Code of Honor

by Marc Cameron

  Drawing closer, Song was horrified to hear mention of simulations. Computers. That was Song’s area. What could this fool, Bai, be talking about with the president? Bai’s aide had come up from the back of the great hall. He was closer than Song, close enough to hear what was being said with more clarity. Whatever it was made the man blanch. His wooden expression was difficult to read.

  Song wove his way through pockets of military leaders, holding his breath as he passed through the clouds of cologne and the earthy fragrance of dumplings fried in sesame oil. General Bai spoke with his hands, a bombastic habit that appeared to make Zhao’s security people very nervous.

  Chairs clattered against one another as they were dragged across the carpeted floor to disparate areas of the hall. These were not young men, and many of them preferred to sit and talk in small trusted groups while they ate.

  A rear admiral named Tai touched Song’s sleeve as he went by, taking a moment to criticize the PLA Navy’s attrition forecast from Song’s last scenario report. The general took a moment to try and appease him, though they were of equivalent rank. By the time he extricated himself, he looked up to see the chairman with one hand on Bai’s shoulder. He either was impressed or wanted the general to stop waving his arms so much. The look on his face said it was a little of both. General Bai all but gushed, the jowly smile pinching his eyes into tiny lines. Song could hear only snippets of their conversation.

  “. . . turning point . . . power . . . computer model . . . can assure you . . . winning . . . game . . .” Then, more clearly, “Mr. Chairman, this will change the tides . . .”

  An aide stepped forward and whispered something to Zhao, causing him to bow and step away to chat with a waiting politician.

  Bai caught Song’s eye, lingered to gloat for a moment, then strode away with his scabby major in tow, obviously satisfied at how the conversation had gone.

  The chairman would continue to work the room for at least an hour. That was, after all, the purpose of this meeting. Song was in no mood to be chided for doing his job. He entered the data he was given and lived with the unadulterated results. It was hardly his fault if the United States had more sophisticated aircraft and carriers. Less than ten feet away from the paramount leader of all of China, General Song veered left and melted into the crowd of green uniforms and multicolored ribbons. He could not leave before the chairman did. That would have been noticed—and noted.

  Around the great hall, other generals compared war stories from when they were young men. Song preferred to keep his stories—and himself—to himself. He hadn’t eaten, and, though he would sit down to dinner with his wife and granddaughter when he returned home, decided to have a dumpling, if only to give himself something to occupy his time besides staring at people who did not wish to talk with him anyway.

  He was standing empty-handed in front of a chafing dish, perusing the seemingly endless variety of pork, mushroom, and bean dumplings, when he felt someone walk up behind him. He stepped aside, apologizing for blocking access to the serving area. Turning as he spoke, he was horrified to see Chairman Zhao, holding his own saucer and a conical dumpling of sticky rice and peanut called zongzi.

  “Chi fan le ma?” the chairman asked. Literally, Have you eaten? It was the traditional Chinese greeting, used when an English speaker might say “How are you?” It was doubly appropriate here, since the Office of the Chairman had provided all the food.

  General Song bowed deeply. “I have not, Mr. Chairman, sir. But I am about to.”

  Zhao smiled graciously and waved at the laden table. “Please do.”

  “Mín yĭ shí wéi tiān,” Song said, responding with a proverb, hoping it would come across as a humble compliment. Common people regard food as heaven.

  Zhao took a bite of his zongzi and regarded Song as he chewed. “You and General Bai do not get along.”

  Chairman Zhao did have a way of getting to the yolk of the egg. It wasn’t a question.

  “We have found a way to be professional, Mr. Chairman,” Song said.

  Zhao nodded, as if he knew better. “He is watching us from across the room, though he does not believe me clever enough to notice such things.”

  Song took the chairman’s word for it, squirming a little at being taken into such confidence regarding the man’s thoughts on General Bai.

  Zhao sighed. “I have read the reports of your computer simulations but have not had the opportunity to talk to you in person.”

  Song bowed again, bracing himself. “I am at your service, Mr. Chairman.”

  “The outcome of your computer modeling is divisive, to say the least. General Bai believes you have omitted vital components.”

  There had yet to be a question, so Song offered no response. As his father taught him, there was no wisdom like silence.

  “Bai does have some unique ideas,” the chairman continued. “Revolutionary, even. I would be interested to know what you think of them.”

  “The general shares with me what I need to know for my duties,” Song said.

  “Your duties are with supercomputers, artificial intelligence, gaming simulations, and the like?” Zhao said.

  “That is correct, Mr. Chairman.” This was taking an odd turn.

  “So,” Zhao continued, “I would like to know more of your honest assessment. What do you think of this Indonesian business . . . FIRESHIP?”

  “FIRESHIP?” Song’s mind raced to figure out what the chairman was talking about. He dared not hazard a guess, but knew better than to answer his superior’s question with a question. There was nothing left but to be honest—Song’s habitual fallback position. “I am not aware of any operation with that name.”

  “That is most interesting.” The chairman cocked his head, moving his jaw back and forth in thought. “Your involvement would be logical, considering your area of . . . It is not important,” he said, in a pensive way that meant it most definitely was extremely important. “I think it best if you do not speak of this Operation FIRESHIP until General Bai brings it up to you.” He smiled serenely. “This conversation should remain between you and me.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Continue to do exactly what you are doing, General Song. I need forward-thinking men like Bai who are willing to take risks for the future of our country, but their vision does not diminish the necessity of truth.”

  Song dipped his head without thinking. “That means a great deal, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Oh, do not be too grateful,” Zhao said. “I have chatted with you so long I may have ended your career. Most of those here will believe . . . hope . . . that I have spent this time scolding you. Others will be out of their minds with jealousy that I spoke to you at all. People make up stories to fill the vacuum of what they do not know, and those stories are always subject to their own insecurities. It is human nature to believe the worst in others, because we know the worst about ourselves.”

  “I thank you, in any case,” Song said.

  Zhao’s aide stepped forward at some unseen signal and ushered him to a group of admirals waiting for their turn to politick.

  Left alone by the mountain of dumplings, Song breathed an audible gasp of relief. He had never been one for hero worship, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the sun had gone behind a cloud when Chairman Zhao stepped away to speak with someone else. Junior generals in the People’s Liberation Army did not customarily have chats with the paramount leader of China. Song could not yet comprehend what their little talk meant, but he sensed it was important.

  The details were certainly curious. FIRESHIP? General Bai’s “forward-thinking” plan. That imbecile hadn’t had a forward-thinking idea in his stodgy little lifetime.

  Song was rescued from his thoughts by the buzzing phone in his pocket. It was his wife.

  “Are you coming home?” she asked when he picked up. “Our bright lit
tle star has a headache and wants to see her grandfather.”

  Worries about presidents and politics slipped from Song’s mind as he pictured his granddaughter’s face. The news that she felt bad made his heart ache, but he’d been known to cry when she skinned her knee. “Little girls should not have headaches. Should we take her to the doctor?”

  “She is like you,” his wife said. “She reads too much for her own good. I did not mean to alarm you. You have enough to worry about.”

  “Nothing as important as a favorite granddaughter,” Song said. “Tell her I will read to her as soon as I am able to leave this place.”

  “I hate those meetings,” she said, outspoken as ever. “You have too many enemies. Please remember to be watchful.”

  “Of course,” Song said. “My enemies are in the open here. Their spears are visible.”

  He decided not to tell her about his talk with the chairman. The idea of it would rob her of the ability to sleep for a week.

  “Spears are bright,” she said. “But political arrows are difficult to see.”

  “Tell Niu I will be home soon.”

  With his back to the dumpling table, Song ended the call and surveyed the crowd. Some of the most brilliant men in China stood inside this hall. Even so, it was plain to him at this moment why his models predicted China’s eventual loss in a prolonged conflict. Far too many here today were little more than paper tigers, billboards for their placards of medals, each intent on their own rising star or a fat bank account.

  Great generals stood out in history because there were so many bad ones.

  General Bai stood in the corner, conspiring with Major Chang, probably about this mysterious Operation FIRESHIP. Bai looked up, catching Song’s eye and returning the look with a sneer. Song’s wife was right. Political arrows were hard to see. The only sure way to stop them was to go after the archer.

  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.