Specter by Keith Douglass Page A

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    â€œWe are convinced this, this unprovoked attack is part of American campaign to win UN approval for further air strikes against Serb forces in Bosnia,” the man said in heavily accented English. A subtitle appeared at the bottom of the screen, identifying him as General V. Mihajlovic. “We invite United Nations to come here, come see evidence of American aggression in Serbian internal affairs.”
    The general’s face was replaced by a shot of the burned-out trucks in front of the monastery. Greasy black smoke was still curling from the wreckage. “So far,” the woman reporter continued in a voice-over, “American officials here have refused to answer any questions about the incident, or to confirm that American aircraft took part a few hours later in an airstrike against Yugoslavian ground troops near the coast.
    â€œFor ACN, this is Marsha Shakarian, Mjini, Yugoslavia.”
    â€œThat explains it,” Murdock said. “The news networks got the story before the CIA.”
    â€œIt’s happened before, Boss.”
    â€œBut that means they’re going into ass-covering mode. I think the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

7
    Monday, March 6

1015 hours
Salonika International Airport Greece
    A chilly wind had been blowing all morning, whipping down off the Khortiatis Mountains with a bitter reminder that winter wasn’t quite finished yet. The sky, contrary to the usual blue-sky standards of Greece, was low and overcast, and prone to periodic flurries of snow.
    Despite the unpromising weather, however, Congresswoman Ellen Louise Kingston had found an audience for herself. The reporters had been waiting for her just outside the passenger terminal, and as she emerged through the big double doors onto the painted walkway leading to her plane, they started shouting questions to her.
    â€œCongresswoman! What do you think the chances are for peace in the Balkans?”
    â€œCongresswoman Kingston! Does your government plan to launch new air strikes against the Bosnian Serbs?”
    â€œWill the United States bomb Belgrade?”
    â€œHave you consulted with America’s NATO allies?”
    Kingston stopped, smiling and waving for the cameras that clicked and whirred with each gesture, each motion she made. She was tall, with a regal and aristocratic bearing. Though she was only in her early fifties, her once-dark hair had turned to lustrous silver years before, and she’d left it that way to emphasize her maturity. She faced the cluster of eager reporters, the ranked microphones, and the glaring lights of cameras with practiced ease, a general marshaling her troops. Her tail—her escort of Greek security officials, two American Secret Service men, aides, secretaries, and staffers—piled up behind her in a confused huddle.
    â€œMs. Kingston,” her chief aide said. “We really ought to board the plane.”
    â€œThere’s time, Bunny,” Kingston told her, still waving. The reporters were crowded up against a metal railing that held them back, but camera lenses and microphones snaked across, probing toward her face.
    â€œCongresswoman! Please!” a woman reporter shouted. Kingston recognized her—Marsha Shakarian, one of ACN’s top foreign correspondents. “What about those bombing raids against Serbia?”
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” Kingston said, holding up both hands. “As I told you all in my press conference last week, I am just here in Greece on a fact-finding mission. I knew nothing about these terrible atrocities taking place in Bosnia during my visit. No, I’ve not consulted with NATO, though certainly I’ve discussed the situation with members of the Athens government and Greece, of course, is a NATO member.”
    A man with a BBC press card pinned to his lapel shoved a microphone toward her. “Madam Congresswoman, what do you say to General Mihajlovic’s charges that the