Soar (14 page)

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.”

160 Kilometers Northwest of Mazartag,
Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China. 0420 Hours Local Time.

E
VEN 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.”

T
HE 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.”