hold: that means you, me, and the general counsel.” The president looked back at Rockman. “Rocky,” he said, “give this op a compartment. 9 Give the major whatever he needs to get the job done.” The president paused. “And both of you”—he swiveled in the chair until he caught Monica Wirth’s eye again—“both of you, you take whatever heat is necessary to protect this boy’s back.”
Sword Squadron, Fort Bragg, Fayetteville, North Carolina.
1134 Hours Local Time.
S ERGEANT M AJOR F RED Y ATES tucked the handset between his bull neck and rippled shoulder, swung his boon-dockered feet up onto the coffee-stained gray steel desktop, and shouted into the mouthpiece, “Talgat, you Kazakh superman,
assalamu alaykim.”
Yates paused, a wide grin spreading across his sun-reddened face. “Yeah, it’s me, Rowdy Yates.
Salemetsiz be,
Colonel—you okay?” He nodded his head up and down.
“Jaqsë—I’m
just fine, thanks. No”—he laughed—“my Kazakh is still lousy as ever. So how are
you
?” Yates waited for an answer. “She did? A boy? What’s his name?” Yates flipped to a clean page of the legal pad that sat on his lap, took a felt marker out of his BDU breast pocket, and wrote
A-I-B-E-K
in capital letters on the page. “Three-point-three kilos? That’s
huge,
Talgat, huge,” he boomed. “You gotta be very, very proud, buddy.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Yates covered the phone’s mouthpiece, ripped the page from the pad, and waved it at the first sergeant whose desk sat opposite his. “Yo, Shep—he had a kid. We’ll get one of those pint-sized BDU shirts made up. This is the name that goes on the pocket strip.”
Gene Shepard looked up from his to-do list, flashed a toothy smile, and ran his fingers through curly dark hair. “Great idea, man. How is the colonel these days?”
“Like I said, he’s a new papa and proud as hell. Gonna raise himself a little soldier, just like his daddy.”
“Tell him
assalamu
from me, will you? And that I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”
Yates gave the first sergeant an upturned thumb. “Will do.”
Then-captain Talgat Umarov had been Ritzik’s initialcontact in Kazakhstan’s small, underfunded Special Forces counterterrorist unit, back in 1988. That year, a four-man Delta element led by Mike Ritzik went to Almaty to cross-train with the Kazakhs and teach them cutting-edge tactics. Over the ninety-day deployment, the four Americans and their twenty Kazakh counterparts bonded the way soldiers who share similar passions, missions, and dedication so often do.
Over the ensuing six years, Ritzik and Rowdy Yates stayed in touch with Umarov, who had been the counterterrorist team’s OIC, or officer-in-charge. He’d been friendly, helpful, and outspokenly pro-American. In fact, Umarov impressed Ritzik so much that in the spring of 2000 they’d wangled a trip to Fort Bragg for the Kazakh and three of his senior NCOs, and sent them home after two exhausting but exhilarating weeks of blowing things up, jumping out of perfectly good aircraft, and long, beer-soaked nights in Fayetteville’s better barbecue joints, with three cases of premium sourmash bourbon and two sets of fourth-generation night-vision goggles—equipment that was impossible to come by in Talgat’s part of the world. In January of the following year, Ritzik had arranged another visit for Umarov, which included a month of English language training.
The rapport between the Kazakh officer, Ritzik, and Yates had, in fact, been crucial during the first days after 9/11, when it became imperative for the United States to insert huge numbers of Special Forces troops into Central Asia as part of its military buildup in the region. The Kazakh military had quickly agreed to support the American request in no small measure because of the tight personal relationship between Mike Ritzik, Rowdy Yates, and their close friend Talgat Umarov, who, in 2001, was a lieutenant colonel, a battalion
Sword Squadron, Fort Bragg, Fayetteville, North Carolina.
1134 Hours Local Time.
S ERGEANT M AJOR F RED Y ATES tucked the handset between his bull neck and rippled shoulder, swung his boon-dockered feet up onto the coffee-stained gray steel desktop, and shouted into the mouthpiece, “Talgat, you Kazakh superman,
assalamu alaykim.”
Yates paused, a wide grin spreading across his sun-reddened face. “Yeah, it’s me, Rowdy Yates.
Salemetsiz be,
Colonel—you okay?” He nodded his head up and down.
“Jaqsë—I’m
just fine, thanks. No”—he laughed—“my Kazakh is still lousy as ever. So how are
you
?” Yates waited for an answer. “She did? A boy? What’s his name?” Yates flipped to a clean page of the legal pad that sat on his lap, took a felt marker out of his BDU breast pocket, and wrote
A-I-B-E-K
in capital letters on the page. “Three-point-three kilos? That’s
huge,
Talgat, huge,” he boomed. “You gotta be very, very proud, buddy.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Yates covered the phone’s mouthpiece, ripped the page from the pad, and waved it at the first sergeant whose desk sat opposite his. “Yo, Shep—he had a kid. We’ll get one of those pint-sized BDU shirts made up. This is the name that goes on the pocket strip.”
Gene Shepard looked up from his to-do list, flashed a toothy smile, and ran his fingers through curly dark hair. “Great idea, man. How is the colonel these days?”
“Like I said, he’s a new papa and proud as hell. Gonna raise himself a little soldier, just like his daddy.”
“Tell him
assalamu
from me, will you? And that I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”
Yates gave the first sergeant an upturned thumb. “Will do.”
Then-captain Talgat Umarov had been Ritzik’s initialcontact in Kazakhstan’s small, underfunded Special Forces counterterrorist unit, back in 1988. That year, a four-man Delta element led by Mike Ritzik went to Almaty to cross-train with the Kazakhs and teach them cutting-edge tactics. Over the ninety-day deployment, the four Americans and their twenty Kazakh counterparts bonded the way soldiers who share similar passions, missions, and dedication so often do.
Over the ensuing six years, Ritzik and Rowdy Yates stayed in touch with Umarov, who had been the counterterrorist team’s OIC, or officer-in-charge. He’d been friendly, helpful, and outspokenly pro-American. In fact, Umarov impressed Ritzik so much that in the spring of 2000 they’d wangled a trip to Fort Bragg for the Kazakh and three of his senior NCOs, and sent them home after two exhausting but exhilarating weeks of blowing things up, jumping out of perfectly good aircraft, and long, beer-soaked nights in Fayetteville’s better barbecue joints, with three cases of premium sourmash bourbon and two sets of fourth-generation night-vision goggles—equipment that was impossible to come by in Talgat’s part of the world. In January of the following year, Ritzik had arranged another visit for Umarov, which included a month of English language training.
The rapport between the Kazakh officer, Ritzik, and Yates had, in fact, been crucial during the first days after 9/11, when it became imperative for the United States to insert huge numbers of Special Forces troops into Central Asia as part of its military buildup in the region. The Kazakh military had quickly agreed to support the American request in no small measure because of the tight personal relationship between Mike Ritzik, Rowdy Yates, and their close friend Talgat Umarov, who, in 2001, was a lieutenant colonel, a battalion
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