OMEGA

ORIGINS A BLACK FLAGGED SHORT STORY

Marko Resja stood a few meters away from the raised dirt road leading into the crude village, swatting flies away from his grimy, sweat-covered face. August drew stifling heat and oppressive humidity to the Balkan Peninsula, which couldn’t have been timed worse for the Yugoslav offensive. The heat seemed to incite the flies, which needed little encouragement in these hills. He wondered if these insects could sense their role in the impending tragedy. It would certainly explain their increased activity.

He raised his twenty-year-old M-76 sniper rifle and stared through the worn scope, scanning the road as far as possible. He was assigned to watch the most likely western approach for Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) vehicles, sharing the duty with another relatively new member of Srecko Hadzic’s Panthers. Satisfied that nothing threatened to approach from the outskirts of Divjaka, he lowered the rifle and shrugged at his partner, who then spoke a few hushed words into a cheap plastic handheld radio.

When Sava finished sending the report to their commander in the village, he rolled his eyes, before slapping the flies away from his head. Sava’s dark green camouflage uniform was filthy; crusted with light brown mud up to the knees. Large sweat stains formed odd circular shapes under his armpits and across his chest. The only thing clean about Sava was his rifle, which was slung over his left shoulder — to free him to perform the occasional radio check-in and chain smoke cigarettes. Sava’s face disappeared in a cloud of tobacco smoke and reappeared sporting a grin. His yellowed teeth stood out through the thin layer of unevenly applied green and black camouflage.

The camouflage greasepaint had nearly worn away over the past three days, as their unit moved through the hills mopping up “suspected” bands of KLA resistance. The designation “suspected” had always been a loose term among the Panthers, but after yesterday’s gruesome discovery in Klecka, the word had taken on a new meaning. From what he understood, any ethnic Albanian Kosovar found in these hills was now classified as a “suspected” terrorist; the disturbing find outside of Klecka serving to “legitimize” an unofficial policy implemented by Milosevic’s paramilitary nationalists for the past several years.

Regular Yugoslavian forces left behind to secure Klecka had been escorted to a makeshift crematorium, where evidence of scorched human remains were uncovered, along with several trenches filled with badly decomposing bodies in a nearby orchard. A young boy informed the soldiers that the KLA had killed a large group of kidnapped Serbians, ahead of the Yugoslavian offensive. Word of the discovery spread like wildfire through Serbian nationalist paramilitary units in the foothills, and Marko’s platoon was roused from a deep sleep at three in the morning to prepare for an urgent operation.

Several armored vehicles arrived in the camp shortly after they mustered and provided the platoon with transportation to the outskirts of Divjaka, where a mortar team set up in a clearing to the west. Half of the thirty-man platoon drove to the eastern road on the other side of the village, along with a few of the M-80 armored personnel carriers. The entire platoon’s focus was a cluster of homes and structures in northern Divjaka, isolated from the main town, and accessible by two roads, which were now blocked by a heavily armed Serbian paramilitary force.

They loitered in the western tree line until a crimson sun started to creep over the eastern hills of the tight valley, and fingers of deep orange light caught the tops of the trees around them. He could only imagine the terror spreading through the homes in front of them as residents helplessly listened to the distant rumble of idling engines beyond their sight — and waited for the inevitable.

Mortar tubes announced daybreak across the valley, firing a volley of 82mm high explosive rounds at the closest grouping of structures visible along the road. The shells sailed in a high arc and took an eternity to find earth again. When gravity finished its job, the ground behind one of the houses erupted skyward in a light brown cloud, followed by another geyser of dirt from the road. The sharp crunch of the impacts washed through the men, giving rise to a few cheers.

The mortar attack lasted five minutes, as the mortar crew haphazardly fired several more salvos into the village, adjusting their aim to walk the shells through the entire length of the community. Luckily for the inhabitants, the mortar team never focused on the buildings. Only once did they see a shell make a direct hit, sending large wooden chunks of a red roof flew skyward into the dust cloud obscuring the village. This led to a chorus of cheers from the men around him, which he pretended to eagerly join. He felt relieved that the mortar attack had done so little damage, but his solace would be short lived.

Without ceremony, the mortar teams disassembled their equipment and loaded it into the troop compartment of one of the M-80s. The entire detachment of regular army vehicles sped away, leaving his squad with their own odd assortment of AUZ jeeps and SUVs — and a ghastly task.

Nenad Sojic, the platoon’s de facto leader, spoke to his radio operator, a lean, darker-skinned Serb named Goran, and waved the squad over. Through the radio handset, Goran relayed Sojic’s orders to the men positioned on the eastern approach to the village. Without ceremony, Sojic told them that they would search house-to-house for KLA insurgents and weapons caches. Once a house was searched, the inhabitants would be sent to a centralized location for further questioning. Even the most naive members of the platoon knew what that meant.

They walked through the dew-covered fields down the road toward the simple concrete houses. Cool mountain valley air penetrated their thin uniforms, and most of the men still wore the black wool watch caps they had donned while shivering in the middle of the night. The caps would be ditched by mid-morning, as temperatures reached unbearable highs. The jeeps roared to life behind them and soon met up with the soldiers on foot.

When they reached the first set of homes, Marko and Sava were detached to serve as pickets at the western edge of the village. They were tasked to observe the same road the armored personnel carriers used to hastily separate themselves from Marko’s paramilitary comrades — and report any incoming vehicles. They both quickly turned their attention to the road, as doors were forced open and the screaming started. He concentrated on the empty road, as the rest of the squad and the vehicles moved down the road, pushing hesitant villagers ahead of them. Neither of them wanted to look back and acknowledge what was happening.

Marko’s thoughts shifted back into the present, as he tracked a crow flying through the air from the west. The large black bird landed on a crude wooden fence several yards back from the road, joining the several dozen already quietly arrayed along the fence. More crows were perched hidden among the nearby trees. They weren’t intimidated by the soldiers’ presence in Divjaka. They had as much right to be here as the flies, and they were here for the same reason.

“They know something we don’t,” Sava remarked, dragging on his cigarette.

The man had smoked non-stop since they left a Belgrade primary school soccer field three days ago, and he suspected that the young northern Serb must be close to exhausting his supply of cigarettes. All of them must be running low. Marko carried a pack of cheap Serbian smokes to fit in, but he generally never indulged, unless offered. He had always despised the habit, but his trainers at The Ranch had made it clear that he would smoke. Everyone smoked in Serbia, at least casually. He’d grown accustomed to the taste, and no longer minded the acrid smell of tobacco smoke in cramped spaces. Still, the habit did nothing for him, except help him blend into his environment.

Sava grinned nervously, and Marko wondered what he was thinking. He didn’t look or sound too eager to head deeper into the village. He was young and didn’t have the same brutal edge that was common among Hadzic’s veteran Panthers. This thought brought another concern back into focus. His platoon was comprised of too many newbies, several of which had been swapped into the platoon just after last night’s dinner. He was new to the Panther organization and had only been deployed to the field in a large-scale operation twice before, but this structure stuck him as odd.

Hadzic’s field units typically overflowed with hardened paramilitary veterans of the Bosnia conflict, or former Yugoslav military. The process for integration of new recruits was brutal and discouraged most naive youth. Still, they had no shortage of volunteers, and in times of war, the training camps swelled with eager recruits — pushed through to augment roles left behind by combat hungry veterans. This platoon brimmed with newbies, and that concerned him. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew something was off.

His concentration was shattered by the sudden crackle of automatic weapons fire in the distance, as hundreds of crows scattered, briefly drowning out the sound of the guns. Like the crows, Sava reacted instinctively and threw himself onto the ground next to the slightly raised dirt road. He flinched, but stood impassively in the middle of the road, as the volume of gunfire diminished, finally ending with an occasional shot. He hadn’t felt or heard the familiar snap or hiss of bullets passing near him, so he kept his composure. He knew exactly what had happened, and turned his head lazily towards the center of the village. Occasional, single pistol shots started to fill the air, and Sava rose to his feet to rejoin him on the road.

He wore an expression that betrayed his true feelings, and Marko knew that the young Serb felt the same way that he did about the situation. They were both equally relieved to have been assigned to a deserted stretch of road, even if three hundred meters of separation didn’t provide them with any absolution for their presence in the valley. Sava’s radio crackled, and their respite from the madness was over. They had been recalled to the village center.

He slicked his thick, matted brown hair back with his left hand and wiped the sweat onto his camouflage pants. Sava looked terrified for the first time since they had piled into green, tarp-covered trucks in Belgrade. He patted the kid on the back and nodded.

“Let’s get going.”

The two of them started to jog down the road, careful not to twist an ankle in the shallow crater created by one of the mortar impacts. He spotted several AUZ jeeps in a clearing to the north of the village. All of the doors in the village had been left open, which gave the village a frightening aura. Almost like it had been abandoned. The first thing he heard was the crying, and it nearly stopped him in his tracks. He searched for the source and saw a group of women and children huddled under a tree, guarded by a soldier. As the scene started to unfold in front of him, he sensed that Sava had stopped altogether.

“Keep moving, or you’ll end up in one of those trenches,” Marko said, wondering if that was where they might end up anyway.

They were blocked by a group of Panthers and told to leave their weapons stacked against one of the vehicles. He saw several assault rifles leaned against a mud-covered chassis and walked over to the jeep to add his weapon to the collection. One his way, Marko scanned the scene to assess the situation. A shallow pit was visible, just beyond a dozen or so Panthers, who were staring down into it. A few of them shook their heads, while others spit at the earth. As he placed his sniper rifle against the jeep’s rear tire, Sava joined him.

“Fucking burial duty. Wonderful,” Sava said.

“It’s typical for new guys,” Marko lied.

He hadn’t seen shovels among the men standing in front of the long pit. His stomach tensed, and he fought to remain calm. This would probably be his defining “critical point,” as the Black Flag psychologists termed it. They had prepared him for these moments, characterizing the different types and their potential significance. This one looked like his “terminal critical point.” He would either survive and emerge as a trusted member of the Panthers, or he would die in the pit along with the rest of the villagers. No aspect of General Sanderson’s training program could truly prepare him for what would transpire in the next few moments. He had a choice to make.

If he lined up with the rest of the men, he would have to trust his chances to a gamble he had taken a few weeks ago. A little insurance policy that might save his life. His other option was to put his training to work and fight his way out of here. He might even be able to kill all of them. Half of the group was unarmed, standing unarmed like sheep, in front of their own grave. The twelve remaining men? He had several loaded assault rifles sitting right in front of him. He could sling two of them over his shoulder and start cutting down the armed Panthers with a third. The odds were in his favor, given his capabilities. It might even be blamed on KLA guerillas.

He glanced up at one of the men that had ordered him put his weapon against the jeep. The man’s greasepaint camouflage had been recently reapplied, neutralizing his expression, but his eyes gave Marko pause. They were cold and alert. He would have to make his decision within the next fraction of a second. Taking his hand off the sniper rifle, he decided to gamble with his life. The payoff would secure his status among the Panthers, which was the ultimate purpose of his training as a Black Flag operative. He swallowed shallowly and followed Sava around the jeep, never taking his eyes off the hardened soldier escorting them.

As he approached the pit, a buzzing sound hit his ears, causing him to stop.

“Get with the rest of them,” someone barked from behind, and he continued forward.

A few of the dirty soldiers ahead of him laughed and pointed down into the trench, which demonstrated exactly how clueless some of the new recruits could be, when confronted with the obvious.

Marko caught his first look into the shallow trench and fought the urge to gag. He betrayed no emotion as the full scope of the atrocity appeared before him. He no longer wondered about the buzzing sound. Thousands of flies swarmed over the freshly slaughtered corpses; fighting to land in bright red pools of blood, drawn to the stench of involuntarily voided bowels. As the smell started to overwhelm him, he decided to stop and turn around.

He faced the members of the same firing squad that had put all of the village’s men into a hastily dug mass grave. A few of the executioners mingled with him in the doomed group, some complaining about being put on burial duty, others bragging about the accurate shots they had fired into the “terrorists.” One of the loudest newbies called out to the platoon commander, who was talking into a radio headset.

“Hey, Nenad! How about the guys with the easy jobs guarding the road bury this garbage?” he said, pointing toward Marko and Sava.

“How about you shut the fuck up!” said a stocky Serb crouched near one of the jeeps.

The man’s bravado instantly disappeared, and he started to melt back into the dozen or so men standing around in front of the trench. Marko took in the scene. Nobody was pointing weapons in their direction, but he could see the looks passing surreptitiously back and forth.

He located some shovels nearby, which were caked with dirt and had probably been recently used by the slaughtered Kosovars to dig their own grave. Nobody else glanced at the shovels. This was not a work detail. This was either some kind of sick initiation that might involve the surviving women and children, or something entirely different. Either way, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

His eyes found the nearest M-90 assault rifle, and he did the calculations, casually looking around. He could put a knife through the owner’s throat and get the rifle, but his chances beyond that were now non-existent.

The sound of vehicles broke his concentration. Two black Range Rovers sped down the road from the east, kicking up a storm of dust behind them. The armed Panthers straightened up, and some of them even attempted to brush off some of the dirt and mud, in a futile effort.

Nenad Sojic and his radio operator, Goran, jogged to the road to meet the occupants. He recognized the SUVs, and suddenly it all made sense. He might survive the day, but only if Radovan Grahovac, Hadzic’s security chief, decided to indulge in his patented sadism for a few minutes, before putting them all into the ditch. He was optimistic. The self-indulgent security chief didn’t like to stray too far from Belgrade, without the promise of entertainment.

The Range Rover doors opened simultaneously, disgorging the Panther VIPs. Serious, brutal-looking men, dressed in pressed camouflage uniforms, formed a loose perimeter around the man who had emerged from the front passenger door of the lead vehicle. Radovan Grahovac stood in the middle of the heavily armed men, surveying the destroyed village and nodding in agreement with Nenad Sojic, who gestured toward the mass grave at Marko’s feet.

Marko scoured Grahovac’s face, looking for any indication he might survive what lie ahead in the next few minutes. As Radovan’s group walked toward the pit, his heart sank, and he thought about the closest assault rifle. Maybe with this distraction he could pull it off. If he could get the rifle and find cover within a few seconds, he might be able to survive long enough to channel these overconfident simpletons into a few fatal funnels, which would give him easy targets until he developed a plan to escape.

He found too many flaws with the sudden idea. He carried the wrong ammunition magazines for an assault rifle, and would not have time to grab more if he wanted to survive the first few seconds. Plus, Radovan’s entourage was comprised of special operations types that had worked together for years. He could handle them alone, with the element of surprise, but in this scenario, their presence would weigh heavily against his odds of survival.

Just as Marko finished his nearly instantaneous assessment, the group dispersed, and he spotted his only hope of surviving the day. Andrija Brujic was among Radovan’s security team.

As Radovan approached, Nenad Sojic, de facto platoon commander, issued orders to Marko’s group.

“Turn around and face the pit!”

Marko turned his body, along with most of the group. A few hesitated, possibly sensing what was in store for them, and one of the men, a particularly overzealous Nationalist named Vukasin Mokric, refused to follow Nenad’s abrupt order. Vuk wasn’t intelligent enough to realize the gravity of the situation, and Marko assumed his defiance had more to do with one of his many personality disorders than any sudden enlightenment regarding their fate.

Nenad issued an order directed at the platoon, and Marko heard the metallic sounds of several rifles put into an immediate ready state. Rounds chambered and safeties disengaged. He didn’t have to look back to know that these rifles were now aimed at their backs, or in the case of Vuk, at his face.

“What the fuck is going on here? If this is some kind of initiation joke, I’m already fucking initiated. Get your rifles out of my face,” Vukasin said.

The platoon commander ordered him to turn around, and Marko heard a few of the soldiers reinforce the command.

“Nenad, this is fucking bullshit. I joined this group to fuck and kill these pieces of shit. Not to be treated like a dog,” he persisted.

“All thieves are dogs,” a voice boomed, followed by two sudden pistol shots.

Marko heard Vuk’s body hit the ground, and everyone in the line started mumbling prayers.

“Fuck with Mr. Hadzic’s money, and you get treated like a rabid dog. No better than the scum rotting in the pit at your feet,” the voice continued, and Marko now recognized it as Radovan Grahovac’s.

“Just one week ago, a large sum of money disappeared from one of Mihail Kunac’s safe houses. This money was on its way to Mr. Hadzic, when someone broke into the safe house, killing the guard responsible for watching the money,” Radovan said.

“Evidence suggests that this was an inside job. Mr. Kunac had just stepped out when the money was stolen. I arrived with a small group to personally collect this money, no more than thirty minutes after the hit. The poor shit assigned to watch the money was still fucking warm when we got there. This is all too much of a coincidence for me, and you can only imagine my embarrassment. I’m ultimately responsible for this money, and having to explain to the loss of nearly fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Hadzic is not a pleasant experience!”

Fifty-three thousand, two hundred and eighty dollars to be exact.

“I had to front this fucking money to keep my own head from showing up at his feet! I haven’t had a theft like this in over three years. So what’s changed? We bring on a fresh batch of recruits, and I suddenly have a fucking major theft on my hands. I want this money back, and one of you pieces of shit knows exactly where to find it! Someone better start talking, or every one of you will end up in that pit… blamed for the worst massacre in recent history.”

Time stood still, silent for several moments, until another gunshot broke the quiet, startling all of them. Marko felt a warm spray hit the left side of his face, and a large volume of thick, dark red fluid bathed the filthy corpses directly below him in the pit. Time slowed even further for Marko, as he registered the absolute insanity of the moment. He stood in a line of men about to be executed by a stark raving mad lunatic, and very little stood between death or salvation. His thoughts came quickly and clearly, as the man’s body was kicked into the pit before it could even fall to the earth.

Marko gauged the moment and decided to let one more person die before making his play. He figured the odds were in his favor. Grahovac wasn’t likely to shoot two people standing side by side. He knew the next bullet wouldn’t be his. He figured the next one to be killed would be the first person to open their mouth.

“Mr. Grahovac, I wasn’t even in Belgrade when this…”

He was right. A sudden gunshot completed the kid’s sentence, and another body tumbled into the pit, momentarily disturbing the flies.

“I’ll kill every one of you until I figure out who did this,” he snarled, and started to walk back toward Marko.

At this point, Marko knew that Radovan had no intention of sparing any of them. He apparently had no idea who stole the money, and based on the fact that he had potentially killed three people who might have admitted the crime, it was clear that he didn’t care. Radovan was deviously intelligent, and Marko figured this public stunt was designed to seal his legend as the most ruthless, unforgiving crime boss in Serbia.

If he couldn’t punish the actual thief, he could send a clear message that stealing would result in random, murderous consequences. Sensing that his time was running short, Marko made a comment that he purposely intended to be undecipherable by Radovan. He made it quick, and there was an air of confidence to the statement that might have prevent his immediate execution.

“You have a traitor on your security detail. Someone with very expensive taste.”

Radovan rushed up behind him and growled into his ear. “What did you say, thief?”

“One of your guard’s is wearing a really expensive watch. I’ve seen similar watches, I think, in Berlin… while fucking around at a very expensive mall. I noticed it on him when you came by the assembly area two days ago. He was inspecting some of our weapons, and I got a close-up look,” he whispered, and Grahovac remained silent for the longest few seconds of Marko’s life.

“Which guard?” he demanded.

“Can I point to him?” Marko said.

“Yes, but if you fuck with me, I’ll spill your guts all over the ground. Do it. I don’t have all day,” he said, and Marko sensed that he had taken a few steps back.

Marko turned purposefully, and quickly located Andrija Brujic, who looked amused by what appeared to be a new act in Radovan’s travelling psycho performance. A few members of the platoon exchanged glances, and he could tell they were awaiting something horrific, yet enticingly different. Brujic adjusted the brim of his camouflage cap and touched his flattened nose. When Marko raised his hand and pointed at Brujic, the cocky smile vanished, and Marko detected a confused panic settle over the man.

“Andrija, roll up your sleeves,” said Grahovac.

Brujic hesitated, glancing around as if it was a joke.

“Roll up your sleeves,” he repeated calmly.

When Brujic didn’t respond immediately, he lost his composure.

“Wrestle that fuck to the ground!” he screamed, spurring several members of the platoon to grab Brujic’s arms and pin him to the dirt.

“Roll up his fucking sleeves!” Grahovac spat.

Without ripping the buttons, the camouflage sleeves only came up midway between the wrist and elbow, but it was enough to expose a thick, shiny watch. Very expensive looking.

“I want to see that watch,” Grahovac said, taking a few steps away from Marko toward the messy tangle of men sprawled out on the ground.

One of the men stripped the watch from Brujic’s wrist and tossed it to Grahovac, who took a several seconds to inspect it. Brujic broke the silence, which may or may not have made a difference in the outcome.

“He’s the one that gave it to me! He said it was a fake that he stole from some shithead in the Zemun market. This is a fucking setup! Can’t you see that?” he said.

Although he never actually said it, the tone suggested he meant to add “you stupid fuck” to the end of the sentence.

When several members of the platoon and Radovan’s security detail chuckled at his comment, Marko knew the man was as good as dead. He still had no idea if he’d survive the next few minutes, but he now had a much better chance.

“Mr…?” he paused and looked to Marko to finish his sentence.

“Resja. Marko Resja, sir,” he replied.

“Mr. Resja gave you this watch, in attempt to frame you?” he said, turning back to Brujic, who strained against the thick hands pressing him to the ground.

Now the laughter grew, as Radovan’s tone implied that Brujic’s story was nonsense.

“Yes! He gave it to me a few days ago. Out of the blue. He’s trying to pull some shit on us. The watch is a fake. I don’t have money to buy expensive watches,” he said.

“But you have money to eat in expensive restaurants?”

“That’s different. I wasn’t paying. It was that whore from the—”

His comment was interrupted by a solid kick to the face by Grahovac’s black, spit-polished combat boot, which momentarily silenced his desperate plea.

“Haul him up and shut him up,” he said and turned around to Marko.

While the men struggled to get Brujic to his feet, Grahovac tossed the watch to Resja.

“That’s a twenty-eight thousand dollar Rolex Cosmograph. I own two just like it. I could use a keen eye like yours on my security detail. Consider that a reward, and wear it as a reminder of what happens if you betray the cause,” he said, in a more controlled tone.

Twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five dollars to be precise. Arranged through an exclusive jeweler at the Potsdamer Platz Arkaden in Berlin. Paid for, in advance of pickup, by General Sanderson.

“What happens to him?” Marko asked, against Brujic’s duct tape muffled screams.

“He goes into the pit with the rest of them, after Nenad’s crew works him over,” Grahovac replied, turning to the platoon leader.

“Give him the special treatment, reserved exclusively for the Kosovar whore queens… and get rid of that shit over there. What the fuck are you keeping them around for?” he demanded, pointing at the huddled women and children sitting off to the side, under armed guard.

“We wanted to save a few of them for you and your men,” Nenad replied.

“Get rid of them, and get out of here. I want this wrapped up in thirty minutes.”

“Grab your rifle, and hop in the rear vehicle. You smell like donkey shit,” Grahovac uttered, still glaring at Brujic’s battered, duct-taped face.

Marko ran off to grab his gear. When he returned, Radovan and his entourage were already on their way to the Range Rovers, forcing him to sprint to catch up with them. Radovan glanced his way.

“Sniper, eh? Any good?” he yelled.

Nenad, who stood a few feet away, answered the question for Marko.

“One of the best I’ve seen in a while, sir!” he said, then slapped Marko on the back. “Don’t embarrass us, Resja,”

Marko nodded before climbing into the back seat of the rear SUV. The rich smell of leather penetrated the stench he had choked on for the entire three-day field operation, easing him into the vehicles luxurious interior.

“Fuck, man. You do smell like shit. Crack the windows,” said the man directly in front of Marko.

“Bojan,” said the burly guard next to Marko, extending his hand.

“Marko. What’s going to happen to them?” he said.

“Your buddies in front of the pit?” said Bojan. “They’re going into the pit… where they belong.”

Marko stared out of the window at Sava, who looked slightly relaxed, despite the fact that they hadn’t been allowed to face away from the pit. He was glad that the Range Rover’s tinted windows hid his face. If Sava locked eyes with him for even a moment, the boy would know that he was as good as dead. He just hoped they made it quick for him. His thoughts of Sava faded, as the SUV started slowly moving away from the center of the village. Phase two of his mission had just begun.

He had just passed the most critical test for any covert field operative. What the psychologists and psychiatrists involved in Black Flag’s mental readiness division program called a “permanent trust point,” or “PTP.” They had told his training class that most operatives will never reach a “permanent trust point” with any of the organizations they are attempting to penetrate, and among those operatives who do, even fewer will survive the circumstances surrounding it.

Marko had pulled off the impossible — but he still had a long way to go. Radovan Grahovac’s personal security detail was a few tiers away from Srecko Hadzic’s inner circle; the ultimate goal assigned to him by General Sanderson.