SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

The round knocked the light out of her hand, shattering the cylindrical metal case before she even heard the sound of the shot. Wei-Liu screamed and froze. Ritzik sacked her, knocking her flat. He dropped his body atop hers.

He waited for a second shot. When none came, he rolled off and pulled her to relative safety under the vehicle. There, shielded by the rear axle, Ritzik spoke roughly into his mike: “Put out those damn brushfires, Rowdy — do it now.”

He took Wei-Liu’s hand and examined it. “You’re okay,” he said. “You’re also very lucky.”

Wei-Liu nodded. “I know.”

“Look,” Ritzik continued. “I know how anxious you are to get to work. But we’re gonna move to a better location—”

She started to object. Ritzik cut her off. “No argument, no debate, Tracy. Just like Dr. Wirth once said, you don’t get a vote here. We operate at night. The terrorists and the Chinese have a harder time in the dark than we do. So we’ll go as far and as fast as we can until it’s light. We’ll hole up during the daylight hours. Once we’re secure, you can take all the time you want.”

West Executive Drive.

1430 Hours Local Time.

Robert Rockman waved offhandedly at the uniformed Secret Service officer as the heavy, wrought-iron southwest gates swung open, his limo bumped over the antiterrorist barriers, and the big, dark blue armored Cadillac eased up the wet macadam to the awning leading to the West Wing’s basement entrance. The vehicle pulled even with the white, brass-accented double French doors. Rockman waved off a blue-blazered, umbrella-toting factotum, opened his own door, tucked his leather document case under his right arm, and hustled straight into the building mindless of the sheeting rain.

The Marines saluted, then closed the doors silently behind him. The secretary paused in the foyer, extracted a crisp handkerchief from his left trouser pocket, and wiped raindrops from his gold-rimmed glasses. Rockman was concerned. Concerned, hell: he was damn worried. Ritzik’s Tactical Operations Center in Almaty had lost contact with the insertion element hours ago. They were on the ground all right — all the satellite images showed that much. And they’d ambushed the convoy — or at least most of it — and from the look of things, they’d rescued the hostages. But young Ritzik didn’t know about the Chinese. Didn’t know they were within a few hundred miles of his position … and closing.

Rockman stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket, put the glasses on, and looked up to find Monica Wirth standing in front of him.

“Mr. Secretary.”

His lined face brightened at the sight of her. “Madam National Security Adviser.” He liked this woman. She was strong. Forthright. She didn’t mince words. And she didn’t compromise her values either. Little wonder that the apparatchiks at State and her former colleagues at CIA — especially Nick Pappas — spent an inordinate amount of their time leaking unfavorable stories about her to the press. Christ, he wished the president would fire that son of a bitch Pappas and appoint her DCI. That would shake things up. Rockman looked at Wirth’s serious manner and said, “What’s this about?”

“The president’s waiting,” she answered vaguely. Abruptly, Wirth turned into the short corridor leading to the stairway. Rockman followed. They marched up the carpeted steps, turned left at the Roosevelt Room, then cut through a short hallway and walked down a narrow passageway that led past the chief of staff’s office suite. Just beyond, two Secret Service agents stood outside an unmarked door.

“Mr. Secretary, please… “ Wirth stood aside. Rockman twisted the knob, pushed the door open, and entered the president’s hideaway.

Pete Forrest looked up from his desk as Rockman entered the room. The president’s collar was open. Rockman saw the First Tie and Jacket tossed haphazardly across the back of the sofa. The secretary stopped three feet inside the windowless room. “Mr. President …”

“Rocky.” Forrest cracked the pinkie knuckle on his left hand. “Pull up a chair.”

Rockman waited until Monica Wirth leaned against the heavy door, shutting it. When he heard the bolt click, he crossed the antique Sarouk and settled into a straight-back chair facing the president’s desk.

The president put his elbows on the desk and pressed his fingertips together. “I had a telephone call from the president of the People’s Republic of China just forty-five minutes ago.”

“Oh?” Rockman’s eyebrows went up.

“That’s why I hustled you over here. President Wu advised me that elements of his armed forces will be taking what he referred to as, quote — firm steps — unquote, to deal with the Islamic separatists in Xinjiang Autonomous Region within twenty-four hours.”

“He’s going after the terrorists — the bomb,” Rockman said.

“Yes,” the president said. “And I think he’s going to try to deal with the Uighur separatists — decisively — before the summit.”

“They’ve been a thorn in his side for years,” Wirth said. Rockman stroked his chin. “It would be logical for Wu to act now.”