Specter by Keith Douglass Page B

binoculars to sweep the landscape. “Don’t see a damned thing, Skipper.”
    â€œAffirmative. Looks quiet.” Murdock lowered the binoculars. “Well, only one way to find out. Professor?”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œWe can’t wait that long, not with the road still clear. Pack up your gear, Prof. We’re moving.”
    â€œAye, 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.
    â€œNegative, L-T,” Roselli said from somewhere behind. “But they sure as shit were goin’ somewhere in a hurry.”
    â€œMaybe,” 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 ...
    â€œOn your feet, people,” Murdock called. “Fast!”
    Or they could be air assets brought in to cover Serbian ground forces, especially airmobile troops.
    â€œYou think those guys were looking for us?” Mac asked.
    â€œMaybe. 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.

0501 hours
East of Dubrovnik Croatia
    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