SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

0006. The ambushers could hear the tangos coming a long time before they actually saw them — even with the NV. The diesel trucks’ rumbling carried a long way in the still night air. Ritzik snorted. No need to worry about critters and shitters tonight, not with all that racket. He glanced skyward and was relieved to see opaque clouds moving from west to east. That was good, too. It cut back on the possibility of ambient light reflecting off the fire teams.

0008. The convoy was turning onto the bridge. Ritzik could listen as the drivers downshifted, transmissions whining, motors growling. And now he made out the lead vehicle — the 4x4—as it started across the bridge, moving herky-jerky, only its yellow running lights illuminated. Truck Number One followed six or seven yards behind — close enough so that he could pick up two human silhouettes behind its windshield. The other trucks followed closely, too. Ritzik bit his upper lip. It was textbook. Absofrigging textbook. He glanced to his right. He sensed Ty Weaver’s breathing modulate as the sniper zeroed in on his targets.

0008:24. Now the lead vehicle passed the rear infrared marker. The countdown was starting. There was a sudden, painful twinge in the lower part of Ritzik’s gut. This was normal: his customary physical reaction to the vacuum before action. All the planning, all the options, all the scenarios had been sucked out of him. He was dry.

0008:40. The second two 4x4s crossed the bridge. There was nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said, nothing more to be adjusted, fixed, fine-tuned.

0008:49. The number six truck pulled onto the bridge. Either the plan was going to work, or it wasn’t. But since wasn’t wasn’t an option, he would have to make it work. They would all have to make it work. This was when everything came down to FIDO. Fuck it—drive on.

0009. The first three trucks moved onto the causeway, followed by the two 4x4s. Ritzik could hear the suspensions creak as the vehicles came forward.

0009:38. The rear trio of trucks crossed the narrow bridge, passed the outer infrared marker, and crowded, pachydermlike, trunk to tail, onto the causeway. He pressed his transmit button. “I have control.” And as quickly as it had come over him, the butterflies, the uncertainties, the doubts all vanished.

Indeed, it was now, during these final instants before he attacked his target, that an extraordinary, ethereal calmness washed over Ritzik. “Execute in ten …” In the brief hiccup of time before Execute! Execute! he became one with all the other Warriors who ever lived. “Nine … “ One with Joshua, waiting to attack Jericho. “Eight … “ One with Odysseus, sitting silent with his Warriors in the huge, hollow wooden horse outside the walls of Troy. “Seven… “ One with Major Robert Roger and his green-clad Rangers in the French and Indian Wars. “Six …” One with Stonewall Jackson at Manassas. “Five …” One with the Second Ranger Battalion — the Boys of Pointe du Hoc — on D day. “Four …” One with Colonel Henry Mucci at Cabanatuan. “Three …” One with the First Division Marines at Chosin Reservoir. “Two — sniper shoot …” One with Captain Dick Meadows in Banana One, the lead chopper closing in on Son Tay prison camp. “One. One with Randy Shughart and Gary Gordon in the bloody streets of Mogadishu.

In his split second of oneness with history’s men o’ warsmen, Ritzik understood that tonight he would win, overcome, persevere, and ultimately prevail. “Execute! Execute!”

1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.

0009 Hours Local Time.

Minus four seconds. Ty Weaver’s brain scrolled the sniper’s mental checklist. Correct body position — check. Don’t cant the weapon — check. Good breathing. Rifle butt tight against shoulder with no straps or web gear in the way. Perfect spot weld. Consistent eye relief. Correct sight picture. Trigger control. Precise point of aim. Follow-up shots planned.

Minus two seconds. Weaver’s first shot slapped the truck driver’s head back against the rear window of the cab. The man was dead by the time he impacted the glass. The sniper swung the scope to the left. Damn—the tango riding shotgun had dropped out of sight. But there was no time to worry about it. Fighting adrenaline, concentrating on keeping his breathing even and his heartbeat steady and slow, he panned the long gun to the right, and found his third target: the driver of the number two truck.

Minus two seconds. Rowdy Yates moved the safety bail on his claymore firing device from the safe to the armed position. The third truck — the one with the prisoners and the device — was almost clear of the mines’ conical killing zone.