SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Mustache Man gave more orders. The canvas was pushed aside and the tailgate dropped. Half a dozen men slung their weapons and clambered aboard. Another four stood below.

Sam waited as the camera was brought up and set where Mustache Man wanted it. He got behind the tripod, sidled up to the eyepiece, and squinted through the viewfinder He adjusted the focus, then zoomed in on the knot of bodies struggling to wrestle a large, rectangular object that looked somewhat like one of those 1930s refrigerators — the ones with the compressors on the top — out of a cumbersome storage container.

They pushed and pulled for perhaps half a minute. Sam was about to shut the power off when the cluster of men separated long enough for him to catch a fleeting glimpse of the yellow-and-black nuclear radiation symbol stenciled on the storage container. He said, “Oh, my God,” and involuntarily took a big step backward.

X-Man said, “What’s up?”

Sam rubbed his face. “I don’t bloody believe this.” He watched as they wrestled the fridge out of the truck and lowered it onto the ground.

“Now,” Mustache Man said. “Now you give me the microphone.”

It was at that instant that Sam Phillips understood that he was a dead man, too. That they were all dead men. Dick Campbell wasn’t going to be SIE-l’s only casualty.

The West Wing of the White House.

1355 Hours Local Time.

Ritzik was surprised to find the young woman who’d briefed in the Situation Room waiting for them in the national security adviser’s inner office. Monica Wirth said, “Mr. Secretary, Major Ritzik, this is Deputy Assistant Secretary of Energy Tracy Wei-Liu.”

Ritzik said, “Michael Ritzik. Nice to meet you.” He extended his arm and got a cool, firm handshake in return. She certainly was attractive, Ritzik thought. She had almond eyes and the well-conditioned body of an athlete under her well-tailored black pantsuit. Wei-Liu was probably, he decided, in her early thirties. Ritzik caught himself staring and self-consciously shifted his gaze toward SECDEF, who was looking at him quizzically.

Rockman said, “Major Ritzik will be leading the unit that’s going to bring the CIA sensor team back from China.”

Wei-Liu’s expression didn’t change a whit. “Not an easy job, Major, given the latest developments.”

“No, it’s not. But it can be done.”

“I certainly hope so. They’re brave men. We should do everything we can to bring them home.”

“I feel the same way.”

Monica Wirth’s heels tapped the wood floor as she crossed her office and dropped into a high-backed upholstered leather wing chair that faced away from the tall, narrow windows. “Why don’t we all sit down where it’s comfortable.” Wirth indicated the upholstered couch in front of which was a coffee table piled with foreign-policy journals.

‘Thank you, Monica. My old bones could use a comfortable chair.” The secretary eased into the wing chair facing Wirth. Ritzik and Wei-Liu stepped over his knees and settled somewhat self-consciously into the soft sofa cushions.

“So, Major,” the NSC chairman asked, “what did you think of our RIG?”

“Rig, ma’am?”

“Restricted interagency group.”

“I was wondering,” Ritzik said, “whether Admiral Buckley is always that quiet at meetings.”

A single, acidic cackle broke from the back of the national security adviser’s throat. “We call him the stealth chairman,” she finally said. Then her expression changed. “Major,” Wirth asked, “is there anyone in your unit who has experience in dealing with medium atomic demolition devices and the disarming of nuclear weapons under tactical situations?”

Ritzik didn’t have to think very long about that one. “We have trained with the Department of Energy’s counterterror NEST teams, ma’am. We have also worked counterterrorist scenarios in which nuclear warheads were tactical factors, and so we are familiar in a general way with the arming and disarming of such devices. But the weapons we’ve been exposed to are current generation — not thirty-plus-year-old MADMs.”

The national security adviser shot a quick glance in Rockman’s direction. “I see,” Monica Wirth said.

“So defusing the stolen weapon could present a problem.”

“It might,” Ritzik said. “But I’m confident that if Miss Wei-Liu draws a detailed diagram and explains the problem to me thoroughly, we’ll be able to deal with the situation efficiently.”

Wei-Liu swiveled toward Ritzik. “It’s somewhat more complex than just drawing a diagram, Major.”

“An IED is an IED,” Ritzik said. “A detonator is a detonator. An ignition wire is an ignition wire.”