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.
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.
Quickly, the pilot reached for the upper right side of the control panel and pushed the landing-gear lever up. Ritzik felt a slight rumble as the wheels retracted. Then Shingis added flaps. He banked the plane to the left, gave it more power, and increased his angle of attack. Then he banked right, brought the aircraft into a more horizontal position, and eased off slightly on his throttles and flaps. He pulled back on the wheel and the Yak gained more altitude.
Altynbayev turned so he could see Ritzik’s face. “Good takeoff, huh, for a solo guy?”
Ritzik gave the pilot an upturned thumb. “First-class, Shingis.”
The pilot beamed. Looking at his face, Ritzik realized how fortunate he had been to trust his instincts about Altynbayev.
On Ritzik’s previous deployment in Kazakhstan, he had required an aircraft on which to train Umarov’s counterterrorist unit in low-level parachute insertions. There were no American planes available, and so the military attaché at the embassy instructed him to make a formal request through the Kazakh Ministry of Defense.
Ritzik did as ordered. But the ministry, which was institutionally hostile to the elite unit Ritzik was helping to train, informed him that the request would take at least two weeks to process. By that time, the Kazakh apparatchiks knew, Ritzik and his people would be out of the country, and the training — which might come in handy if the CT unit ever participated in a coup — would not take place.
Talgat, however, suggested that his cousin Shingis might handle the matter quickly and discreetly. Ritzik, frustrated with the bureaucracy, agreed. Eight hours later, Altynbayev dropped out of the sky in the cockpit of a decrepit Antonov An-2, a short, stubby Soviet-era biplane with a small, single rear wheel that gave it the same 1930s, Art Deco, nose-in-the-air look as a DC-3. The Antonov, which was far older than any of the people who would be jumping from it, had faded CCCP Air Force markings and was configured as a parachute trainer, with space for fourteen jumpers. When Ritzik checked the plane out, he’d found crumpled packs of Russian cigarettes on the deck and empty vodka bottles jammed behind the crude canvas benches. He’d asked where Shingis had come up with the aircraft, but Altynbayev deflected the question with a sly smile and a slight bow, and said, “It was my pleasure to be of service, Major.”
The exercise had gone exceptionally well. Ritzik offered Shingis an extravagant “consulting fee” for his assistance — and for obtaining the aircraft.
