Gordon Stevens - Kara’s Game

‘My tummy.’

‘Let’s see.’ The boy was hungry, just as she was hungry. Which meant that she would have to risk the bridge again, except that today she couldn’t because of the shelling. She opened his coat, pulled up the layers of sweater and shirt, and rubbed his stomach gently. ‘Better now?’ she asked.

The shell was close to the house. Please may Adin come home today, because if he doesn’t we’ll die. But please may Adin not try to come home today, because if he does the shells will kill him.

It was ten o’clock, the mortars and artillery shells still falling around them. ‘Discussion time.’ MacFarlane gathered his team round the table. ‘It is my intention to inform General Thorne that at some time in the near future I may have to consider requesting him to call in an air strike.’ The Tilley lamp was on the table, slightly off centre, the light illuminating their faces and the rest of the room in darkness. ‘Comments on that line of action?’

‘What reason will you give?’ It was Anderssen, the Norwegian.

Because we all know that air strikes can only be called in under highly specific guidelines. And those guidelines exclude the protection of people like the poor sods dying outside.

The noise from the street was almost deafening, the walls reverberating and plaster falling from the ceiling.

‘What I’ll say is that we are confined to our operating base and therefore cannot properly fulfil our role as military monitors. That if we attempt to, one or all of us will certainly be killed. That if we try to withdraw we’ll also probably be killed, and that if we stay inside we still run a major risk.’

‘What about the people?’ Because that’s what we’re really talking about here.

‘The people are a moral issue. I’m dealing with a technical situation relating to UNPROFOR personnel.’

‘Because that’s the only way you stand a chance of calling in an air strike?’ The Norwegian was looking straight at him.

Wonder what happened to the woman and kid on the bridge – MacFarlane sipped his coffee. Wonder if they’re dead yet, and if not, how long it will be before they are. ‘As I said at the beginning, it is my intention to inform General Thorne that at some time in the near future I may have to consider requesting him to call in an air strike.’ He looked at them for confirmation.

‘Air strike,’ Umbegi said simply.

‘Agreed,’ said the Norwegian and the Belgian, almost together.

‘Timetable?’ Anderssen asked. Christ, it was daytime, but the temperature seems to be going down rather than up.

‘We can’t move, therefore Thorne will have to send in a couple of FACs.’ Forward Air Controllers. ‘Presumably they’d come in tonight.’ Two teams, one each side of the valley because it was impossible from one side to get line of vision on all the positions which would be necessary to laser-guide the attack planes on to their targets. ‘Which means that the earliest an air strike could be launched would be tomorrow.’ Which was a long way off, but better than never. ‘Agreed?’ he asked them.

‘Agreed.’

Two radio nets had been assigned them. The first, HF through Vitez, was so-called all-informed, in line with the standard system of communication where line of sight was a problem, and the second was direct to Thorne via a satellite.

MacFarlane ignored the first and chose the second.

‘Zeus. This is Lear. Over.’

‘Lear. This is Zeus.’

Thorne’s signaller was never further than a room from the general; he travelled in the general’s armoured Range Rover when Thorne went by road, and in the general’s helicopter when Thorne went by air.

An UNMO team wouldn’t be coming through on the direct net unless it was urgent, he understood. ‘Better get The Boss,’ he told the man apparently relaxed in the hardbacked chair next to him. The man left the office, nodded at the second man positioned in the corridor, knocked on the door of the conference room and went in without being told to enter.

The coffee cups were on the table; some of the men present wore combat uniform and the others civilian suits: Thorne in discussion with his military commanders and the representatives of his political masters.

‘Lear on the secure net,’ the minder whispered to Thorne.

In a way Thorne had expected it.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’

The general was early fifties, tall and apparently slim build. He left the conference room, crossed to the office being used by his signaller, and waited till the man who was his constant shadow closed the door.

‘Lear. This is Zeus. Send. Over.’

‘Lear. Sitrep. The situation in Maglaj is becoming serious. I feel I should warn you that I may request an air strike. Over.’

‘Zeus. I read your reports overnight. Justification? Over.’

Because we both know the UN prefers to sit on its butt rather than risk upsetting anyone’s apple cart. And because we both understand the narrowness of the restrictions placed on such action.

‘Lear. Shelling has been continuous for the past eighteen hours. We are confined to our base, but even if we do not leave it I am approaching the position where I can no longer guarantee the safety of my men. Over.’

‘Zeus. How bad is it, Tom?’ Thorne broke the formality. ‘Over.’

‘Lear. The worst I’ve seen, and about to go downhill fast. Over.’

‘Zeus. The UN will request a stop to firing immediately. Decision on an FAC in two hours. Over.’

Which meant that Thorne would send his men in, MacFarlane understood. And once they were in position, and assuming the onslaught on Maglaj didn’t abate, Thorne would request an air strike.

‘Lear. Thank you. Over.’

‘Zeus. Keep in touch. Out.’

He would brief the meeting on the development – already Thorne was working out how he would play it. But before that he would task Fielding. And while the politicians were busy pointing out the diplomatic implications and nuances and repercussions, Fielding would already be tasking Finn and Janner.

The room was on the first floor of the anonymous block on the left of the main gate of the British headquarters at Split. Half a kilometre away in one direction was the airport servicing this part of the Dalmatian coast, half a kilometre in another were the pebble beaches and what in summer were the clear blue waters of the Adriatic. Now the islands of Brac and Hvar hung like ghosts in the winter fog, and the damp mixed with the cold.

The eight bunks were along one wall, and the television set was in the corner. Finn slumped in an armchair and watched the news coverage of the peace talks in Vienna on the feed from the British Forces Television service, some of the other seven men with whom he shared the room also watching. Finn was early thirties, strong upper body and a little over six feet tall. Like the others he was dressed in camouflage fatigues, their packs and weapons by the bunks. Already that morning they had worked out in the makeshift gym on the ground floor.

According to a UN spokesperson, the ceasefire in Bosnia was holding, the report was saying. The images from the Vienna hotel where the latest talks were being held showed the politicians going in and coming out, and the international negotiators smiling and talking about the possibility of a breakthrough. The images from London were slightly different: the British Foreign Secretary commenting on the possibility of peace but being careful in the way he always was. The reporter was summing up the mood in Vienna that morning, quoting direct from the Bosnian Serb delegates. Where the hell have you been for the past year and a half? Finn thought. The politicos have said the same thing a hundred times before and each time they were lying, so why the hell should we believe them this time?