Specter (7 page)

MacKenzie was also using binoculars to sweep the landscape. “Don't see a damned thing, Skipper.”

“Affirmative. Looks quiet.” Murdock lowered the binoculars. “Well, only one way to find out. Professor?”

“We got an acknowledge, L-T. They say Night Rider's on the way. ETA thirty minutes. They've also alerted Gold Squad. They're getting wet right now.”

“We can't wait that long, not with the road still clear. Pack up your gear, Prof. We're moving.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

Minutes later, the SEAL squad was back across the border and moving down the open slope, walking now, because the ground was more uneven than it had been in the forest, with numerous boot-sized holes masked by the long, dead grass. Magic had the point position now, followed by Mac and Murdock. The clouds overhead had thickened during the past hour, until the sky was almost completely overcast. The light of the moon had been lost completely; the only illumination in the sky now at all was the sullen glow over Dubrovnik.

A rumbling sounded out of the east, swiftly growing louder. Magic gave a sharp whistle, and the SEALs went to ground, making themselves as nearly as possible a part of the cold, hard landscape. The rumble neared ... then exploded overhead, as thunderous as an exploding shell. The ground seemed to shake, and then the sound was dwindling away once more.

Two aircraft. Murdock could see their afterburners glowing like paired stars beneath the cloud canopy as they roared toward Dubrovnik. “Anybody see what they were?” he asked.

“Negative, L-T,” Roselli said from somewhere behind. “But they sure as shit were goin' somewhere in a hurry.”

“Maybe,” Doc said, “they were afraid of bein' recognized.”

The aircraft
might
have been friendlies. NATO and the U.S. had been attempting to enforce no-fly zones over Bosnia and the Adriatic coast, but with a notable lack of success. It was just as likely that those had been Serbian MiGs out of Kotor or Titograd, on their way to attack Croat positions at Dubrovnik or further up the coast.

Or ...

“On your feet, people,” Murdock called. “Fast!”

Or they could be air assets brought in to cover Serbian ground forces, especially airmobile troops.

“You think those guys were looking for us?” Mac asked.

“Maybe. They could be flying ground support. Even if they weren't, I think it's time we found a less hostile environment.”

Though SEALs, unlike their UDT forebears, were trained to operate well inland from the beach, their training constantly emphasized that the sea was the SEAL's natural habitat. When things started to get hot ashore, the water offered cover, security, and escape. The sea lay just ahead, black, featureless, and welcoming, picking up just a hint of the sky glow from the direction of Dubrovnik.

Another forty minutes and they'd be there.

Narednik
Jankovic's grip on his newly acquired AKM assault rifle tightened as he leaned over to stare out the Mi-8's circular window. It was still too dark to see anything but a faint blur that might have been surf washing up the shelf of the beach. The transport was racing along through the night at an altitude of less than one hundred meters; somewhere just ahead, the second helicopter, the one with General Mihajlovic aboard, was also paralleling the coastline east from Dubrovnik.

The general, Jankovic reflected, certainly knew how to get things moving. They'd flown to the Serbian lines just outside Dubrovnik, and within minutes Mihajlovic had rounded up sixty troops, forming up what he'd referred to as an “ad hoc counterterrorist team.” More troops were on the way by road, packed into trucks commandeered at the Serbian camp. Mihajlovic seemed fanatical on the subject of finding the intruders and running them to earth.

Jankovic wondered if the fact that the man's name was Mihajlovic had anything to do with it. Dragoljub Mihajlovic had been a colonel on the Yugoslav Army general staff during World War II, the man who had organized the original Chetniks. He'd been shot by the Communists in 1946—naturally enough since the Chetniks had in some cases openly collaborated with the Nazis, especially late in the war.

Well, it probably meant nothing. Mihajlovic was a common Serb name. But the general was old enough to be a son or a nephew of old Dragoljub, and such a connection would go a long way toward explaining his ambition ... and his enthusiasm for this mission.

Jankovic almost hoped the commandos, whoever they were, had already made good their escape. Their ruthless and deadly efficiency at the monastery had burned the warning into Jankovic's brain. These were not men to trifle with, not men to put into a corner where their only option was to fight their way out.

“Hey! Sergeant!”

Jankovic turned from the window. The
kaplar
—the corporal—sitting in the next seat grinned at him hopefully.

“Yeah?”

“I hear you actually saw some of these terrorists we're supposed to be hunting. What were they like, huh?”

“Dangerous,” Jankovic said. “Extremely dangerous.”

“Chopper incoming!” Roselli called. “Take cover!”

The SEAL squad went to ground, still a full hundred meters short of the highway. The helicopter ... no,
two
helicopters were coming in low from the west, with running lights blinking, with searchlights on and painting the road beneath them with dazzling white shafts. The lead aircraft flew past the SEALs' hiding place, racing toward the east. Its rotor wash set clouds of sand swirling in its wake, illuminated by the glare of its spotlight.

Roselli lay stretched out on the ground next to Murdock, his H&K's stock pressed to his shoulder. “Whatcha say, L-T?” he asked. “Shall we take 'em?”

“Negative, Razor,” Murdock replied. “Some of those Mi-8s sport a fair amount of armor. All we'd do is pinpoint our position.”

“Shit. What I wouldn't give right now for a couple of LAWs.”

“Just sit tight. We'll wait 'em out.”

“I dunno, L-T. Looks like that second bird's gonna touch down right over there.”

As the lead Mi-8 vanished toward the east, the second aircraft was flaring out, nose high, settling down toward the road in a whirl of windblown sand. The line of poplar trees beyond whipped frantically in the breeze. As the helo's wheels hit the pavement, the cabin door on the port side slid open, and soldiers armed with AK assault rifles began piling out.

“How many you figure?” Boomer asked from nearby.

“A Hip's normal troop complement is thirty-two,” Murdock replied. “Hip” was the NATO desgination for the Mi-8 in its troop-transport role. “But I guarantee you there'll be more coming down the road by truck any time now. This'll just be the advance guard.”

“Looks like first-string JNA stuff,” Roselli said. “They must want us pretty damned bad.”

Murdock reached behind him and pulled out his night-vision set, pulled off his hat, and settle the goggles over his head. Roselli already had his goggles on his head, pushed up above his eyes, so he simply slid them down into place and switched them on.

The NVDs didn't make the helicopters that much clearer, not with all the flying sand and dust and the sweep of searchlights, but the soldiers sprang into sharp relief. “No night-vision gear, L-T.”

“I see, Razor. That gives us a chance.”

It was a little like being the invisible man, Roselli thought. You could see them, but they couldn't see you, wouldn't even know you were there unless you did something stupid like step on a branch or fall over your own two feet. All of the SEALs were wearing the NVDs now, and the scene below them glowed in eerily shining greens, blacks and silvers.

“Here! L-T!” Higgins said. “They're forming up and coming this way!”

While perhaps half of the Yugoslavian troops stayed near the helicopter, the rest were drawing out in a long line along the highway, with eight or ten meters separating each man from his neighbors. NCOs wielded flashlights and barked commands. Sixteen men started forward, walking up the hill toward the waiting SEALs.

“We could go around them, Lieutenant,” Mac pointed out. “Cross there, to the left, then move back up the beach behind the wall.”

“I don't think so,” Murdock replied. “Look there.”

A convoy was coming up the road from the direction of Dubrovnik, seven Army trucks, each crowded with troops. From the look of things, they were dropping men off along the road. One stopped several hundred meters further on. Five more grumbled past the tableau on the highway below, edging past the point where the helicopter blocked the road, then racing further toward the east as though they were in pursuit of the other helicopter. The seventh truck pulled to a halt just before it reached the Hip, and men began piling out, calling noisily to one another and tossing helmets and weapons down from the back of the vehicle.

“Definitely regular army,” Murdock said, studying the men through his binoculars.

“They sure are loud,” Roselli said. “You'd think they wanted us to know they were there.”

“They may want to spook us back up the mountain,” Mac pointed out.

“Yeah, or they may not care,” Magic said. “Shit, they've got an army down there.”

“So what?” Roselli replied. “Since when is an army a match for seven SEALs?”

The line of men grew longer as men ran up the hill to join it ... and longer ... and longer still. Flashlights probed and stabbed the darkness, flashing now toward the waiting SEALs, then away. The troops were closer now, perhaps fifty meters, and a searchlight mounted inside the helicopter's cockpit was being directed at the hillside.

“A cordon,” Murdock said, his voice grim. “They know we're up here somewhere. They mean to stretch out a cordon and catch us like fish in a net.”

Roselli waited, watching the soldier he'd picked out moving closer. The Serb troops were still noisy as they tramped up the hill through the field, but the shouts and catcalls had died away as each of the soldiers concentrated on his steps across the slightly uneven ground with its holes and unexpected mounds of matted grass.

There was no time to try to sidestep the search cordon. In the open field, there was just light enough that one of the advancing soldiers would spot a running, black-clad shape even without night-vision gear. The only option, then, was to sit tight and let the cordon pass. It was Roselli's job to make sure the opening between one soldier and the next was big enough for the SEALs to slip through unobserved.

One of the soldiers was moving directly toward Roselli's position. Had he been just a few meters to either side, Roselli would have let him pass, but there was too great a risk that he might see one of the SEALs lying flat on the ground . . . or step on one.

Roselli tensed, the dull ebon length of his diving knife held tight in his hand. The soldier walked slowly closer, paused two meters away, listening, then took another step—

The SEAL swept up from the ground, left hand sweeping around the soldier's head, hand clamping down over nose and mouth, right hand gripping the knife, snapping up and sharply down. Roselli went for a straight stabbing takedown, rather than a chancier and noisier throat slash, angling the knife down at the hollow of the Serb's throat as he snapped the chin back. The blade slid smoothly through the half-circle described by the man's first rib, making a tiny
chink
as it scraped down the inside of his right clavicle and snicked through the subclavian artery. The man shuddered in Roselli's grip. Shoving the knife's hilt hard back toward his jaw sent the blade slicing into the heart; angling it sharply forward again cut through windpipe and esophagus and the thoracic vertebra with a faint, dry, cracking sound. The soldier went dead-limp, and Roselli lowered him gently, gently to the ground.

Five meters to the left, Magic Brown silently merged with a second Yugoslavian soldier. The diving knife flicked, a razor-edged blur; there was a quiet, almost regretful sigh, and then Magic eased that body too onto the grass. To left and right, the other Yugoslavs kept walking, unaware of the two deaths in the middle of their line.

Roselli and Brown maintained their positions over the bodies, knives drawn, as the SEALs one by one slipped through the gap opened in the enemy's search line. They moved as silently as the wind, with only a faint rustle in the grass to betray their movement, and with the Hip's rotors still slowly turning the noise was easily lost. Moments later, the SEALs reached the road, gathering in a ditch on the north side of the road about eighty meters east of the helicopter.

They used hand and squeeze signals only to coordinate their movements. There was a terrible danger here, of the helicopter turning its searchlight on the road, or of vehicles approaching with headlights on. They could clearly hear the Serb soldiers who'd remained with the helicopter talking by the seawall just a few tens of meters away. Mac went first, his big bulk slipping across the pavement as lightly as a ballerina, edging past the line of poplars, then rolling across the seawall and onto the seaward side. Next went Magic ... then Higgins ... Doc ... Boomer . . . the L-T. Roselli went last, backing across the road with his H&K raised, ready to return fire if someone spotted them.

On the seaward side of the wall, the SEALs lay flat on the sand. Their buried IBS and diving gear, as nearly as Roselli could tell, were on the far side of the helicopter, perhaps 100 or 120 meters up the beach to the west. Touching Murdock lightly on the sleeve, Roselli looked into the expressionless lenses of the lieutenant's night-vision gear and silently signaled:
To the raft?