trucks in sight.
The Iranian sergeant nodded pleasantly. “The trucks are eight kilometers that way.” He pointed back down the road. Away from Masegarh.
All of them stared back at him, mouths hanging open in shock and despair. The dark-haired Bosnian shook his head wordlessly, moaned, and collapsed like a puppet with all its strings cut. The Turk simply sat down, numbly staring at the ground between his feet.
“Impossible. Impossible,” the Palestinian gasped. He pointed a shaking finger at the stone cairn. “That is the end mark. The finish. You told us that.”
“Yes, that is true,” the Iranian Special Forces sergeant agreed patiently. His tone hardened. “But circumstances change. Plans change. You must expect the unexpected.”
The fourth man, one of the Bosnians, silently nodded. His fair hair and pale blue eyes made him stand out from his darker companions. His actions were even more different. He turned to the others and began pulling them back to their feet, all the while urging them on. “Come on, Selim! To your feet, Ahmad! Up, Khalil! You want to rest? We’ll rest at the trucks!” His voice, though hoarse, still carried a note of utter conviction and confidence.
Stooping, he slung his arm around the other Bosnian and moved off at a tired, weaving half-trot. The others followed him.
Taleh and Basardan looked at each other and nodded somberly. The attrition rate at the Masegarh camp was three out of four. It was easy to see which of these men would survive.
“What is his name?” Taleh asked as the trainees staggered off into the distance. -
“Sefer Halovic.”
By late afternoon, Taleh had seen enough to know that Colonel Basardan and his officers had grasped his vision for the special units he expected them to train. Using many of the same techniques employed by the American Rangers, the British SAS, and the Russian Spetznaz, they were melding a cadre of fierce, disciplined commandos men schooled in the arts of intelligence-gathering, sabotage, and killing. Men who would act as his own “smart weapons” deep in the heart of an enemy homeland.
He had no illusions. Those who survived Masegarh would not be supermen. The time allotted was too short. But they were already infinitely superior to any forces the HizbAllah or the Pasdaran had ever managed to field.
“Trainee Sergeant Halovic is here, sir.” Captain Farhad Kazemi stuck his head through the door of the office Taleh had commandeered for a series of interviews. He needed to know more about these men than he could glean from typed dossiers or from watching them maneuver through a series of set-piece exercises. Would they be able to do what he asked of them? Were they tough enough? Intelligent enough? Ruthless enough?
“Send him in, Farhad.”
The Bosnian came into the office, obviously fatigued but still standing straight and reporting correctly. Taleh studied him quietly for a few moments.
Halovic had a lean, hungry look that the Iranian suspected had been there long before he began his training at Masegarh. His face was thin, almost gaunt. Even his hands were long and slender a surgeon’s hands. That was appropriate. According to his file, the Bosnian had once been a medical student at the university in Sarajevo. Clean-shaven and of average height, he appeared to be somewhere in his late twenties.
Halovic was also a quiet man, as might be expected under the circumstances. He met Taleh’s probing gaze without blinking or looking away. Like any soldier, he’d apparently learned that meetings with superiors were usually a time to keep your mouth shut, your ears open, and to say what they wanted to hear.
Taleh finally broke the silence. Speaking in English, the lingua franca of the camp, he pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.” The Bosnian sat down easily, almost gracefully. Even off his feet he gave the impression of a hunter set to strike, of a predator poised to kill.
For a moment, Taleh felt as though he were staring into a mirror. He shook himself mentally and went on. “You look like a man who has seen hard times, Sergeant.”
Halovic thought for half a beat before replying. “Everything in Bosnia is hard, General.”
Taleh nodded. He indicated the file folder open on the desk in front of him. “You have seen much fighting.” It was not a question. Combat experience was one of the basic preconditions for admission to the Masegarh training course.
“Yes, sir,” Halovic said quietly, firmly.
Before war tore his homeland apart, the Bosnian had been content to continue his studies in Sarajevo. The idea of being a soldier had been the furthest thing from his mind. Even when the killing and atrocities began, he’d only seen the need for another doctor. He had fully intended to serve his people as a healer.
But then Serb irregulars butchered his family, along with dozens of others in his home village. And something had died inside Sefer Halovic died along with his elderly parents, his sisters, and his younger brother.
He had abandoned his medical training. It was pointless to heal the sick and wounded while the men with guns were free to act again to slaughter at will. Coldly determined to kill as many Serbs as possible, Halovic had gone to war. The selfdiscipline, intelligence, and imagination that would have made him a brilliant doctor had instead made him an effective killer and a superb guerrilla leader.
At Taleh’s prompting, the Bosnian outlined several different engagements, including ambushes, assassinations, and carefully planned assaults. His voice was calm, dispassionate almost as though he were talking about someone else’s actions. Only when he described his most spectacular exploit a massive car bomb attack on the street outside the Yugoslav Defense Ministry itself did any hint of satisfaction creep into his voice.
“The Serbs were still counting their mangled dead weeks later.” He showed his teeth. “I believe that was when they truly began to know fear.”
Halovic’s face tightened. “Then the cease-fire came. The precious ‘peace’ imposed by the U.N. and by the Christian powers. The surrender that will strangle my people while the Serbs grow stronger on our stolen lands.” His eyes were ice cold now, full of remembered rage. “But I did not sign that surrender. I have not abandoned the struggle. And that is why I came here, General.”
Taleh nodded, satisfied. It was a chilling tale, but one he knew was repeated many times all over the camp. Of the five hundred or so men at Masegarh, most were Bosnians, recruited out of the wreckage and despair in Sarajevo and the other butchered Muslim cities and villages. Others were exPLO fighters, African guerrillas, or Muslims from the former Soviet republics. There were thousands, tens of thousands, of such angry, dispossessed men all over the world. They were fertile ground for his recruiters.
He leaned forward. “I have one more question, Sergeant.”
Halovic looked up at him, under full control again. “Yes, sir?”
“Those men today? Your comrades on the march? What would you do if they faltered the same way on a mission?”
Halovic’s answer came swiftly, without even a moment’s hesitation. “I would kill them, General.”
After Kazemi ushered the Bosnian back to his squad, Taleh turned to Basardan. “How many are there like him, Colonel?” he asked softly.
The camp commandant shook his head. “Not many, sir. Oh, the rest are good,” he reassured Taleh, “but Halovic is something special.”
“Yes.” Taleh’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Keep me informed of his progress. I believe we will have work worthy of this young man.”
CHAPTER 4
LEARNING CURVE
Colonel Peter Thorn rode the escalator up from the Pentagon Metro stop and stepped off into a crowded corridor junction. He paused to get his bearings. That was a mistake. Trying to stand still in all the chaos around
