Warriors (9781101621189) Read Free Page A

of a high-velocity bullet. The sergeant dropped to his knees as if to rest. Then he fell forward, flat on his face, rifle still clutched underneath him. Blood gushed from the exit wound in his back, spattered the black loam and the green leaves of lettuce.
    â€œSniper!” DuÅ¡ic shouted.
    His men rushed to cover. DuÅ¡ic dived for the scant protection of furrows. Some of his men took positions in the woods to the side of the garden.
    The sniper’s weapon boomed again, and a soldier behind DuÅ¡ic screamed. The sniper, that Muslim piece of excrement, had set a trap. The Turk had known the minefield would channel any patrol right into his sights.
    Some of DuÅ¡ic’s men—the ones among the trees—opened up on full automatic. Under the shield of that covering fire, DuÅ¡ic and the rest of the soldiers still in the garden rose to their feet and sprinted for the forest. They left the two wounded troops where they’d been shot: to treat them now would amount to suicide.
    DuÅ¡ic slid onto the carpet of pine needles inside the woods. Beside him, one of his soldiers fired burst after burst into the house.
    â€œDid you get him?” DuÅ¡ic asked.
    â€œNo, sir,” the soldier said. “I can see his head and part of his weapon, but the distance is too great, and he ducks when I fire.”
    â€œListen, everyone,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Cease fire.” DuÅ¡ic thought for a moment. His men had handled this ambush well, thanks to his quick-thinking NCOs. Otherwise, his youngest troops, mere fuzz-faced
razvodnik
s, would have died where they stood, pissing their pants. He called on his best NCO. “Stefan,” he whispered, “get up here.”
    DuÅ¡ic’s own sniper came forward in a crouch. Stefan carried an M48 Mauser equipped with a ZRAK scope. DuÅ¡ic had offered to get the man a more modern weapon than that bolt-action relic, but Stefan said he needed no higher rate of fire; one bullet at a time would suffice.
    â€œViktor,” Stefan said as he kneeled beside DuÅ¡ic. First names between officers and sergeants did not accord with Yugoslav military tradition, but Stefan had earned enough respect that DuÅ¡ic permitted it. DuÅ¡ic would have slapped any other enlisted man who dared call him Viktor.
    â€œYou know what to do, my friend,” DuÅ¡ic whispered. Then he hissed, “Five of you, retreat farther into the woods, and make some noise doing it. Let that Muslim think we’re leaving.” As the men began to move, DuÅ¡ic shouted, “Fall back!”
    A few of the soldiers crawled several meters away, cracking twigs and kicking their boots against the trunks of trees. “Good,” DuÅ¡ic whispered, “good.”
    â€œYou are one crafty bastard,” Stefan said.
    â€œFlatter me later,” DuÅ¡ic muttered. “Now kill that son of a whore.”
    Stefan adjusted the windage knob on his scope, regarded the house, settled into a prone position. Old M48s like Stefan’s weapon were common as dirt. DuÅ¡ic’s mind strayed for just an instant—maybe after the war he could sell those things to sportsmen. Then he chided himself:
Pay attention. An officer must command at every moment.
    But at this moment, Stefan needed little by way of command. He watched through his scope with what seemed to DuÅ¡ic a preternatural patience, like a cat waiting to strike, motionless but for the flick of its tail—waiting, waiting for the rat.
    And the rat took the bait. The Turk sniper peered from the broken lumber of a shattered upper floor. A splintered plank hid the Turk’s left shoulder and part of his head. The rat exposed only part of his face. Enough for Stefan. He pressed the trigger.
    The M48 slammed, rocked Stefan’s upper body with recoil. DuÅ¡ic saw the briefest spray of red as the eight-millimeter bullet found its target. The Turkish rat dropped.
    â€œBravo,” DuÅ¡ic said.
    â€œWait,” Stefan