Another helicopter rattled overhead, traveling west to east and sweeping the beach with its searchlight as it went.
This could get damned tricky.
0514 hours On Highway M2 east of Dubrovnik
Narednik Jankovic walked along the north side of the seawall, trying hard to see everywhere in the darkness at once. His comrades, members of the Third JNA Mechanized Itra Infantry Brigade, had laughed at his belief that the infiltrators they were searching for were Americans.
They'd laughed harder still when he described the slaughter at the monastery… had it only been three hours ago? After all the Srpska Dobrovoljacki Straza — the Serb Volunteer Guard — while made up of fellow Serbs, was nonetheless a militia, good for hunting down Bosniaks but not all that good in a stand-up fight. Caught in an ambush by professionals, of course they'd been wiped out. But that sort of thing could never happen to regular army troops.
Jankovic wasn't so sure. A great many members of the various Serbian militias had been JNA men like him, allowed to leave the army expressly so they could join the militias or to serve as "advisors." Bosnia-Hercegovina had a sizable Serb population which did not want to live under either Muslim or Croat domination should Bosnia become either free or a Croat protectorate. Letting Bosnian-Serb troops leave the JNA to join the militias had been an easy means of keeping Bosnia — most of it, at any rate — under Yugoslav, that is to say, under Serbian control. While JNA troops might joke about their Bosnian brothers, the difference between the members of any Serb militia unit and the Yugoslav National Army had nothing to do with bravery, skill… or with determination. Indeed, many in the militia, especially the NCOS, were like Jankovic, still officially with the national army but serving on special attached duty with the Bosnians.
He wondered if General Mihajlovic was right in his guess that the SEALs must be headed for this particular stretch of beach. If so, the commandos could be anywhere… though they hadn't really had time yet to travel all the way down the Gora Orjen. Likely they were still up there, somewhere in that pine forest above the highway. He wondered if they were watching him right now, and shivered.
"Jankovic!" a young JNA poruchnik, a senior lieutenant, called from further down the sea wall. "Get over here!"
"Da, moy Poruchnik," Jankovic called back. He broke into a trot and hurried to join the group.
The lieutenant and several troops were gathered together on the seaward side of the wall. One of the men had a mine detector, while the others were on their knees, scooping out a shallow hole in the sand with their hands. There was something in the hole…
"Jankovic!" the lieutenant said, grinning. "Do you think this might have been left here by your friends?"
He turned his flashlight on the object in the hole, his beam mingling with those of several of the men standing nearby. It looked like an inflatable boat, jet black in color, with a small engine carefully wrapped in plastic mounted on the rear.
"It could be, Lieutenant," Jankovic replied. "Are there any markings?"
"None. It could even have been left here by Big Brother Slav."
"Somehow, sir, I doubt very much that this is Russian."
"Agreed. I thought you would like to see that your wild story has some vindication." He laughed. "When we catch them, we'll have to teach them a lesson for littering our beautiful Adriatic beaches!"
"What now, Lieutenant?" the man with the mine detector asked.
The officer pointed up the beach. "We keep looking. There may be more than one of these. You two — ." He pointed out two of the men. "Stay here, and stand guard. Jankovic's monsters could be just a few meters away, waiting for their chance to sneak back and claim their property!"
Everyone save the two "volunteers" laughed, and Jankovic smiled. "Stay alert," he told them. Then he turned away and started following the man with the mine detector.
0515 hours on the beach east of Dubrovnik Croatia
Murdock had been seriously worried about options for some time now. Back at the monastery, he could have called for a helicopter pickup, but he'd thought it wise to get clear of the area. Subsequent developments had proved him right on that one; there were too many Serb helicopters about, too many airmobile troops, to risk an incursion by U.S. Marine or Navy helos off the Nassau.
Okay. Next he could have headed straight for the beach, or he could have taken his men in some other direction, moving deeper into the forest-clad slopes of the Gora Orjen. They could have found a place to hole up, maybe call for a pickup the next night, or the night after that. He'd chosen to return to the beach. At first there'd been no indication that the Yugoslavs were onto them; once the JNA helo touched down at the monastery, it had seemed safer to try to make a run for the sea, before the locals could figure out that was where the SEALs might be headed.
A bad call… but the best he could have made under the circumstances. Once confronted by Yugoslavian troops and helos between the SEAL squad and the sea, he'd again been forced to make a choice — either to head back into the hills or to try to get around or through the enemy line.
There are no certainties in combat. None. In a difficult tactical situation there is no way to know in advance which of several possible options is the right one. As one of the SEAL instructors with Murdock's BUD/S class had put it once, "If you end up dead, chances are you made the wrong choice."
The entire trek back down the mountain from the monastery, though, had been one combat decision after another. So far, all seven SEALs were still alive, which was something, but Murdock had the feeling that he was being backed into a tighter and tighter corner, with fewer and fewer doors leading out. SEAL tactical training emphasized taking the initiative; it was supposed to be the SEAL team that set the ambush, the SEALs that forced the enemy to react to them, not the other way around.
Never mind. The sea was almost within reach. Mac and Magic had already started down the shingle of the beach, crawling flat on their bellies, spacing themselves well apart. Murdock had already lost sight of Mac, and thought he must have reached the surf line by now. Chief MacKenzie was carrying the waterproof rucksack holding Gypsy's briefcase — another cold tactical decision on Murdock's part. Of all the men in the squad, Murdock thought that the big, muscular Texan had the best chance of making it back to Nassau with the CIA's prize intact.
Another pair of jets thundered low overhead, and Murdock peered up into the overcast sky, trying to see them. Nothing. Were they Yugoslav? Or fighter cover for the SEAL exfiltration?
Less than five meters away, just on the other side of the seawall, a Serbian soldier stepped out from the shadow of a poplar and peered up toward the sky as well. Satisfied, apparently, that the aircraft were either friendly or, at least, not interested in him, he slung his AKM and produced a pack of cigarettes. A moment later, a match flared briefly between his cupped hands.
Murdock reached out, squeezed Higgins's arm and pointed You're next. Go! Higgins began slithering down the beach, following in Magic's wake. They had to get off this beach. There were far too many Serbs wandering around in the dark. Sooner or later…
Roselli tapped Murdock's arm three times, and pointed Look! They've found something!
Murdock looked along the seawall toward the west. Sure enough, close by the wall and seventy meters away, a group of Serb soldiers were laughing, as some shouted at each other.
They'd found the IBS. The SEALs had to move, now. He tapped Doc on the arm, and pointed Go! Go!
The excitement was spreading among the Yugoslavs, like ripples in a pool. Someone aboard the Hip was angling the helicopter's searchlight toward the beach now. The circle of illumination danced momentarily across the white breakers offshore, then skittered up the beach, briefly touching the line of weed and flotsam marking the high-tide line. The long, black shadows cast by the poplars between the helo and the beach moved across the sand like vast, silent finger shadows on a wall.
Briefly, Murdock considered putting a suppressed round through that damned light and maki
ng a running break for it in the ensuing confusion, but decided against it. Once bullets started flying across that beach, the SEALs' lives would be hanging purely on chance and on the Serbs' reaction. He wanted to maintain control of the situation for as long as he possibly could.
Only Boomer, Razor, and Murdock were left at the top of the beach. A group of Yugoslav soldiers was coming toward them now, moving along both sides of the seawall with weapons unslung and at the ready. One of them had what looked like an old-fashioned mine detector, a WW II-vintage treasure-finder mounted on the end of a long pole. The helicopter's searchlight danced along the sand in front of them as though leading the way, moving across the sand toward the SEALS.
The light caught Doc, starkly illuminating him where he lay on the sand, twenty meters from the wall.
"Sta ye to!" someone shouted. An instant later, gunfire cracked and crashed and stuttered in the night, at least eight Yugoslav soldiers opening up with automatic weapons on full rock-and-roll.
On the beach, Doc leaped to his feet and dove headfirst out of the light, as sand erupted about him in a flurry of geysering impacts. Other soldiers, further up the hill and on the highway near the helicopter, opened fire as well. The Serb who'd been smoking a cigarette near the remaining SEALs by the seawall suddenly lurched to the side, the cigarette spinning from his mouth like a tiny orange meteor. He collapsed on the ground screaming, cut down by friendly fire.
The Serbs with the mine detector were moving down the beach now, still firing wildly as the helo's searchlight swept back and forth, trying to nail Doc. Murdock snicked his fire-control lever to full auto, then rose to a half crouch, HK raised to his shoulder. "Go!" he shouted. "Go! Go!" He aimed at the close-packed mass of Serb troops and squeezed the trigger, sending a long volley slashing into them from the flank. Someone screamed… and then someone else spun wildly, his AKM still firing on rock-and-roll. The result was a deadly, bloody chaos as men were hit both by Murdock's volley and by the uncontrolled, full-auto fire of their own people. The thick-muzzled weapon bucked in Murdock's hands with a muffled, hissing clatter as the receiver bolt cycled rapidly back and forth. The Serb with the mine detector slumped over and collided with a companion, then collapsed backward onto the sand, his metal sensor lying across his chest. The man beside him got off one more wild burst with his AK before Murdock caught him squarely in the chest. Other men dove for cover or staggered and fell.
Murdock burned off half a thirty-round magazine in a little over a second, then spun to the right, shifting targets to the searchlight that was swinging now to capture him in its glare. The dazzle from the spotlight was blinding through the low-light goggles, but Murdock had squeezed his eyes shut behind the rubber-padded objective lenses and was firing at where he estimated the light must be. An instant later, he sensed the light beating against his eyelids flare and go out. Hit!
When he opened his eyes again, his low-light optics revealed an all-out battle, with at least thirty men firing in almost every direction. Bullets clipped the stone wall nearby and whispered overhead with a sound like ripping paper. The familiar flat crack of AKMs fired on full auto filled the night, as did the hard, jutting stab of their muzzle flashes.
Doc and Razor were halfway down the beach, running flat out. Garcia was hanging back, firing his HK in precise, carefully aimed three-round bursts.
"Boomer!" Murdock called over the tactical radio. "Get your ass off this beach!" Garcia didn't appear to hear. Shit, was his radio off? "Boomer! Acknowledge!"
Murdock started to run toward the SEAL, crouched far over and moving with an easy, long-legged stride. Bullets struck the sand near Garcia, but he stayed in position, leaning into his submachine gun as he continued to mark down Yugoslav soldiers. When he saw Murdock, he lowered his weapon and grinned beneath his NVD goggles. His tactical radio, a small box strapped to his assault vest high up on his left shoulder, had been smashed open by a stray round.
"C'mon, L-T!" Garcia called. "You've got to-"
… and then Boomer was flung back, arms outstretched, subgun flying, as a round struck his chest with a vicious sounding thwack.
"Oh, shit!" Murdock fired another burst, then dropped to one knee at Garcia's side. "Boomer! Boomer, can you hear me?"
The bullet had gone through the SEAL's upper chest, in the front, out the back, clean through his flak vest. There was a lot of blood, and Boomer appeared to be unconscious.
With one arm, Murdock hoisted the wounded SEAL to his feet, then began staggering down the beach. Bullets hissed and thudded in the sand to either side, and something snapped at his left sleeve. The water! They had to reach the water!…
But as the gunfire at their backs increased in manic intensity, Murdock didn't think they were going to make it.
6
0518 hours In Croatian airspace Southeast of Dubrovnik
The AC-130U Specter was the direct descendant of the Spooky gunships so beloved of ground troops during the Vietnam War. The Spookys had been C-47s, WW II-era cargo planes mounting a deadly trio of 7.62 miniguns pointed out their left door and windows.
So effective had they been in close air support of ground troops that the U.S. Air Force had expanded on the idea. The AC-130U Specter gunship was a very specially modified C-130 Hercules, an ungainly transport remade into the image of a special warfare warrior. The 130U model mounted a single 25mm five-barreled General Electric Gau-12U Gatling Gun. Fed by a two-canister automated loader system, the high-speed gun could deliver a rate of fire of either 3600 or 4200 rounds per minute. The Specter also mounted a 40mm cannon and a 105mm howitzer, and all weapons were linked to laser range finders, an infrared sensor, radar, low-light television, and a sophisticated fire-control computer. All three weapons were mounted in the aircraft's port side, like the broadside of some ancient war galleon. Forward, a soundproofed battle control center sported an impressive array of television monitors, computers, radar screens, and IR sensor displays.
It was there that Major Peter K. Selby, the aircraft's fire control officer, sat with two sensor operators, scanning banks of television monitors. Three particular display monitors showed what the gunship's weapons were pointed at. The images on the screens were indistinguishable from those of a black-and-white television set, save that each was centered on a set of cross-hairs. Viewed in infrared, the scene below was day bright, unusual only in the fact that the engines of the Mi-8 Hip and an army truck parked nearby were glowing as brightly as a neon sign.
"Looks like they're having a damned party down there," Selby said. "You got 'em sorted yet?"
"No, sir," one of the sensor operators said. "Somebody's mad at someone, though. There's a hell of a lot of shooting going on down there."
Selby nodded. He could see several groups of men moving across the beach, and the muzzle flashes from their automatic weapons were distinctly visible. A helicopter was parked on the highway near a line of trees, and there was a hell of a lot of activity along the coast highway.
"Any sign of anti-air assets?"
"Negative, sir. Not so far. The Harriers have been circling for ten minutes, though, inviting them to come out and play."
The Specter gunship, flying low and slow, would be an easy target for enemy aircraft. Escort for this mission was being flown by a pair of Marine Harrier IIs flying off the Nassau. Any sign of Yugoslav MiGs, SAMs, or mobile flak, and the Harriers would pounce like a couple of hawks.
"Okay, then we can probably assume we're clear," Selby said. "Let's see if we can raise our guys." Reaching to an overhead console, he switched on a radio, adjusted the frequency, then picked up a hand microphone. "Nomad, Nomad," he called. "This is Night Rider. Do you copy? Over."
There was no immediate answer. The angle of the scene revealed on the TV monitors slowly changed as the Specter gunship circled the battle on the beach at a range of over two miles, and at an altitude of eight thousand feet, just above the lowest layer of clouds. The Specter's infrared optics penetrated the overcast almost as easily as it pe
netrated the night.
"Nomad, Nomad, this is Night Rider. Do you copy? Over."
"Night Rider! Night Rider!" sounded from an overhead speaker. The voice coming over the air-ground channel was scratchy with static, and Selby thought he could hear the thud and rattle of gunfire in the distance. "This is Nomad. Go ahead!"
It was a strange feeling to be talking to a man who was, at that moment, under fire. Selby had experienced the strangeness of this high-tech participation in battle before, during Desert Storm and he'd never gotten over it. Here, aboard the AC-130, the only sound was the drone of the aircraft's engines, the hum of electronics, the low voices of the sensor operators. Except for the tilt to the deck, he might as well have been in an air-conditioned room in the Pentagon basement. The man he was talking to, just a few miles away, was fighting for his life.
"Nomad, we are circling your approximate position at eight thousand. Understand you might need assistance, over."
"Night Rider, Nomad, that is affirmative," the voice came back. "Wait one while we sort ourselves out for you."
"Roger that. Night Rider, standing by." He turned to one of the sensor operators. "Let's back off a bit and see if we can get a shot of more of the beach, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
The scene receded as the operator adjusted the lens magnification. Damn, there sure as hell was some kind of a ruckus going on down there. Selby could see dozens of men, and a lot of gunfire. But on infrared TV, all uniforms looked alike and there was no way to pick out the ones worn by Navy SEALS.
"There, sir," Sergeant Zanowski, the senior operator, said. "Clear signal. There's another."
Three… no, five bright stars had appeared on the screen, three up on the beach, two more by the edge of the black water. There were two more now, also in the water. Each SEAL was wearing a standard survival vest strobe attached to his assault vest, but capped with an IR filter. Switched on, the light was invisible to the hostiles, but it showed up clearly to the AC-130's IR cameras.
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