SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Ritzik noted that the digital readout was two hours later than the watch on his own wrist. He cursed silently because he hadn’t remembered the detail. “Thank you, Shingis. Okay — your normal route overflies Kuqa and Korla, then north to Yanqi and into Ürümqi, right?”

The pilot’s attention was momentarily diverted by someone speaking on his headset. He raised an index finger and Ritzik halted.

Finally, Altynbayev spoke. “I am sorry. That was Almaty control talking to another flight. I wanted to listen.”

“It’s okay.” Ritzik tapped the map. “So far everything is normal. But right here—” Ritzik retrieved a marking pen from his sleeve and put a dot on the map. “Right here, you turn southwest.”

“Yes?”

“Ürümqi control will want to know what’s happening.”

“Of course.”

“Let them try to contact you once or twice before you respond. Then, you declare an emergency. Tell ‘em you can’t make Ürümqi. You have to divert and take an alternate route back to Almaty.” He paused. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Altynbayev said. “That can be done.”

Ritzik put a second black spot on the map. “From here, you give me every bit of speed you can muster, for sixteen minutes, bitching all the time to Ürümqi that the plane is unmanageable — lost pressure, engine-oil leak, hydraulic failure — whatever you can get away with. After twelve minutes, we should be … here, right?” Ritzik put another dot on the map.

The pilot thought about it for a few seconds. “Yes, more or less.”

“I hope it’s more rather than less.” “So do I, Major.”

“You’ll drop to twenty-seven thousand feet. We’ll open the door and depressurize. After we do, you’ll swing due east, along the mountain ridge, drop airspeed to two hundred and twenty knots, and maintain a constant twenty-seven thousand feet for ninety seconds.”

The pilot pulled his mask off. “The airspeed is cutting the cloth close a little bit, Major.”

“I know. But you can do it.”

Altynbayev bit his lower lip while he performed a mental calculation. “I think I can.” He looked at the chart. “Ninety seconds at two hundred twenty-five knots would put us about here.” He tapped the paper.

“Right on the money,” Ritzik said. “As soon as you make the turn east, you’ll switch off all the interior lights so we don’t give ourselves away.”

“I will do it.”

“You signal when you’re right on target — flash all the exit and seat-belt lights — and we’ll exit the aircraft.” Ritzik examined Altynbayev’s face, but the pilot remained impassive.

“It should take less than a minute and a half. Then Talgat will close you up. You’ll swing back north, haul ass, and hope the Chinese don’t scramble fighters and shoot you down before you cross the border.”

“That will not happen,” Shingis said.

“Why?”

The pilot pulled the map onto his armrest. “There are small airports at Aksu and Kashgar,” he said, pointing to the chart. “But the closest fighter aircraft is Yining. It is too far north to intercept us when we go off course. And besides, the planes at Yining are not on standby since the end of the Soviet Union, so they will not be scrambled because it would take too long.”

“How do you know, Shingis?”

Altynbayev reached into his pilot’s briefcase and displayed a pair of binoculars. “Because Ürümqi control allows us to fly routes that used to be forbidden — and we can see that the planes are not ready.”

Ritzik listened — and marveled. The CIA’s budget was well into the scores of billions. Shingis Altynbayev made perhaps $20,000 a year as a pilot for Air Kazakhstan. But his intelligence was more current than Langley’s. And it didn’t rely on statistical models either, but old-fashioned, eyes-on reconnaissance.

“I hope you’re right,” Ritzik said. He reached over Altynbayev’s shoulder and pointed to the dot he’d made on the map where he wanted the pilot to change course. “How long until we get to this point, Shingis?”

The Kazakh returned the binoculars to his case. He sat back in the heavy chair, scratched his cheek, and checked his instruments. “Twenty-one minutes,” he said. Altynbayev slipped the O₂ mask back over his nose, secured the strap, and placed both hands on the wheel. “Twenty-one minutes.”

31,500 Feet Above Wushi, China. 1808 Hours Kazakhstan Time.

The plane banked sharply to the right. The sequence had begun.

Ritzik slapped Rowdy Yates on the arm, and the sergeant major hand-signaled Doc Masland and Curtis Hansen to wrestle the length of half conduit down the aisle. When they’d set it on the floor by the rear bulkhead, they attached ten-foot lengths of webbed strap securely to their belts, then cinched the loose end of the straps around the rearmost pair of aisle seat belts.

Yates waited until the pair came forward as far as their leashes allowed and gave him “go” signals before his hands instructed the rest of the element to stand. Then he faced the right side of the aircraft and put his left hand on his left hip, paused, then extended the arm out at a forty-five-degree angle.