SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

The compartment was called SKYHORSE-PUSHPIN. O’Neill’s assignment was to track the Chinese military’s reaction to a provocative wave of unscheduled American reconnaissance flights and naval ship movements, and report as necessary to the secretary. He was to work his network of fellow sweat hogs and his contacts in the other uniformed services and intelligence agencies to elicit information without advising his sources as to its ultimate destination. He would act with absolute discretion. He would write nothing down. And he would deliver his findings only after he had asked for and received the Skyhorse recognition signal from the secretary.

Rockman waited out a fifteen-second delay. Then he heard: “This is Captain O’Neill.”

“This is OSD — Mr. Rogers.”

O’Neill said: “Signal?”

Rockman said, “Skyhorse-Pushpin.” He paused. “What do we know, Hugo?”

“They’re pinging us, sir, no doubt about it.”

“Good.” That meant the Chinese had taken the bait. “What’s the evidence?”

“I’ll call you back from the SCBF in two minutes with that information, sir.” The NCC’s SCBF — the acronym stood for sensitive compartmented information facility — was a small, bug-proof room with a thick door and a cipher lock at the very end of the maze of Command Center offices.

Rockman replaced the receiver in its cradle and waited. Thirty seconds later the phone squalled once. He picked the receiver up and repeated both the encryption process and the code-word recognition signal. “Sit-rep, Hugo.”

“Naval Air confirms six close-quarters intercepts of our routine surveillance aircraft in the past eight hours. A message from COMPAC details two Chinese ELINT trawlers moving in the straits of Taiwan. My colleagues at DIA are reporting huge military message traffic surges. And Rear Admiral Taylor, our naval attaché in Beijing, has just been summoned to the Defense Ministry at ten hundred hours Beijing time — that’s about an hour from now, sir — to explain what the Chinese are calling our ‘highly provocative moves in Chinese territorial waters.’”

“I love it.” Rockman slapped his palms together then rubbed them. “Anything else?”

“The Air Force’s Command Center is tracking unanticipated PLA flights out of the Beijing and Guangzhou military districts.”

Rockman said, “Hmm.”

“Sir?”

“Any details?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. A flight of three HIP-H transport choppers and two HIND-D gunships flying cover moved out of Beijing early this morning.”

‘Transport choppers with gunship cover. Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

The hair on the back of Rockman’s head stood up. But he didn’t betray his concern. “You’re positive?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary. There was also a flight of eight J-7D Fishbed fighters that flew out of Guangzhou, heading south.”

Rockman kept his voice neutral. “Keep me posted if there are any further developments from the Navy. You might as well keep tracking the Air Force, too.” He made a quick note. “I’ll be here at least until midnight, Hugo — which means you will, too.”

Rockman slapped the receiver down without waiting for a response. He paused five seconds, then dialed a second number, repeating the encryption process before speaking. When he saw the green light, he said, “Nick — this is Rocky. Give me the latest on what the Chinese are up to — and don’t try to hand me a load of your usual smoke-and-mirrors political analysis or hand me any horse-puckey about what sensitive information you can and can’t talk to me about.”

20 Kilometers Northeast of Almaty, Kazakhstan.

0900 Hours Local Time.

Mike Ritzik was pissed. That was an understatement. Mike Ritzik was royally pissed. Royally pissed at Rowdy Yates because the sergeant major hadn’t filled him in. And even more royally pissed at himself because he hadn’t even noticed until he was introducing the men to Wei-Liu.

What had escaped his attention was the presence of a lanky, red-haired warrant officer named Michael Dunne. Dunne had no business being in Kazakhstan. He was the chopper pilot from Task Force 160 at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, whom Ritzik had selected to extract the Delta element from China. But Dunne’s mission had been scrubbed. Given the PLA’s involvement, there was no way Ritzik was going to use a helicopter to extract his people and the CIA officers. Odds were, the Chinese would provide their troops tactical air support. Against fighter aircraft, the slow-flying MH-60 would be a sitting duck. And yet Dunne was in Almaty. And it was Fred Yates who had brought him.

Ritzik finally found the time to pull Rowdy aside. “Rowdy, we gotta talk.” He’d learned a long time ago never to wire-brush a man in front of the troops.

The pair of them walked to the far end of the warehouse. When they were out of earshot, Ritzik jerked his thumb toward Dunne. “Why the hell is he here?”

“Who?”

“Goddammit, Rowdy—”

“Mickey D? He’s here because I want him here, Loner.”

Ritzik crossed his arms. “I scrubbed him, Sergeant Major,” he said, the use of Yates’s rank a sign of displeasure. “You agreed.”