by John Weisman
“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.”
245 Kilometers Northwest of Mazartag,
Xinjiang Autonomous Region,
China. 1644 Hours Local Time.
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
20 Kilometers Northeast of Almaty, Kazakhstan.
1630 Local Time.
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 WeiLiu’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 mor
e 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.
