the grass until he was level with the vehicle, knife in hand. The cab opened and a man jumped down, M70 cradled in his hands. He muttered something inaudible to Lonjic, and another jumped out of the rear, rifle at the ready. The first stood and covered Toloba while the rifleman slowly went up to the groaning Czech.

  Lonjic meanwhile crept onto the road and got to the driver’s door. He tensed himself, slipping the knife back into its sheath, one eye on the tableau unfolding in the lights of the truck, then, just as the rifleman reached Toloba, his barrel aiming at the merc’s throat, Lonjic rose, jerking the handle of the door and wrenching it open. His hand grabbed the shocked driver and pulled him from the cab. A quick punch to the guts, a rabbit chop to the neck and the driver was out of it.

  The sound alerted the two men in front of the truck. They tried to see what going on but now they had to squint into the lights. Toloba rose and picked up the rifleman, reversed him and executed what in the game of rugby was called a spear tackle, sending him headfirst down onto the road. Totally illegal in the game because of the potential damage, it did the rifleman no good at all.

  Lonjic didn’t know whether Toloba had watched rugby, and he didn’t really care. The M70 man was turning so Lonjic raced round the front and slammed into him, knocking him onto the road surface, pummeling him. Two heavy blows and the man shook once and then fell still, spread-eagled across the tarmac. Picking up his gun, Lonjic swiftly made his way to the rear of the truck, Toloba on the other side. They swung round the back in unison and threw back the canvas covering, barrels pointing into the interior.