Oath of Office

32

President Ryan kept his tone conciliatory, caging his true feelings behind the knowledge of what was about to happen.

“The problem with the United States and our fights is most generally what we call ROE. Are you familiar with that term, François?”

“I am, Mr. President,” Njaya said. “Rules of Engagement.”

“Exactly,” Ryan said. “The rules under which our warfighters can unleash the devastating force at their fingertips get muddled. In our zest to be the world’s police force and protect the weak, we try very hard not to harm civilians, to use a measured response. Our airmen, soldiers, sailors, and Marines often go in with one hand figuratively tied behind their backs. They act as advisers, trainers, and whatnot — when they are in actuality trained very well to inflict maximum damage on the enemies of the United States.”

“Mr. President, I can assure you—”

“Hear me out,” Ryan said. “The United States tries to fight fair. You know that.” His words took on a foreboding timbre, resolute, unyielding. It was the voice he used when Jack Junior had taken the car without permission. The one each of Sally’s boyfriends had heard when he’d first met them. Cathy said it sounded like he’d been gargling rocks. “But here’s the deal, François, war with the United States will always be asymmetrical. When our men and women go in with clear objectives, they do not falter and they do not lose. Do you understand what I am saying, François?”

“I do, but you must understand—”

“Men loyal to you fired on a United States embassy,” Ryan continued. “They took innocent Americans hostage. I am sure you were not complicit in this travesty. And I will help you restore peace to your country. You can have the exact numbers later, but late last night, United States Marines arrived in Niger. About that same time, an additional company arrived in Chad. An undisclosed number of U.S. Special Forces personnel flew in last night as well. No less than eleven MQ-9 Reaper drones, each armed with Hellfire missiles, loiter over your skies. But I find the best way to deal with tyrants is through their pocketbook. Ten hours ago, I issued an executive order to what we call the Office of Foreign Assets Control to—”

“Mr. President, please—”

“You see, there are very few monetary transactions in the world that do not in some way touch an American bank. The OFAC has frozen sizable accounts. But with all the aliases used by your generals, mistakes will take some time to sort out. So far these seized accounts amount to the tune of… let me find the exact figure… One-hundred-nine-million-three-hundred-eighty-one-thousand-nine-hundred-fifty-three dollars and seventeen cents.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair, giving the other man time to do the math. Like most tyrants, he would have a very good idea of how much money he had skimmed from the coffers of his country.

“Mr. President,” Njaya huffed. “Your negotiation tactics are brutish—”

“We do not negotiate with terrorists,” Ryan said matter-of-factly. “You said yourself, François, these men have acted on their own, outside the bounds of your authority — outside the law. If you have a method of contact, you must tell them to stand down immediately. Tell them you have called the United States to assist you.”

“But I did not—”

“Really?” Ryan said, dismissing the notion. “I am sure you did. In any case, that die is cast. Tell your men.” Ryan’s tone grew darker. “Or as God is my witness, Mr. President, they will face the unfettered wrath of the United States of America. This will not be an invasion of occupation. It will be punitive. Do I make myself clear?”

“Jack—” Njaya was pleading now, as if he might break into tears.

A uniformed Air Force aide whispered something to the chairman of the joint chiefs, who, in turn, spoke to Bob Burgess. The secretary of defense gave Ryan a confirming nod. He held up both hands, opening and closing his outstretched fingers twice.

“François,” Ryan said. “If you have a way, I’d suggest you contact your men in the next twenty seconds—”

None of the twelve men had told Adin Carr who they were with — though he suspected they were not normally the type to carry handcuffs. They had Special Forces written all over them, but the Diplomatic Security agent didn’t really care who they were. They were Americans, and his boss had sent them to help in a matter of hours from the time the proverbial balloon had gone up.

The D-boys, as Carr began to think of them, wore civilian clothing — a mixture of 5.11 tactical khakis and blue jeans, muscle-mapping polos, and loose cotton sports shirts. It took them less than an hour to set up four cameras, three through tiny cracks and holes in the warehouse’s metal siding and one through a broken window at the rear of the building. Two showed a clear view of Mrs. Porter, sitting defiantly but still hooded and handcuffed.

Carr had gone from white-hot anger at the moment of the kidnapping to a simmering indignation over the past hours. The sight of Mrs. Porter and the five-gallon bucket they’d had her use as a toilet brought back the rage. They’d made no move to rape her, or even touch her. It appeared that they were just lazy and didn’t want to take her to an actual bathroom. They did, however, take every opportunity to make fun of her predicament — like junior high school bullies, kicking someone when they were down.

The bearded D-boys performed their duties with detached perfection, but Carr could tell from the periodic flashes in their eyes that they felt as he did — these guys needed their heads pulled off their necks.

Most of the newcomers carried HK MP5 sub-guns, though two produced Remington 700 rifles with powerful Leica optics. They were short-actions and Carr guessed them to be chambered in .308. He caught a glimpse of a few of the men’s pistols, and found they carried an assortment, from 1911 .45s to Glocks similar to his.

The apparent leader of the team, a bearded, grizzly bear of a man who identified himself only as “Gizzard,” had two flash-bang stun grenades on a load-bearing vest he’d thrown on over his polo. He’d winked when he’d handed Carr an MP5. “I believe in all the force multipliers I can get. Your boss said you’re good for this.”

The ambassador was more than a little grouchy when he’d not been given a gun as well, but he got over it quickly. Gizzard told both men to grab some much-needed rest. Their orders, the team leader said, were to sit tight and wait.

It seemed like seconds later when Carr’s eyes flicked open to Gizzard’s gloved hand on his shoulder.

“We’re about to go kinetic,” he said. “Wait for the signal.”

“What’s the signal?” Burlingame asked.

Both Carr and Burlingame couldn’t suppress their smiles when Gizzard explained.

Carr took up a position behind the rusted semitrailer while two teams of four men — including Gizzard — flanked the door to the warehouse. The remaining four set up at cardinal points, facing outbound to pull security. The kidnappers, apparently feeling safely ensconced inside their own country, had neglected to check outside even once.

Three minutes after the D-boys had taken their positions, the warehouse door opened a crack and one of the kidnappers — the most junior from the looks of him — poked his head out. He was just two feet from Gizzard, who stood on the other side of a small extension of the entryway. Had the man come out another inch, Gizzard could have reached out and touched him.

Instead, the kidnapper took a cursory look as if he was expecting something. Completely oblivious to the presence of the nearby Americans, he sniffed the air a moment, and then ducked back inside.

Thirty seconds later, the air shook with a tremendous roar. The ground, the trees, the warehouse itself, trembled as four F/A-18 fighter jets ripped overhead in a finger-four formation, turkey-feather exhaust nozzles open. They flew just five hundred feet off the deck at six hundred ninety miles per hour — almost but not quite the speed of sound. Breaking the sound barrier at that altitude would have shattered windows, but a sonic boom would have been too quick. The pilots wanted to maximize the duration of their engine noise. Carr knew it was coming and he still jumped. Watching, hearing, the four jets scream overhead, seeming close enough to touch, was the epitome of “shock and awe.”

Three of the kidnappers rushed outside to investigate the terrifying noise. Bald Spot remained inside.

Gizzard gave the one in the lead a rabbit punch in the back of the neck, grabbing him by the shoulder to swing him around and to the ground, like a matador’s cape. The next two Cameroonian soldiers in line received similar treatment, and were facedown and flex-cuffed before they had time to cry out.

Gizzard pointed a knife hand at the semitrailer where Carr and Burlingame were positioned and motioned them forward. The ambassador stayed on Carr’s tail as he crossed the thirty feet of open ground to the corner of the warehouse.

Gizzard held up a small tablet computer strapped to his forearm, showing the video feed from inside.

Bald Spot had left his weapon against the wall and now paced in front of Mrs. Porter. It was a simple matter for three of the D-boys to breach the door, plow the hapless soldier to the dirt floor.

Carr heard one of the men inside shout, “U.S. Army! We’re here to get you out, Mrs. Porter.”

Gizzard gave Carr a nod. “It’ll be less traumatic for her if someone she knows removes her hood.”

Carr and Ambassador Burlingame rushed inside.

“Sarah!” Burlingame said. “It’s me, Chance.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” she said from beneath the hood. Her chest finally gave way to sobs.

Burlingame gently lifted away the hood.

Carr’s jaw convulsed when the cloth came off to reveal an ugly black bruise under Mrs. Porter’s left eye.

The DS agent wheeled on the downed kidnapper, kicking the man hard in the ribs, rolling him so he was faceup. “You bastard!” Carr screamed, falling on top of the man and pummeling his face with blow after blow. He expected one of the D-boys to pull him off. No one did, so he kept hitting until he got tired — and he was in better-than-average shape.

“You cannot do this,” Bald Spot whimpered, when Carr finally let up. “You will be arrested.”

Carr hit the man one more time. “Nope,” he said. “Pretty sure I’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Sean Jolivette had once heard a quote from a Lockheed Skunk Works engineer to SR-71 pilots that a sloppy turn started in Atlanta could put the airplane over Chattanooga by the time it was complete. At speeds of Mach 1.7, the Hornet was roughly half as fast as the venerable Blackbird, but it still required a fair amount of finesse to turn. Jolivette bled off speed as soon as he passed over the warehouse coordinates, slowing to best cornering velocity of three hundred and thirty knots. He tensed the muscles against his thighs and gut in the so-called “hick” maneuver, keeping blood flowing to his brain as he took the Hornet into a 180-degree horizontal turn — pulling nearly 7.5 Gs and eating up a hell of a lot of real estate over the ground. Any more Gs and he risked making the guys in maintenance mad when he broke the airplane.

Pouring on throttle, the strike fighters overflew the warehouse once again. Unaware of how things were going on the ground, all four of them repeated the horizontal turn and pointed their noses toward the presidential residence, dropping even lower this time, to do it all again.

Njaya was apoplectic. “You are attacking us!”

As if by magic, Ryan switched to his calmer, more diplomatic self. “What are you talking about, François? My people are there to help you regain control. If the hostages go free unharmed, we can stand down. All this will be forgiven, though, I must caution, it will not be forgotten.”

“And the money?” Njaya asked.

“Oh, we’ll get that all sorted,” Ryan said. “I’m sure the accounts will be unfrozen as soon as every American is released and your troops pull back from the embassy. You can see to the men who have committed these crimes as you see fit.”

Njaya gulped. “I will make certain the men who now surround your embassy depart at once.”

“That is all I can ask,” Ryan said.

“But what of Mbida?”

“He’ll be given safe passage out of the country.”

There was a long pause on the line. Ryan and the others in the room couldn’t help but smile when it was filled with the booming roar of jets overhead.

“I see,” Njaya stammered. “But Mr. President. This entire incident has cost me politically. I am begging you. Do not send your troops into my country. It would make me appear to be weak.”

Ryan’s voice grew dark again. He spoke clearly and slowly. “You misunderstand the situation, François. I am not going to send in anyone. They are already there, overhead, in your shops, on your highways, behind every building and tree. They are embedded with your rapid response soldiers, whom they have worked alongside against Boko Haram for years.”

More silence.

Ryan got a thumbs-up from Burgess that Mrs. Porter was free and safe.

“Very well,” he said. “If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.”

He disconnected before Njaya could respond.

Exhausted, Ryan waited in the Situation Room long enough to hear that the Cameroonian troops were pulling back from the embassy. He said good night, knowing the morning alarm was going to come before he knew it, and he made a quick stop by the Oval to grab some papers he wanted to read the next morning before coming in. Standing behind his desk, he stretched, then looked at his watch. He awoke so frequently in different places around the globe that his circadian clock was in constant reset mode. He only paid attention to the time anymore so he wouldn’t inconvenience too many others.

Darren Huang, the Secret Service night-shift supervisor, a kid about Jack Junior’s age, stood outside the door of the Oval Office waiting to walk him to the residence. Ryan motioned for him to step inside.

“What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“Hey, Darren,” Ryan said. “Still pitching on Saturday?”

Ryan liked to know just a little bit about each of the agents who protected him. Huang was team captain and pitcher on an adult-league baseball team where he lived in Great Falls, Virginia. The agent didn’t have the need to know, but two of the other members of his team were case officers at CIA. One of them happened to be Mary Pat Foley’s nephew. It was the way of things in D.C. You either were a spy or knew someone who was — even if you didn’t know you knew it.

The agent smiled at his boss. “Indeed I am, sir. We’re starting off to a pretty good year.”

“Good to hear,” Ryan said. “I’m going to gather up a few things and hit the head, then I’ll be ready. Would you do me a favor and let Special Agent in Charge Montgomery know that I need to talk to him first thing?”

“Understood, Mr. President,” Huang said. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him, assuming his pantherlike gaze outward, toward any oncoming threat.

Unbeknownst to Ryan, the agent pushed the button at the end of the wire that ran down his sleeve, and then spoke into his lapel mic to CROWN — Secret Service code for the White House command post — letting the Uniform Division desk officer know that SWORDSMAN wanted to speak with the SAIC.

Ryan had time to get rid of his last two cups of coffee and flush the toilet before his personal cell phone rang.

He let it ring while he washed his hands.

“Jack Ryan,” he said, shoving the phone between his ear and shoulder while he dried.

“Good evening, Mr. President.”

Shit, he’d woken up Gary Montgomery when he didn’t need to.

“My fault, Gary. I meant first thing tomorrow.”

“No worries,” the special agent in charge said, stifling a yawn. “I can be right there.”

“No, no, no,” Ryan said. “Please. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

There was silence for a moment. Then: “Your call, sir, but to be honest, if it’s something important, I’d rather get a jump on it.”

Ryan thought about that, nodding to himself. He was the same way. “I have a special assignment I’d like to run by you. It’s a delicate matter, the kind that could end a career. And I have to admit this one is very likely to blow up in both our faces.”

“Put it that way, Mr. President,” Montgomery said, “I’m in one hundred percent.”

“Good,” Ryan said. “I’ll give you a five-minute rundown of what I have in mind, then we can hash out the details when I see you first thing… tomorrow.”