SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Rowdy loaded another round into the launcher’s muzzle, took aim, and fired at the chopper’s exhaust vent. The round went wide. But it hit the aft portion of the aircraft squarely, exploding in a great bright flash, knocking the tail rotor off. The HIND spun once, centrifugally. And then the chopper sideswiped the smoldering truck and exploded in a huge, orange ball of fire. The ordnance detonated, sending rockets and ammo spewing into the sky, trailing white smoke like so many fireworks. Rowdy could feel the intensity of the heat from where he lay. He rolled onto his side, looked over at Wei-Liu, and cracked a grin. “Nice work, Madam Deputy Assistant Secretary,” Rowdy said. “Glad to see we’re all still here — and ready to exfil.”

Wei-Liu wiped dust from her face. She looked at Rowdy Yates. His eyes, for the briefest of instants, displayed a look of such utter relief that it shocked her. And then, like a curtain drawn, the vulnerability faded. She started to say something, but remained silent; drained. Incapable of words or emotions. She was exhausted. She barely had the energy to blink. She shook her head vacantly and monotoned, vaguely in the sergeant major’s direction, “I’d really like a good night’s sleep.”

1013. Ritzik clambered to his feet, ducking involuntarily as half a dozen Gatling rounds popped like cherry bombs. He ran to the ridgeline and looked south, about four hundred yards, to where the HIP, resting precariously on its broken landing gear, idled. He raised both arms high above his head, fists clenched, thumbs extended. Then he turned, waved at the opposite ridge, and pressed his transmit button. “Rowdy, Loner. Get everybody over here so we can exfil ASAP.”

Ritzik listened as the sergeant major growled something. Then he said, “Roger that, Rowdy. We have to refuel.”

He turned toward the HIP. “Mick — did you copy that?” Ritzik watched as the big transport’s rotors gained speed, and then the aircraft levitated gingerly, rose into the sky, and nosed eastward, crossing the ridge to where Rowdy had prepositioned the fuel bladder.

Ritzik clapped his hand to his ear so he could hear the sergeant major’s transmission. “Roger that,” Ritzik said. “I’ll bring Ty with me.”

Ritzik scrambled back along the ridge to where he’d left the sniper. Ty was conscious. But it was obvious he was in tremendous pain. Ritzik looked down. “What’s the prob, Ty?”

The sniper blinked. “Broken ribs, I think,” he said between gritted teeth. “Oh, God, it hurts to breathe.”

“Pain’s good for you,” Ritzik said. “Tells you you’re still alive.”

“Then I must be alive,” Weaver said, “because I hurt like hell.”

“You’ll feel better when we get you to Dushanbe.”

“Is there beer in Dushanbe?”

“Affirmative.”

“Then you’re right: I’ll feel better in Dushanbe.”

“Time to move out.” Ritzik reached down. “Can you stand?”

The sniper grimaced. He took Ritzik’s hand. His grip was strong. “We’ll see, won’t we, Loner?”

Epilogue

Six Weeks Later. The Great Hall of the People, Beijing,

People’s Republic of China.

1540 Hours Local Time.

The treaty signing was a bona fide media event, with 600 reporters and TV crews from all over the world. The White House downplayed the summit, bringing less than a hundred White House, State Department, and DOD staffers. Despite a last-minute plea from the president, a 150-person CODEL{Congressional Delegation.} flew in on four of the Air Force’s most luxurious transports to represent the House and Senate leadership — a shameless publicity stunt according to SECDEF Rockman, who did not accompany the president. In marked contrast, the Chinese made sure that more than 9,500 of its officials were present in Beijing’s Great Hall of the People to witness the signing ceremony.

The American and Chinese presidents, the secretary of state, and the foreign minister of the People’s Republic sat behind a simple rosewood table that had been positioned in front of the speaker’s dais in the main auditorium. Behind them, six factotums hovered, ready to move the leather-bound copies of the treaty, printed on thick vellum, as they were signed and the seals were affixed.

Mike Ritzik, Tracy Wei-Liu, and Sam Phillips, wearing credentials identifying them as White House staff, sat in the rear echelon of the American delegation, on the right-hand side of the auditorium. Their inclusion in the official party had been Pete Forrest’s idea — a small but tangible reward for jobs well done. The sensors were working perfectly. And within days after SIE-1 had inserted them, the devices revealed that the Chinese were indeed testing ultra-low-yield nuclear weapons in the tunnels that ran thousands of feet below Lop Nur.