Specter by Keith Douglass Read Free Book Online

Checkpoint Orange.
    He was met outside the building’s front door by two men, both in dirty mismatches of Soviet-style and Yugoslav army uniforms. “Dobro yutro, ” he greeted them. “What seems to be the trouble?”
    â€œGood morning, Brigade General,” the older of the two men said. “I am Captain Balaban, in command of this post. I—”
    â€œSir! Senior Sergeant Jankovic,” the other man said, abruptly interrupting the militia officer. “I am a JNA advisor with these people.”
    â€œYou are the one who reported an attack,” Mihajlovic said, ignoring Balaban. The militiamen tended to be disorganized and more often than not exaggerated the situation, whatever it was. But the JNA sergeant looked reliable enough.
    â€œYes, sir. American commandos wiped out a section of Serbian Volunteer Guards not five kilometers from here.”
    â€œAnd how is it you escaped, Sergeant?”
    â€œThe chances of war, General. That ... and I was able to react swiftly when the attack started.” He glanced briefly at Balaban. “The militia handled themselves as well as could be expected under the circumstances. The attackers were almost certainly American commandos. They opened fire suddenly, without warning, when most of our men did not even have their weapons.”
    â€œUm. What makes you think the attackers were Americans?”
    â€œTheir equipment, my General.” He went on to describe the attack, and what he had seen of the two commandos, in precise detail. He did not say—and Mihajlovic did not ask—just what the Bosnian militiamen had been doing at the ruined monastery in the first place, other than to mention that the unit had been standing down, with minimal security measures in place. In all probability they’d been engaged in what the JNA high command euphemistically called “pacification,” breaking the stubborn Bosnian-Muslim will to resist, and the Serb general did not care to know too many of the details.
    Sometimes, terrible things had to be done to further a cause, to achieve a necessary goal.
    When Jankovic had completed his report, Mihajlovic was more than half certain that the sergeant had, indeed, seen Americans ... or at least a contingent of NATO commandos. The description of their uniforms—black coveralls, combat harnesses, low-light goggles, silenced automatic weapons—sounded very much like the British SAS, though there were no reports that any Special Air Service detachments were stationed anywhere near the Adriatic just now. German GSG-9 was another possibility; the Germans had been taking a keen interest in military developments in the Balkans, though they were still unwilling to operate outside of the guidelines set by NATO. Americans? Very possible. Delta Force, Army Rangers ...
    But what could Americans be after at a ruined Bosnian monastery? Jankovic had mentioned a civilian who’d driven up moments before the ambush. That could be significant. A curfew was in effect throughout Bosnia and coastal Croatia; a civilian out in the middle of the night, alone at a place that should have been deserted, was extremely suspicious ... and supported Jankovic’s contention that the attackers were foreign commandos. “You did not see what became of the civilian,” he said bluntly.
    â€œNo, my General. I know only that he was there in the custody of two of my men when the attack began.”
    â€œAnd the attack took place ...” He consulted his watch. “Just over an hour ago?”
    â€œYes, sir. I remember looking at my watch when the civilian drove up. It was two-thirty-five.”
    â€œThen these invaders, whoever they are, are still in the area. Come with me, Sergeant.”
    â€œYes, sir. Where are we going?”
    â€œTo find these commandos, of course. I would like to know what they find so interesting about a deserted, tumbledown church.”

0345 hours
St. Anastasias Monastery