Secret Sanction (14 page)

“Did he plan the raid?” I interrupted.

“Yes, sir, he did. He said he had heard from some locals that the police compound was poorly guarded, that the Serbs spent most of their days drinking, and torturing local citizens.”

“And did he have any help from you or your team?”

“No. He pretty much decided what he wanted to do on his own.”

“Pretty much?”

“Completely.”

“Did you like his plan?”

“Looked okay to us. Based on what he said about the Serbs, it sounded like kid’s play.”

“Could you describe that plan for me?”

“Sure. The police station was located in the middle of a village named Piluca. Captain Akhan had ninety-five men. He planned to break ’em into three elements and hit at first light. One element was to go into the village and isolate the police station from the other houses. The second was to build a security screen along the main road that led into the village from the north. The third was the assault element. It would take down the police station.”

“And what did they plan to do once they took the police station?”

“Well, you gotta understand a few things about that Piluca station.”

“Like what?”

“Like it had a real nasty reputation.”

“Why so?”

“The Serb captain who commanded it, he got put there about a year before by the authorities in Belgrade. He’d done some time in Bosnia and was regarded as something of an expert on ethnic cleansing. He even had a nickname: the Hammer.”

“Why that nickname?”

“That was like his signature. He always carried around a hammer in his belt. He liked to use it to bash fingers and toes and testicles. Apparently, he was a real sadist.”

“Did he have a large force?”

“About thirty Serbs were under him, give or take a few. They’d pretty well terrorized that little town for the whole year.”

“So Akhan’s team wanted revenge?” I asked.

“There was probably some of that, but what Captain Akhan figured was that the Piluca station was a symbol. Knocking it off would show every Albanian Kosovar in our sector that the Liberation Army had balls and could actually accomplish something.”

“What do you mean by ‘knocking it off’?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“They’d take it over for an hour or two. Maybe take the Serb captain prisoner, and certainly take all the weapons.”

“
Maybe?
Did they or didn’t they intend to take him prisoner?”

“Okay, they did. Him and as many other Serbs as they could get.”

“And what did they plan to do with the Serbs they took prisoner?”

“We didn’t ask.”

The funny thing is, he was looking me straight in the eye as he said that. Funnier still, he apparently expected me to believe it. This Captain Akhan was talking about taking prisoners, only prisoners are pretty damned inconvenient when you’re operating behind enemy lines, moving base camps every few days, and trying to save your ass from marauding Serb hunter-killer teams.

It seemed much more likely that Akhan and his crew planned to slaughter whatever Serbs they could get their hands on. And if I was right about that, then Sanchez and his team, in obliging that kind of thing, had already taken the first deadly step over that thin line that separates warfare from atrocity—even before Akhan’s company were killed.

“But what did you assume they were going to do with the prisoners?” I asked.

“I assumed the captain planned to turn ’em over to UN authority so they could be tried for crimes against humanity.”

“And how did he plan to do that, given that you were behind enemy lines, at least a two-day march from Macedonia, and the capturing of the Serb police surely was going to lead to a manhunt?”

“I just trusted they would,” he said very simply. “Captain Akhan wasn’t the type to commit murder.”

“Did you report the planned KLA attack to Tenth Group headquarters?”

“No.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“We didn’t have to. We had authority to approve Captain Akhan’s operations.”

“You had authority? I thought you were there in an advisory capacity.”

He never blinked. “That’s right. I misspoke.”

“You’re sure you misspoke?”

“Yes. It was just a slip of the tongue. The truth was, Captain Akhan had the authority to decide on the attack himself. It was what he wanted to do, and we had no right to stop him.”

“So what happened?” I asked, filing away that line of inquiry for later.

“Usually a few men stayed behind with us, maybe a few sick guys. Not this time, though. Everyone went. They left about two in the morning, figuring to hit the station at first light. Like I said, the Serb police were known for getting drunked up every night, so Captain Akhan figured they’d be sleeping it off. We don’t really know what happened after that. Maybe they were expected, or maybe it was just bad luck and the Serb police garrison got reinforced the day before. Anyway, they got down to Piluca, and the crap hit the fan.”

“Could there have been a security leak?”

He appeared thoughtful and scratched his jaw for a few moments, which I considered a bit of theatrics for my benefit, because he and the rest of the team must already have spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out why Akhan’s plan turned into a disaster.

Finally, he said, “Probably a pretty good chance that’s what happened. The Serbs ain’t stupid. We’ve suspected that they’ve been sending agents south to infiltrate the Kosovar camps and try to get into the KLA. Sometimes they’re holding a guy’s family and he’s got no choice but to work for ’em. We try to be careful when we recruit, but you gotta expect a few turncoats or spies to get through.”

“Were you in radio contact with Akhan’s company?”

“No.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“No. The SOP was to maintain radio silence.”

“Even if things went wrong?”

“Sure. Wasn’t like there was anything we could do about it. We weren’t there to fight.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened? Well, it went to shit, and they were all wiped out.”

“Every man?” I asked.

“A few of ’em were captured, then immediately executed.” “How did you find that out?”

“Around ten or so, when they still weren’t back, we sent a recon team to check on ’em.”

“Who was in that team?”

“Perrite and Machusco.They snuck into the village and checked it out.”

“And how did the members of your team react to that news?” “Shit happens. It’s war. Guys get killed.”

“Weren’t you disappointed?”

“Not enough to go out and kill a bunch of Serbs.”

“Did you feel a sense of personal loss?”

“Look, Captain Akhan and his company were pretty good guys. But we weren’t real close or any of that shit. We kept to ourselves; they kept to themselves.”

“Why was that?”

“Because we were different. Most of them didn’t speak any English, and only two of our guys speak Albanian. Also, Captain Akhan’s guys were real tight.”

“Tight how?”

“Most of ’em grew up together, or at least knew each other before. Also, the captain did a pretty good job of keepin’ ’em together.”

Lots of folks give off clues they don’t mean to. Persico was making what I regarded to be a very enlightening mistake. Warrant officers are notoriously disrespectful. They’re bred that way. They occupy an awkward position in the Army, caught in a netherworld between the enlisted ranks and the officer ranks, accepted by neither. Like porcupines grow spines, they respond with a slouchy grouchiness toward any but their own kind. Persico’s constant referrals to Akhan as
Captain
Akhan was a sign of respect, if not outright reverence. I didn’t buy the breezy indifference.

“How was your relationship with Captain Sanchez?” I asked, changing tracks.

“Great.”

“Was he a good team leader?”

“Yeah, fantastic.”

“Could you please describe what you did for him?”

“I was his deputy. I was responsible for the training and professional competence of the team. He led, and I made sure the men who followed knew their jobs.”

“Did you share operational responsibilities?”

He gave me a withering look, as though that were a particularly dumb question. Which I suppose it was.“The Army don’t believe in sharing responsibilities. He was in charge, and I followed.”

“Was there any friction between you?”

“None. We got along real well.”

“How did he perform his duties while your team was in Kosovo?”

“Great. What are you angling at?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out how an A-team works, how you two functioned together.”

“Look, Major, I’ve known Sanchez two and a half years. We ain’t drinking buddies, but we get along. As I said, I
liked
the way he ran the team.”

“Could you please describe the events on the day of the seventeenth when you believed your team had been discovered by the Serbs?”

“Okay, sure. We were in our base camp, and Sergeants Perrite and Machusco were pulling perimeter security. Perrite came running back from his outpost and reported that he and Machusco had seen some Serbs up on a hilltop observing us. Then—”

“Did anybody else verify that?”

“Nope. Nobody needed to. Perrite and Machusco ain’t rookies.” “How many Serbs did they spot?”

“A few. He said they didn’t get a real good look at ’em, but there was a few.”

“So what did you do?”

“Sanchez gave the order for everyone to get their gear together and book.”

“Did you have a planned E&E plan?”

“Of course. We’d built one the day before that called for us to move almost straight south.”

“Is that what you did?”

“For a while. Perrite was in trail and was laying trip flares every mile or so, and a few of ’em went off, so Sanchez decided to deviate.”

“How many went off?”

“I dunno. Maybe two, maybe three.”

“How far away were the Serbs when they went off?”

“I’d guess about two miles.”

“The same distance each time?”

“About.”

“Where were you in the column?”

“The middle. We’ve got a movement SOP. Perrite and Machusco handle rear security, Sanchez handles the map and compass stuff, while I make sure the team’s following good procedures.”

“If you were in the middle, then I assume you and Captain Sanchez weren’t discussing his decisions?”

“Not all the time, but we talked once or twice.”

“What did you talk about?”

“We talked when we knew the Serbs was following us. I recommended we change course to a zigzag and start moving eastward, since I figured the Serbs would deduce that we’d move south, straight for the Macedonian border.”

“And when was the next time?”

“That night. We took a halt, about midnight, and formed a perimeter. We could hear convoys and see dust columns all day, so we figured the Serbs were trying to box us in. We knew we had to do something. We decided the best idea was to hit the Serbs with an ambush to make ’em slow down.”

“Whose idea was that?”

He paused for a moment and I could see he wasn’t prepared for that question. Then he said, “Might’ve been mine. Or maybe Machusco or Perrite. We all thought it was a pretty good idea, though.”

“So it wasn’t Captain Sanchez’s idea.”

“No, but he bought into it right away. Why not? Wasn’t like we had another option.”

“Where were you positioned at the ambush site?”

“The middle.”

“Did the Serbs return fire?”

“At first, no. The lead vehicle blew and they were in shock. They were unloading out the back of the trucks and running around like a buncha ants, scrambling for cover behind their vehicles. Then we blew the chain of claymores, and that set ’em back a bit, too. Took ’em two to three minutes before someone on the ground got ’em organized and they began returning fire.”

“Describe the fire. Was it heavy or light?”

He sort of smiled at that question.“From my experience, anytime more than one person’s shooting at you feels like heavy fire.”

I did not smile back.“How many people would you estimate were returning fire?”

“At first maybe ten or so. By the end, maybe four or five.”

I stared at him hard.“So how many Serbs do you think were still alive when you and the team departed?”

“I don’t know. At least the four or five who were shooting at us. Probably a fair number of wounded, too.”

“How do you think they all died?”

“My guess would be that the Serbs killed their own people.” “Why would they do that?”

“Maybe to punish ’em for being caught like that. Maybe just to make it look a lot worse than it was. Seems to have worked, too.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the Army and the press all believe we massacred those guys,” he said. Then his gray eyes bored into mine. “You believe we did it, too. Don’t you?”

I wasn’t about to answer that. “Did you?” I asked.

“No. We was just trying to escape.”

I reached over and turned off the tape recorder, placed my note page back in my briefcase, and stood up as though I were ready to leave. Persico coolly watched all this, and his attorney sat perfectly still.

I walked toward the door, then turned around. “One other question, Chief. After the ambush, when you all were making time back to the Macedonian border, do you remember how many trip flares went off?”

He stroked his chin a few times. “Yeah. Two, I think.”

Chapter 11

W
e broke for lunch at noon, right after I’d finished with Sergeant First Class Andy Caldwell, who turned out to be a well-meaning, jocular soul, and who struck me as intellectually modest and not a very meticulous observer of his environment. He was definitely not one of the leaders of the team. He was the team’s heavy weapons expert, and from the best I could tell, this was the limit of his passions and talents. Everything he said closely mimicked everything Persico had said. I regarded it as a fairly useless session.

We ate in an Air Force dining facility that had a well-stocked salad bar, and Delbert and Morrow made three trips each, apparently having experienced withdrawal from the leafy stuff as a result of Imelda. Delbert had spent his morning with Staff Sergeant George Butler and Sergeant Ezekial Graves, the team medic, who was coincidentally the youngest team member. Morrow had interrogated Sergeants Brian and James Moore, twin brothers who had been with the team for six years. Next to Graves and Sanchez, this made them the team’s third and fourth most recently added members.