Echo of War (34 page)

As Tanner watched, the boat slipped through a gap in the reef, banked left, and disappeared from view.

Tanner stood on the
Aurasina
's bridge wing, alternately staring at the brightening sky for some sign of the Black-hawk and stepping inside to ask Bartoli for an update on Cahil's and Susanna's conditions.

Rescue vessels had been arriving steadily since the ferry grounded herself on the reef. Despite the damage to the bow, Bartoli's chief engineer had managed to drop the remains of the ramp into the shallows. Led by crewmen, groups of passengers had started wading ashore, where they were directed up the beach and under the cover of trees. To the east the horizon was glowing orange with the rising sun. The storm had all but died, leaving behind only a thin layer of clouds overhead.

Trpkova was gone. Kestrel was gone. Susak was only five miles from Losinj, less than twenty minutes by speedboat. Once there Trpkova had his choice of transportation methods to the Croatian mainland then across the border into Bosnia.

Briggs leaned on the railing and let his head droop. He closed his eyes.
Bear shot,
Susanna near death
… In the back of his mind, a small irrational voice was raging: It wasn't fair. How in God's name had it turned out like this? Despite everything, despite all their efforts, none of it had made a bit of difference. The worst had come to pass.

What did Trpkova have planned for Kestrel? Tanner wondered. A wave of exhaustion overtook him. He lowered himself to the deck and sat down.
My god.

Bartou poked his head out the bridge hatch. “Mr. Tanner … Mr. Tanner!”

Briggs looked up. “Yes?”

“Your friend is awake and asking for you. He says it's urgent. You'd better hurry; they are getting ready to transfer him to a boat.”

“What about—”

“She's already been loaded aboard. She's still unconscious; Marco says if they are quick enough, perhaps … I'll pray for her. Go see your friend.”

Tanner found Bear in the infirmary being strapped to a rolling gurney. “How're you feeling?” Briggs asked.

“Like I've been shot,” Cahil replied with a weak grin. “Otherwise, just peachy. They took Susanna someplace.”

“Transferred to a boat; you're going, too.”

“How long since Trpkova got away?”

“An hour.”

“Good. There's still time.”

“What?”

“Trpkova's got my GPS. I planted it on him.”

“Christ almighty. When?”

“Just before he shot me. Did you really think I was stupid enough to charge a man with a gun?”

Tanner shook his head, dumbfounded. “No, I—”

“I stuck it in his coat pocket. Better hurry, though. The battery's running down. You've got three hours, maybe less.”

Tanner rushed down to the radio room, called Langley, gave Dutcher and the others an update. Sylvia said, “Wait. I'll check.” The line went quiet. Two minutes passed. She came back on: “Bear's right; it's transmitting.”

“Where is he?” Tanner said.

“Kruje, along the Croat-Bosnian border. He's moving by ground, heading east. He'll cross the border in about fifteen minutes.”

“I need that Blackhawk.”

“George is checking … hold on.” Thirty seconds passed, then: “It's twenty miles out. Head to the beach and wait. We'll start working on airspace clearance.”

Ten minutes later the Blackhawk set down in a flurry of sand. A hundred yards away passengers and rescue workers shielded their eyes and stared. The Blackhawk's rear door opened and the crewman inside waved Tanner over. Hunched over, he sprinted over and leapt in the door. The crewman buckled him in then handed him a pair of headphones. “Can you hear me?” the crewman asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm Brady. You ready to go? If you have to barf, try to aim it at the door.”

Brady gave the thumbs-up to the pilot. They lifted off, banked hard, and headed southeast.

They flew for ten minutes, then slowed and began loitering. “We're off Cesarica,” the pilot called to Tanner over the headset “Waiting for clearance.”

“Can't we—”

“Sorry, the Croats are edgy. We'd get a missile up our tail.”

Tanner nodded. He leaned his head back and waited.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Then, from the pilot: “We're clear to the Bosnian border.”

“And then?”

“And then we play it by ear.”

“Where's the target?”

“He's crossed the border. Bearing zero-seven-five, range fifty miles. We're twenty minutes from the border.”

Eighteen minutes later, the Blackhawk slowed again. Tanner craned his neck until he could see forward out the window. In the distance he could see the spined back of the Dinaric Alps. The upper slopes and ridges were lost in fog; here and there were patches of snow.

Tanner waited, his hands clenched into fists. Strapped to the forward bulkhead was a camouflage pack; beside it, an M4 assault rifle. Tanner got the crewman's attention and pointed. “Mine?”

The crewman nodded. He pulled the pack and rifle down and handed them across. Tanner checked the M4, pulled back the charging handle, and flicked on the safety. He rummaged through the pack and found four grenades—three fragmentation and a flash-bang—a first-aid kit, two spare M4 magazines, a compass, and a roll of “soldier's fix all” matte black duct tape. Tanner pocketed the spare magazines and left the rest.

Over his headset the pilot called, “Sorry, mister, we're still—Wait. Stand by.” He came back twenty seconds later “We're cleared. That don't mean much, though; most of the factions down there see us as target practice. If we start taking fire, sit tight and listen to Brady.”

“Understood. Where's—”

“He's moving into the mountains thirty miles to our east. I'll have you there in eight minutes.”

The pilot dropped the Blackhawk and banked sharply. Tanner glanced out the window. Tree lines and ridges swept past, a blur of green and gray.

“Crossing the border,” the pilot called “Six minutes to target.”

Tanner picked up the M4 and laid it across his lap. The Blackhawk bucked, then heeled over onto its side. Tanner grabbed the seat frame, grunting against the strain. Crouched on the deck, Brady braced himself against the bulkhead and grinned. From the cockpit Tanner heard a rapid beeping.

“Missile radar below,” the pilot called. “Russian Strela. Hold tight … I've gotta throw it off.”

The Blackhawk banked again, rolled nearly onto its back, then whipped upright and nosed over sharply. The engines whined in protest. The stench of aviation fuel filled the cabin.

“Two minutes,” the pilot called.

Tanner glanced out the window. A thousand feet below lay a broad expanse of trees broken by jagged ridges and peaks. Tanner suddenly found himself wondering how close they were to Simon Root's bunker. Somewhere down there was where all this had begun eighty years earlier. There was still time, Briggs reminded himself. Not done yet.

“Target!” the pilot yelled. “Right side!”

Tanner unbuckled himself and crab-walked to the opposite window. Below he could make out a dirt road winding its way up the mountainside. He glimpsed a truck on the road, slipping in and out of view through the trees.

“On top!” the pilot called. “You got a visual?”

“I see him,” Tanner called.

It was a U.S. Army two-and-a-half-ton truck—a “deuce and a half”—painted black, with an olive drab canvas cover.

“Can you put me down ahead of him?” Tanner asked.

“No problem. How far?”

“I'll need five minutes.”

“You got it.”

The Blackhawk ascended and surged forward. Sixty seconds later they nosed over and began descending, until Tanner could see treetops flashing beneath the helo's skids. He grabbed the pack, rifled through it, and tossed everything but the compass, the three fragmentation grenades, and the duct tape.

“What's that for?” Brady asked.

“Tree trimming,” Tanner replied.

The pilot dropped the Blackhawk into a clearing a quarter mile northwest of the road. “You've got your five minutes,” he told Tanner. “The truck'll be coming from the south,” the pilot said. “We'll loiter up top and wait for your call.”

Brady handed Tanner a portable radio, then slid open the door. With a teeth-jarring thud, the skids touched down. Tanner jumped out. Brady slammed the door shut. The Blackhawk lifted off and disappeared over the trees.

Briggs started running.

He sprinted through a copse of birch and elder, over a ridge line, and into the draw beyond. Through a second line of trees he stumbled down an embankment, up the other side, and suddenly found himself standing at the road's edge. To his right the road curved away and down out of view. In the distance he could hear the thumping of the Blackhawk's rotors.

Tanner held his breath and listened. At first there was only silence, and then, faintly, the grinding of a truck's engine.

Tanner looked around, chose a tree he thought would suit his purposes, and ran to it. From the pack he withdrew the fragmentation grenades and the duct tape. He clustered the grenades together on the front of the trunk and wrapped them in tape until only the spoons and pins were left exposed.

Down the road, the truck's engine was coming closer, stuttering and coughing as it struggled up the grade.

He looped his index finger through each of the three pins and jerked them free. He sprinted across the road, threw himself belly first into the ditch, and rolled into a ball.

There was a stuttered
crump,
followed by the crackling of tree limbs. A wave of air washed over Tanner's head. He looked up and found himself staring into the trees' canopy. He scrambled onto the road. Perched horizontally atop its shattered trunk, the bulk of the tree lay diagonally across the road. Tanner crouched behind the trunk, laid the M4 barrel across it, and peered over the sites.

A minute passed, and then another. He should have seen it by now He cocked his head and listened. Silence. No engine. He was lifting the portable radio to his lips when it crackled to life.

“On the ground, do you copy?”

“Roger, go ahead.”

“The target's taken another road; we missed it.”

“Range and bearing,” Tanner called.

“Half a mile to your southeast—call it your ten o'clock. We're heading for the clearing. We'll pick you up—”

“Negative, negative, I'll go on foot. Stay on the target and steer me.”

“Roger.”

At a sprint, Tanner returned to the clearing, then turned southeast through the forest. Tree branches raked his face and arms. He ducked and skidded, fell, then got up and kept going. After three hundred yards, he stopped, radioed the Blackhawk, and gave the pilot his location.

“Target has stopped,” the pilot reported. “It pulled off the road and disappeared into a stand of trees.”

“Point me.”

“From the clearing, make it zero five zero. Use caution; we're blind.”

“Roger.”

Tanner ran on.

He reached a tree line beyond which he could see a clearing. He dropped to his belly and crawled forward. The truck sat near the far edge of the clearing. The driver's seat was empty. To the truck's right was a cabin with a lean-to porch. Patchy moss clung to the roof; smoke trickled from a stone chimney.

Tanner raised the M4 to his shoulder and stepped into the clearing. Swiveling, scanning for movement, he crossed the clearing to the truck and peeked in the back. It was empty. He stepped onto the passenger-side running boards, peered through the window. Nothing.

The cabin door creaked open. Tanner ducked behind the front wheel. A figure emerged from the doorway, trotted down the front steps, and started toward the truck. It was Trpkova.

Tanner laid the M4's site over Trpkova's chest and rose up.

Trpkova saw him, froze.

“Don't move,” Tanner said.

Trpkova met his eyes for a moment, then swiveled his head and glanced back at the cabin.

“Don't do it,” Tanner whispered. “You won't make—”

Trpkova spun and started sprinting for the steps.

“Stop!” Tanner shouted.

As Trpkova's foot touched the first step, Tanner fired. Trpkova lurched sideways, hesitated, then staggered forward. Tanner fired again. Trpkova crumpled.

From inside the cabin a voice called, “Risto? Risto … what's happening? Answer me!” Tanner heard shuffling sounds. Something crashed to the floor. A voice began muttering. “Where are you … where are you …”

M4 held at the ready-low, Briggs walked forward. He knelt to check Trpkova's pulse; there was none. Briggs mounted the porch steps, stepped to the left of the door, and peeked around the corner.

Sitting in a cane wheelchair by the fireplace was an old man. His white hair, what little remained of it, sprouted at wild angles from his wrinkled pate. A mat of beard lay against his chest. His legs and feet were draped in a red woolen blanket.

Tanner eased the door the rest of the way open. To his right was a kitchen counter made of rough planks. Stacks of canned food lined the shelves above it. In the center of the room was a rickety, handmade trestle table littered with plates of half-eaten food. Flies hovered and buzzed. A rat scurried along the baseboard and disappeared into a hole.

Lying in the middle of the table was Trpkova's black briefcase. Tanner started toward it.

“Who are you?” the old man barked. He glared at Tanner through slitted eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Tanner could think of nothing to say. His eyes drifted to the walls. For the first time he realized that every inch of the wood was plastered with yellowed newspaper clippings and what looked to be journal pages covered in a tight scrawl.

“Answer me!” the old man barked. “Where's my grandson?”

Grandson
?
Tanner thought, confused. He looked at the man. He did a quick mental calculation. My god, could it be? It was possible.