SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

Reflexively, Sam checked the digital watch on his left wrist again. It was well past midday. They’d been out for more than four hours now. They probably had more than an hour’s work to do setting the sensors, then burying the drill, followed by a two-and-a-half-to three-hour trek back to the Toyota. That would mean they’d be traveling at night. He didn’t like the idea. The Chinese increased their patrols at night.

The White House Residence.

0448 Hours Local Time.

A light sleeper, Pete Forrest heard the start of the distinctive ring, rolled to his right, and reached for the secure phone before the instrument completed its first cycle. “Yes?”

“Mr. President?”

“Yes.” He sat up, hooking the phone receiver between his neck and shoulder and squinting at the red numerals of the digital clock, which read 04:49.

“This is Carrie at the Operations Center, Mr. President.”

“What’s the news, Carrie?”

“Signal received, Mr. President. Loud and clear.”

Pete Forrest exhaled audibly. “Good. Anything else to report?”

“No, sir, nothing else.”

“Okay, then. Thank you.”

“Good night, Mr. President.”

“Good night, Carrie.” He replaced the receiver in its cradle, then reconfigured the pillows on his side of the bed into bolsters. Forrest sat upright, his head touching the headboard rail, and stared into the darkness.

Next to him, his wife, Jennifer, stirred, semiawake. “Anything urgent?” she murmured.

“Just an update on something, sweetie,” he said. “Nothing critical. Go back to sleep.”

She purred and rolled over. Idly, he stroked her shoulder. Then he cracked all the finger joints on his left hand, clasped both hands behind his head, and stared into the darkness. They’d done the job. God bless them. He’d have the team to the residence when they got back. Get to know them a little bit. Ask them about China. Listen to their stories. Let them know how much he appreciated what they’d done for the country.

But first, they had to get out. And exfiltration, Pete Forrest knew from his own combat experience, was the most dangerous part of every mission.

14 Kilometers north of Tazhong, Xinjiang Autonomous

Region, China. 2245 Hours Local Time.

Sam saw the big truck blocking the highway only because he was playing with his night-vision monocular. They were driving, as was the habit in this part of the world, with running lights. So his device hadn’t been blinded by the Toyota’s headlamps.

They came over a gentle rise in the road, and there it was — straight ahead, maybe a mile away. “Shoazim—sür’ätni astiliting, sür’ätni astiliting—slow down, slow down,” he ordered. The Toyota eased to a crawl on the darkened highway. They drifted off the rise, and the truck disappeared from Sam’s view.

“Pull over. Stop.”

The driver steered onto the narrow shoulder. Sam reached across the Uighur’s body and turned the running lights off. “There’s something ahead — a truck’s sitting in the middle of the highway,” he said by way of explanation.

Shoazim squinted into the darkness. “A truck? Where?” he asked.

Sam pointed. “Maybe a couple of kilometers down the road.”

The driver flicked his cigarette into the darkness. “This is most unusual,” he said. “It is not my fault.” “I know it isn’t,” Sam said.

He reached up and turned off the Toyota’s interior light switch. Then he opened his door and clambered down onto the sandy shoulder. “I’m going to take a look,” he said.

Kaz opened the rear door. “I’ll keep you company.”

“Sure.” Sam trudged ahead, his eyes growing accustomed to the dark, Kaz’s footsteps scrunching the loose sand a few steps behind his right shoulder.

“Think we have a problem?” Kaz whispered when they were out of earshot.

It was Kaz’s first overseas assignment, and Sam could sense the kid’s apprehension. That was to be expected. Kaz was one of the Agency’s new generation of post-9/11 hires: an IT guy, whose degrees included a B.S. in physics from the University of Maryland and an M.S. in computer science from Duke. He wasn’t the case-officer type but a techno-wonk. He’d been talked into this little jaunt because he understood precisely how the sensors worked, and — more important — exactly how they’d have to be inserted to do their job.

“Don’t know,” Sam said, trying to sound reassuring. “But I want to see what’s going on.”

The two of them walked another hundred yards or so in silence. When Sam felt the grade increase, he slowed down and put the monocular up to his eye. It was a cheap, first-generation Russian device that Sam had bought in Turkey. But cheap or no, it was still amazing how bright things were through the lens. After another twenty yards, Sam dropped to his knees and silent-signaled Kaz to do the same. “I don’t want us silhouetted against the crest of the hill.”