SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

But the Delta people? Well, except for the Buck Rogers devices strapped to their foreheads, they looked like a senior-league rugby team. Their hair was longer. Some had mustaches — a couple even sported beards. And they all wore civilian clothes — jeans or khakis, polo shirts, anoraks, and running shoes — and almost every one of them carried a soft-sided briefcase that looked as if it held a laptop computer.

0402. One of Ritzik’s Delta people, a barrel-chested man with a shaved head and short, light-colored mustache wearing a black polo shirt and black cargo pants, dropped out of the forward port-side troop door and jogged over to where Wei-Liu stood with Umarov.

He flipped up his night-vision goggles, grabbed the big Kazakh, hugged him, and lifted him clean off the ground. “Assalamu alaykim, Colonel, it’s great to see you again.”

Umarov beamed. “And upon you, Rowdy, waghalaykim assalam.” He stepped back. “You look good — ready to fight.”

“So do you.”

Umarov wagged his index finger under the American’s nose. “But you didn’t tell me everything, did you?” Yates shrugged. “I couldn’t.”

Umarov shrugged, too. “It is all right,” he said. “I understand. OPSEC.”

The American bear-hugged him again. “We’ll make it right for you, Talgat. I promise.” Then he turned toward Wei-Liu. “Miss Wei-Liu?”

“Yes?”

“Please call me Rowdy. The major wants me to look after you. So, anything you want or need, just come and find me, and I’ll try to help you out.”

“Thank you.” She looked up at him and, flustered, blurted, “Major Ritzik always refers to you as his best shooter. So, where are your guns?”

“Pistol’s in my briefcase.” Rowdy tapped his padded black nylon attaché on its shoulder strap. He pointed toward the C-5’s cavernous fuselage. “We stow our long guns when we travel, ma’am,” he growled amiably. He turned, flipping the night-vision down over his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

0407. Wei-Liu watched as a pair of Rangers leaned an extension ladder against the side of the two-story warehouse. Then, long, bulky cases slung over their shoulders, they clambered up onto the roof. She saw them pass down a length of rope. Other Rangers carried a series of good-sized bundles of painted plywood from the plane. These were quickly pulled up onto the roof one after the other. Then four more Rangers carrying cases made the assent, and the half-dozen men quickly assembled what appeared to Wei-Liu to be three large, dark rectangular boxes. The rigid boxes, perhaps three and a half feet high, eight feet long, and four feet wide, were then set slightly back from the edge of the flat warehouse roof.

She broke off, found Rowdy, and pointed to the warehouse. “What’s going on, Sergeant?”

“They’re constructing sniper hides,” he explained.

“Huh?”

“What would you think if you were a tourist, or a business flier, and you happened to catch a glance at some building, say, at Washington Dulles Airport, and you saw a bunch of men in uniforms, with binoculars and big sniper rifles, lying on the roof scanning the area with their weapons and field glasses?”

“I’d probably be scared out of my wits,” she answered.

“Exactly. So now what do you see?”

Wei-Liu peered upward through the night-vision device. “My God, the boxes look just like air-conditioning units. They’ve even got exhaust fans on top.” She turned back to Yates. “And the snipers are inside.”

“Give yourself an A.” He paused, uncomfortable. “Look — Miss Wei-Liu, I’d love to talk, but I’ve got—”

“Things to do. I understand. But thanks for the info.” She turned back toward the aircraft. In just a few seconds, the entire back end of the humongous dark-painted fuselage had split into clamshell doors. Now the rear deck was dropping so as to form a ramp.

0410. Wei-Liu walked the hundred and fifty feet to the aircraft and peered inside. It was too dark to see anything. She brought the night-vision up. There, secured by straps to cargo hooks in the flooring, were a dozen pallets, their contents hidden beneath thick, black plastic sheeting.

A forklift, driven by a man wearing night-vision goggles, was backing rapidly toward her. “Make a hole. Make a hole—”

“Sorry!” Wei-Liu jumped off the edge of the ramp as the forklift and its speared pallet bounced onto the apron, wheeled sharply, and careened toward the warehouse. She retreated, embarrassed, not wanting to get in anyone’s way.

0419. Two four-man groups hefted a pair of generators out of the Galaxy’s forward troop door and lugged them to the side of the warehouse. There, the devices were fueled and fired up. From a black trunk, one of the Delta people pulled a pair of industrial-size surge protectors. He attached them to the generator outlets, then plugged light-colored junction boxes to the surge protectors. He pulled a dozen coiled electrical lines from the trunk, attached them to the junction boxes, and began to run them into the building. Thirty seconds later, a puddle of light seeped under the warehouse doors.