Specter by Keith Douglass Page A

on Yugoslav soil, Belgrade might well be able to break the coalition of European and UN forces arrayed against Serbia in this damned, festering civil war. It would mean disgrace for the Americans, a propaganda victory for Greater Serbia, a promotion and an opening of political goals for himself.
    In fact, it would tie in perfectly with Operation Dvorak, which had many of the same goals. A victory here would nicely complement his operation in Macedonia—a complex plot that had been in preparation for months now and was due to reach a climax in only a few more days.
    Would this affect the timing of Dvorak at all? He didn’t think so. It probably couldn’t have been better if he’d planned it this way from the beginning.
    And all he needed to do was to capture a handful of lightly armed men before they could reach the safety of the sea.

0437 hours
East of Dubrovnik Southern Bosnia
    They’d alternated running and walking down the flank of the Gora Orjen, using a ground-eating pace across the open, pine-needle-covered forest floor to put as much distance as possible between them and their pursuers. The hunt was definitely on. Possibly the missing militia trooper had managed to call for help; more likely, a passing JNA helicopter had sighted the burning trucks and come to investigate. Either way, the Serbian military command in the Dubrovnik area would be alerted. At the very least, there would be patrols out, both on foot in the forest and in vehicles along the road. If the JNA commander decided to risk the threat of NATO air involvement, he would have helicopters up as well, both transports carrying squads of soldiers, and gunships.
    At least that’s what Murdock knew he would do if he were in the enemy commander’s place.
    They reached the edge of the forest just above the border fence, and Murdock called a halt. The coastal highway lay another four kilometers down the hill, across an open, gently descending field. Beyond that was the seawall and the beach.
    They’d emerged from the woods within a few hundred meters of where they’d gone in. As the other SEALs took up position crouched in a defensive perimeter about the area, Murdock and MacKenzie both checked the GPS, pinpointing their position and giving them a fix on where they’d left their equipment.
    â€œSo,” MacKenzie said. “What do you think? Looks clear.”
    â€œYeah, it does. I think to be on the safe side, though, we should call in. Higgins!”
    The squad’s radioman crawled over to them. “Yeah, L-T?”
    â€œBreak out the sat-comm gear, Prof. We’re going to phone home.”
    â€œWill do.”
    It took only a few minutes to set up the sat-comm system’s antenna, which was stowed in a pocket of one of the rucksacks like a folded-up umbrella. With legs and arms extended, it sat on the ground, facing south, its dish just seventeen inches across. A coaxial cable extending from the back of the antenna was plugged into Higgins’s HST-4 unit.
    Using a small manual, the Equatorial Satellite Pointing Guide , Higgins began lining up the antenna while the commo gear ran through its automated self-checks and calibrations. When he heard a tiny peep, the antenna was properly aligned with one of the military communications satellites in geosynchronous orbit above the equator.
    â€œReady to transmit, Skipper,” he said.
    â€œOkay. Give him a sit-rep. Tell ’em we have the package and we’re four klicks from the beach, but that we got into a firefight and could have bad guys on our tail.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    As Higgins began speaking in low, measured tones into his microphone, Murdock unpacked a pair of 7x40 binoculars and began to carefully study the highway below. Low-light gear didn’t help much at ranges over 150 meters; there were still situations where relatively old-fashioned equipment was more useful than modern, high-tech toys.
    MacKenzie was also using