Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

mate,’ the man in the room in the Ops Centre told him. ‘Keep your head down. See you for breakfast.’

      ‘Thanks, mate.’

      

      It was six in the morning, the shells still falling like express trains. The room was cold and Jovan was shivering, crying slightly. Kara left whatever protection the bed gave them, lit a candle, placed it on the table, then relit the fire, watching the flames flicker then gather strength. I’m hungry: she saw it in her son’s eyes. Tried to kindle the mental strength to reply.

      It was seven o’clock, almost eight, the day outside getting light and the shells still raining down. Sometimes close, sometimes on to the new town on the other side of the river. Part of her mind telling her that soon the Chetniks on the hills would launch their morning burst of shellfire on the town, and that after that the shelling would stop, and then her only worry would be crossing the bridge to the food kitchens on the other side. Another part of her brain reminding her that the first thought was illogical, because the Chetniks had been shelling Maglaj all night and weren’t going to stop now.

      In Vienna the peace negotiators would be assembling; in Vienna the limos would be drawing up outside whatever hotel they were using and the politicians would be hurrying in, the newsmen clustered round them like bees round honey, anxious for every word they spoke. Most of the newsmen swallowing any line the politicians told them. MacFarlane logged the next round and waited for the next.

      This is crazy – he glanced at the faces of the others. They were soldiers, but here they were sitting in a house in a town being shelled and in which people were dying, yet they could do nothing about it. Partly because they were unarmed, in line with the agreement on the placement of UN military observers, but mainly because it was not their job. Not even the job of the United Nations, with its battalions of soldiers present in the country under the UNPROFOR plan, and with the naval power off the coast and the air strike capacity waiting on the runways in Italy. Because they were bound by their own rules of engagement. Or, and more accurately, their rules on non-engagement.

      Except there was a way, of course.

      Sure, it would mean bending the rules; sure it would assume that Thorne, the British general in charge of UNPROFOR, would understand not just what MacFarlane was asking but why he was asking it; that Thorne could get the necessary go-ahead from his political masters at the United Nations. But at least he could try. At least he could leave this place with a clean conscience.

      He checked his watch and counted in the next rounds.

      

      ‘Mummy,’ Kara heard her son’s voice. ‘It’s hurting.’

      ‘What’s hurting, my little one?’ There were tears on his face. She took his head in her hands and held him against her.

      ‘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