SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

“I asked Nick. The son of a bitch said there’s some sort of problem with cloud cover between Beijing and Taiyuan. He said his analysts are working off statistical models.”

“Jeezus.” Ritzik didn’t like that at all. The problem was basic: statistical model was a fancy way of saying “simulation.” Intelligence analysts liked statistical models because they were neat and easy to put together on the computer. But no matter what you called them, simulations were simulated, not real, events. They were simply educated guesses. More than that, statistical models didn’t take any part of the human element of operations into consideration. Nor did they factor in Mr. Murphy of Murphy’s Law fame.

Nor, for that matter, could a statistical model predict a ground commander’s reactions or leadership qualities or lack of them. Interpreting those issues required real-time intelligence. “What’s the worst-case scenario, Mr. Secretary?”

“Arrival at Changii in twenty-six hours — that would be about noon tomorrow local time.”

Which, Ritzik understood only too well, would give the Chinese six hours of daylight in which to go hunting. And those hours were precisely the same time frame Ritzik had planned to use to begin his exfil. Events had progressed well beyond the SNAFU range. They were now in the TARFU zone, where things are really messy.

“Mr. Secretary.”

“Major?”

“Any news about whether or not we’ll be vulnerable during the infiltration stage?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Are the Chinese capable of intercepting our launch aircraft?”

“Let me look at my notes.” There was a pause on the line. Then Rockman said, “Nick said there are three bases in the region with fighter aircraft.”

“Hell, Mr. Secretary, I can see that much on my imagery. I need to know whether or not they’re going to scramble when we break out of our scheduled flight plan.”

There was another pause. “Nick’s people can’t say one way or the other.”

“Can’t or won’t, sir?”

The irritation in Rockman’s voice was palpable. “Does it really make a difference, Major?”

There were five seconds of silence while Rockman waited for Ritzik to reply. When he didn’t, the secretary said, “You keep me posted, son.” Then the phone went dead.

11

20 Kilometers Northeast of Almaty, Kazakhstan.

1230 Hours Local Time.

Two of Ritzik’s rangers dressed in Kazakh Special Forces uniforms towed the big white Yak up to the warehouse. Umarov himself directed the tug to position the plane so the fuselage would block any view of what was being loaded. Then he waved the Rangers off with a flourish and a wink. As they cleared the aircraft, Doc Masland, Ty Weaver, Gene Shepard, and Rowdy Yates, all dressed in airport worker’s overalls, emerged from the warehouse to muscle an auxiliary power unit under the nose of the plane. Weaver uncoiled the thick rubber electrical cable and attached the business end to the power pod just fore of the plane’s nosewheel assembly.

Yates said, “Contact,” and hit the APU generator switch.

Masland and Weaver pushed a wheeled stairway up to the side of the aircraft. Shepard climbed the steel treads, opened the forward hatch, and disappeared inside. Fifteen seconds later, the plane’s interior lights came on.

Ritzik scampered up the stairway. “Shep — let’s get the shades drawn, and then you start removing seats and install the prebreathers.” He looked down the long, narrow single aisle. “I think two rows on each side will do it. You agree?”

The first sergeant squinted aft. “Should be enough. If not, I’ll pull a third.” He made his way rearward, racked the exit door lock to his left, and dropped the aft stairway, testing it after he heard it thwock onto the apron.

A welcome stream of cool air wafted through the stuffy aircraft. Shepard came forward. “Amazing how strange yet familiar this thing is,” he said. “Like one of those tofu entrées they say tastes just like chicken.”

“Chicken Kiev, maybe.” Ritzik tapped an overhead luggage bin. “The Yak-42’s a doppelgänger of the Boeing 727. It was built during the height of the Cold War when we weren’t selling planes to the Soviets. So one of their most senior aircraft designers — a guy named Alexander Yakovlev — managed to get his hands on a 727 for a few weeks. He reverse-engineered the design, and built his own version.”

“No shit.”

“No shit.” Ritzik heard noise forward. He watched as Talgat hulked through the doorway, blocking the light.

The Kazakh said, “The Yakovlev is a beautiful design, is it not?” He stood aside as Shepard eased past him, smiling.

“Just what the doctor ordered.” Ritzik settled onto an armrest. “When is Shingis due?”

“My cousin? I told him thirteen hundred.”

“Good.”

Umarov said, “So, Mike, what is the story?”

“I’m going to need you to crew the plane,” Ritzik said.

“Crew?”

“Shingis will fly. You’ll crew.”

“Just the two of us?”

Ritzik said, “Talgat, sometimes less is more.” The Kazakh scratched his head. “I do not understand. How can less be more?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Ritzik said. “It means I want to keep it in the family.”