Soar (27 page)

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.”

1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.
0018 Hours Local Time.

I
T 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.”

West Executive Drive.
1430 Hours Local Time.

R
OBERT 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.