SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

The Uzbek fought back. Managed to put his fist in X-Man’s face. But the American held on.

Kaz shouted, ‘Tailgate, Sam. Get the knife!”

Sam saw it. Saw it. He launched himself. Grabbed the handle. Thought about using it on the Uzbek, but was afraid he’d kill X-Man.

He scrambled toward where X-Man and the guerrilla were still wrapped up.

Sam’s boot found the Uzbek’s rib cage. “Uhhhh!” Sam thought about Dick Campbell and took a second, more savage shot that caught the Uzbek in the head. The Uzbek thrashed wildly, bucking and screaming.

The gun. The gun. Sam saw the barrel poking out under the Uzbek’s rib cage. He forgot about the knife and dropped onto the truck bed, one fist smashing at the terrorist, his other hand probing, until he wrapped his fingers around the muzzle.

He pulled it out, reversed it. Sam screamed, “X–I got the gun. I got the gun.”

The Uzbek may not have understood Sam’s English, but he must have known what he was saying, because he kicked out wildly, knocking Sam away.

Then X-Man caught the Uzbek with a hammered fist to the face that stunned him. The American struggled free. “Clear,” the security man shouted, pulling his arm away and rolling to his left. “Sam,” he screamed.

Sam, kneeling, held the pistol in his right hand, frozen. The Uzbek rolled over, pulled himself to his knees. That was when Sam saw Dick Campbell fall backward onto the desert floor. Saw his dead eyes. He shoved the muzzle of the pistol at the guerrilla’s chest, shut his eyes, and pulled the trigger until the gun was empty. The noise was deafening. Something fell on him.

“Christ.” X-Man dragged Sam, who was still pulling the trigger, from under the corpse. The security man pried the revolver out of Sam’s hand.

Kaz screamed, “X—” The spook turned just in time to see the rear flap move again.

Then there was another explosion. X-Man yelled, “Holy shit!” as the MADM teetered. “Sam — get up here.” The three of them, now screaming, threw their weight against the nuke to keep it from falling.

Outside, there was more gunfire. And screams. And explosions, rocking the truck.

And then, as if the sounds were coming from some other universe, Sam suddenly realized the screaming he heard from outside was in English. Someone was shouting his real name. Somebody out there was calling, “Sam Phillips Sam Phillips.”

Sam screamed, “Everybody — shut up!” And then he shouted, “I’m Sam Phillips. I’m in here. In the truck.”

He heard his name called again. They all heard it.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “In the truck. We’re in the truck. Don’t shoot.”

And then the canvas flap was ripped aside. The tailgate dropped away with a rude metallic clang. Bright lights flooded the compartment.

Wide-eyed, blinded, Sam shouted, “Over here.”

A malevolent wraith — no, a nimble ninja with a blackened face and knit watch cap — vaulted over the transom, short automatic rifle in his gloved hands, muzzle sweeping the truck interior.

The ninja’s eyes found the pistol in Sam’s hands.

Sam let the gun drop. His hands went high.

A samurai — a huge, wild-eyed Warrior — came quickly behind, stubby automatic rifle slung across his chest.

“Who’s Sam?”

“Sam? I am.”

“Hiya, Sam I am.” The big ninja took Sam’s upper arm. “Let’s go, you guys — cavalry’s here.”

Sam held back. Twisted away from the samurai. “It,” he said, his freed arm pointing toward the cab.

“I know, I know. Let’s go. Let’s go, Sam I am — we’re not finished yet.” The big man wheeled. “Follow me — stay very close. Do not — repeat: do … not — go anywhere, do anything, unless I tell you to. We still got unfriendlies.”

He turned away and spoke into air. “Back door. Three live ones. Coming to you, Loner.” A pause. “Roger that.”

0012. Ritzik saw them drop out of the truck and advance up the causeway, Rowdy riding herd, shouting at the spooks to keep their heads down.

“Tuzz, Loner. Do you have anything on the 4x4 and Truck One?”

“Negatory, Loner — they be gone.”

Crap. Ritzik advanced. The quicker he got to them the faster he could get ‘em away from the firelight, back to the LUP and safety.

But not yet. This wasn’t over yet — not by a long shot. Ritzik’s AK was mounted in low ready. His eyes moved left-right-left, right-left-right, to help prevent tunnel vision. His breathing was self-consciously even — in/out, in/out — to fight hyperventilation.

 Threat—Ritzik saw motion from the left in his peripheral vision. His AK came up; the front sight swung around and held on center mass: teenage kid in turban and PLA tunic. Kid had a handgun. Muzzle rising in his direction.

Instinctively, Ritzik squeezed off a three-round burst that caught the target in the left side of the chest, spun him counterclockwise, and slammed him up against the fender of the 4x4. The weapon flew out of the kid’s hand, its hammer struck the concrete lip of the causeway, and the gun went off.