The expression on Sanchez’s face was becoming flustered. All of these questions about flares were obviously beginning to unhinge him. Which was exactly what I wanted. If I could divert him away from the canard he and his team had obviously prepared, and force him to start ad-libbing, we’d have our opening.
“Okay, go on,” I told him.
He took a moment to compose himself, then said, “We kept running all day. I hoped that after it grew dark we could turn south again and try and head for the border. Around midnight we drew into a perimeter. We could still hear vehicles moving on the roads around us, so we knew the Serbs were intensifying their search. Then, at around two, another trip flare went off, about a mile away. That’s when I decided.”
“Decided what?” I asked him.
“We had to ambush a Serb column.”
“And why did you decide that?”
“Because we had to get the Serbs’ attention. We couldn’t outrun them. They were building a noose around us. We had to force them to be as cautious as they were forcing us to be. Do you understand that?”
“No,” I said. “Please explain it more clearly.”
“Look, this was their territory. They felt safe. They were moving around at full speed, chasing us on foot, trying to block us with men in vehicles. If I didn’t find some way to make them slow down, they were going to get us.”
“And you figured what? An ambush would make that happen?”
“Sure. They had to know we were dangerous. If they kept acting sloppy, we’d make them pay for it.”
“Didn’t your orders say you were only allowed to kill in self-defense?”
“This was self-defense,” he insisted, like it was indisputable.
“So you set an ambush?”
“Right. I decided to hit them at first light. I used the map to pick a spot on the road where there was a double curve with hills on both sides. We moved for about another hour and were in position by around four in the morning. Then we set up the ambush and waited. Every now and again a vehicle passed by, but we let them go through. Then, around six-thirty, a column with about six vehicles came into the killzone and we unleashed.”
“Why did you pick that particular column?”
“Because it was larger. I wanted the Serbs to think we were bigger than an A-team. I wanted them to think there were maybe thirty or forty of us. If we only hit a single vehicle, they might have realized they were only dealing with a small team.”
“But if they’d already spotted you, and they were following you, don’t you think they already had some idea of the size of your unit?”
“That’s exactly the point. I believed they did, and I wanted to make them question that. They had no way of knowing if there was one team or three dozen teams operating in our sector. I figured that if we took on a large column, they might think there were more of us than they’d originally thought.”
“And how long did the ambush take?”
“I don’t know for sure… maybe five minutes, maybe a little longer.”
“Describe it.”
“It was just a standard L-shaped ambush. We planted two command-detonated anti-armor mines in the road to blow the lead vehicle and stop the column. We set up a daisy chain of claymore mines along the opposite side of the road that we blew after the troops emptied out of the trucks and were taking cover behind their vehicles. Then we raked the column with M16s and machine guns for a few minutes. Then we left.”
That answered why so many of the corpses back in Belgrade had their backs shredded with claymore pellets. It was a relief to hear, because the alternative was that Sanchez and his people cruelly blew off a bunch of claymores at the backs of a retreating enemy. If he was telling the truth about this, then he’d at least negated one element that took this beyond a simple fight and onto the precarious grounds of a shocking atrocity.
“Were there any survivors?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they were still shooting when we left.”
“Was the return fire heavy or light?”
“Not heavy, but there was enough of it.”
“How many survivors would you say there were?”
“There were probably four or five who were still firing. And there had to be a fair number of wounded.”
“You know the Serbs are claiming there were no survivors?”
“That’s a lie!” he shouted with evident outrage. “There were men still alive on that road when we left.”
“I’ve examined the corpses,” I said. “Thirty-five of them.”
At that point our eyes met and we just sat and stared at each other for a moment. Sometimes, when you’re being bombarded with lies, a tiny morsel that sounds like the bald truth works its way into the conversation. Your ears almost tingle from the fresh sensation. And this was one of those moments.
I finally asked, “What did you do next?”
“We continued our E amp;E. I figured that once the Serbs found their column, that would slow them up for a while. So I began leading the team southward again. We were about fifty clicks from the border. I figured we could make it that night if we moved fast.”
“Were you still being followed?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t set any more flares, so there was no way to tell.”
“Why didn’t you set any more flares?”
“I think we were out of them.”
“You think?”
“I didn’t ask for a count, but I remember thinking we’d used our last one in the ambush.”
“Did you report to headquarters?” I asked, knowing damn well he had, because his report was noted in the communications log.
“Yes.”
“Did you report the ambush?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want anyone second-guessing me.”
“I’m sorry, could you explain that?”
“I guess I knew they weren’t gonna be too happy about what we’d done. I just didn’t have time to get into all of that with them.”
“So what did you report?”
“That we were extricating.”
“Did you explain that you were being followed, that Serb columns were on the roads around you, that you felt your team was at risk?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I thought I had things under control. I figured the ambush bought us enough time to get out of there.”
“And you still didn’t report the ambush after you returned. Why was that?”
“Look, I made a mistake there,” he said, looking suddenly repentant. “I admit that. I figured that no harm had been done, and I really didn’t see any reason to have to report it.”
I turned to Delbert and Morrow, both of whom were sitting with their chins resting on their hands, listening raptly to Sanchez’s tale. The underlying concept of the cover story was damned good. You could split hairs over what constituted self-defense, but the notion of a desperate team trapped behind enemy lines, surrounded by bloodthirsty Serbs-the same fellas who’d ambushed and shot down Scott O’Grady, who’d snatched three American peacekeepers in Macedonia-that was likely to elicit a sympathetic response from anyone.
“Do either of you have any questions?” I asked Delbert and Morrow.
They both shook their heads. Like me, they could spend hours interrogating Sanchez, but that would come later. First we needed to interview some other team members, look for incongruities, and then we’d come back.
Sanchez was still sitting with his hands folded in front of his mouth. His fingers were squeezed tightly together, desperately tight, like if he didn’t press them together they might fly off and start doing funny things on their own. I guessed he was feeling some tremendous anxiety over how his performance had gone over with us. I stared back expressionlessly.
“Thank you for your time, Captain Sanchez,” I said, turning off the tape recorder and putting some papers back in my oversize legal case.
He stood up and pushed his chair back into the table. He waited there, looking awkward, almost helpless. “Hey, Major,” he finally said.