SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Everything had been thought of. An FMLN defector had given Bustillo up-to-the-minute intelligence about Comandante Calderon’s schedule. OPSEC had been achieved by keeping the entire SF company in isolation at Ilopango for the previous forty-eight hours. The local army commander was not informed that the unit would be in his area of operations. The pilot flying the platoon into San Vicente was a Cuban-American retired CIA veteran using the nom de guerre Maximo Gomez. “Gomez” had volunteered his services to General Bustillo to help defeat the Communist insurgents. Gomez hovered his slick as the platoon dropped into the ambush zone in a matter of seconds. Then he quickly flew off to the north.

The Salvadoran Special Forces quickly deployed into their ambush positions and settled down to wait for the comandante and her six escorts. They hadn’t been in position more than fifteen minutes when the FMLN point man slowly worked his way down the trail. Ritzik watched through night-vision goggles as the guerrilla came closer. He was moving very slowly — one step in a minute or so — cautiously examining the trail as he went.

Like a bird dog catching a scent, the guerrilla stopped cold, fifty yards from the ambush site. He didn’t move a muscle. He stood, statuelike, for two minutes. Ritzik watched transfixed as the man’s nostrils actually twitched, his eyes darting as he scanned left, right, and ahead.

And then, the point man slowly, slowly, slowly … backed away. The Special Forces platoon leader, a Salvadoran captain named Lopez, sent his men charging after the guerrillas. But to no avail: the trap had been discovered. Nidia Calderon escaped. And no one could figure out why.

It wasn’t until months later, while talking to a Vietnam-vet master sergeant at Fort Benning, that Ritzik finally understood why the mission had gone south.

The sergeant asked a single question. “How long before the ambush did you set up, sir?”

“A quarter of an hour, Master Sergeant,” Ritzik answered.

“That was it, sir.”

“What was?”

“The platoon leader’s timing, sir. We learned in Vietnam that you gotta set up at least an hour in front of any ambush — longer is better — because it takes that long for the critters and shitters to get back to normal. Think back, sir. Were the birds chirping? Were the bugs buzzing? Were the tree monkeys whoopin’ it up on that trail?”

Ritzik thought long and hard about it. And the answer was no. “But why was the point man’s nose twitching?” he asked. “What was that all about?”

“That, Lieutenant”—the master sergeant’s eyes crinkled—“is a real-life example of the sociocultural aspect of warfare that very few people ever come to appreciate.”

Ritzik was entirely confused, and he said so.

“Think back, Lieutenant. Think hard. What exactly did you smell when you were laying up in that ambush position?”

Ritzik thought for some seconds. “Earth,” he finally said. “A kind of vegetal, rootsy, jungle smell.”

“And that was all.”

“Yup.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant, I am sure. Absolutely certain.”

“Then let’s go back a little further, sir. Back to when you departed Ilopango. Take me through it.”

Ritzik described the sequence. He’d taken his gear and walked to the Op Center, where he’d pored over the map with the platoon leader, double-checking the best insertion and exfil routes.

And then it hit him. Like the proverbial ton of bricks. “Oh, goddamn,” he said, his face lighting up. “That was it.”

“What do you remember, Lieutenant?”

“He was wearing cologne. Lopez — the Special Forces captain. It was sweet, and he wore a lot of it. Most all the Salvadoran officers wore cologne.”

He turned to the master sergeant. “That was it, wasn’t it? The point man smelled Captain Lopez’s aftershave.”

“Lieutenant, if you learn two simple lessons about ambushes, you’re never gonna get caught with your skivvies down. One: give the critters plenty of time to get back to normal before the opposition shows up. And two: leave the Skin Bracer at home.”

7,000 Feet Above Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China. 2146 Hours Local Time.

Ritzik’s ETA was less than twelve minutes. He and Wei-Liu had pulled off their oxygen masks at 8,500 feet, reveling in the cool night air. Then Ritzik replaced the internal communications hookup with an earpiece and throat mike and ran a quick comms check with the rest of the unit. He was astonished to find the radios were all working properly.

The tailwind had picked up. It was strong enough now — eighteen miles an hour — that the team’s landing would have to include a downwind leg, base leg, and final approach. He checked his altimeter and took a reading off the GPS screen. They were right on course, and descending steadily. At one thousand feet of altitude, he would execute the landing pattern. The rest of the element would come in behind him, each offset and well separated from the others so that the turbulence from their parachutes wouldn’t affect one another’s landings.