Code of Honor

57

I’m proud of you,” Ryan said to his wife. With the handset of his secure telephone pressed against his ear by the pillow, he lay flat on his back in the forward compartment of Air Force One. His slacks and white shirt were draped over the chair beside the bed.

They’d been married long enough that he clearly recognized the sound of his wife’s happy cry on the other end of the line. She’d already relayed General Song’s message. He’d asked her to repeat it twice. As a surgeon, she was accustomed to dictating medical notes, and Adam Yao had sat with her immediately afterward, acting as her scribe to get all the details down on paper. Yao had sent a copy of the report via secure e-mail directly to Mary Pat Foley, cc’ing his boss, the DCI.

Ryan still had two hours until touchdown in Jakarta, so he took the time to just listen to his brave wife, and let her bask a little in her accomplishment. She sounded exhausted and hyper at the same time. Ryan knew the feeling all too well.

“…I mean, I’m no stranger to pressure, Jack,” she said. “But this was so different. It was incredibly exhilarating. Not like surgery at all…”

Ryan listened attentively, letting her get the feelings off her chest, until there was a knock at the door. It was Mary Pat.

“Sorry, hon,” Ryan said. “I have to go. You did good. I mean really, really good. This is something tangible we can use to save Father Pat.”

“Thank you, Jack,” she said. “That means a lot. Let me know how it goes,” she added, personally invested now, more than ever.

Ryan ended the call and rolled off the bed, stepping into his slacks before he answered the door. He grabbed his shirt and shrugged it on as he followed Mary Pat out into the office.

“What do you think?” he asked, leaning against the edge of the desk while he buttoned the shirt.

“I think it’s good,” she said. “But it’s thin without actual proof. We can’t very well out General Song.”

“True,” Ryan said.

“You know,” Foley said. “Indonesia has a love-hate relationship with its Chinese population, especially the Chinese Christians. If Gumelar has virtually anything to go on, he should be able to turn the tables and show China for the bad actor it is in all this.”

“The last thing I want to do is stir up a bunch of racial unrest against Chinese Christians.”

“I get it,” Foley said. “But there will undoubtedly be a butterfly effect. There always is. Everything we do is going to have consequences, some of them unintended.”

Ryan felt his ears pop as Air Force One began its initial descent. “Gumelar is on the nose when he says his hands are tied by the will of the people. Indonesia is more of a direct democracy than we are — even if it says differently on paper. We have General Song’s information. That, coupled with our next meeting, will scare Gumelar bad enough that he’ll come around to our way of thinking just to save his own ass.”

“You are absolutely sure about this plan of yours, Mr. President?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ryan said. “Like my father used to say, ‘This won’t be pretty, but it’ll be right.’”

Air Force One approached Halim Perdanakusuma International Airport from the east, touching down, as they always did, with barely a bump. The pilots taxied to the Presidential Terminal. Across from the main terminal, the Presidential Terminal was used, as its named implied, for the Indonesian president and high-level visiting VIPs.

Marine One was parked on the concrete pad at the end of the taxiway, surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service agents and military personnel who’d arrived well before Ryan in the various C-17 Globemasters and C-5 Galaxys used to transport the presidential lift. A Marine Corps V-22 Osprey was at the east end of the pad, nacelles and rotors pointed skyward. The media who’d hitched a ride on Air Force One would travel to the first event on the Osprey.

Indonesian reporters and wire service reps stood at the rope line in front of the terminal. President Gumelar and his generals had conveniently moved a half-dozen Indonesian Air Force F-16s and sleek Russian-built Su-30MKK fighter jets to the edge of the runway. It would have been a fine display of power, but all the aircraft and vehicles that traveled with the President of the United States made the handful of jets look insignificant.

He stepped up to the cockpit to thank the Air Force One pilots and crew, and then, adjusting his deep azure tie, stepped out the door to the air stairs.

Ryan saluted the Air Force sergeant at the base of the stairs and then shook hands with President Gumelar. He was a decade younger than Ryan, with wiry hair that stuck straight out if it was cut too short, dark-framed glasses, and a neck that looked slightly too thin to hold up his head.

“Gugun!” Ryan said, clasping the man’s hand. “Thank you for hosting me.”

Gumelar smiled for the cameras a few dozen yards away. “I am glad to see you, old friend, but you did not leave me much choice.”

Ryan returned the tight smile. “I could say the same.” He shook hands with the three dour generals that formed the welcoming committee with Gumelar and then nodded to Marine One. Sergeant Scott stood at attention at the base of the steps.

“I was thinking you and I should ride together,” Ryan said. “It’s quicker than the motorcade.”

Gumelar held up an open hand, attempting to demure. “Mr. President, I—”

“Bring one of your security guys,” Ryan said. “There’s room.” He looked over his shoulder at Montgomery. “Right, Gary?”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Montgomery said.

This was where it got tricky. Gumelar didn’t have to come along. Things still would have worked, just more slowly. But who turned down a free ride in one of the most famous helicopters on earth?

Head swaying on his willowy neck, President Gumelar stammered, “I… I would be honored.”

Both men turned to wave to the crowds, which, Ryan noted, were polite but sedate. Police had kept any protesters at least two hundred meters away.

Ryan stopped a few steps back from the double doors on the VH-60N White Hawk that was about to become Marine One when he stepped aboard. He let President Gumelar get on first.

Admiral Bailey, Ryan’s physician, trotted up carrying his medical bag. “Special Agent Montgomery sent word that you wanted to see me, Mr. President.”

“I do, Doc,” Ryan said, waving an open hand at the helicopter doors. “We may be in need of your services in a few minutes.”

“Aye-aye, Mr. President,” Bailey said, and hurried up the steps.

After everyone else was on board, Ryan stepped forward to salute Sergeant Scott. He waited a beat, then took a moment to shake the young Marine’s hand.

“Rod,” Ryan said — sometimes a young man needed to know his commander in chief knew his first name. “I was so sorry to hear about your grandfather.”

Still ramrod straight, the Marine beamed. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“I could have pulled some strings to let you go to the funeral.” Ryan grinned. “I know a couple of generals…”

“He would have rather I carried on here, Mr. President.”

“No doubt.” Ryan nodded. “Hell of a guy, your granddad.”

“You knew him, sir?”

“Not well,” Ryan said. “But he was a close friend of a very close friend of mine. I did have the opportunity to meet him once, years ago.” Ryan put a hand on the young Marine’s shoulder. “I’m sure he was proud of you.”

Sergeant Scott’s eye twitched like he might tear up. Ryan rescued him by changing the subject. “Did our special guest make it on board?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the Marine said. “Rear bulkhead seat, directly behind you, beside Director Foley. President Gumelar will sit on the couch across the aisle from you, as instructed.”

“Very well,” Ryan said. “We’ll talk later. They’re secondhand, but I have a couple of kickass stories about your granddad that he probably never told you.”

Ryan stepped aboard the helicopter, noting immediately the cooler air as Sergeant Scott shut the doors. He felt the familiar flutter in his gut that plagued him every time he boarded any kind of aircraft. A fancy version of the ubiquitous Black Hawk, the VH-60Ns used by HMX-1 were decked out inside with carpet, soundproofing, and leather seats. They were maintained by some of the most professional people in the world, double- and triple-checked.

And yet…

Helicopters and Ryan had come to an uneasy truce over the years. There was a lot of truth to the adage that the definition of a helicopter was “a million parts rotating around an oil leak, waiting for metal fatigue to set in.” He had to fly on them, but he never truly enjoyed the experience.

“So, Gugun,” Ryan said, ready to get to work. “I understand new charges have been dreamed up against Father Pat.”

President Gumelar took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief he’d taken from his suit pocket. “Jack,” he said. “I am sure you know that even United States courts sometimes bring charges after the initial point of arrest.”

“Ah, but our courts allow the accused to face his or her accuser,” Ryan said. “But that’s neither here nor there. I didn’t come to argue, Gugun. I came to help you.”

“To help me,” Gumelar said. “Is that so?”

“You and I both know perfectly well that China is behind this,” Ryan said. “They are attempting to play us both. I have a list of twenty Chinese diplomats whom we are ready to declare personae non gratae and expel from the country. I’m here to ask you to take similar action.”

“China is an important trading partner for us,” Gumelar said.

“And to the United States as well,” Ryan said. “But we cannot let this behavior continue simply because they sell us phone parts.”

“You say we both know,” Gumelar said. “But I have seen no proof.”

“Oh,” Ryan said. “Believe me, Mr. President. Operatives of the Chinese intelligence service have stolen valuable computer technology on your soil. These same operatives have bribed members of your police force to arrest an innocent man and charge him with a capital crime. They have attempted to coerce a citizen of the United States into committing treason.”

“Mr. President,” Gumelar said. “I have heard nothing of Father West committing treason—”

Mary Pat Foley looked on stoically from her bulkhead seat.

“I’m not talking about Father West.” Ryan raised his hand and motioned for the passenger in the seat behind him to move forward. “Gugun, I’d like you to meet Senator Michelle Chadwick. It turns out she has quite a story to tell.”

“Senator Chadwick?” President Gumelar shook his head in disbelief. “I was under the impression that…”

“That I despise President Ryan?”

“Well,” Gumelar said. “Frankly, yes.”

“That’s a fair assessment,” Chadwick said. “But I despise spying for the Chinese even more. Everyone knows the President and I see eye to eye on very little. Unfortunately for the Chinese intelligence services, that means my word actually carries more weight, not less.”

Gumelar flushed red. “You have proof that China is involved?”

Chadwick held up her cell phone. “I do, Mr. President. I have a recording of the Chinese operative who was attempting to get me to spy on President Ryan. He admits they are willing to frame Father West with false narcotics trafficking charges in order to bait the Ryan administration with the possibility of his execution.”

“She came to me straightaway,” Ryan said. “Told me everything, cooperated with our director of national intelligence and FBI all along.”

“You plan to go public with this proof?” Gumelar said.

“I do, sir,” Chadwick said.

“And you should as well, Gugun,” Ryan said.

“Very well,” Gumelar said, tight-lipped. “I do not like being played for the fool.”

“Nor do I, my friend,” Ryan said. “There is a way for you to demonstrate that you are still in charge of this country — and to set things right today. What would you say if I asked you for a tour of the prison on Nusa Kambangan Island?”