As the Cougar rumbled through Bihać, James’s mind registered gunfire in the distance. “Gunner up,” he ordered sharply. With only a moment’s hesitation, the forward gun came up. “I hear rifle fire in the distance.” He was staring into the heart of the city before he fully realized that the fog had cleared. Ramshackle, bombed-out buildings met his forceful gaze.
He could see puffs of smoke coming from an upper window of the “The Ritz,” a seven-story building that once housed eighty families. Now it was simply a target. Both sides used it. Both sides blamed the other, and the Canadians who protected the area were unable to stop it.
“Turn left at the next corner.” Morgan looked behind him. “Oh, shit!” The other vehicles hadn’t come out of the fog yet.
They were alone.
Demolished buildings lay all around him. Two men and a woman, all elderly, ducked behind the Cougar and trotted along as they crossed an intersection. Snipers had become a routine part of the day, but after some adjustment, life went on as usual for most of the city’s inhabitants. Grocery shopping was still necessary, and the protection afforded by the occasional armored vehicle rolling through the city made shopping that much safer.
Morgan lowered his seat and closed the hatch. “Left turn on my mark,” he ordered. A part of his brain was fixed on the apartment building while he scanned the remainder of the city through the periscope. He sensed movement before he actually saw the streak of grayish white smoke blister from The Ritz. “Mark!” he yelled, and braced for the sharp turn. The Cougar darted between two houses.
The trail of a 76 mm antitank rocket streaked past the exhaust plumes and exploded fifteen feet from the Cougar. The rear wheels briefly lifted off the ground as shrapnel, rocks, and dirt rained down.
“Where are we going?” Corporal Boyce yelled from the driver’s hatch.
“Papa Charlie One, this is Bravo Niner. Contact! Wait out.” Morgan took a deep breath and looked at the map he pulled out of his pocket. Just once, he hoped, headquarters would move before thinking. He held his finger on the map and looked to the sides for the grid reference. “This is Bravo Niner. We are taking small-arms and rocket fire from The Ritz.” His voice was strained, but under control. “Request immediate support on grid two-three-five-six, four-eight-one-three. I say again, grid two-three-five-six, four-eight-one-three. Out.” He switched to the patrol’s own channel and called the other vehicles. “Bravo One. Bravo Two. This is Niner. Where the hell are you guys?”
“This is Bravo One. Where’d you go, Niner?”
Morgan shook his head. Another rocket landed close by and violently rocked the Cougar. “Head for The Ritz. We’ve got a sniper and rockets on the south side.”
“Hello Bravo Niner,” a British voice called over the radio. “This is Victor Seven. We are under fire from rockets and small arms. One vehicle is disabled. Can you help?”
“Victor Seven this is Bravo Niner. What is your location?”
“Victor Seven here. We are on the north side of The Ritz taking fire—sweet Jesus.” James heard a gunshot over the radio before it cut out.
Several rounds from a machine gun rained down on the cougar. “Victor Seven! Victor Seven!” he yelled. There was no reply. “Boyce! Get us around this goddamned building, now. Victor Seven. Victor Seven. This is Bravo Niner.” He shook his head. “Bravo One, Bravo Two. Approach from the north. We’re going in from the west.”
Morgan looked behind him when there was no answer. He swore and threw the microphone down. Two of the antenna wires were severed. He didn’t know how, but the possibilities were limited to faulty equipment or enemy fire. The way things were looking right now, he chose the latter. He had no means of communication outside his own vehicle.
Morgan spun the periscope from side to side as the Cougar sped between the buildings. As they neared the end of the street, a plume of black smoke rose less than one hundred meters away. “Get as close to that smoke as you can.”
The smell of burning diesel permeated the vehicle. Morgan scanned the area and finally focused on the two vehicles in front. They were Saxons, British versions of the Cougar. Smoke poured out of one, but the second seemed undamaged.
“Boyce. What kind of cover we got?” he called out.
“Shit.”
“Take the gunner’s seat. Keep a steady stream on those windows. Emerson! See what happened to that vehicle. I’ll cover and go to the second one.” The sound of the machine gun began to echo inside the vehicle. They pushed the heavy doors open and rolled to the side of the Cougar. Empty casings rained down as Boyce fired short, five-round bursts.
Emerson ran forward as Morgan trained his rifle on the building. He tried the latch, and then pounded on the metal doors. Nobody opened them.
“Emerson, see if the commander’s hatch is unlocked and get inside.” Morgan moved forward and pounded on the back hatch again. “NATO. Open the hatch.” Nothing. He spun around and started firing at the windows. He wasn’t sure what he was firing at, but he had to cover his man. He could feel the Saxon move ever so slightly as Emerson climbed up, and within seconds, could hear movement inside. The handles moved and Emerson opened the door, coughing violently as thick black smoke billowed out.
“How many?”
“Six,” Emerson croaked.
“Boyce! Spin around and cross load. We’ve got to get these boys out of here.”
The machine gun stopped as the Cougar reversed. James ran for the second vehicle and saw the radioman slumped over the console—a hole in the side of his head told the story.
Morgan wiped the sweat from his brow. “What the hell is going on?” The sound of a single shot echoed off The Ritz, and he ducked back inside the Saxon. “That wasn’t at me.” He poked his head out and looked around. A second shot echoed off the houses. He ran crouched to the edge of the building, and peeked around the corner.
For a split second, the scene before him didn’t register. “Sonofabitch.” He brought his rifle to his shoulder, fired several quick bursts, and moved into the open; his rifle still trained on the enemy. Most of the Bosnian soldiers that stood over the British Saxon crew only moments before now lay dead on the ground.
Two British soldiers were dead. The remaining six were on their knees, hands bound behind them. “Drop your weapons!” Morgan ordered the Bosnians still standing. The British turned their heads to the new sound. “Drop ’em! Now!” The Bosnians swung their weapons toward him.
Morgan fired. Both men fell. He looked down. The rifle bolt was jammed halfway forward.
Morgan ran forward and dropped the rifle beside him. His breathing was labored and he was scared, but his movements were smooth. He pulled the bayonet from his webbing and cut the wire around the British soldiers’ hands. Pulling the blindfold off, he asked, “You okay?” The man nodded. “Grab a rifle and watch my back. Your vehicle is just around the corner.”
The British soldier started to nod. “Look out!” he yelled.
Morgan spun around and brought his arm up to protect himself. A searing pain swept over him as the blade of a bayonet plunged into his forearm. His own bayonet swung up and buried itself in his assailant’s chest. The two men fell to the ground, their eyes locked together, and were still.
Two Bosnian soldiers ran toward them. Morgan unsnapped the holster and pulled the pistol from its sheath. He fired, emptying the magazine in seconds. Momentum carried the enemy forward until they fell mere inches in front of him, so close that he could see the stitching on their uniforms, the dirt under their fingernails, and each hair of a day’s growth of beard.
Morgan choked back the foul taste in his mouth. The Bosnian soldier he was still lying on was dead. He stood up and wiped the bayonet on his pant leg before sliding it back into the scabbard. His hands shook and it took