Mackenzie's Pleasure

CHAPTER ONE

ZANE MACKENZIE WASN’T HAPPY.

No one aboard the aircraft carrier USS Montgomery was happy; well, maybe the cooks were, but even that was iffy, because the men they were serving were sullen and defensive. The seamen weren’t happy, the radar men weren’t happy, the gunners weren’t happy, the Marines weren’t happy, the wing commander wasn’t happy, the pilots weren’t happy, the air boss wasn’t happy, the executive officer wasn’t happy and Captain Udaka sure as hell wasn’t happy.

The combined unhappiness of the five thousand sailors on board the carrier didn’t begin to approach Lieutenant-Commander Mackenzie’s level of unhappiness.

The captain outranked him. The executive officer outranked him. Lieutenant-Commander Mackenzie addressed them with all the respect due their rank, but both men were uncomfortably aware that their asses were in a sling and their careers on the line. Actually, their careers were probably in the toilet. There wouldn’t be any court-martials, but neither would there be any more promotions, and they would be given the unpopular commands from now until they either retired or resigned, their choice depending on how clearly they could read the writing on the wall.

Captain Udaka’s broad, pleasant face was one that wore responsibility easily, but now his expression was set in lines of unhappy acceptance as he met the icy gaze of the lieutenant-commander. SEALs in general made the captain nervous; he didn’t quite trust them or the way they operated outside normal regulations. This one in particular made him seriously want to be somewhere—anywhere—else.

He had met Mackenzie before, when both he and Boyd, the XO, had been briefed on the security exercise. The SEAL team under Mackenzie’s command would try to breach the carrier’s security, probing for weaknesses that could be exploited by any of the myriad terrorist groups so common these days. It was a version of the exercises once conducted by the SEAL Team Six Red Cell, which had been so notorious and so far outside the regulations that it had been disbanded after seven years of operation. The concept, however, had lived on, in a more controlled manner. SEAL Team Six was a covert, counterterrorism unit, and one of the best ways to counter terrorism was to prevent it from happening in the first place, rather than reacting to it after people were dead. To this end, the security of naval installations and carrier battle groups was tested by the SEALs, who then recommended changes to correct the weaknesses they had discovered. There were always weaknesses, soft spots—the SEALs had never yet been completely thwarted, even though the base commanders and ships’ captains were always notified in advance.

At the briefing, Mackenzie had been remote but pleasant. Controlled. Most SEALs had a wild, hard edge to them, but Mackenzie had seemed more regular Navy, recruiting-poster perfect in his crisp whites and with his coolly courteous manner. Captain Udaka had felt comfortable with him, certain that Lieutenant-Commander Mackenzie was the administrational type rather than a true part of those wild-ass SEALs.

He’d been wrong.

The courtesy remained, and the control. The white uniform looked as perfect as it had before. But there was nothing at all pleasant in the deep voice, or in the cold fury that lit the pale blue-gray eyes so they glittered like moonlight on a knife blade. The aura of danger surrounding him was so strong it was almost palpable, and Captain Udaka knew that he had been drastically wrong in his assessment of Mackenzie. This was no desk jockey; this was a man around whom others should walk very lightly indeed. The captain felt as if his skin was being flayed from his body, strip by strip, by that icy gaze. He had also never felt closer to death than he had the moment Mackenzie had entered his quarters after learning what had happened.

“Captain, you were briefed on the exercise,” Zane said coldly. “Everyone on this ship was advised, as well as notified that my men wouldn’t be carrying weapons of any sort. Explain, then, why in hell two of my men were shot!”

The XO, Mr. Boyd, looked at his hands. Captain Udaka’s collar felt too tight, except that it was already unbuttoned, and the only thing choking him was the look in Mackenzie’s eyes.

“There’s no excuse,” he said rawly. “Maybe the guards were startled and fired without thinking. Maybe it was a stupid, macho turf thing, wanting to show the big, bad SEALs that they couldn’t penetrate our security, after all. It doesn’t matter. There’s no excuse.” Everything that happened on board his ship was, ultimately, his responsibility. The trigger-happy guards would pay for their mistake—and so would he.

“My men had already penetrated your security,” Zane said softly, his tone making the hairs stand up on the back of the captain’s neck.

“I’m aware of that.” The breach of his ship’s security was salt in the captain’s wounds, but nothing at all compared to the enormous mistake that had been made when men under his command had opened fire on the unarmed SEALs. His men, his responsibility. Nor did it help his feelings that, when two of their team had gone down, the remainder of the SEAL team, unarmed, had swiftly taken control and secured the area. Translated, that meant the guards who had done the shooting had been roughly handled and were now in sick bay with the two men they had shot. In reality, the phrase “roughly handled” was a euphemism for the fact that the SEALs had beaten the hell out of his men.

The most seriously wounded SEAL was Lieutenant Higgins, who had taken a bullet in the chest and would be evacuated by air to Germany as soon as he was stabilized. The other SEAL, Warrant Officer Odessa, had been shot in the thigh; the bullet had broken his femur. He, too, would be taken to Germany, but his condition was stable, even if his temper was not. The ship’s doctor had been forced to sedate him to keep him from wreaking vengeance on the battered guards, two of whom were still unconscious.

The five remaining members of the SEAL team were in Mission Planning, prowling around like angry tigers looking for someone to maul just to make themselves feel better. They were restricted to the area by Mackenzie’s order, and the ship’s crew was giving them a wide berth. Captain Udaka wished he could do the same with Mackenzie. He had the impression of cold savagery lurking just beneath the surface of the man’s control. There would be hell to pay for this night’s fiasco.

The phone on his desk emitted a harsh brr. Though he was relieved by the interruption, Captain Udaka snatched up the receiver and barked, “I gave orders I wasn’t to be—” He stopped, listening, and his expression changed. His gaze shifted to Mackenzie. “We’ll be right there,” he said, and hung up.

“There’s a scrambled transmission coming in for you,” he said to Mackenzie, rising to his feet. “Urgent.” Whatever message the transmission contained, Captain Udaka looked on it as a much-welcomed reprieve.

* * *

ZANE LISTENED INTENTLY to the secure satellite transmission, his mind racing as he began planning the logistics of the mission. “My team is two men short, sir,” he said. “Higgins and Odessa were injured in the security exercise.” He didn’t say how they’d been injured; that would be handled through other channels.

“Damn it,” Admiral Lindley muttered. He was in an office in the US Embassy in Athens. He looked up at the others in the office: Ambassador Lovejoy, tall and spare, with the smoothness bequeathed by a lifetime of privilege and wealth, though now there was a stark, panicked expression in his hazel eyes; the CIA station chief, Art Sandefer, a nondescript man with short gray hair and tired, intelligent eyes; and, finally, Mack Prewett, second only to Sandefer in the local CIA hierarchy. Mack was known in some circles as Mack the Knife; Admiral Lindley knew Mack was generally considered a man who got things done, a man whom it was dangerous to cross. For all his decisiveness, though, he wasn’t a cowboy who was likely to endanger people by going off half-cocked. He was as thorough as he was decisive, and it was through his contacts that they had obtained such good, prompt information in this case.

The admiral had put Zane on the speakerphone, so the other three in the room had heard the bad news about the SEAL team on which they had all been pinning their hopes. Ambassador Lovejoy looked even more haggard.

“We’ll have to use another team,” Art Sandefer said.

“That’ll take too much time!” the ambassador said with stifled violence. “My God, already she could be—” He stopped, anguish twisting his face. He wasn’t able to complete the sentence.

“I’ll take the team in,” Zane said. His amplified voice was clear in the soundproofed room. “We’re the closest, and we can be ready to go in an hour.”

“You?” the admiral asked, startled. “Zane, you haven’t seen live action since—”

“My last promotion,” Zane finished dryly. He hadn’t liked trading action for administration, and he was seriously considering resigning his commission. He was thirty-one, and it was beginning to look as if his success in his chosen field was going to prevent him from practicing it; the higher-ranking the officer, the less likely that officer was to be in the thick of the action. He’d been thinking about something in law enforcement, or maybe even throwing in with Chance. There was nonstop action there, for sure.

For now, though, a mission had been dumped in his lap, and he was going to take it.

“I train with my men, Admiral,” he said. “I’m not rusty, or out of shape.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Admiral Lindley replied, and sighed. He met the ambassador’s anguished gaze, read the silent plea for help. “Can six men handle the mission?” he asked Zane.

“Sir, I wouldn’t risk my men if I didn’t think we could do the job.”

This time the admiral looked at both Art Sandefer and Mack Prewett. Art’s expression was noncommittal, the Company man refusing to stick his neck out, but Mack gave the admiral a tiny nod. Admiral Lindley swiftly weighed all the factors. Granted, the SEAL team would be two members short, and the leader would be an officer who hadn’t been on an active mission in over a year, but that officer happened to be Zane Mackenzie. All things considered, the admiral couldn’t think of any other man he would rather have on this mission. He’d known Zane for several years now, and there was no better warrior, no one he trusted more. If Zane said he was ready, then he was ready. “All right. Go in and get her out.”

As the admiral hung up, Ambassador Lovejoy blurted, “Shouldn’t you send in someone else? My daughter’s life is at stake! This man hasn’t been in the field, he’s out of shape, out of practice—”

“Waiting until we could get another team into position would drastically lower our chances of finding her,” the admiral pointed out as kindly as possible. Ambassador Lovejoy wasn’t one of his favorite people. For the most part, he was a horse’s ass and a snob, but there was no doubt he doted on his daughter. “And as far as Zane Mackenzie is concerned, there’s no better man for the job.”

“The admiral’s right,” Mack Prewett said quietly, with the authority that came so naturally to him. “Mackenzie is so good at what he does it’s almost eerie. I would feel comfortable sending him in alone. If you want your daughter back, don’t throw obstacles in his way.”

Ambassador Lovejoy shoved his hand through his hair, an uncharacteristic gesture for so fastidious a man; it was a measure of his agitation. “If anything goes wrong...”

It wasn’t clear whether he was about to voice a threat or was simply worrying aloud, but he couldn’t complete the sentence. Mack Prewett gave a thin smile. “Something always goes wrong. If anyone can handle it, Mackenzie can.”

* * *

AFTER ZANE TERMINATED the secure transmission, he made his way through the network of corridors to Mission Planning. Already he could feel the rush of adrenaline pumping through his muscles as he began preparing, mentally and physically, for the job before him. When he entered the room with its maps and charts and communication systems, and the comfortable chairs grouped around a large table, five hostile faces turned immediately toward him, and he felt the surge of renewed energy and anger from his men.

Only one of them, Santos, was seated at the table, but Santos was the team medic, and he was usually the calmest of the bunch. Ensign Peter “Rocky” Greenberg, second in command of the team and a controlled, detail-oriented kind of guy, leaned against the bulkhead with his arms crossed and murder in his narrowed brown eyes. Antonio Withrock, nicknamed Bunny because he never ran out of energy, was prowling the confines of the room like a mean, hungry cat, his dark skin pulled tight across his high cheekbones. Paul Drexler, the team sniper, sat cross-legged on top of the table while he wiped an oiled cloth lovingly over the disassembled parts of his beloved Remington bolt-action 7.62 rifle. Zane didn’t even lift his eyebrows at the sight. His men were supposed to be unarmed, and they had been during the security exercise that had gone so damn sour, but keeping Drexler unarmed was another story.

“Planning on taking over the ship?” Zane inquired mildly of the sniper.

His blue eyes cold, Drexler cocked his head as if considering the idea. “I might.”

Winstead “Spooky” Jones had been sitting on the deck, his back resting against the bulkhead, but at Zane’s entrance he rose effortlessly to his feet. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze fastened on Zane’s face, and a spark of interest replaced some of the anger in his eyes.

Spook never missed much, and the other team members had gotten in the habit of watching him, picking up cues from his body language. No more than three seconds passed before all five men were watching Zane with complete concentration.

Greenberg was the one who finally spoke. “How’s Bobcat doing, boss?”

They had read Spooky’s tension, but misread the cause, Zane realized. They thought Higgins had died from his wounds. Drexler began assembling his rifle with sharp, economical motions. “He’s stabilized,” Zane reassured them. He knew his men, knew how tight they were. A SEAL team had to be tight. Their trust in each other had to be absolute, and if something happened to one of them, they all felt it. “They’re transferring him now. It’s touchy, but I’ll put my money on Bobcat. Odie’s gonna be okay, too.” He hitched one hip on the edge of the table, his pale eyes glittering with the intensity that had caught Spooky’s attention. “Listen up, children. An ambassador’s daughter was snatched a few hours ago, and we’re going into Libya to get her.”

* * *

SIX BLACK-CLAD FIGURES slipped silently along the narrow, deserted street in Benghazi, Libya. They communicated by hand signals, or by whispers into the Motorola headsets they all wore under their black knit balaclava hoods. Zane was in his battle mode; he was utterly calm as they worked their way toward the four-story stone building where Barrie Lovejoy was being held on the top floor, if their intelligence was good, and if she hadn’t been moved within the past few hours.

Action always affected him this way, as if every cell in his body had settled into its true purpose of existence. He had missed this, missed it to the point that he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay in the Navy without it. On a mission, all his senses became more acute, even as a deep center of calm radiated outward. The more intense the action, the calmer he became, as time stretched out into slow motion. At those times he could see and hear every detail, analyze and predict the outcome, then make his decision and act—all within a split second that felt like minutes. Adrenaline would flood his body—he would feel the blood racing through his veins—but his mind would remain detached and calm. He had been told that the look on his face during those times was frighteningly remote, jarring in its total lack of expression.

The team moved forward in well-orchestrated silence. They each knew what to do, and what the others would do. That was the purpose of the trust and teamwork that had been drilled into them through the twenty-six weeks of hell that was formally known as BUD/S training. The bond between them enabled them to do more together than could be accomplished if each worked on his own. Teamwork wasn’t just a word to the SEALs, it was their center.

Spooky Jones was point man. Zane preferred using the wiry Southerner for that job because he had unfrayable nerves and could ghost around like a lynx. Bunny Withrock, who almost reverberated with nervous energy, was bringing up the rear. No one sneaked up on Bunny—except the Spook. Zane was right behind Jones, with Drexler, Greenberg and Santos ranging between him and Bunny. Greenberg was quiet, steady, totally dependable. Drexler was uncanny with that rifle, and Santos, besides being a damn good SEAL, also had the skill to patch them up and keep them going, if they were patchable. Overall, Zane had never worked with a better group of men.

Their presence in Benghazi was pure luck, and Zane knew it. Good luck for them and, he hoped, for Miss Lovejoy, but bad luck for the terrorists who had snatched her off the street in Athens fifteen hours ago. If the Montgomery hadn’t been just south of Crete and in perfect position for launching a rescue, if the SEALs hadn’t been on the carrier to practice special insertions, as well as the security exercise, then there would have been a delay of precious hours, perhaps even as long as a day, while another team got supplied and into position. As it was, the special insertion into hostile territory they had just accomplished had been the real thing instead of just a practice.

Miss Lovejoy was not only the ambassador’s daughter, she was an employee at the embassy, as well. The ambassador was apparently very strict and obsessive about his daughter, having lost his wife and son in a terrorist attack in Rome fifteen years before, when Miss Lovejoy had been a child of ten. After that, he had kept her secluded in private schools, and since she had finished college, she had been acting as his hostess, as well as performing her “work” at the embassy. Zane suspected her job was more window dressing than anything else, something to keep her busy. She had never really worked a day in her life, never been out from under her father’s protection—until today.

She and a friend had left the embassy to do some shopping. Three men had grabbed her, shoved her into a car and driven off. The friend had immediately reported the abduction. Despite efforts to secure the airport and ports—cynically, Zane suspected deliberate foot-dragging by the Greek authorities—a private plane had taken off from Athens and flown straight to Benghazi.

Thanks to the friend’s prompt action, sources on the ground in Benghazi had been alerted. It had been verified that a young woman of Miss Lovejoy’s description had been taken off the plane and hustled into the city, into the very building Zane and his team were about to enter.

It had to be her; there weren’t that many red-haired Western women in Benghazi. In fact, he would bet there was only one—Barrie Lovejoy.

They were betting her life on it.