So as good as he was, Donny Maroni was taken by surprise as he patrolled the perimeter of the office block in which the bomb had been hidden. He caught a brief scent of tobacco and garlic from the hand that clamped across his mouth to stifle his screams, and then the knife was drawn across his throat and blood spurted from the gaping mortal wound.
Reddin’s men were scattered around the immediate vicinity of the office building. They were all well armed, all equipped with radios with which they could summon immediate support. And they all died without a word being spoken.
The video camera had been set up in the basement office, with a light that shone on Kurt Vermulen and the opened bomb case that he and Frankie Riva had lifted onto the maintenance man’s desk.
“You ready?” he asked Riva, who was standing behind the camera.
“Sure,” the Italian replied. “We’re running now. Just speak whenever you want.”
Vermulen cleared his throat, gave a sharp sniff, then looked directly at the camera.
“My name is Lieutenant General Kurt Vermulen. I retired from the U.S. Army after twenty-eight years’ service as a commissioned officer, during which I was proud, and honored, to serve the country I love. I am now in the province of Kosovo, Yugoslavia, in the Zvecan industrial plant. Within a few miles of here, units of the Kosovo Liberation Army are operating, assisted by fighters, weapons, and money provided by the forces of international Islamist terrorism. And this”-he pointed to the case on the desk-“is their ultimate weapon. It is a-”
From the corridor outside there came the crackle of small-arms fire, immediately answered by a blast of firing from the far side of the office door, through which could be heard an animal howl of pain. The door burst open and Marcus Reddin backed into the room. He was unsteady on his feet and his left arm was hanging uselessly beside him, blood pouring from the through-and-through bullet wound that had ripped open his shoulder.
“Red!” shouted Vermulen. Drawing the pistol that was holstered around his waist, he ran to his friend’s aid.
“Sorry, man… screwed up,” Reddin gasped.
Vermulen could hear footsteps scurrying down the basement corridor. Without looking back at Riva, he shouted, “Take cover!” Then he grasped his pistol in both hands, held it up to his face, and stood in the shelter of the door frame, steeling himself for the moment when he would have to step into the corridor and start firing.
But Vermulen never took that step. Not when there was a gun in his back and an Italian voice in his ear saying, “Drop your weapon, General.”
One hundred and twenty miles to the west, a helicopter landed on a patch of open ground near the Croatian village of Molunat. A small group of people was waiting for it. While the engines still ran, they hurried toward the chopper, instinctively bending over, even though the rotor blades were well above their heads. In the midst of the men there was a smaller, slighter figure, a woman whose blond hair was whipped around her face by the wind from the rotors. She was in the grip of two men, who had grabbed her upper arms. Her hands had been tied behind her back, and she stumbled as they dragged her up to the helicopter and bundled her through the open side door. After she was in, one of the men reached up toward the open door, holding a thin cardboard file. An unseen figure from within the cabin took the file and slid the door closed, and the helicopter rose again into the cloudy night sky.
89
“Welcome to Rock City, ma’am.” Kady Jones had been flown directly from Washington to Ramstein Air Base in southern Germany. She’d been briefed on the way. There was reason to believe that another one of the Russian bombs had been uncovered in Kosovo. She would be making a determination as to whether it was genuine or not. The tone of the briefings had been urgent, but routine: nothing to worry about. After they were over, she’d received another message, requesting details on her height, body measurements, and shoe size. The moment the cabin door had opened, she’d been led straight to a military transport, already laden with a full army explosive-ordnance- disposal team and its equipment. Another dozen men sat silently and impassively in futuristic black uniforms. Before she’d even strapped on her belt, the wheels were already rolling. Once they were in the air, one of the men in black came over.
“Major Dave Gretsch,” he said. “Just wanted to introduce myself, let you know my men and I will be securing the area for you tonight. There’s a chance we may be seeing some action, but just do what we ask, and we’ll make sure you’re fine. Meantime, anything you need to know, just ask.”
“Who are you guys?” Kady asked.
Gretsch gave an apologetic smile.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. But we’re the best, is all you need to know.”
“Oh… Well, where are we going, exactly?”
“Can’t say that, either. They haven’t told me yet. Fact, I was kinda hoping you might know.”
“So I can ask, but you can’t answer…”
“Sure looks that way, but that’s the army for you.”
Now it was ten at night and she’d just arrived at the Tuzla Air Base in Bosnia. As the soldiers got to work unloading their weapons and equipment, she’d been greeted by an air-force corporal, a woman, who was leading her toward a waiting Humvee.
“We call it Rock City ’cause of all the crushed rock everywhere-place was like a sea of mud till they laid that down,” she explained. “Any-ways, they got a room set aside for you in the officers’ quarters, though I don’t guess you’ll be getting much sleep.”
Kady was led to her room, little more than a cubicle with a camp bed, inside a basic, prefabricated structure. The corporal politely instructed her to get changed and wait for further instructions. On the bed were arranged a set of combat fatigues, a T-shirt, a flak jacket, a pair of boots, and a helmet. Now she knew why they’d wanted to check her size.
But what kind of battlefield was she heading into?
