Bosnian Inferno

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ the leader said contemptuously, and the car accelerated away, bullets flying above it from the guns of the grinning Chetniks.

She stood there, waiting for them to do whatever they were going to do.

The CO’s office looked much as Docherty remembered it: the inevitable mug of tea perched on a pile of papers, the maps and framed photographs on the wall, the glimpse through the window of bare trees lining the parade ground, and beyond them the faint silhouette of the distant Black Mountains. The only obvious change concerned the photograph on Barney Davies’s desk: his children were now a year older, and his wife was nowhere to be seen.

‘Bring in a cup of tea,’ the CO was saying into the intercom. ‘And a rock cake?’ he asked Docherty.

‘Why not,’ Docherty said. He might as well get used to living dangerously again. There were some at the SAS’s Stirling Lines barracks who claimed that the Regiment had lost more men to the Mess’s rock cakes than to international terrorism. It was a vicious lie, of course – the rock cakes were disabling rather than lethal.

‘Is there any news of Reeve?’ Docherty asked.

‘None, but his wife’s still in Sarajevo, working at the hospital as far as we know.’

‘Where’s the information coming from?’

‘MI6 has a man in the city. Don’t ask me why. The Foreign Office has got him digging around for us.’

Docherty’s tea arrived, together with an ominous-looking rock cake. ‘I’m hoping to take her with me,’ he told Davies. ‘Even if they’ve separated I still think he’s more likely to listen to her than anyone else.’

‘Well, you can ask her when you get there…’

‘Sarajevo?’ Docherty asked, his mouth half full of what tasted like an actual rock. Sweet perhaps, but hard and gritty all the same.

‘It’s not been a very good year for them,’ Davies said, observing the expression on Docherty’s face, and causing the Scot to wonder whether the CO had racks of the damn things in his cellar, each bearing their vintage.

‘Sarajevo looks like the best place to begin,’ Davies continued. ‘Nena Reeve is there, and your MI6 contact. His name’s Thornton, by the way. There must be people from Zavik who can fill you in on the town and its surroundings. Plus, there’s the UN command and a lot of journalists. You should be able to pick up a good idea of what the best access route is, and what to expect on the way. Always assuming we can get you into the damn city, of course.’

‘I thought the airport was closed.’

‘Opened again a couple of days ago for relief flights, but there’s no certainty it will still be open tomorrow. If it’s not the Serbs lobbing shells from the hilltops it’s the Muslims and Serbs exchanging fire across the damn runway, and even if they’re all on their best behaviour it’s probably only because there’s a blizzard.’

‘Lots of package tours, are there?’ Docherty asked.

‘The more I know about this war the less I’m looking forward to seeing any of my men involved in it,’ Davies said.

Docherty took a gulp of tea, which at least scoured his mouth of cake. ‘How many men am I taking in?’ he asked.

‘It’s up to you, within reason. But I’d stick with a four-man patrol…’

‘So would I. Are Razor Wilkinson and Ben Nevis available?’ Darren Wilkinson and Stewart Nevis were two of the three men who had been landed on the Argentinian mainland with him during the Falklands – the third, Nick Wacknadze, had left the SAS – and Docherty had found both to be near-perfect comrades-in-arms.

‘Nevis is in plaster, I’m afraid. He and his wife went skiing over Christmas – French Alps, I think – and he broke a leg. Sergeant Wilkinson is around, though. And I think he’ll probably jump at the chance to get away from mothering the new boys up on the Beacons.’

‘Good. I’ve missed his appalling cockney sense of humour.’

‘Any other ideas?’

Docherty thought for a moment. ‘I’m out of touch, boss…’

‘Do you remember the Colombian business?’ Davies asked.

‘Who could forget it?’

Back in 1989 an SAS instructor on loan to the Colombian Army Anti-Narcotics Unit had been kidnapped, along with a prominent local politician, by one of the cocaine cartels. A four-man team had been inserted under cover to provide reconnaissance, and then an entire squadron parachuted in to assist with the rescue. One of the helicopters sent in to extract everyone was destroyed by sabotage and the original four-man patrol, plus the instructor, had been forced to flee Colombia on foot. In the process two of them had been killed, but the patrol’s crossing of a 10,000-foot mountain range, pursued all the way by agents of the cartel, had acquired almost legendary status in Special Forces circles.

‘Wynwood’s in Hong Kong,’ Davies said, ‘but how about Corporals Martinson and Robson? They’ve proved they can walk across mountains, and it seems Yugoslavia – or whatever we have to call it these days – is full of them. And’ – the CO’s face suffused with sudden enthusiasm – ‘I have a feeling Martinson has another useful qualification.’ He reached for the intercom. ‘Get me Corporal Martinson’s service record,’ he told the orderly.

Docherty sipped his tea, allowing Davies his moment of drama.

The file arrived, Davies skimmed through it, and stabbed a finger at the last page. ‘Serbo-Croat,’ he said triumphantly.

‘What?’ Docherty exclaimed. He could hardly believe there was a Serbo-Croat speaker in the Regiment.

‘You know what it’s like,’ Davies said. ‘The chances for action are few and far between these days, so the moment some part of the world looks like going bad the keen ones pick that language to learn, just in case. If nothing happens, any new language is still a plus on their record, and if by chance we get involved, they’re first in the queue.’

‘Looks like Martinson’s won the jackpot this time,’ Docherty said, reaching for the file to examine the photograph. ‘He even looks like a Slav,’ he added.

‘He’s a medic, like Wilkinson, but that might well come in useful where you’re going. And he’s a twitcher, too. A bird-watcher,’ Davies explained, seeing the expression on Docherty’s face. ‘Bosnia’s probably knee-deep in rare species.’

‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’ Docherty said drily. He had never been able to understand the fascination some people had with birds. ‘What about Robson?’

‘He’s an explosives man, and a crack shot with a sniper rifle. Which leaves you without a signals specialist, but I imagine you can fill in there yourself.’

‘Those PRC 319s work themselves,’ Docherty replied, ‘and anyway, who will we have to send signals to?’

‘Well, you might need to make contact with one of the British units who are serving with the UN.’

‘But they wouldn’t be able to get involved with this mission?’

‘No, and in any case you won’t be in uniform. This mission is about as official as Kim Philby’s.’

‘So when it comes down to it we’re just a bunch of Brits dropping in to help out a mate.’

Davies opened his mouth to object, and closed it again. ‘I suppose you are,’ he agreed.

A little more than twenty miles to the south, Chris Martinson was moving stealthily, trying not to step on any of the twigs spread across the forest floor. He halted for a moment, ears straining, and right on cue heard the ‘yah-yah-yah’ laughing sound. It was nearer now, but he still couldn’t see the bird. And then, suddenly, it seemed to be flying straight towards him down an avenue between the bare trees, its red crown, black face and green-gold back looking almost tropical in the winter forest. It seemed to see him at the last moment, and veered away to the left, into a stand of conifers.

The green woodpecker wasn’t a rare bird, but it was one of Martinson’s favourites, and, since a day trip from Hereford to the Forest of Dean never seemed quite complete if he didn’t see one, there was a smile on his face as he continued his walk.

Another quarter of a mile brought him to the crown of a small hill giving a view out across the top of the trees towards the Severn Estuary. Some kind soul had arranged for a wrought-iron seat to be placed there, and Chris gratefully sat himself down, putting his binoculars to one side and unwrapping the packed lunch he had brought with him. As he bit into the first tuna roll a flock of white-faced geese flew overhead towards the estuary.

It had been a good idea to come out for the day, Chris decided. The older he got the more claustrophobic the barracks seemed to get. He supposed it was time he got a place of his own, but somehow he had always resisted the idea. Flats were hard to find and you had all the hassle of dealing with a landlord, and as for buying somewhere…well, it would only be a millstone round his neck when he eventually left the Regiment and did some serious travelling.

He had turned thirty that year, and the time for decision couldn’t be that far off. And, he had to admit, he was getting bored with the same old routines – routines that only seemed to be interrupted these days by a few hairy weeks in sun-soaked Armagh or exotic Crossmaglen. Even the birds in Northern Ireland seemed depressed by the weather.

He ran a hand through his spiky hair. His life was in a rut, he thought. Not an unpleasant one – in fact quite a comfortable one – but a rut nevertheless. He hadn’t really made any close friends in the Regiment since Eddie Wilshaw, and the man from Hackney had died in Colombia three years before. And he hadn’t had anything approaching a relationship with a woman for almost as long. The last one he’d gone out with had told him he seemed to be living on a separate planet from the rest of humanity.

He smiled good-naturedly at the memory. She was probably right, and it was no doubt time he started reaching out to people a bit more, but…