Code of Honor

47

The flight from the South Lawn to Andrews Air Force Base on the VH-3D Sea King — designated Marine One when the President was on board — took just over six minutes, depending on the route taken. Three identical helicopters switched positions constantly along the way in an aerial shell game meant to confuse any would-be attackers on the ground. Each bird was equipped with an impressive and highly classified array of protective measures — not the least of which were a couple of Noble Eagle F-16 fighters patrolling the D.C. area high overhead. The many sophisticated weapons systems used to protect him had embarrassed Ryan at first, until he came to grips with the fact that the Secret Service, the Capitol Police, the Marine Corps, the Air Force, and all the rest were protecting not just him as a man but the institution of the presidency.

Not one to waste precious minutes, Ryan was on the phone for the entire flight, talking to the U.S. ambassador to Indonesia. He guarded his words at first, his mind in overdrive, considering the possible outcomes of his words. A president had to be extremely careful about what he said or it would be construed to mean something totally different than what he’d planned. For instance, Ryan had wanted to ask this crew chief a question about Sergeant Scott, the crew chief who he saw most often. He knew Scott had already shipped out for Jakarta with the presidential-lift package of HMX-1, and asking one crew chief about another could easily be misinterpreted as “Hey, where’s the guy I like?” So Ryan had saluted and kept his mouth shut, saving his question for Sergeant Scott when next they met beside the White Top in Jakarta.

That was, however, about the limit of Jack Ryan’s patience. He could feel his temperature rising as he discussed Father West’s conditions of confinement with Ambassador Cowley. The ambassador assured Jack that he had an appointment to see Father West once the transfer to Nusa Kambangan was complete. Citing security reasons, the Indonesian authorities advised that prisoners could have no visitors while in transit.

Ryan barely suppressed the urge to curse. Ambassador Cowley was a gentle soul, bred for diplomacy, not the frontal assault Ryan craved at the moment. It was evident in the ambassador’s voice that he felt he was living in a house of cards. He went so far as to ask if Ryan had something “grand” planned upon arrival.

“By grand,” Ryan said, “you mean foolhardy?”

“Well,” the ambassador said. “Mr. President, you are the final arbiter of what constitutes foolhardy in this case. But I would not be doing my job if I did not—”

“Understood, Mr. Ambassador,” Ryan said. “You may pass on to President Gumelar that I come in peace, but I do plan to leave Indonesia with my friend, one way or another.”

“Mr. President—”

“Or,” Ryan said, “Don’t tell him. It’s up to you. But I want you to know, that’s the way it’s going to happen…”

“Pardon me for saying.” Arnie van Damm gasped when Ryan replaced the handset on the console beside his seat. “But holy shit, Mr. President. Are you trying to start a war with Indonesia?”

“I am not,” Ryan said. “I do, however, think it’s important to set expectations. If Ambassador Cowley believes I’ve lost my mind, he’ll convey that to Gumelar with the fervor of a true believer.”

Mary Pat sat at the rear of the compartment, leaning forward with her hands braced against her knees. She stared at the carpeted floor, deep in thought, as Marine One settled softly onto the tarmac.

“Have you, Mr. President?” van Damm asked, removing his seat belt as he prepared to exit the helicopter. He, Foley, Montgomery, and the other agents would disembark ahead of Ryan.

“Have I what?”

“Lost your mind, sir.”

Ryan chuckled. “In a good way,” he said.

Van Damm paused at the door, half turning to face Ryan. “Are you sure about this… this plan of yours? I mean, it’s virtually guaranteed to blow up in your face.”

“Like I said, Arnie. Sometimes the way to win the game is to rip out the steering wheel while everyone is watching.”

First, the guards had given him a haircut. Then they’d brought in five buckets of relatively larvae-free water with which to clean himself. He was given a robe, and then ushered to a regular shower, as if he’d been too dirty to enter the place until he’d washed off the outer layer of grime. The shower was tepid but unbearably pleasant, and he’d wept at the feel of so much water on his skin. By the time he stepped out of the cubicle someone had left a stack of tan hospital scrubs on the bench. The simple shower and clean clothes made it impossible to control his emotions. It was all too much to comprehend.

They moved him to a new cell with tile floors instead of rough concrete. Measuring ten by ten feet, it was palatial compared to the one that had been his home for the past month, and boasted a metal sink with running water. It had an actual bed — though the blanket was still filthy from the last prisoner to use it. A day later, they’d moved him up to the ground floor. His new place had all the amenities of his previous cell, with the most welcome addition of a small slit window. It was too high to see out of, or even reach, but it let in light and, more important, air.

Later that same day he’d been moved again, this time to a cell with a window overlooking a dirt courtyard. Best of all, there was a metal toilet attached to the base of an upright pedestal sink-and-water-fountain combination. A bucket and dipper took the place of toilet paper. Father West had uttered a silent prayer of thanks, and then cried like a baby.

Around midday, he got an actual chicken thigh on top of his rice. It was greasy, and small, as chickens tended to be in Indonesia, but the meat was identifiable — and delicious. West had eaten every grain of rice and all but the jagged center inch of the chicken bone. He was working on that when a guard came and removed his metal bowl.

He’d not seen Ajij or Jojo again after they inadvertently sent the text message from his phone.

With a little food in his sunken belly, West found himself thinking clearly for the first time in weeks. The movement to increasingly better cells was curious. It was as if the Indonesian authorities knew they were in trouble, but couldn’t quite admit it. No matter how good the accommodations became, he was still in prison.

A guard informed him he was going to get a visit from the embassy, but two uniformed men wearing berets and the owl insignia of Detachment 88, the law enforcement version of Indonesian Special Forces, had come into his cell. The men put shackles on his wrists and ankles as politely as one can shackle a person, and led him without a word of explanation to a garage, where he was stuffed into the back of an armored tanklike police vehicle called a Barracuda.

One of the most insidious things about being a prisoner was never knowing where you were going, what was coming next, what was about to happen. Sometimes this was by design, to keep the prisoner from making escape plans; sometimes it was meant to weaken the mind and induce cooperation. More often than not, though, it was simply because the guards felt a prisoner wasn’t worth the time it took to explain things.

The inside of the Barracuda had been like his first cell — hot, cloyingly humid, and dark. He could see one of the guards’ watch and noted they were on the road for just under two hours, traffic presumably clearing out of the way for the menacing armored vehicle and accompanying motorcade.

It was not until Father West was ushered out of the Barracuda and seated in a wobbly plastic chair on a small ferry that he realized where they were going.

Nusa Kambangan. Execution Island.

He’d always believed that God had a sense of humor. He had plenty of sins in his past life that should have landed him in a place like this, enough, at least, that he could never honestly say he was anything close to innocent. And yet he’d remained free and happy until he tried to do something good with his life. It was such a great cosmic joke.

As far as he knew, there had been no trial. Even in Indonesia, where the law sometimes bent to the will of the angry masses, death warrants didn’t happen quickly. Still, his was an unusual case. From his experience, sentencing, if not justice, was carried out most quickly to those who were wrongly arrested. It was embarrassing for the regime to keep such people around for very long.

Father West closed his eyes and breathed in the hot and fishy air as the ferry putted across the narrow estuary toward Execution Island. He couldn’t help but wonder if the greasy chicken thigh might have been his last meal.