“And about damn time, too.”
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.”
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.”
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.
