Page 85 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
CRACK!
A round slammed into the tree he lay next to, stinging the left side of his face, his left eye blinded with his own hot blood. He wiped it away with his hand as he pressed himself into the dirt and pine needles, waiting for the Serb volley of fire to cease. When it did, he jumped to his feet, pulled out his pistol from his leg holster, and shouted orders to his men to follow him to glory.
He bolted out of the tree line, keeping the flaming lead tank between himself and the Serbs in the far meadow, but as his feet hit the dirt he heard the sickening whir of a twenty-millimeter chain gun far above him. He glanced up just in time to see the rooster tail of dirt a hundred yards away racing toward him, cutting down more brothers in their tracks.
Sadayev shouted,“Allahu akbar!”knowing that his death was a blink away, until a speeding finger of smoke reached into the sky, smashing the Gazelle in a crushing, fiery fist.
Sadayev shouted again as the flaming wreckage tumbled toward the earth, his good right eye tracking the smoke trail back to its source on the ground.
Red Wing lowered the 9K38 Igla “Needle,” a Russian MANPADS—man-portable air-defense system. He stood completely exposed in the middle of the road, dust kicking up all around him from Serb bullets fired in his direction. Sadayev nodded his thanks as Red Wing tossed the Igla aside and pulled out his own pistol, following Sadayev toward the Serbs in the meadow at a full run.
—
The surviving Serbs knelt in a line in the dirt of the village square, close enough to the smoldering wreck of the BOV-30 scout vehicle to smell the burnt flesh inside.
Wounded in battle or bleeding from their brutal interrogations, the seven White Eagles struggled to stay on their knees, their hands clasped behind their heads and their uniform collars secured by the hands of the Saudi and Tunisian jihadis standing behind them.
Sadayev nodded his command. His left eye was heavily bandaged and his tunic blackened with his own dried blood.
Seven razor-sharp serrated blades flashed in unison above the Serbians’ heads, and the seven jihadis shouted“Allahu akbar!”as one. To the Serbs’ credit, none of them wailed like women, Sadayev noted, as the blades opened up their throats and hot blood spewed into the dust. But they all struggled as the sharp blades continued their gruesome work.
Minutes later, the severed heads were set on a wall and several of Sadayev’s men posed smiling and laughing next to their grimacing trophies. They held up a black AQAB flag between them for a picture. A Jordanian shouted encouragement as he snapped photos with his thirty-five-millimeter film camera.
“I understand the brothers have carried out similar operations against the Orthodox in the east,” Red Wing said, watching the other fighters cutting off the White Eagles unit patches from the corpses’ uniforms.
“We mujahideen are the sword of Allah. Our Bosniak brothers haven’t the stomach for such things. But with more weapons, we will prevail against these Serb wolves, even if the sheepish brothers won’t join us.”
“What will you do after you win the war?”
“It’s good country here. I will take a Bosniak wife. Perhaps even change my name. Raise up an army of sons to keep the land and raise the flag over all of Europe someday.”
“I have no doubt you will prevail, my friend. But if you should lose? Then what?”
Sadayev laughed. “The same! We never lose. We only wait.” He clapped Red Wing on his shoulder. “You are a good fighter. We can use you here. I wish you would stay.”
“There are as many wars to fight as there are trees. I go where I am needed.”
“Like a bird, flying to your next branch. Where to next?”
Red Wing only smiled. He wasn’t at liberty to say.
Sadayev understood. “Perhaps we will meet again. In this life, or the next.Inshallah.”
“Yes. In this life, or the next. But this life would be better for both of us, eh?”
43
NEAR VIŠEGRAD, REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Brkic’s unmarked panel van straddled the narrow asphalt lane, blocking the only road leading to the restaurant overlooking the river.
Through his Gen 3 night-vision monocular, he watched his men gathering in the trees above the restaurant, guns at the ready, faces masked. Bloodstained White Eagles patches were sewn to their camouflage uniforms, trophies from an earlier war.
The same war,Brkic corrected himself. Twenty-six years and counting.
Or was it five hundred?
He swung his monocular down to the dining area, a covered porch with candlelit tables and a spectacular daytime view of the rushing turquoise waters of the Drina River down below. Each table was crowded with hungry, happy wedding guests.The bride and groom’s table stood at the end, their backs to Brkic’s night-vision device. Even from here he could smell the bitter tang of cigarettes and the smoky-sweet aroma of grilled beef wafting in the soft breeze.
