SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

“No, sir, I do not.” Yates spat into his cup. “But having two less jumpers creates its own set of problems.”

“I know, I know.” Ritzik’s mind was racing. The situation was already edge-of-the-envelope dangerous. Offset HAHO jumps — high-altitude, high-opening operations in which the aircraft does not overfly the drop zone — were incredibly risky maneuvers. At altitudes above twenty-five thousand feet, ice can actually form on the parachute canopy, affecting its performance and response. Weather data is essential — the wind’s direction and velocity are critical in determining the infiltration route.

In training, every element of a HAHO jump was broken down and double-checked. Safety was paramount. And even when all the bases were covered, jumpers still died. Twenty-seven thousand five hundred feet was almost six miles up. The temperature was well below freezing. The air was thin. Hypoxia — lack of oxygen — could cause a jumper to become careless, or even pass out. The “stick” could leave the aircraft imprecisely and the jumpers could get tangled up. Chutes might foul, reserves misdeploy. Communications could go bad. Wind shears, crosscurrents, and thermals might scatter the jumpers over a hundred square miles, or run them into the ground at forty miles an hour. And that was under optimum conditions: well-supervised jumps in clear, mild weather, with red or purple smoke grenades to indicate wind direction, and safety officers to scrub the jump if the ground wind speed exceeded eighteen knots.

Tonight, they’d be jumping blind.

Intelligence was virtually nonexistent. Ritzik still had no idea whether or not fighter aircraft were capable of intercepting the Yak from the three air bases in his target area because the CIA hadn’t told him what the Chinese tactical capabilities were. He was unsure about the current location of the PLA’s Special Operations troops. Worse, he had no idea how big a force General Zhou Yi was bringing.

Then there were the physical hurdles. Wind currents and speed: uncertain. Obstacles: unidentified. Amount and origin of potential air turbulence: unknown. LZ: hostile. Friendlies on the ground: none. Charlie Foxtrot potential: very high.

Finally, there were the immutable laws of physics to contend with. The maximum sustainable load for a Ram Air parachute is 360 pounds. If a chute is subjected to excess weight, the cells can stress and the canopy may begin to disintegrate. So, every round of ammunition, every piece of equipment has to be tallied: the chute, the reserve, and all the accompanying web gear; the weapons and ammunition; the combat pack; the body armor, load-bearing vest, and two canteens of water; the uniform; the cold-weather gear; the helmet, oxygen mask, and boots; the O₂ bottles, hoses, and regulator, as well as the GPS navigation, night-vision, chest-pack computers, and communications equipment. All of it, when combined with the jumper’s weight, couldn’t total more than 360 pounds.

The loss of two jumpers meant less total weight on the ground. The part of the equation that bothered Ritzik most was that they’d be carrying fewer rounds of ammunition and a reduced amount of ordnance. Which weakened one-third of the SpecWar trinity. Any degradation of firepower would result in diminished violence of action, which in turn would shrink Ritzik’s chances of success.

It was time to recalibrate.

1447. Ritzik, Bill Sandman, and Ty Weaver were gathered in a knot, staring at the streaming satellite video of the convoy. Rowdy Yates joined them and poked his finger at the screen. “See how they’re stopped?”

He squinted over the top of the magnifiers perched on his nose. “The third truck — number 4866—that’s the one with the prisoners and the device. Look how they’ve got it surrounded.” His finger tapped the plastic screen surface. “Three tangos with weapons on each side. And the driver — he’s standing just ahead of the cab; his weapon’s pointed down, but the sumbitch has his hands on it. And they’ve got another five people at the rear.”

Ty Weaver looked at the column of vehicles. There were six heavy trucks and three boxy SUVs. He tapped the image of the Toyota 4x4 that was parked fifty yards out in front of the ragged column. “That Toyota’s consistently been the point vehicle since the satpix started coming in. The big enchilada’s riding in it, too.”

Sandman stared at the tiny figures on the screen. “Which one is he?”

Weaver’s finger found a small figure pacing between the second and third trucks. “From the way he’s moving I think he’s making a phone call.”

“Bullshit.” Rowdy Yates laughed. “How the hell can you tell he’s making a call by how he moves?”

“Don’t believe him,” Sandman said. “We saw the asshole take a phone out of his pocket and punch a number into the keypad.”

“Get the number, too, did you, Bill?” “It was a 1-900 sex line, Sergeant Major. Same one you always call.”

Yates spat into his cup. “Bite me, First Sergeant Sandman.”