Deep Terror: Black OPS: Black OPS, #3

By Michael Kasner and Zane Chan

Formed by an elite cadre of government officials, the five member Black OPS team goes where the law can't - to seek retribution for acts of terror directed against Americans anywhere in the world.

BLACK OPS - BOOK 3: AMERICANS TAKEN HOSTAGE IN GREECE! The Black OPS team's priority is to rescue a hostaged group of archaeological students, including the niece of the Secretary of State. Blood has already been spilled, and the students face an ever-receding future that will be terminated by torture and death. But the five member Black OPS team have emerged from deep cover to take on the terrorists at their own game...

From Action/Adventure novelist Michael Kasner comes a covert military thriller series.

In the tradition of Don Pendleton's Executioner Mack Bolan and Warren Murphy's Destroyer classic paperback book series!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caliber Books
• Release date: Dec 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215513286

Book preview

Chapter One

Northern Greece

April 28, 2000

The blue-and-white Mercedes-Benz tourist bus wound its way up the twisting mountain road in northern Greece. The passengers riding in air-conditioned comfort inside were graduate students from American universities who had come to see the famous archaeological sites of Greece in style. Instead of the usual commercial tour with a standard tourist guide, this one was sponsored by UNESCO, the United Nations educational organization. At each location an archaeologist provided a scholarly seminar and a lengthy tour of the site.

It was early afternoon and the passengers were drowsy after an excellent lunch that had been served in an open-air restaurant in a quaint mountain village.

The bus driver was enjoying the lull and was whistling softly to himself. As he rounded a bend in the road, he spotted a dusty Fiat sedan pulled over on the side of the road. The car’s hood was propped open and the man standing beside it waved his arms frantically and stepped out in front of the oncoming bus. The driver stopped the bus and opened the door to talk to the man. The man turned and motioned toward the disabled car, launching into an impassioned tirade accompanied by expansive gestures.

When the driver nodded, the man went back to the car, opened the rear door and helped out the woman who had been lying down in the back seat. With his arm supporting her waist, he walked with her to the open door of the bus. The man was well dressed, but looked like a local. The young woman—apparently his wife—was pregnant and was clearly in pain. Her eyes were slitted and sweat beaded her upper lip as the man gently helped her into an empty seat at the front of the bus.

If no one minds, the driver said to his passengers in English, I would like to take this couple to a nearby doctor’s office. She is having her baby now and needs attention.

The students clapped to show their approval of the driver’s decision. The UN tours were famous for their predictability and an unplanned happening was a welcome break from the overly structured routine.

Standing at the front of the bus, the man directed the driver a quarter mile farther up the mountain to an intersection where a narrower road turned right off the main highway. No sooner was the bus around the first corner of this side road when six men stepped out from behind a huge boulder to block the road. They were wearing olive green combat fatigues with knit face masks and carried AK-74 assault rifles.

The shocked driver turned to the man he had picked up, but the man had a pistol in his hand and ordered him to stop. The woman stopped moaning, sat up and pulled a small submachine gun from under her clothes.

Everyone stay calm, the man said, and no one will be hurt.

In the back row of seats, a man sitting next to a young blond automatically snaked his right hand around to the small of his back and came up empty. Oh shit! David Brenner muttered softly when he realized that he didn’t have his pistol with him.

When he wasn’t on tour with his fiancée, Sara Livingston, Brenner was an operative of Mossad, the Israeli secret service, and was always armed. Since he was in a foreign country that had strict weapons laws, he hadn’t brought his piece with him. After all, this was to have been a pleasure trip before he and Sara were married in the coming summer.

What is it, David? the woman beside him asked sleepily.

We’re being hijacked, Sara, he said softly. Just keep quiet until I can figure out what’s going on.

Sara Livingston’s eyes flashed open and focused on the armed man at the front of the bus. He was tall, with dark brown hair and intense green eyes. He didn’t look like someone to be afraid of. Except, of course, for the pistol in his hand.

Ladies and gentlemen, the man said. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jamal Nadjani of the Greater Macedonian Strike Force. You are my prisoners and you will be held until the Greek government meets our demands.

A babble of panicked voices instantly erupted. Nadjani aimed his 9mm Makarov pistol upward and calmly put three rounds through the roof. The reports were deafening and immediately silenced the Americans.

You will keep your voices down and speak only when you are spoken to.

Where are you taking us? A young man two rows from where Nadjani was standing asked the question all of them wanted to know.

Without saying a word, Nadjani walked down the aisle between the seats and, with one smooth move, slashed the barrel of his pistol across the young man’s face. You did not have permission to speak. Do it again and you will die.

The swift, sudden brutality stunned the rest of the passengers. No one spoke as the six men in combat fatigues boarded the bus and started down the aisle. When they saw that none of the passengers carried anything more dangerous than a Coke can, they spaced themselves out to stand guard. Nadjani then ordered the driver to get out, and one of the armed men took his place.

From his window, Brenner could see the hijacker talking to the driver by the front of the bus. After a brief conversation, a shot rang out.

David— Sara’s voice shook as she whispered. —I think they just shot our driver.

I know, he said as he reached out to draw her to him. Just stay calm.

She buried her face against Brenner’s chest and sobbed quietly.

Since it wasn’t his assigned area, Brenner wasn’t well briefed on the Macedonian situation and knew it only through the occasional news report. He didn’t think, though, that they were in as much danger as they would be if their captors were Islamic fundamentalists. Clearly anyone who resisted would be killed outright, as the driver had been, but that was standard for this sort of thing. He didn’t think they would be butchered out of hand. They were much too valuable as live hostages.

He saw Nadjani lean down over the driver’s body, place a leaflet over his heart and then put his dead hand on top of it so it wouldn’t blow away before the police came. The leaflet, boldly emblazoned with the sixteen-pointed gold star of ancient Macedonia, was printed in both Greek and English.

Since terrorism wasn’t effective without being afforded proper media attention, smart terrorists were careful to make sure that their messages were camera ready.

Getting back on the bus, Nadjani motioned for the new driver to move out.

AT THE UN CHECKPOINT on the Greek-Macedonian border north of Thessaloníki, a Swedish major in camouflage fatigues and sky blue beret stepped out in front of the swing-down barrier when the hijacked bus approached. He had a holstered side arm on his field belt but made no motion to draw it. The four blue berets with him also had their weapons slung.

When the bus had failed to arrive at its next scheduled archaeological site, the Greek police went to find it and discovered the driver’s body with the terrorists’ leaflet. Figuring that the hijackers would head for Macedonia with their captives, the UN checkpoints along the long-disputed border had been placed on alert. Their orders were to stop the bus and free the captives at all costs.

Nadjani ordered his driver to stop in front of the blue-and-white-striped barrier. He stepped down onto the pavement and walked up to the UN Major. Open the gate, he ordered.

I have been instructed not to allow you to take the bus past this checkpoint, the Major replied in heavily accented English.

Not even bothering to answer, Nadjani turned and barked an order. A shot rang out from inside the bus, followed by screams and shouts. A few seconds later, the body of one of the male students was thrown through the open door of the bus to sprawl lifelessly on the pavement. He had been shot in the back of the head and a thick stream of dark red blood poured onto the dusty pavement.

The UN Major was stunned. You killed that man!

Every time you tell me that I cannot pass, Nadjani said, keeping his voice even, one of the hostages will be killed, I ask you again, open the barrier.

This time the Swedish major spun around and snapped an order. The barrier swung open.

A company of elite Greek mountain troops was also stationed at the checkpoint, guarding the fortified border with Greece’s northern neighbor. Some of the hardened Greek troops had silent tears of frustration in their eyes as they watched the bus cross the frontier into the much-disputed Republic of Greater Macedonia.

On the other side of the barbed wire, tank traps and minefields that drew the line through these contested hills, Macedonian soldiers cheered and threw their helmets into the air. A few started dancing a folk dance. They didn’t know exactly what had happened, but they saw the hated UN troops humiliated and that was reason enough to celebrate.

One of the younger Greek soldiers was pushed beyond endurance by the celebration. He brought his assault rifle up to his shoulder and aimed at the dancing Macedonians. His sergeant snapped an order for him to ground his weapon and the soldier instantly obeyed. No matter what the terrorists did, no one in his company would break the truce. Their orders were not to fire unless the Macedonians fired on them first.

AS THE BUS DISAPPEARED down the ridge separating the two countries, Jamal Nadjani turned to face his captives. Welcome to the Republic of Greater Macedonia, he said. The danger is over now, so just sit back and relax. In an hour we will reach our destination.

None of the passengers risked asking where that destination would be. They had seen what happened to anyone who asked questions.

Nadjani allowed himself the faintest trace of a smile. His plan had worked perfectly and now the long negotiations would begin that would result in international recognition of the Republic of Greater Macedonia. The irony was that he was a Kurd, and he couldn’t have cared less about the Macedonian people and their ancient claim to glory and a large chunk of Greek real estate. They were Eastern Christians, and what was even worse, they wanted nothing more than to be wealthy capitalists like their Greek cousins. But helping the Macedonians gain their recognition would put them in great debt to him and his PKM freedom fighters. With their support against the enemies of the Kurdish people, the People’s Republic of Kurdistan would be one step closer to reality.

Jamal Nadjani had been born a Sunni Muslim, but like any right-thinking modern man, as soon as he reached the age of reason he had converted to Marxism. Communism might be dead in Europe, but as far as he was concerned, the Russians and their allies had never been real Marxists. The Soviet leaders had all been closet fascists and capitalists who had lived the good life under the banner of Marx and Lenin while they sucked the blood out of the masses. The Chinese had done somewhat better, but they, too, lived well off the blood and sweat of the people.

In the People’s Republic of Kurdistan, Marxism would finally come to be seen as the crowning glory of history. It was only with a people such as the Kurds, who had always lived in a communal democracy, that Marxism could grow into what it was meant to be—a true rule of the people. After the revolution brought freedom, the people would need experienced, dedicated Marxists to lead them for the first several years. But as soon as they learned the benefits of the new system, the leadership chores would be handed over to them.

Men like himself—those who had risked all to make the dream become reality—would always be honored, though, even after they turned the reins of power over to the common people. When the people needed advice on weighty matters, they would rightfully turn to those who had given so much of themselves, but that was how it should be. Nadjani saw himself in the future as a hearty, white-haired old man with his strong sons and grandsons gathered around him as he dispensed wisdom and guidance to his family and the nation he had helped create. He would be an honored man. Already he was known as a dedicated man of honor who had made his understanding with death, one who was fearless on the battlefield. He would earn even more honor by freeing his people and making them strong. His name would be remembered for generations.

Chapter Two

Washington, D.C.

May 2

Winston T. Steadman sat in his small second-floor office in the Pentagon and stared at the vintage Budweiser print of Custer’s Last Stand on the wall in front of his desk. He remembered the old joke about the famous massacre of the 7th Cavalry: What were Custer’s last words...? Holy Cow! Will you look at all the fuckin’ Indians!

There was sure as hell no shortage of Indians in the opening days of the twenty-first century. And now yet another tribe was on the warpath, using American citizens as leverage.

Even as he thought the politically incorrect words, Steadman shrugged. What he meant was what he thought of as tribal attitude, a throwback to narrower social forms that could prove the undoing of the nation-states the world was structured on.

The print was a gift from a man he had met only once, and it was a private joke between the two of them. The gift giver, an ex-Special Forces major named Judson Rykoff, was also the main reason Steadman worked at the Pentagon, He was forty- four years old, and his dull brown hair, slight build and conservative attire marked him as a faceless, rule-following bureaucrat, rather than what he was—part of a team that sheared through miles of official red tape to settle some of the problems plaguing the world. The field team of five was the active arm, and he was their procurement officer, buried inconspicuously in the Defense Department.

The team and its covert infrastructure existed because a way was needed to circumvent the endless political wrangling and to snatch back some capability for action that had eroded over the years.

The terrorist experiences of the seventies and eighties had demonstrated that not responding to each and every terrorist incident sent the terrorists the wrong message. A few men in positions of power within elite government agencies decided not to tolerate Americans being threatened or killed.

Safeguarding Americans meant that a swift, forceful response was needed to every terrorist act, no matter how small. These men created a clandestine action agency completely outside of the official United States government. A small group of people were recruited and trained in deep cover and were named the CAT Team—Clandestine Anti-Terrorist Team. And Steadman was the link who also directly oversaw the operation of the unit.

His Defense Procurement Agency job also allowed him to supply the team members with the latest in high-tech weapons and equipment for their missions, no questions asked. His associates in the FBI and CIA ensured the availability of the most complete intelligence information that the nation could provide. Lastly, Steadman was responsible for the team’s finances, both mission expenses and those necessary to live civilian lives between operations.

Steadman had the greatest computer network in the world to work with, and unlike a secretary, the computer would never ask questions about what it had been told to do.

Judson Rykoff, the CAT Team’s leader, was the only one of the top-secret operatives Steadman had ever met, and that had been right after the team had been created. Since then, his only contact with him had been in cyberspace. As only a lower-ranking government official, Steadman was tied to a nine- to-five desk job that didn’t allow him to go on long jaunts for spy-movie secret meetings at a moment’s notice. That was one of the strengths of the CAT Team. Since members only got together for a mission, their deep cover would never be compromised.

Their greatest strength, however, was that the Team didn’t exist anywhere on paper. Since they drew no government funds, not even the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence Operations could uncover them, Further, all the team members had legitimate civilian jobs that could stand up to the closest scrutiny. Not even crack IRS snoops armed with court orders could find a trace of government funding in their private lives.

Thanks to Steadman’s electronic manipulations, the team members were financially well supported. Lottery winnings, words of recommendation in the right circles, and there was capital for their enterprises and goodwill toward continued success. As a result, they all had enough money to travel whenever and wherever they wanted to, no questions asked. Not that anyone would ever question a trip to Greece. Hell, Steadman himself wanted to go to Greece.

It was an understatement to say that the Macedonian hostage crisis was explosive. And if it went up, it would take much of the Balkans with it. This was more than a bid by the Macedonians to annex part of northern Greece in the name of ancient history. Macedonia was the eye of a storm that had not blown itself out yet.

In the early days of the Bosnian-Serbian War, the United States Army had sent a tripwire force into Macedonia to keep the small republic from being snapped up by the Serbs. It had worked and Serb aggression had not spread that far south. The UN debacle in Bosnia, however, proved that the international body was totally impotent, and the Macedonians were still not secure.

Right after Bosnia fell to the Serbs, the Macedonian people came under the sway of an ultra-nationalist leader who promised them glory if they would be stronger than their neighbors. A massive program enlarged and updated the Macedonian Army, and now it was a formidable force more than able to defend the mountainous nation. Once able to defend themselves, the Macedonians started looking for greater glory, which could only mean bumping heads with Greece again.

Steadman knew that the UN had convened to discuss the Macedonian hostage crisis. In his view, the member nations were proving once again that there was no real need for the United Nations in the twenty-first century. For every delegate who stood up to denounce this latest act of brutal terrorism, two more jumped up to explain why they couldn’t take any action in this case until centuries of wrongdoing on their neighbors’ part had been set right in their favor. As always, one man’s terrorist was another man’s freedom fighter.

In Congress and the American media, the situation was being taken more seriously. American lives were on the line again. The United States and Greece had been close allies since the very beginning of the Cold War. American military aid had been the key factor in the defeat of a Greek Communist insurgency in the late 1940s, and the Greeks hadn’t forgotten that the Americans had stood by them in their greatest hour of need. Even so, they weren’t about to give up a single clod of their sacred earth, and they absolutely refused to even consider giving up a token in negotiations.

It was a tragicomedy, Steadman thought, because by contrast most Americans were willing to give anything away—regardless of who it belonged to—to get the hostages back. It was the classic liberal response to a terrorist situation, and the media was having a field day with it. For every report condemning the Macedonians, there were three lambasting the Greeks for being stubborn. One reporter went so far as to suggest that the U.S. go to war with Greece if the Macedonian demands were not met.

What hadn’t gotten into the news yet was that one of the student hostages was the niece of the popular U.S. secretary of state, John Clive. The girl had never played up that she was the relative of a famous man, and their relationship was not well known. But if the terrorists learned of the close connection, it would not only put her at great risk, but would give them a critical advantage. Clive’s name was being bandied about as a likely VP contender in the fall elections.

Also unknown to the reporters who hovered over every hostage crisis like ravenous vultures was that another hostage, traveling on a United States passport, actually held dual Israeli-American citizenship. He was a young Washington-based trade representative who was engaged to the secretary of state’s niece. This added another dimension to the situation that was potentially explosive.

Though the students had been on a UN tour, since the hostages were Americans, the United States had taken over the hostage negotiations, and the Israelis weren’t happy about that at all, given the involvement of one of their own. Their nation had a longstanding policy of never negotiating with terrorists, and to acknowledge that a citizen had been taken could endanger him.

With the UN doing nothing, the United States and Greece at dagger points and the Israelis waiting impatiently on the sidelines, Steadman had been given his orders to activate the CAT Team. At this point, it was too early to know if they would be needed, but his orders were to have them in place in Greece, prepared to go into action if needed.

He turned to his computer.

The message he sent to Rykoff was straightforward. Call Boots and Saddles. Pack for an extended overseas stay. He continued, Details follow.

Chapter Three

Republic of Greater Macedonia

April 29

The abandoned monastery of Vostos sat atop the rock pinnacle in remote southeastern Macedonia like a battered crown. Its stone walls had been erected so the monks could contemplate God without being seduced by the temptations of the outside world. Unlike most of the mountaintop monasteries, Vostos had been built like a fortress, with eight-foot-thick walls to keep the hostile world away. The isolation was further aided by the fact that the only access was provided by a hand-winched basket that the monks let down on a rope from the eight-hundred-foot perch.

What had once served to keep the world away from the servants of God now served just as well to keep it away from the twenty-two American hostages from the hijacked UNESCO bus. There was hardly a need to stand guard over them because there was no way they could escape. The old winch and basket that had transported the monks and their supplies up and down the cliff had long since been removed. The only way in or out of the aerie was by the helicopter that had transported both the hostages and their keepers. The terrorists also had radar and Stinger missiles on hand to keep unwelcome helicopters away.

Even though the entire world knew where these American tourists were being held hostage, there was no way to get to them that didn’t involve someone getting killed. The UN had been warned that any attempt