SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

“That’s known as the ‘Egyptian Technique,’ “ Ritzik said. In November 1985, an EgyptAir flight from Athens to Cairo was hijacked by three Arabic-speaking gunmen and diverted to Malta. Two Israeli women hostages and three Americans were shot by the hijackers. Egyptian Special Forces then assaulted the plane by breaching the cargo hold with explosive charges. But the Egyptians botched the entry: in the ensuing explosion, fire, and gun battle the rescuers managed to kill all the terrorists, as well as fifty-nine of the seventy-two passengers.

“I’ll remember that,” Sam said. He handed the NV back to Ritzik. “You guys like Kazakhstan?”

“We love it,” Ritzik said. “Hell, they’ve been good to us. They’re a lot more pro-American than I expected.”

“Some are,” Sam said. “You ever run into a young officer named Umarov?”

“Talgat Umarov?”

“Yup.”

“He’s a colonel these days. Plugged in with the chief of staff. He’s my main contact,” Ritzik said. “We brought him to the U.S. for training — twice.” He looked at Sam. “Where on earth did you meet him?”

“Almaty. He was a lieutenant in ninety-three,” Sam said. “One of the new generation of officers — the ones interested in all things Western. I got to know him pretty well. Did he ever marry his girlfriend?” Sam fought for the name. “Kadisha.”

“They finally married — last year. Just had their first child.” Ritzik shook his head. “Small world.”

“She’s the president’s second cousin, y’know.”

“No shit.” Ritzik hadn’t known. Talgat had never told him.

“The connection should do wonders for his career.”

“He’s already doing pretty well on his own.”

“Maybe.” Sam grinned. “But I see a general’s stars in his future — and a Swiss bank account.”

Ritzik frowned. “Talgat’s not that kind.”

“No disrespect intended,” Sam said. “But believe me, friend, in this part of the world, they’re all that kind. Even the good guys.”

That sort of cold, jaded cynicism was typical for case officers. It was evidence of a degree of existential callousness that had always put Ritzik off. You never really knew where you stood with spooks. They were manipulative; role-players; control freaks.

In some ways, those traits were understandable. Their job, after all, was to play on vulnerabilities. To identify and recruit foreign national spies — traitors — to work on behalf of the United States. And so, a case officer’s life — his entire existence — was compartmentalized. Had to be. And out of self-preservation, they “cleared” very few outsiders for entry. So Ritzik chose not to gnaw that particular bone. He let things go silent for about a minute. Then he said, “Tajikistan, huh?”

“There are a series of old smugglers’ routes through the mountain passes,” Sam said. “Generally unpatrolled. I always had the impression the Chinese tacitly encouraged the smuggling because it brought certain consumer goods across the border.”

The case officer paused. “Of course, that was three years ago. Now they’ve got Islamic separatists to worry about. And after Afghanistan…”

“So you weren’t planning to use Tajikistan as your exfil.”

Sam shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Hell, Major, we had all the right documents. We were going to spend a night in Kashgar, buy souvenirs, and then drive straight across the Kazakh border like proper tourists.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“All we need is the right docs.”

Ritzik reached into his cargo pocket for the GPS. His hand settled around the cell phone he’d taken from Mr. Oblivious. He brandished it at Sam Phillips. “Maybe I should just call the embassy and ask for visas,” he said.

Sam said, “The IMU headman made cell-phone calls all the time. So maybe you should.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ritzik said. “Right. Sure.”

Sam said, “Why not try?”

Ritzik snorted. But then again, there was nothing to lose. Maybe he could get hold of the TOC — which was more than he could do on the radio. He pressed the phone’s on button. The readout was in Cyrillic. But it didn’t matter — all he needed was the keypad. The signal-strength indicator told him he’d be able to get out. “What’s the international code from here?”

“For where?”

“Almaty.”

Sam’s fingers drummed on the 4x4’s dashboard. “Zero-zero-one, and then seven, then three-two-seven-two.” “Gotcha.” Ritzik started pressing keys. And then he said, “Damn.” He stopped pressing keys, pressed the end button to cancel the call, and started over again.

He waited as the circuits completed. “It’s ringing,” he said. He pressed the phone tight against his ear. “Uh, no, sir, this isn’t Katherine. It’s Mike — Michael. Remember me?”

51 Kilometers Southwest of Yarkant Köl.

0242 Hours Local Time.