KOSOVO

CHAPTER Two

The polls having received their daily prodding, the president turned the podium over to White House Chief of Staff Potter to brief the press on the aid package he was proposing. It was an odd business, bombing the hell out of them and then sending over millions in aid. He had run into walls left and right pushing this program through, but then Clayton Potter was never one to give up easily. This was his baby, and he was going to see it through. The most powerful man in the world continued down the hall, nodding to the men at the door whose job it was to protect his life with their own.

It was almost dusk when the president walked into Potter's office and sat down in one of the large overstuffed chairs facing his desk. Clayton was talking on the telephone, making notes in the margins of a report on his desk. When the president came in, he cut the conversation short and hung up.

"Hello, Mr. President," he said, as he shuffled the papers on his desk. "How are the polls?"

"Approval rating's up two, Clayton," the president chuckled. They had covered this ground before - the president chiding the chief of staff for his blind devotion to his aid package, the chief hounding him about his allegiance to the polls.

"Was that another detractor?' the president asked, gesturing towards the phone.

"No, strictly personal. I bought a couple of first editions for Amy, and I wanted to make sure they got here before her birthday."

The president settled into the chair and crossed his legs. "Clay, I wanted to talk to you about this aid package. People are having a hard time getting behind it, so soon after the bombing's stopped."

"The people have a hard time with it, Mr. President?" Potter asked with raised eyebrows. '"Is that what the polls say?"

"Don't get your lather up, Clay. It's just that we've definitely taken sides here, you know, Kosovars right, Serbs wrong - and now to go and put millions into helping them rebuild. Well, it's going to take time."

"Mr. President, these people don't have time. We've annihilated their supply chains. Water, power, transportation, food - it all needs rebuilding and that takes time, too."

"I know, Clay. War is hell."

What damn gall, thought Potter. He had been an army man for more years than he cared to count, rising to the rank of colonel before being tapped for the White House position. Now this clown, who'd never spent a day in the service, was telling him about war.

"Mr. President, the program is up and running already. You and I have already discussed it, it's been past the house. There's plenty of support within, and it needs to happen. You know it does. The people will get behind it. It's humanitarian aid, and it's the American thing to do."

"I agree with you, Clay, I know we need to help. Just don't say much else about it from the pulpit for a while, okay?"

"Yes sir, Mr. President."

b c b

The Balkans had been a powder keg for generations. No matter what action was taken, it seemed half the world was against you, and the other half was silent. There was no safe middle ground. Now, as the bombing stopped and peacekeeping troops advanced, the tension was clearly visible to all involved.

Ivan Mastrovic had lived through it all for over 30 years. His brother had lost a leg in the war with Bosnia, and his dear friend Slatko had been killed four months ago by an American bomb. Now his people looked to these same Americans for food, clothing and shelter. He found it hard to stomach the hypocrisy; hit you down with one hand and help you up with the other. The Americans were not to be trusted.

The first shipment of aid from the Americans was a load of shoes. Definitely a necessity, but Ivan wondered how many years these had been gathering dust in their warehouses. They were black men's shoes, and so stiff they cracked when they were bent.

The second shipment was plastic cups. These, too, were so old and musty that they cracked if you gave them a squeeze. Armed soldiers stood dutifully by as cheap plastic cups were handed out to the sick, the homeless. Cheap plastic American cups. That was the weekend that Ivan heard the White House Chief Potter on American television, bragging about the millions that had been raised for their aid. He knew the American's greed had overtaken his generosity.

Ivan began to make noises to the local authorities. This American politician was using their hardship to get rich. They told him he must be mistaken; and even if that were the case, what could they do? The supplies were free; no one had asked for them, it was a gift.

That evening, Ivan sat and sipped his Turkish coffee under the stars in the square when he heard clearly spoken English. Turning to look, he saw 2 men who could only be American journalists ordering drinks. He got up from his chair and approached their table.

"You are Americans?" he asked.

"Yes, we are. We're with the United Press agency."

"Your government is sending us yard sale cast-offs and calling it humanitarian aid. First it rained American bombs - now it rains American trash."

"What are you talking about?" one of the men asked.

"The cargo being delivered here is government surplus. I can not provide for my family with broken cups and crumbling shoes."

The Americans listened as Ivan told of the two aid shipments he had seen so far. They whispered to each other and wrote as he spoke, and asked to take his picture. He declined, and gave only his first name. They thanked him and left, each giving him a business card.

That had been a month ago. Then finally this morning another American shipment had arrived. This one held generators, wool blankets, medicines and big thick jackets. The Americans had just off-loaded two boxes of medicines when a shot rang out. One of the townspeople jumped up as if pulled by a string, and then slumped to the ground.

As soon as they heard the shot, the soldiers pushed the people away and slammed the door shut. While the townspeople looked on in dismay, the truck took off down the road, and did not return.

There had been no problems with snipers up until that point, and Ivan wondered why it should begin now, and why, if the American truck was the cause of the rage, was a soldier not the target.

Ivan ran over to the woman to see if he could help. Another woman was kneeling next to her, holding her head and crying. It was obvious there was no need to rush her to the hospital. Ivan offered a few words of comfort, then rose to go.

As he returned to his home, Ivan saw two of his friends waiting for him.

'"Did you see the sniper who shot the woman?" one of them asked Ivan.

"No, but I was near the truck when it happened. It came from across the square."

'"No, Ivan, it didn't. I saw him. He was an American."

"How do you know? These people don't wear signs."

"They wear uniforms, Ivan. It was a soldier who shot her."