SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

“I see where you’re going,” Wirth said. “He can move against the terrorists who have the bomb, using the Special Operations force in Kashgar.”

Rockman said, “Precisely.”

“Mr. Secretary, if the Delta people head south, and cross into Tajikistan, they’re less likely to run into large numbers of PLA troops.”

“That’s true, I guess,” Rockman said.

“Any developments?”

“Good and bad, Mr. President.”

“Give me the good news first.”

“The ruse seems to have worked. The plane Ritzik used for his infiltration returned to Almaty safely. I had DIA monitor Chinese air control. No ripples there.”

“Good. Now, what’s the downside?”

Rockman bit his lip. “Ritzik’s communications aren’t working properly. I’m in touch with Almaty, but Delta’s Tactical Operations Center there hasn’t been able to reach Ritzik’s element in four, almost five hours. Not since they left the aircraft.”

Pete Forrest’s eyes went hard. “Fix it, Rocky,” he said. “Those people have to know what they’re up against. We have to get them out safely.”

“I’ll do everything I can, Mr. President. I’ll—” Rockman jumped, startled, as the cell phone in his pocket chirped loudly. He saw the look of shock on Forrest’s face. “It’s Katherine, Mr. President,” Rockman said, his face flushing in embarrassment. “She’s in Bloomfield Hills with our youngest daughter — it’s Samantha’s first child, and Katherine …”

“Been there, done that, Rocky,” Pete Forrest said, breaking into a gentle smile. “Take the call.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Rockman flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear. “Katherine — I’m in the middle of something, so please, dear, make this quick.”

20

49 Kilometers Southwest of Yarkant Köl.

0237 Hours Local Time.

Aitzik was nervous. He hated being out in the open. He felt vulnerable. Naked. Unprotected. He wanted high ground. They’d driven along the smugglers’ track for five or six kliks, heading almost due west. But then Ritzik had the two vehicles abruptly turn south, onto a washed-out streambed. Straight ahead lay Kashgar, the dusty Silk Road trading town. Which was probably crawling with PLA troops. Ritzik’s instincts told him to steer clear.

His GPS unit indicated foothills perhaps forty kilometers to the southwest. The topography would afford them some protection and cover. Once they’d gotten off the desert floor, he’d figure out what the hell he’d do next. He scanned the horizon through his night-vision goggles. His cheek throbbed. There were three of them crammed into the two bucket seats of the 4x4: Gene Shepard, who was driving, Sam the Spook in the middle, and Ritzik. Two other spooks — a kid named Kaz and another, who called himself X-Man — rode in the back with Doc Masland. The rest of the crew, and Wei-Liu, were in the truck with the MADM. Ritzik hoped they weren’t glowing yet.

Sam Phillips tapped Ritzik’s shoulder. “Can I have a look?”

“Sure.” Ritzik pulled the device off his forehead and handed it over.

The spook fitted the NV, focused, and peered through the dirty windshield. He whistled, impressed. “Great resolution.”

“State-of-the-art.”

Sam fiddled with the NV set. He said, “So, what’s the plan, Major?”

“I want to get clear of the desert floor. Once we’re in the foothills and the bomb is disabled, we’ll see which way is best.”

Sam said, “For what it’s worth, you might consider heading for Tajikistan.”

“I was told you’re familiar with the region.”

“I did two Central Asia tours. Almaty and Dushanbe.”

“How’d you like them?”

“Living conditions were kind of primitive, but business was great. I was one of the pioneers — arrived in Almaty about six months after they’d declared independence. It was like living in a frontier town.”

“Dodge City before Wyatt Earp.”

“A lot closer to Hole-in-the-Wall than Dodge.” Sam cracked a smile. “They called it dikiy-dikiy vostok in Russian. The Wild, Wild East.”

“I didn’t go until ninety-eight,” Ritzik said. “It was pretty tame by then. There was even a knockoff Mickey D’s about three blocks from Panfilov Park.”

“No kidding.”

“Burger Khut, they called it. The French fries tasted like they cooked them in motor oil.”

“They probably did,” Sam said. “In ninety-eight the army was selling its supplies to make money. Motor oil was probably a lot cheaper than cooking fat. So, what were you doing?”

“JCET program.” Ritzik saw Sam’s blank expression. “Joint Combined Exchange Training.”

Sam said, “You guys are big on acronyms, aren’t you? What does it mean in English?”

“Cross-training. Working with their Special Forces.”

“The Kazakhs needed training when I was in Almaty,” Sam said. “Big time. I saw them in action once — Chechen terrorists took half a dozen hostages in the lobby of the old Lenin Hotel. The Kazakhs tossed twenty or so grenades through the windows — started a hell of a fire. Burned the place down. All that was left was body parts.”