"Major Thorpe." Kinsley's voice cut in on his meditations on another reason he had been glad to "retire."
"Yes, ma'am?" Thorpe had just a rucksack with a couple of spare uniforms and some gear at his feet. He had been amused to see Kinsley make three trips in and out of the Green Ramp, hauling a duffel bag, a suitcase, briefcase and a ruck. He wondered how long she planned on being in Europe.
"I want to be very clear about something," Kinsley said.
Thorpe waited, not saying anything.
"You work for me," she continued.
The whine of jet engines pierced through the thin walls of the Green Ramp. An air force enlisted man was walking toward them.
"I think our flight is ready," he noted.
"You work for me," Kinsley repeated.
"Yes, ma'am, I work for you." Thorpe shouldered his ruck and headed for the airfield side door, leaving Kinsley standing among her pile of bags. As he walked out the flightline door, a small figure dashed out of the shadows.
Takamura thrust out a sheaf of papers. "Here. The names of soldiers who were in all three places." He looked nervously toward the interior, where Kinsley was picking up her duffel bag, the air force NCO grabbing her ruck and briefcase. "I was up all night doing that."
"Thanks." Thorpe shoved the papers inside his shirt. He sniffed the air. The familiar smell of jet exhaust.
"There's a lot of names," Takamura said. "I’m going to go back on the computer and see if I can't reduce the number for you."
"Good," Thorpe said. He took out his own set of papers. "This is a thumbnail sketch the FBI profiler gave Colonel Parker. Use it to narrow the list down. Then call Dublowski if anything else comes up. He'll know how to get hold of me."
"Yes, sir." Takamura scuttled away into the early morning dark.
The countryside was wet and flat. A few roads and rail lines cut through it, on berms built above the stagnant water. Villages were few and far between. The north side of the Sava River was a no man's land and was now essentially worthless to the country's economy, but not to the people who used it to hide in.
Given that it was on the border between Croatia and Bosnia, the swamp was not only a place for people to hide in, it also allowed them to travel across the border. Since the UN peacekeepers had crossed the Sava and were centered around the towns to the south, more and more Serb forces had headed into the swamp.
Along one of the few rail lines that crossed the swamp, a group of twenty men, well armed, deployed themselves. Their motley collection of camouflage uniforms were covered in mud and worn. Their weapons, though, were clean and well oiled.
The leader of the band stood on the rail tracks, noting the rust. He knew the rail bridge over the Sava was down. He had supervised its destruction over a year ago, personally pulling the fuse igniter that fired the charges that dropped the steel frame bridge into the river.
He looked in both directions, the embankment running as far as the eye could see both ways. Nothing. The sky was dark and overcast, with lightning rumbling to the south. He watched the lightning for a few seconds, wondering if perhaps it might be artillery or air strikes, but decided it was indeed the hand of God rather than man.
The leader wore mottled fatigues, the same style worn by the elite Spetsnatz, Russian Special Forces. He still had the subdued insignia of a major pinned to the epaulets, but where his name had been sewn there was only the less faded remains indicating the tag had been ripped off.
He cocked his head as his ears picked up a faint sound. He checked his watch. The timing was right, but one never knew.
He barked orders in Russian and his men faded into the swamp. He waited, alone on the embankment. The helicopter was very low, following the rail line from the west. The man turned and faced it. A Bell Jet Ranger, one of the most popular makes in the world. He noted the mini-gun bolted to the right skid. He didn't flinch as the chopper dipped even lower, the bottom passing less than two feet above his head, the rotor wash whipping him with air.
The chopper flew another fifty feet, then banked under the guidance of what must have been an expert hand. The marking hastily painted on the side indicated it was an IFOR aircraft. Even seeing that, the man didn't move, other than to continue to face the aircraft as it came closer, settling down on the rail bed, the skids on either side of the old tracks, the chain gun pointing down the rail line at him.
The man waited as the engine whine descended to a low hum and the blades slowed their rotation, gradually coming to a halt. A door on the right side opened and a tall man stepped out, submachine gun slung over his shoulder. The door on the pilot's side opened and a smaller man exited. He had no weapon in his hands, but the glittering rings that adorned each finger drew the man in camouflage's attention. He had a gas mask dangling from his neck, resting on his chin.
"You are Kiril?" the ringed man asked in accented Russian.
"You had best hope I am," Kiril responded. He gestured and his patrol materialized out of the surrounding swamp, weapons at the ready, all pointing at the two men and the helicopter. "And what is your name?"
"My name is not important." The man folded his arms across his chest and stared at Kiril. "What is important is what I can do for you, is it not?"
"Why should I trust you?" Kiril asked.
"You don't have to trust me," the man said.
"I have been thinking," Kiril said. "With NATO forces in-country, the situation has changed somewhat. It will be more difficult for us to do what you desire."
"What I desire?" The man laughed. "It is I who am helping you achieve your goal. To achieve your desires."
"For pay," Kiril spit.
"As good a reason as any. Speaking of which…" The man spread his hands.
"I have no proof you can deliver what you say you can," Kiril said.
"I am prepared for your doubts," the small man said. He turned back to the chopper and opened the back door. Kiril and his men brought up their weapons as the man pulled a third, previously unseen person out. The weapons went back down when they saw that the third person was a young girl, her arms bound behind her back. Her white smock had blood on the left side. A blindfold was over her eyes.
"What is this?" Kiril demanded.
"Proof," the small man said. The girl could not stand on her own, collapsing to the rail line, making a low whimpering sound. The small man barked something to his companion, who walked around the front of the helicopter. The larger man picked the girl up by the back of her smock and held her up.
Both men pulled their gas masks on. Kiril took a step back.
"You are safe at this distance." The smaller man's voice sounded distant, passing through the mask's filter.
The small man had something in his hands, a small vial. He screwed off the top and waved it once under the girl's nose, immediately screwing the top back on and putting it back in his pocket.
The girl immediately spasmed, her spine arching back. Her eyes bulged, an inarticulate sound escaping her lips. The larger man let go of her, stepping back. Her knees buckled and she collapsed onto the ground. After a minute, both men removed their masks.
"That fast?" Kiril whispered.
"Yes, that fast," the smaller man said. "I think a down payment is in order."
Kiril spoke into the small FM radio attached to his combat vest. A man came out of the swamp carrying a faded green backpack. He gave it to Kiril, who tossed it toward the chopper.
The smaller man retrieved the package and looked in. Precious stones glittered. The man folded the cloth and put it back in the backpack.
"My people took many risks to gather those," Kiril said. "It is everything we have. You have five days to deliver what you have promised. We will be waiting for you here. Do not think you can fly away beyond our reach."