SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

“Yes, ma’am. And it wasn’t what the official reports about Takhur Ghar said. But that’s what happened. I was there.” He paused. “If you train the way you fight, your instincts will kick in when things go bad. You’ll be able to overcome the obstacles. You’ll outthink and outfight the enemy. And you’ll get the job done. On Takhur Ghar, the mission hadn’t been bottom-up planned by shooters, but top-down planned by staff pukes. On Takhur Ghar, no one had trained the way they were going to have to fight. So the pilot reacted badly. Instead of putting his people on the ground to suppress the fire and counterambush the hostiles, he retreated. He hauled butt. And I guess he thought he’d done an okay job getting everyone out of there. Except he hadn’t. Jackson had fallen out.” Ritzik paused, his eyes scanning the room. “And no one noticed Jackson was missing.”

He was pretty worked up by now. “Why was that? I’ll tell you something: why doesn’t matter. What matters is that somebody with stars on his collar back in Tampa wanted Navy SpecWar to get a piece of the glory that night, and so this patchwork-quilt unit that had never trained or operated together before was sent out to do a job. And when the you-know-what hit the fan, things went bad. Bottom line: seven men died. Seven. If you ask me, they were squandered, because no matter how good each of them might have been individually, the group didn’t have any unit integrity.” Ritzik caught his breath. “Mr. President, let me tell you about unit integrity—”

“Major,” Pete Forrest broke in, his tone rebuking, “I know all about unit integrity.” He didn’t need a lecture on the subject from this young pup, and the peeved expression on his face displayed it.

Ritzik realized he’d gone too far. “I apologize, sir, but I lost men in Afghanistan because … idiots back here made decisions based on political considerations, or pure ignorance about what was taking place on the ground.”

“Sometimes that’s the reality,” the president said.

“Yes, sir, it may be reality — but I don’t have to like it. The problem is that when screwups like that happen, the politicians and generals who caused the problems in the first place never pay for their mistakes. They get promoted. Me, sir, I’m the one stuck with the job of filling body bags. So if you don’t mind, I’ll take a pass on the politics. The way I see it, my only job is to make sure the mission succeeds, and my men come home.”

“And you say those two goals are impossible if we assemble a joint force.”

“Yes, sir.” He took a few seconds to consider what he was about to say, then continued. “Mr. President, if you think the Navy, or the Marines, or whoever, should take this job on, that’s up to you. You’re the CINC. My only recommendation is that no matter who you assign, please deploy a single unit — a group of operators who have worked together so long they can finish one another’s sentences and read one another’s body language — to do the job. Otherwise, you’re going to squander those men’s lives just the way they were squandered on Takhur Ghar.”

The president took his time before responding. He liked this compact, muscular young man. Liked the fact that he spoke his mind. Liked even more that he obviously put the welfare and safety of his people ahead of his own career. Loyalty down the chain of command, Pete Forrest knew, was a rare, even uncommon virtue in today’s military culture. “Point taken, Major.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After some seconds, the president said, “Outspoken youngster, isn’t he, Rocky?”

“I told you he was,” the secretary said, a Cheshire-cat smile on his face.

Pete Forrest leaned forward. “The only question I have remaining, Major Ritzik, is whether, as an operator, you really believe this is doable.”

“Mr. President, in almost twenty years in the military I’ve learned that nothing is impossible, given the right resources and, more important, the political will to get the job done.”

Pete Forrest stared across the low butler’s table separating him from the young officer, his eyes probing the man’s demeanor for any sign of weakness, indecision, or hesitation. So far, he’d sensed none. “Don’t worry about resources, Major,” the president finally said. “Or politics. Do you have the will to get the job done?”

Mike Ritzik’s response was instantaneous. He looked the president in the eye. “Sir, I will not fail. I will bring those four men home.”

After a quarter of a minute, the president’s gaze shifted to his secretary of defense, who was now sitting next to Ritzik on the couch. “Monica.”

“Mr. President?”

“This comes under the ‘Special Activity’ rule, doesn’t it?” “I believe so, Mr. President.”

“Then draft a Finding. I want this done by the numbers.” “Yes, sir.”