SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

8

“Assalamu alaykim, my brother.” Talgat Umarov wrapped Mike Ritzik in a tight bear hug and kissed him thrice on the cheek, heedless that he was blocking the bottom of the Lufthansa stairway and unmindful of the scant dozen disembarking passengers and the knot of ground personnel waiting to service the aircraft.

“Assalamu alaykim, Talgat.” Ritzik replied, happy to be breathing the cool, jet-fuel-tinged air after the nine-hour flight. “It’s great to see you again.”

“No — the pleasure is mine, I assure you.” The Kazakh officer beamed.

Ritzik stepped aside. “Allow me to introduce Miss Tracy Wei-Liu. Miss Wei-Liu is traveling with me.”

Umarov cocked his head at Ritzik’s obscure introduction. Then he bent slightly at the waist, pressed Wei-Liu’s right hand between his own two hands, and pumped it once, up and down, formally. “Assalamu alaykim, honorable Miss Wei-Liu. I welcome you to Almaty in the name of Kazakhstan Republikasy.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

The back of Umarov’s palm slapped air. “It is nothing.” He was an uncommonly big man for a Kazakh, barrel-chested, round-faced, and sloe-eyed, with a wispy, drooping mustache, an obvious direct descendant of Genghis Khan’s Mongol warriors. He towered over the two Americans in his starched Russian camouflage fatigues, scuffed jump boots, and pistol belt and Tokarev in its flapped holster.

Umarov snatched Wei-Liu’s carry-on out of her grasp and tucked it securely under his arm. “You have your baggage receipts?” he asked her.

“I do.” Wei-Liu pulled a ticket folder from her handbag.

Umarov took the document, turned, handed it off to a jug-eared teenager of a soldier, and machine-gunned five seconds of rapid-fire Kazakh. “Taken care of,” he said. “Now you will follow me, my friends.” Without waiting for a reply, the Kazakh led the way across the floodlit apron toward a squat, dented olive-drab 4x4 with Cyrillic military markings.

Wei-Liu followed self-consciously, thinking she probably looked like some tourist. Which she wasn’t. In fact, she was a veteran. She’d been a member of more than a dozen U.S. delegations. She’d visited Moscow and Beijing, Paris, London, and Brussels in her capacity as a top-ranking American nuclear nonproliferation official. Before that, as a senior fellow at the RAND Corporation, she had attended more than two dozen scientific conferences in places as varied as Budapest, Kiev, Oslo, and Tel Aviv. In the winter of 1998, as a consultant to CBS’s 60 Minutes II news magazine, she’d been the first American scientist allowed inside Krasnoyarsk-26, the former Soviet Union’s gargantuan secret underground nuclear city. There, buried deep beneath central Siberia, Moscow had, from 1950 on, manufactured tons of weapons-grade plutonium.

But from her undergraduate days at Princeton to her graduate work at MIT, her tenure at the Lawrence Livermore laboratory, RAND, and even DOE, all of Wei-Liu’s work had been … abstract. Until now.

That was the difference. Until twenty-six hours ago, she’d always lived in an academic universe, examining galaxies of conjecturals, theoreticals, and hypotheticals. But twenty-six hours ago, she’d been dropped into a frightening parallel universe, where all the what-ifs became jarringly, terrifyingly, real. People would die. She might, too. She’d always been able to deal intellectually with the consequences of thermonuclear war because the scenarios were abstract and the numbers surreal. She could calculate radiation exposure and ground-blast effects coolly on a spreadsheet because that’s what they were: numbers on a spreadsheet.

This was different. She was about to experience warfare on an intensely personal basis, and she wondered whether or not she could handle it, and how it would affect the rest of her life. She was already experiencing the consequences. Time, suddenly, had become a blur. Memory had become selective. Wei-Liu had gotten drunk — once — as a teenager. Over the past twenty-six hours she felt as if she’d experienced many of the same symptoms. She didn’t remember being driven to her home so she could pack a few items. But Talgat Umarov had her baggage-claim check, so she must have packed. She didn’t remember being photographed for a new passport, either. But there it was, in her purse, with visas for Germany, Turkey, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan stamped in it.

She’d sat on the flight to Frankfurt in a stupor. She had hardly spoken to Ritzik. Well, there was a reason for that: he was remote, withdrawn, distant. Zoning, she’d felt, in his own thoughts. She was uneasy with him, too, and had trouble making small talk. It didn’t help that he had been very specific that he wasn’t going to talk about his job, her job, the past few hours’ events, or their impending business in public. So, in the first few minutes of the flight she tried broaching one or two safe subjects, like the weather, and Washington’s perpetual gridlock, and the problems of traveling in the post-9/11 security milieu. But after a few seconds of inane monologue she lapsed into embarrassed silence in much the way she did on the infrequent but always uncomfortable blind dates well-meaning friends arranged for her.

In any case it hadn’t mattered: within half an hour after they’d departed Dulles, Ritzik was asleep. And he didn’t wake up until they were on the ground in Frankfurt. He’d pulled the same damn routine on their flight to Almaty, while she’d sat wide-awake, unable to get any rest.

It was, she thought, bizarre how crises brought disparate personalities together. No one in her household spoke Chinese. She’d grown up in Westwood, a fashionable, upperclass Los Angeles neighborhood that adjoined the UCLA campus. She’d gone to Catholic schools. Her father, Henry, was a third-generation American, a senior partner at Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher, & Flom, a huge downtown law firm, where he represented multinational corporations. Her mother, Sybil, was a Shaker Heights aristocrat with a Harvard Ph.D. who taught art history at Marymount College. Not a single one of Wei-Liu’s friends or classmates had entered the military. For young men and women of her upperclass background, it wasn’t seen as a viable option.

Ritzik was from a different planet — West Point. She had no idea how to read the man. He was bright — that was obvious — and attractive, in a compact sort of way. But who he was and what he did were totally foreign to her. Because, when you came right down to it, he killed people for a living. Equally astonishing, he spoke about his vocation without apology or euphemisms. Ritzik didn’t talk about “neutralizing,” or “getting rid of the bad guys,” or any other politically correct term. Back in the national security adviser’s office he’d said point-blank he was going to kill the terrorists — kill every one of them — in order to give her the opportunity to do her job and render the MADM safe.

Later, on the plane, watching him sleep, she realized that what had shocked her most was that she’d found his bluntness reassuring.

“We will wait for the others on the military side of the field.” Talgat Umarov’s thick accent interrupted Wei-Liu’s thoughts. The Kazakh said, “I have shashlik and fresh cucumber for you and good hot sweet tea that will drain the pain of your long trip away.”

“Frankly,” Ritzik said, “before you feed us, Talgat, I figure Miss Wei-Liu would like to freshen up a bit. I know I’d like to get out of these clothes.” He fingered his blue suit and wrinkled shirt as if they were contaminated. “I’ve been in them for two days now and I’m beginning to get pretty ripe.”

The Kazakh’s face fell as he turned to Wei-Liu. “I am apologetic for my behavior, Miss Wei-Liu. You have been traveling long and hard. I am pleased to offer you my meager hospitality.”

“I am sure it is anything but meager, Colonel,” Wei-Liu said.

“This Miss Wei-Liu is a seasoned diplomat, I see.” The Kazakh roared with laughter. “So she must work for your State Department.” When he did not receive a direct answer, he punched Ritzik’s upper arm hard enough to make it numb. “No matter. We have uniforms that will suit you — and even hot water, too. You will look good as a Kazakh officer, my brother. Maybe it will fit so well, you will decide to stay, God willing.”

“Are you asking me to defect, Talgat?”

“There is always that hope, God willing.” The Kazakh laughed. “My brother-in-law has a cousin who has an unmarried sister-in-law who is a beautiful gem of a woman. I have seen her and can vouch for it. She would bear you many sons, Michael. You would make a good life here.”

Ritzik’s face flushed. “I am grateful for the offer,” he said. “But I am married to my job.”

“As am I,” Umarov said. “As are all soldiers. Still, if there is time perhaps we will pay my brother-in-law’s cousin’s sister-in-law’s parents a visit anyway.” Umarov opened the front passenger door of the vehicle and held it for Wei-Liu. “Marhamet—please, miss.”

Wei-Liu climbed in. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“It is nothing.” He slapped the door shut behind her, walked around the flat hood, and slid behind the wheel. He waited until Ritzik climbed in, then stepped on the starter button.

Ritzik said, “How’s the baby?” He glanced toward Wei-Liu. “Talgat and his wife, Kadisha, just had a son.”

“Congratulations. What’s his name?”

“Thank you. He is fine. His name is Aibek. And I hope that you will see him, God willing.”

“I do, too — if there’s time.”

“I understand.” The Kazakh twisted in his seat. “Rowdy Yates told me on the phone you will be just passing through, Mike.”

“Sort of.”

“If there is anything I can do…”

“Believe me, Talgat, I’ll let you know.”

“Rowdy said you will need a civilian aircraft to practice on.”

“A Yak-42. I do — it is critical. For a day or two.”

“Critical. So.” The Kazakh licked his lower lip. “Ah, yes — I understand now — to rehearse takedowns.” His tone turned eager. “Is there an incident? I have heard nothing, Mike. If there is an incident, I would like to be able to come and observe.”

“There’s no incident,” Ritzik said quickly. “Something else. It’s complicated.” He looked toward the glass front of the terminal building three hundred feet away. “Let’s drive, Talgat. I don’t want to be talking where anybody can see us.”

“I understand.” The Kazakh rubbed his palms together, put the vehicle in gear, popped the clutch, and sped off across the concrete apron and turned onto a taxiway running parallel to the long, single runway. “Security first — what you and Rowdy call SEC-OP.”

“OPSEC, Talgat.” Ritzik corrected. “OPSEC. Operational security.”

“OPSEC.” The Kazakh steered precariously off the taxiway, heading away from the terminal on rough concrete, until he pulled around the far side of a huge hangar, then came to a screeching stop in the dark space between two floodlit areas. “Now we cannot be seen or heard, Mike,” he said. He turned in his seat. “I gather you are traveling with this beautiful woman for a reason?”

Ritzik chose to ignore the question completely. “Talgat, Rowdy didn’t fill you in completely about our visit.”

The colonel’s face clouded over. “Ah?”

“He couldn’t, Talgat. He was on an open line.”

“OPSEC.” The Kazakh’s sunny expression returned. “I understand, Mike.”

“So here’s what’s going to happen: we’re bringing in a C-5—a big transporter — tonight, not the Hercules we’ve been using on our other visits. The plane will arrive at zero three fifty-five, two and a half hours before the first commercial flight departs; three hours before the first incoming flight. I’ll need the airport lights shut down between zero three-fifty and zero four forty-five, because we’ll be working under total blackout conditions. We’re bringing our own security force, because we’re going to have to cordon off that warehouse of yours.”

The Kazakh’s face darkened. “Mike, this is no drop-by visit. You are arriving in force. If the ministry had known about this…”

Ritzik’s hand fell onto Umarov’s shoulder. “I know we’re bending the rules, Talgat.”

“Bending the rules? You have shredded the rules.” Umarov shook free of the American’s hand. “I will have to inform the minister.”

“Talgat.” Ritzik’s voice was insistent. “You can’t.”

“I must.”

“Believe me, Talgat, this has been cleared at the highest level. But you can’t call the Defense Ministry.” Ritzik paused. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

The Kazakh turned. Eyes narrowed, he took Ritzik’s chin in his huge paw and manipulated the American’s face up, down, and sideways, looking deeply. “Mike—”

“This is no drill, Talgat. My president has spoken personally to your president about what is going on. My president has received your president’s promise of complete cooperation. And has promised another American aid package as a way of saying thanks. But it’s crucial that we maintain OPSEC — absolutely critical. People’s lives depend on it. Your defense minister is a good man — an honorable man. I know that. But you know as well as I do that the Ministry of Defense is a sieve. You yourself have said to me that just about every op you’ve ever advised the ministry about in advance has gone sour.”

Umarov frowned and said, “I cannot deny that.”

Ritzik read the Kazakh’s eyes and knew he’d broken through. “So, you know the ministry has been penetrated: by the Chinese, by the Russians, by al-Qaeda, and even by the IMU. I trust you, Talgat. I trust you to do the right thing. But I couldn’t put my people at risk by giving you the whole story until we were face-to-face.”

“But a C-5, Mike.”

“It is flying completely blacked out.”

“They can do that?”

“There are squadrons specially trained. It will be here for less than an hour.” Ritzik waited to see what effect his words were having. “I can promise you that what we’re here to do will not in any way infringe on Kazakh internal affairs, or affect Kazakhstan’s current relationship with the Russian Federation.”

“So the president knows.”

“Yes.”

“Does Moscow know what you are doing?” “That’s way above my pay grade, Talgat, but my guess would be no.”

The Kazakh nodded. “But what you just said — is that on your honor, Mike?”

Ritzik nodded. “On my honor, Talgat. On my life.”

Umarov bit his lips. “Less than an hour on the ground?”

Ritzik said, “Forty-five minutes.”

“And the Rangers?”

“At first light they can wear Kazakh anoraks over their uniforms, if you wish.”

Umarov nodded. “I do.” He exhaled deeply. “This is truly something big?”

“Yes.” Ritzik looked at the big Kazakh. “And I will need your help if I am going to be successful.”

“My help?”

“Your participation.”

The Kazakh’s eyes widened. “I can do more than observe?”

“Absolutely.” Ritzik was happy with the effect his words were having. “But first things first, Talgat. Will you black out the airport for me?”

Umarov fingered the end of his mustache. Finally, he said, “It will be done.”

“Good. Zero three-fifty to zero four forty-five. No runway lights. No taxiway lights. No apron floodlights.”

“Agreed.”

The Kazakh pulled a tin of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one on his watch crystal, and stuck it between his lips. “When this is all over, you and I will share a bottle and talk things over.”

Ritzik watched as the Kazakh lit the cigarette and exhaled pungent smoke through his nostrils. “Yes,” he said, “we will, Talgat, I promise.” Then he reached inside his soft briefcase and withdrew a small radio receiver. He switched the device on, then checked the signal-strength indicator. He pressed the transmit button. “Cocoa Flight, this is Urchin.”

There was a four-to five-second pause. Then a female voice answered, “Urchin, Cocoa Flight.”

“Confirm arrive-arrive.”

“Roger. Arrive-arrive zero three fifty-five SOL-Two confirmed.”

“Roger your message.” Ritzik paused. “Urchin out.” “Cocoa Flight out.”

“It’s done.” Ritzik clapped the Kazakh on the shoulder. “You’re going to be a busy man tonight.”

“More than I expected, my brother,” Umarov said. He stomped the accelerator and the 4x4 lurched forward.

“Whoa, Talgat,” Ritzik continued. “There are other things to discuss before we go anywhere.”

The Kazakh sighed and held the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. “Such as?”

“What about the aircraft? You told Rowdy it would be no problem.”

“It is not such an impossible problem as you would think. But it is still — how you say? — delicate.”

This demurral Ritzik understood. He’d seen it before. In Central Asia, just as in many other places in the world, it was considered impolite to say no directly. And so you told people what they wanted to hear. It wasn’t considered lying, simply being polite. The problem was, from Cairo to Bishkek, you seldom got the unvarnished truth when you asked for a sit-rep. Ritzik had learned from bitter experience in the region never to assume anything. He also understood that direct confrontation was not the way to get results.

And so he followed Umarov’s lead. “Delicate, Talgat? How so?”

“Kazakhstan Airlines has six Yak-42s,” Umarov said, twisting the end of his mustache. “Two are used on the Almaty-Ürümqi route during the high season — the rest of the year, only one. The others are on — how you say it? — haul shorts. To Kiev, to Astana, and Ashgabat. Normally, taking one Yak for two days would not be a problem. Shingis Altynbayev — he is my cousin, the pilot you met when we did the jump training last year — will pilot the aircraft, because he will take time off from his normal routes.”

“Where does he usually fly?”

“Ürümqi, Astana, and Ashgabat. But listen, my brother: when I asked after Rowdy spoke to me, Shingis checked — quietly, just as Rowdy asked — and then reported to me two of the Yaks are this week suddenly out of service, and the spare-parts inventory is very low. So the remaining planes are heavily scheduled. The chief mechanic says if he gets one of the out-of-service planes air ready there will be no spare-parts inventory.” The Kazakh paused. “I believe it is a question of money.”

“You do.”

“Shingis agrees. He believes that if some”—the Kazakh fought for the word—“accommodation could be found, it would all be easier. And would guarantee OPSEC, too.”

“OPSEC from the chief mechanic.”

“And his people,” Umarov said. “So, if there is some way to … you know…”

Ritzik didn’t waste any time dancing around the bribery issue. In fact, he’d anticipated it and brought a briefcase full of greenbacks. “You tell Shingis to pass the word to the chief mechanic that his spare parts will be covered — payment in American dollars — as well as his overtime and his people’s overtime,” Ritzik said quickly. “But I need the plane this afternoon, Talgat. Ready to go. Full tanks. No excuses.”

Umarov’s face displayed relief. “Then it can be done, God willing.”

Ritzik was relieved to discover it had only been a question of money. His initial fear had been that Talgat had promised something that couldn’t be delivered.

“Masele joq, my brother. No problem.”

“Good.” Ritzik slapped the Kazakh on the shoulder. “C’mon, Talgat — Miss Wei-Liu and I are both tired and hungry. You have to deal with the control tower. And I’d like to see how well this uniform of yours is going to fit me before my troops land.”

Even in shock, Sam Phillips always preferred to look at the bright side of things. So he counted his blessings. First, at least the three of them were together — and still alive. They were tied securely. But they weren’t gagged, and they’d discovered that if they kept their voices down, the guards in the cab of the truck wouldn’t squeeze through the small window and beat on them. They’d been fed and watered, too. Minimally, to be sure. But enough to keep them going for a while. That, too, was definitely a step in the right direction. X-Man had another piece of good news: the bad guys had missed the composite boot knife he kept in his sock, so they had a weapon. The bad news — there is always bad news along with the good news — was that they’d all probably glow in the dark for the rest of their fives. That was because Mustache Man had put them in the same truck he was using to transport the nuclear device.

Sam had never seen anything like it before. His written Chinese was practically nonexistent, and so he couldn’t decipher any of the markings on its crate, except for the big yellow-and-black decal on the outer container that was the international sign for danger—Radioactive Material But it didn’t take much imagination to figure out that it was some sort of bomb. It was much bigger and more complex than the suitcase nukes Sam had seen mock-ups of at Langley’s CTC — the huge and ever-expanding CounterTerrorist Center that took up much of the sixth floor these days.

The Agency’s suitcase bombs were full-size copies of Soviet weapons known as special atomic demolition devices, or SADMs. They had an explosive power of about half a kiloton. This was much bigger than a SADM. And potentially, therefore, a lot more powerful.

The question was what to do about it. For the immediate future, the answer was nothing. Sam had taken the Agency’s rudimentary three-day course in explosives. He could, for example, wire up a basic, Hizballah-style car bomb, or set a shaped charge where it would do a bridge or a highway overpass the most damage. But he’d never been taught anything about disabling suitcase nukes or rendering atomic devices harmless. X had gone one step further and taken longer, more intensive explosives instruction. But neither had any experience with nukes.

Even so, he had to formulate a plan to deal with the damned thing. There had to be a course of action — or a series of scenarios — that they could put into effect if the opportunity arose. And most important, he and his two colleagues had to escape.

The trucks were heading in a northwesterly direction, which convinced Sam his initial instincts had been correct. Mustache Man was still heading for one of the old smuggling routes into Tajikistan or Kazakhstan. But escape wouldn’t be easy. They also understood the clock was ticking — and time worked against them. Indeed, since Mustache Man had stolen a bomb, the Chinese would be coming after him.

X-Man’s guess was they’d send at least a battalion. “Guess how the U.S. would react if some Mexican guerrilla group hijacked a nuclear convoy in Texas. Tons of shit would have hit the fan is how. I’m surprised they haven’t smacked us by now.”

But the U.S. had NEST teams, Department of Energy search units equipped with sensitive nuclear sniffing devices that could locate radioactive material with relative ease. Maybe the Chinese lacked similar equipment. It was impossible to know.

Another factor that gave them hope was that the guerrillas hadn’t ever discovered the transponder sewn inside X-Man’s vest. If it was still working — which was uncertain given the beating he’d taken — their location could be pinpointed. Kaz thought Langley might send people after them. Sam insisted they couldn’t count on it. After all, he’d been told they’d be on their own. No — they’d have to deal with the situation themselves.

“The sooner we escape, the better,” Kaz said. “And frankly, the farther away we are from the damn bomb, the healthier it’s going to be for us.”

“You got that right,” Sam said. “Holy shit, if the Chinese catch up and Mustache Man decides to make a BPS—”

Kaz asked, “A BPS?”

“Yeah — a big political statement. If he does, we could all end up as cinders.”

“Don’t talk like an ash-hole,” Kaz said.

“Kaz is right,” X-Man said. “You’re being ash-enine.”

X-Man leaned over and crooked his neck in Sam’s direction. “You have anything to add to this abuse?”

Sam remained mute.

“What’s your problem — tongue-tied?” X-Man finally asked.

“No, but I think I’ve got a cinder block,” Sam finally deadpanned.

The laughter did them some good. But then Sam got serious. “Look,” he stage-whispered, “Kaz is right. We’d better come up with an escape plan. Mustache Man had no compunction about killing Dick. That means we’re all expendable to him. And then there’s the bomb. I don’t want to be anywhere in the neighborhood when the PLA hits these guys.” He paused. “Agreed?”

X-Man nodded. “I think we’re all on the same page, Sam.”

Sam thrust his chin in the nuke’s direction. “Well, since none of us are going to play with the bomb, we can devote all our time to working on E and E. And we’d better think of something in the next few hours.”

9

The most incredible aspect of it all, Tracy Wei-Liu thought, was how quiet the C-5 was. The plane was longer than a football field and almost seven stories high. And yet she’d never heard it until it was on the ground. And she never would have even seen it if she hadn’t been looking through the night-vision monocular Ritzik had given her.

Ritzik was pleased. The weather was perfect for a black op. It was overcast, with low clouds and a seventeen-hundred-foot ceiling. There was some minimal ambient light from the terminal building. But the runway and taxiway lighting and the orange sodium floodlights that illuminated the aprons and the tower had all been extinguished, plunging the airport into darkness. There’d been some complaining by the airport apparatchiki, but Talgat and a platoon of his Special Forces soldiers had smothered it within moments: “On the orders of the president …” They’d even blocked the phone lines.

She’d waited for the plane, standing between Ritzik and Umarov. The three of them peered blindly into the gloom, the dark warehouse at their backs. And then the radio in Ritzik’s hand had come to life: “Cocoa Flight. Signal arrive-arrive.” Then Ritzik handed her the night-vision device, pointed to the northwest, past the end of the runway farthest from the terminal, and said, “They’re a mile out.”

Wei-Liu put the monocular to her eye and swept the horizon. “Where?” She could see no aircraft.

“Wait.”

She peered intently through the monocular. She saw the end of the runway clearly. And the fence line beyond it, and then nothing but darkness. “I can’t see anything.”

“You will.”

Wei-Liu refocused the night-vision device and pressed her eye against the rubber lens cup. And then she saw it. She was mesmerized.

It was awesome. Huge. Silent. Menacing. A behemoth. And completely blacked out. It materialized out of the void and was on the ground, its huge tires scuffing the runway, before she’d even heard the whine of its engines. She lowered her arm and looked over at Ritzik. “How did they do that?”

Umarov said, “Give me the glass, please, miss.” Wei-Liu handed it to him. He squinted through the lens. “They know where to go, Mike?”

“Yes,” Ritzik said. “They have a photograph. And Rowdy’s in the cockpit.” He brandished a small pair of flashlights and twisted the caps to turn them on. “I’m the ground crew tonight.”

Wei-Liu said, “Your batteries are dead.”

“No — these are infrared. Look through the NV.”[14]

Wei-Liu took the monocular back from Umarov and stared at the ground. “Whoa — that’s bright.” Ritzik dropped the radio into the pocket of his ill-fitting Kazakh blouse and headed for the warehouse. “You guys wait here until they shut down and chock the wheels.”

0357. The only reason Wei-Liu saw anything at all was because she’d kept the monocular. She stood to the side, fascinated by the complexity of it all — and the ability of these people to work at breakneck speed in complete darkness, without any talking. That wasn’t her only surprise, either. Her vision of Special Operations — what there was of it — had been formed by the snippets she’d seen on television and in movies. So she’d expected to find a bunch of profanity-spouting, trigger-happy rogues pile out of the darkened C-5 aircraft, not the quiet, disciplined group of men who’d arrived just before four.

Even their equipment was different than she’d anticipated. She’d thought they’d all be in camouflage, carrying huge machine guns, wearing flak jackets, and strapped into harnesses dripping with grenades, like the photos of Special Forces teams she’d seen in Afghanistan.

She’d been partially correct. Certainly, the Rangers, who’d come through the troop doors, jumped off the plane, and set up a defense perimeter even before the engines had shut down, were dressed that way. They all had night-vision goggles attached to their helmets. They wore camouflage uniforms, flak jackets, and combat harnesses or load-bearing vests hung with equipment. The Rangers carried short carbines with electronic red-dot sights and sported side arms in thigh holsters. They wore dark knee and elbow pads over their uniforms, and Wei-Liu could make out black earpieces and small microphones under their Kevlar helmets, with wires running to the radios Velcro’d to their vests.

But the Delta people? Well, except for the Buck Rogers devices strapped to their foreheads, they looked like a senior-league rugby team. Their hair was longer. Some had mustaches — a couple even sported beards. And they all wore civilian clothes — jeans or khakis, polo shirts, anoraks, and running shoes — and almost every one of them carried a soft-sided briefcase that looked as if it held a laptop computer.

0402. One of Ritzik’s Delta people, a barrel-chested man with a shaved head and short, light-colored mustache wearing a black polo shirt and black cargo pants, dropped out of the forward port-side troop door and jogged over to where Wei-Liu stood with Umarov.

He flipped up his night-vision goggles, grabbed the big Kazakh, hugged him, and lifted him clean off the ground. “Assalamu alaykim, Colonel, it’s great to see you again.”

Umarov beamed. “And upon you, Rowdy, waghalaykim assalam.” He stepped back. “You look good — ready to fight.”

“So do you.”

Umarov wagged his index finger under the American’s nose. “But you didn’t tell me everything, did you?” Yates shrugged. “I couldn’t.”

Umarov shrugged, too. “It is all right,” he said. “I understand. OPSEC.”

The American bear-hugged him again. “We’ll make it right for you, Talgat. I promise.” Then he turned toward Wei-Liu. “Miss Wei-Liu?”

“Yes?”

“Please call me Rowdy. The major wants me to look after you. So, anything you want or need, just come and find me, and I’ll try to help you out.”

“Thank you.” She looked up at him and, flustered, blurted, “Major Ritzik always refers to you as his best shooter. So, where are your guns?”

“Pistol’s in my briefcase.” Rowdy tapped his padded black nylon attaché on its shoulder strap. He pointed toward the C-5’s cavernous fuselage. “We stow our long guns when we travel, ma’am,” he growled amiably. He turned, flipping the night-vision down over his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

0407. Wei-Liu watched as a pair of Rangers leaned an extension ladder against the side of the two-story warehouse. Then, long, bulky cases slung over their shoulders, they clambered up onto the roof. She saw them pass down a length of rope. Other Rangers carried a series of good-sized bundles of painted plywood from the plane. These were quickly pulled up onto the roof one after the other. Then four more Rangers carrying cases made the assent, and the half-dozen men quickly assembled what appeared to Wei-Liu to be three large, dark rectangular boxes. The rigid boxes, perhaps three and a half feet high, eight feet long, and four feet wide, were then set slightly back from the edge of the flat warehouse roof.

She broke off, found Rowdy, and pointed to the warehouse. “What’s going on, Sergeant?”

“They’re constructing sniper hides,” he explained.

“Huh?”

“What would you think if you were a tourist, or a business flier, and you happened to catch a glance at some building, say, at Washington Dulles Airport, and you saw a bunch of men in uniforms, with binoculars and big sniper rifles, lying on the roof scanning the area with their weapons and field glasses?”

“I’d probably be scared out of my wits,” she answered.

“Exactly. So now what do you see?”

Wei-Liu peered upward through the night-vision device. “My God, the boxes look just like air-conditioning units. They’ve even got exhaust fans on top.” She turned back to Yates. “And the snipers are inside.”

“Give yourself an A.” He paused, uncomfortable. “Look — Miss Wei-Liu, I’d love to talk, but I’ve got—”

“Things to do. I understand. But thanks for the info.” She turned back toward the aircraft. In just a few seconds, the entire back end of the humongous dark-painted fuselage had split into clamshell doors. Now the rear deck was dropping so as to form a ramp.

0410. Wei-Liu walked the hundred and fifty feet to the aircraft and peered inside. It was too dark to see anything. She brought the night-vision up. There, secured by straps to cargo hooks in the flooring, were a dozen pallets, their contents hidden beneath thick, black plastic sheeting.

A forklift, driven by a man wearing night-vision goggles, was backing rapidly toward her. “Make a hole. Make a hole—”

“Sorry!” Wei-Liu jumped off the edge of the ramp as the forklift and its speared pallet bounced onto the apron, wheeled sharply, and careened toward the warehouse. She retreated, embarrassed, not wanting to get in anyone’s way.

0419. Two four-man groups hefted a pair of generators out of the Galaxy’s forward troop door and lugged them to the side of the warehouse. There, the devices were fueled and fired up. From a black trunk, one of the Delta people pulled a pair of industrial-size surge protectors. He attached them to the generator outlets, then plugged light-colored junction boxes to the surge protectors. He pulled a dozen coiled electrical lines from the trunk, attached them to the junction boxes, and began to run them into the building. Thirty seconds later, a puddle of light seeped under the warehouse doors.

0426. Wei-Liu made her way back to the C-5 and peered inside the Galaxy’s cavernous fuselage. It was virtually empty. Night-vision to her eye, she made her way up the ramp and took a dozen tentative paces inside. The interior smelled of hydraulic fluid and jet fuel. Her back to the bulkhead, she watched as the flight crew, in their overalls and long gloves, stowed cargo straps and checked hose connections. Up by the forward troop door the sergeant called Rowdy, along with two others, was stacking bulky canvas carryalls on a lonely pallet. Wei-Liu walked forward and prodded a bag with her foot. “What are these?”

He looked up at her. She almost laughed because the night-vision goggles attached to his shaved head gave him a sort of alien-creature bug-eyed appearance.

“Our parachutes, ma’am.” Rowdy put two fingers to his mouth, turned toward the port-side doorway, and gave a shrill whistle. He slipped a cargo net over the pallet and secured it.

As he bent over, his polo shirt rode up and Wei-Liu saw the butt of a pistol protruding just above the thick leather belt of his cargo trousers.

Rowdy looked toward the rear ramp, frowning, and whistled again. “Goddammit.” He jerked his thumb toward the warehouse. “Doc, get Curtis and the effing forklift back, will you? They have to close this thing up in three minutes so they can get the hell outta Dodge.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

Wei-Liu blinked. It was the most dialogue she’d heard anyone speak since the C-5 arrived.

0429. Wei-Liu stood under the C-5’s massive wing looking up at the huge turbofan engines through her NV. Each one had to be almost thirty feet long. “Impressive, aren’t they?”

She turned toward the sound of the voice. A woman in a dark flight suit appeared out of the darkness. She wore a flight helmet with night-vision goggles attached, and she carried an infrared flashlight. Wei-Liu said, “Are you part of the crew?”

“I’m the pilot.” She thrust the flashlight into the thigh pocket of her flight suit and extended her right hand “Captain Jodi Wright.”

Wei-Liu took her hand and shook it. “Tracy Wei-Liu. You were on the radio with the major. ‘Cocoa Flight.’”

“Yup.”

“That was incredible, the way you brought this … thing in.”

“I didn’t believe my eyes the first time I saw somebody do it, either. But with practice …”

“A lot of practice, I’ll bet,” Wei-Liu said. “What are you doing now?”

“A walk-around,” Wright said. “Visual inspection. I gotta be out of here in eleven minutes and I don’t want anything falling off.”

Wei-Liu nodded. “I won’t keep you.” She offered her hand. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” The pilot smiled. “Good luck to you, too.”

0440. Holding her ears against the whine of the massive turbofans, Wei-Liu walked across the dark apron and pushed through the warehouse door. The curtain of brightness made her squint. Inside, lit by half a dozen generator-powered work lights, men were stringing cables that connected secure telephones, laptops, and servers. Others had opened the weapons cases and were checking over the short, wood-stocked carbines. Still others sat on the floor, scores of curved metal magazines in front of them, loading round after round of ammunition. One man was taking grenade bodies out of a small wood crate and screwing handles with pins and rings stuck through them into the baseball-sized explosives. A length of curved metal that resembled a half-column mold leaned incongruously against the wall behind the ammo loaders.

Ritzik was on his back, under a long folding table that held three large flat computer screens. A trio of video cables trailed behind him. Wei-Liu said, “Major?”

Ritzik looked up at her. “Hey.”

“I’m feeling useless. Isn’t there any way I can help?”

“You could grab some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

“Frankly, Major, I’m too wired to sleep.”

“Too bad for you.” He pulled himself off the floor. “I should introduce you.” He put two fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly. “Hey, people.”

The men stopped what they were doing and looked up. Ritzik said, “This is Deputy Assistant Secretary of Energy Wei-Liu, who’s volunteered to come with us.” He paused as Wei-Liu looked around the room self-consciously, then he started pointing people out. “You already know Sergeant Major Yates. That tall prematurely gray fella hiding behind him is Doc Masland — you can probably guess what he does by his name.”

Rowdy said, “Yeah — he gives second opinions.”

Masland tapped Yates on the shoulder. “You want a second opinion, Rowdy?”

“Sure.”

“Okay — you’re ugly.”

Ritzik barked, “Hey, can it for a couple of seconds, will you?” He continued moving counterclockwise. “The slightly built guy standing next to Doc — the one who thinks that’s a mustache on his upper lip — is Curtis Hansen. Next to him is Shep — Gene Shepard. The two people on the floor loading magazines — Ty Weaver, one of our snipers on the left; and Alex Guzman — we call him Goose — on the right.” Ritzik frowned momentarily when he spied a young, red-haired Soldier peeking over the top of a flight navigation chart. “The surfer hiding from me in the corner is Michael Dunne — Mickey D. He’s a chopper jockey from the SOAR. I think he’s lost.”

Dunne self-consciously wiggled his fingers in Wei-Liu’s direction and ducked behind his map.

Ritzik continued: “The squinty-eyed fella working on the computer over there, he’s William Sandman,” Ritzik paused. “Know what we call him?”

“Sand Man?”

“Close but no cigar, Miss Assistant Secretary,” Ritzik said. “We call him Bill.” His index finger kept moving. “That’s Roger Brian next to Bill — Roger the Dodger — and Todd Sweeney next to Brian. Todd’s our other sniperman, call sign Barber—”

“Like Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street?”

“You got it.” Ritzik peered at the far side of the warehouse. “Finally, back in the corner there, working on the explosives, are Joey Tuzzolino — the Tuzz — and Mark Owen, call sign Marko.” He paused. “Say hi, guys — and be nice. She outranks all of us put together.”

0444. “Okay,” Wei-Liu said, “I’ve been introduced. If you don’t mind, I’m going to do some homework.” Ritzik shrugged. “Be my guest.”

Wei-Liu slipped the canvas briefcase off her shoulder, unzipped it, extracted a sheaf of handwritten wiring diagrams, and flipped through them until she found the one she wanted. She paused, then looked up at Ritzik. “What’s going on in here?”

“We’re setting up a TOC — a tactical operations center.”

“Which is?”

He raised his voice to carry over the whine of the C-5’s engine, then decreased his intensity as the sound grew fainter. “Something like a command post. We’ll coordinate the mission from here. All the real-time intelligence — satellite imagery, signals intercepts, target intelligence, weather conditions, everything — will funnel into this building from the U.S. The crew manning the TOC will be in constant touch with Bragg, with Washington — and with us, too — all on a secure basis. They’ll pass us what we need as we need it.”

Wei-Liu peered at the racks of electronics. “This looks like one of my research labs, Major. But when you say ‘command post’ all I can think about is sandbags and crank telephones.”

“That was The Dirty Dozen.” Ritzik grinned. “Welcome to Net-Centric warfare[15] and the twenty-first century.”

“Touché.” She settled onto a crate and focused on her diagram. When she looked up some minutes later, he’d disappeared into the night.

0512. The satellite images were finally feeding in. Ritzik looked at the streaming infrared video of the IMU’s six trucks and three 4x4s as they made their way across the desert. On another screen, he saw overhead imagery of the single runway at the Changii military airfield, forty-five kilometers northwest of Ürümqi. The fact that there was no activity was reassuring. A third screen showed a two-hundred-square-mile picture of the Tarim Basin. The terrorist convoy, displayed as a flashing star, was right in the middle of the screen. Two other screens displayed weather patterns for the region.

Tracy Wei-Liu tapped Ritzik on the shoulder. “Pretty incredible stuff.”

“It’s helpful.”

“That seems like an understatement. How did anybody deal with warfare before this kind of information was available? It must have made things awfully difficult.”

Ritzik said, “It may have been harder in the old days, sure. But not impossible.”

As a cadet at West Point, Ritzik had read several studies of Ranger operations during World War II. The one that had stuck most deeply in his mind was Colonel Henry A. Mucci’s January 30, 1945, rescue of the Bataan Death March survivors from the Pangatian Japanese POW camp, five miles east of the Philippine city of Cabanatuan.

In 1944, Mucci was a thirty-three-year-old West Point graduate who, through force of character, motivation, training, and example, had transformed the 98^th Field Artillery Battalion, a moribund rear-echelon unit that had never seen any combat, into the Sixth Ranger Battalion, one of the finest fighting machines of World War II.

Short, muscular, and almost never pictured without a trademark pipe clenched in his teeth, Colonel Mucci had quickly become one of Ritzik’s heroes. He was, Ritzik soon discovered, one of those rare, instinctive Warriors who led from the front, like Arthur “Bull” Simon, who’d led the 1970 raid on the Son Tay prison camp in North Vietnam, or Jonathan Netanyahu, the hero — and the only IDF fatality — of the Israeli hostage rescue at Entebbe in 1976.

Whether in training or in battle, Mucci never asked his men to do anything he hadn’t done first. He trained his men the way they’d fight: twenty-mile forced marches at night; ten-mile runs in the mud and rain; two-hundred-and-fifty-yard swims with fifty-pound combat packs under live fire. Those who failed, or quit, were sent down — no exceptions. Mucci wanted no one who didn’t have the heart, the will, and the guts to overcome all obstacles.

And like officers in the very best unconventional units, Mucci didn’t stand on ceremony, either. He thought — and acted — outside the box. He’d once been faced with a serious discipline problem: one of his NCOs made highly disparaging public comments about him. Mucci sought the man out. In front of the Rangers, he tossed the sergeant an unsheathed bayonet and taunted the man to kill him if he felt so strongly. The sergeant took Mucci up on his challenge. It took Mucci mere seconds to disarm the malcontent — and win his total loyalty.

In combat, Mucci’s Sixth Rangers wore no insignia. In fact, he ordered his men not to recognize rank in the field. His reasoning was keep-it-simple-stupid battlefield logic: insignia made the NCOs and officers easier targets for Japanese snipers. “If you’re stupid enough to call me colonel, I’ll salute and call you general,” he reportedly once told one of his junior officers. “We’ll see which one of us the Japs shoot first.”

On January 27, 1945, Mucci was given the go-ahead to hit Pangatian. His mission: truck 120 enlisted men and eight officers seventy-five miles through Japanese-occupied territory to a town called Guimba. There, Mucci and his Rangers would link up with roughly 250 indigenous Philippine forces. The combined group would then work its way past villages and Japanese garrisons, ford the Talavera River, then work its way south, bypassing the large Japanese garrison at Cabu. The march would take them more than twenty miles behind enemy lines. Just southwest of Cabu, the Rangers would attack the Japanese camp and liberate the Americans (and any other prisoners they might find) before the Japanese could slaughter them. Then, with the help of fighter aircraft cover, they’d exfiltrate everyone to safety.

Mucci assembled his intelligence from sparse aerial photographs, as well as from local resistance fighters and reports from an American unit known as the Alamo Scouts. But it was sketchy at best — which hadn’t allowed the Rangers to practice their assault. And so, on-scene and behind enemy lines, Mucci made a tough call: he would delay the attack by one day in order to gather more intelligence and gauge the enemy’s strength.

That decision, Ritzik believed, proved to be the deciding factor. In the ensuing twenty-four hours, Mucci’s forces initiated multiple (and successful) reconnaissance missions of the camp and its guards. By January 29, Colonel Mucci had made detailed sketches of the Japanese compound, allowing the Rangers to rehearse their moves.

The attack on Pangatian was executed at dusk. Twenty-four hours later, Mucci had rescued 512 Bataan death-march survivors and evacuated them safely through hostile territory to the American lines. And while he and his Soldiers killed more than five hundred of the enemy, the operation cost him only two of his Rangers: Captain James C. Fisher, the Ranger doctor, and Corporal Roy Sweezy. More: he accomplished it all with nothing more than basic aerial photographs, good orienteering, and labor-intensive, eyes-on, sneak-and-peek ground reconnaissance — no GPS units; no satellites; no computer technology.

These days, a cow can hardly break wind anywhere in the world without a satellite, or a sensor, or a UAV analyzing the methane content. But there is a downside to this information avalanche: there is so much data coming in that timely analysis and distribution often becomes impossible. This results in the unfortunate situation known as garbage in, garbage in.

Ritzik first came to this judgment in Afghanistan. There were so many satellites, so many Predator and Global Hawk UAVs, so many U-2 and Aurora[16] stealth flights, and other SIGINT, TECHINT, PHOTINT, and ELINT vacuums sweeping up information, that the bosses back in Tampa were rendered incapable of making simple yes/no, or go/no-go decisions.

Very early on in the campaign, for example, one of the CIA’s Hellfire missile — carrying Predator UAVs actually spotted the Taliban leader, Mullah Omar, himself. But by the time this info-bit was filtered through the multiple management layers of CENTCOM’s captains, majors, lieutenant colonels, colonels, generals, and the all-important Judge Advocate General (JAG) legal cadre, it was too late to do anything about it. And so, Omar-baby escaped to fight another day.

It was, Ritzik therefore concluded, just as dangerous to be presented with too many options as too few. Both were limiting.

Ritzik knew that good intelligence, like a dependable weapon, was one of the better tools he had at his disposal. But it was just that: another tool. It wasn’t a crutch, or a panacea.

The essence of unconventional warfare would always boil down to one fundamental element: Warriordom, the deeply ingrained will and fierce determination of Soldiers to use the holy trinity of speed, surprise, and violence of action to prevail against great odds. Full stop. End of story.

And that’s the way it would play out in Xinjiang. If he and his people were able to overcome their initial vulnerabilities and achieve what the SpecWar historians called “relative superiority” over the larger guerrilla force, then in all likelihood they’d be able to complete the mission successfully. No sophisticated, complex op plans, either. Just basic, no-frills, straight-ahead, in-your-face Soldiering.

Warriordom was the heart of Ranger School, and the even tougher Delta Selection course. The weeks of physical and mental anguish were a crucible of pain in which SpecWarriors were forged. The hardship and the severe crescendo of challenges were deliberate. Their goal was to make the Soldier-candidates demonstrate to themselves that they could put out 200 percent more exertion, concentration, and tenacity than they ever thought they could.

Ritzik had entered Delta’s Selection with 159 other men. When it was over, a mere three were accepted into the Unit. The process, which was designed by Delta’s founder, Colonel Charlie Beckwith, and based closely on the British SAS Selection process, has not been altered since the very first volunteers showed up at Fort Bragg back in the late 1970s. Delta Selection proved conclusively to Ritzik that no physical or mental obstacle — not cold, or fatigue, or stress; not topography, or water, or even a determined and dedicated enemy — could ever keep him from completing, and prevailing, in his mission.

That fundamental truth about himself and the Soldiers he worked with was what kept Ritzik on track. He knew that to succeed, at some point he’d have to suck up the pain, overcome the crises, and Drive On, just the way he’d done during Selection, or Colonel Henry Mucci had done during the assault on Cabanatuan. And if Mr. Murphy showed up and the going got rough? Then he and his Soldiers would grit their teeth, say FIDO — Fuck It, Drive On — and grind it out. FIDO: surmount any physical obstacles in their way. FIDO: get close without being seen. FIDO: sneak and peek to ascertain the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. FIDO: attack with utter ferocity and kill as many of the enemy as they could. FIDO: disable the MADM and get the hell out with the American prisoners.

10

Robert Rockman pulled the heavy secure telephone across the top of the desk in his hideaway office and dialed a similar instrument on a desk at the Navy Command Center, a bustling warren of windowless, interconnected offices on the fourth floor’s D-ring. Once the phone rang with its unique monotone, he pushed the button that enabled the encryption and voice-distortion devices. And didn’t begin to speak until the red light on the phone receiver had turned green. When it did, Rockman barked, “This is Mr. Rogers at OSD.[17] Get me O’Neill.”

Captain Hugh O’Neill, USNA ‘86, was one of eight “sweat hogs,” or action officers, at the Command Center, working twelve-hour shifts to track naval movements and crises worldwide. At zero eight hundred, just over twelve hours ago, he’d been abruptly seconded to the secretary’s personal staff on a temporary additional duty, or TAD, assignment. At 0805 O’Neill had been ushered into the secretary’s hideaway, where he was presented with a file folder diagonally striped in orange, on top of which sat an SCI — sensitive compartmented information — secrecy form and a Parker ball pen with the seal of the secretary of defense engraved on its gold-plated cap.

The secretary said, “Sign the form, Captain. Then read the file. You can keep the pen.”

O’Neill didn’t have to be asked twice.

The compartment was called SKYHORSE-PUSHPIN. O’Neill’s assignment was to track the Chinese military’s reaction to a provocative wave of unscheduled American reconnaissance flights and naval ship movements, and report as necessary to the secretary. He was to work his network of fellow sweat hogs and his contacts in the other uniformed services and intelligence agencies to elicit information without advising his sources as to its ultimate destination. He would act with absolute discretion. He would write nothing down. And he would deliver his findings only after he had asked for and received the Skyhorse recognition signal from the secretary.

Rockman waited out a fifteen-second delay. Then he heard: “This is Captain O’Neill.”

“This is OSD — Mr. Rogers.”

O’Neill said: “Signal?”

Rockman said, “Skyhorse-Pushpin.” He paused. “What do we know, Hugo?”

“They’re pinging us, sir, no doubt about it.”

“Good.” That meant the Chinese had taken the bait. “What’s the evidence?”

“I’ll call you back from the SCBF in two minutes with that information, sir.” The NCC’s SCBF — the acronym stood for sensitive compartmented information facility — was a small, bug-proof room with a thick door and a cipher lock at the very end of the maze of Command Center offices.

Rockman replaced the receiver in its cradle and waited. Thirty seconds later the phone squalled once. He picked the receiver up and repeated both the encryption process and the code-word recognition signal. “Sit-rep, Hugo.”

“Naval Air confirms six close-quarters intercepts of our routine surveillance aircraft in the past eight hours. A message from COMPAC details two Chinese ELINT trawlers moving in the straits of Taiwan. My colleagues at DIA are reporting huge military message traffic surges. And Rear Admiral Taylor, our naval attaché in Beijing, has just been summoned to the Defense Ministry at ten hundred hours Beijing time — that’s about an hour from now, sir — to explain what the Chinese are calling our ‘highly provocative moves in Chinese territorial waters.’”

“I love it.” Rockman slapped his palms together then rubbed them. “Anything else?”

“The Air Force’s Command Center is tracking unanticipated PLA flights out of the Beijing and Guangzhou military districts.”

Rockman said, “Hmm.”

“Sir?”

“Any details?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. A flight of three HIP-H transport choppers and two HIND-D gunships flying cover moved out of Beijing early this morning.”

‘Transport choppers with gunship cover. Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

The hair on the back of Rockman’s head stood up. But he didn’t betray his concern. “You’re positive?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary. There was also a flight of eight J-7D Fishbed fighters that flew out of Guangzhou, heading south.”

Rockman kept his voice neutral. “Keep me posted if there are any further developments from the Navy. You might as well keep tracking the Air Force, too.” He made a quick note. “I’ll be here at least until midnight, Hugo — which means you will, too.”

Rockman slapped the receiver down without waiting for a response. He paused five seconds, then dialed a second number, repeating the encryption process before speaking. When he saw the green light, he said, “Nick — this is Rocky. Give me the latest on what the Chinese are up to — and don’t try to hand me a load of your usual smoke-and-mirrors political analysis or hand me any horse-puckey about what sensitive information you can and can’t talk to me about.”

Mike Ritzik was pissed. That was an understatement. Mike Ritzik was royally pissed. Royally pissed at Rowdy Yates because the sergeant major hadn’t filled him in. And even more royally pissed at himself because he hadn’t even noticed until he was introducing the men to Wei-Liu.

What had escaped his attention was the presence of a lanky, red-haired warrant officer named Michael Dunne. Dunne had no business being in Kazakhstan. He was the chopper pilot from Task Force 160 at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, whom Ritzik had selected to extract the Delta element from China. But Dunne’s mission had been scrubbed. Given the PLA’s involvement, there was no way Ritzik was going to use a helicopter to extract his people and the CIA officers. Odds were, the Chinese would provide their troops tactical air support. Against fighter aircraft, the slow-flying MH-60 would be a sitting duck. And yet Dunne was in Almaty. And it was Fred Yates who had brought him.

Ritzik finally found the time to pull Rowdy aside. “Rowdy, we gotta talk.” He’d learned a long time ago never to wire-brush a man in front of the troops.

The pair of them walked to the far end of the warehouse. When they were out of earshot, Ritzik jerked his thumb toward Dunne. “Why the hell is he here?”

“Who?”

“Goddammit, Rowdy—”

“Mickey D? He’s here because I want him here, Loner.”

Ritzik crossed his arms. “I scrubbed him, Sergeant Major,” he said, the use of Yates’s rank a sign of displeasure. “You agreed.”

Yates reached into the left thigh pocket of his cargo pants and withdrew a tin container of snuff. He took a pinch, stuffed it between his cheek and his lower jaw, wiped his fingers off on his trouser leg, then closed the container and replaced it. “That was how we left it, Major,” Rowdy said. “But, I got to thinking after your last call.”

“I love you like a brother, Rowdy, but you’re pissing me off.”

“Hear me out, boss. We train differently than most units. We cross-train, just like Special Forces. But we add a lot more esoteric specialties. We learn to pick locks and bypass alarm systems. We can hot-wire everything from cars to locomotives. I brought ten men — we have twelve with you and me, thirteen with the lady. Between us, there’s nothing we can’t do. You want to stage our exfil using a combine harvester? Shep can drive one — and he can also perform a minor operation, because he’s cross-trained with Doc Masland. And Doc’s not just a dicksmith, he’s a sniper, because he’s cross-trained with Ty Weaver. And Ty can handle just about any heavy machinery we come across.” Yates spat into the polystyrene cup in his right hand. “Are you receiving yet?”

“Not really.”

“So what happens if we need to steal a plane instead of a combine harvester, boss?” He spat again. “When I went up to Dam Neck last month, I found out there are four enlisted men at Dev Group who have pilots’ licenses. They told me they paid for their own training, by the way, because Navy SpecWar officers don’t believe enlisted men should be allowed to touch aircraft controls. That’s neither here nor there. What is, is that Sword Squadron currently doesn’t have a single pilot — officer or enlisted.”

“And you concluded we need one out here.”

“Frankly, yes,” Rowdy said. “We used to have half a dozen people with pilots’ licenses, and guys were always going to flight school in their spare time. That guy Dean Williams who retired last year was qualified to fly multi-engine jet aircraft. But lately we’ve been so busy no one’s had the time to take the courses, and no pilots have come through Selection.” Yates spat into his plastic cup. “Mickey D brought it up when I told him he was scrubbed. He’s got a pilot’s license. What if the shit hits the fan and we have to get out using an aircraft, Major? Bottom line is, the more I thought about what Mickey D said, the more it made sense.”

Ritzik said: “Does he have the quals?”

“I don’t know if he’d make it through Selection,” Yates said.

“Well …”

“That’s not the point. Doing this particular job is the point. Look — he’s a runner. He completed the Marine marathon last year. And he took the MFF HALO-HAHO[18] parachute course at Marana four months ago.”

“All eight jumps?”

“Roger that. He has the quals.”

“That’s fourteen people, Rowdy — plus the four spooks. Eighteen is a lot to move around.”

“I know, Loner.” Yates used his improvised spittoon. “I’m just thinking about flexibility in the field. I want us to have as many options as possible.”

“You probably brought everything he’d need, didn’t you?”

“ ‘Be Prepared,’ isn’t that the Boy Scouts’ marching song?” Yates growled. “You let me take care of the details.”

1020. “Loner — call for you. Some guy claiming to be secretary of defense.” Bill Sandman wasn’t a big man, but he had an aggressive edge to him and a raspy, gravel-toned voice that came from two packs of Marlboros a day for more than twenty-five years. He swiveled Ritzik’s chair away from the computer screen, pointed it toward the STU-?? satellite phone, and gave a gentle shove.

Ritzik rolled to the phone and picked it up. “Ritzik.”

“Major.” The satellite connection mildly distorted Robert Rockman’s distinctive voice.

“Sir.”

“How’s it going?”

“So far so good.”

“Glad to hear it. The president wants an update, so sit-rep me.”

“We are on schedule, sir. I’m planning our departure at seventeen-thirty local time.”

“Any chance you can go earlier?”

“Not really, sir. Any reason why we should?” Ritzik’s question was greeted by silence. “Mr. Secretary?”

Rockman hesitated. “I just got off the phone with Nick Pappas. Major General Zhou Yi’s air unit departed Beijing at zero eight hundred this morning.”

Ritzik hadn’t known, which disturbed the hell out of him, because he was supposed to be getting real-time intelligence dumps from Langley. Christ, the CIA was still stovepiping its precious information. “That’s a full day ahead of schedule.”

“I know, Major.”

“What’s their ETA at Changii?”

“Langley says the earliest would be about eighteen hundred tomorrow, local time.”

“How did they arrive at that?”

“Major?”

“Is Langley tracking them? Because if they are, we’re getting none of it.”

“You’re breaking up,” Rockman said.

Ritzik said, “If Langley’s tracking them, sir, we need the info out here now.”

There was static on the line. Then the secretary’s voice, sounding metallic, said, “I don’t think they are, Major.”

Ritzik found Rockman’s reply troubling. “Mr. Secretary?”

“I asked Nick. The son of a bitch said there’s some sort of problem with cloud cover between Beijing and Taiyuan. He said his analysts are working off statistical models.”

“Jeezus.” Ritzik didn’t like that at all. The problem was basic: statistical model was a fancy way of saying “simulation.” Intelligence analysts liked statistical models because they were neat and easy to put together on the computer. But no matter what you called them, simulations were simulated, not real, events. They were simply educated guesses. More than that, statistical models didn’t take any part of the human element of operations into consideration. Nor did they factor in Mr. Murphy of Murphy’s Law fame.

Nor, for that matter, could a statistical model predict a ground commander’s reactions or leadership qualities or lack of them. Interpreting those issues required real-time intelligence. “What’s the worst-case scenario, Mr. Secretary?”

“Arrival at Changii in twenty-six hours — that would be about noon tomorrow local time.”

Which, Ritzik understood only too well, would give the Chinese six hours of daylight in which to go hunting. And those hours were precisely the same time frame Ritzik had planned to use to begin his exfil. Events had progressed well beyond the SNAFU range. They were now in the TARFU zone, where things are really messy.

“Mr. Secretary.”

“Major?”

“Any news about whether or not we’ll be vulnerable during the infiltration stage?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Are the Chinese capable of intercepting our launch aircraft?”

“Let me look at my notes.” There was a pause on the line. Then Rockman said, “Nick said there are three bases in the region with fighter aircraft.”

“Hell, Mr. Secretary, I can see that much on my imagery. I need to know whether or not they’re going to scramble when we break out of our scheduled flight plan.”

There was another pause. “Nick’s people can’t say one way or the other.”

“Can’t or won’t, sir?”

The irritation in Rockman’s voice was palpable. “Does it really make a difference, Major?”

There were five seconds of silence while Rockman waited for Ritzik to reply. When he didn’t, the secretary said, “You keep me posted, son.” Then the phone went dead.

11

Two of Ritzik’s rangers dressed in Kazakh Special Forces uniforms towed the big white Yak up to the warehouse. Umarov himself directed the tug to position the plane so the fuselage would block any view of what was being loaded. Then he waved the Rangers off with a flourish and a wink. As they cleared the aircraft, Doc Masland, Ty Weaver, Gene Shepard, and Rowdy Yates, all dressed in airport worker’s overalls, emerged from the warehouse to muscle an auxiliary power unit under the nose of the plane. Weaver uncoiled the thick rubber electrical cable and attached the business end to the power pod just fore of the plane’s nosewheel assembly.

Yates said, “Contact,” and hit the APU generator switch.

Masland and Weaver pushed a wheeled stairway up to the side of the aircraft. Shepard climbed the steel treads, opened the forward hatch, and disappeared inside. Fifteen seconds later, the plane’s interior lights came on.

Ritzik scampered up the stairway. “Shep — let’s get the shades drawn, and then you start removing seats and install the prebreathers.” He looked down the long, narrow single aisle. “I think two rows on each side will do it. You agree?”

The first sergeant squinted aft. “Should be enough. If not, I’ll pull a third.” He made his way rearward, racked the exit door lock to his left, and dropped the aft stairway, testing it after he heard it thwock onto the apron.

A welcome stream of cool air wafted through the stuffy aircraft. Shepard came forward. “Amazing how strange yet familiar this thing is,” he said. “Like one of those tofu entrées they say tastes just like chicken.”

“Chicken Kiev, maybe.” Ritzik tapped an overhead luggage bin. “The Yak-42’s a doppelgänger of the Boeing 727. It was built during the height of the Cold War when we weren’t selling planes to the Soviets. So one of their most senior aircraft designers — a guy named Alexander Yakovlev — managed to get his hands on a 727 for a few weeks. He reverse-engineered the design, and built his own version.”

“No shit.”

“No shit.” Ritzik heard noise forward. He watched as Talgat hulked through the doorway, blocking the light.

The Kazakh said, “The Yakovlev is a beautiful design, is it not?” He stood aside as Shepard eased past him, smiling.

“Just what the doctor ordered.” Ritzik settled onto an armrest. “When is Shingis due?”

“My cousin? I told him thirteen hundred.”

“Good.”

Umarov said, “So, Mike, what is the story?”

“I’m going to need you to crew the plane,” Ritzik said.

“Crew?”

“Shingis will fly. You’ll crew.”

“Just the two of us?”

Ritzik said, “Talgat, sometimes less is more.” The Kazakh scratched his head. “I do not understand. How can less be more?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Ritzik said. “It means I want to keep it in the family.”

“Ah — idiom.” Umarov took his cigarettes out of his breast pocket, tamped one on his watch, and lit up. “Sometimes fewer personnel is more efficient than many. ‘Less is more — keep it all in the family.’ Now I understand.”

Curtis Hansen and Gene Shepard pushed onto the aircraft, holding a small metal toolbox. Umarov brightened at the sight of Shepard’s face. “Sergeant Shepard,” he exclaimed. He grabbed the trooper in a tight embrace and kissed him on each cheek. “Assalamu alaykim.”

“Waghalaykim assalam—and upon you, Colonel.” Shepard extracted himself from Umarov’s grip. “This is Staff Sergeant Hansen.”

The slightly built Soldier ran a hand through his thinning blondish hair and said, very carefully, “Assa-lamu alaykim, Colonel,” then reddened self-consciously at Umarov’s delighted expression.

Shepard hefted the toolbox. “Excuse us, Colonel.” The pair headed aft, retrieved a pair of socket wrenches, and began to unbolt the rows of seats over the aircraft’s wings.

The Kazakh watched them. “Less is more,” he said. “Right?”

“Colonel Umarov,” Shepard said, “in this case, sir, less is actually less.” He looked at the puzzled Kazakh and grinned.

1332. Ritzik was squatting beside the pair of six-man portable oxygen prebreathers, which were secured against the aircraft’s midbulkhead, as Ty Weaver and Bill Sandman wrestled the ten-foot-long metal mold up the rear stairway. He looked up. “Set it on the starboard side.”

“Nautical today, ain’t we, Loner?” Sandman’s voice reverberated in the narrow fuselage.

The two men walked the smooth pan forward until it cleared the rear bulkhead. Then they flipped it over and jammed it between the windows and the innermost seats.

“Where are the tie-downs?”

Weaver said, “I’ll get ‘em.”

“Do it now — I don’t want to be airborne and find we’ve left’em behind.” “Wilco.”

1337. Rowdy Yates climbed the rear stairway to find Ritzik, a checklist in his hand, inspecting the prebreather. “You beat me to it,” the sergeant major said.

“I was bored.” Ritzik watched as Yates rummaged through the forwardmost luggage bins until he found the aircraft’s safety-display items, took both lengths of demonstration seat belt, clipped them together, and stuffed them in his left cargo pocket.

“Collecting souvenirs?”

“I’m gonna need these later and I don’t want to have to go looking for ‘em.”

“If you say so.” Ritzik tapped the prebreather consoles. “Looks as if they survived the flight over. No visual flaws. The valve stems are all straight. None of the screws are backed out. And the gauge is showing eighteen hundred psi.” He paused. “How’s the lady?”

“Asleep, finally,” Yates said. “Out like a light.”

“Good. The less time she has to worry, the better.”

Yates said, “Loner, I’m worried about her.”

“We don’t get no vote, Rowdy. Our job is to take her in so she can do her job.”

“Hoo-ah, boss. But do us all a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Get a friggin’ diagram out of her before we wheels up. Just in case she croaks at some point, I want to be able to at least take a crack at disarming the sucker if we have to.”

“Makes sense to me.” Ritzik turned the shutoff valve five and a half turns counterclockwise, then squinted at the second gauge on the prebreather faceplate. “Reducer gauge is holding at forty psi.”

“On the money.”

“Yup.” Ritzik stood up. “Get the third unit and secure it as close to the cockpit as you can.”

“What third unit?”

“Don’t shit me, Rowdy.”

“Major, we brought two six-man prebreathers. Twelve people — twelve hoses, twelve couplers.”

Ritzik said, “Then we’re screwed. You’ve read the tables. Each of us needs a full hour on O-two before we depressurize the aircraft and switch to the portable units.”

“So?”

“Count, Rowdy, count.”

Yates looked up toward the aircraft ceiling. “Oh, Keerist. Fourteen, Major.”

“That’s not including Talgat and Shingis. We need sixteen hookups.”

“Oh, Christ. I must have had a major brain fart yesterday.” Yates rubbed his scalp. “I really screwed this up.”

“How many O-two sets do we have?”

“Sixteen sanitized units — and two walk-around bottles for Talgat. I got sixteen double tanks from Marana, Major. I brought ‘em all, because I knew I’d need O-two for the lady and Mickey D — prebreathing and descent.” Yates spat into his plastic cup. “We can rig something for Talgat by using the plane’s internal O-two system.”

“Maybe.” Ritzik glanced toward the nose of the plane.

“Wait here.” He rose and headed toward the cockpit. “Shingis—”

He emerged sixty seconds later, his face grim. “They don’t have oxygen.” He anticipated Yates’s question: “The units are shipped from Germany. They’re on back order. And this particular aircraft is used on short-haul flights — they stay below ten thousand feet. So they don’t bother to keep the system charged.”

Yates cocked his head, incredulous.

“Hey, this is Kazakhstan. The flight safety regs are a little more flexible here.”

“I guess they are.”

“Bottom line,” Ritzik said. “We cut two people.”

“Loner—”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No, sir, I do not.” Yates spat into his cup. “But having two less jumpers creates its own set of problems.”

“I know, I know.” Ritzik’s mind was racing. The situation was already edge-of-the-envelope dangerous. Offset HAHO jumps — high-altitude, high-opening operations in which the aircraft does not overfly the drop zone — were incredibly risky maneuvers. At altitudes above twenty-five thousand feet, ice can actually form on the parachute canopy, affecting its performance and response. Weather data is essential — the wind’s direction and velocity are critical in determining the infiltration route.

In training, every element of a HAHO jump was broken down and double-checked. Safety was paramount. And even when all the bases were covered, jumpers still died. Twenty-seven thousand five hundred feet was almost six miles up. The temperature was well below freezing. The air was thin. Hypoxia — lack of oxygen — could cause a jumper to become careless, or even pass out. The “stick” could leave the aircraft imprecisely and the jumpers could get tangled up. Chutes might foul, reserves misdeploy. Communications could go bad. Wind shears, crosscurrents, and thermals might scatter the jumpers over a hundred square miles, or run them into the ground at forty miles an hour. And that was under optimum conditions: well-supervised jumps in clear, mild weather, with red or purple smoke grenades to indicate wind direction, and safety officers to scrub the jump if the ground wind speed exceeded eighteen knots.

Tonight, they’d be jumping blind.

Intelligence was virtually nonexistent. Ritzik still had no idea whether or not fighter aircraft were capable of intercepting the Yak from the three air bases in his target area because the CIA hadn’t told him what the Chinese tactical capabilities were. He was unsure about the current location of the PLA’s Special Operations troops. Worse, he had no idea how big a force General Zhou Yi was bringing.

Then there were the physical hurdles. Wind currents and speed: uncertain. Obstacles: unidentified. Amount and origin of potential air turbulence: unknown. LZ: hostile. Friendlies on the ground: none. Charlie Foxtrot potential: very high.

Finally, there were the immutable laws of physics to contend with. The maximum sustainable load for a Ram Air parachute is 360 pounds. If a chute is subjected to excess weight, the cells can stress and the canopy may begin to disintegrate. So, every round of ammunition, every piece of equipment has to be tallied: the chute, the reserve, and all the accompanying web gear; the weapons and ammunition; the combat pack; the body armor, load-bearing vest, and two canteens of water; the uniform; the cold-weather gear; the helmet, oxygen mask, and boots; the O₂ bottles, hoses, and regulator, as well as the GPS navigation, night-vision, chest-pack computers, and communications equipment. All of it, when combined with the jumper’s weight, couldn’t total more than 360 pounds.

The loss of two jumpers meant less total weight on the ground. The part of the equation that bothered Ritzik most was that they’d be carrying fewer rounds of ammunition and a reduced amount of ordnance. Which weakened one-third of the SpecWar trinity. Any degradation of firepower would result in diminished violence of action, which in turn would shrink Ritzik’s chances of success.

It was time to recalibrate.

1447. Ritzik, Bill Sandman, and Ty Weaver were gathered in a knot, staring at the streaming satellite video of the convoy. Rowdy Yates joined them and poked his finger at the screen. “See how they’re stopped?”

He squinted over the top of the magnifiers perched on his nose. “The third truck — number 4866—that’s the one with the prisoners and the device. Look how they’ve got it surrounded.” His finger tapped the plastic screen surface. “Three tangos with weapons on each side. And the driver — he’s standing just ahead of the cab; his weapon’s pointed down, but the sumbitch has his hands on it. And they’ve got another five people at the rear.”

Ty Weaver looked at the column of vehicles. There were six heavy trucks and three boxy SUVs. He tapped the image of the Toyota 4x4 that was parked fifty yards out in front of the ragged column. “That Toyota’s consistently been the point vehicle since the satpix started coming in. The big enchilada’s riding in it, too.”

Sandman stared at the tiny figures on the screen. “Which one is he?”

Weaver’s finger found a small figure pacing between the second and third trucks. “From the way he’s moving I think he’s making a phone call.”

“Bullshit.” Rowdy Yates laughed. “How the hell can you tell he’s making a call by how he moves?”

“Don’t believe him,” Sandman said. “We saw the asshole take a phone out of his pocket and punch a number into the keypad.”

“Get the number, too, did you, Bill?” “It was a 1-900 sex line, Sergeant Major. Same one you always call.”

Yates spat into his cup. “Bite me, First Sergeant Sandman.”

Ty Weaver said, “Do you believe they have coverage out there — cell towers and everything?”

“Why not? Anything’s possible these days,” Ritzik said. “Hey — look.”

He turned his attention to the screen. Two guerrillas were dropping the rear gate. Three others stood, muzzles pointed toward the rear of the truck. The two who’d dropped the gate climbed inside the covered truck bed.

As the Soldiers watched, they saw three figures thrown out onto the hard sand. The trio caromed between the guards like pinballs as they were punched, butt-stroked, and kicked mercilessly.

Ty Weaver said, “I thought you said there were four prisoners.”

Ritzik’s eyes narrowed. “There are.” He paused. “Or, there were.” He cast a quick glance at Rowdy Yates. The sergeant major’s somber face reflected the same nasty conclusion Ritzik had come to. The tangos were killing Americans — and the rescue element was still on the ground in Almaty.

Ritzik’s voice took on an urgent tone as he wrenched his eyes away from the sight of the prisoners being beaten. “Clock’s ticking, guys. What’s the plan?”

Rowdy Yates looked past Ritzik and stared at the screen. All he felt was fury. White-hot and murderous. But he’d learned over the years to temper his anger and channel his rage; to use those searing emotions constructively in order to give himself a psychological and tactical edge over his enemy. Which is what he did now. Coolly, Rowdy shifted focus and scanned a screen on which flickered an infrared image of the north end of the lake. His voice was dispassionate. “Can’t really know for sure until we’re on the ground, Loner. Too many unanswered questions about the site. How high’s the causeway wall? How deep’s the water? How close together will the vehicles be? Right now it’s one of those generic keep-it-simple-stupid ops.”

He reached past Sandman, swiped a legal pad off the folding table, and drew a rough diagram. “They’re coming north. They turn west over this bridge”—he brought his marking pen up—“and we’re set up on the far side of the causeway.” Rowdy paused. “Snipers execute — suppressed — and bring the column to a stop before they can react. We claymore wherever we can. Hopefully kill a bunch of ‘em before they’re able to get out of the trucks. Those we don’t claymore, we create a fatal funnel, and we hit ‘em.” His expression hardened as he drew overlapping fields of fire. “Hit ‘em hard. Kill ‘em all.”

Weaver tapped the 4x4 on the screen. “If I take out the big enchilada’s driver first, it’ll stop ‘em dead in their tracks.”

Sandman wagged his head. “Negatory, Ty. You’re not listening. They’ll just be coming over a bridge — moving slow because they’ve just had to negotiate a tight left-hand turn. You and Barber take out that back truck first, just as it hits the west end of the bridge — that way they don’t have an escape to the rear. You guys wax both the driver and whoever’s riding shotgun so there’s nobody alive in the cab.”

“Good catch, Bill,” Weaver said. “Makes sense.”

Rowdy agreed. “You let the 4x4 with Mr. Big go past.” He looked at Sandman. “You and Tuzz deal with Mr. Big from the flank, okay? And disable but don’t destroy.”

“La big enchilada or the 4x4?”

“Don’t be a wiseass,” Rowdy snorted. He dribbled tobacco juice into his plastic cup and wiped his lower lip. “You snipers will take out the front truck right after you’ve hit the rearmost vehicle. That’ll bring ‘em all to a stop — they’re on a narrow causeway with marsh on both sides here.” He drew his marker across the page. “Then, as soon as the trucks are stopped, Goose and Doc, Shep, and Mickey D and Loner and me, we’ll deal with anybody in trucks one, two, and three. And we’ll claymore wherever we can.”

“If they’re polite enough to stop where you want them to stop,” Ritzik said.

“The column will stop right where we want it to if Ty and Barber do their jobs,” Rowdy said. “Because the friggin’ drivers will all be dead.”

“Gotcha,” Ritzik said. “But don’t forget: leave two trucks undamaged.”

Ty Weaver nodded. “Understood, boss.”

“And all the 4x4s.”

“Loner’s beginning to repeat himself,” Ty said. “Hey, Rowdy, isn’t reiteration one of the first signs of dementia?” The sniper tapped Ritzik’s chest. “Maybe the dicksmith should look at you before we wheels up just to make sure you’re mission-eligible.”

Ritzik started to respond but Sandman broke in. “Hey,” he said, “they threw the prisoners back onto the truck and locked it down. Mr. Big Enchilada just climbed into the 4x4.” He stared at the screen. “They’re pulling out — moving north.”

Sam Phillips said, “We should go tonight. Agreed?”

“I don’t think we have any other option — except making a run for it right now.” X-Man’s voice was tense. Half an hour ago he’d maneuvered himself and Sam to one of the bullet holes and he’d sneaked a look through the canvas. There were mountains out there in the distance, he reported. Big, jagged snowcapped peaks. God, how he’d love to ski them. But not now. There’d be no skiing in X-Man’s life for the foreseeable future.

How far are the mountains? Kaz wanted to know. Good question. Maybe a hundred miles; maybe fifty miles; maybe thirty miles. It was difficult to tell.

The convoy had jolted to a halt some quarter of an hour earlier. The Americans waited, trying to listen in on the terrorists’ conversation. But it was nigh on impossible to hear anything over the growl of idling diesel. After no one looked in on them after about ten minutes, X-Man and Sam rolled to their right again, up against the frame supporting the canvas where a round had punctured both wood and canvas. Sam ended up with a splinter in his cheek. But he was able to grab a quick peek. The pair of them crabbed back and leaned up against Kaz. “We’re on a slope leading down to the bank of a huge river,” Sam said. “Or maybe it’s a lake. From what I can tell, the water’s at least a mile wide.”

Kaz asked: “Swimmable?”

“I didn’t see any rapids,” Sam said. “But there’s no way to tell the strength of the current — or even if there is a current.” He paused. “Look — we can’t go now. It’s still light. We’d be caught.”

“I think if we could make it to the water, we’d have a chance — even now,” X-Man said. “Frankly, Sam, we’re better off in the water than we would be trying to get away on foot tonight — harder to track, and better concealment than the scrub and dunes we’ve been traveling through.”

“You’ve got a point, X. But only if we can stay warm.” Sam worried about hypothermia. The temperature at night dropped to close to freezing, and he didn’t like the idea of being wet, cold, and out in the open. “I want to take a better look at that water.”

“Let’s do it, then.” The pair of them made their way back to the canvas and Sam pressed his cheek against the rough material.

“Hey,” X-Man whispered urgently, “watch—” And then the rear gate of the truck was dropped with a violent clang. Two IMU goons saw what Sam and X-Man were up to. They vaulted inside, grabbed the three Americans, and threw them off the truck onto the hard desert floor.

12

the drop element began to suit up. The first layer was clothing: lightweight, German thermal underwear, French green, windproof Gore-Tex coveralls, Russian body armor, thick socks, and Adidas GSG-9 boots. Over the coveralls, each man wore a wide, nylon web belt around his waist. Suspended from it on the right side was a flapped and taped pistol holster, which was secured by two elastic straps fastened tightly around the thigh. On each man’s left thigh, another flapped, taped pouch held three AK-74 magazines.

The chutes came next. The flight would take less than an hour, so they’d enter the aircraft fully geared up. The ten men worked in pairs. The chutes were final-checked for visible defects. Then the harnesses were let out and the chute assemblies laid out on the floor, pack trays facing downward.

Rowdy Yates picked up Gene Shepard’s chute by the lift webs attached to the canopy release assembly. “Okay, Shep — let’s see if this sucker fits like it’s supposed to.”

Shepard bent his knees and leaned forward, assuming a mock-high-jump position. Yates settled the chute on Shepard’s back. Shepard threaded the chest strap, cinched it tight, and fastened it securely. As he finished, he called, “Right leg strap, Sergeant Major.”

Yates passed him the strap. Shepard ran his fingers over the webbing, making sure it wasn’t kinked. Then he inserted it through one of the kit-bag handles, cinched it tight through the turnbuckle, and fastened it. Shepard repeated the process with the left leg strap. Then he stood erect.

Yates said: “Check your canopy release assemblies.”

Shepard tapped the hollows of his shoulders. “They’re good, Rowdy. You can snug up the horizontal adjustment straps.”

“Wilco.” Yates fiddled with the webbing. Then Shepard threaded the long, flat waistband through its turnbuckle and snugged it tight. Finally, he took half a dozen elastic “keepers” from Rowdy Yates and used them to secure all the loose ends of the webbing. The sergeant major rapped Shepard on the back. “Feel okay?”

The tall, lanky first sergeant bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and tried to roll his shoulders to shake the parachute loose. He couldn’t. “Great. Now let’s get you dressed.”

“Gimme a minute.” Yates looked over at Wei-Liu, who’d been observing the two men. “I think you need a tad of tailoring, ma’am.”

“Do you, Rowdy?” Wei-Liu had brought her own boots, long underwear, and socks. “At least a few things fit,” she said ruefully as Rowdy used olive-drab duct tape to bind the baggy coveralls around her wrists and ankles. He also taped two liquid-filled plastic cylinders, each about eight inches long, to the outsides of her calves.

“What’re these?”

“Chem-light sticks, ma’am. So we can keep track of you.” She reached down to squeeze them, but Rowdy caught her hand. “Not yet, ma’am. Please don’t fuss with ‘em until we’re ready to go.”

“You’re the boss, Sergeant Major.” She pointed toward Shepard in his chute. “Am I going to wear one of those?”

“No, ma’am. You’re going to travel in tandem with the major.” Yates retrieved a harness set from the floor and helped Wei-Liu into it. He fitted the shoulder and chest straps first, then the leg straps. He cinched the waistband — but discovered something in the way. He poked at Wei-Liu’s ribs. “What the hell have you got on under there?”

“My tools. They’re in a shoulder pouch. I thought they’d be more secure that way.”

“Let’s adjust them.” Rowdy waited until she’d fitted the sack under her arm. Then he cinched the waistband once more, tugging until he was satisfied it was snug enough. He brought half a dozen more elastic keepers out of his pocket and secured all her loose webbing. Then he signaled for Wei-Liu to turn completely around for a visual inspection.

He was satisfied. “How does that feel, ma’am?”

She imitated Gene Shepard’s jumping motion. “Okay, I guess.”

“And now?” Yates grabbed the rear support straps of her harness in both hands, jerked Wei-Liu three feet off the ground, and shook her.

If he expected her to scream, she disappointed him. He set her down. “Anything feel loose, ma’am?”

“No — it’s all snugged up.”

1645. Ritzik peered over Marko’s shoulder at the flashing point of light on the computer screen. “Their progress still constant?” He wanted to be on the ground before any more Americans were killed, and his voice betrayed the anxiety.

“Has been for the last two hours, Loner. They’re heading north.” The Soldier tapped a series of numbers into his laptop and checked the screen. “About seven and a half, maybe eight hours from the bridge at the rate they’re going.”

“Finally — some good news.” Ritzik clapped his shoulder. “I’m going to suit up. If there’s any change, let me know.”

“You got it, boss.”

1655. They all looked, Wei-Liu decided, like alien Kung Fu artists in spacesuits. The men appeared to be practicing martial arts, moving their arms in slow, ritualistic motions, adjusting their stance, arching their backs. When she’d asked, Rowdy explained that they were miming their free-fall and HAHO emergency procedures: cutaways in case of partial or total malfunctions; corrective maneuvers in case of spins; reactive moves for premature brake release, or closed end cells on the chutes.

She watched, impressed with the men’s ability to move smoothly, given all they were carrying. The night-vision goggles attached to their helmets were taped down for the jump, giving their profiles a decidedly reptilian appearance. Then there were the oxygen masks, which were also held firmly to the helmets by bayonetlike lugs. From the end of the masks, a dovetail fitting led to an AIROX–VIII regulator assembly attached to a short oxygen delivery tube that descended to the dual oxygen bottles strapped just above the right hip.

Wrapped around the thick tube was the send/receive communications cable. One end of the cable was connected to the mike inside the O₂ mask and the helmet’s integrated headset. The other looped around to a pouch attached just above the O₂ package and plugged into the duplex miniature communications system that would allow them to talk to one another and the TOC simultaneously. A second, backup duplex system rode in a pouch on the right shoulder. Around each man’s left wrist, a thick Velcro strap held an illuminated, German-made QA2-30/G free-fall altimeter. On their right forearms, another pair of Velcro straps held a wide double unit: a secure wireless PDA with a GPS positioning module, which would help to guide them and also keep them updated on their target’s position.

Weapons were slung over the left shoulder, muzzles pointed downward, with loaded magazines inserted in the receivers and taped securely. More tape was used to wrap padding around the muzzle and the sights. Then the slings were tightened so that the butt of the weapon was safely above and behind the jumper’s armpit. If the gun shifted and ended up shoved into the armpit, a jumper’s shoulder could be dislocated, or even broken, by the sudden force exerted by the parachute’s opening shock. Todd Sweeney and Ty Weaver, the two snipers, carried Heckler & Koch MSG90 7.62mm sniper rifles in padded scabbards that rode behind their left shoulders. The rifles’ ten-power scopes, attached to their prezeroed quick-mount systems, were insulated from shock inside the fifty-pound, front-riding combat packs. Maybe.

1705. Rowdy Yates sliced open a black-and-gold case of nine-volt French-manufactured alkaline batteries. He snapped them onto the connector buttons of the small, infrared strobe flashers that Michael Dunne had brought from Fort Campbell, and taped one strobe to the rear of each jumper’s helmet. When he finished, he called over to Gene Shepard. “I’m ready to suit up now, Shep.”

“And about damn time, too.”

1711. Ritzik ran his own checklist. He was visibly weighed down by the large tandem chute assembly, plus his equipment, weapons, and navigation devices. Under normal circumstances, the jumpers wouldn’t attach their combat packs and sling weapons until twenty minutes before insertion. But tonight wasn’t normal, and they’d completed their preparations before entering the aircraft. The only prep they’d do aboard the Yak would be to arm their automatic rip-cord releases, which had to be done after they’d climbed above 2,500 feet. Checklist complete, he put a radio transceiver to his ear. “Talgat?”

He waited for a response, finally nodding. “Good. Okay. See you in three minutes.” He looked around until he focused on Rowdy Yates. “Talgat’s just done his part.” The Kazakh had used his clout to delay the scheduled Air Kazakhstan flight to Ürümqi because of “mechanical difficulties.” Today, Ritzik’s plane would assume the commercial flight’s place. “Time to saddle up, Sergeant Major. Let’s get this show on the road.”

1722. They were crowded together, kept on short tethers by the prebreather hookups. Wei-Liu’s goggles began to fog up. Yates pulled them off her head, reached past the big bowie knife secured on his combat harness into a zippered pocket on his left sleeve, brought out a silicon cloth, and wiped them clear. “They should be okay now.” “Thanks.”

He looked at her face. “Nervous?”

“You better believe it.”

“Good. I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

“What about you?”

“Funny thing is,” Rowdy said, “I bet I’ve jumped out of planes more times than I’ve actually landed in ‘em. So I’m nervous every time I go out the door — but I’m a lot more nervous when we land.” He took her by the shoulders. “Don’t worry, ma’am, you’ll do just fine. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

The Yak’s engines caught and whined into life. Talgat Umarov climbed aboard. He waited until the rolling stairway was cleared, then reached around and pulled the front door closed. He swung the thick locking arm, tested the door, then gave the Americans an upturned thumb, swung around, and disappeared into the cockpit.

Ritzik waddled after him. “Talgat.”

The Kazakh turned.

“We okay?”

“Everything has been cleared for takeoff, my brother.”

Ritzik handed the big Kazakh a harness. “Get into this once we’re off the ground.”

“Masele joq—no problem.” Umarov dropped the harness on the copilot’s seat and sat on top of it.

Ritzik leaned forward, squeezing as much of himself as he could into the cockpit. Shingis Altynbayev stowed his checklist. His right hand moved the throttles forward slightly and the plane began to move. As it did, the pilot flicked a toggle switch on the control panel and spoke into his mike.

Ritzik glanced out the small side window. It was growing dark, the reddish evening sky turning purple in the west. The aircraft swung completely around now, its engines gaining power as Shingis pulled off the wide apron and onto the taxiway. He spoke to the tower once more as he navigated between the blue lights.

Ritzik swung his right arm up so he could make out the backlit screens on his GPS and handheld. They were working properly. He pressed the transmit button on the secure radio. “TOC, Skyhorse Element.”

Dodger’s voice came back into his ear five by five. “Skyhorse, TOC.”

“Sit-rep?”

“No changes.”

“Target progress?”

“Constant — we are transmitting. You should be receiving.”

Instinctively, Ritzik glanced at the handheld strapped to his wrist once more. “Affirmative. Hostiles?” “No news.”

The effing CIA again. “Roger that. See what you can do to shake things up. You know who to call.”

“Wilco.”

“Skyhorse out.” At least the comms were working the way they should. Of course, he and Dodger were less than a thousand feet apart. How the system would work when he was sitting in the desert, with twenty-thousand-foot mountains, and hostile weather conditions, he wasn’t sure. After the screwups caused by line-of-sight communications equipment in Afghanistan, Delta had gone to redundant systems of satellite comms. But they weren’t foolproof either: satellites could be affected by weather as well as by solar thermodynamics. Nothing was perfect.

Ritzik peered down at his wrist to confirm the target’s attitude. The convoy was moving north at a constant sixteen miles an hour along the eastern bank of a lake called Yarkant Köl. The lake was ninety-six miles long. It ranged from eight hundred to a thousand yards wide, and was three hundred feet deep for most of its length — far too dangerous for the terrorists to ford. At its southern tip, a two-lane highway headed west, toward the region’s largest commercial center, Yengisar. There was a large PLA garrison at Yengisar, which was precisely why the convoy was going in the opposite direction.

At Yarkant Köl’s northern end, where it was fed by a system of mountain streams, the satellite imagery had displayed vast, impassable marshlands. The only route the big trucks could take without bogging down in the soft ground was to stay on the lakeside road until it intersected with an old, one-lane causeway that crossed the marsh. On the far side of the causeway, a paved road led north toward a Uighur town called Jiashi. More significantly, there was also an unpaved, partially washed-out road that, according to the satellite images, threaded across sixty miles of sand dunes and scrubby desert. That road, Ritzik realized, was a smuggling route that fed into the foothills of the Kunlún Mountains. And across the Kunlún lay Tajikistan — and sanctuary for the terrorists.

What worried Ritzik was that the Chinese had to know that fact, too. What worried him most right now was that they’d still had no input from Langley about how far Major General Zhou Yi’s assault force had progressed.

1728. The Yak lined up for takeoff with its nose facing northeast. Shingis Altynbayev rattled through the takeoff checklist, both asking and answering the questions. He flipped switches and tapped dials. He set and reset the radio frequencies to Almaty and Ürümqi. He peered at the small radar screen. He set and double-checked the flaps. He growled at the control tower, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. He checked the runway for obstacles.

And then he took his right hand off the wheel and pushed the throttles forward until he got the thrust he was looking for. His left hand firm on the wheel, he released the brakes and the plane catapulted down the runway. Shingis checked his airspeed, made a quick adjustment to the throttles, and then eased the wheel back and the Yak climbed into the darkening sky.

Quickly, the pilot reached for the upper right side of the control panel and pushed the landing-gear lever up. Ritzik felt a slight rumble as the wheels retracted. Then Shingis added flaps. He banked the plane to the left, gave it more power, and increased his angle of attack. Then he banked right, brought the aircraft into a more horizontal position, and eased off slightly on his throttles and flaps. He pulled back on the wheel and the Yak gained more altitude.

Altynbayev turned so he could see Ritzik’s face. “Good takeoff, huh, for a solo guy?”

Ritzik gave the pilot an upturned thumb. “First-class, Shingis.”

The pilot beamed. Looking at his face, Ritzik realized how fortunate he had been to trust his instincts about Altynbayev.

On Ritzik’s previous deployment in Kazakhstan, he had required an aircraft on which to train Umarov’s counterterrorist unit in low-level parachute insertions. There were no American planes available, and so the military attaché at the embassy instructed him to make a formal request through the Kazakh Ministry of Defense.

Ritzik did as ordered. But the ministry, which was institutionally hostile to the elite unit Ritzik was helping to train, informed him that the request would take at least two weeks to process. By that time, the Kazakh apparatchiks knew, Ritzik and his people would be out of the country, and the training — which might come in handy if the CT unit ever participated in a coup — would not take place.

Talgat, however, suggested that his cousin Shingis might handle the matter quickly and discreetly. Ritzik, frustrated with the bureaucracy, agreed. Eight hours later, Altynbayev dropped out of the sky in the cockpit of a decrepit Antonov An-2, a short, stubby Soviet-era biplane with a small, single rear wheel that gave it the same 1930s, Art Deco, nose-in-the-air look as a DC-3. The Antonov, which was far older than any of the people who would be jumping from it, had faded CCCP Air Force markings and was configured as a parachute trainer, with space for fourteen jumpers. When Ritzik checked the plane out, he’d found crumpled packs of Russian cigarettes on the deck and empty vodka bottles jammed behind the crude canvas benches. He’d asked where Shingis had come up with the aircraft, but Altynbayev deflected the question with a sly smile and a slight bow, and said, “It was my pleasure to be of service, Major.”

The exercise had gone exceptionally well. Ritzik offered Shingis an extravagant “consulting fee” for his assistance — and for obtaining the aircraft.

The pilot had turned him down cold. “You have helped my cousin Talgat,” he explained. “You brought him to the United States. You provided him training, and materials. You treat him as more than your ally. You are loyal to him. You are his friend. And therefore, I am loyal to you, Major. I am your friend.”

And from that point on, whenever Ritzik needed anything to do with an aircraft, Talgat would get hold of cousin Shingis — and whatever equipment Ritzik was looking for would suddenly appear.

It was Rowdy, who had become an avid student of Central Asian society, who explained things to Ritzik after they returned to Bragg. “In that part of the world, boss, you don’t just recruit an individual. You recruit the whole clan. In Central Asia the society is totally family-oriented. It’s friggin’ tribal. By trusting Talgat’s cousin, you demonstrated to Talgat that you trusted him. And they both respect you for it.”

“The old friend-of-my-friend-is-my-friend way of life,” Ritzik said.

“You got it, boss.”

“But you and I know that wasn’t why it happened. It was just easier to go through Talgat than it was to do all the stupid paperwork.”

“I understand,” Rowdy’d spat Copenhagen into his omnipresent plastic foam cup. “But this was one of those times when all you should do is thank the God of War for serendipity and take yes for an answer.”

1731. Ritzik looked at his watch and was horrified to realize that he wasn’t on oxygen yet. He backed out of the cockpit and waddled to seat 3-B, where he grabbed one of the three walk-around bottles seat-belted down. He coupled the spring-loaded bayonet connector from his mask into the regulator, turned the knurled knob until he sensed the O₂ flowing into his mask, and hung the bottle over his shoulder. Then he one-handed the other two walk-around bottles, careful not to damage the attached mask units, and made his way back to the cockpit.

He handed one of the walk-around bottles to Umarov. “Strap this on, then make sure Shingis gets his mask secure and his O-two turned on as soon as we’ve leveled off.”

The Kazakh pressed the mask to his face, hooked the straps, pulled them tight, and gave an upturned thumb to Ritzik’s back. But the American was already shuffling aft.

13

Ritzik disconnected the walk-around bottle and plugged his O₂ rig into the prebreather unit. Then he plucked the pilot’s map out of Rowdy’s hand.

“Point of contact still make sense to you?”

The sergeant major’s head bobbed up and down once. “Target’s moving at a more or less constant twenty kliks an hour.” Rowdy tapped the handheld screen on his right wrist. “That puts them at the northern end of Yarkant Köl in six hours thirty minutes — just after midnight. We’ll have a workable margin of error if Shingis gets us to here”—Yates tapped a spot on the big map slightly northeast of Kashgar—“and we exit the plane. It’s a fifty-mile glide, almost due southeast. A little long — and a bumpy ride for the first half hour. But the winds will be behind us and we’ll make it in plenty of time to position ourselves.”

“Are you sure about the winds?”

Yates tapped the map. “It’s a law of nature, Mike. Winds flow upslope on warm days in mountainous terrain — it’s called a ‘valley breeze.’ In the evenings, the air masses cool, and the flow reverses downward, into a ‘mountain breeze.’ The weather has been constant: warm days and cold nights. The satellites don’t show any anomalies. So if Shingis turns south, running along this ridge… “ Yates’s finger traced a rough route. “ … it’s just over seventeen thousand feet here, and the ridge where we’ll be exiting is nine thousand feet above sea level … we should be in good shape when we jump.”

“You’re the jumpmeister. I’m the overpaid RTO.” Ritzik folded the map, disconnected from the prebreather console, plugged his hose into the walk-around bottle, and waddled forward to the cockpit. “Shingis—”

The pilot was speaking on the radio. He raised his hand and Ritzik waited. The Kazakh completed his transmission and banked the plane slightly to the south, still in a gentle climb.

“It is okay now,” he finally said, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask. He swiveled his head toward Ritzik. “What is up?”

Ritzik handed him the map. “Here’s how it works.” The tip of his index finger tapped the runway at Almaty. “We came out of here, then turned west, correct?”

Shingis’s head bobbed up and down once.

Ritzik’s finger moved in a big circle across the map. “We’re coming around now, and we’ll head east, parallel to the Kyrgyz border.”

“Affirmative.”

“That takes us between the mountain ranges.”

The pilot’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes.”

“And we finally cross into China just north of Tekes, right?”

“Affirmative.” Altynbayev tapped a wristwatch hanging next to his vent window. “Do not forget — the time changes by two hours.”

Ritzik noted that the digital readout was two hours later than the watch on his own wrist. He cursed silently because he hadn’t remembered the detail. “Thank you, Shingis. Okay — your normal route overflies Kuqa and Korla, then north to Yanqi and into Ürümqi, right?”

The pilot’s attention was momentarily diverted by someone speaking on his headset. He raised an index finger and Ritzik halted.

Finally, Altynbayev spoke. “I am sorry. That was Almaty control talking to another flight. I wanted to listen.”

“It’s okay.” Ritzik tapped the map. “So far everything is normal. But right here—” Ritzik retrieved a marking pen from his sleeve and put a dot on the map. “Right here, you turn southwest.”

“Yes?”

“Ürümqi control will want to know what’s happening.”

“Of course.”

“Let them try to contact you once or twice before you respond. Then, you declare an emergency. Tell ‘em you can’t make Ürümqi. You have to divert and take an alternate route back to Almaty.” He paused. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Altynbayev said. “That can be done.”

Ritzik put a second black spot on the map. “From here, you give me every bit of speed you can muster, for sixteen minutes, bitching all the time to Ürümqi that the plane is unmanageable — lost pressure, engine-oil leak, hydraulic failure — whatever you can get away with. After twelve minutes, we should be … here, right?” Ritzik put another dot on the map.

The pilot thought about it for a few seconds. “Yes, more or less.”

“I hope it’s more rather than less.” “So do I, Major.”

“You’ll drop to twenty-seven thousand feet. We’ll open the door and depressurize. After we do, you’ll swing due east, along the mountain ridge, drop airspeed to two hundred and twenty knots, and maintain a constant twenty-seven thousand feet for ninety seconds.”

The pilot pulled his mask off. “The airspeed is cutting the cloth close a little bit, Major.”

“I know. But you can do it.”

Altynbayev bit his lower lip while he performed a mental calculation. “I think I can.” He looked at the chart. “Ninety seconds at two hundred twenty-five knots would put us about here.” He tapped the paper.

“Right on the money,” Ritzik said. “As soon as you make the turn east, you’ll switch off all the interior lights so we don’t give ourselves away.”

“I will do it.”

“You signal when you’re right on target — flash all the exit and seat-belt lights — and we’ll exit the aircraft.” Ritzik examined Altynbayev’s face, but the pilot remained impassive.

“It should take less than a minute and a half. Then Talgat will close you up. You’ll swing back north, haul ass, and hope the Chinese don’t scramble fighters and shoot you down before you cross the border.”

“That will not happen,” Shingis said.

“Why?”

The pilot pulled the map onto his armrest. “There are small airports at Aksu and Kashgar,” he said, pointing to the chart. “But the closest fighter aircraft is Yining. It is too far north to intercept us when we go off course. And besides, the planes at Yining are not on standby since the end of the Soviet Union, so they will not be scrambled because it would take too long.”

“How do you know, Shingis?”

Altynbayev reached into his pilot’s briefcase and displayed a pair of binoculars. “Because Ürümqi control allows us to fly routes that used to be forbidden — and we can see that the planes are not ready.”

Ritzik listened — and marveled. The CIA’s budget was well into the scores of billions. Shingis Altynbayev made perhaps $20,000 a year as a pilot for Air Kazakhstan. But his intelligence was more current than Langley’s. And it didn’t rely on statistical models either, but old-fashioned, eyes-on reconnaissance.

“I hope you’re right,” Ritzik said. He reached over Altynbayev’s shoulder and pointed to the dot he’d made on the map where he wanted the pilot to change course. “How long until we get to this point, Shingis?”

The Kazakh returned the binoculars to his case. He sat back in the heavy chair, scratched his cheek, and checked his instruments. “Twenty-one minutes,” he said. Altynbayev slipped the O₂ mask back over his nose, secured the strap, and placed both hands on the wheel. “Twenty-one minutes.”

The plane banked sharply to the right. The sequence had begun.

Ritzik slapped Rowdy Yates on the arm, and the sergeant major hand-signaled Doc Masland and Curtis Hansen to wrestle the length of half conduit down the aisle. When they’d set it on the floor by the rear bulkhead, they attached ten-foot lengths of webbed strap securely to their belts, then cinched the loose end of the straps around the rearmost pair of aisle seat belts.

Yates waited until the pair came forward as far as their leashes allowed and gave him “go” signals before his hands instructed the rest of the element to stand. Then he faced the right side of the aircraft and put his left hand on his left hip, paused, then extended the arm out at a forty-five-degree angle.

The troops pulled the arming pins from their ARR assemblies, performed buddy checks, then signaled Yates with upturned thumbs.

“PRICE check,” the sergeant major growled into his mike.

Wei-Liu turned to find Ritzik and shrugged when she caught his eye.

Ritzik reached around and brought them face-to-face. “It’s an acronym we use to examine our O-two systems: pressure, regulator, indicator, connections, and emergency equipment.” He tapped each element on her gear as he spoke the word. “You’re good to go, ma’am.”

Ritzik checked the global-positioning-unit readout on his PDA, then shifted screens to make sure the convoy was more or less where it should have been. It was. He pressed his transmit button and said, “TOC, Skyhorse Element.”

“Skyhorse, TOC.” Roger Brian’s voice was five-by-five.

“Sit-rep, Dodger.”

“No news. Are you getting picture?”

“Affirmative. Anything from home base?” Ritzik would have liked to hear that Langley was finally doing its share of the work.

“Nothing new.”

So much for interagency cooperation. “What’s the imagery?”

Dodger said, “No changes. Changii is quiet. No other developments.”

“Roger that. Skyhorse out.”

Ritzik changed frequencies so he was on the insertion element’s net. He looked up the aisle. Talgat emerged from the cockpit, his arm extended, his thumb upraised.

There were less than sixteen minutes to go.

He looked at his men as they ran their hands over one another’s web gear, weapons, and combat packs, checking and double-checking. Until now, they’d been quiet, each one lost in his own thoughts. That was SOR They’d been preparing themselves mentally for the challenges: working out emergency scenarios, running flight sequences, dealing with the absolute certainty of the uncertainties that make up the practice of warfare.

Now they’d become decidedly animated: their eyes were wide, their respiration shallow but accelerated. It was the body’s way of dealing with the imminent physical dangers: depressurization, the shock of subfreezing air, the blackness of the void outside the aircraft’s hull, the total aloneness of HAHO insertion.

Like them, Ritzik’s breath was thin. There was a knot in his gut, too, and his sphincter was tight — all normal reactions prior to the stress of combat. He could feel the beat of his heart, rushing, and he fought to control it. There’d be enough time for a huge adrenaline surge once they’d exited the plane.

Talgat came aft, his O₂ bottle dangling from the waist strap of his harness. He threaded his way past the Soldiers and made his way to the rear door of the aircraft. He straddled the curved metal sluice. “Time to depressurize,” he called out, and reached for the door handle.

From the middle of the aircraft, Rowdy shouted, “Talgat. Tokhta—stop. Qozghama—don’t move!”

The Kazakh froze.

Quickly, Yates unplugged from the prebreather, thrust his O₂ hose connector into the jump bottle’s regulator, and pushed aft. He withdrew the demonstrator seat belts, looped one of them around the back strap of Talgat’s harness, then pulled it tight. Then he buckled the male end of the second belt to the buckle end of the loop and ran the loose end to the closest seat, where he snapped it into a seat-belt buckle. He slammed Umarov on the chest. “Now,” he shouted. “Now you’re safe.” He motioned to the Kazakh, instructing him where to stand. “Stay there — and open the door when I give you the signal, okay?”

Umarov saw that Yates had taken him out of the door’s path and gave the American a thumbs-up. “Maqul—okay.”

Now Yates’s eyes turned to Ritzik. The major had attached his harness to Wei-Liu’s, and he had to contort his body so that he could be seen clearly. Yates shouted, “We’re ready, Loner.”

They heard the change in turbine pitch as Shingis throttled back to slow the aircraft down. Ritzik took a quick glance at his GPS. He focused on the coordinates, calculated, raised his arms above his head, and held all ten gloved fingers up where everyone could see them. Then he folded one finger, and then another, and then another, and another. When his left hand displayed only four, Rowdy turned, pointed toward the rear as if he were leading a cavalry charge, and screamed, “Talgat—go!”

The Kazakh threw the thick handle to the left. The door blew inward, smashing into the rear bulkhead. The loss of heat and pressure was immediate, palpable. Wei-Liu’s ears popped painfully. She saw Rowdy, Gene Shepard, and the one they called Goose wince, too. The plane vibrated violently from the stress to its airframe. It bucked and twisted left, then right, before regaining level flight. The noise from the three rear-mounted engines was overwhelming.

The interior lights went out, plunging the cabin into darkness. From his position in the aisle, Curtis Hansen produced two pairs of chem-lights. He twisted them, then shoved them between seat backs and cushions, providing the aisle with a path of glowing red light.

Doc Masland, who stood just forward of Umarov, snared the door handle and secured it with a long Velcro strap to the closest seat arm. He stepped in front of the Kazakh and, leaning into the darkness, peered out to make sure that the rear stairway had extended properly.

Masland shouted something, but his voice was lost in the roar of wind and turbine scream inside the plane. The vibration increased now, keeping them all off balance, as if the plane were driving on cobblestones. Masland reached back, waved at his comrade, then reached for the leading edge of the metal sluice and pulled it aft. As Masland pulled, Curtis Hansen pushed. The pair of them muscled the sluice onto the top end of the extended folding stairway. Then, with the Kazakh’s help, they forced the concave sheet into the blackness, covering the treads of the descending stairway with a smooth slide. Only the wide flanged end of the slide prevented the whole apparatus from slipping past the top banister of the stairway railing and falling.

The Yak shuddered once more as Shingis banked the plane ninety degrees to the left, turning from south to east.

The unsecured metal slide shifted by twenty-five degrees and rolled in the same direction as the plane. Doc Masland lurched aft and grabbed the top-end flange. For a few seconds he seemed to have lost his grip, but he finally managed to regain control of the unwieldy slide. Without waiting for the aircraft to recover, the American ripped a Velcro strap from his coveralls, slid it through a handle welded just below the flange, turned the slide straight, wrapped the strap twice around the top banister of the stairway, and attached it to itself. Then he stepped across the aisle, knelt, and repeated the action on the opposite side.

Masland crossed back to the plane’s starboard side. He tapped Talgat’s chest with a gloved index finger, as if to say, You …

The Kazakh tapped him back, then pointed at himself.

“Iye—yes.” Masland mimed ripping the Velcro off.

Umarov gave him an “okay.”

Then Masland showed the Kazakh how to twist the slide so the flange wasn’t restrained by the banisters, and when Umarov indicated he’d got what the medic was trying to show him, Masland aimed a mock kick at the upper end of the slide and pantomimed the slide tumbling down.

The Kazakh indicated he understood.

Masland pointed at the exit door, swung his arm as if he were pushing it closed, and mimed securing the lock.

Umarov’s hand made a fist. His thumb stuck straight up.

Doc returned the gesture, steadying himself as Shingis deployed the flaps to slow the aircraft down.

Rowdy Yates made his way up to the rearmost row of seats. His right arm extended fully straight out from the shoulder, then bent smartly, his fingers touching his helmet as if he were saluting — the silent signal for “Move to the rear.”

The medic unhooked his safety strap, swiveled, and faced forward. Curtis Hansen waddled up directly behind him and squeezed Masland’s right shoulder. Gene Shepard followed, squeezing Hansen’s right shoulder when he’d reached his position. He was followed by Mickey D, Ty Weaver, Goose Guzman, and Bill Sandman. Ritzik and Wei-Liu came next. Ritzik nudged Wei-Liu, bent down, and crushed the chem-sticks on her legs. Then he stood, reached around her, and squeezed Sandman’s shoulder. Wei-Liu squirmed out of Ritzik’s grasp and craned her neck. Joey Tuzzolino stood in back of them; Barber Sweeney brought up the rear. Tuzz grinned behind his O₂ mask and wriggled his eyebrows at Wei-Liu. She tried to smile back.

From his position, Rowdy Yates exaggeratedly tapped his ears. One by one the Soldiers mimicked him, then turned thumbs up, signing that their comms were tuned to the insertion element’s secure net and signaling to confirm they were working.

2024. “Stand by.” Rowdy Yates held his right arm high above his head. Wei-Liu peered forward and stretched onto her toes so she could see what was happening. She watched as Doc Masland quickly lowered his legs over the edge of the slide and grabbed the exit-stairway banisters. Then she was shoved against Bill Sandman’s parachute as the jumpers scrunched together as tightly as they could, and she lost sight of Masland altogether.

The no-smoking, seat-belt, and exit lights flashed on and off three times. Rowdy’s right hand swung downward, pointing toward the exit. And then the jumpers began to move up the aisle. The stick’s progress was far faster than Wei-Liu had thought it would be. In fact, the constant movement gave her very little time to think about what she was about to do, because it was enough of a challenge simply to put one boot in front of the other without tripping over all the gear. She tried to remember all the things Ritzik had told her, all the things Rowdy had told her, but her mind had suddenly turned to mush.

And then Ritzik’s voice burst into her brain. “Goggles secure?”

Her head bobbed up and down. There was a red chem-light jammed into the seat on her right. “Gloves on?”

She wiggled her fingers at him. She saw a second chem-light jammed into a left-hand seat cushion.

“Remember—?? control us immediately after we exit the aircraft. As soon as we’re facedown, extend into the Frog position.”

She raised her right thumb.

“Do what I do.”

And then Bill Sandman vaulted feetfirst onto the slide, shoved himself forward, grabbed the two thin aluminum banister rails at the top of the stairway, launched himself down the slide, and vanished into the darkness. And there was nothing between her and the void but the open doorway.

All of a sudden Wei-Liu felt an enormous measure of fear; a visceral, instinctive, primeval animal terror she had never before experienced.

She pulled up short like a horse refusing a jump. “Michael, don’t let me die.”

Ritzik’s voice exploded inside her brain. “Tracy — sit.”

She did as she was told. She felt Ritzik’s body up against hers; felt his legs on her hips, her back against his chest. Well, okay, against his reserve chute. He wouldn’t let her die.

“Tracy, let go of the banisters.”

She hadn’t realized she was holding on to them; holding on for dear life. She tried to let go, but her hands wouldn’t budge.

Ritzik’s gloved hands pried her fingers open one by one. “Make fists,” he commanded.

She obeyed the voice in her brain, cursing her damnable instinctive compliance. And then his hands grasped the banister, and he was tight against her and he was pushing and pushing and all the while her legs were pumping, too, except she was trying to go backward, not forward. And then his arms were wrapped around her so tight she couldn’t budge and all of a sudden they were traveling down the slide going faster and faster and even though there was a huge amount of noise in her ears she could hear her heart pounding even louder than the wind and it was freezing cold and the mask lens began to fog and she started to see spots in front of her eyes and then and then and then Oh … My … God she shot off the end of the slide into the abyss.

14

“Don’t hyperventilate.” That was Mike Ritzik’s voice in her head. He was still there. She was, too.

“Okay, okay, okay.” She struggled to keep her breathing under control.

“Frog position, Tracy — Frog. Help me. Help me.”

Wei-Liu’s scrambled brain searched for input and finally achieved a rough synapsis. She arched her back, extended her arms, bent her knees, and tried to hold her legs apart.

“Good girl.”

Above her, Ritzik’s head turned slightly left so he could read the altimeter dial. He was delighted with how she’d performed, although he wasn’t about to say anything right now. She hadn’t panicked, causing the pair of them to tumble, or worse, go into a flat spin. And although he could feel her trembling under him, she was performing like a trouper — or more to the point, like a trooper. Even in the freezing air he could sense the warmth of her body pressed close up against him.

He felt Wei-Liu shift slightly. He used his thighs to keep her exactly where she was. Movement was dangerous. They were still well above terminal velocity — the maximum constant miles-per-hour rate for a falling object — because the plane’s forward speed had thrust them into the sky at more than 200 miles an hour. They would have to fall more than 2,500 feet before their airspeed would drop to 125 miles per hour—180 feet per second — at which point it would be safe to deploy the parachute.

They’d left the plane at twenty-seven thousand five and would open at twenty-five thousand. That gave them about twelve seconds of total free fall.

Trying to maintain the arched, Frog stable-flight position, Wei-Liu wasn’t sure she’d live that long.

Ritzik took a look at his compass. They were still heading due east. “I’m going to turn us to the south.”

No one had told her how to make turns in free fall. “What do I do?”

“Hold your position. Don’t change a thing.”

Above her, Ritzik bent his torso and head to the right, brought his left arm six inches closer to his body, and extended his right arm out by six inches.

The pair of them glided laterally and to the right for two seconds, and sixty degrees, then Ritzik straightened his body and arms out, resuming the stable free-fall position. “Good.”

He checked the altimeter again. Twenty-five thousand eight hundred feet. Four seconds until deployment.

“Steady — we’re ready to deploy.”

His right arm moved toward the rip-cord handle. Simultaneously, he extended his left arm over his head and drew his legs up farther, in order to keep them from toppling into a head-down position or barrel-rolling to the right. Ritzik peered down to where the main rip-cord handle sat in its pocket, making visual contact. Then he extended his left arm forward, simultaneously reaching his right hand down toward the handle, careful to stay away from the oxygen hose. On Ritzik’s first HAHO night-combat-training jump — from 17,500 feet — he’d been so pumped up he’d reached down without looking, grabbed his O₂ hose instead of the rip-cord handle, and yanked the frigging thing right out of its socket. By the time he’d cleared 10,000 feet, he’d damn near had a case of hypoxia.

His gloved hand closed around the handle, and in one fluid motion he unseated it and pulled it from the rip-cord pocket. Now both his arms were fully extended in a forward position, and he glanced upward, over his right shoulder, to make sure his canopy was deploying.

When Ritzik pulled the rip cord, it yanked a pin on the chute assembly, releasing a pilot chute bridle, which opened its flaps and launched upward. The bridle’s release extracted the deployment bag from the main container, which in turn unstowed the suspension lines from their retainer bands. When the suspension lines were fully extended, they pulled the main chute from the deployment bag, the sail slider was driven downward toward the risers, and the big Ram Air cells began to inflate.

This, Wei-Liu thought as the harness cut into her and she jerked upward, must be what a head-on collision feels like. Her downward speed went from terminal velocity—125 miles an hour — to 18 miles an hour in less than four seconds. The G-force was incredible — it was like being dropped through the trapdoor of a gallows. Her head was yanked backward. Her arms flailed helplessly. She closed her eyes tight and screamed into her mask.

And then, as quickly as it had all happened, it was over. She felt herself dangling, pendulumlike, in the air, the soles of her boots parallel to the ground. Tentatively, she opened her eyes and dared to breathe. She actually pinched herself to make sure she was still alive. Wei-Liu looked up past Ritzik and saw the huge rectangle of the Ram Air chute, its cells filled with air, above her head. “We made it,” she said. “We actually made it.”

Ritzik’s body ached in every joint from the big chute’s opening shock. But there was no time to think about pain. He pulled the extended steering toggles from the brake loops and released the control lines. He raised his head and looked at the big canopy above them again, double-checking to ensure it was fully inflated.

Wei-Liu’s voice was hyperexcited. “Oh, Mike—”

“Quiet.” Ritzik didn’t want to talk right then. There was too much to do. He was already scanning a three-sixty, as well as up and down, while straining to listen for canopy chatter just in case they’d deployed dangerously close to another jumper.

It was unlikely. The Yak had been flying at just over two hundred miles an hour. That speed translated to three and a half miles per minute. In a normal HAHO insertion, jumpers would either leave the plane at one-second intervals, or jump as a group, depending on the aircraft type. Tonight, they’d had to use a slide for the covert operation. Moving as quickly as they could, they’d still taken five to six seconds each to jump. It was easy — and depressing — to do the numbers. Twelve jumpers times six seconds exit time per jumper equaled seventy-two seconds. At 210 miles an hour, the Yak was traveling 3.5 miles every sixty seconds, 308 feet per second. A six-second interval would separate each jumper by 1,848 feet. Multiply that by twelve jumpers, and Ritzik’s crew was separated by more than four miles of dark, uncharted sky. Even forming up was going to make for problems.

He reached up and removed the tape from his night-vision device, flipped it down, and turned it on so he could pick out the infrared flashers on his men’s helmets. He scanned — and saw nothing.

Ritzik switched the secure radio to the predetermined inflight frequency. “Skyhorse leader. Respond-respond.”

He listened — and heard nothing but white sound. Not only were they separated by distance and altitude — now the goddamn multimillion-dollar satellite radio system wasn’t working. He cursed silently at the crackling circuitry.

Then he heard Rowdy’s familiar growl, stepped on by Bill Sandman’s.

Ritzik used his upwind toggle to turn the canopy in a tight circle. He would repeat this maneuver until the rest of his team assembled around him. As he pulled on the handle, he heard a partial transmission. “Sk — c.”

Ritzik held steady and broadcast again. “Skyhorse leader — repeat.”

“Shep confirms.”

“Goose confirms.”

“—z confirms.”

“Skyhorse leader. Repeat-repeat.”

“Skyhorse leader — Doc confirms.”

Followed by white sound. Then: “Tuzz confirms.”

And right on top of that, “Mickey D confirms.”

That was seven.

“Curt confirms.”

Eight.

The altimeter on Ritzik’s wrist read 25,300 feet. He was moving in a slight updraft. He adjusted his toggles to increase his speed and descend.

“TV confirms.”

Nine.

One to go. “Skyhorse leader — Barber-Barber.”

Suspended below Ritzik, Wei-Liu saw one, then two other chutes, even though she wasn’t wearing night-vision. They, like she and Ritzik, were circling. And then she felt Ritzik adjust the toggles, and the big sail above their heads swung them around, and she watched as the other parachutes began to adjust their positions.

She strained to look up at Ritzik. She couldn’t hear him because her headset was tuned to another frequency.

Ritzik was oblivious to her. “Rowdy — repeat.” He was trying to hear Rowdy Yates, but the frigging transmission kept fading out.

“Repeat.”

“ … caught u…”

Who? What? Where?

“Repeat.”

“Stick … came … Un … down.”

Dammit. “Repeat-repeat-repeat.”

And then, just as inexplicably as the net had decided to stop working, Rowdy’s voice suddenly blew five-by-five into his headphones. “ … went out just ahead of me. The Yak hit an air pocket — real bad buffeting for five, six seconds, boss. He bounced off the slide into the stairway header — slammed him hard — then he was gone.”

Ritzik said: “Skyhorse leader. Did you see a chute?”

“Negative-negative. But I was busy fighting the vibration and turbulence trying to get myself out alive.”

“You okay?”

“I got smacked pretty good, but I’ll live.”

Ritzik knew it was altogether possible that Barber’s automatic rip-cord release had deployed at twenty-five hundred feet even though the man was unconscious. “Skyhorse leader. Anybody see Barber’s chute deploy?” Ritzik waited for answers. But deep inside he knew there would be no responses. And to confirm what he knew, all he heard was white noise.

This was not good. Todd Sweeney was one of the element’s two snipers. He also had been carrying two of the five Chinese claymores they’d brought, along with two spools of firing wire and two firing devices. And six hundred precious rounds of ammunition. Yes, the man had left a wife behind. And parents, both still alive. And two gorgeous kids — Ty Weaver was their godfather. But there’d be time to mourn him later. Right now all Ritzik could think about was how to compensate for one less shooter on the ground. One less weapons system. Fifty percent of the sniping team, and — most critical — the suppressed MSG90 sniper’s rifle. Doc Masland was every bit the shooter Barber Sweeney was. But Sweeney’d been carrying the big HK rifle. That was the other fatal loss.

In a night ambush, the sniper’s role was critical. They’d pick off the drivers before the bad guys even knew they were being attacked. Ritzik had learned this in Kosovo, where he’d used his sniping team to take down a heavily armed convoy belonging to a group of Serb paramilitary goons known as Arkan’s Tigers. There were ten trucks in the Tiger column. By the time the Serbs realized what was happening, Ritzik’s snipers had already head-shot eight drivers. Two trucks overturned, the Serbs panicked, and Ritzik’s fourteen-man element had been able to take an entire company-sized unit out of action and turn it over to NATO.

Tonight, Ritzik needed not only to stop the tango convoy, he would require at least three of its vehicles to make his escape. That was the genius of using two snipers with their silenced weapons, as opposed to claymores. But with only one long gun now available, the situation was going to become far more dicey.

Plus this nasty possibility: given the omnipresence of Mr. Murphy on the op, it was not inconceivable that Barber Sweeney’s body would drop right on top of some effing PLA general. The Chinese could very well know they had visitors hours before Ritzik’s element was even on the ground. That prospect, Ritzik understood all too well, was not good juju.

“Skyhorse leader.” Gene Shepard’s voice forced him to focus on the here and now.

“Skyhorse leader sends.”

“We are forming on you.”

Ritzik illuminated his GPS screen, took a reading, called out his position, and asked for a verbal confirmation that they’d all received it so they could assemble. The infrared chem-sticks on Wei-Liu’s legs would help them see him as he circled. He checked his elapsed-time readout and cursed. They hadn’t even begun yet, and they were already running behind schedule.

Since it was dark, they’d be flying a trail formation. In daylight, Ritzik preferred a wedge, with the element spread out at seventy-five-foot intervals in a broad spear tip. But at night, a wedge was problematic. Jumpers could miss the wide, echelon turns and go astray. And so they’d form up single file. Since he was the slowest, given the tandem chute, he would take point. They’d be an eleven-car freight train, with Ritzik as the engine, Rowdy as the caboose, and the others in predetermined positions in between.

Ritzik blinked twice, sucked some O₂, and scanned through his NV, counting the flat Ram Air chutes as they banked into a line behind him. He verified the heading on the GPS unit strapped to his wrist and checked the elapsed-time display. When he was satisfied that everyone was there he called out the element’s initial flight heading and asked for verbal confirmation. After he’d received ten wilcos, he used the Ram Air’s toggles to adjust his trim and bank gently southeast.

As soon as he’d confirmed his heading, he set the lap timer so the leg could be measured, rolled his shoulders, which were sore as hell given the weight he was carrying, then switched his comms package to the radio frequency Wei-Liu could hear. “This is your pilot, Johnny Cool, speaking from the flight deck. We’re expecting smooth sailing all the way to Las Vegas, but please keep your seat belts fastened anyway. The steward will be around with liquid refreshments in just a few minutes. Have a nice day.”

Hanging there helpless, suspended five miles above the earth, and still more than an hour away from landing, Wei-Liu wished Ritzik hadn’t just used the word liquid.

Sam Phillips groaned and blinked a puffy right eye. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hurt. He looked over at X-Man and Kaz’s inert forms and realized they were screwed. Pure and simple. And they’d done it to themselves. No. That was not correct. He was the guilty party. He’d screwed everybody. After all, he was in charge. They should have tried to make their break earlier. He should have had the balls to insist, the audacity to make a decision and act on it. Because he’d just fought his way to the canvas and taken a peek — and what had been a mile-wide lake was now little more than a hundred yards wide. No cover. No concealment. Nothing but sandy marsh. It looked like the southern Virginia bog where he’d taken the CIA’s landnavigation course. In which, he remembered ruefully, he hadn’t done very well.

At the time he’d rationalized his dismal performance because he was a city boy. He’d grown up in Chicago, where his father was a stockbroker and his mother stayed at home to raise him and his two sisters. He’d never done the Boy Scout thing, or asked to be taken camping, preferring Soldier’s Field and skiing trips to Aspen to neckerchiefs, poison ivy, and hobo stoves. But right now, realizing how badly he’d screwed up, he wished he’d paid more attention to the instructors at the Farm when they’d tried to inculcate the Ways of the Wild in him.

The way Sam saw things, they had two alternatives. The first was to make a break for it tonight. The Tarim Basin was basically an egg-shaped oval, 650 miles long and 275 miles wide. They hadn’t yet traversed the basin’s western border, which was a wide, well-traveled highway that ran from Kashgar, on the western edge, to Yarkant Köl, in the southwest. But they were close — Sam had spent the past hour guesstimating how far and how fast they had come in the past three days. If they could make it to the highway, he was even willing to risk contact with PLA troops. After all, their documents were in order.

Well, that might be a problem. They didn’t have any documents — Mustache Man had their passports and wallets. But Sam and his team had been duly vetted when they’d crossed the border. So they were official. They could bluff their way through. Of course, if the Chinese called the British consul general to come and get them, they’d be in the proverbial deep du-du, because Sam was pretty certain that Langley hadn’t informed the cousins, as MI-6 was known, of SIE-l’s existence.

So Plan One was to make a break for it tonight, try to flag down a PLA unit, and ask for help. But Sam knew the odds of Plan One working were slim to none. That left Plan Two. Plan Two would be to wait until they were well along the narrow, rutted trail leading across the mountains to Tajikistan and then escape. After all, there was nothing so invigorating as a fifty-mile hike through twenty-thousand-foot-high mountain passes, with a bunch of well-armed, pissed-off guerrillas in hot pursuit.

But there was an upside to Plan Two. When Sam had departed Dushanbe two and a half years previously, he’d left a small but productive agent network in place. One of his principal agents, Halil Abdullaev, was the muktar of Tokhtamysh, a small Tajik settlement where the Soviets had once based a parachute battalion.

Tokhtamysh sat astride two barely traversable smugglers’ roads, one leading east through the Sarkolsk Mountains sixteen kilometers to the Chinese border, the other south across the Pamirs to Afghanistan. From its strategic location Halil — and therefore Sam — had been able to monitor narcotics shipped to the West from Afghanistan, and the weapons that were smuggled back across the border. From Tokhtamysh, he tracked Uighur infiltrators coming from China to join up with their al-Qaeda allies in the Stans, and IMU terrorists moving in the opposite direction to stage raids in Xinjiang Autonomous Region.

If they could reach Tokhtamysh and Sam could find Halil, he’d pay his old agent to smuggle them to the American embassy in Dushanbe. Sam realized Plan Two was also somewhat far-fetched and prone to lead to disappointment. But frankly, it was all he could come up with right now.

Whichever option he decided to go with, there was one constant: before they left, he’d find some way of disabling or booby-trapping the nuke. And the way Sam felt right now — which bordered on clinical depression — he wouldn’t give much of a damn if the frigging thing went off, either.

15

Ritzik realized that the Universe had shifted, and the laws of nature obviously weren’t working anymore. At least, not for him. Yes, it was dark — the moon was in its waning eighth. And it was inhumanly cold — his fingers were numb and he couldn’t feel his toes anymore. But, to get to the point, Rowdy had promised nighttime mountain breezes. Tailwinds, to speed them on their way. And yet, according to his lap timer and the GPS unit, he was currently being assailed by daytime valley breezes. Head winds.

This glitch was causing the insertion element a thorny logistical problem. The Ram Air parachute glides at a constant ground speed of thirty miles per hour. With a twenty-mile-an-hour tailwind, the airspeed grows to fifty miles an hour. With a twenty-mile-an-hour head wind, however, ground speed is reduced to a mere ten miles an hour. And that’s what Ritzik was currently doing. This meant that instead of reaching the drop zone in an hour and a half, it was going to take almost five hours to cover the same route.

Which would mean they’d arrive at the intercept point an hour after the IMU tangos had passed through it. More bad juju.

And then there were the Chinese. The gate-crashers. Given the way things were progressing, the PLA had already found Barber’s body, checked the coordinates programmed into his GPS unit, and were waiting in ambush for Ritzik’s element to drop into the LZ.

He inhaled a deep, therapeutic breath of O₂ and switched transmission frequencies. “TOC, Skyhorse.”

As if to confirm the complete TARFUness of his mission status, there was no response.

He tried a second time, and a third. Finally, he heard, “Skyhorse, TOC.”

“Sit-rep, Dodger.”

“No changes.”

That was good to hear. “Target?”

“On course. ETA four hours eighteen minutes.”

“Gate-crashers?” Ritzik was desperate for another small shred of good news.

He got it: “Imagery is consistent. No movement at Changii.”

“Skyhorse out.” Ritzik switched to the radio’s insertion-element frequency. “Skyhorse back door.”

“Skyhorse back door.” Rowdy’s growl answered in his ear.

“We’re not making required speed, back door.”

“That’s been factored, leader.”

Ritzik was dubious and said so.

“Patience, grasshopper. Think sniper. Back door sends.”

Ritzik sighed into his mask. He’d always envied the sniper’s mental strength, the capacity to wait, immobile, for hours — days, if necessary — observing the target, waiting for the right moment to make the shot. The ability to do so — in more than a rudimentary way — was beyond him. Oh, he could physically make the shot; that was no problem. The physical requirements of slowing your heart rate and learning how to fire between beats, so bullet placement wouldn’t be affected by your respiration, were technical elements that could be learned. Marksmanship was a frangible skill that required practice, practice, practice. No, it was the mental aspect of the craft, the snipers’ Zen-like ability to get outside their own bodies and look at their environment in a holographic sense, which had always escaped him. And that was what Rowdy’d just been talking about.

His gaze dropped to Wei-Liu, suspended beneath him. He wondered what she was thinking. He tried to speculate how she’d respond when the shooting started, and surprisingly found himself optimistic. If the way she’d come through the jump was any indicator, she’d be all right under fire. He also tried to figure out why she’d agreed to come with them in the first place. It certainly wasn’t going to do her career any good.

Still, the willingness to stick her neck out was something Ritzik appreciated. He himself had come to grips with the fact that he’d probably never make 0–6—colonel — although it would be a disappointment to his family. Ritzik came from a large North Philadelphia family of émigrés — refugees from the abortive pro-democracy Hungarian uprising of 1956. His father, Andy, had been a beat cop for thirty-five years before he’d pulled the pin and retired to the Gulf Coast of Florida in the mid-nineties. The move was well deserved: Andras Ritzik had raised five children alone after his wife died of a stroke at the age of forty-two. And he’d done well as a single parent: Ritzik’s brother Frank was a sergeant on the Philadelphia PD’s SWAT team; elder brothers Andy Junior and Joe were Pennsylvania State Police troopers, and his sister, Julianna, worked as an investigator for the City of Brotherly Love’s district attorney.

Ritzik’s father, who’d never gone above the rank of patrolman, had always wanted to see his firstborn command a battalion or a regiment. But Ritzik knew all too well that promotion these days was based not on the ability to lead, but on the pure Machiavellian cunning to thrive within the backstabbing environment of staff assignments and the willingness to curry favor with paper-warrior generals.

It just wasn’t his milieu. Indeed, Ritzik was considered bureaucratically challenged because he preferred stabbing his people in the front — and with a knife, not a memo. Plus, he had a short fuse. He was undiplomatically blunt. And obviously, he was impolitic: he’d turned down the chance of a lifetime to work on SECDEF’s staff, after which promotion would have been a gimme. Neither was he particularly anxious to attend the National War College, which was where you went if you were fast-tracked for a command billet and a general’s stars. No, Ritzik was a most atypical West Pointer: no eagles or stars in his sights; happy where he was as a junior officer who had the privilege of serving with the finest and most capable Soldiers in the world.

Two years before, when Ritzik told Rowdy he’d just turned SECDEF down, Yates thought over what he’d said for about thirty seconds.

Then the sergeant major spat tobacco juice into his cup, wiped his lower lip, and said, “The way I see it, Loner, the only real difference between a brown nose and a shithead is depth perception — and there are already so many damn officers with depth perception working at the Pentagon they just don’t need you and your twenty/twenty vision screwing up their lives.”

Ritzik shook himself out of his reverie. He checked his timer and GPS unit and discovered much to his amazement that they’d picked up a little speed. The winds actually were shifting. Maybe. Still, he did a little quick mental math and was happy to see that if everything remained constant, they’d reach the LZ in just under three hours. That wasn’t good enough — not by a long shot. But the situation was far better than it had been half an hour ago.

The secure phone on Robert Rockman’s desk was ringing as the secretary came into his hideaway office. He launched himself at the receiver, hit the button, and waited for the green light. “Rockman.”

“This is Captain O’Neill, sir. Signal, please?”

“Skyhorse-Pushpin.”

“Thank you, sir. You were anxious to hear about PLA aircraft movement yesterday. I just picked up something relating to those HIP-? transports out of Beijing. You asked me twice about the choppers and only once about the fighter aircraft, so I figured you had a special interest in keeping ‘eyes on’ the choppers.”

Perceptive fellow, this O’Neill. “Yes?”

“I made some quiet inquiries. DIA reports SIGINT that the choppers have been diverted from their original destinations.”

Rockman wrinkled his brow. “Diverted,” he said.

“Langley had plotted them going to Changii,” O’Neill said. “I know that because of—” He paused. “Well, sir, I just know it from a good source.”

“Go on.”

“The flight plan was changed. The transports are going to Kashgar instead.”

“Kashgar. Gunship cover as well?”

“Affirmative, Mr. Secretary.”

Rockman cursed silently. The shift put the PLA four hundred miles closer to Ritzik’s rescue operation. “Has CIA advised anybody of this?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Do you know why they’ve buttoned up?”

“May I speak with you face-to-face, sir?”

“Come on down.”

As O’Neill came through the door, the secretary could see that he hadn’t been to sleep. The captain said, “I’m sorry for my appearance …”

Rockman waved him off. “Don’t apologize, Hugo. You’ve been crashing. Tell me what’s up.”

“It’s a CIA Charlie Foxtrot, sir, if you’ll pardon my French. Late yesterday, NSA scooped up a series of open telephone calls from Beijing to roughly a dozen commercial satellite imaging companies all around the globe.”

“Yesterday.” That was funny. Rockman remembered Nick Pappas had told the president Beijing had tried to buy one-meter commercial imagery two nights ago. “Are you sure it was yesterday, Hugo — not the day before?”

The captain nodded. “Absolutely, Mr. Secretary.”

“And all of the firms that were contacted — do they sell one-meter-resolution digital satellite imagery?”

“They do, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Beijing asked each company for the precise coordinates in China that had been acquired for exclusive commercial use recently. I’d bet they suspected CIA had purchased a lot of one-meter imagery in the past couple of days in order to keep them blind. I think Beijing — or to be more precise, the Er Bu, China’s foreign intelligence organization — repolled the companies to discover precisely which areas were out of bounds. My guess is that they washed those coordinates through some kind of matrix. Ultimately, it became a process of elimination. From what I’ve been able to ascertain from my sources, when CIA bought up the one-meter imagery, the front companies doing the purchasing didn’t ask for anything except the one precise area Langley wanted to keep the Chinese from seeing.”

Rockman shook his head. “Nick couldn’t be that stupid.” Then he thought about what he’d just said and slammed his palm on his desk. “Oh, yes he could.”

But more to the point, the DCI was covering up his latest gaffe by withholding this critical piece of intelligence. Rockman looked at O’Neill’s haggard face. “Good work, Hugo — you showed real initiative. I owe you a big one.”

He waited until the officer turned and left. Then he hit his intercom button so violently that he snapped it in two. “Get me the president on a secure line — ASAR.”

16

Ritzik nudged Wei-Liu with his left leg and pointed a booted foot groundward. There were sparse lights scattered below. He adjusted his NV and peered down, but he could make out no sign of life other than the half-dozen twinkling lights. They were gliding almost due southeast now, at a ground speed of just over thirty-three miles an hour. Distance to the LZ was 21.6 miles—40.6 minutes of flight time given the current tailwind. He checked the time. It had been eight minutes since the last radio check. He pressed his transmit switch, uneasy until he’d received a verbal confirmation from every member of the element. Navigation on night HAHO operations, he was happy to note, was so much simpler with the GPS units — so long as the damn things worked.

Something that hadn’t changed was the fatigue of long Ram Air glides. Ritzik’s arms were gradually growing sore. Even with the toggle extensions, which allowed him to keep his hands at waist level, maintaining the full-flight position was exhausting after more than half an hour or so. And Ritzik’s arms had been virtually frozen in position for almost an hour.

The slow progress also made him nervous. ETA at the drop zone was now close to twenty-two hundred hours. That would give them little more than two and a half hours to bury the chutes and the rest of their jump equipment and proceed to a rear assembly area, which was more commonly called a LUP, or lay up position. From there, well back from the ambush site, Ritzik’s troops would begin their recon. Once they’d gone over the ground thoroughly and decided just where to hit the convoy, they’d set the explosives and unobtrusively mark their fields of fire. Then the team would withdraw, leaving no sign that they’d been prowling and growling. Finally, long before the enemy was anywhere nearby, the team would conceal themselves and let the ambush site slip back to its uninterrupted nocturnal rhythms — letting the “critters and shitters,” as an old Special Forces master sergeant had once described them to Ritzik, return to normal.

That last element was critical. As a second lieutenant not two years out of West Point, Ritzik had once had occasion to accompany a platoon of General Juan Bustillo’s Salvadoran Special Forces on a mission to capture an elusive, deadly, and particularly nettlesome female FMLN[19] comandante named Nidia Calderon. The team had choppered from the airfield at Ilopango, northeast, into San Vicente Province. There, they fast-roped down into a rugged landscape of ravines and thick brush, to lie in wait alongside a narrow, twisting trail identified by infrared satellite photography as used by the guerrillas to bypass the local army garrison.

Everything had been thought of. An FMLN defector had given Bustillo up-to-the-minute intelligence about Comandante Calderon’s schedule. OPSEC had been achieved by keeping the entire SF company in isolation at Ilopango for the previous forty-eight hours. The local army commander was not informed that the unit would be in his area of operations. The pilot flying the platoon into San Vicente was a Cuban-American retired CIA veteran using the nom de guerre Maximo Gomez. “Gomez” had volunteered his services to General Bustillo to help defeat the Communist insurgents. Gomez hovered his slick as the platoon dropped into the ambush zone in a matter of seconds. Then he quickly flew off to the north.

The Salvadoran Special Forces quickly deployed into their ambush positions and settled down to wait for the comandante and her six escorts. They hadn’t been in position more than fifteen minutes when the FMLN point man slowly worked his way down the trail. Ritzik watched through night-vision goggles as the guerrilla came closer. He was moving very slowly — one step in a minute or so — cautiously examining the trail as he went.

Like a bird dog catching a scent, the guerrilla stopped cold, fifty yards from the ambush site. He didn’t move a muscle. He stood, statuelike, for two minutes. Ritzik watched transfixed as the man’s nostrils actually twitched, his eyes darting as he scanned left, right, and ahead.

And then, the point man slowly, slowly, slowly … backed away. The Special Forces platoon leader, a Salvadoran captain named Lopez, sent his men charging after the guerrillas. But to no avail: the trap had been discovered. Nidia Calderon escaped. And no one could figure out why.

It wasn’t until months later, while talking to a Vietnam-vet master sergeant at Fort Benning, that Ritzik finally understood why the mission had gone south.

The sergeant asked a single question. “How long before the ambush did you set up, sir?”

“A quarter of an hour, Master Sergeant,” Ritzik answered.

“That was it, sir.”

“What was?”

“The platoon leader’s timing, sir. We learned in Vietnam that you gotta set up at least an hour in front of any ambush — longer is better — because it takes that long for the critters and shitters to get back to normal. Think back, sir. Were the birds chirping? Were the bugs buzzing? Were the tree monkeys whoopin’ it up on that trail?”

Ritzik thought long and hard about it. And the answer was no. “But why was the point man’s nose twitching?” he asked. “What was that all about?”

“That, Lieutenant”—the master sergeant’s eyes crinkled—“is a real-life example of the sociocultural aspect of warfare that very few people ever come to appreciate.”

Ritzik was entirely confused, and he said so.

“Think back, Lieutenant. Think hard. What exactly did you smell when you were laying up in that ambush position?”

Ritzik thought for some seconds. “Earth,” he finally said. “A kind of vegetal, rootsy, jungle smell.”

“And that was all.”

“Yup.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant, I am sure. Absolutely certain.”

“Then let’s go back a little further, sir. Back to when you departed Ilopango. Take me through it.”

Ritzik described the sequence. He’d taken his gear and walked to the Op Center, where he’d pored over the map with the platoon leader, double-checking the best insertion and exfil routes.

And then it hit him. Like the proverbial ton of bricks. “Oh, goddamn,” he said, his face lighting up. “That was it.”

“What do you remember, Lieutenant?”

“He was wearing cologne. Lopez — the Special Forces captain. It was sweet, and he wore a lot of it. Most all the Salvadoran officers wore cologne.”

He turned to the master sergeant. “That was it, wasn’t it? The point man smelled Captain Lopez’s aftershave.”

“Lieutenant, if you learn two simple lessons about ambushes, you’re never gonna get caught with your skivvies down. One: give the critters plenty of time to get back to normal before the opposition shows up. And two: leave the Skin Bracer at home.”

Ritzik’s ETA was less than twelve minutes. He and Wei-Liu had pulled off their oxygen masks at 8,500 feet, reveling in the cool night air. Then Ritzik replaced the internal communications hookup with an earpiece and throat mike and ran a quick comms check with the rest of the unit. He was astonished to find the radios were all working properly.

The tailwind had picked up. It was strong enough now — eighteen miles an hour — that the team’s landing would have to include a downwind leg, base leg, and final approach. He checked his altimeter and took a reading off the GPS screen. They were right on course, and descending steadily. At one thousand feet of altitude, he would execute the landing pattern. The rest of the element would come in behind him, each offset and well separated from the others so that the turbulence from their parachutes wouldn’t affect one another’s landings.

Indeed, even now, things could go terribly wrong. A nighttime thermal could lift them willy-nilly thousands of feet above the desert floor. The wind could shift, or increase beyond the twenty-knot maximum for safe landings. Wind shears or microbursts — short-lived downdrafts — could slam the jumpers into the desert floor at fifty miles an hour. A sudden dust devil could corkscrew them into the ground. And then there was ground turbulence. It could be caused by anything from a ragged tree line to a ridge of sand dunes. Ground turbulence was similar in many ways to the roiling air caused by jet aircraft when they take off or land. That powerful vortex behind them can — and sometimes does — cause smaller aircraft following too close behind to invert and crash.

Ritzik could make out the dunes below clearly through his NV. He scanned the area to the southeast. There was scrub brush and more dunes, with an occasional clump of wind-stunted trees. Directly to the south, he picked out an unpaved, rutted road moving almost due east-west. That would be the smugglers’ track leading from the bridge. He steered slightly south, then turned eastward, flying parallel to the pathway. He’d pick out a landing zone away from the road, far enough from the bridge and causeway so there was no chance they’d be spotted.

Altitude: 1,800 feet. Ritzik adjusted his trim and went to half brakes, decreasing his airspeed to about ten miles an hour but increasing his descent rate. He steered a wide left-hand turn, his altitude dropping quickly now. Now he was flying crosswind. Ahead and below, he could pick out a series of brush-topped dunes. As he crossed over the top of them he could sense a change in the canopy as he hit the mild ground turbulence. He descended to fifteen hundred, fourteen hundred, thirteen hundred feet. Off to his left, half a kilometer away, he picked out the narrow causeway that stretched from the bridge across the soft marsh leading away from the Yarkant Köl. And then he worked the brakes once more and began a wide, flat right hand turn that would take him on the downwind leg of his approach.

Altitude: 1,000 feet and coming down rapidly. Ritzik released the brakes to slow the descent speed. But, with the wind behind him now, his ground speed accelerated. He dropped his arms and slowed down as he brought the parachute into a second right hand turn. Now he was on the base leg. His altitude was about eight hundred feet. He was concentrating now on picking out the best possible landing zone — didn’t want to come down in the marsh, or hit the crest of the dunes. Off to his right, he saw one possibility: a slight depression perhaps two hundred feet across. At its far end was a clump of vegetation; to its left, six hundred feet away, half a dozen ragged, windblown trees.

Altitude: 300 feet. The head wind had picked up. He raised his arms, reducing the brakes. Off to his right was a small row of dunes. The Ram Air canopy reacted, buffeting Ritzik and Wei-Liu.

Altitude: 200 feet. He reached down with his left hand and hit the quick release on his combat pack. It fell away. As it reached the end of its tether, the shock bounced the two of them violently. Then, quickly, he eased both toggles up into the full flight position. Their airspeed quickened, but the rate of descent slowed, giving them a more gentle angle of attack.

Altitude: 60 feet. One hundred yards straight ahead, Ritzik saw that what had appeared from a thousand feet to be a clump of vegetation was in fact a wall of thornbushes perhaps five feet high that crowned the far rim of the depression. They represented instant pain and suffering. He’d flare well in front of them. Wind speed appeared to be constant from the way it was hitting his face.

Ritzik shifted in the harness, flexing his legs. “Stand by. At about fifteen feet I’m going to flare — bring us to a nice, gentle landing. We’ll touch down and walk away as if we were stepping off an escalator.”

Wei-Liu’s head bobbed up and down. “Way to go.”

Altitude: 15 feet. Ritzik eased both of his toggles downward, applying full brakes. The Ram Air slowed to almost a complete stop. Their soles were perhaps ten feet off the ground, when the entire left hand side of the parachute folded in half. “Oh, shit—” Instinctively, Ritzik released the toggles to allow air back into the cells. It didn’t happen and they dropped like rocks.

“Uhhhh.” Wei-Liu went down hard, Ritzik crumpling on top of her like a linebacker. He hit the quick releases and freed himself, then rolled to his right and released the chute straps. He pulled himself onto his knees, then rolled onto his side, pain shooting from his left ankle up his leg.

He crawled back to Wei-Liu and rolled her onto her back. “You okay?”

All she could do was suck air.

Ritzik pulled her harness off and ran his hands over her coveralls. She didn’t wince, so he figured nothing was broken. “Just got the wind knocked out of you,” he said.

A second chute descended rapidly. Wei-Liu watched as it flared, stopped dead in the air; the jumper stepped on to the desert floor as the canopy dropped, deflated, behind him. A third chute appeared out of the darkness. Wei-Liu pulled off her helmet. She could hear the canopies fluttering above.

Ritzik snagged Wei-Liu’s arms and pulled her to her feet. “C’mon,” he said. “We can’t stay in the middle of the LZ — we’ll get somebody killed.”

He pointed at his combat pack. “Grab that, will you?”

He pulled his chute toward him, gathered it up into his arms, and hobbled toward the trees. Fifty feet from the tree line, Ritzik dropped his bundle and sat. Gingerly, he worked his hands around his left ankle. The good news was it wasn’t broken, only sprained. He’d work the pain off. He untied the triple knots on his Adidas, pulled the laces as tight as he could get them to support the ankle, retied his boot, and pulled himself to his feet. “Time to get down to work.”

“Down to work?” Wei-Liu looked at him incredulously. “Major, so far we’ve thrown ourselves out of a perfectly good aircraft, paraglided about sixty miles, and just walked away from a rough landing in hostile territory. Sounds like a pretty full day to me.”

“Does it, now.” Ritzik’s eyes hardened. “Well, that’s just the commute, ma’am. The easy part. The part we do before breakfast. We haven’t begun the real work yet.”

17

As soon as the entire element was on the ground, Ritzik tried to check in with the TOC. But the frigging radios weren’t send/receiving on any frequency except the close-range, insertion-element comms channel. Curtis Hansen tried to pull a satellite signal from the TOC on his laptop, but all the damn thing pulled in was static. The one piece of satcom gear still operational was the feed of the convoy’s position displayed on the tiny screen of Ritzik’s Blackberry PDA. It was still moving north alongside the Yarkant Köl.

As the element blacked out their faces with multicolored cammo cream and pulled on the Russian anoraks and dark knit caps, Ritzik did the math on the coordinates. He put the ETA at the bridge in just over two hours — the clock was really ticking now. Ritzik decided he’d worry about the comms later. Right now they had to cover just over a kilometer and a half of road — about a mile — and set the ambush. They’d leave Mickey D and Wei-Liu at the LUP.[20] The pair of them could spend their time concealing the jump gear. Maybe the chopper pilot could get the radios to work.

2220. The approach to the road was slow going — slower than Ritzik might have wanted. That was because the sand was soft, and even though the LUP was far removed from the ambush site, Ritzik wasn’t about to leave tracks that could be seen after the fact. And so, with Gene Shepard on point, the nine-man element carefully picked its way foot by foot from the LUP across three hundred yards of rolling dunes, camouflaging their boot prints as they moved, then turned east onto the washed-out, rutted smugglers’ road leading to the western end of the narrow causeway.

Roads made Ritzik nervous. You were exposed and vulnerable out in the open. Noise discipline was also a problem, especially when the unit was carrying heavy equipment — as this one was. But there was no choice now. Either he used the road, or he spent valuable time trying to cover up all those easily identifiable tracks in the soft sand. He concentrated on moving as quietly as possible, running what-if scenarios through his head as he put one boot in front of the other.

What would they do if the convoy showed up early? What would they do if they came across a shepherd? What would they do if a group of smugglers or an uninvolved civilian drove up the road? That had actually happened during Delta’s first mission, the attempted rescue of the American hostages in Tehran, back in April 1980. Within literal seconds of the assault element’s arrival on an allegedly isolated stretch of Iranian desert where no one ever went, three vehicles — a busload of civilians, a gasoline tanker, and an old pickup truck — all drove past the site. Result: instant FUBAR — anda compromised mission. The lesson learned? Plan for all contingencies. Never stop rolling those scenarios in your head.

So Ritzik paid careful attention to possible cover positions and ways to reach them as he moved forward. A branch of the scrub to his left, for example, could be used to mask his footprints as he backed off the road to seek cover behind the boulders thirty feet away, or he could hunker down under the thorny bushes to the east. Fifty, maybe sixty yards off the right side of the road stood a patch of knee-high grass that might provide some camouflage.

Complete concealment wasn’t necessary, either. At night, the best way to keep a man from being seen was by following what the R&E instructors called the Quadruple-S Rule, the four being silhouette, shine, shape, and speed. Don’t silhouette yourself against the horizon; don’t allow any light to shine off you or your equipment; don’t allow the rectangular shape of your equipment to give you away, because there are virtually no naturally square shapes in nature; and don’t move so fast that your enemy’s peripheral vision will pick you up.

The last S-rule was perhaps the most important — and least understood. Without going into the technical elements, the way we see an object at night is different from the way we see that same object during the day. In daylight, light comes into the eye directly, moving from the lens back to the cone cells in the center of the retina. At night, it is our peripheral vision that dominates, because instead of hitting the cone cells of the retina, illumination is picked up by its rod cells, which are grouped around the periphery of the cones. That is why, on night patrol, constant scanning in a figure-eight, as opposed to a straight-on, left/right approach is utilized. At night, by always looking off center, you are much more likely to catch a piece of something than you are by staring straight at it. A quick or jerky motion, therefore, is much more likely to be observed at night because it “reads” more distinctly in a man’s peripheral vision.

2224. From the number two position, Ritzik watched as Gene Shepard worked his way up the road. The point man’s footfalls were absolutely silent, even though the gravel wasn’t being helpful. Sound was a unit’s biggest tactical problem at night. In the old days it had been the ability to see. But with miniaturized thermal imagers and fourth-generation NV readily available, darkness was no longer an impediment. In fact, Ritzik preferred fighting at night because he knew that his equipment was lighter, better, and more sensitive than anyone else’s. But sound and smell were still dead giveaways. Sound and smell told the enemy where you were — even how many of you there were.

At night, every sound is amplified. You can hear the scrape of metal against metal, the rasp of a man clearing his throat, or the click of a loose rock from two hundred yards away. How much smell can affect an operation was something Ritzik had learned in El Salvador. And one immediate result had been that he made sure none of his men ever used any scented products in the field. But there was more: sweat, food, even web gear could actually give a man’s presence away. The odor of a cigarette, for example, can carry as far as a football field if the wind is right.

Eighty yards ahead, Gene Shepard moved slowly, cautiously, deliberately, his suppressed weapon carried in low ready, his trigger finger indexed alongside the receiver, scanning through his NV as he went. He made his way through a slight depression, then inched up the incline on the far side. As he drew closer to the crest, he slowed his pace even more, lowering his body to keep himself from making a silhouette. Finally, he dropped onto the ground and, with his weapon held in both hands, he proceeded at a crawl.

At the ridgeline, the point man froze. After a half minute he clambered slowly backward, below the crown. There, his right arm extended straight from the shoulder, his gloved hand a fist.

The eight others froze where they were. Now Shepard’s thumb extended from his fist — thumb up — and his hand quickly inverted, thumb pointed at the ground.

It was the silent signal for “enemy seen or suspected.”

Ritzik’s hands told the element to deploy to the left side of the road. There was more cover available to the left than to the right. Moreover, splitting the force could prove hazardous if there was any shooting, with the two groups firing directly at each other.

The men moved quickly, camouflaging their footprints with branches as they backed away from the rutted track. Ritzik kept his head up long enough to make sure they’d all cleared. He slid his pistol out of its thigh holster and attached the suppressor to the threaded barrel. Then he settled down behind a clump of bushes perhaps sixty yards off the road and eased the Sig’s hammer rearward. Ty Weaver lay next to him, the dull muzzle of the sniper rifle’s silencer poking through the thorns.

Ritzik pushed the transmit switch on the radio. “Shep — how many?”

“Uno.” Gene Shepard’s whispered voice came back in his ear. “Half a klik away and approaching on foot.”

“Armed?”

“Affirmative.”

They’d have to wait this one out. Ritzik looked at his watch. It was already past the half hour. If they didn’t start setting the ambush by twenty-three hundred…

He didn’t want to think about the consequences.

2229. The double-clicks in Ritzik’s left ear told him the target was getting close. Ritzik couldn’t see him, not yet. But Shep could. And he signaled by hitting his radio transmit twice.

And then … there he was. A lone figure, cresting the rise. Ritzik focused as he drew closer. He was wearing a PLA uniform top and non-descript pantaloon trousers tucked into some sort of calf-high boots. His head was bare, his face framed by a fierce beard and long, matted, unkempt hair. He strode, oblivious to his surroundings, right in the middle of the road. If he was the point man for the convoy, he wasn’t taking the job seriously. His rifle — it looked to be an AK — was slung over his shoulder. The tip of the cigarette dangling in Mr. Oblivious’s mouth recorded as a hot spot in Ritzik’s NV. A cellular telephone was clutched in his right hand. As he came over the crest, he soccer-kicked a stone. He cursed in Uzbek as the damn thing glanced off his toe and skittered only a couple of feet. Then he took a second shot, which sent it ricocheting past Gene Shepard’s nose.

About ten yards over the ridge, Mr. Oblivious stopped long enough to take a huge double drag on his cigarette. He exhaled smoke audibly through his nose, then pulled the butt from between his lips, stared at it quickly, dropped it on the road, and ground it out with the toe of his boot.

Mr. Oblivious walked another twenty-five paces and stopped again. He looked left, then right, as if to make sure there was no traffic coming. Then he strode over the narrow shoulder and marched away from the road, ten yards onto the hard sand of the desert floor, not twenty-five feet from where Ritzik and Ty Weaver lay. He turned his head and checked the road again. And then the son of a bitch set down the AK and the cell phone, unfastened his pantaloons, dropped into a squatting position, and took an Uzbek dump. A noisy Uzbek dump. A smelly Uzbek dump.

He squatted there for about a minute before cleaning himself off. He appeared to be about half clean when the phone rang, and Mr. Oblivious cursed long and loud. Despite the tense situation, Ritzik nevertheless found himself amused that the universal law that governs the timing of unwelcome phone calls worked equally as well in China as it did back Stateside.

Mr. Oblivious snatched the phone off the ground and barked into it.

Ritzik listened. Mr. Oblivious was indeed Uzbek, and he was the convoy’s point man. From the one side of the conversation he heard, Ritzik confirmed Mr. Oblivious had been sent ahead to make sure there was nothing untoward in the bridge and causeway areas. Moreover, the man was obviously dealing with a superior, because while he’d let loose a string of deletable expletives when the phone rang, he was now being deferential. Dutifully, the man reported that everything was clear and safe, and yes, he’d wait to be picked up in a couple of hours.

The conversation lasted less than half a minute. And then, Mr. Oblivious snapped the phone shut, slid it into a pocket, called his boss a less-than-polite name, and finished wiping himself. Then he rubbed his left hand in the sand to clean it, brushed the sand off on the uniform jacket, cleared his nose, adjusted his pantaloons, took half a dozen steps toward the road, dropped into a sitting position, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a cigarette.

Which is when Ritzik shot him. The suppressed round made a soft thwock as it hit Mr. Oblivious square in the back of the head. The Uzbek fell forward without making a sound.

Ritzik scrambled to his feet, covered the fifteen yards between them in less than two seconds, and — careful to select a firing angle from which ricochets wouldn’t pose a hazard to his own people — put two more silenced rounds in the man’s head.

Killing Mr. Oblivious wasn’t something Ritzik had been especially anxious to do. He took no joy in killing. It was an essential part of his job. And he was proficient at it. But the Selection process for Delta was careful to weed out the rogues, the thrill killers, and the sociopaths, who thought that throat-slitting or double-tapping was fun. Still, Ritzik had no hesitation about killing. And he wasn’t about to compromise his mission by wasting time waiting for the Uzbek to finish his cigarette and move on.

He knelt, checked the man for a pulse, and found none. He rolled the corpse over onto its back, stood astride it, searched for documents or any other intel, and came up dry. Mr. Oblivious wasn’t carrying anything — not even an ID.

Ritzik secured his weapon, extracted the cell phone from the dead man’s jacket, switched it off, and dropped it into a pocket. It would be interesting to discover who paid the bills. “Let’s get moving.”

18

As they reached the end of the causeway, Ritzik was pleased to discover that the gap between the concrete surface and the unpaved road was huge — an eight-inch drop from the end of the causeway into an enormous pothole. The literal bump in the road hadn’t shown up on the satellite images. But it was going to force the convoy to slow down precipitously.

Rowdy Yates jogged through the light ground fog the slightly less than half a kilometer to the bridge, carefully paced back, and took Ritzik and Ty Weaver aside. “Change of plans. You initiate on ‘Two — just like always.’ But you hit the lead truck first.” Yates looked at Ritzik. “Time your countdown so Ty can shoot just as Truck One comes off the causeway. It’ll bottleneck the others. They won’t know what’s happening in the back of the column until it’s too late. I’ll set the claymores off and you’ll be picking ‘em off from the rear like Gary Cooper in the old Sergeant York movie.”

The sniper snorted. “Promise it’ll be that easy, Rowdy?” “On my word.” Yates held up his right hand, palm raised. “Oh, by the way, I got some lovely waterfront property to sell you right outside Mazār-e Sharīf.”

“And you’ll respect me in the morning, too, right?” Ty started walking to the rear to search out a shooting position.

Yates gestured toward the causeway. “Setting those claymores is gonna cause us a headache or two, boss.”

Ritzik nodded. “I saw.” The trouble lay in the narrowness of the causeway. The Chinese claymores had an effective range of roughly two hundred meters. But they were most deadly when the target was within a sixty-meter cone. The problem was that the concrete sides of the causeway were just over three feet high, and the causeway itself was more than ten feet above the marsh. The precise measurements had been impossible to gauge from the satellite images. It was going to be unworkable to position the claymores where he’d wanted to, because the causeway sidewall would mask too much of the blast.

Oh, the situation could be remedied. But it was going to take precious time to camouflage the damn things and hide the firing wire. Ritzik shook his head, disgusted. “Do what you have to. They’re critical.”

2316. The firing positions were going to be problematic, too. The marsh was soft — and much deeper than expected. That was the trouble with technical intelligence: it could give you just partial information. Nothing was as good as an old-fashioned, eyes-on recon. An old-fashioned, eyes-on recon would have shown what Ritzik and his team discovered in a matter of minutes: there were fewer cover and concealment possibilities than they would have liked.

But the downside came with an upside: there was no easy avenue of escape for the bad guys, either. The ambushed tangos would have to try to flee by jumping off the causeway into the marsh — where they’d be killed quickly. Or, they’d try to push forward onto the roadway, where Ritzik’s second element would cut them to pieces. Once the convoy was stopped, it could be decimated. Terrorists seldom practiced vehicular counterambush drills. And at 2340, Ritzik got another piece of good news: Rowdy, Goose, and Shep had solved the claymore situation. They’d camouflaged the devices and set them so the deadly cones of the blasts would broadside directly into the last three trucks in the column, the shaped charges killing most of those inside.

2325. Ritzik called back to the LUP. He’d need Mickey D’s firepower. And he wanted Wei-Liu close by, to work on the MADM as soon as the killing zone was safe.

2345. Now came the hard part: the waiting. The ambushers had laid themselves out in a modified letter L. Rowdy, Shepard, Masland, Curtis, and Goose were strung out in the marsh shallows by the western end of the causeway, concealed by the patchy fog and clumps of saw grass. The other five were split: Ritzik, Ty Weaver, and Mickey D on the right side of the road; Tuzz and Sandman on the left, to deal with any tangos who tried to flank from behind. The element’s fields of fire were marked by IR chem-lights.

Rowdy Yates ran the marsh-side group — and controlled the claymore detonators. Ritzik and Mickey D had the road — positioned close enough to be able to engage the first vehicles close-quarters. Ty Weaver had the high ground. He lay concealed atop a small dune at an oblique angle to the convoy’s path. The position would afford the sniper a panoramic view and a protected shooting site that allowed him to engage targets anywhere along the convoy. Well behind him, hidden by a dune, Ritzik stashed Wei-Liu, with instructions not to show herself until he or Weaver came for her.

0006. The ambushers could hear the tangos coming a long time before they actually saw them — even with the NV. The diesel trucks’ rumbling carried a long way in the still night air. Ritzik snorted. No need to worry about critters and shitters tonight, not with all that racket. He glanced skyward and was relieved to see opaque clouds moving from west to east. That was good, too. It cut back on the possibility of ambient light reflecting off the fire teams.

0008. The convoy was turning onto the bridge. Ritzik could listen as the drivers downshifted, transmissions whining, motors growling. And now he made out the lead vehicle — the 4x4—as it started across the bridge, moving herky-jerky, only its yellow running lights illuminated. Truck Number One followed six or seven yards behind — close enough so that he could pick up two human silhouettes behind its windshield. The other trucks followed closely, too. Ritzik bit his upper lip. It was textbook. Absofrigging textbook. He glanced to his right. He sensed Ty Weaver’s breathing modulate as the sniper zeroed in on his targets.

0008:24. Now the lead vehicle passed the rear infrared marker. The countdown was starting. There was a sudden, painful twinge in the lower part of Ritzik’s gut. This was normal: his customary physical reaction to the vacuum before action. All the planning, all the options, all the scenarios had been sucked out of him. He was dry.

0008:40. The second two 4x4s crossed the bridge. There was nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said, nothing more to be adjusted, fixed, fine-tuned.

0008:49. The number six truck pulled onto the bridge. Either the plan was going to work, or it wasn’t. But since wasn’t wasn’t an option, he would have to make it work. They would all have to make it work. This was when everything came down to FIDO. Fuck it—drive on.

0009. The first three trucks moved onto the causeway, followed by the two 4x4s. Ritzik could hear the suspensions creak as the vehicles came forward.

0009:38. The rear trio of trucks crossed the narrow bridge, passed the outer infrared marker, and crowded, pachydermlike, trunk to tail, onto the causeway. He pressed his transmit button. “I have control.” And as quickly as it had come over him, the butterflies, the uncertainties, the doubts all vanished.

Indeed, it was now, during these final instants before he attacked his target, that an extraordinary, ethereal calmness washed over Ritzik. “Execute in ten …” In the brief hiccup of time before Execute! Execute! he became one with all the other Warriors who ever lived. “Nine … “ One with Joshua, waiting to attack Jericho. “Eight … “ One with Odysseus, sitting silent with his Warriors in the huge, hollow wooden horse outside the walls of Troy. “Seven… “ One with Major Robert Roger and his green-clad Rangers in the French and Indian Wars. “Six …” One with Stonewall Jackson at Manassas. “Five …” One with the Second Ranger Battalion — the Boys of Pointe du Hoc — on D day. “Four …” One with Colonel Henry Mucci at Cabanatuan. “Three …” One with the First Division Marines at Chosin Reservoir. “Two — sniper shoot …” One with Captain Dick Meadows in Banana One, the lead chopper closing in on Son Tay prison camp. “One. One with Randy Shughart and Gary Gordon in the bloody streets of Mogadishu.

In his split second of oneness with history’s men o’ warsmen, Ritzik understood that tonight he would win, overcome, persevere, and ultimately prevail. “Execute! Execute!”

Minus four seconds. Ty Weaver’s brain scrolled the sniper’s mental checklist. Correct body position — check. Don’t cant the weapon — check. Good breathing. Rifle butt tight against shoulder with no straps or web gear in the way. Perfect spot weld. Consistent eye relief. Correct sight picture. Trigger control. Precise point of aim. Follow-up shots planned.

Minus two seconds. Weaver’s first shot slapped the truck driver’s head back against the rear window of the cab. The man was dead by the time he impacted the glass. The sniper swung the scope to the left. Damn—the tango riding shotgun had dropped out of sight. But there was no time to worry about it. Fighting adrenaline, concentrating on keeping his breathing even and his heartbeat steady and slow, he panned the long gun to the right, and found his third target: the driver of the number two truck.

Minus two seconds. Rowdy Yates moved the safety bail on his claymore firing device from the safe to the armed position. The third truck — the one with the prisoners and the device — was almost clear of the mines’ conical killing zone.

Minus one second. Weaver put the HK’s crosshairs on the man’s upper lip and squeezed the trigger. His ten-power nightscope was sensitive enough that he could make out the fine mist of blood and brain matter as the tango’s head dropped out of sight.

Weaver’s crosshairs found the second man in the cab. The tango was wild-eyed, confused. He was reaching out to help his buddy when Weaver’s third shot in less than two seconds caught him in the left eye. Now the big rifle moved again, Weaver’s crosshairs searching for the driver of the number six truck. As they found the point between his eyebrows, the three claymores went off simultaneously. There was no discernible reaction from the sniper as Weaver’s index finger tightened around the HK’s trigger.

The huge explosions sent them sprawling. Sam Phillips screamed, “Jeezus H. Christ — hit the deck.”

The heavy truck shuddered, staggered as if it had been hit by a wrecking ball. It was the whole goddamn Chinese Army — had to be. Automatic weapons opened up — a deafening, freaking barrage of mayhem. He heard the concussive explosions of grenades or mortars. Sam could see the trucks behind them exploding right through the canvas — the yellow flames were that bright. There was screaming everywhere. He rolled onto his right side, yanking X-Man with him. “Kaz — get X’s knife — now. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here before the sons of bitches kill us along with the rest of them or blow up the goddamn bomb.”

“Yo, Sam.” Kaz snaked across the rough wood. X-Man stretched his leg out. Kaz scrunched around and pulled the small composite blade out from behind the security man’s boot top. Quickly, he cut Sam’s arms free. Sam grabbed the blade. He cut the bonds that pinioned X-Man’s arms.

But then the truck lurched, and the knife fell out of his grasp and skittered across the rough wood of the bed. “Shit. X—”

X-Man dove after the blade as another explosion shook the truck and rounds smacked dangerously close by.

The truck pitched forward, knocking them ass over teakettle as it—smack-rear-ended the vehicle in front of them and stalled out.

“Jeezus—Sam—”

Sam looked in the direction of Kaz’s voice. “Holy shit.”

The nuke had broken loose from its moorings. It began to totter. Mindless of the gunfire, the three men struggled to their feet and pressed up against the MADM, trying to hold it steady against the cab end of the truck bed before it fell and crushed them all.

“C’mon, goddammit.” Sam thrust his shoulder up against the nuke. Outside, the firing was deafening — long bursts; short bursts; grenades; shouts. Sam could hear rounds p-p-pinging off the metal of the vehicles. There were other explosions. And more screams.

They finally wedged the nuke tight against the front bulkhead. Sam could sense the crate was stable. “X,” he shouted over the gunfire, “get the knife. We’ll hold this thing steady.”

Ritzik’s voice in Rowdy’s earpiece: “Execute! Execute!” The sergeant major’s hand closed around the firing trigger and pressed down evenly, just as the four men spread out beside him opened up on the convoy.

The mines caught the fourth and fifth trucks and the middle 4x4 in a perfect and deadly broadside. Screams erupted as the steel fragments found their targets through the thin sidewalls and canvas.

Rowdy pulled the pin on the grenade in his left hand, let the spoon fly, and then lobbed the device in a long arc at the rear of the sixth truck. The grenade gone, he shouldered his AK and raked the kill zone.

Goose’s RPG caught the third truck dead center. He could see body parts fly as the rocket grenade exploded. The second RPG caught truck number four. Almost immediately, both caught fire. Using AKs and grenades, Rowdy’s shooters took down the tangos as they tried to scramble to safety.

Mike Ritzik didn’t have time to notice Rowdy’s success. He and Mickey D were too busy trying to kill the occupants of the first two vehicles, who were being highly uncooperative.

The 4x4’s driver had obviously dropped onto the floor, because Ritzik couldn’t see anybody in the vehicle but the Toyota was moving straight forward, jouncing on the rutted roadway. Obviously, the tango inside was steering blind. But he was doing a good job of it. He was almost parallel to Ritzik’s position, and gaining speed.

Ritzik came up off the ground to get a better angle, and saw muzzle flash from the vehicle. Bright yelloworange-white death. And then, things slowed down, almost as if time were standing still. He could sense the rounds coming at him in slo-mo. He pancaked. Rolled to his left as sand kicked up all around him. He fired back: one-two-three quick bursts of suppressive fire. Real time resumed. Crawling on hands and knees, he scurried around the berm and put a second series of five-round bursts through the Toyota’s door. But the goddamn 4x4 took the licking and kept on ticking. Not good. He yelled at Mickey D: “Shoot at the tires—”

Too late. The 4x4 was out of range. Now the big truck loomed into Ritzik’s sight picture, the top of the driver’s head visible. Ritzik fired. Glass shattered. But the truck kept going. Ritzik and Mickey D loosed a series of long bursts as the cab drew even. They could see the profile of the driver, head lolling against the broken window.

Ritzik head-shot the man. But he didn’t move. He just kept driving. He was a goddamn bullet sponge.

And then Ritzik realized what was happening. The driver was dead. Ty had killed the son of a bitch. The second man in the cab was using the corpse as a shield. Where the hell was an RPG when you needed one? Ritzik’s bolt locked back. He dropped the empty mag out, slapped a new one into the mag well, and raked the canvas-covered truck bed.

But the big vehicle kept going forward. Gaining speed. Moving out of range.

“Boss—” Mickey D’s voice in his ear.

Ritzik spun around.

“Third truck.”

Ritzik saw. A knot of hostiles were crawling, shielded by the causeway sidewall, working their way toward the number three truck. The one with the hostages.

His AK came up, front sight on the leader. He put a three-shot burst into the sumbitch. One down.

From Ritzik’s right, Mickey D emptied a full mag at the tangos. The muzzle flash from the AK was blinding. “Fire discipline, Mickey,” Ritzik screamed at the pilot. He blinked, trying to regain any semblance of night vision. Jeezus. He aligned the AK’s front sight and squeezed off a quartet of three-shot bursts at the advancing tangos.

Two of them managed to crawl to the rear of Truck Three. Ritzik saw a grenade. “Ty — your twelve-thirty.”

“Roger.” The sniper brought his muzzle up. Found the target. Squeezed the trigger. The grenade rolled under the truck and exploded.

Ritzik spoke coolly into the throat mike. “Rowdy, Shep — one-two-three-four hostiles — rear of truck three.”

“Roger, Loner. We’ll take the truck and hostages.”

19

Sam was screaming, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon — don’t let it tip.”

And then the corner of the rear flap was pulled aside. A bearded face. An arm. A gun. “Jeezus — X,” Sam yelled.

As the gunman’s eyes tunneled on Sam and Kaz, X-Man reached across, grabbed the man’s gun arm, and slammed it down onto the tailgate. The gunman screamed. The revolver went skittering across the truck bed.

X-Man leveraged himself out of his kneeling position and, without letting go the terrorist’s arm, took him by the hair and yanked the man inside the truck.

“Don’t let the bomb fall,” Sam screamed. He let go of the crate and dove for the gun.

X-Man and the terrorist were struggling, arms and legs thrashing. Sam thought he saw the pistol on the truck bed. Then the two men rolled on top of the weapon.

“Sam—” Kaz’s voice. “Jeezus, the bomb.”

Sam launched himself at the nuke.

“Ungghs.” X-Man sensed the pistol underneath his kidneys. But there was no way to get his hands on it. He was otherwise engaged. The son of a bitch was strong. Wiry. He stank, too. Urine, feces, sweat, garlic; a whole panoply of Uzbek aromas.

X-Man tried to roll the Uzbek over so he could get on top and strangle the sumbitch. But he couldn’t get any traction, couldn’t get any leverage. The guy was a natural grappler. That made him dangerous.

Shit — from the way they were moving, X was pretty certain the Uzbek had felt where the pistol was, and he was gonna try for it. Not good.

X-Man broke free and chopped the little bastard upside the head. He heard something crack. He hoped he’d done some damage.

But not enough. The Uzbek’s hand slipped away, out of his grip. Slammed up, choked him around his throat. Tried to crush his windpipe. Gasping, X-Man slipped an arm inside and broke the grip. Kneed the sucker in the balls.

Kaz screamed, “X — the knife…”

The Uzbek reacted to Kaz’s voice — dropped his guard for just a millisecond.

It was all the opening the security man needed. His fingers found the terrorist’s eyes and raked them. He slammed the terrorist’s ears. He hammered the side of the man’s face again, this time audibly breaking the bone at the outside of the eye.

“Knife? Where?” X-Man looked around, wild-eyed.

He smashed the guerrilla’s head onto the truck bed and then, using every bit of strength he could summon, he drove his forearm into the man’s Adam’s apple and pressed down with his entire body weight.

The Uzbek fought back. Managed to put his fist in X-Man’s face. But the American held on.

Kaz shouted, ‘Tailgate, Sam. Get the knife!”

Sam saw it. Saw it. He launched himself. Grabbed the handle. Thought about using it on the Uzbek, but was afraid he’d kill X-Man.

He scrambled toward where X-Man and the guerrilla were still wrapped up.

Sam’s boot found the Uzbek’s rib cage. “Uhhhh!” Sam thought about Dick Campbell and took a second, more savage shot that caught the Uzbek in the head. The Uzbek thrashed wildly, bucking and screaming.

The gun. The gun. Sam saw the barrel poking out under the Uzbek’s rib cage. He forgot about the knife and dropped onto the truck bed, one fist smashing at the terrorist, his other hand probing, until he wrapped his fingers around the muzzle.

He pulled it out, reversed it. Sam screamed, “X–I got the gun. I got the gun.”

The Uzbek may not have understood Sam’s English, but he must have known what he was saying, because he kicked out wildly, knocking Sam away.

Then X-Man caught the Uzbek with a hammered fist to the face that stunned him. The American struggled free. “Clear,” the security man shouted, pulling his arm away and rolling to his left. “Sam,” he screamed.

Sam, kneeling, held the pistol in his right hand, frozen. The Uzbek rolled over, pulled himself to his knees. That was when Sam saw Dick Campbell fall backward onto the desert floor. Saw his dead eyes. He shoved the muzzle of the pistol at the guerrilla’s chest, shut his eyes, and pulled the trigger until the gun was empty. The noise was deafening. Something fell on him.

“Christ.” X-Man dragged Sam, who was still pulling the trigger, from under the corpse. The security man pried the revolver out of Sam’s hand.

Kaz screamed, “X—” The spook turned just in time to see the rear flap move again.

Then there was another explosion. X-Man yelled, “Holy shit!” as the MADM teetered. “Sam — get up here.” The three of them, now screaming, threw their weight against the nuke to keep it from falling.

Outside, there was more gunfire. And screams. And explosions, rocking the truck.

And then, as if the sounds were coming from some other universe, Sam suddenly realized the screaming he heard from outside was in English. Someone was shouting his real name. Somebody out there was calling, “Sam Phillips Sam Phillips.”

Sam screamed, “Everybody — shut up!” And then he shouted, “I’m Sam Phillips. I’m in here. In the truck.”

He heard his name called again. They all heard it.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “In the truck. We’re in the truck. Don’t shoot.”

And then the canvas flap was ripped aside. The tailgate dropped away with a rude metallic clang. Bright lights flooded the compartment.

Wide-eyed, blinded, Sam shouted, “Over here.”

A malevolent wraith — no, a nimble ninja with a blackened face and knit watch cap — vaulted over the transom, short automatic rifle in his gloved hands, muzzle sweeping the truck interior.

The ninja’s eyes found the pistol in Sam’s hands.

Sam let the gun drop. His hands went high.

A samurai — a huge, wild-eyed Warrior — came quickly behind, stubby automatic rifle slung across his chest.

“Who’s Sam?”

“Sam? I am.”

“Hiya, Sam I am.” The big ninja took Sam’s upper arm. “Let’s go, you guys — cavalry’s here.”

Sam held back. Twisted away from the samurai. “It,” he said, his freed arm pointing toward the cab.

“I know, I know. Let’s go. Let’s go, Sam I am — we’re not finished yet.” The big man wheeled. “Follow me — stay very close. Do not — repeat: do … not — go anywhere, do anything, unless I tell you to. We still got unfriendlies.”

He turned away and spoke into air. “Back door. Three live ones. Coming to you, Loner.” A pause. “Roger that.”

0012. Ritzik saw them drop out of the truck and advance up the causeway, Rowdy riding herd, shouting at the spooks to keep their heads down.

“Tuzz, Loner. Do you have anything on the 4x4 and Truck One?”

“Negatory, Loner — they be gone.”

Crap. Ritzik advanced. The quicker he got to them the faster he could get ‘em away from the firelight, back to the LUP and safety.

But not yet. This wasn’t over yet — not by a long shot. Ritzik’s AK was mounted in low ready. His eyes moved left-right-left, right-left-right, to help prevent tunnel vision. His breathing was self-consciously even — in/out, in/out — to fight hyperventilation.

Threat—Ritzik saw motion from the left in his peripheral vision. His AK came up; the front sight swung around and held on center mass: teenage kid in turban and PLA tunic. Kid had a handgun. Muzzle rising in his direction.

Instinctively, Ritzik squeezed off a three-round burst that caught the target in the left side of the chest, spun him counterclockwise, and slammed him up against the fender of the 4x4. The weapon flew out of the kid’s hand, its hammer struck the concrete lip of the causeway, and the gun went off.

The fore end of Ritzik’s AK took the round, rendering the short barrel useless. The fore-end grip disintegrated, sending wood fragments into his hand and a long, sharp sliver right through his cheek. Oh, Christ, it hurt.

Ritzik’s training took over: right hand yanked the big splinter out — deal with the blood later. He shed the useless automatic rifle. Transitioned to the Sig Sauer. Five steps — four shots — and the kid went down. Two more quick shots in the kid’s head. That’s another who won’t come back to bite us on the ass.

The hostages were ten feet away now. Noise behind him. In his ear Rowdy’s voice. “Drop-drop-drop.” Ritzik pancaked onto the causeway. A four-shot burst over his head. Rowdy’s voice: “Clear.”

Ritzik rolled onto his side and saw the corpse sprawled a yard behind him. He waved the spooks on. “C’mon-c’mon-c’mon.” He grabbed the first spook by the shirt. Thrust him roughly toward Mickey D. “Haul ass. Follow him. Move it.”

It could have been worse. But it could have been better. They had the hostages. They had the weapon. And there’d been no friendly casualties — only a few of what Rowdy liked to call dings and dents. Nothing more serious than the splinter wound in Ritzik’s cheek. But at least two dozen of the enemy — maybe more — had gotten away. According to Sam Phillips and the others, the IMU leader, whom they called Mustache Man, was among them. Not good. More immediate, a few hostiles had escaped four, perhaps five hundred yards into the marsh and were taking occasional potshots. Without night vision, they weren’t having any luck — so far. Ritzik wasn’t overly worried: once their muzzle flash gave their positions away, it was relatively easy for Ty and his night-vision optics to tag ‘em.

The most essential thing right now, Ritzik understood, was to get away — and fast. Move to a daylight hide, dig in, camouflage themselves, wait for nightfall, then make their dash to safety. He’d tried contacting the TOC to get an intel dump from Dodger and pass a sit-rep to SECDEF Rockman. But the bloody radio was still on the fritz. All he got on the secure frequency was white sound. Without the TOC he was blind. He had no idea what the Chinese were up to. Or how close they were.

0020. Ritzik calmed the spooks down. Doc Masland gave ‘em a quick once-over and prescribed food and water, which Ritzik provided. They seemed to be a good-enough group — for spooks. In fact, Ritzik was impressed when Phillips, the team leader, volunteered his people to go with Rowdy, Shep, Doc, and Tuzz to pluck as much intel from the corpses as they could find. Ritzik accepted the offer gratefully. It would save valuable time.

While the bodies were being searched, Curtis, Ty, and Mickey D scavenged for unexploded ordnance and supplies. Within a quarter of an hour, the three had uncovered two dozen RPG rounds and four launchers, a box of Chinese grenades, and half a dozen undamaged AKs and fifty loaded thirty-round magazines. There were also six five-liter cans of drinking water still undamaged, which Ritzik had Curtis stow in the truck.

Ritzik gave each of the spooks a weapon and three magazines. He loaded the rest of the ordnance in the vehicles. Goose and Bill Sandman stripped the corpses of hats and other useful uniform parts. When the Chinese finally spotted them — it was likely they would — Ritzik wanted everyone looking like tangos, not yanquis.

The vehicles were the biggest headache. They had only one operational 4x4, with a half-full tank and six six-gallon jerry cans of gas, and one truck — fuel gauge reading full and a full fifty-five-gallon drum of diesel fuel secured in the bed. Ritzik needed speed and range to effect his exfiltration. He wasn’t going to get either one.

And then there was Wei-Liu. The firing hadn’t entirely stopped when she’d tugged at Ritzik’s web gear and insisted on examining the MADM. He’d tried to explain that they were vulnerable out in the open.

“Let me secure the area first,” he said. A burst of automatic weapons fire came from the rear of the column. Instinctively, Wei-Liu ducked. ‘Tracy—”

“But we could be dealing with something that’s time-critical,” she insisted.

“Your life is time-critical.”

“You have things well under control, Major.”

“Do I?”

“I think so.”

Two shots rang out. “I’m not as sure as you are.” He edged her closer to the chassis of the number two truck, where she was less of an obvious target. “We’ll get the MADM stabilized, and we’ll drive — well away from here — until it’s light. We’ll camouflage our position. Then you can take all day with the damn thing.”

Wei-Liu switched on the flashlight she was carrying. “We may not have all day, Major. That’s what I want to ascertain.” She pushed around him and headed for the number three truck.

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.”

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.”

The president nodded. “I agree. He knows we’re in our own war against terrorism. The summit’s coming up. He’d like to be able to demonstrate that he’s doing his part.”

Rockman fingered his tie. “Do you think Wu’s using the terrorists as a pretext for anything else, sir?”

“You mean our people?” The president turned to face the NSC adviser. “I don’t think so. But what’s the latest, Monica?”

Wirth said, “I’ve been checking NSA’s intake carefully. There’s not a whiff of anything untoward. I don’t think Wu suspects. And as you say, Mr. President, Beijing has been looking for an excuse to bring the Xinjiang region firmly under control for years.”

“Good.” Pete Forrest paused. “Now I’ve saved the best for last Wu gave me an opening that may actually help us extract our people.”

Rockman’s eyebrows went up. “Sir?”

“He requested a favor. He asked me to backchannel a message to Delhi. He wants to assure the Indians that although his troops will be moving into the northwestern portion of the autonomous region, they will not approach within two hundred kilometers of the disputed area on the Indian border. He asked me to persuade the Indians not to react negatively.”

“Did you agree?”

“Not immediately,” Pete Forrest said. “Never give without getting; right, Monica?” “Amen, Mr. President.”

“So I asked him precisely where his troops would be deployed, Rocky. I told him I couldn’t go to my good friend the Indian prime minister unless I knew the request could be absolutely explicit, detailed, and precise.”

An approving smile spread slowly across Rockman’s face. “And what did Wu say?”

“He hemmed and hawed, I guess is the best way to put it. He tried to keep to generalities. But the bottom line, Rocky, is that he’s going to concentrate his forces on the northern side of the Taklimakan Desert — between Kashgar and Ürümqi. His worst seepage—” Forrest read the bemused expression on Rockman’s face. ‘That’s how the translator interpreted, Rocky—’seepage.’ Anyway, it’s from Kyrgyzstan.”

“Interesting,” Rockman said. He turned to the national security adviser. “Has the Agency weighed in on this?”

Wirth grimaced. “Langley — that Margaret Nylos woman — faxed me a one-page boilerplate analysis, without any conclusions. I swear, Mr. Secretary, those people over there have no clue what’s going on. They might as well work for the State Department. I’d like to fire the lot of them.”

Rockman’s eyes flicked in the president’s direction. “He’s the commander in chief,” he said. “According to what I read in the Washington Compost this morning, Monica, you have an all-powerful, Svengali-like influence over the man. You have brainwashed him. Turned him into a hard-liner.”

“Rocky, don’t instigate.” The president frowned. “Believe me, after that screwup with the satellite imagery it wouldn’t take much right now to can everyone from the DCI on down … “ He paused.

Rockman coaxed, “And so, Mr. President?”

“I said, don’t instigate. Believe me, Rocky, when we’re out of the woods on this, I’m going to make changes. But for now, I don’t want to hear another word about what Nick Pappas is or isn’t doing.” Pete Forrest’s expression told both Rockman and Wirth the subject was closed.

Rockman pursed his lips. “Back to business,” he said. “What did you tell President Wu, sir?”

“I told him it would be at least eight hours before I could get to Prime Minister Chowdhery. The man’s seventy-six years old and he goes to bed early — but he gets up about four and is in the office by six. Wu agreed not to initiate any major action until he’s heard back from me.” Pete Forrest checked his watch. “Now, I’m not sure I believe Wu — or his motives — either. But let’s take him at his word for the moment.”

Wirth pulled a map of Western China from a credenza and spread it on the president’s desk. “Wu spoke about a Kashgar-Ürümqi axis.” She drew her finger over the map. “He’s worried about the Kyrgyz border.”

“That makes sense,” Rockman said. “Our intelligence shows much the same thing. So it would clear the way for Ritzik to move his people into Tajikistan.”

Monica Wirth said, “Why there as opposed to anywhere else?”

“There’s a twenty-man Special Forces training group in Dushanbe,” Rockman said. “They have choppers with them. They can be moved up to the Chinese border area under the guise of a joint exercise.”

“But not into China,” Wirth broke in.

“No,” Rockman said. “No border crossings. That would be provocative.” He paused, frowning.

The president read his SECDEF’s face. “What’s up, Rocky?”

“I just thought of something, sir. Wu said he wouldn’t initiate any major action, right?” Pete Forrest checked his notes. “That’s what he said.”

“ ‘Major action.’ His precise words.”

“That’s right, Rocky.”

“But Wu didn’t say he wouldn’t initiate small-unit activity, did he?”

Forrest wrinkled his brow. “No, he didn’t. He didn’t say anything at all about small-unit activity.”

“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

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.”

“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?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Ritzik said. “Gotta keep it short.” He paused. “Got it. Okay.” He listened intently. “Sure. Yes, we’re all fine. Could you call our friends in the other place? The place we came from. Just update them — tell them we’ll be in touch sooner or later.” Ritzik screwed the phone into his ear. “You’re starting to break up.” He reached across Sam Phillips and slammed Gene Shepard on the shoulder, signaling him to stop the 4x4. The vehicle screeched to a halt and Ritzik’s thumb went up. “Yes. Good. Got it. Absolutely. Okay. Bye-bye, bye-bye. And thanks.” He pressed the end button and then shut the phone off. The damn things could be triangulated. He turned to the case officer. “Great idea, Sam.”

Sam said, “Thanks. Who was that on the other end?”

“The SECDEF. Robert Rockman,” Ritzik said matter of factly. He pressed his radio transmit button. “Rowdy, Loner. Pull over. We gotta head-shed.”

0246. Sam Phillips didn’t like being cut out of the planning process, and he made his feelings known. But Ritzik was intractable. From the cryptic exchange he’d had with SECDEF, he understood that while the Chinese concentrated their efforts to the north, he had a brief window in which to move quickly. The unknown variable in this equation was Major General Zhou Yi. From what Rockman had hinted, Ritzik understood that Zhou’s Special Forces hunter-killer group was now in Kashgar. But whether it would search by air, or set up static roadblocks, was something Ritzik hadn’t been able to decipher from Rockman’s enigmatic words. God, how he would have liked the luxury of overhead surveillance.

Sam Phillips was convinced Zhou would use his air assets. Ritzik wasn’t. “The Chinese haven’t integrated their Special Forces into air ops yet,” he said. “They have nothing like the SOAR.”

“Common sense tells me they’ll use what they have,” Sam said. “They have aircraft — therefore they’ll use them.”

“Their choppers have no infrared capability,” Ritzik said. “They’re blind at night. Besides, they have no way of identifying nuclear devices from the air.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know it,” Tracy Wei-Liu interjected. “It’s my job to know those things. The Russians have two helicopters in their inventory, the MI-8MTS and the MI-8MTT, which are radiation-reconnaissance-capable. The Chinese are still negotiating with Moscow to get the MTS and MTT enhancements on their aircraft.”

“They’re an ingenious people,” Sam said. “They improvise — and they learn fast.”

Ritzik switched his GPS unit on. “Look,” he said. “Zhou is two hundred miles north of here. If they believe the IMU is heading northwest, they’ll be concentrating here—” He tapped the screen. “We go here — hide ourselves during the daylight hours. Even if Mr. Murphy shows, we’ll be able to get that far at least. Miss Wei-Liu will have all the time she needs to deal with the nuke.” He tapped again. “And then, after dark, we head straight up there — into the mountains.”

Sam threw up his hands. “You’re running this, Major Ritzik,” he said. “You do what you will.”

Ritzik took Rowdy Yates aside. The two men studied the GPS screen and spoke quietly.

Sam Phillips walked over to where Wei-Liu stood. “He’s wrong, you know. So’re you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because both of you are making decisions based on nothing more than assumptions.”

Wei-Liu said, “We are doing nothing of the sort. We’re making empirical judgments.”

She watched as Sam’s right index finger pulled at the skin below his right eye — French body language denoting skepticism. “You’re mocking me.”

“Christ, the two of you sounded like our analysts at Langley. ‘According to our most current economic statistical models, we can confidently predict that the Soviet economy will be fundamentally sound and perhaps even resilient for the next fifteen to twenty years, despite the considerable fiscal pressures of maintaining military and scientific parity with the West.’ I have a copy of that particular assessment framed on my wall at home. Guess what? It was date-stamped and circulated the day before Mikhail Gorbachev formally dissolved the Soviet Union.”

“But—”

“Look,” Sam said. “I don’t dispute that you know all about nuclear weapons. And that when it comes to hostage rescue or counterterrorism, the major is damn proficient. And I agree that we’re much better off moving at night and hiding during daylight hours. Where I disagree is in underestimating the Chinese — and assuming their tactics will be rigid. These guys are good — and they’re flexible.”

Wei-Liu said, “I guess we’ll see who’s right in the next few hours, Mr. Phillips.”

“I think we will, Miss Wei-Liu.”