SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Respectfully but unequivocally, Ritzik declined. Not because he wouldn’t be able to make a difference as a staff officer, but because he honestly believed he’d be of greater benefit to the nation back at Bragg. Mike Ritzik understood his duty to be the business of making war, not making policy. And passing on the lessons he and his men had learned through six months of hard combat — their defeats as well as victories — would make his Army all the more effective in achieving its fundamental goals on the battlefield. So, despite Rockman’s entreaties and the promise of rapid advancement, Ritzik stood his ground, convinced he was better off returning to Bragg than taking an E-Ring office at the Pentagon.

That had been more than two years ago. He’d spent the intervening time commuting between the CAG and Fort Campbell, Kentucky, headquarters of the Special Operations Air Regiment’s Task Force 160, known as the Night-stalkers. It had been Ritzik’s assignment to fuse the SOAR pilots and crews seamlessly with Delta, to make sure that the multiple snafus that had taken place in Afghanistan did not repeat themselves elsewhere.

Now he’d been summoned to see SECDEF once more — without the faintest idea why.

“We have a serious problem,” Rockman said by way of terse explanation.

“Sir?”

“In Western China. A lousy situation with huge political consequences and unreal time constraints. When I was asked to fix it, you’re the one I thought of first.” Rockman’s lined face grew dead serious. “Take a seat, son, and I’ll explain. We’re due at the White House in an hour and a half.”

Robert Rockman had served as both White House chief of staff and secretary of defense long before Mike Ritzik had entered West Point. Rocky, as he was called in the press, was now in his mid-seventies. He’d been brought back from a successful business career by Pete Forrest to revitalize a military that had been both demoralized and marginalized during the 1990s. Rockman had been low-profile for the first few months of the administration, working the way he preferred: quietly, without publicity. But after 9/11, Rocky had become the reluctant but highly effective public face of America’s worldwide war against terrorism.

The long hours and seven-day weeks had taken their toll. Ritzik saw weariness in the secretary’s bearing. But he understood enough not to mistake fatigue for apathy. Rocky was a tough old bird, as insightful, astute, and shrewd a political operator as he’d been during his younger days. After four and a half minutes of the SECDEF’s monologue, Ritzik also had to admit that the man knew how to brief. There were no wasted words, no hyperbole, no polysyllabic bureaucratese.

The way Rockman laid it out, the national security adviser had pushed for the sensor-planting operation to ensure that the Chinese weren’t going to cheat. Rockman had agreed it was crucial. But then the mission had been assigned to the CIA over his objections. And, as with most Agency ops these days, the numbskulls at Langley hadn’t factored in Mr. Murphy. Yesterday, after successfully planting the sensors, things went sour. The team had been captured by terrorists — Uighur separatists, perhaps, no one was certain. The Agency panicked — no one notified the White House for six whole hours while they attempted to cover their butts. The president went ballistic when he found out the CIA had no contingency plan to get its people back, and he’d dumped the problem on Rockman at about five o’clock.

It got sticky, SECDEF continued, because the Joint Chiefs of Staff tried to take things over, and he’d wasted valuable time derailing what he called their Machiavellian plottings — which is why he hadn’t been able to get hold of Ritzik until zero-dark-hundred.

And to make matters worse, the director of central intelligence was being stingy with intelligence. The secretary retrieved his leather document case from the wing chair. He opened it, revealing a red-tabbed folder. “I was only able to get these from Langley an hour ago — although they’ve been sitting on the DCI’s desk since last midnight.” Rockman opened the folder. It contained a dozen satellite photographs. “This’ll give you some idea of what you’re up against.”

“Do you have a magnifying glass?”

Without a word, the secretary reached in his desk drawer and withdrew one. He handed it to Ritzik, who used it to study the eight-by-tens. He counted trucks and people. “Looks like a force of about fifty — maybe sixty.” He shuffled the images. “Do we know where they’re going? Are the Chinese in pursuit?”

“We can track them by satellite,” the secretary said. “And so far as I know, the Chinese don’t know what’s going on — their satellite capabilities don’t allow them to shift their birds as quickly as we can move ours.” Rockman’s face hardened. “Of course, they may be privy by now. But since they’re playing this pretty close to the vest at Langley, I haven’t been told.”