Specter (12 page)

The second new outbreak of fighting was even more worrisome, for it threatened to spill over across the borders of the various states that once had made up Yugoslavia and engulf other nations in the region. If that happened, well, all of those impassioned speeches she'd delivered in the House about how large military forces were no longer necessary now that the Soviet Union was gone could very well blow up in her face. The United States was a hairbreadth from war, and sometimes it seemed like every step her country took was exactly the wrong one. . . .

The root of this latest problem was an ancient and unhappy land called Macedonia, divided since 1913 when the Treaty of Bucharest had partitioned the nation among its four neighbors. The biggest chunk had gone to Serbia, and after World War II it had been incorporated as a republic within the Yugoslav Federation. Smaller slices had been gobbled up by Albania to the west and Bulgaria in the east. The southern portion had gone to Greece, which itself had won independence from the Ottoman Turks only eighty-three years before.

Greek Macedonia today was the largest single region in Greece, as well as its most productive. Salonika, its capital, was the second largest city in Greece. There were still those who wanted to see a united and independent Macedonia, however; the International Macedonian Revolutionary Organization, the IMRO, had waged a bitter terrorist war throughout the first half of the twentieth century to achieve that end. Early in World War II, Bulgaria's claims to Macedonia had led to that nation's alliance with Nazi Germany and her occupation of Macedonia in 1941.

With the breakup of Yugoslavia, Macedonia had again become a potential problem in the area. Yugoslav Macedonia had declared its independence and applied for membership with the UN; Greece had blocked the application, insisting that it had all rights to the ancient name “Macedonia,” which it was not going to share with this northern upstart. The matter had been only partly resolved when the two parties had finally agreed that the new republic would be called “The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia,” a temporary compromise that pleased no one. With independence from Serbia in April of 1993 had come UN peacekeeping troops, including three hundred Americans, and the UN-mandated requirement to maintain an embargo against what was left of Yugoslavia ... an economic disaster for an area that depended on trade with Serbia for survival.

But Macedonia was at the very center of a potential international firestorm. Serbia wanted Macedonia back, a part of the historical “Greater Serbia.” Greece too wanted northern Macedonia to again come under Serbian rule, because a free Slavic Macedonia gave too many ideas to Greek Macedonians. The IMRO still existed and still had the goal of liberating all of Macedonia, north and south, and uniting it as an independent nation.

For that reason, Greece and Serbia were cooperating with one another on the problem, for both nations had reasons to keep a lid on Macedonian nationalism. Other countries in the region, though, saw it differently. Bulgaria was flexing its muscles with a rather cynical demand for Macedonian independence. Bulgaria's claim to Macedonia went back before World War I. It was no secret that Sofia had its eye on the possibility of a Greater Bulgaria, one that included at the very least northern Macedonia. Albania felt the same, and for the same reason, with the added twist that Tiranë had a long-unsettled grudge with Serbia over Kosovo Province, which once had belonged to Albania and still had a large, ethnic Albanian population. Turkey, the bitter historical enemy of Greece, supported Macedonian independence, if only to see Greek power in the region weakened.

And as for the Macedonians, well, they saw themselves as the heirs of Alexander the Great, even if they were historically Slavs for the most part rather than Greeks. Most saw no reason why their national pride and character should be stifled, especially now that the world was changing and nationalistic ideals were blowing freely in the wind. All too many Macedonians, on both sides of the Greek-former-Yugoslav border, Kingston thought, would love to see an independent Macedonia that stretched clear from Serbia to the Aegean, from Bulgaria to the Adriatic.

And in all of that political turmoil and suffering, all of that bluster, threat, and counterthreat, there were painfully few options that did not lead to a war that would ravage every nation from Croatia and Hungary to Greece, Albania, and Turkey. Once that happened, an even larger war, one involving NATO and the United States, and probably Russia as well, was a near certainty.

And the damned U.S. military had just gone and stuck a pin in Serbia. It was enough to make a grown Congresswoman cuss.

“Oh, shit,” Winters said suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Uh, sorry, Congresswoman.” Winters leaned across the empty seat beside him and peered out the plane's window. Kingston glanced out her own window curiously. Everything looked perfectly normal to her. Sunlight dazzled off a solid mass of snow-white clouds, seemingly just below the plane's wings.

“Colonel, what is the matter?”

“That's damned peculiar. . . .”

“Is there a problem, Colonel Winters?” Mantzaros asked, walking up the cabin's central passage.

“Damn right there is,” Winters muttered, more to himself than to those within earshot.

“Colonel, please,” Kingston said tiredly. “I'm in no mood for your military theatrics.”

“Beg your pardon, Congresswoman, but we're flying the wrong way.”

She laughed. “Really? Your Boy Scout manual told you to check for moss on the north side of the plane?”

“No, but common sense tells me that if the sun is behind us and to the right at ten o'clock in the morning, we must be flying northwest. And we've been flying northwest for a good five minutes now.”

“But Athens—”

“Is south of Salonika,” Winters said. “Actually a little east of south. We're flying almost exactly in the wrong direction.”

Mantzaros gave a start at that, performing an almost comical double take. Reaching inside his suit coat, he dragged out an automatic pistol, then jerked the slide back with a sharp
snick-snick.

“Gentlemen, please,” Kingston said.

“Maybe the pilot's just detouring around a storm or something,” Bunny said. But she looked scared.

“I checked with the met office at the airport,” Winters said. “No storms between there and Athens. Agent Mantzaros?”

“I think perhaps I should check up front,” the Greek DEA man said.

“I think that's an excellent idea,” Winters said, rising.

“Let's go have a word with the pilot.”

“That won't be necessary,” one of Mantzaros's men said, brushing through the curtain at the front of the passenger compartment. He was holding an ugly-looking automatic weapon which he kept centered on his boss's chest. Kingston searched for the gun's name. What was the thing called?
Uzi,
that was it.

“Stavrianos!”
Mantzaros cried, eyes widening behind his comic-opera dark glasses. “
Ti kaneteh? Then kantalam-vano!”

“Skasmos!”
The DEA man kept the Uzi pointed at Mantzaros in one hand as he held out the other, palm up.
“Thos moo toh! Grigora!”

His dark features growing darker still, Mantzaros slowly handed his pistol to the DEA man butt first.

“Kalos.
” He gestured toward a seat behind the VIP lounge with the pistol, then dropped the weapon into his pocket.
“Kathesate!”

“What the fuck is the meaning of this, you bastard?” Winters demanded.

The man with the Uzi whipped the ugly weapon around, catching the colonel on the side of his head, just behind his left eye. Kingston winced at the crack of metal striking skin over bone. Winters gasped and dropped to his knees clutching his head.

“Colonel!” she exclaimed. There was blood ... a
lot
of blood, welling up from a cut just behind the officer's left eye.

“I advise you to watch your language, Colonel Winters,” the man said smoothly. “There is a lady present.” With his free hand, he reached out and grabbed Winters by the hair, shoving him back against the table and pinning him there with his bloody head all the way back. He brought the muzzle of the Uzi down and pressed it against Winters's throat.

“No!” Bunny cried. “What are you doing? You can't do that!”

“We already have, Miss Allison. My, ah, associates and I are now in command of this aircraft.”

“Son ... of a ... bitch . . .” Winters gasped against the pressure of the gun's barrel resting on his Adam's apple.

The man pulled Winters's head up, then slammed it viciously down on the table again. Winters reached for the gun, but the man stepped easily back out of reach.

“As I say, we are in charge now. All of you would be well advised to stay in your seats and remain silent. You will not be hurt if you do precisely what I say.”

“Who are you?” Kingston demanded. “What is it you want?”

The man smiled. “I am Mikos Stavrianos,” he said, turning his gun on her. “I am a member of the EMA ... and what we want, Congresswoman, is you.”

“Get in here.”

Murdock opened the door and stepped through into the briefing room. Part of
Nassau'
s Operations suite, it was a typically stark shipboard compartment, gray-walled and with a tile deck. PLAT monitors—television monitors showing activity on the flight deck looking both forward and aft—hung from several strategic points on the cable-and conduit-cluttered overhead, and the center of the room was dominated by a large table.

There were maps on the table, but they were covered by a sheet. Murdock, who'd been anticipating worse and worse personal outcomes for himself in regard to this meeting, wondered what that meant.

Were they going to kick him out of the Teams?

A number of naval officers were in the compartment, gathered around the table or sitting in chairs or sofas near the bulkheads. Most were members of
Nassau's
Operations staff, including Commander George Presley, from CIC, and Commander Randolph R. Garrett, the red-bearded head of
Nassau's
Intelligence Center.

There were some surprises waiting for Murdock there as well. Captain Phillip Coburn was the commanding officer of SEAL Seven, an old-time SEAL who'd begun with Team Two in Vietnam, back in 1969. Commander George Monroe was Coburn's executive officer, while Senior Chief Ed Hawkins was on Coburn's administrative staff.

Two of the men Murdock did not know ... the only two enlisted men in the compartment. One was a tall, athletic-looking electronics technician first class, square-jawed, blond, and blue-eyed. The other was a machinist's mate second, a head shorter than the other petty officer, with black hair and an intense, dark gaze. Both wore the SEAL Budweiser on their dress blue uniform jumpers.

Murdock zeroed in on Coburn, however. “Captain Coburn,” Murdock said, trying to control his surprise. “I, ah, I thought you were at Little Creek. Sir.”

“I was, until Blue Arrow got hot. I've read the report, and Commander Presley filled me in when I came aboard this morning. Tell me something, son. Was there any way on God's green earth you could have avoided that firefight at the monastery?”

“Certainly there was, sir. I gave the order to fire. I could have ordered my men to hold their fire. The decision was mine.”

“And?”

“Sir?”

“Why did you do it? Open fire, I mean.”

“Two soldiers had detained Gypsy, our contact, our whole reason for going in. Judging from the nature of what was going on at the time, I thought it likely that they would shoot him. At the very least they would have arrested him on some pretext.”

“Yes, and searched his vehicle.”

“They would have found the briefcase, sir, yes.”

“I don't know if anyone bothered to tell you, Lieutenant,” Monroe said, “but the Agency has its package. Fletcher flew back to Langley with it soon as you brought it aboard. By all accounts,
they're
happy about this mess at least.”

“I take it you've seen some of the late-breaking news stories, Lieutenant,” Coburn said.

“Yes, sir. It sounds like the Serbs are playing up our presence there in a pretty big way.”

“You got that straight,” Coburn said. He leaned back against the table, his arms folded. “That general ... what's his name?”

“Mihajlovic.”

“Mihajlovic, right. He's telling the whole world, live on ACN TV, that—pick one—the Marines, the Green Berets, the SEALs, the CIA, or all four are out to overthrow the legitimate government of the Yugoslav Republic. He's been showing off that CRRC you left on the beach, by the way.”

“We had no choice on that, sir. They were parked practically on top of it.”

“Was there any way for you to have avoided contact with the enemy at the beach?”

“Well, I could have holed up in the woods for a day or two. Or chosen a different extraction point. But there seemed to be no reason for either until we were already committed. I ... I'm really not sure what else I could have done, sir.”

Coburn held up a hand, shaking his head. “Don't sweat it, son. I just wanted to hear it from you. Missions of this type never go as smoothly as they do in the movies, do they?”

Murdock quirked an eyebrow. Where was this leading? “No, sir. Never.”

“Mihajlovic can't
prove
anything,” Senior Chief Hawkins put in. “All the gear was sterile. You didn't leave anyone behind.”