"But Athens-"
"Is south of Salonika," Winters said. "Actually a little east of south. We're flying almost exactly in the wrong direction."
Mantzaros gave a start at that, performing an almost comical double take. Reaching inside his suit coat, he dragged out an automatic pistol, then jerked the slide back with a sharp snick-snick.
"Gentlemen, please," Kingston said.
"Maybe the pilot's just detouring around a storm or something," Bunny said. But she looked scared.
"I checked with the met office at the airport," Winters said. "No storms between there and Athens. Agent Mantzaros?"
"I think perhaps I should check up front," the Greek DEA man said.
"I think that's an excellent idea," Winters said, rising. "Let's go have a word with the pilot."
"That won't be necessary," one of Mantzaros's men said, brushing through the curtain at the front of the passenger compartment. He was holding an ugly-looking automatic weapon which he kept centered on his boss's chest. Kingston searched for the gun's name. What was the thing called? Uzi, that was it.
"Stavrianos!" Mantzaros cried, eyes widening behind his comic-opera dark glasses. "Ti kaneteh? Then kantalamvano!"
"Skasmos!" The DEA man kept the Uzi pointed at Mantzaros in one hand as he held out the other, palm up. "Thos moo toh! Grigora!"
His dark features growing darker still, Mantzaros slowly handed his pistol to the DEA man butt first.
"Kalos." He gestured toward a seat behind the VIP lounge with the pistol, then dropped the weapon into his pocket. "Kathesate!"
"What the fuck is the meaning of this, you bastard?" Winters demanded.
The man with the Uzi whipped the ugly weapon around, catching the colonel on the side of his head, just behind his left eye. Kingston winced at the crack of metal striking skin over bone. Winters gasped and dropped to his knees clutching his head.
"Colonel!" she exclaimed. There was blood… a lot of blood, welling up from a cut just behind the officer's left eye.
"I advise you to watch your language, Colonel Winters," the man said smoothly. "There is a lady present." With his free hand, he reached out and grabbed Winters by the hair, shoving him back against the table and pinning him there with his bloody head all the way back. He brought the muzzle of the Uzi down and pressed it against Winters's throat.
"No!" Bunny cried. "What are you doing? You can't do that!"
"We already have, Miss Allison. My, ah, associates and I are now in command of this aircraft."
"Son… of a… bitch…" Winters gasped against the pressure of the gun's barrel resting on his Adam's apple.
The man pulled Winters's head up, then slammed it viciously down on the table again. Winters reached for the gun, but the man stepped easily back out of reach.
"As I say, we are in charge now. All of you would be well advised to stay in your seats and remain silent. You will not be hurt if you do precisely what I say."
"Who are you?" Kingston demanded. "What is it you want?"
The man smiled. "I am Mikos Stavrianos," he said, turning his gun on her. "I am a member of the EMA… and what we want, Congresswoman, is you."
8
"Get in here."
Murdock opened the door and stepped through into the briefing room. Part of Nassau's Operations suite, it was a typically stark shipboard compartment, gray-walled and with a tile deck. PLAT monitors — television monitors showing activity on the flight deck looking both forward and aft — hung from several strategic points on the cable- and conduit-cluttered overhead, and the center of the room was dominated by a large table.
There were maps on the table, but they were covered by a sheet. Murdock, who'd been anticipating worse and worse personal outcomes for himself in regard to this meeting, wondered what that meant.
Were they going to kick him out of the Teams?
A number of naval officers were in the compartment, gathered around the table or sitting in chairs or sofas near the bulkheads. Most were members of Nassau's Operations staff, including Commander George Presley, from CIC, and Commander Randolph R. Garrett, the red-bearded head of Nassau's Intelligence Center.
There were some surprises waiting for Murdock there as well. Captain Phillip Coburn was the commanding officer of SEAL Seven, an old-time SEAL who'd begun with Team Two in Vietnam, back in 1969. Commander George Monroe was Coburn's executive officer, while Senior Chief Ed Hawkins was on Coburn's administrative staff.
Two of the men Murdock did not know… the only two enlisted men in the compartment. One was a tall, athletic-looking electronics technician first class, square-jawed, blond, and blue-eyed. The other was a machinist's mate second, a head shorter than the other petty officer, with black hair and an intense, dark gaze. Both wore the SEAL Budweiser on their dress blue uniform jumpers.
Murdock zeroed in on Coburn, however. "Captain Coburn," Murdock said, trying to control his surprise. "I, ah, I thought you were at Little Creek. Sir."
"I was, until Blue Arrow got hot. I've read the report, and Commander Presley filled me in when I came aboard this morning. Tell me something, son. Was there any way on God's green earth you could have avoided that fight at the monastery?"
"Certainly there was, sir. I gave the order to fire. I could have ordered my men to hold their fire. The decision was mine."
"And?"
"Sir?"
"Why did you do it? Open fire, I mean."
"Two soldiers had detained Gypsy, our contact, our whole reason for going in. Judging from the nature of what was going on at the time, I thought it likely that they would shoot him. At the very least they would have arrested him on some pretext."
"Yes, and searched his vehicle."
"They would have found the briefcase, sir, yes."
"I don't know if anyone bothered to tell you, Lieutenant," Monroe said, "but the Agency has its package. Fletcher flew back to Langley with it soon as you brought it aboard. By all accounts, they're happy about this mess at least."
"I take it you've seen some of the late-breaking news stories, Lieutenant," Coburn said.
"Yes, sir. It sounds like the Serbs are playing up our presence there in a pretty big way."
"You got that straight," Coburn said. He leaned back against the table, his arms folded. "That general… what's his name?"
"Mihajlovic."
"Mihajlovic, right. He's telling the whole world, live on ACN TV, that — pick one — the Marines, the Green Berets, the SEALS, the CIA, or all four are out to overthrow the legitimate government of the Yugoslav Republic. He's been showing off that CRRC you left on the beach, by the way."
"We had no choice on that, sir. They were parked practically on top of it."
"Was there any way for you to have avoided contact with the enemy at the beach?"
"Well, I could have holed up in the woods for a day or two. Or chosen a different extraction point. But there seemed to be no reason for either until we were already committed. I… I'm really not sure what else I could have done, sir."
Coburn held up a hand, shaking his head. "Don't sweat it, son. I just wanted to hear it from you. Missions of this type never go as smoothly as they do in the movies, do they?"
Murdock quirked an eyebrow. Where was this leading? "No, sir. Never."
"Mihajlovic can't prove anything," Senior Chief Hawkins put in. "All the gear was sterile. You didn't leave anyone behind."
"By the way," Coburn said. "Speaking of that, I saw Garcia at Bethesda before flying out here. Doctors say he's going to make it."
They'd medevaced Garcia off the Nassau that same day, first to Naples, then back to the National Naval Medical Center at Bethesda, just inside the Washington Beltway. "That's good news, sir," Murdock said.