SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Reinforcements were precisely what Rowdy didn’t need. The sergeant major sighed. Another tidy war-game scenario shattered by messy real life. He pressed his transmit button. “He’s gonna make another pass. When he does, if he hovers — or even if he slows down — shoot his exhausts out and take the sucker out so we can get the hell out of here.”

1003. The HIND flew overhead on an easterly course. But it didn’t descend, hover, or decelerate. Instead, it maintained a steady altitude of three hundred feet, flying parallel to the road — and well out of RPG range. After a quarter of a minute, it was out of sight. The engine scream diminished, and soon all Rowdy heard was the thumping of rotors. In less than a minute they, too, faded into the distance. But that didn’t mean the son of a bitch wasn’t coming back.

Rowdy eased himself out from cover and surveyed the scene below. What would Sun-Tzu do? Rowdy knelt, chewing on his mustache. And then he remembered exactly what the Master taught — and knew exactly what to do. “Force is like water: it has no consistent shape. Military genius is the ability to adapt force to your opponent during the fluidity of battle, even as water flows around the obstacles in its way.”

“I have been an idiot,” Rowdy said aloud, causing Wei-Liu and X-Man to look at him strangely and Kaz to snicker.

Rowdy looked in the tech’s direction. “The Master says, ‘Wisdom is not obvious. Those who can see subtlety will achieve victory.’”

The spook inclined his head in mock reverence: “I am an unworthy grasshopper.”

Rowdy’s hand moved in a Zen-like wave. “I forgive you your sins.” And then he eased back under cover, lifted the RPG launcher onto his shoulder, aimed it in an easterly direction, and pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Loner, Loner, do you copy?”

129 Kilometers East-Northeast of Tokhtamysh.

1003 Hours Local Time.

They were low on fuel — Mick estimated twenty-five minutes’ flight time left. Ritzik tried calling Rowdy to see if he’d managed to siphon the avgas out of the downed HIP. They’d need every bit to make it as far as the Tajik border, given the fact that they’d be carrying fifteen people and flying higher than the aircraft’s safe operational ceiling. But the radios weren’t working. Mick, pissed, said, “Sam?”

“Yo?”

“Pull my earpiece, will ya?”

“Sure.” The spook reached across the console, yanked the soft foam plug, and draped the wire over the pilot’s shoulder.

“Oh, that feels better.” Mickey D swiveled his head. “Y’know, boss, these damn radios are no better than Polish suppositories.”

Mick was a strange one. Ritzik understood that. But this was bizarre, even for him. “Huh?”

“This guy in Warsaw,” Mick continued, “he’s all plugged up. Y’know, whatchamacallit — constipated. So he goes to the doctor, who prescribes suppositories. The doc says, ‘Use one of these twice a day for two days, then come back and see me.’ The guy leaves. Three days later he’s back, worse than ever. He says, ‘Doc, those suppository things don’t work worth a damn.’

“The doctor’s shocked. ‘Whaddya mean they don’t work? I prescribed the most powerful suppositories available.’ The patient says, ‘Oh, yeah? Well, first of all they’re hell to take — they’re the size of horse pills. Swallowing ‘em is just about impossible. Second, for all the good they did me, I could have shoved ‘em up my ass.’”

“And your point is?”

Mick’s eyebrows wriggled. “Problem with you blanket-heads is you have no sense of humor. You—”

“Mick — chopper. Ten o’clock.” Sam pointed southeast.

Ritzik followed the spook’s arm. It was the second HIND. It was closing. He didn’t need this. “Mick — can you give us some altitude here?” He turned, on the verge of going aft to free up the machine gun, when he heard Rowdy’s voice in his earpiece.

Pray long enough, Ritzik thought, and every once in a while your prayers will actually be answered. “Rowdy — Loner.” Ritzik clapped his hands over his ears so he could make out what the sergeant major was saying. “Repeat-repeat.” He listened intently for about twenty seconds. Then said, “Roger. I copy. Wilco. Loner out.”

1005. Ritzik leaned forward so he could shout in Mickey D’s ear. “He wants us to come in hot — strafe the ravine, then the southern ridge. Then he wants you to hover on the south ridge. I’ll drop the ladder and we’ll go out — look like an assault team. Sam will retrieve and stow the ladder once we’re down. Then you drop behind the ridge — settle on the deck.” He squeezed the pilot’s shoulder. “Can do?”

“Coming in hot’s no prob,” Mick shouted back. He looked at the HIND. “The hovering may be a little rough, though.” He wiggled his head back and forth. “Hey — somebody stick that Polish suppository back in my ear so I can hear the crap that son of a bitch is transmitting, okay?”

29

125 Kilometers East-Northeast of Tokhtamysh.

1008 Hours Local Time.