SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Yates reached into the left thigh pocket of his cargo pants and withdrew a tin container of snuff. He took a pinch, stuffed it between his cheek and his lower jaw, wiped his fingers off on his trouser leg, then closed the container and replaced it. “That was how we left it, Major,” Rowdy said. “But, I got to thinking after your last call.”

“I love you like a brother, Rowdy, but you’re pissing me off.”

“Hear me out, boss. We train differently than most units. We cross-train, just like Special Forces. But we add a lot more esoteric specialties. We learn to pick locks and bypass alarm systems. We can hot-wire everything from cars to locomotives. I brought ten men — we have twelve with you and me, thirteen with the lady. Between us, there’s nothing we can’t do. You want to stage our exfil using a combine harvester? Shep can drive one — and he can also perform a minor operation, because he’s cross-trained with Doc Masland. And Doc’s not just a dicksmith, he’s a sniper, because he’s cross-trained with Ty Weaver. And Ty can handle just about any heavy machinery we come across.” Yates spat into the polystyrene cup in his right hand. “Are you receiving yet?”

“Not really.”

“So what happens if we need to steal a plane instead of a combine harvester, boss?” He spat again. “When I went up to Dam Neck last month, I found out there are four enlisted men at Dev Group who have pilots’ licenses. They told me they paid for their own training, by the way, because Navy SpecWar officers don’t believe enlisted men should be allowed to touch aircraft controls. That’s neither here nor there. What is, is that Sword Squadron currently doesn’t have a single pilot — officer or enlisted.”

“And you concluded we need one out here.”

“Frankly, yes,” Rowdy said. “We used to have half a dozen people with pilots’ licenses, and guys were always going to flight school in their spare time. That guy Dean Williams who retired last year was qualified to fly multi-engine jet aircraft. But lately we’ve been so busy no one’s had the time to take the courses, and no pilots have come through Selection.” Yates spat into his plastic cup. “Mickey D brought it up when I told him he was scrubbed. He’s got a pilot’s license. What if the shit hits the fan and we have to get out using an aircraft, Major? Bottom line is, the more I thought about what Mickey D said, the more it made sense.”

Ritzik said: “Does he have the quals?”

“I don’t know if he’d make it through Selection,” Yates said.

“Well …”

“That’s not the point. Doing this particular job is the point. Look — he’s a runner. He completed the Marine marathon last year. And he took the MFF HALO-HAHO{Military Free Fall High Altitude Low Opening-High Altitude High Opening.} parachute course at Marana four months ago.”

“All eight jumps?”

“Roger that. He has the quals.”

“That’s fourteen people, Rowdy — plus the four spooks. Eighteen is a lot to move around.”

“I know, Loner.” Yates used his improvised spittoon. “I’m just thinking about flexibility in the field. I want us to have as many options as possible.”

“You probably brought everything he’d need, didn’t you?”

“ ‘Be Prepared,’ isn’t that the Boy Scouts’ marching song?” Yates growled. “You let me take care of the details.”

1020. “Loner — call for you. Some guy claiming to be secretary of defense.” Bill Sandman wasn’t a big man, but he had an aggressive edge to him and a raspy, gravel-toned voice that came from two packs of Marlboros a day for more than twenty-five years. He swiveled Ritzik’s chair away from the computer screen, pointed it toward the STU-?? satellite phone, and gave a gentle shove.

Ritzik rolled to the phone and picked it up. “Ritzik.”

“Major.” The satellite connection mildly distorted Robert Rockman’s distinctive voice.

“Sir.”

“How’s it going?”

“So far so good.”

“Glad to hear it. The president wants an update, so sit-rep me.”

“We are on schedule, sir. I’m planning our departure at seventeen-thirty local time.”

“Any chance you can go earlier?”

“Not really, sir. Any reason why we should?” Ritzik’s question was greeted by silence. “Mr. Secretary?”

Rockman hesitated. “I just got off the phone with Nick Pappas. Major General Zhou Yi’s air unit departed Beijing at zero eight hundred this morning.”

Ritzik hadn’t known, which disturbed the hell out of him, because he was supposed to be getting real-time intelligence dumps from Langley. Christ, the CIA was still stovepiping its precious information. “That’s a full day ahead of schedule.”

“I know, Major.”

“What’s their ETA at Changii?”

“Langley says the earliest would be about eighteen hundred tomorrow, local time.”

“How did they arrive at that?”

“Major?”

“Is Langley tracking them? Because if they are, we’re getting none of it.”

“You’re breaking up,” Rockman said.

Ritzik said, “If Langley’s tracking them, sir, we need the info out here now.”

There was static on the line. Then the secretary’s voice, sounding metallic, said, “I don’t think they are, Major.”

Ritzik found Rockman’s reply troubling. “Mr. Secretary?”