August 12, 1997, outskirts of Brcko, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

The rain fell thick and sticky, mixed with lingering gunsmoke and the stench of scorched earth.

Lieutenant Leclerc of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment (2e REP) of the French Foreign Legion lay prone behind a length of concrete pipe overturned by shelling, rainwater dripping from the rim of his helmet into his collar.

Through the night-vision goggles, the few remaining cracking towers of the Brcko refinery stood like gigantic black tombstones, looming in the grey dawn mist.

"Lieutenant, they've stopped moving."

The voice of Sniper Durand came over the headset, laced with static. "South Gate of the refinery, at least two platoons, with heavy machine-gun positions. On the east side… vehicle lights, probably armored vehicles repositioning."

Leclerc wiped his face. They had been lying here for six hours. Their mission was to "observe and report movements of the Serbian Armed Forces," but the second half of the order was "you may defend yourselves if attacked." That blurred line was like a thin steel wire tightening around his neck.

Three days earlier, the Serbian Armed Forces had taken the eastern district of Brcko and were locked in a standoff with the Croatian Ethnic Militia around the refinery. NATO's rapid reaction forces were not yet fully in place, and this advance reconnaissance team had become the Nail driven furthest into the front.

"Any reply from command?" Leclerc asked quietly.

"No new orders. They just keep repeating the request to confirm any signs of 'non-local armed personnel'." The radioman's voice was a little dry.

Non-local armed personnel—that meant the so‑called "advisers" in the rumors. Leclerc had seen the photos: in the blurred aerial images, a few men in non‑standard uniforms were directing Serbian soldiers in operating new-model anti-Tank missiles. Headquarters desperately needed solid proof to firmly pin on the label of "external intervention."

Suddenly, from the direction of the refinery came a dull blast, different from normal firefights, followed by the shriek of twisting metal. In the night-vision goggles, a ball of orange-red fire rose from deep inside the refinery, lighting up half the Sky.

"Not artillery… an internal explosion." Durand's voice grew urgent. "Someone's blowing the equipment!"

Almost at the same time, about four hundred meters off Leclerc's left flank, brief muzzle flashes winked in the windows of a half-collapsed apartment block.

"Bang!"

A bullet tore past the top of the concrete pipe above his head, kicking up chips of stone.

"Sniper! Left-side building, third floor!" Leclerc shouted, pressing himself flat against the ground.

Return fire snapped out at once as his men laid down suppressive fire. But the enemy had more than one firing point; rounds slashed in from different directions, pinning them down.

"That's not the rhythm of Serbian militia…" Leclerc's heart sank. This kind of interlocking fire support looked more like the work of a properly trained squad.

"Lieutenant! East! Vehicles moving!" the lookout cried.

Through the night-vision, two blurred silhouettes of armored vehicles were emerging from the rubble on the refinery's east side, swinging along the shattered road to hook around their flank. The heavy machine guns on the roofs began spitting flame, rounds ploughing the ground and throwing up chains of mud.

"Anti-Tank team!" Leclerc rasped.

A soldier hefting a Milan anti-Tank missile had barely raised himself when the opposing armored vehicle, as if expecting it, suddenly accelerated and swung aside, simultaneously popping a smoke grenade. Dense grey-white smoke billowed out at once, blanketing their line of sight.

"They know where we are!" Durand shouted.

This wasn't a chance encounter; it was an ambush. The other side had spotted them long ago and had just been waiting for the right moment.

"Fall back! Route B, bounding overwatch!" Leclerc ordered without hesitation. If they stayed, they'd be outflanked.

The squad began to pull back, bullets snapping at their heels. One soldier took a round in the leg, dropped with a scream, and was dragged backward by a comrade. The engines of the armored vehicles grew louder in the smoke.

Just then, a familiar turbofan shriek came from the Sky. Two Tornado strike-fighters swept in low like Ghosts, a flash of fire under their wings as several rockets, trailing bright tails, slammed into the road ahead of the armored vehicles.

Boom! Boom!

The violent explosions heaved up earth and rubble, temporarily blocking the pursuit route. NATO air support—late, but here.

Leclerc's squad took the chance to pull back into the ruins of buildings further to the rear. Panting, he pressed his back against a broken wall and thumbed his headset. "Command! This is Dagger 2-1, we've walked into an ambush! The enemy has professional sniper teams working with armored vehicles, their tactical level far exceeds local forces! Repeat, far exceeds local forces! There has been an internal explosion at the refinery, cause unknown!"

There was a few seconds of silence in his earpiece before the Commander's voice came through—calm, but taut. "Copy. Aerial reconnaissance confirms the refinery is on fire. Withdraw to Point C, helicopters will pick you up. Be advised, there may be additional 'irregular units' operating in the area."

Irregular units. Leclerc pulled off his night-vision goggles and let the rain beat against his face. Something about this war was getting more and more wrong.

...

England, London, Royal Court of Justice Building.

At the hearing of the "Interim Constitution Drafting Committee," the atmosphere was as solemn as a court, but even more suffocating. Behind a long oak table sat twelve members: senior judges, law Professors, former Cabinet officials, and two "civilian representatives" included as a gesture—one, a white‑haired retired union Leader; the other, a university Principal who wore a polite smile but whose eyes were distant.

Sarah Kent stood at the lectern, with a Mike and a glass of water in front of her. She had deliberately chosen a plain dark jacket today to try to make herself look more "professional," but her palms were still faintly sweating. The public gallery below was packed, with supporters of the English Congress and a swarm of media reporters, their long lenses and TV cameras all trained on her.