"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."
15
In the end, the mission had not gone down that night. A hold order had come through from Washington early that evening, delaying the op for twenty-four hours. At first, Murdock had been afraid that the delay would mean the op would be given to someone else, Delta possibly, or SEAL Seven's First Platoon, but it turned out his fears were groundless.
Delta, he'd been told, was still working out its operations plan for the assault at Skopje, and both First and Second Platoons would be going into the backup slot for Third Platoon, as planned.
Murdock was relieved. Until the delay had thrown things into question, he'd not been aware of just how much he wanted this mission… not out of a sense of duty or an enjoyment of combat, but simply because, more and more, he was beginning to feel a personal involvement in the continuing nightmare that was the former Republic of Yugoslavia. He was thinking a lot about Garcia; one of the first things he'd done after coming aboard the Jefferson was to have Doc talk to some of the people in the carrier's medical department and get an update on Garcia's condition from Bethesda.
The word was that Garcia was out of intensive care, which was good news, but that there'd been extensive pulmonary damage, which was bad. SEALs needed good lungs, both for diving and for the kind of physical exertion routinely expected of them both on ops and in training. You don't run fourteen miles in 110 minutes with a crippled lung, and swimming two miles with fins in under seventy minutes is flatly impossible. Garcia would almost certainly be dropped from the SEAL program; there was even some doubt about whether he would be allowed to stay in the Navy.