SOAR: A Black Ops Novel полностью

“The MADM I saw in this morning’s photograph is a fifteen-kiloton device, Major Ritzik. The sensors were planted two hundred and sixty miles from the tunnel complex where we expect the Chinese to test their low-level nuclear capabilities. I checked the map over there.” Wei-Liu pointed at an easel where a thick green atlas sat open. “The distance from where the sensors were placed to the mountain range along the Chinese border is slightly less than four hundred miles. If the MADM explodes anywhere within that radius — whether you do it by accident, or the terrorists do it by design — the seismic shock wave, which will be somewhere in the four-point-six to four-point-eight Richter area, will jolt the sensors’ internal readers severely enough so as to render them essentially useless.”

The national security adviser broke in. “So your samurailike offer of seppuku, Major, is noted and appreciated, but respectfully declined.” She gave Ritzik a quick triumphal glance. “Not because it wasn’t heartfelt, either, I’m sure. But now you see that if you screwed up, you’d not only throw away your lives and the lives of the men you were sent to rescue, but you would, in fact, be doing the national security interests of the United States a great deal of damage.” Wirth paused. “A great deal of damage. And that, Major, is the point.”

It took Ritzik some seconds to digest what Wirth had said.

Finally, he replied. “I accept your premise, ma’am. And I apologize for jumping the gun.”

Wirth gave him an unexpectedly gracious smile. “Accepted, Major.”

“But I have to insist that taking a civilian along on such a hazardous mission is never done.”

“You’re wrong about that, too, son,” Rockman broke in. “It has been done — and successfully.”

Ritzik was shocked. “When?”

“During the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis,” Rockman said. “A CIA missile analyst was assigned to accompany a Navy SEAL infiltration to Cuba.”

Rockman’s eyes crinkled. “The SEAL component commander, by the way, didn’t argue about it. He gritted his teeth and said, ‘Aye-aye, sir.’”

Ritzik winced internally. “Point taken, sir.”

“It was no cakewalk, either,” Rockman went on. ‘Two SEALs and the CIA officer were transported by the submarine Sea Lion to within two miles of the Cuban coastline. Then they locked out of one of the hatches and surfaced. Then the SEALs swam in — towing the analyst, by the way, because the fella couldn’t swim himself. Finally, they made their way ashore past the Cuban patrol vessels, right into Havana Harbor. The SEAL mission was to identify the warehouses used by the Soviets to store the missiles out of sight of our U-2 overflights so they could be attacked by aircraft without causing collateral damage to the civilians nearby. The SEALs did their job. Then they broke into the warehouses, which allowed the spook to get detailed photos of the missile components and warheads. Those pictures gave President Kennedy an accurate assessment of how far the Soviets had been able to develop their guidance systems and other design elements relating to ICBMs.”

The secretary paused to draw a breath. “So you won’t be the first to do this sort of thing, Major. Nor the last.”

Maybe not. But the original plan was out the window. They’d be dodging the Chinese now — and they couldn’t risk a chopper extraction. Not with Deputy Assistant Secretary of Energy Tracy Wei-Liu in tow. Ritzik cursed silently. Now, because of Wei-Liu, every step of the op was going to have to be viewed through a political prism. Every move now had to be seen as a potential headline in The Washington Post.

The political aspects meant Ritzik would now be doing a lot of improvising. Which made him extremely nervous. Improvisation got people killed.

But Ritzik didn’t say any of that. Instead, he said, “Except we won’t be doing any swimming, Mr. Secretary.”

He turned to Wei-Liu. “We’ll be using parachutes during the course of our mission, Miss Wei-Liu.” Ritzik paused, then flat-out lied: “I hope that doesn’t trouble you, ma’am.”

Unfortunately, it didn’t trouble her at all. “That’s all right, Major. I’ve jumped out of a plane.”

He was astonished. “You have?”

“Yes.” She smiled at his obvious discomfort, and a tinge of pride crept into her voice.

In spite of himself, Ritzik noted for the record that it was a lovely smile. “How many jumps do you have under your belt, ma’am?”

“One, Major. On my thirtieth birthday. From five thousand feet. Floating down from a mile in the sky was the thrill of a lifetime.”

“I’m glad you thought so,” Ritzik said coldly, “because I’m about to increase your thrill factor by about five.”