a stark concrete cell in the Centralni Zatvor, Belgrade’s Central Prison,
submerged in darkness except for the flicker of candle light reaching him from
beneath the cell’s metal door. It had been weeks since he’d seen electric
light, so effective had NATO’s air campaign been to knock out Serbia’s
electricity system. Since he’d been captured, he’d been beaten and interrogated
many times. He’d managed to hold out, but his resistance was weakening.
He rubbed his nose absently. It
was sore to the touch, and swollen. He hadn’t seen a mirror since he’d been
shot down, but he knew his nose was broken, and from the sustained swelling on
the side of his face, he suspected his cheek bone was fractured. The Serb
doctors had provided him with basic medical attention, which was undone at the
next interrogation. He knew the Serbs were desperate, faced with an air
campaign that was reducing their country to rubble and a civil war that was
slipping out of their control. Even so, Serb air defenses were proving much
more difficult to defeat than was generally known back home.
Nevertheless, Jack had no doubt
what the result would be. I’ve just got to hang on, he thought, until they surrender, then I’ll be going
home ,
The cell echoed with the clang of
the metal door swinging open, then two Serb soldiers dragged him out. They
forced him at gun point through dark corridors to a large square interrogation
room, where they pushed him roughly into a wooden chair. An elaborate, multi
fingered candelabra stood on the table in front of him, where two Serb intelligence
officers sat looking through his file and their notes. The limited light from
the candles left the edges of the room shrouded in darkness, obscuring the seats
positioned along the walls. Sometimes observers would sit in the shadowy
periphery, taking additional notes or requesting specific questions. Usually a
doctor drifted in and out of the light, ensuring the beatings were never fatal.
The more senior officer did the
talking. His English was remarkably good, suggesting he’d spent time living in
an English speaking country. Jack still didn’t know his interrogator’s name. He’d
been told in training that in these situations, interrogators tried to build relationships
with their subjects, but this officer clearly hadn’t read that book. As usual,
the soldiers stood behind him, ready to administer beatings if his answers were
unsatisfactory.
“Give your name and rank,” the
Serb interrogator said simply.
Are we
going back to the beginning? Jack wondered. He
hadn’t been asked that for days. “Jack Balard, Colonel, United States Air
Force.”
“What type of aircraft were you
flying when you were shot down?”
What the hell? he thought. They know all this.
The interrogator tilted his head.
“Answer the question, Colonel.”
“I was piloting a F117 Nighthawk.”
It was no secret. They’d already shown him pieces of the wreckage. The air
force had not destroyed it, initially because they were unaware of its
location, later because the Serbs placed dozens of women and children on and
around the wreckage, preventing an airstrike.
“You were operating out of Aviano
Air Base, in northern Italy, correct?”
“Yes.”
“What flight paths are assigned
to the stealth bombers when they attack Serbia?”
They’d asked that question many
times also. He knew they wanted to site their anti-air missiles beneath the
flight paths, to increase the chance of more shootdowns. Slowly, he shook his
head. “Don’t know. They change all the time.” It was a partial lie. Transit
routes were varied, but the Dayton Accords had dangerously limited the options
open to Allied Air Forces, forcing them to fly predictable courses.
“Liar!” The intelligence officer
shouted suddenly, motioning to a soldier who jabbed Jack in the stomach with
the end of a wooden bat, knocking him to the floor. Another soldier dragged him
back onto the chair, where he sat hunched
submerged in darkness except for the flicker of candle light reaching him from
beneath the cell’s metal door. It had been weeks since he’d seen electric
light, so effective had NATO’s air campaign been to knock out Serbia’s
electricity system. Since he’d been captured, he’d been beaten and interrogated
many times. He’d managed to hold out, but his resistance was weakening.
He rubbed his nose absently. It
was sore to the touch, and swollen. He hadn’t seen a mirror since he’d been
shot down, but he knew his nose was broken, and from the sustained swelling on
the side of his face, he suspected his cheek bone was fractured. The Serb
doctors had provided him with basic medical attention, which was undone at the
next interrogation. He knew the Serbs were desperate, faced with an air
campaign that was reducing their country to rubble and a civil war that was
slipping out of their control. Even so, Serb air defenses were proving much
more difficult to defeat than was generally known back home.
Nevertheless, Jack had no doubt
what the result would be. I’ve just got to hang on, he thought, until they surrender, then I’ll be going
home ,
The cell echoed with the clang of
the metal door swinging open, then two Serb soldiers dragged him out. They
forced him at gun point through dark corridors to a large square interrogation
room, where they pushed him roughly into a wooden chair. An elaborate, multi
fingered candelabra stood on the table in front of him, where two Serb intelligence
officers sat looking through his file and their notes. The limited light from
the candles left the edges of the room shrouded in darkness, obscuring the seats
positioned along the walls. Sometimes observers would sit in the shadowy
periphery, taking additional notes or requesting specific questions. Usually a
doctor drifted in and out of the light, ensuring the beatings were never fatal.
The more senior officer did the
talking. His English was remarkably good, suggesting he’d spent time living in
an English speaking country. Jack still didn’t know his interrogator’s name. He’d
been told in training that in these situations, interrogators tried to build relationships
with their subjects, but this officer clearly hadn’t read that book. As usual,
the soldiers stood behind him, ready to administer beatings if his answers were
unsatisfactory.
“Give your name and rank,” the
Serb interrogator said simply.
Are we
going back to the beginning? Jack wondered. He
hadn’t been asked that for days. “Jack Balard, Colonel, United States Air
Force.”
“What type of aircraft were you
flying when you were shot down?”
What the hell? he thought. They know all this.
The interrogator tilted his head.
“Answer the question, Colonel.”
“I was piloting a F117 Nighthawk.”
It was no secret. They’d already shown him pieces of the wreckage. The air
force had not destroyed it, initially because they were unaware of its
location, later because the Serbs placed dozens of women and children on and
around the wreckage, preventing an airstrike.
“You were operating out of Aviano
Air Base, in northern Italy, correct?”
“Yes.”
“What flight paths are assigned
to the stealth bombers when they attack Serbia?”
They’d asked that question many
times also. He knew they wanted to site their anti-air missiles beneath the
flight paths, to increase the chance of more shootdowns. Slowly, he shook his
head. “Don’t know. They change all the time.” It was a partial lie. Transit
routes were varied, but the Dayton Accords had dangerously limited the options
open to Allied Air Forces, forcing them to fly predictable courses.
“Liar!” The intelligence officer
shouted suddenly, motioning to a soldier who jabbed Jack in the stomach with
the end of a wooden bat, knocking him to the floor. Another soldier dragged him
back onto the chair, where he sat hunched
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