They walked through the dew-covered fields down the road toward the simple concrete houses. Cool mountain valley air penetrated their thin uniforms, and most of the men still wore the black wool watch caps they had donned while shivering in the middle of the night. The caps would be ditched by mid-morning as temperatures reached unbearable highs. The jeeps roared to life behind them and soon met up with the soldiers on foot.
When they reached the first set of homes, Marko and Sava were detached to serve as pickets at the western edge of the village. They were tasked to observe the same road the armored personnel carriers used to hastily separate themselves from Marko's paramilitary comrades and report any incoming vehicles. They both quickly turned their attention to the road as doors were forced open and the screaming started. He concentrated on the empty road, as the rest of the squad and the vehicles moved down the road, pushing hesitant villagers ahead of them. Neither of them wanted to look back and acknowledge what was happening.
Marko's thoughts shifted back into the present, as he tracked a crow flying through the air from the west. The large black bird landed on a crude wooden fence several yards back from the road, joining the several dozen already quietly arrayed along the fence. More crows were perched hidden among the nearby trees. They weren't intimidated by the soldiers' presence in Divjaka. They had as much right to be here as the flies, and they were here for the same reason.
"They know something we don't," Sava remarked, dragging on his cigarette.
The man had smoked non-stop since they left a Belgrade primary school soccer field three days ago, and he suspected that the young northern Serb must be close to exhausting his supply of cigarettes. All of them must be running low. Marko carried a pack of cheap Serbian smokes to fit in, but he generally never indulged, unless offered. He had always despised the habit, but his trainers at The Ranch had made it clear that he would smoke. Everyone smoked in Serbia, at least casually. He'd grown accustomed to the taste, and no longer minded the acrid smell of tobacco smoke in cramped spaces. Still, the habit did nothing for him, except help him blend into his environment.
Sava grinned nervously, and Marko wondered what he was thinking. He didn't look or sound too eager to head deeper into the village. He was young and didn't have the same brutal edge that was common among Hadzic's veteran Panthers. This thought brought another concern back into focus. His platoon was comprised of too many newbies, several of which had been swapped into the platoon just after last night's dinner. He was new to the Panther organization and had only been deployed to the field in a large scale operation twice before, but this structure stuck him as odd.
Hadzic's field units typically overflowed with hardened paramilitary veterans of the Bosnia conflict, or former Yugoslav military. The process for integration of new recruits was brutal and discouraged most naive youth. Still, they had no shortage of volunteers, and in times of war, the training camps swelled with eager recruits, pushed through to augment roles left behind by combat hungry veterans. This platoon brimmed with newbies, and that concerned him, though he had no idea why.
His concentration was shattered by the sudden crack of automatic weapons fire, as hundreds of crows scattered, briefly drowning out the sound of the guns. Like the crows, Sava reacted instinctively and threw himself onto the ground next to the slightly raised dirt road. He flinched, but stood impassively in the middle of the road, as the volume of gunfire diminished, finally ending with an occasional crackle. He hadn't felt or heard the familiar snap or hiss of bullets passing near him, so he kept his composure. He knew exactly what had happened and turned his head lazily towards the center of the village. Occasional, single pistol shots started to fill the air, and Sava rose to his feet to rejoin him on the road.
He wore an expression that betrayed his true feelings, and Marko knew that the young Serb felt the same way that he did about the situation. They were both equally relieved to have been assigned to a deserted stretch of road, even if three hundred meters of separation didn't provide them with any absolution for their presence in the valley. Sava's radio crackled, and their respite from the madness was over. They had been recalled to the village center.
He slicked his thick, matted brown hair back with his left hand and wiped the sweat onto his camouflage pants. Sava looked terrified for the first time since they had piled into green, tarp-covered trucks in Belgrade. He patted the kid on the back and nodded.
"Let's get going."
The two of them started to jog down the road, careful not to twist an ankle in the shallow crater created by one of the mortar impacts. He spotted several AUZ jeeps in a clearing to the north of the village. All of the doors in the village had been left open, which gave the village a frightening aura. Almost like it had been abandoned. The first thing he heard was the crying, and it nearly stopped him in his tracks. He searched for the source and saw a group of women and children huddled under a tree, guarded by a soldier. As the scene started to unfold in front of him, he sensed that Sava had stopped altogether.
"Keep moving, or you'll end up in one of those trenches," Marko said, wondering if that was where they might end up anyway.
They were blocked by a group of Panthers and told to leave their weapons stacked against one of the vehicles. He saw several assault rifles leaned against a mud-covered chassis and walked over to the jeep, scanning the area. He could see the pit over the hood of the jeep, just beyond a dozen or so Panthers who were staring down into it. A few of them shook their heads, while others spit at the earth. As he placed his sniper rifle against the jeep's rear tire, Sava joined him.
"Fucking burial duty. Wonderful," Sava said.
"It's typical for new guys," Marko lied.
He hadn't seen shovels among the men standing in front of the long pit. His stomach tensed, and he fought to remain calm. This would probably be his defining "critical point," as the Black Flag psychologists termed it. They had prepared him for these moments, characterizing the different types and their significance. This one looked like a "terminal critical point." He would either survive and emerge as a trusted member of the Panthers, or he would die in the pit along with the rest of the villagers. No aspect of General Sanderson's training program could truly prepare him for what would transpire in the next few moments, and he had to make a choice.
If he lined up with the rest of the men, he would have to take his chances with a gamble he had taken a few weeks ago. A little insurance policy that might save his life. His other option was to put his training to work and fight his way out of here. He might even be able to kill all of them. Half of the group was unarmed, standing like sheep in front of their own grave, all of their weapons stacked at his feet. Twelve remaining men? He had several loaded assault rifles sitting right in front of him. He could sling two of them over his shoulder and start cutting down the armed Panthers with a third. The odds were in his favor, given his capabilities. It might even be blamed on KLA guerillas.
He glanced up at one of the men that had ordered him put his weapon against the jeep. The man's greasepaint camouflage had been recently reapplied, neutralizing his expression, but his eyes gave Marko pause. They were cold and alert. He would have to make his decision within the next fraction of a second. Taking his hand off the sniper rifle, he decided to gamble with his life. The payoff would secure his status among the Panthers, which was the ultimate purpose of his training as a Black Flag operative. He swallowed shallowly and followed Sava around the jeep, never taking his eyes off the hardened soldier escorting them.