SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Mustache Man said nothing. But he stepped back three paces and lowered the AK’s barrel. Sam was relieved until he realized the muzzle was pointed directly at his crotch and Muzzle Man’s finger was still wrapped around the trigger.

There followed what could only be described as a long, unnatural pause. And then Mustache Man lowered the muzzle of the AK until it pointed into the desert floor. He looked at Sam and said in Russian, “Journalists?”

“Television journalists,” Sam said.

“Television. BBC?”

“Yes, just like BBC,” Sam said.

Mustache Man said, “You make television of us?”

“Of course,” Sam said. “We can make a video of you. An interview. And then, after we leave, we can show it on television. The whole world will see and hear you.”

Mustache Man said, “Show me.”

Sam looked at his three companions. “Free them. Give us water and rice. And then we will be happy to show you.”

“You show me now.” Mustache Man swept the AK’s muzzle across Sam’s body. One-handed, he fired a long burst into Dick Campbell’s chest. The Marine was blown two yards backward, dead by the time Sam screamed, “No!”

“I said you show me now.” Mustache Man butt-stroked Sam with the AK, knocking him onto his face. He reached down, grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt, and started dragging him toward the video equipment.

Sam twisted free of Mustache Man’s grip. He rolled onto his hands and knees, crawled to get away. But the Uzbek followed. Sam tried to struggle to his feet. He got a roundhouse kick that sent pain from his hip into his eye sockets.

Mustache Man stood over him. The AK started to come up. Sam’s palms went up. “Please,” he said. “I’ll show you. But I’m going to need help.” Sam’s brain wasn’t being helpful. Suddenly he’d lost every bit of Russian he’d ever known. He fought to remember the vocabulary, then, like some kind of demented child, spoke slowly, in a monotone. “They have to help me.”

There was a pause. Sam chanced a quick look up at Mustache Man, wincing in anticipation of a rifle butt — or a bullet. Mustache Man’s face told him the guerrilla was debating whether or not to shoot them all.

Finally, the Uzbek said, “Da. Show me.” He flicked a glance into the darkness. Kaz’s gag was pulled off, and his arms freed. Sam looked into the kid’s eyes and knew he was in shock. Well, Kaz wasn’t the only one. Sam had never lost an agent. But now he’d just killed a colleague. Dick was dead because of him. Because of his stupidity. His game playing. Stupid goddamn game playing.

Sam’s eyes lost focus. He started to hyperventilate. It was X-Man who brought him back. Chris took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Sam,” he said. “Sam, we have to get to work. The man’s waiting.”

Sam blinked a few times. “Get to work.” He looked over at the Marine’s bound, gagged corpse. There’d been no time for anything. Not even a good-bye glance. Now Dick was dead. Murdered. The rage started to build inside Sam now. His eyes grew wide. His fists clenched. And then Sam’s training took over and he shut down the partition inside him that hurt more than he’d ever realized anybody could hurt, and he nodded his head and said, numbly, “Okay, Chris.”

Revenge would come. But later. The shock of seeing his teammate murdered would hit him hard. But not now. Sam couldn’t let anything touch him now. His only job was to keep himself, Kaz, and X-Man alive.

As quickly as they could, the three of them set to work. They pulled the camera out of its padded case and checked the battery. It was weak — drained from the earlier drilling.

Sam’s hip throbbed painfully. “How much time do we have on the battery?”

“Don’t know,” Kaz said. “Maybe eight, ten minutes.” He gave Sam a grim look. “The spare’s dead.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “Maybe they have a generator.”

“If not, I can recharge using the cigarette lighter in the Toyota.”

“Good.” Sam watched as Chris set up the tripod. Kaz placed the camera on the tripod head and secured it. Sam unpacked the zoom lens and twisted the bayonet mount until it clicked. Chris screwed the audio cable into the back of the camera.

Kaz found the hand mike and attached it to the cable. “Good to go.”

Chris positioned himself behind the camera and took a quick squint through the eyepiece. He nodded at Sam. “Ready when you are.”

Sam beckoned to Mustache Man. “We are ready.” He took the mike out of Kaz’s hands and waved it in the guerrilla’s direction. “What would you like to say?”

“Not here.” Mustache Man shouted something in a dialect Sam did not understand. Someone climbed into one of the PLA trucks, turned it around, and backed it in a half circle until the headlights of the truck in which Sam and X-Man had been held lit up the canvas covering the tailgate.

Mustache Man’s boots scrunched across the sand and stone. He stood twenty feet from the truck. “Put the camera here.”

Sam limped over to where Mustache Man stood. “C’mon, chaps, let’s do it.”