Specter (11 page)

“Congresswoman! What do you think the chances are for peace in the Balkans?”

“Congresswoman Kingston! Does your government plan to launch new air strikes against the Bosnian Serbs?”

“Will the United States bomb Belgrade?”

“Have you consulted with America's NATO allies?”

Kingston stopped, smiling and waving for the cameras that clicked and whirred with each gesture, each motion she made. She was tall, with a regal and aristocratic bearing. Though she was only in her early fifties, her once-dark hair had turned to lustrous silver years before, and she'd left it that way to emphasize her maturity. She faced the cluster of eager reporters, the ranked microphones, and the glaring lights of cameras with practiced ease, a general marshaling her troops. Her tail—her escort of Greek security officials, two American Secret Service men, aides, secretaries, and staffers—piled up behind her in a confused huddle.

“Ms. Kingston,” her chief aide said. “We really ought to board the plane.”

“There's time, Bunny,” Kingston told her, still waving. The reporters were crowded up against a metal railing that held them back, but camera lenses and microphones snaked across, probing toward her face.

“Congresswoman! Please!” a woman reporter shouted. Kingston recognized her—Marsha Shakarian, one of ACN's top foreign correspondents. “What about those bombing raids against Serbia?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kingston said, holding up both hands. “As I told you all in my press conference last week, I am just here in Greece on a fact-finding mission. I knew nothing about these terrible atrocities taking place in Bosnia during my visit. No, I've not consulted with NATO, though certainly I've discussed the situation with members of the Athens government and Greece, of course, is a NATO member.”

A man with a BBC press card pinned to his lapel shoved a microphone toward her. “Madam Congresswoman, what do you say to General Mihajlovic's charges that the United States is deliberately provoking an international incident?”

“The United States does not want war in the Balkans,” Kingston replied. “Indeed, any national interests we have in the region would be best served by peace. The attack on that Yugoslavian monastery was carried out without the knowledge of Congress and without the sanction of the American people. The moment I get back to Washington, I intend to look into this whole situation and demand a full accounting. The Cold War is over. So is the era of cowboy politics and shooting from the hip. I believe America has a very constructive role to play in the Balkans, and that role does not include bombers, aircraft carriers, and commandos!”

“Does that mean that Americans
were
involved in the attack?”

“No comment. Yes—in the back.”

“Madam Congresswoman. There are unconfirmed reports that the raid the other night was carried out by American Special Forces. Officials in Belgrade have suggested that one of our heavily armed gunships fired on one of their patrols, killing thirty men and wounding many more. That's not the sort of thing that can be covered up, is it?”

“No, it isn't. And as I said, I am going to launch a full investigation when I get back.”

“A follow-up, if I may. There are also reports that the operation may have been carried out by either Marine Recon forces or the Navy SEALs, operating off one of our Marine amphibious ships in the Adriatic. In view of your public position on these elite units in the past, would you care to make a statement?”

“Certainly. I have no information about what units may or may not have carried out this aggression in Yugoslavia. However, as soon as I return to Washington, I shall demand answers. If Americans were involved, this represents a shocking misuse of force. It is high time that these, these elite murder squads like the SEALs and the Rangers were disbanded. We do not need them any longer. They are the direct cause of a disproportionate drain on the tax monies allocated to the military. I might add that most senior officers in the Pentagon are united in their feeling that elite units such as the Navy SEALs funnel the best men, the most expensive equipment, and the lion's share of the money away from our regular forces. At best, this is an unproductive use of precious national assets. At worst, it's a potentially dangerous and terribly misguided attempt to circumvent clearly established national policy. I would like to see this insanity ended and I intend to do all in my power to make that happen.”

“Congresswoman Kingston, is it your contention that all covert operations should be under direct Congressional control? That sort of thing has always been the prerogative of the President.”

“Yes, it has, and look what trouble it's got us into. President Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs. President Carter and the hostage rescue in Iran. And they were both Democrats.” There was a ripple of polite laughter in the crowd, and she waited for it to die down. “Seriously, it's high time the people, and by that I mean Congress, be given total and complete oversight of the use of
all
of our military forces, and a say in how they're used. It's not as though we have a world-class enemy like the Soviet Union to worry about anymore, is it? We spend billions on the Army Special Forces, the Army Rangers, and Navy SEALs, and God knows how many other special warfare units, and what does it get us? Not one thing! That's taxpayer money being shoveled into a bottomless hole, and I intend to put a stop to it!”

“Madam Kingston!”

“Congresswoman Kingston!”

“That's all. I'm getting cold and I have a plane to catch!” Deliberately avoiding the questions and demands shouted after her, still smiling and waving, Kingston turned and walked on, her following straggling along after. The waiting airplane was an Olympic Airlines NAMC YS-11, one of the old-fashioned two-engine turboprops used on Greek domestic flights. Her schedule called for her to fly back to Athens that morning for a meeting with Constantine Mitsotakis, the Greek Prime Minister, that afternoon. After that, there would be a special chartered flight back to Dulles International and a meeting with the Select Committee on Monday.

Climbing the boarding ladder to the rear passenger door, Kingston entered the plane, where she was greeted by Colonel Ted Winters, her U.S. Army watchdog, and by
Lochagos
Dyonisios Mantzaros, her principal shadow from the DEA.

Not the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, of course. She smiled at the thought. The Dimona Eidikon Apostolon, or Special Mission Platoon, was a fifty-man unit established in the mid-1970s as a Greek SWAT and hostage-rescue unit within the Athens City Police. Its responsibilities had been extended recently to include airport security and protection for visiting dignitaries. Mantzaros and five of his agents had been dogging her every step since she'd arrived in Greece last week, all of them dressed in identical dark business suits, dark, narrow ties, and dark glasses, costumes that virtually screamed security force. The two men contrasted sharply with one another, Mantzaros being short, pudgy, and olive-skinned, while Winters was tall, bone-skinny, and so pale that Kingston had kidded him once about all the time he must spend in the White House basement.

“Well, well,” she said, grinning at them. “If it isn't Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Been waiting for me long, fellas?”

“Congresswoman,” Winters said, his mouth set hard and expressionless. Winters, she knew, didn't approve of her... or at least he didn't approve of her politics, which were liberal Democrat and anti-military. That was okay by her. She disliked Winters. She disliked all military personnel... or, to be completely fair, she disliked the military mind-set, the testosterone-drugged fascination for expensive toys and loud noises and macho confrontations with unpleasant strangers.

“The pilot said to tell you, Congresswoman,” Mantzaros said, and he nearly bowed as he spoke, “that we will be able to take off as soon as you are ready.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she told Mantzaros. “I'll ride up there in the lounge.”

“Of course, Congresswoman.” And this time he did bow, ushering her forward up the aisle.

Normally seating sixty passengers, this particular aircraft had been modified for VIP use, with half of the five-abreast seats removed to make room for a comfortable lounge area forward. She allowed Mantzaros to escort her to one of the comfortable lounge seats behind a polished, wood-surfaced table. Barbara Jean Allison, her chief aide, handed Kingston her briefcase, then slid in next to her.

“Thanks, Bunny. What we got... about a half-hour flight?”

“Thirty-five to forty minutes, Ms. Kingston.”

Winters slid into a seat across the table from them. “You never let up, do you, Madam Congresswoman?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was listening to your little off-the-cuff speech to those reporters. I wonder if it was wise blasting the U.S. military for what happened in Bosnia the other day when you don't even know if we were responsible.”

“Oh, we're responsible, Colonel. You can take it from me.”

His eyebrows crept up on his forehead. “You're sure of your information, ma'am?”

“Always,” she said. “I heard some things before we left Washington. Ever hear of something called Operation Blue Arrow?”

“No. And I don't think you should be discussing code names with someone who hasn't been cleared to hear them.”

“Colonel, do you think I give two pins for that macho-military bullshit?”

“No, ma'am, but you should. There're reasons for it. Damned good ones.”

“God. Sometimes I just don't believe you people.” She turned away, staring out the window. The plane's turboprops were firing up. There was a cough, then a roar as the right engine revved up to speed. “Anyway, Colonel, I didn't tell them we did it. When someone asked me if we did, I said, ‘No comment.'”

“Uh-huh. And let them read between the lines. I thought you wanted to stop a war out here, not start one.”

“You're out of line, Colonel.”

“
I'm
out of line?” He laughed, but his eyes struck angry sparks.

“Yes, you are.” She sighed and leaned back in her seat. “You know, Colonel, for way too long the American military has had its own way. It's about time the Pentagon realized that the Cold War is over, that the old way of doing things is gone for good, and a good thing too!”

Mantzaros and one of the American Secret Service men walked up to her seat. “Everything okay, ma'am?” the Secret Service man asked. The American agent was almost indistinguishable from the Greek DEA people, right down to the conservative suit and the dark glasses.

“Just fine, Franklin. Thanks.”

“Pilot says to tell you we'll be taking off in about five minutes.”

“Very well.”

“Tell me, Colonel,” she asked a moment later. “What's your opinion of the Special Forces?”

Winters almost smiled . . . almost. “To be honest, I'd have to say they're more trouble than they're worth.”

“Expensive.”

“That... and it's hard to maintain discipline in an organization that
must
have discipline to operate effectively, when there are units within that organization that claim to be better than everybody else.”

“If I remember from your record, Colonel, you were in the Army Special Forces.”

“That was quite a while ago. Yes, ma'am. I was.”

“A green beanie. And you don't believe in special-warfare units?”

“Oh, there are places where special warfare is important, sure. Especially in counterinsurgency operations, training local forces, stuff like that. But I never have liked the elitist attitude behind some of the special-ops people. Like I say, it interferes with discipline.”

“It is also an intolerable drain on our tax dollars,” Kingston said, warming to the subject. “And a drain of our best men. I've heard even the Army Special Forces complain a lot about their best men volunteering for Delta Force.”

“Yes, ma'am, that's true.”

“Well, I'll tell you something, Colonel. Someone up in the Adriatic really put his foot in it the other day. I've wanted to see the special-warfare people put out to pasture for a long time now. And I think someone has just given me the weapons I need to see that done!”

For several minutes now, the NAMC had been taxiing slowly along the runway. Now, the roar of the aircraft's engines thundered louder and louder, until Kingston could feel the fuselage shuddering around her. There was a gentle shove of acceleration, and then the aircraft lifted clear of the runway, rising higher and higher. The airport dropped away astern, replaced by the steel-gray waters of the Thermaic Gulf. North, across the bay, she could see the city of Salonika, could even pick out the stubby thrust of the city's famous White Tower on the waterfront. Then the panorama was blotted out by a dark gray fog that grew swiftly lighter. Moments later, sunshine exploded in through the windows; the plane was above the cloud deck now, banking gently toward the right.

For the first time in several days, Kingston allowed herself a less than optimistic thought. Things were not going well here, with her mission, with the people she'd been seeing. She wondered if her presence here was making any difference at all.

It was this damnable situation in the Balkans, a situation already critical, and rapidly going out of control. She was beginning to think that nothing that she, Washington, NATO, or anybody could do was going to be of any help. And how the hell was she supposed to do her job when those military buffoons insisted on playing their games?

Several times during the past year, NATO—under pressure from the U.S.—had launched punitive air strikes against the Bosnian Serbs in an attempt to stop their wholesale slaughter of Bosnian Muslims. Somehow, that war had continued ... and lately two new wars had been added to the flames already devouring the Balkans. One was the renewed warfare between Croatia and Serbia; for some time now, the Croatians had been rounding up Bosnian Croatians who'd fled their war-torn homeland and forcing them to “volunteer” for service in the various Croat militias, first to fight the Bosnian Muslims, and lately to take on the Serbian militias as well.