2

      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?

      Fielding came in. He was in his late thirties, with the air of physical fitness and strength which exuded from all of them.

      ‘We’re on standby.’ The relaxation in the room snapped tight. ‘Briefing in five minutes.’

      Fielding’s room was one along. The floor was wood, the walls a dull yellow, and the rumble of a UN transport taking off for Zagreb shook the ceiling slightly. There were two maps on the table: the HQ BritFor current situation map, and the Director General of Military Survey town map of Maglaj and the countryside immediately surrounding.

      ‘Patrol Orders.’

      Fielding followed the standard pattern:

      Task, beginning with a summary of the operation.

      ‘Maglaj. The UNMO team there reports that the town has been under continual bombardment since sixteen hundred yesterday. The UNMO team leader has spoken to The Boss, and warned that he may have to request an air strike in order to protect his people. The UNMO boys can’t move from their shelter. The Boss wants an FAC in tonight to assess the situation in case he decides to go for an air strike.’

      He ran through the other items under the task heading: country, politics, method of entry, role or target, approximate timings and durations.

      He moved to the second heading.

      Ground: description of area, enemy and own locations, boundaries, landmarks, minefields, entry RV and LZ – rendezvous and landing zones.

      ‘You know the area,’ he told the teams. Because they’d been in Bosnia two months and had familiarized themselves with the terrain. Even so he maintained the standard routine.

      Met report: weather, moon phase, first and last light. Situation: the area of the operation, enemy forces and friendly forces. Civilians: restrictions, curfews, food situation.

      They went through the details on the maps.

      ‘The towns of Maglaj and Tesanj, fifteen kilometres to the north-west, are in a pocket surrounded by Serb forces to the west, north and east and by combined Serb and Croat forces to the south. Maglaj is in two halves, the old and new towns, divided by a river.’

      They focused on the town map of Maglaj: the sweep of the river and the position of the Serb guns, then Fielding moved to the next heading of the briefing.

      ‘Mission. To locate and identify any Serb artillery, tanks and armour, and to mark it for air strike.’ He repeated the mission, then moved on to the next heading. Execution: general outline, entry and return; RV and LUP procedures – rendezvous point and lying up position. Exit phase, RVs and passwords.

      Finn and Janner and their patrols would fly by helicopter to a forward position at the British Battalion base near Vitez. They would wait there for final briefings, plus the green light for insertion. At last light they would chopper the fifty kilometres to the Maglaj pocket. Both patrols would be dropped at the same time, Finn would then take his patrol to the hills on the west of the town, and Janner would take his to the east. The two groups would establish the positions of the guns or tanks shelling the town, and guide the attack planes in by laser if Thorne requested an air strike and the UN approved it.

      ‘This is a hard routine patrol,’ Fielding told them. Therefore there would be no cooking, because cooking might give their positions to the opposition. They would only take food which they could eat cold: tins of stew, beans, sausages, plus Mars bars.

      They moved to the last heading.

      Logistics and communications: arms and ammunition, dress and equipment, rations, special equipment including LTM – laser target markers – and medical packs.

      ‘Any questions?’

      ‘Why two patrols?’ Finn asked.

      ‘According to the UNMO team not all the firing positions can be observed from one side of the valley.’

      ‘What are the chances of an air strike?’ Janner this time. Which is to say, what are the odds we’re going to freeze for nothing?

      ‘Has to be a first sometime,’ Fielding told him noncommittally.

      They went into the details of the helicopter drop-offs and the OPs.

      In an ideal world the drop would be at least five kilometres from where they would establish themselves, because helicopters could be seen and heard, therefore shouldn’t land anywhere near where they were headed. Therefore the helicopter would drop them in the middle of the pocket, midway between Maglaj and Tesanj.

      ‘What else do we know about Maglaj?’

      ‘Ian Morris took a patrol in two months ago, organized some food drops. His sitrep’s already on the way.’ Sitrep – situation report. ‘You’ll have it before you leave Vitez tonight.’

      They returned to their own room, the two teams splitting and Finn and Janner going through their own patrol orders, this time in more detail, each man in the patrol asking questions and throwing in ideas as he saw fit.

      An hour later the two teams