Specter (35 page)

“Who the hell are you?” the major demanded. His voice was shaking.

“Sergeant Jankovic, Major, Yugoslav National Army.”

“You're from Gorazamak?”

Jakovic nodded.
God,
he was tired. . . .

“What the hell is going on up there? What's Mihajlovic playing at? Look what happened to my lead element!”

Jankovic looked past the major. At first, the scene scarcely registered on his fire-numbed brain. Only gradually did it dawn on him that those red objects bathed in the headlights of a truck were
men
... or had been. A jeep sat crossways on the road, its motor still running. Its side had been scoured as though by a titanic shotgun blast; what was left of three or four passengers—it was impossible to tell how many—had literally been blown out of their seats.

“Some kind of booby trap,” the major was saying. “If this is Mihajlovic's idea of a training exercise—”

“It is real, Major,” Jankovic said as two of the soldiers helped him to his feet. “Gorazamak has been ... has been taken by commandos.”

“Commandos! Those fantasies again!”

“Not fantasies, Major. I was there, up north, four days ago. Now they're here.”

“What commandos? Whose?”

“I don't know, sir. American, I think. Probably parachutists. They hold the castle now.”

“And the general?”

“I don't know, sir. I was on one of the walls when they attacked. I ... I saw it was hopeless and climbed down the outside of the wall.”

“Deserting your post.”

Anger flared in Jankovic ... but quickly faded. It was the truth, after all. “Sir, the enemy was slaughtering the garrison.
Slaughtering
them, sir. I ... felt it would be best if I could get help.”

“You're under arrest.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer was staring up the hill, into the forest in the direction of the castle.

“You will ride with me. As guide. Acquit yourself well, and the arrest will be rescinded.”

Jankovic sagged, almost falling again. He wanted to tell the major to go to hell, to throw him in prison and be done with it. He didn't want to face these nightmares that appeared out of the night to kill, and kill again. He'd faced them at the monastery, and again on the beach. Now they were here, and Jankovic was beginning to think these night terrors had singled him out personally.

But discipline and training reasserted themselves. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Commandos, eh?” the major said. “We'll see how they stand up to the 434 Motorized.”

Only then did Jankovic notice the line of flat, ugly vehicles squatting on their tracks astride the main road, their engines thuttering noisily at idle.

The major grinned at Jankovic's expression. “Parachutists don't stand a chance against armored fighting vehicles, eh?”

They could all hear it now, the metallic clattering of an armored vehicle's tracks. “What the hell?” Magic said. “They sending tanks after us?”

“Not quite,” Murdock said, leaning against the parapet and holding a Varo AN/PVS-4 nightscope to his eye. “Looks to me like a couple of bumps.”

Bumps—BMP-1s, to be precise—were tracked infantry combat vehicles, a primitive version of the modern M2 Bradley AFV in the U.S. Army's inventory. Originally introduced by the Soviets in the early 1960s, the BMP-1 was the first AFV ever employed by any army, a low, boxy vehicle running on tank tracks, carrying a crew of three and up to eight troops. The top was completely flat except for a small, squat turret mounting a 73mm gun; a launch rail mounted just above the gun carried an AT-3 Sagger antitank missile. A single coaxial machine gun completed its weapons inventory, though the troops also had firing ports along the side of the low-slung, armored hull.

Through the nightscope, Murdock could see the two vehicles just coming around the curve in the access road on the far side of the stone bridge, grinding their way toward the castle's gate, one following the other in stately line-ahead.

“Higgins!” Murdock snapped. “Get on the horn and tell'em we got company, at least two BMP-1s. If they don't get our air support here stat, those things are going to be all over us.”

“Yes, sir!”

He opened his tactical channel. “Mac!”

“Yeah, Boss!”

“We've got bumps knocking at the front gate. Where's that truck?”

“Roselli's got it started. He's on the way!”

But it might already be too late.

“Get those RPGs up here, gate tower, on the double.”

“Yes, sir!”

Murdock heard the truck's engine behind him, just audible over the ragged purr of the BMPs. The Yugoslav vehicles had slewed to a stop a few meters beyond the bridge and appeared to be waiting there. Murdock shifted his nightscope, checking the woods to either side. Yes ... there was some movement. Troops were moving among the trees. There was also some movement at the bridge abutments on the far side of the ravine ... men checking for mines or booby traps, he thought.

Blowing that bridge would have been a nice idea, Murdock thought, but the team had been so heavily loaded for Alexander already that they'd brought a minimum of explosives with them. Frazier had a kilo or so of plastic explosives and the usual assembly of detonators and prima-cord, but that bridge was solid built, all steel and concrete. A good twenty kilos or more would have been necessary, and it had been assumed that the stuff wouldn't be needed for a quick in-and-out like this one.

“I think we'd better get clear of this tower,” Murdock told the other men with him. “These walls aren't going to stand up to a seventy-three.”

“My antenna's on the roof,” Higgins said.

“Bring it. We can realign—”

The coaxial gun of the lead BMP opened fire, the stuttering yellow muzzle flash stabbing out of the night. Bullets whined and shrieked off stone or thudded heavily into the barricade at the gate. Murdock turned to look out of the tower's southeast window; Roselli was backing a two-and-a-half-ton truck into position, blocking the open gateway.

“Out!” Murdock yelled. “Everybody out! Roselli! Get the hell out of there!”

The BMP's 73mm gun spoke, the shot a hollow boom that echoed off the mountain above. The round slammed squarely into the truck and detonated, the concussion jolting Murdock in the gate tower directly above the blast. The SEALs scrambled out through the narrow doorway leading to the parapet walk northeast of the gate tower.

“Razor! You okay?”

“I'm clear, Boss,” Roselli's voice replied. “A little singed.”

From his new position on the ramparts, and using his nightscope, Murdock could see small details of the vehicle now, including the semicircle of small ports around the driver's hatch and on the commander's hatch just behind. Firing at those slits with small arms, though, would be futile ... and a great way of drawing fire. Automatic weapons were flashing and stuttering from the forest. Bullets sang off the castle walls or sighed overhead. The lead BMP was moving again, starting toward the bridge.

“Holt,” he called over the radio. “Where are you?”

“West wall, L-T. Just got here.”

“Anyone with you?”

“Nick the Greek,” another voice said. “I'm up here with Bearcat.”

“Okay. I want you two guys on top of the keep. Holt, use your sixty to sweep bad guys off the walls. Papagos, you spot. Watch out for our people.”

“You got it, L-T. Let's move it, Bearcat.”

Another explosion boomed from beneath the archway of the main gate. For a moment, Murdock thought the BMP had fired again, but it was the gasoline tank in the truck-barricade cooking off. Orange flame spilled skyward, licking at ancient stone, and Murdock was very glad that they'd cleared the gate tower. Assault rifles chattered wildly from across the ravine.

“Magic!” he called. “Professor! I want you two up on the tower as well.”

“I need my sat antenna, L-T,” Higgins said.

“Forget it.” The roof of the gate tower would be well covered by fire from below. “Achilles will be in line-of-sight soon enough. Now haul ass!”

“Here we go, Boss,” Mac said. Murdock turned. Behind him, Mac was cradling an RPG-7 under one arm and holding a case of four rocket grenades in the other.

“Great! What kind of rounds we got? Any AP?”

“'Fraid not, Boss. Couldn't find anything down there but HE.”

“Never mind. At least we'll shake the bastards up. Gimme a hand here.”

Together, they prepared the first grenade, screwing a cylinder containing the rocket propellant into the warhead section, then snapping the complete round into the launch unit's muzzle. Mac snapped off the warhead's nose cap and pulled the safety pin. Murdock hefted the weapon to his shoulder.

“You ever fire one of these things, L-T?”

“In training, sure. Exotic Weapons 101. Anyway, if a terrorist can learn how to use the thing, how tough can it be?”

“Remember your back-blast.” Mac slapped Murdock on top of his helmet. “You're go!”

The lead BMP was almost all the way across the bridge now, less than thirty yards away and grinding slowly toward the front gate. If they could kill it while it was still on the bridge, the enemy assault would be stopped cold ... at least for as long as it would take Chariot and Achilles to reach the castle.

Murdock squeezed the trigger. A jolt flung the grenade clear of the muzzle, and then the igniter caught and the rocket-propelled round swooped toward the target with a hiss, but lower than Murdock had expected. It struck the stonework of the bridge with a flash and a bark of thunder. Rock and shattered concrete cascaded into the ravine, but the BMP kept coming, untouched, clearing the near side of the bridge.

“Shit!” Murdock said.

“Back to summer school for you, L-T. Duck and move!” Together, they scurried on hands and knees further to the right, keeping below the line of parapet openings. An explosion ripped through the ancient stonework, throwing both SEALs flat. Looking back over his shoulder, Murdock saw that the BMP's 73mm round had slammed into the parapet just below where he and Mac had been hiding.

The BMP slewed off the road and kept coming. The gun barked again, striking just below the last impact. Rocks showered into the bailey. Clearly, the latest in sixteenth-century fortifications weren't going to last long against an AFV.

“Shit!” Murdock said. “They're gonna come straight through the wall!” He opened the mike to his Motorola. “Okay, all Alexanders, all Alexanders, off the walls. Fall back to the tower, everyone! We'll make our stand there! Move it!”

“Can we manage another shot?” Mac wanted to know.

“I think so. He's close, but I think so.”

“Okay,” Mac said, screwing the propellant onto a second grenade. “Let's try that again, shall we? Allow for the rocket's dip this time.”

“Yes, teacher.” RPG rounds had a curious dip to their trajectory, the result of being kicked clear of the muzzle before the rocket ignited, and at close range it could result in the projectile striking considerably lower than the aim point. Murdock hefted the weapon to his shoulder once more, peering through a parapet firing slot. The BMP was so close to the wall now that he couldn't get a clear shot and still stay under cover.

“I'll have to hop, pop, and drop, Mac.”

“Shit, L-T. They'll nail you.”

“Where's your hog?”

“Left it at the tower. I couldn't carry all this shit and a sixty-gun too.”

“I'll just have to do it fast, then.”

“Let me.”

“Negative. Here goes.”

In one smooth motion, Murdock rose, aimed, and fired. This time the round swooped down from the battlements, leveling off just before it struck the ground and slamming into the BMP's left side, below and a little in front of the turret. The fireball enveloped the front half of the vehicle; the blast jolted it to the right.

Gunfire from the woods exploded around him. Chips flew from the top of the parapet, and something stung his cheek. He dropped behind the safety of the ramparts as the second BMP's coaxial gun opened up, sending a line of dazzling green tracers searing overhead with a curious snapping sound. Another machine gun joined in. A third BMP had just joined the fight, and the topmost stones on the rampart shattered and sprayed beneath that hosing of 7.62mm rounds.

“Move!” They scrambled clear as another 73mm round slammed into the wall, searching for the troublesome snipers.

“A for the day,” Mac cried as they dropped flat once again, further down the parapet walk. “You dropped that one right in the commander's seat!”

“We're not going to get another shot from up here,” Murdock said. “Let's pull back to the tower.”

“Roger that. You okay? Your face is bleeding.”

“Just a sting. Piece of stone, I think.”

“We got two more rounds here.”

“We'll save 'em for when they come through the wall. Come on.”

“You know, Skipper, that we're in a world of shit. The choppers won't be able to come in with an army camped right outside our front door.”

“Yeah. It's gonna be up to the flyboys now.”

Major Peter K. Selby keyed his microphone. “Alexander, Alexander, this is Night Rider. Do you copy? Over.”

The AC-130 gunship had flown across Albania at treetop level. Now it was above Lake Ohrid at ten thousand feet, banking into its left-hand turn to bring the weaponry packed into its port side to bear.