Code of Honor

17

Gunawan Gumelar, the president of the Republic of Indonesia, had graduated from the University of Sydney and spoke perfect English. Still, protocol dictated Ryan have a translator on the line. Ryan knew the man fairly well, and found him to be a touch on the tentative side for a world leader. That was to say, tentative at the times when he could have been brave. Gugun, as he was called by virtually everyone, including the press, made a point of stomping his foot and banging his fist to take the lead — and the credit — for any policy or program already ratified by groupthink and public opinion. As far as Ryan could tell, the man never made any decision without a committee standing behind him. He led by populist consensus, which, in Ryan’s book, was not leading at all, but mingling with a crowd and voicing the will of the loudest, not necessarily the rightest.

Ryan sat behind his desk, waiting for the White House Communications Office to let him know President Gumelar was on the line. Captain Laura Wyeth, a United States Air Force intelligence officer of Indonesian descent, was immediately to the President’s left. Her black hair was styled into a tightly wrapped bun, accenting the blue of her class-A uniform. She shifted in her seat periodically.

“I understand you’re fluent in six languages, Captain,” Ryan said, in an effort to calm her nerves.

“Only five, Mr. President,” Wyeth said, blushing through a tight-lipped smile.

“Three and a half more than me,” Ryan said, and glanced at Foley, who stood beside the young woman. She rested a hand on Wyeth’s shoulder, providing moral support.

Arnie van Damm and Scott Adler were across the desk. Both men leaned forward in anticipation, pondering, no doubt, all the ways the boss could step in it during such a politically charged call with another world leader.

Ryan didn’t blame them. Gumelar had been dodging his calls all day. Cowardice never set well with Ryan, and there was a real danger he might unload with both barrels when the Indonesian president finally did show his head.

Captain Wyeth suddenly became animated. She said something into her mouthpiece in Indonesian that Ryan took to mean “Please hold for the President of the United States.” Then raised a finger and nodded at Ryan.

“Gugun!” Ryan said. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“It sounds like there has been some kind of misunderstanding over there,” Ryan said. He wanted badly to take the man to task, but he bit his tongue.

Captain Wyeth translated quietly into her mouthpiece, but Ryan doubted President Gumelar could even hear her over the whooshing pulse in his ears. It didn’t matter. The man was smart. He understood everything Ryan was saying, including the nuances.

“This is a delicate situation,” Gumelar said, sounding a little constipated. “The Indonesian people take religion quite seriously.”

“I understand completely,” Ryan said, taking it slow. “But no one from my embassy has been able to get in to see Father West.”

“I will look into that personally, Mr. President,” Gumelar said.

“I appreciate it,” Ryan said. “Now let us be honest with each other, as friends.”

“Of course.”

Ryan thought he heard a gulp.

“Gugun,” he said. “You and I both know that something is going on behind the scenes here. Do you have any inkling what that could be?”

Gumelar released a pent-up sigh. “I am afraid I do not,” he said. “But I tend to agree. Please understand, Jack, my hands are tied regarding your friend. The courts have decided he will stand trial for proselytizing Christianity and blasphemy against Islam.”

“Who are the witnesses?”

“We will find out at trial.”

“And when will that be?”

Gumelar sighed again. “I do not know.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. “We’ll talk about this more when I arrive.”

“Mr. President?”

“We were already planning a visit,” Ryan said. “Were we not? As you said, this is a delicate situation, best discussed in person.”

“Jack,” Gumelar said, pleading now. “This would not be a convenient time.”

“Nonsense, Gugun,” Ryan said. “The timing could not be better. Two world leaders working out a misunderstanding. Our people expect it of us.”

“Mr. President,” Gumelar said, his voice rising in pitch and timbre. “Your friend’s arrest has inflamed anti-Christian sentiment among some of my people. I am afraid your presence here would undermine my—”

“You’re a busy man,” Ryan said. “I don’t want to trouble you with the details. My office will be in touch with your office. I look forward to visiting with you in person.”

The “where I may very well kick your ass” was implied.

Sergeant Rodney Scott, United States Marine Corps, had read that only somewhere around fifteen percent of military personnel had parents who had also served — down from forty percent only a generation before.

The Scotts did their part to move the dial on that average. Military service was a family business. Rodney’s grandfather had served on Navy SEAL Team Two, dubbed by the Vietcong the fearsome “men with green faces.” Both of Scott’s parents had served in the first Gulf War — his father with the Army in 10th Special Forces, his mother as an A 10 Warthog mechanic for the Air Force. Rodney’s older sister joined the Naval Reserve and became a public affairs officer when Rodney was a senior in high school. Unwilling to let his sister get one up on him, he decided to join as well. For a time, he thought he might go the reserve route, but since he had to go to boot camp either way, he decided he’d go ahead and sign on for active duty. And since he was joining up, he might as well jump in with both feet and become a Marine. So twenty-three days after graduating from Memorial High School in Port Arthur, Texas, Rodney Scott, state 800-meter champion and drummer in his own band, stepped off the bus at Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island and took his spot on the yellow footprints. Now his kid brother was about to join the Marine Corps at MCRD San Diego. Poor kid. He had no idea what great and terrible things awaited him when he got off that bus…

Good times indeed, but back then, enduring the shouts of what looked to be a very angry drill instructor, Rodney Scott could never have imagined that in a few short years he would become Sergeant Scott, handpicked for the elite HMX-1, as crew chief of Marine One.

As crew chief of the helicopter that flew the President of the United States, Sergeant Scott worked with other HMX-1 personnel in a secure hangar called The Cage located on Marine Base Quantico roughly thirty-five miles south of the White House. His daily job was to oversee maintenance and readiness of the White Tops — the ubiquitous Sikorsky VH-3D Sea Kings and the smaller and easier-to-transport VH-60N White Hawks. A squadron of more than seven hundred HMX-1 personnel made of pilots and maintenance personnel had all undergone the stringent Yankee White background check in order to work near the President. The maintainers kept the helicopters in peak working order — but every bolt and safety wire was double-checked by the crew chief. Sergeant Scott made sure the helicopter was stocked with the President’s favorite snacks — cashews, in the case of President Ryan — and plenty of bottled water. He spent hours prior to any presidential lift making sure there were no smudges on the highly polished green paint, no Irish pennants on the carpet. During flights, he made certain the President was situated, then assisted the pilots with navigation or anything else they required. Then he spent hours afterward cleaning up, seeing to maintenance, and restocking the passenger compartment. It was much like taking care of a beloved classic car — if that car happened to be carrying the most powerful man on the planet.

His uniform had to be as polished as the helicopter. His shoes mirror-glossed. White cover straight. Haircut high and tight. When the President stopped to salute — and President Ryan knew how to salute; he was a Marine, after all — hundreds of cameras would document the event for posterity. The copilot of Marine One sat in the left seat and could often be seen turning to look out the window at the cameras when the White Top was parked on the South Lawn. But the crew chief was in full view, standing at attention beside the steps until the President boarded.

Sergeant Rodney Scott was the face of any presidential lift. He was twenty-three years old.

The White House liaison officer — called Weelo — had notified the squadron commander that they needed a lift package prepared for Indonesia, ASAP.

Sergeant Scott’s friends sometimes asked him how fast they could get ready and move if the President needed to fly somewhere in Marine One in an emergency. The canned answer was “that’s classified,” but the more honest answer was “as fast as he needs us.” Unlike other squadrons across the services, HMX-1 ran at full organizational staffing and equipment levels at all times. The birds were always ready, hampered only by the bounds of physics and geography — and determined Marines could bend even those if the mission called for it.

The colonel had come to tell his crew chief personally, ordering up three UH-60s because the smaller birds would be easier to break down and load on to C-17s with all the other squadron equipment.

Marine One crew chiefs served for a term of a year, a few more months if a replacement’s background was taking a little longer — but the time was short, a blink in a Marine’s career. Scott savored every moment, knowing he’d be involved in only a finite number of presidential lifts. It was a massive undertaking, and it never got old.

Dozens of aircraft moved personnel, gear, two presidential limos, Secret Service follow cars, the CAT team Suburban, all the weapons, and the HMX-1 helicopters. Other Marine aircraft — big CH 53s, V-22 Ospreys — known as greenside aircraft as opposed to White Tops, might be borrowed from bases near the site, or transported. Fighter aircraft would always be overhead, and possibly a couple of RPAs — remotely piloted aircraft — depending on the location.

It was hard work, tearing down and then reassembling the birds, but it was well worth it. Scott and his team could sleep on the C-17 en route to the site, secure in the knowledge that he had the best job in the world — and he did it well.