Specter

14

The structure was small as Ottoman fortresses went, but it offered a commanding view of the lake from its cliff-side eyrie. Once it had protected a mountain road winding up through the Plachenska Mountains from the rug-making center at Korc to the crossroads town of Uskup, later known as Skopje, 140 kilometers to the north.

That road had been closed for a long time now. The Albanian border lay just eighteen kilometers south at the tiny village of Ljubanista, and that tiny country had been shut off from the rest of the world since the end of World War II.

The lake itself was well known to geologists as the deepest in Europe, one of the oldest lakes in the world. At an altitude of 695 meters, nestled into the forested landscape between the Galicica Mountains to the east and the southern arm of the Jablanica Mountains to the west, Lake Ohrid itself formed part of the border between Albania and The Former Yugoslav Macedonia. Approximately a third of the lake, the southwest corner from just south of Ljubanista to the border crossing at Cafasan, belonged to Albania.

As his car wound south past the town of Gorica on a narrow and poorly maintained road hugging the sheer, forested cliffs rising from the lake, Brigadni Djeneral Vuk Mihajlovic reflected that a more remote and private spot could scarcely be imagined. Struga Airport — which included a military air base, of course — offered access, but this narrow road and the forbidding terrain above and below it guaranteed the privacy of the force now holding Gorazamak Fortress. In recent years, the city of Ohrid had become something of a tourist center for this corner of Macedonia, and Gorazamak was one of some thirty so-called "cultural monuments" in the region. With civil war in Yugoslavia, however, and with the rise both of local terror groups like the EMA and of the threat of Serb-Yugoslav intervention in a state that clearly could not survive on its own, the tourists had vanished, taking their foreign currency elsewhere. So sharp had the economic collapse of the past couple of years been that many of the villages in the area were deserted now.

That was of no concern to Mihajlovic, who saw Macedonia as key both to the future of Greater Serbia and to his own personal future.

His driver turned left onto a dirt road that wound sharply up a steep, thickly forested hill. Several hundred meters into the woods, the road turned right into a clearing, offering a splendid view of the castle.

Gorazamak — the name was Serbo-Croat for "Mountain Castle" — was perched on a rocky cliff some fifty meters above the lakeshore road. It wasn't actually much of a castle as European castles went, with little to the place save an irregular, outer wall enclosing a five-story inner tower or keep. The place had been renovated perhaps fifteen years before and operated for a time as a hotel. It had gone out of business with Macedonian independence, and eventually had been purchased by Mihajlovic's agents. As a student of military history, Mihajlovic found a fine irony in the fact that a medieval castle, a type of fortification long obsolete in an age of airmobile troops and nuclear weapons, could once again play a part in a modern military operation.

The road ran across a narrow steel and concrete bridge spanning a natural moat, a crevice plunging straight to the boulders rising above the coast road below. Beyond was the massive gate tower that led to the courtyard or bailey. Soldiers in the gray Soviet-style uniforms of the home defense militia stopped them at the gate, looked over the driver's ID and papers, and checked Mihajlovic's face against a photograph before saluting and ushering the car through. Inside, military vehicles and a few civilian cars were parked alongside a low building to the left that had once been a stable. To the right, similar buildings served now as barracks for the outpost's fifty soldiers. Beyond, the tower loomed high in gray stone blocks against the evergreen forest of the higher slopes beyond.

Leaving the car with his driver, Mihajlovic strode across the flagstone pavement, up five steps, past two more sentries who saluted with crisp present arms, and through the high, vault-arched doorway opening into an impressive entry hall. The walls had been stripped bare of the banners and tapestries and museum relics that once had hung there, and the carpets once covering the floor and the broad, stone steps winding up either side of the room to a railed gallery overlooking the chamber had been removed. An unpleasantly anachronistic counter backed by racks and shelves to the left of the entrance as he walked in had once been manned by ticket-takers and stocked with souvenirs; now the area served as a guard post, where two men in the brown and gray camouflage of Yugoslavian Army uniforms stood watch, snapping to crisp attention as Mihajlovic walked in.

An aide hurried from the communications office, in a room leading off to the left. "My General!" the man called, and the sharp, military click of his boot heels echoed through the stone-walled chamber. "Welcome back!"

"Thank you, Ivo. Are our guests comfortable?"

"As comfortable as the circumstances permit, my General. They have been complaining of the lack of heat, the lack of privacy, and the poor food."

"You may tell them that their captivity will probably not last much longer. It is important to keep their attention focused on release, rather than on attempts at escape." He looked at the aide sharply. "You have not permitted them to see those uniforms, have you?"

"No, my General. As you ordered, their guards and those who tend to their needs wear militia uniforms. I doubt that the women would know the difference. The American officer, however, probably would. He has several times questioned his jailer about military matters, trying to draw him out, I think."

"It may be best if that one does not survive his rescue. He is entirely too clever, too observant."

"His dossier says that he was a POW in Vietnam. No doubt he entertains fantasies of escape."

"Well, we shall discuss his fate later. And our troops? They are settled in?"

"All is in readiness, my General. As you ordered."

"Excellent, Ivo. Another week, I think, and the whole world shall know of the Macedonia terrorists and their hijacking of an American congresswoman. We shall give the Americans a couple of days to deal with the hijackers at Skopje, and then we shall show them how a hostage rescue really works."

"Yes, Sir."

"In the meantime, I want-"

"General!" A man in a JNA sergeant's uniform appeared in the doorway to the communications center. "General Mihajlovic! You're here!"

"Yes, Sergeant. Just this moment. What is it?"

"Sir, a Priority One message has just come through. From Athens."

"Voice?"

"On the fax modem. They are running it through decryption now."

"I'll read it in there." Athens? What could he want? There was to be no communication with the Greek side Of the operation until…

In the communications center, a female lieutenant looked up from an IBM computer screen. "General! The message has just been cleared."

"Let me see."

Taking the woman's chair, Mihajlovic leaned forward and read the words written on the screen in glowing yellow phosphor.

Damn the man! Why couldn't he have transmitted more information? When had Vlacovic been taken? And by who? Was it a screw-up with the local authorities, or were the Americans already involved? Why couldn't that idiot Vlacovic have been silenced in prison before his interrogation? How much had the opposition learned from him? Was the HRU, the Hostage Rescue Unit, to be the American Delta Force, as had been assumed? Or were the Greeks behind it, or somebody else? It wasn't even beyond the realm of possibility that Vlacovic was playing at some game of his own. The first rule of operations in the twisted world of Balkan politics was never trust anyone.

And that, of course, applied even to Aristotle, even though Mihajlovic had groomed him for his current role himself. Had Aristotle betrayed the operation?

Doubtful. Not with those photographs and videotapes documenting Aristotle's rather bizarre sexual tastes in such lurid detail still safely locked away in the safe upstairs. If the man wanted to continue in Greek politics — if he even wanted to continue showing his face in public — he would continue to play the role in this drama Mihajlovic had assigned him.

For a moment, Mihajlovic toyed with the idea of contacting Aristotle in hopes of learning a few answers to go with the torrent of questions racing through his mind, then decided against it. He would assume the worst — that the Americans had been the ones to take and interrogate Vlacovic — if only because only news of that urgency would have prompted Aristotle to break the agreed-upon protocol and send this message. And even assuming the worst, nothing had really changed. The timetable for Dvorak would have to be moved up a bit, that was all. And it would help to increase military security here at the castle.

"Ivo!"

Boot heels clicked at Mihajlovic's back. "Yes, my General!"

"Prepare the draft of an order. I wish to bring in more men, immediately. C and D companies, I believe, are still at the Struga airfield?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Have them brought to the castle immediately. And I will wish to review the deployment of our forces."

"At once, my General. The… hostage rescue? You are moving up the schedule?"

"Possibly. This…" He tapped the computer screen with the knuckle of his right forefinger. "This may force us to move a bit faster than we anticipated. I would still like the operation carried out after an American rescue attempt at Skopje, however, if possible."

The aide's eyes narrowed as he read the screen. "Ah. Is that wise, sir? I mean, if the Americans have learned that the Kingston woman is being held here, instead of at Skopje-"

"The Americans will still assault Skopje," Mihajlovic said. "They must. They cannot know whether or not all of the Americans have been removed from the aircraft and transported here, and they will want to make certain before launching an assault here. Furthermore, I expect they may wish to keep us uncertain about how much they know. The best way to do that would be to launch a rescue operation at the Skopje airport." He smiled. "It is even possible that they will think that the story that Kingston was brought here to be a fabrication. If I were they, I would not believe so fantastic a story, eh? It has all of the elements of a fairy tale, does it not? A castle on a mountain, the princess held prisoner in the dungeon."

"It lacks only the fire-breathing dragon, my General."

Mihajlovic laughed. "Forewarned is forearmed, as they say, my friend. With two more companies of soldiers in place, we will make anyone who comes calling believe that we have a regiment of dragons on this mountain. Come. Let us see about sending that order."

The Greyhound COD dropped out of leaden skies, descending at two hundred knots toward the roundoff of the supercarrier's flight deck. Wheels kissed steel, the tail hook snagged the number-two wire, and as twin turboprops howled protest, the aircraft lurched to a halt.

On board the COD, Murdock unhooked his safety harness.

"Haven't we been here before?" Mac said, peering out through one of the Greyhound's tiny windows. The edge of the flight deck just aft of the carrier's island was packed with aircraft, F-14 Tomcats and A-6 Intruders, their wings folded, their fuselages huddled together like huge, gray, nesting birds.

"That we have, Chief," Roselli said. "But I got a feelin'."

"What feeling, Razor?" Holt wanted to know.

"That we ain't gonna be aboard for very long. I'd keep my toothbrush handy if I was you guys."

"Shit," Jaybird said. "I'm just glad to be the hell out of Greece. I thought for a while they were going to give us a personal tour of their prison system."

"Me too, 'Bird," Papagos said. "Hey, I don't think Mr. Solomos likes us very much." The others laughed, all except Stepano. Murdock decided that it would be a good idea to keep a close eye on the big Serb-American. Forcing him into the role of interrogator back in Salonika might not have been such a good idea.

Screw it. If they hadn't done it, they wouldn't have found out about Lake Ohrid. Murdock knew he would make the same decision again if he had to. All the same, Stepano would bear watching for a while.

Their escape from Greece had been somewhat anticlimactic. After leaving Vlachos tied up in the room at the Dimitriu, they'd broken into small groups again and made their way across town to the American Consulate, at number 59 on the Leoforos Nikis, back where the evening's excitement had begun. Two Greek soldiers were standing guard out front, no doubt with orders to arrest any SEALs who might show up. Roselli and Mac took them out, silently and efficiently, leaving them unconscious, tied and gagged, and lying behind a rubbish bin in an alley around the side of the building.

At the consulate, Murdock made several phone calls, using a password that both vouched for his security clearance and demonstrated the urgency of the situation. The last call on his list put him through to Solomos, manning a stakeout back at the Vergina Hotel. In the early morning hours, Solomos had managed to pick up three more SEALs — Rattler, Bearcat, and Doc — when they'd showed up at the hotel in their rental car from Athens, but he'd lost them again almost immediately. Murdock hadn't learned all of the details yet, just something about a smoke grenade going off inside the van the DEA men were using as a mobile headquarters.

But the rest of the SEALs would still be arriving throughout the morning, and Murdock wanted to get them all rounded up without further interference from Greek security. Solomos refused to talk with Murdock when the SEAL lieutenant got him on the phone, but an hour later he'd been contacted by George Aristides, the Assistant Director of the Greek Security Agency. Aristides, it turned out, had just had a long conversation with his boss, the Agency's Director, who in turn had just had a long conversation with the U.S. Secretary of State. The SEALs were to be released — all of them — and allowed to leave Greece at once without hindrance.

Solomos, Murdock imagined, was by that time probably delighted with the idea.

Once all of SEAL Seven's Third Platoon had been collected, they'd taken an Olympic charter flight to Hellenica, where they'd boarded the same Navy Greyhound that had brought them there the day before. And now they were back aboard the Jefferson.

For ten hours that morning, ever since receiving an alert from the Chief of Naval Operations at the Pentagon, the Jefferson had been cruising north through heavy seas at thirty-five knots. Now she was on station, patrolling a racecourse-shaped oval midway between the heel of Italy's boot and the Greek island of Kerkyra, which curled protectively around the southern tip of Albania. Murdock and the other SEALs accepted the padded helmets known as "cranials" in Navy parlance, and life jackets, both of which they were required to don for their trip across the flight deck. Jefferson was at battle stations and in the middle of a hectic launch-and-recovery operation; under those conditions a carrier's flight deck was quite literally the most dangerous work environment on Earth.

Murdock stepped off the Greyhound and onto the deck. It had been raining not long ago, and the air was chilly and wet with the promise of another storm. Even through the cranial's built-in hearing protectors, his ears rang with the throbbing thunder of a catapult launch off one of the two waist cats. Preparations were under way at the second waist cat as well. The air shimmered from the jet wash, boiling above the raised rectangle of deck called a JBD, or jet-blast deflector, as the aviator aboard an F-14 Tomcat eased up the throttles on his chariot. A small mob of men in brightly and variously colored jerseys and helmets were in the midst of an intricate performance around the aircraft. At the launch officer's signal, they scattered, drawing back from their trembling gray charge.

Forward, the launch director waved, spun, pointed down the deck, then dropped to one knee with his thumb to the steel; at the signal, the Tomcat rushed forward, hurled down the slot of the catapult at an acceleration that took the aircraft from zero to 250 knots in less than two seconds. Steam spilled from the slot that guided the cat shuttle hooked to the Tomcat's nose wheel, almost as though the hurtling aircraft had set the deck afire behind it as it moved. Afterburners glaring like twin, orange-white eyes, the Tomcat flashed off the waist catapult, then ominously dipped below the level of the flight deck, vanishing from view. As Murdock watched, however, the aircraft reappeared a moment later, well ahead of the ship and climbing steadily, rising toward the gray ceiling on a trailing crescendo of thunder.

"Man," Murdock said, yelling to be heard both above the jet roar and the cranials everyone wore. "I don't know how they do that!"

"They might say the same thing about your job, Lieutenant!"

Murdock turned and found Captain Coburn standing there, along with Senior Chief Hawkins.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Murdock said. He almost saluted… stopping himself when he remembered that he was still in civilian clothes. "We seem to keep bumping into one another out here."

"Hello, Blake. Ed. Welcome aboard. I hope your boys are rested after their shore leave in Greece."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," DeWitt said. "Don't worry. You're gonna love this one. You two eaten yet?"

"No, Sir," Murdock replied. "Things were kind of hectic in Athens."

"I can imagine. Come on. Hawk will take care of your boys and see that they're fed. I'll buy you lunch and fill you in on some of what's happening. At 1600 hours, we have a pre-mission briefing. Beaucoup braid. I'm beginning to think you guys like slamming your fists into hornets' nests."

"A mission?" Murdock asked. Adrenaline kicked his awareness to full on. "We're going back in?"

"Damn right you are. Any objections?"

"Not a one," Murdock replied. "Not a damned one."

They strode across the deck. Forward, thunder rolled again as a Tomcat roared off one of the bow cats. Closer at hand, the flight deck crew was bringing up another aircraft for launch off the first waist cat. This one was an E-2C Hawkeye, a twin turboprop plane that bore a distinct family resemblance to its Greyhound relation… except for the disk-shaped radome, over seven meters across, rising above its back like a flying saucer hitching a ride. The multi-hued deck personnel closed in; the dance on the deck continued, with yet another round.

Aft, another aircraft dropped out of the clouds toward Jefferson's roundoff. Scant seconds, it seemed, after the COD had been nudged and prodded out of the way, an EA-6B Prowler electronic-warfare aircraft slammed into the deck in a barely controlled crash, yanked to a halt by the arrestor cable.

It was quieter inside, in the wardroom known as the Dirty Shirt Mess because officers didn't need to change out of flight suits or less-than-reputable uniforms to eat there. Murdock could still hear the roar-slam-whoom of aircraft taking off from Jefferson's "roof," another aircraft launching or landing every minute or two. Coburn purchased meal tickets for the three of them, and they went through the line. Lunch today was hamburgers — "sliders" to carrier personnel — french fries, and coffee.

"Okay," Coburn told Murdock and DeWitt after they'd found a table and sat down. "CIA and Naval Intelligence bought your story about Kingston and some of her people being moved to Ohrid. There're some satellite photos that back you up, and it turns out the Company has a file on this Mihajlovic bastard. He just might be looking for an opening at the top in Belgrade. Finding a way to humiliate the U.S. would grease his way to the top of the heap real well."

"I sense a 'but' in that, sir,"

"Yup. Big time. But it works to our advantage, Lieutenant. It seems that Army Intelligence, the State Department, and the White House are all convinced that the honorable representative from California is still being held at Skopje."

"Shit."

"Not shit. We're going to take down both targets, a double-header. Or rather, Delta Force will be going into Skopje. We'll be hitting Lake Ohrid. If your people are ready, of course."

"We're ready, sir."

Damned straight they were ready. They'd discussed the possibility of another mission among themselves during the flight from Hellenica to the Jefferson. Something about the urgency in the air during their discussion that morning with the military liaison at the U.S. embassy had told Murdock that something big was on, probably an op. Normally, though, when one unit pulled recon, another would be brought in to carry off the op… and SEAL Seven's Third Platoon had already been in combat just a few short days before.

Coburn seemed to be reading Murdock's thoughts, or at least anticipating them.

"We have First Platoon on the way from Little Creek," he said. "And we've put Second Platoon on alert. But time is absolutely critical on this op. Bainbridge has been going ballistic. I think if we could insert you guys twenty minutes from now, it would still be about a week too late so far as he's concerned."

Murdock smiled. Bainbridge was Admiral Thomas Bainbridge, the commanding officer of NAVSPECWARGRU-Two, and the CO, therefore, of all East Coast SEALS.

"Problems with deployment?"

"The usual. Not enough airlift capability, and some gear problems Stateside. First Platoon ought to be here late tomorrow afternoon, Second Platoon the day after that. SEAL Six has a team in Sicily right now, but they would need more men and they're not up to speed on the tacsit in Macedonia. You guys are here. Now. I've asked Admiral Bainbridge to send you in, and he gave the affirmative. So if your people agree, you're the ones."

"When?"

"Tonight."

Murdock whistled, and DeWitt spilled some of the coffee just as he was raising the mug to his lips.

"Good God!" DeWitt said. "You're not serious? Sir."

"Dead serious. If our intelligence is accurate, Kingston and at least four people, maybe more, are being held in an Ottoman castle on the east shore of Lake Ohrid. But the CIA concurs with your assessment, Lieutenant, that there is a mole, an infiltrator of some kind, at a high level of the Greek security system. The moment Greek DEA picked up your prisoner at that hotel, or very shortly afterwards, the mole knew that we knew, and he could make a pretty shrewd guess at how much we knew. We're betting he alerted the Lake Ohrid group."

"He wouldn't have been able to tell them much," Murdock pointed out.

"No, but he could tell them that we knew Kingston was there. That means two things. They'll probably beef up their security, for one. For another, if they had some sort of gimmick going with this hijacking — like staging a fake rescue, or killing the hostages and blaming it on the Greeks… that's another idea that's been in the wind, lately — then they'll likely move their timetable up. The Agency thinks they could try their move, whatever it is, by tomorrow."

"So we have to go in tonight," Murdock said quietly.

"I wish we could give you more time. But…" Coburn shrugged, picked up his hamburger, and took a bite out of it. "Anyway, you'll have two more platoons as backup. This'll be a strictly down-and-dirty, no-frills op. You go in, grab the hostages, and keep them safe against all comers until we figure out a way to get you out."

"Simple," DeWitt said. He was grinning.

"Oh, getting in is always simple," Coburn said. "It's getting out that's hard."

"Actually," Murdock added, "the trick is in getting out alive."