Code of Honor

73

General Song went in first, without knocking. He never ventured into the north wing so Bai’s people were astonished to see him standing there alone so brazenly.

“What can I do for you, General Song?” an officious captain who served as Bai’s secretary said from behind his highly polished wooden desk.

“I am here to see General Bai.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I do not,” Song said, starting toward the office door. The captain shot to his feet. “The general is in a meeting!”

“He’ll see me,” Song said, brushing past. Lackey or not, no captain wanted to physically bar the movement of a general.

Song pushed open the door to find Bai and Major Chang huddled around a computer screen, perusing what looked like ledger sheets.

“Ready to make some withdrawals?” Song asked.

Bai spun in his chair. The major stood, releasing a nervous fart.

“What do you mean barging into my office unannounced?” He leaned sideways, looking past Song and out the door. “Captain Feng! Call security forces at once—”

Bai’s face fell when four sullen-looking men wearing dark business suits filed in behind General Song.

“General Bai Min,” Song said. “I have come with the authority of Chairman Zhao, paramount leader. You and Major Chang are under arrest for acts of sedition, murder, and treason against the people of China.”

Chang shifted on his feet.

“This is nonsense,” Bai said. “I am under arrest because the plan failed.”

Song shrugged. “Nonetheless,” he said. “You are under arrest.” He leaned in closer. “And I have been assured your punishment will not be pretend.”

At approximately the same moment, but six thousand miles away from Beijing, where General Bai and his bagman were being led away in shame and shackles, a Blue-Bird bus came to a stop in front of Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego, packed full of stunned-looking young men.

It was dark, but the glaring lights above the entrance to MCRD illuminated the yellow footprints the young men had all heard so much about. No one spoke. Most held their breath in anticipation — and a unique sense of self-imposed dread. They’d all done their research. They’d watched YouTube videos. They thought they knew what was about to happen. Every one of them had volunteered, so there was no one to blame but themselves.

The bus doors hissed open. A barrel-chested drill instructor sauntered up the steps, campaign hat settled low on his forehead, and began to bark almost unintelligible instructions. His voice was hoarse and raspy, as if he’d been screaming for hours at a concert or football game. Each instruction was met with a resounding “Aye-aye, sir!” or “Yes, sir!” jumbled at first, until the group got their act together and began to answer in unison. Each order came tight on the heels of the previous one, on and on and on. It was understandable — and intended — that all the young men would become disoriented.

Asking the recruits if they understood, over and over again, the drill instructor continued to bark orders. When he told them to, and only when he told them to, he wanted them to get off his bus.

“Do you understand!!?”

“Yes, sir!” Their reply rattled the windows.

“Get your disgusting bodies off my bus!”

A third of the way back, a tall recruit with wavy dark hair and green eyes did exactly as he was told and moved down the aisle at a pace “one step faster than a walk and one step slower than a run” off the bus to the yellow footprints.

The barking continued into the night, with constant correction for stance, posture, and the slightest wrong answers. A kid standing to the left of the green-eyed recruit began to sniff, drawing the immediate ire of one of the drill instructors. The green-eyed recruit stared at the back of the recruit in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. He’d discussed military discipline many times over his short lifetime with his father and grandfather. He could do this.

More instruction happened on the footprints, along with a lot of kneeling, standing — while being instructed with copious yelling and barking from what felt like one drill instructor for every recruit. No movement was fast enough. No reply loud enough. No infraction or slip went unnoticed.

The recruits were power-walked with “speed and intensity” inside to the contraband room, where they dumped the contents of their pockets into red wooden cubicles for inspection and eventual storage. The Marine Corps would supply them with everything they needed during boot camp.

Eventually, the stunned recruits were ordered to “cover-down” on one of the white phones along the wall. There they would have two attempts to contact a family member or, if they had no family, their recruiter.

The green-eyed recruit had known all along he would have to make the phone call, and of all the events since getting on the bus at the San Diego airport, he dreaded this the most.

Fortunately, his mother did not answer. Other recruits covering down in line directly behind him screamed in response to commands from the drill instructors, making it impossible to think clearly. Then, to his relief, the second number he called went straight to voicemail, so he read the message from the printed script that was posted above the phone. He hung up, relieved to return to the world of screaming drill instructors.

They weren’t half as terrifying as his mom.