Specter (14 page)

“The Athens government won't like the implication that they're weak. Their armed forces won't like the implication that they can't keep order or handle their own military problems. We're going to have to tread very carefully over there.”

“I take it we're going to have to cooperate with the Greeks on this one,” Murdock said.

“So far as investigating the hijacking, which involved Greek security personnel and a Greek airliner over Greek territory, yes. Definitely. If it turns out the hijackers are in Yugoslav Macedonia, the picture may be different, but we're going to have to start south of the border. Our embassy in Athens has started the ball rolling so far as putting small U.S. military teams into Greece to work with local military and law enforcement agencies.”

“Well, who the hell are the bad guys anyway?” Murdock wanted to know. “We must have some ideas, some place to start.”

“We do,” Garrett said. “There are several active Macedonian pro-independence movements going on both sides of the Greek border. The ones north of the border have a longer history, and more practice. The ones south of the border didn't really get restive until their cousins up north kicked over their traces, but they're making up for their late start with plenty of enthusiasm. Our best guess right now is that one of the Macedonian independence groups is behind the hijacking.”

“What groups?” Murdock wanted to know. He disliked the idea of trying to come to grips with a faceless enemy. “Who are they?”

“The International Macedonian Revolutionary Organization is a good bet,” Garrett said. The IMRO's been around since, oh, 1893 or so. First they fought the Turks. Then they fought the Serbs. And there are reportedly some splinter groups.”

“The EMA's one of the biggest,” Presley said. “They've been making a nuisance of themselves lately. Car bombings, assassinations, that sort of thing.”

Murdock blinked. “EMA?”

“A Greek acronym for a phrase that translates as ‘United Macedonian Struggle,'” Garrett said. “We think they're a Greek offshoot of the Slavic IMRO.”

Murdock shook his head unhappily. “I thought the Macedonians were Slavic, not Greek. Or am I missing something?”

Coburn laughed. “Son, you've just grasped the essentials of Balkan politics. No label can ever do justice to a hodgepodge mix of Serbian, Romanian, Bulgarian, and Greek Slavs.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and began counting off names on his fingers. “Not to mention Albanians, Greeks, Turks, Croats, Hungarian Magyars, Greek Orthodox, Macedonian Orthodox, Serb Orthodox, Muslim, Catholic, atheist, and the Lord alone knows what else, most of them hating everyone else in the neighborhood. In this case, most Macedonians
are
Slavs ... but there are plenty of Greeks who would like to see Greek Macedonia independent for one reason or another.”

“The worst part of all of this,” Garrett went on, “is the number of outside parties who have an interest in Balkan politics. Italy is poised to become the money man for the emerging Balkan republics, something like Japan in Asia today, and they have a vested interest in Trieste, up the Adriatic coast here. Austria and Hungary both want to see Slovenia stay independent, and that independence would be threatened if the war spread. Russia has a keen interest, of course. Yugoslavia was an ally, an arms and energy market, and a fellow Communist state, even if old Tito never saw eye to eye with the Kremlin. Besides, Russian Slavs don't want to see their South Slav cousins—that's what Yugoslavia means, by the way, ‘South Slav'—they don't want to see them pushed around.”

“The Russian ultra-nationalists,” Presley said, “have been talking about re-imposing the socialist workers' paradise on the whole region. They're afraid all-out war in the Balkans could spill over into Moldova, Ukraine, and even Russia itself. Besides, there are all of those lovely warm-water ports on the Adriatic. Dubrovnik, Kotor, Split, and all the rest.”

“Then there's Turkey,” Coburn said, “which would love an excuse to get into a general war with Greece, even if they are both members of NATO. We've got literally dozens of players in this show, all with hard reasons to either back or block Macedonian unity.”

“Sounds like that old cliche, the Balkan powder keg,” Murdock said.

“If you want cliches,” Coburn said, “try this one. The Ellen Kingston hijacking is the fuse, and it's burning damned short now. Fumble this one and we touch the whole damned mess off.”

“What do you think the terrorists, whoever is behind it, what do you think they're trying to accomplish?”

“Lieutenant, that's anybody's guess right now,” Garrett said, smiling through his beard. “We probably won't know until they do try to contact us. Chances are they'll have a list of political demands. You know, U.S. recognition of a Greater Macedonia, or something like that. Maybe leverage from Washington against Athens.”

“And then there's the Armageddon scenario,” Presley said.

“Armageddon scenario? What's that?”

‘“The idea that someone, the EMA or the Serbs or some other damned bunch of malcontents, actually
wants
a general war, that they kidnapped Kingston because they knew we would intervene militarily. You see, if Bulgaria, Greece, Turkey, Italy, Russia, and the United States, along with most of the other nations of Europe, all wound up involved in a devastating war, maybe they—whoever ‘they' might be—could have a chance to move in and set up as the local tough kids on the block.”

“There are some in Belgrade,” Garrett said, “who have actually been boasting that the first World War started in the Balkans ... and that the third one will too.”

“Good God, why?”

“Is matter of pride,” Stepano said. “Serbs, some Serbs anyway, see themselves as martyrs, as victims of centuries of persecution. By Turks. By Nazis. Now by Americans.”

“What,” Murdock said, “because we're trying to stop the slaughter of the Bosnian Muslims?”

Stepano shrugged. “They see it as their chance to get even. Like I say, they think they're victims. It is ... it is insanity.”

“‘They?'” Garrett said. “Aren't you a Serb?”

“I,” Stepano said, straightening a bit, “am
American
. Sir.”

“Good man,” Murdock said. “It's going to be good to have you with us.” He meant it. The complexities and the passions of Balkan politics left him feeling cold and a little lost.

And this mission was one where getting lost—just one little screwup—could mean not only the loss of his team, but the beginning of World War III.

The C-2A Greyhound was a twin-engine turboprop, a cargo aircraft designed around an enlarged E-2 Hawkeye fuselage. Popularly known as COD, for Carrier Onboard Delivery, the Greyhound was a vital link in American aircraft carrier operations, ferrying supplies, personnel, and mail to and from the big CVNs while they were at sea. Murdock and the rest of Third Platoon had boarded the aircraft aboard the
Nassau
early that morning. Now they were lounging in the hard folding seats that lined the Greyhound's cargo compartment, flying south along the west coast of Greece.

The men of SEAL Seven, Third Platoon, were relaxed and happy, enjoying both the flight and the prospect of what Jaybird Sterling laughingly called a “yesterday's mission.” “The only easy day was yesterday” ran the refrain from the BUD/S training, and that same spirit permeated most SEAL operations in the field as well. Some few SEAL operations, though, involved civilian clothes and tourist strolls through cities rather than twelve-mile swims or crawling through mud. The men gloried in what they referred to as a government-paid vacation, working leave, or liberty with strings attached.

All of both Blue and Gold Squads were aboard the COD aircraft, as well as the two new men Coburn had brought with him from Norfolk. Gold Squad's leader was Third Platoon's XO, Lieutenant j.g. Ed DeWitt, while the senior petty officer was Boatswain's Mate Chief Ben Kosciuszko. TM2 Eric Nicholson, GM1 Miguel “Rattler” Fernandez, RM1 Ron “Bearcat” Holt, MN2 “Scotty” Frazier, and MM2 David “Jaybird” Sterling made up the rest of the Gold Squad's muster list.

“So what do you know about this Solomos guy?” Jaybird asked Murdock after they'd been airborne for a time. “Is he Greek military?”

“I gather he used to be in the Greek paratroopers,” Murdock replied, “so he's been there and knows the score.”

“He probably already knows how to break into locked Volkswagens, Jaybird,” Magic said, and the rest of the men in the Greyhound laughed.

Machinist's Mate Second Class David Sterling joined in the laughter, and Murdock nodded approval. Sterling was relatively new as a SEAL, but he'd been accepted by the platoon and by now was an old hand. He'd completed BUD/S training eight months ago, just in time for the op aboard that Japanese plutonium ship in the Indian Ocean. He'd won his Budweiser after the usual six months' probationary period in a wildly memorable party in Norfolk two months ago. The nickname “Jaybird” was the result of an incident involving a pretty girl, a locked Vollcswagen, and skinny-dipping in the ocean off the beach at La Jolla, California, just after his SEAL training had been completed.

“How do you read it, Skipper?” MacKenzie asked. “We going to have problems with the locals? Or is all the unpleasantness higher up than down here at grunt level?”

“Don't know, Mac. We'll just have to play that as it comes. But I want all you guys to remember the captain's last word on the matter. It's low profile, right? Greek jails aren't as pleasant and comfy as the city jail back in Norfolk.”

“Don't worry, Skipper,” Chief Kosciuszko said, a deliberate growl in his voice. “These puppies'll behave or they're gonna think it's Hell Week all over again. Right, people?”

“Yes, Mother,” Doc cracked, and the cargo compartment rang with hoots and laughter.

Murdock had given all of his men the option of backing out of this one. While working with local police in Salonika didn't sound like hardship duty, Murdock felt that he ought to give them a choice ... and to let them know that this op felt wrong. It wasn't something he could put into words. After considerable thought, he'd decided that his bad feelings about the mission probably centered on the fact that, first off, their mission goals were uncomfortably vague. And even more problematical, they would be operating in a host country that didn't really want them, against enemies that weren't even identified yet, and on the fringes of a war—several wars, really-that promised to be as messy as Vietnam ... in spades.

Every man in the Third Platoon had volunteered, despite Murdock's warnings. The banter among the men now as they flew south was a confirmation of what Murdock already knew. Morale was good, despite Garcia's having been wounded, something that was always tough on a unit as close-knit as this one. They were tight, hard, and ready.

At the moment, conversation had drifted from what Kosciuszko would do to them if they screwed up to times they'd been in trouble generally. Jaybird told them again about the administrative mess he'd been in after the affair with the skinny-dipping in La Jolla, ending with his being arrested by a female cop while driving through town in his VW completely naked. Roselli and Holt repeated the story about the time in Norfolk when they'd been arrested by the local police after threatening to chuck a hotel manager out of a fifth-story window, when Mac had had to come down and bail them out.

“So, Stepano,” Roselli called, shouting to be heard above both the roar of the Greyhound's engines and the laughter and applause that followed his tale. “We heard tell you were in some sort of trouble back in Yugoslavia. What was it, some problem with the government?”

When Stepano didn't answer immediately, Murdock leaned closer to the big Serb-American. “You don't have to tell 'em anything if you don't want to.”

“Oh, is no problem, Lieutenant,” Stepano replied. “I was just thinking. Was not government trouble, exactly. You see, there was this girl. . . .”

“Ah.”

“Okay!” Doc shouted. “This boy's gonna fit right in!”

“It was still serious thing, Lieutenant. They were threatening me with Goli Otok. You see, she was daughter of a member of Central Committee. . . .”

Murdock shook his head. “Sorry. Goli ... what?”

“Goli Otok,” Stepano repeated. “One of two islands in the Adriatic, not so far from Trieste, you see? Goli Otok was torture prison for men, run by Tito's secret police. Sveti Grgur was same thing, only for women prisoners. There were awful stories. . . .”

Stepano bit his lower lip, then settled back in his seat. “Is not really so funny a story,” he said, finally. “That was why I left Yugoslavia, though. I was eighteen.”

His mood momentarily darkened the atmosphere within the COD's compartment, but not for very long. Doc began telling a story about a girl he'd known in Norfolk who was the daughter of an admiral, and soon the cargo compartment was again ringing with the SEALs' shouts and laughter.

But the exchange had left Murdock thoughtful. He'd heard the fear behind Stepano's words. How did the Serb feel about going back to his old neighborhood, Murdock wondered. Those “torture prisons” he'd mentioned probably belonged to Croatia now, and Tito's secret police would have evolved into something else. But there would be other Goli Otoks in place in what was left of Yugoslavia, and knowing the socialist bureaucratic mind, Murdock was sure that there were still plenty of records stuffed in a file folder someplace in Belgrade with Stepano's name on it.