APPOINTMENT IN SARAJEVO
by Robert Davidson
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SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Copyright © 2010 Robert Davidson
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook is free.
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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
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This a stand-alone extract from The Tuzla Run
Appointment in Sarajevo
The woman rolled slightly to lift the weight from her left side, slid her right hand into her jacket and tugged the bra strap to free her breast from the cleft between her upper arm and chest. Withdrawing her hand, she then squirmed into a more comfortable prone position and took up the slack of the weapon’s sling against her forearm, by repositioning her left elbow.
Aiming down at a target could cause a careless sharpshooter to underestimate the distance. However, she knew the exact range to each point in her arc of fire, stretching from the corner of Stilovic Street, formed by two sides of the high-rise apartment block, and at the other extreme, bounded by the arched doorway of the play centre.
On her first day on this sector of Sarajevo, the initial shot to test the range had bisected the head of a stray dog scavenging close to the roundabout. Four hours later, her assessment of the range was confirmed when she made the first kill of her assignment. The old woman was the beginning of a chain that included two other women, a middle-aged man and a French Legionnaire wearing a flak jacket. She brought him down with a headshot.
Not all of her shots killed instantaneously; she had seen movement after some strikes, but she was confident that the wounded would not get up. A hit with the Dragunov was invariably fatal. The tearing effect of the slug was horrendous, and the resultant haemorrhaging was massive, to say nothing of the shock caused by a strike anywhere on the human body.
There was no crosswind on the street; she could be sure of this because the thin ribbon on the wreath against the wall of the flats was motionless. Kevic had placed the garland, not out of sympathy for victims, but for sighting purposes.
Every sniper knew the hazards of discovery and to minimize risk, rarely fired a second shot. It was elementary that single well-placed shots and lack of movement, together with good camouflage, ensured survival.
The boy, with his bag of sparse shopping, had to be either suicidal or retarded to remain standing on that corner. Even if he were to walk away now, it would be too late. What was he waiting for? He looked around as if lost. Did the idiot want to die? A few moments more and it would not matter. The thought struck her that, if he had lived, her younger brother would be about the same age as this boy. She thought about Pero to stifle the feeling stirring in her breast and to convince herself that she felt no compassion: men, women or children were all legitimate targets.
As a young girl, she had lived on a small farm bordering the woods some three miles outside Trnovo, and had often gone hunting with her brothers, the elder one now serving with Zeljko Raznatovic’s Arkanoci, the paramilitary unit providing the cutting edge of the ethnic cleansing program.
She had rivalled them both with her accuracy. On stationary artificial targets, her marksmanship was as good as her brothers, but her patience, tenacity and the inborn ability to remain motionless for long periods far exceeded their efforts in those earlier times, when the targets were deer or renegade foxes.
Later, at University, she had taken up skiing as a pastime and soon found that she was a natural at cross-country skiing. Before long, she was a member of the team representing the University, then her country, in the winter biathlon, skiing and target shooting her way to many awards. Her ability to suppress emotion, ignore empathy and tightly rein her imagination was a strength that contributed to success more than ever before.
Pero, who had joined the Army of the Republic of Srpska, died sometime after the November attack by the Croat Muslim forces on Kucin. There was no news of him until the following September when his remains were found near the Rajski Do hotel.
A noose of metal cable pinioned his ankles with a thick piece of wood attached to the other end. Most of his bones were broken and his skull smashed. His shredded clothing showed that his captors had tied him to a vehicle of some sort and dragged him to the hotel.
The young Muslim boy looked both ways, through force of habit, for non-existent traffic. He was about to step off.
The sniper took a deep breath, closed her left eye and took up the slack in the trigger. She realigned the crosshairs and releasing half a breath, paused, and then continued the even pressure on the trigger. Remaining relaxed, but channelling all her concentration through onto the target, she fired. As if the shot suddenly and inexplicably withered the supporting legs, the short figure wilted and dropped to the ground. The sniper slowly lowered the weapon and reached for the ejected casing.
She pulled her logbook towards her and made the necessary entry.
I hope you have enjoyed this extract from The Tuzla Run. For lovers of historical fiction I can recommend http://www.pasttimesbooks.com/ for links to choice reading material.