Warriors (9781101621189) Read Free

Republika Srpska. But now they just wanted to lie low, work their meaningless jobs, and bang their wives. Dušic knew why they’d lost their nerve. Their commander, the great General Ratko Mladic, had faced a war crimes trial after eluding capture for fifteen years. Their president, the poet politician Radovan Karadžic, had suffered a similar fate. And the head of the Yugoslav Republic, Slobodan Miloševic, had died in prison. The meddling nations did not pursue those of lower rank, at least not yet. But warriors should not live in fear. Warriors should make their enemies live in fear.
    â€œThe brothers’ hesitation disappoints me,” DuÅ¡ic said.
    â€œPerhaps we will find more willing hands among veterans of the Volunteer Guard.”
    DuÅ¡ic thought for a moment. “You may be right,” he said. He preferred professionals—trained officers, disciplined sergeants. Some of those Serb Volunteer Guard men, Arkan’s Tigers and other militias, had been little more than criminals in uniform. But what they’d lacked in smarts, they’d made up for in zeal. DuÅ¡ic would consider his friend’s suggestion. A commander must make do with the tools available.
    â€œThen there is the question of funding,” Stefan said. “I imagine you could bankroll the initial mission with what you have in your pocket right now. But the remainder of the campaign could exhaust even your deep accounts.”
    DuÅ¡ic chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, my friend,” he said. “I have arranged a stream of income that will cover our needs.”
    â€œAh, yes, Viktor. You always excelled at logistics. May I ask how you did it?”
    DuÅ¡ic wanted to tell him all the details. But Stefan had no operational need to know. And this was not a secure phone connection. In DuÅ¡ic’s line of work, one did not profit by making sloppy mistakes. So he said only, “Let me worry about that.”
    â€œSo I shall, Viktor. I will rest easily with that matter in your hands. You are a fighter with the heart of a comptroller.”
    No, DuÅ¡ic thought, I am a fighter with the heart of a poet. But he took his friend’s compliment in the intended spirit.
    â€œSo will you talk to some of the old Volunteer Guards?” DuÅ¡ic asked.
    â€œOf course. If I find some who are willing, how many do you want?”
    â€œThree or four,” DuÅ¡ic said. Though he planned on arming and leading many more men later, he needed only a few for the initial mission. They had to be absolutely trustworthy. Men who would carry a secret to their graves.
    At least he could trust his old friend Stefan, as long as the man remained sober. Their association went back to the early days of the Bosnian War.
    DuÅ¡ic remembered one day in 1995 when Stefan had demonstrated his worth. DuÅ¡ic’s platoon patrolled around the region of Mount Javor to make sure all the UN observers had retreated. His thirty men climbed a wooded hill and emerged at the edge of an open but unplanted field. Grass and wild clover sprouted where DuÅ¡ic would have expected wheat or corn. That fallow field could mean that the farmer had become a good Muslim in the only way possible—by becoming a dead Muslim. Or it could mean the field was mined. DuÅ¡ic elected to take his men around the field.
    He motioned to one of his sergeants, ordered the man to walk point along the tree line. The rest of the platoon followed until they came to a narrow garden planted in peas and lettuce. Beyond the garden lay a bombed-out home, its tiled roof blown open by a mortar round or tank shell.
    The cultivated garden seemed a safe avenue, so the Serb soldiers walked along its rows. The men scanned left and right, held their weapons at the ready. DuÅ¡ic walked a few paces behind the sergeant on point, the rich, loamy soil sticking to his boots. When they came within two hundred meters of the house, DuÅ¡ic heard the supersonic crack