SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Sam whispered, “Let’s hope they get across whatever border they’re heading for before the Chinese catch up with ‘em. I—” He started to say something else. But the truck braked to an abrupt stop.

Fifteen seconds later, Sam heard movement outside. And then the rear flap was lifted, and he was rendered blind by a sudden shaft of incredibly bright light.

Sword Squadron, Fort Bragg, Fayetteville, North Carolina.

1254 Hours Local Time.

“Goddammit, Loner, if that’s the way it’s gotta be, then that’s the way it is. But I tell you, this sucks. And if you won’t tell those suits to go screw themselves and let you get back where you belong, then put me on the friggin’ phone with ‘em and I will — and that includes the goddamn secretary of defense.” On the Long List of People Rowdy Yates Does Not Like, suits was his comprehensive term for all self-important, limp-dicked, spineless, backstabbing, politically motivated individuals including (but not limited to) most flag-rank officers and virtually all politicians, attorneys, and CEOs of Fortune 500 corporations. In fact, the only two categories of humanity Rowdy Yates detested more than suits were traitors and cowards.

The bad news, which Ritzik was relaying from the secretary’s car, was that he was probably going to miss his connections because they were being called back to the White House and the secretary had just indicated that he wasn’t going to be leaving Washington until the evening. And so he’d just told Rowdy to unlock his cage and grab his gear while he met with whomever. With the secretary’s help he’d catch a commercial flight out of Dulles to Frankfurt. There, he’d catch the Lufthansa flight direct to Almaty. If all the planes were on time, he’d beat Rowdy and the C-5 by two and a half hours.

The sergeant major was not convinced. “This op has already turned into a huge Charlie Foxtrot, Mike, and I’m still sitting behind my friggin’ desk.” Yates balanced the reading magnifiers on the tip of his nose and scribbled on a notepad. “I know you’ve already been promised coordination, but maybe you’d like to know anyway that I haven’t heard friggin’ word one from Langley. Not that it would make a bit of difference. Those self-important pencil-pushing sons of bitches wouldn’t know real intelligence if it walked up and bit ‘em on the ass.” He paused. “Yes, sir, Major, sir, you can put me on the speakerphone and I’ll say the same thing to SECDEF.”

Yates paused and listened. “Yes, Mike. Okay. Will do. We’ll pack each Fire Team One laptop, and every man gets a handheld and GPS module. I’ll make sure Talgat has clothes for us, too.” Yates made another series of notations on the legal pad, then cradled the telephone. The effing suits in Washington were going to get them all killed. There was no doubt about that whatsoever.

6

The West Wing of the White House.

1321 Hours Local Time.

Mike Ritzik followed Robert Rockman as they descended a narrow, carpeted stairway, turned right, then left, past a warren of offices. The secretary led Ritzik down a short corridor lined with framed photographs of the president and first lady on their overseas trips. At the end of the hallway, Rockman waited as a Secret Service agent opened the unmarked Situation Room door and stood aside so they could enter.

Rockman’s palm thrust Ritzik forward. The room was smaller and narrower than he had expected. He’d envisioned high-backed, hand-tooled leather judge’s chairs, lots of telephones and laptop computers, and high-definition flat screens displaying real-time satellite images. What he saw was a long, narrow, wood-paneled space dominated by a basic table with a dozen spartan leather armchairs around it. A single judge’s chair sat below the wall-mounted presidential seal at the head of the table. In front of each chair a notepad and a blue ballpoint pen, both bearing the presidential seal, had been carefully positioned. In front of the president’s place sat a black leather legal-pad holder, imprinted with the Great Seal of the United States, as well as a large universal TV remote-control unit.

There were two multiline telephone consoles — one at each end of the table. At the head, there was also a single secure telephone. Two wall clocks were hung high on the walls at opposite ends of the room. There were three small TV sets jammed into a utilitarian cabinet at the rear, opposite the doorway. The screens displayed the Fox News Channel, CNN, and Sky News, but there was no sound coming from any of them. Stacked against the wood-paneled walls were perhaps two dozen plastic chairs, randomly scattered in stacks of two or three.