SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

There were already a few officials sitting at the long table. The national security adviser was there, half glasses perched on the end of her nose, engrossed in a red-tabbed document as she sat at what Ritzik assumed to be the president’s right hand. She said, “Mr. Secretary,” but didn’t acknowledge Ritzik’s presence. Next to Wirth sat Nick Pappas, the rumpled, chubby former congressional staffer who was now director of central intelligence. Next to him sat a middle-aged, slightly overweight woman with a severe haircut and thick, retro eyeglasses. Three chairs down from the DCI, Admiral Phil Buckley, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, scratched an itch just above the starched collar of his uniform shirt and stared at the wall, pointedly ignoring the SECDEF. At the far end of the table, an attractive young Chinese-American woman was listening to a middle-aged man whose face Ritzik had seen on the evening news but couldn’t identify. As he whispered, the woman’s head bobbed up and down as she made notes on a yellow legal pad.

Rockman nodded at the man at the far end of the table, then commandeered the armchair closest to the head of the table, directly opposite the NSC adviser. Ritzik started to sit next to him, but the secretary’s quick shake of head and abrupt hand signal indicated that he “park it” on one of the black plastic chairs up against the wall instead.

He did as ordered, sitting silently, idly fingering the visitor’s pass clipped to his lapel and scanning the faces, absorbing the surroundings. The young woman conferred with her colleague, then scribbled even more feverishly. Monica Wirth passed the red-tabbed document to Rockman, who flipped it open and read its contents, his expression devolving into a hound-dog frown.

Then the door opened. Without fanfare or announcement, the president strode in. Twenty-eight casters rumbled across the linoleum tile in unison as everyone in the warm room scrambled to their feet.

“Everybody sit, sit, please.” Pete Forrest pulled the high-backed swivel chair away from the table and dropped into it.

Over the sound of chairs being settled into, the president said, “Give us the latest news, Nick.”

Pappas opened a leather folder and glanced down at the file inside. “The locator signal activated by the Sino Insertion Element is still transmitting strongly. The team is being moved in a northwesterly direction across the Tarim Basin.” The DCI paused long enough to run a stubby finger inside the collar of his white button-down shirt. “We believe the kidnappers to be from the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, or IMU. Our assessment was that SIE-1 was being taken toward the Tajik border.”

“We knew most of that eight hours ago, Nick,” Robert Rockman growled.

The DCI’s dark eyes flashed in SECDEF’s direction. But his neutral tone never changed. “Here’s the latest news, Rocky. Three hours after SIE-1 was snatched up, the guerrilla contingent that took them ambushed a small, lightly armed PLA convoy that was clandestinely transporting an obsolete weapons package to the underground nuclear storage facility located southeast of the Lop Nur test site. We believe the operation is part of an effort by the IMU to reconstitute itself after years of decline. And we have revised our assessment. We now believe that the IMU plans to detonate the weapon inside China.

“Jeezus H. Kee-rist, Nick,” Rockman exploded. “ ‘Three hours after’ is five hours ago. How the hell can you keep that kind of information to yourself? You know what we’re trying to do.”

“We had to verify the information,” Pappas said. “There is a formal process that has to be followed, Mr. Secretary, before raw information can become intelligence.”

“Screw the process, Nick — just get the damn information disseminated.”

“That’s enough, Rocky.” The president’s voice betrayed irritation. “Go on, Nick.”

The DCI reached into the center of the table for a black-and-silver plastic thermos pitcher that sat on a salver surrounded by a half-dozen empty glasses. He poured himself a glass of water, sipped, then continued. “Anyhow, because of its ambient nuclear activity, the convoy was being dual tracked. From overhead by a FORTAE{Fast Onboard Recognition of Transient Atomic Experiments.} satellite operated jointly with the British, and from our unilateral monitoring station in Sumbe Tekes, Kazakhstan. Shortly after the PLA convoy was intercepted, gradient effluvium readings from both satellite and unilateral monitors intensified exponentially, indicating to us that the package had been—”

“Nick,” the president said, “use English, will you?”

“The terrorists broke the seals on the protective container, Mr. President. They are currently in possession of a first-generation nuclear weapon — from the looks of it, it’s a fifteen-kiloton MADM, or medium atomic demolition munition, from the late 1970s or early 1980s. From our other unilateral overhead assets in the region, we know for sure they have already been playing with it.”

Rockman said, “Playing with it?”