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."
