ahead. If he ignored him, perhaps he would leave him alone. Unnecessary talking is a commando sin because it can alert locals that you are different. Jamie knew the language well enough, but his foreign accent would be a dead giveaway.
The other fisherman was persistent. He could see that Jamie wore a wristwatch and he wanted to know the time. Jamie frowned and gave some crude hand signals, tapping his hand with a closed fist several times, pointing at his ear, and cocking his head as if he wanted sympathy. He tried to make it so uncomfortable for the stranger that he would just leave him alone. It worked. The fisherman lowered his head, raised his hands, palms at waist level, and apologized to the deaf-mute before turning away with his daughter and heading up the riverbank.
After an hour and a half, Jamie approached the park and we made eye contact, the signal for me to depart and conduct another foot reconnaissance while he took over watching our car. My job was to see if I could spot the target’s vehicle and confirm it through the license plate number.
I took a different route, and as I turned a street corner in the bustling business district I found myself near a U.S. Bradley fighting vehicle, part of the Stabilization Forces (SFOR) that had been sent into the country. Several more were spread out at about hundred-meter intervals, but I had to brazen it out and continue walking. As I approached one, I noticed a soldier up in the turret and another sitting near him. I stopped and stared at them for a few seconds and they stared back. I took a puff on my cigarette, raised the folded newspaper that I could not read, and said, “
The young soldier in the turret asked the other, “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘SFOR is good,’ you dumb ass,” the second soldier responded with sarcasm. “How long have you been here, anyway?”
I walked away confident that my orange and blue sweat jacket, seventies-style sunglasses, and greasy hair obviously were appropriate for the mission. Fellow Americans had not recognized me.
Within an hour, Jamie and I linked up, loaded the car, and headed back to our safe house, stopping along the way for some fresh bread and fruit. It was Saturday and our intelligence people said the guy who was our target liked to party and hold meetings on the bottom deck of the boat. We decided to return to the restaurant that same night, when money was changing hands and the busy nightlife would provide perfect cover.
Trading our soccer rags for some stylish local clothing of black slacks, collarless shirts, and old black leather jackets, we headed out after dark for the forty-five-minute drive back to the city. It was a beautiful night, with a sky full of stars and a slight breeze off the river, and we parked and went into another restaurant believed to be frequented by the target.
Right away, we saw a small group of Green Berets at a nearby table, out partying for the evening themselves. They were part of the American commitment of Joint Commission Observer teams assigned to ensure that both the Serbs and the Bosnians upheld the Dayton Peace Accords and assist in the relocation of refugees. The Green Berets had no idea who we were and that we could understand every word they said. After nursing a beer apiece and with no sign of our target, we returned to the car and drove to the parking lot outside the casino boat restaurant.
We sat in the lot observing the place for several minutes. It was busy. The parking lot was full, too many vehicles to check for tag numbers, but after watching all the activity and hearing the live band, Jamie figured we could get inside for a closer look. If our target was a true party guy, he very likely was in there.
But how to get in? We watched the line of customers cross a long and rickety plank bridge with a rope handle rail on each side, then up an angled walkway to a second-floor bar entrance. Women were admitted without much more than a look and a smile from the two bouncers, but the guys handed over a couple of bucks for a cover charge, then were given a pat-down search. That meant we would have to leave our pistols, holsters, and spare magazines behind and venture inside with only Jamie’s Spyderco knife and a Surefire flashlight. Not a lot of weaponry when facing the Serbian Mafia.
Jamie looked more local than the locals as he walked up, paid the bouncers, calmly took the pat-down and slipped through the door. A few minutes later, I followed. We did not get any change back from the doorman.
The place was jam-packed on the upper level with young adult and middle-aged Serbians. The booming band was a perfect working atmosphere, since we would not be expected to talk. Jamie ordered two beers by sticking up two fingers, pointing at another beer bottle and flashing some money. We were inside, blending, perfectly camouflaged for the environment and hiding in plain sight.
Having a drink while on duty was an ironic part of doing the job professionally. In war-weary Bosnia, telling the bartender you are the designated driver and hoping to be given a Coca-Cola on the house would have been way too American. I enjoyed the excitement of the moment. We were on the target, but completely invisible. The experienced Delta operator, Jamie, was as comfortable as the other several hundred nightclubbers. The new guy, me, was a bit more amped.
In the farthest two corners of the club were some tables set up on a loft. Anyone of importance probably would like that location, so we left the bar and moved toward the back of the club. We tried not to bump into too many people as we edged closer to the band and the dance floor.
We stood around for a few minutes as the music blasted, trying to get a discreet look at all of the men who matched the general description of our target: dark hair, big beer belly. Lots of those were around.
Everything seemed cool, so Jamie headed for the pisser. Normally, leaving another operator alone was a violation of principle, but there are few hard-and-fast rules in this type of work. Every decision is based on what an operator thinks he can get away with. For Jamie, after taking stock of the situation, taking a quick trip to the pisser was no big risk. What could happen, anyway? It was just a nightclub full of people having fun and giving the finger to the rest of the world. A drunk in the crowd started yelling at the band’s lead singer, who was getting irritated but continued to strum his guitar.
After leaving the bathroom, Jamie went back to the bar for two more beers. So far, all was good. As he made his way back toward me, there was a sudden and thunderous rumble of human voices and pounding feet, and the crowded dance floor erupted in chaos. Within seconds, a wave of people were stampeding toward the door, giving the feeling that the party boat was capsizing.
In a few seconds, we linked up and found the real cause of the problem. One of the bouncers had just beaten the crap out of a uniformed Serbian police officer. The bouncer seemed seven feet tall and thick as a refrigerator and moved past us holding on to the cop as if he were carrying a lunch box home. The cop was out cold, his arms and head hanging limp and feet dragging behind on the floor.
Even in the Balkans, a bar fight is usually soon followed by police sirens, handcuffs, and paddy wagons, which also usually means trouble for unfortunate innocent bystanders-like us. But another immediate concern was that if these guys didn’t respect the local police, they sure as heck wouldn’t think twice about offing us. If the cops are scared of this place, maybe we should be, too.
Any chance of identifying our target that night slid to nothing in a hurry, and it was time, in military terms, to exfil the site immediately. In other words, we had to get the hell out of there.
We made our way through the door and into the outside air, only to find that police flashers had filled the parking lot and a few cops had already reached their roughed-up partner, who had regained some consciousness. Other cops were trading heated words with the bouncers while several more officers had men pressed up against the squad cars and private autos parked in the lot. Jamie and I could not risk being swept up with the crowd. Our car was only about thirty feet away, but getting there was not going to be easy.
We walked to the end of the boat as calmly as possible, attempting to not draw attention. Then we jumped over to the steep and soggy embankment and managed to flank the parking lot and approach our vehicle at a crouch before slipping inside. One of the first things a Delta operator does when handed the keys of an operational civilian vehicle is disable the interior lights that shine when a door is opened. That routine procedure allowed us to enter the car without alerting the nearby cops.
I was happy to let Jamie drive. He was back in his element as he cranked the engine, looked at me, and smiled, then calmly reversed out of the parking lot. He hit the gas and left the party in our rearview mirror.
We were going just over the speed limit on a major two-lane highway toward the safety of our house when we
