SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

There was no use trying to talk — there was far too much engine noise. Ritzik looked to see if there were any headsets in the cabin, but found none. So he tapped Gino’s body armor, pointed at the machine gun, and mimed firing it.

The first sergeant nodded in the affirmative. His big gloved hands opened the feed cover to make sure the heavy rounds had been seated in the tray correctly. He slapped the cover closed, dropped the operating handle downward, and pulled it to the rear, then eased it forward. He flipped the machine gun’s rear sight up, unstrapped the arm, sighted, flicked the safety downward, and squeezed the trigger, loosing a six-round burst earthward. Shepard stuck out his lower lip as if to say, Not bad, and gave Ritzik an upturned thumb.

Ty pulled the rifle out of its case. He crossed the cabin, unlatched the starboard-side door, and slid it aft, ramming it home and securing the safety strap.

Ritzik made his way forward, stuck his head through the flight-deck hatchway, and squeezed Mickey D’s shoulder. The pilot turned his head toward Ritzik. “We’re stable,” he shouted. “Gonna be okay.”

“Good.” Ritzik pointed through the windshield. “Follow the road,” he shouted. “You’ll see them soon — they’re about twelve miles behind us.”

“You got it.”

“But don’t get close. Stand off a few miles. I want to wait for the Chinese.” He leaned toward Sam. “Anything out of Kashgar?”

“Negatory.”

“Keep listening. I’m going to check the TOC.” He rapped the spook’s shoulder. “Headset?”

Mickey D jerked his head sideways. “Sam — it’s by my left leg.”

The spook reached over and fumbled next to the pilot’s calf and came up with one. Ritzik pulled the big muffs on over his radio headset to mask the engine noise. He slipped back into the cabin, pulled a troop seat down, and dropped into it. “TOC, Loner.”

“Lo … OC.”

Ritzik repeated the call sign. But all he got out of the frigging radio was static. He stood up, made his way aft, secured himself close to the open doorway, and tried once, twice, thrice again without result.

And then, after fifteen seconds of ominous, infuriating silence, Dodger’s voice blasted into his head. “Loner, TOC.”

Ritzik exhaled. He fumbled in his cargo pocket, brought the GPS unit out, switched it on, and read out the HIP’s coordinates. “Can you give me a position for the Chinese?”

He listened for a response from the TOC, then asked, “Speed?” Ritzik entered the information in his own unit, waited, then squinted at the small screen. “I get fifty-three minutes,” he said. “Please confirm.” Ritzik listened to the response. “Roger that.” Then he switched frequencies. “Rowdy, Loner. You have a fifty-three-minute countdown. Repeat: five-three-minute countdown. Please confirm.”

125 Kilometers East-Northeast of Tokhtamysh.

0829 Hours Local Time.

Wei-Liu was not having an easy time of it. And now, on top of everything, Rowdy’d just told her he had to move the damn device within the next couple of minutes and no, he couldn’t wait. Yet all she’d managed to do in just over a half hour was to disconnect the battery. And even that hadn’t been simple.

The four nuts were corroded by acid, moisture — who knew what. It had taken every bit of her strength to loosen them from the bolts. She wasn’t worried about sparks because her tools were nonmagnetic. And she’d had four of the Delta Soldiers elevate the weapon so she could slide the thin, three-foot-square antistatic pad from her kit bag under the bomb. But between the energy field and static charges generated by the chopper as it took off, the sorry condition of the batteries, and the huge amount of energy still stored in the capacitors — with no way to drain them in this outdoor environment — the situation was still far more volatile than she would have liked.

She was sweating, even though it was no more than fifty degrees. At least she wasn’t worried about radiation. The core of the device was adequately shielded. Oh, yeah, she’d ascertained that significant factoid immediately. But the Chinese Pentolite was unstable. Over the years it had turned a sickly grayish-greenish yellow, and because of the temperature fluctuations it was weepy with drops of nitroglycerine. She would have liked to pack all two hundred or so pounds of the explosive in ice.