SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

“The major wants you outside with him in case there’s gunfire,” Rowdy insisted. He vaulted into the truck, followed by Doc Masland. The pair of them rummaged through the crates until they came up with four RPG launchers and two haversacks each holding four of the 85mm rocket-propelled grenades. Rowdy handed a launcher and one of the haversacks to Ty Weaver, who was standing below the truck bed. The sniper pulled the rockets from their pouches, screwed the RDX-explosive warheads and sustainer motors into the tail-finned booster-charge units, slipped one of the assembled rockets into the mouth of the launcher, and held on to the other.

“Get that set to Mickey D,” Rowdy said.

“Roger.”

The sergeant major threw another pair of launchers over his shoulder and dropped his legs over the transom. “Doc—” Rowdy handed the remaining two armed rockets and one launcher to Masland. Then he reached for the remaining launcher and the haversack of projectiles and jumped off the truck. He looked back. “Ma’am …”

Wei-Liu stared at Yates until his expression told her she’d better move. “It would be nice … “ She began to gather her tools.

“Ma’am,” he said, “leave ‘em right where they are. You’re wasting precious seconds.” He pointed through the truck cab. “The major’s straight up the hill — sixty, sixty-five yards.”

* * *

From just below the ridgeline, Ritzik pressed his transmit button. “Goose, Loner. Sit-rep.” “Nada.”

“What’s your position?”

“A klik and a half out, to your northeast.”

“Where the hell are they?”

Then Tuzz’s voice: “I have a visual. Loner, they’re coming from the south. Repeat, the south.”

“How many?”

“Two.” There was a pause. “HIPs, I think.”

Goose broke in. “Confirm two HIPs, Loner.”

Attack transports. That meant troops — HIPs could carry as many as twenty-four. Ritzik had war-gamed against HIPs in Israel, during joint exercises with Sayeret Matkal, the country’s lead counterterrorist army unit. The choppers were agile, despite their size and weight. The Israelis had great respect for the big, boxy Special Operations aircraft, too: during the 1973 October War, the Egyptians had used one hundred of them to insert commandos behind Israeli lines in Sinai. Anwar Sadat’s bold move had almost broken Israel’s life-or-death counterattack.

The whine of the twin turboshafts grew louder, sound slapping off the landscape. “Here.” Ty Weaver dropped the armed launcher and a second rocket into Mickey D’s arms. The pilot swung the launcher around to make sure he had clearance, propped himself up so the backblast wouldn’t do anybody any harm. Then he pulled scrub over himself.

The sniper dropped into a small revetment half a dozen yards from Ritzik. He uncapped the telescopic sight on the big HK, sighted through it, then dropped out of sight. Doc came up the ridge, rockets slung over his shoulder. He settled in fifteen yards from where Ty was concealed.

Wei-Liu followed — lagging behind.

“Tracy, get the hell up here now,” Ritzik yelled. “Jeezus H.”

She looked confused. She saw Mickey D, then finally spied Ritzik.

Who grabbed her by the arm roughly. “Get … down.”

She settled next to him, irate. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small container. “C’mere.”

Wei-Liu turned her face toward him. Before she knew what was happening, he’d daubed dark paste on her forehead, cheeks, and neck. She tried to pull away, but he held her firm.

“What the hell do you think—”

“Your skin reflects light,” he said matter-of-factly. He peered at her face and applied more of the greasy cream. “They can see exposed skin from above.” He smeared the backs of her hands and the exposed parts of her wrists. He turned her face left, then right, examining his work. Then he smudged more goop under her eyes and behind her ears.

She’d been self-conscious like this earlier. The forced intimacy of the parachute jump had made her uneasy. And yet there was something comforting about being close to Ritzik that had made Wei-Liu feel good; feel safe. And yet he was always distant; removed; disinterested. She’d never met anyone so intensely single-minded before.

Ritzik pointed toward a stunted conifer about ten yards away. The evergreen was partially obscured by a small rock outcropping. “See that tree? Get under it — squeeze as close to the trunk as you can. Then lie down — and stay down until I tell you otherwise.”

The echoes from the chopper’s big blades were more pronounced now — which meant they were getting close. He looked at Wei-Liu, his face dead serious. “Tracy…”

“Yes?”

“Do not move. Do not look up. Do not shift your position, or squirm.” His face was severe. “Got it?”

“Yes, I got it.” She was pissed at being told what to do. But his tone had conveyed the absolute gravity of the situation. She saluted. “Yes, sir, Major, sir.”

He thrust her toward the tree, oblivious to sarcasm. “Go.”