CHAPTER 1

WASHINGTON D.C.

Washington D.C.'s Dulles airport is always hectic. I was thankfulto exit the busy terminal at 5:10 PM to board flight number 1105 toMilan, Italy. As I entered the airplane, I stepped into the aisle towardmy window seat just behind the exit row. Directly ahead of me wasan attractive woman who was also getting settled for the long flight.I hoped I would be seated next to her. However, the fate of pleasantcompany was not on my side.

The man I wound up being seated with was at least six feet fourinches tall, and he must have weighed around two hundred and seventypounds. Not only was he fully occupying his entire seat, he was alsospilling over into mine. Flying across the Atlantic is wearisome by itself,but having my personal space invaded certainly wasn't a forecast ofwhat I would consider a pleasant way to fly. As I took my seat, I quicklyscanned the appearance of my husky neighbor. He was a middle-agedman with jet black hair, brown eyes, square jaw, and he wore a tailor-madeblack pinstriped business suit with a crisp white shirt and no tie.He struggled maneuvering his large frame as he placed a black briefcaseunder the seat in front of him. I glanced at the briefcase spotting theinitials "SLS."

As the passengers continued to situate themselves, the flightattendant handed my oversized traveling companion a cup of coffee.My olfactory senses were attacked as the coffee aroma floated towardme blended with his Polo cologne. Peripherally I could see the cup ofcoffee disappearing inside his sausage-like fingers only revealing a wispof steam rising up. As I turned fully to my right, I caught the eyes ofthe woman across the aisle, the same woman with whom I'd hopedto be seated. I couldn't help noticing how attractive she was with hershort blonde hair, green eyes, long slender legs, and high heels. Mostmen would've been compelled to take a second glance. As I did, I wasintrigued by a noticeable look of déjà vu in her eyes. It appeared asthough she was evaluating whether she had seen me somewhere before.This wasn't just fanciful chauvinistic thinking. I could tell she wasclicking through previous contacts in her mind.

I continued to make mental notes of what was going on around meas we began to taxi to the runway. I also thought of Steve Pelley whohad been in place over thirty days. A rotation was normally thirty toforty-five days. Like most supporting NSA and Special Missions Teamsoperations, this one had gone on for some time. At the moment I didn'trealize how our efforts to hunt down, snatch, and indict war criminalsfrom the Bosnian Serb conflict would end up lasting so long. In thisparticular operation my job was to "deconflict" air space for our signalsintelligence team and special mission aircraft at a Joint NATO Centerabout two hours from Milan, Italy.

As our flight began climbing over the Atlantic, I thought aboutthe reason my unit was involved in operations in Eastern Europe.From 1992 to 1995, the people of Bosnia had endured a wave of ethnicviolence as Serbian and Bosnian Serb armed forces launched a campaignof terror against Bosnia's Muslim population. Their war against civiliansshocked the global conscience while adding the term "ethnic cleansing"to the world's lexicon of atrocities.

By 1992, reports of war crimes spurred the United NationsSecurity Council to take action. In May of 1993 the UN created theInternational Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY)—thefirst international war crimes tribunal since World War II. At thesame time the UN Security Council established so-called "safe areas"in Bosnia-Herzegovina with the mission of protecting the civilianpopulation. However, indefinite rules of engagement and limitedresources hampered the UN peacekeepers. On July 11, 1995, UNforces effectively surrendered Srebrenica, a "safe area to be protected byall means," to advancing Bosnian Serb forces. Led by General RatkoMladic, Bosnian Serb forces committed the largest mass murder inEurope since the Holocaust: At least 8,000 Bosnian Muslim men andboys were massacred while thousands of women were subjected to massrape and forced deportation. The ICTY officially declared that theSrebrenica Massacre constituted an act of genocide.

As our current operations were underway in Eastern Europe, theActivity, formally known as the Intelligence Support Activity (ISA),was under a joint review. There were those within the U.S. Congress,and within the upper echelon of the military, who were not fond ofanonymous intelligence gathering units or their missions. But, becauseof the ISA's status and effectiveness within the special operationscommunity, and in conjunction with the protection of the AssistantSecretary of Defense for Special Operations, our operations were stillvery much alive even after several attempts to rein them in. Intelligencegathered from ISA agents, along with the electronic surveillance oftelephone and radio traffic, was critical in the evaluation of potentialoptions for capturing those identified as war criminals from the BosnianSerb conflict—those whom the ICTY wanted taken into custody.

About four hours into the ten-hour flight, my mind and body werejolted back into the misfortune of my cramped surroundings. I wasunwillingly being subjected to the commotion of Sausage Fingers witha mixed drink in one hand, and with his other hand motioning to aman behind him—an older balding gentleman with thick eyebrows andglasses. Both of them spoke German. I couldn't help noticing how theattractive woman across the aisle had suddenly perked up and hung ontoevery word they were saying. I peered out the window into the dark ofnight wondering if this was casual conversation or something else. Inmy line of work you were programmed to listen, observe, and analyze.I sometimes felt like a Pavlovian experiment: The bell rings and I beginsalivating for the next bit of information.

About halfway through the flight, and after dinner was over, thelights in the passenger section were dimmed. Having very little rest fromthe night before, I pulled my window shade down and began to driftoff to sleep. I hoped Sausage Fingers wouldn't jab me with his elbow orspill his drink in my lap so I could get a decent nap. As my mind beganto fade into another world, I was thinking back to the day I began thispeculiar but exciting journey.

* * *

As I looked out the window of the airplane on my way to Marine bootcamp in San Diego, I couldn't help thinking about my father's reactionduring my departure. After stopping by my grandparents' house to saygoodbye, my parents drove me to the airport in Indianapolis. As thetime approached for me to leave, the actuality of where I was headingbegan to sink in. Dad began to sob as I said my final goodbyes. He wasa "man's man." It was unusual for me to see him cry. The truth is, wewere both getting emotional.

"Don't cry, Dad. It's okay," I consoled him as we hugged eachother.

At the time I didn't understand why he was getting so choked up.Later in my life, when I would see my own son off to military service,I would understand more fully why my father had been so emotional.From a father's perspective you realize how quickly time goes by. Youbegin to reflect on the time you've spent with your son, wishing you hada little more. As I hugged my father that day, I thought of a Bible versein James 4:14 which tells us: "For what is your life? It is even a vaporthat appears for a little time and then vanishes away."

Dad, having been in my shoes, also understood how I would leavethat day as a child, but would return as a man. Of course, like mosteighteen-year-olds I felt indestructible. My parents on the other handwere fully aware I was entering a world of weapons, violence, and theubiquitous possibility of losing my life. Even a fleeting thought of losinga son or daughter in conflict is difficult for any parent to deal with.For me, there was no turning back. My next stop was the U.S. MarineCorps Recruit Depot in San Diego, California.

I was a high school dropout, married and with a daughter. It hadn'ttake long for me to realize how dropping out of school wasn't the wisestchoice I'd ever made. I knew I couldn't properly provide for a familywhile working minimum wage jobs. I was heading down a dead-endroad. I had to change my course and move in a direction with a future.I could have signed on the dotted line to enter any branch of the service,but I chose the Marines, maybe because dad had been a Marine.

Admittedly, I had some romantic notions about military service,probably due to all the old war movies my grandfather and I watchedtogether when I was a child. When you're young you can almost pictureyourself right in the middle of the battles. Like many children of theVietnam era, I grew up playing Army with the neighborhood boys. Weshot our air guns at an imaginary enemy, threw dirt clod hand grenadeswhile taking possession of enemy territory created in our minds, and hidin the bushes from enemy vehicles passing by on the streets in front ofour houses. As it is with most things in life, reality is not in partnershipwith the romantic pictures painted by our minds.

Like most young men, I had no idea what was waiting for me atboot camp. I'd heard the stories of the tough-as-nails drill instructorsand the rigorous training, but a person really has no idea until theyexperience it for themselves. I was nervous, but I was determined tosucceed. My lack of achievement thus far helped me realize how I wouldnever be satisfied with a lackadaisical approach to life. I dreamed bigand needed the stimulative affects of activity and progress.

After a long flight, I exited the plane and was immediately usheredonto a bus with the other marine recruits. The bus ride was short. TheMCRD was located right off the runway of the San Diego airport. I hadalso heard stories of the Marine Corps drill instructor's proficient andprolific use of expletives, but it was surrealistic to experience it firsthand.Now they were in my face—literally. They were mean and loud. It wasalmost superhuman how they noticed every single movement—thesmallest twitch or peep emanating from a recruit. It seemed as thoughmy DI had eyes on every side of his head. I couldn't help noticing howthe cursing and threats were meshed together in unusual forms of foullanguage. It rolled off their tongues so fluently a person would thinkthey had been preprogrammed for such expert profanity. At first, I couldonly catch a glimpse of my DI as he moved quickly up and down the lineshouting orders. I could tell there wasn't a button, buckle, or insigniaout of place. His shoes were shined like glass, and his uniform pressedto perfection. He was just as lean and mean as one would expect.

We were told to stand on painted yellow footsteps. Amazingly somerecruits had difficulty accomplishing this simple task. Their inability tofollow basic commands caused our DI to explode with anger. His facereddened and his neck muscles tightened as he explained in a textbookMarine Corps manner how undisciplined we were and how much wehad to learn. As I stood stiff and attentive, I got the impression theapocalypse was imminent—at least on an individual scale.

The mosquito landing on my face had no regard for militaryetiquette. Having blood sucked out of my cheek was illustrative of thefeeling I was getting from my DI as he immediately began to demolishthe adolescent walls of safety I had constructed in my civilian life. Hisjob was to tear us down and then build us back up in superlative MarineCorps fashion. He wasted no time in pursuit of that goal. The mosquitowould not relent, so I smashed it on my cheek. The slap resonated andthe apocalypse descended. Two DIs converged on my position andbegan shouting at the top of their lungs.

"What is your name, recruit!"

"Sir, recruit Dean, sir!"

"Recruit Dean, do you have any idea what you just did?"

"Sir, no sir!"

"You just killed your entire platoon! If you were in the jungle anddid that, the Vietcong would know your position and kill you all!"

Our drill instructors had served two tours in Vietnam. They sawfirsthand how a lack of discipline kills marines. In unison, their voicesreverberated hitting the very core of our being as they ordered us to geton the ground and begin doing bends and thrusts. This is a wonderfulMarine Corps exercise dreamed up to impact every single muscle,tendon, and fiber of the human body. From a standing position youquickly bend down on all fours and thrust your legs out and then in.We did this exercise over and over until our arms felt like rubber andour legs would barely thrust out. Once the DIs were satisfied we hadno energy left in our bodies, we were told to stand at attention. I didn'tknow it at the time, but nearly half of all those standing wouldn't makeit to graduation. I also didn't realize I would be the honor grad in ourplatoon.

Next they marched us into a one-stop, one-cut-fits-all barbershop.There were no hairstyle pictures and lists of prices on the walls. Therewere no old men sitting in chairs smoking cigars and chatting about theweather. The shop consisted of several chairs occupied by sad-lookingrecruits, multicolored mounds of hair on the floor, and barbers wieldingclippers with the efficiency of Zorro. We all came out with our headslooking the same—bald.

After receiving a free marine recruit haircut, we were taken througha line and given our uniforms and seabag containing our equipment.Anyone who has ever been in the service doesn't forget the smell of pilesof cotton uniforms, leather boots, and canvas bags intermingled withthe clinical smell of waxed floors and cleaning solutions.

My experience in boot camp taught me many valuable lessons.Anyone who has been there will confirm there are two things thosewho earn the title of Marine never forget: 1) once a Marine—alwaysa Marine, and 2) the name of their drill instructor. Both are engravedin my memory.

* * *

"Please fasten your seat belts."

I was awakened by an announcement from the flight attendant.Thankfully, I'd been able to get some sleep. As I adjusted my thoughts tomy surroundings, I was also thankful I wasn't in Marine boot camp!

We were about to land in Milan.

CHAPTER 2

CRIMES OF WAR

After retrieving my luggage I made my way to the rental car counter.The agent at the counter was doing his best in broken English to explaina rental agreement to, what appeared to be, an older tourist couple. Thewoman was neatly dressed and looking at a map. She jabbered to herhusband about how to get to their first destination. The silver-hairedman motioned to his wife to be still. After what seemed like twentyminutes, I had my keys and baggage in hand and was ready to get mycar and get on the road. But the airport café was calling to me. I couldn'thelp thinking of a double shot of espresso. I would need an extra jolt tomake the drive south to meet up with Pelley.

As I drove out into the countryside with an espresso in hand, Icracked the window and took a deep breath of fresh air. The cool airhelped to further awaken my senses. I loved spring. Everything about itsmelled fresh. Instead of the odor of a Sausage Finger's Polo cologne, Iwas now enjoying the aroma of blooming flowers and budding trees. Thescenery was magnificent! I rolled by vineyards and Italian landscapesthat would give any artist inspiration. On such a clear day I wantedto take it all in, absorbing every color and contour as I drove throughplaces some only dream about seeing. After nearly two hours of driving,I made a right turn into a medieval looking town. The narrow streetswere tricky to navigate. I had several near misses with scooters andpedestrians bravely weaving in and out between the cars.

As I maneuvered through the streets, I couldn't help looking up atthe weathered stone faces peering down from within patches of paint onthe buildings—faces reflecting hundreds of years of history. It seemedas though these faces came alive in the people as I heard folks talkingand laughing, horns honking, and motorists yelling. Suddenly, the roadspilled out into the piazza, which was now blocked by traffic. Even thepigeons scurrying on the ground, or the others circling in the air near acenter fountain, seemed to play their part on cue to create a classic scenewithin the Italian piazza. Young children fed the pigeons as the othertownspeople walked arm in arm enjoying the spring day.

I looked toward the hotel. Next to it was a small café, and there wasSteve waving to me from one of the tables outside.

"Bonjour, Mike."

As usual, Steve sat with his back to the wall. This way he maintaineda full view of all the activity in the square, as well as making sure noone was behind him.

"You need any help with your bags?" he asked.

"I've got 'em. I'm going to check in, and then I'll join you."

I was ready for another shot of espresso.