Code of Honor

by Marc Cameron

  Adam Yao was out there, too. By now he would have tried to give Tsai Zhan the special tea. If that hadn’t worked—if he simply hadn’t wanted tea—Yao had a couple of other plans that he’d not seen fit to share with Mo Richardson, reminding her that she was a law enforcement officer and he was, well, not.

  That part of this gig was his problem. She focused on her charge, the First Lady, appropriately code-named SURGEON by the Secret Service.

  Mo had never had kids, but the sight of the little girl conked out on the table, with tubes in her arm and mouth, plucked at her heartstrings. Dr. Ryan and the other surgeon used a lot of words Mo would not have normally understood, but she’d done a fair amount of reading on retinoblastoma. She was, after all, dressed to play the part of a staff member at the clinic and didn’t want to look like a complete idiot if anyone in Song’s group asked her a question. The docs threw around terms like enucleation—removing the entire eye—and photocoagulation—using lasers to blast the blood vessels that fed the tumor. There was a large monitor above, displaying the work. Half the child’s face was covered with a surgical drape. Tape affixed the breathing tube to her cheek. A thin piece of spring-wire claw held the affected eye open, unblinking, fishlike.

  Standing in the corner, Mo didn’t study the monitor long enough to figure out exactly what they were up to. She hadn’t seen them cut anything, but the gaping eye itself—looking, but not seeing—was enough to give her shivers. She’d gladly take a grisly murder scene or motor vehicle accident any day over an injured child. There’d been plenty of all those before she came on board with the Service—but it was the sight of helpless kids that stuck with her, that scarred the back of her eye.

  Mo tempered her flipping stomach by trying to focus on the First Lady instead of on the monitor. She’d waited outside the operating room dozens, probably hundreds, of times, and knew well the labyrinth of back halls of Dr. Ryan’s home hospital, Johns Hopkins. The Secret Service even had a small office there next to Dr. Ryan’s. But Mo had never watched her work. Her focus was so intense as to be almost Zen-like. Ryan and her partner were playing with some high-powered lasers in the middle of one of the most fragile and important parts of the human body. The eye didn’t offer a great deal of real estate to work in to begin with, and these guys were shooting lasers through the pupil. Watching the steady hands, the total concentration, gave Richardson an entirely new level of respect for her boss.

  An hour into the procedure, Dr. Ryan, unrecognizable in her surgical cap and mask, glanced over her shoulder and gave Mo a thumbs-up. Mo looked up at the agents in the viewing window and repeated the gesture. She and Dr. Ryan had agreed on the prearranged signal when the surgeons were roughly twenty minutes away from finishing up. The agents returned the thumbs-up to show that they understood the message and would pass it on.

  “And there you go, Adam Yao, CIA dude,” Mo whispered under her breath. “Less than half an hour. Let’s see what you got.”

  She couldn’t help but wish she was outside in the waiting area during this part of the op. She’d been around Tsai for only a few moments when the general had arrived. That was plenty long to see he was a vile human being. Mo shook her head, queasy from the images on the monitor. Still, she wasn’t sure anyone deserved what this guy was getting.

  * * *

  —

  Tsai was sweating profusely when Adam Yao brought a tray of donuts into the waiting area. Mrs. Song sat to the general’s right, his hand clutched in hers, leaning against him for emotional support. All her customary stoicism had been leached away by the stress of her granddaughter’s illness and the long hours of travel.

  “How much longer?” Mrs. Song asked in accented English.

  “I’m not sure,” Yao said. “Maybe an hour. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.”

  “What could be taking so long?” the exhausted woman asked. “If it goes longer, do you think that means they are able to save her sight?”

  “The surgeons will explain everything after—” Yao said.

  “Why are there two?” Tsai asked, gulping back a burp. Yao could hear his rumbling gut from ten feet away.

  “Two?” Yao scratched his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Why two surgeons?” Tsai asked. “There is a limited space for four large American hands around a child’s eyeball. Surely one would be enough.”

  The general huffed in disgust, blading away in his chair. Mrs. Song buried her head more deeply into her husband’s shoulder.

  Tsai chuckled. “Too many cooks—” An extra-large burp worked up from his belly, as if to punish him. He pushed the glasses up on his nose and stared at his feet.

  Yao shrugged. “That’s way above my pay grade, sir. I’m not even a nurse. I’m just an orderly. I help with things like—Hey, you don’t look so good.”

  Tsai swayed in his chair like he was about to topple forward. Yao reached out to touch the man’s arm, but he jerked away.

  “I am fine!” Tsai snapped. His twisted grimace said otherwise. The thunder in his gut grew louder. His eyes suddenly crossed. The glasses slid down again as his face twisted in pain. “The restroom!” he demanded, cradling his protesting belly.

  A morphine derivative based on a medication used to treat Parkinson’s stimulated the chemoreceptor trigger zone, or CTZ, in Tsai’s brain, causing it to send signals to the stomach saying it was time to expel all of its contents. A lot of signals. At the same time, a powerful chemical laxative was sending the exact same message to Tsai’s lower GI. The effects were fast, relatively benign, and extremely dramatic. Knowing full well what was about to happen, Yao steered the rumbling man quickly across the hall.

  They almost made it.

  In the end, a disgusted General Song ordered his aide to retrieve Tsai’s suitcase from the rental car so he could change out of his soiled clothing—keeping both men occupied and out of the picture.

  Ah, Adam Yao thought to himself as he shut the restroom door. The sexy life of a spy . . . He had to hold his breath to keep from dry-heaving at the horrendous stench—but he’d bought some time, and best of all, Tsai would chalk it all up to a bug.

  Now back to you, Dr. Ryan . . .

  54

  The First Lady waited in recovery with Niu while Dr. Berryhill went to the waiting area to talk to the Songs. Nurses and orderlies scrambled back and forth in the hallway, buzzing about something she didn’t quite follow. One of the Chinese visitors had gotten ill. She didn’t have time to think about that. The girl’s grandfather would be in at any moment. But she didn’t even devote too much brain time to that. Her patient was right here in front of her. She was what was important.

  A circle of white gauze covered the little girl’s eye. She was conscious but groggy, and probably wouldn’t remember much of the next few minutes—which was just fine with Cathy Ryan. Mo Richardson stood by in scrubs like an extra nurse. It was reassuring, having her there. Cathy tried not to take the people who protected her for granted, but it was difficult not to when she was going on with the minutia of daily life. And Mo Richardson made it look so easy.

  The real nurse, a slender brunette named Amy, went about her business, calm as could be, apparently not at all fazed by the fact that she had the First Lady and Secret Service agent (who was now armed with a pistol under her scrubs) in the same room. The surgery had gone well, considering. The tumor was confined to the anterior wall of the eye and just small enough that they were able to use lasers to destroy the blood vessels that supplied it. Niu would need to have the procedure done again, probably twice, and chemotherapy, too.

  Amy touched Niu on her forehead, said something to her in English. The little girl smiled, then her good eye fluttered shut.

  Cathy stood with her back to the door when Berryhill brought the Songs into recovery. As she suspected, they ignored everyone else and rushed to their granddaughter’s bedside. Mrs. Song all b
ut collapsed, taking the groggy child’s hand. She closed her own eyes. Cathy couldn’t understand the words but knew the feeling very well. This woman was praying.

  Dr. Berryhill let them have a moment or two, then continued to explain what he’d found, future options, the good chance that Niu would retain at least most of her sight in the affected eye. She needed to rest, he explained, and would be fine to go to the hotel in an hour or so, as soon as they were certain there were no ill effects from the anesthesia.

  Overwhelmed with relief, General Song looked up and noticed Cathy for the first time.

  He stepped closer, sparing his wife the conversation but drawing an intercepting check from Mo Richardson.

  Cathy raised her hand. “It’s okay.”

  “I suspected they would send someone,” Song said, deadpan. His English was perfect, with the hint of a British accent from training in Hong Kong. “But I must say, that they would send you is quite astonishing.”

  “So,” Cathy said. “You know who I am?”

  “Of course, Mrs. . . . Dr. Ryan. Am I to assume you performed the surgery?”

  “I assisted,” she said. “Dr. Berryhill and I were classmates in medical school. Your granddaughter is in extremely capable hands with him.” She paused a beat, then added, “My husband wants me to convey his sympathy and best wishes. And to let you know that there are no strings attached with this surgery.”

  “But?” Song said, savvy enough to know there was bound to be more.

  “But he is worried,” Cathy said. “He believes you to be a patriotic but practical man. A man who does not wish to see his country plunged into unnecessary conflict.”

  “I see,” Song said, glancing at the door. “Was that your doing? I am speaking of Mr. Tsai.”

  Cathy shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She cast a sideways glance at Mo Richardson. “But I can tell by the look in my friend’s eyes that it probably was. They apparently kept me out of that part, whatever happened.”

  “Will he live?”

  Cathy shot another look at the Secret Service agent, who gave a tiny nod.

  “Apparently so,” Cathy said.

  Song studied her carefully through exhausted eyes. “Your candor is appreciated. I am glad you did not kill him. I do not care for Tsai, but his death would have made things much more difficult for me at home. Still, I am not unhappy to be rid of him for a few minutes.” He pursed his lips, bracing himself. “What is your message, Dr. Ryan?”

  Jack had warned her about this part. Song would surely memorize every word she said, dissecting it for intelligence of his own. CIA officers underwent months of training to learn how to make this kind of pitch. She had to create a situation where the general would not feel as though he was violating his personal code. At the same time, she didn’t want to give away the farm by letting him know too much about intelligence the U.S. already had.

  In the end, she decided she was not a trained agent handler, but an ophthalmic surgeon—and a damned good one. She’d never have time to learn how to turn a foreign national into an American asset—so she decided not to attempt it.

  “Look, General Song,” she said. “I’m a mother, a wife, a concerned citizen who just wants a peaceful world for my grandkids to grow up in. Admittedly, I hear a lot more scary stuff than the average citizen because of who my husband is, but I’m no different in what I want for my family. Neither is Jack.” She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “He’s worried that something is going on, a kind of power struggle inside China. Something dangerous that’s not necessarily sanctioned by your government.”

  “You have helped my granddaughter,” Song said, matter-of-factly. “I am grateful for this. But I will not betray my country.”

  “I understand,” Cathy said. “And so does Jack.” She purposely refrained from calling him “the President.” This was a one-human-being-to-another discussion. Not world leader’s wife to world leader’s general.

  “Had you asked me about the Spratly Islands,” Song said at length, “or our military strength, or anything of that sort, I would have walked away. To be quite frank, I am not what you Americans would call ‘in the know.’ I do, however, have my suspicions, and I would confirm what your husband believes. The chairman has China’s best interests at heart. If he is given a weapon, something to make China stronger, I am sure he would use this thing, no matter how many people had to die in order to get it—just as your husband would use it for America. But taking something that is offered and ordering the methods used to achieve it are vastly different things.”

  Cathy kept her face passive, but thought how far off that notion was from Jack’s personal philosophy.

  “I will tell you this,” Song went on. “One of our generals, General Bai—your husband will know the name—has become quite brazen in his claims to the chairman. In truth, I know little of these claims, only that he is making promises regarding war.”

  He fell silent. A more professional operative might have let him stew, but Cathy couldn’t stand it for long. “Promises? Why would anyone want a war? What could possibly be the end game?”

  Song gave a sad chuckle. “You Americans always give your opponent too much credit. Sometimes, more often than not, I think, there is no master plan, just a brave—or reckless—person with the power to make things move. Do not forget, in 1961 the Soviets had no idea how to get Gagarin back to earth in his space capsule. They wanted to lay claim to putting the first man in space, so they sent him up anyway and had him bail out as the capsule fell to earth.”

  “That’s a plan of sorts,” Cathy mused.

  “Part of a plan,” Song corrected. He turned halfway to check on his granddaughter, speaking almost to himself. “And I wonder if General Bai has much more than that small piece of a plan he is making up as he goes along.” Song looked suddenly at Cathy. “Do you know what you Americans have over us in China?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Over us,” he said. “Superior to us. Maybe I am saying it incorrectly. You outspend us by far on your defense budget, but it is far more than that. The difference is, we only train. The United States military has fighting experience. General Bai has a calligraphy on his wall that translates to something like: One does not prepare for war with practice. One prepares for war with war. Bai is a general who has grown tired of scenarios and games. I believe he wants a fight.”

  Song leaned in ever so slightly, prepared now to divulge the crux of his message.

  “General Bai is very self-assured when he speaks to the chairman, going so far as to say he can assure a certain victory with any adversary in an armed conflict. You may tell your husband there is an operation under way called FIRESHIP, but I have no idea what it is. I am, however, certain of one thing: Mutually assured destruction is still complete destruction. No one wins. Like you, Dr. Ryan, my wife and I want a peaceful world for our granddaughter. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I have committed enough treason for the day.”

  55

  Seamless coordinated communication through the E2-C Hawkeye between commanders on surface vessels, attack aircraft, and Special Operations war-fighters on the ground reduced the time involved in what was known as the “kill chain process.” Valuable minutes were saved in more quickly identifying a target, moving assets to a location of attack, ordering that attack, and finally destroying the target.

  High-speed communication and the constant movement of military aircraft over USPACOM made Calliope’s jump to her next target a foregone conclusion. Replications of the same Calliope software made similar jumps, each working to reach the same target.

  The copy of Calliope that was closest to target jumped from a command-and-control Hawkeye out of Point Mugu, hitching a ride via data-link handshake to her next host, a KC-135 from the 909th Air Refueling Squadron in Kadena Air Ba
se, Japan. She deleted herself from the E2-C as she made the jump and settled in to explore the systems of the big fuel station flying miles above the Pacific Ocean.

  Calliope had no guidance system of her own. She didn’t need one. Instead, she used the GPS aboard the KC-135 to plot her location. At this moment, she and the Stratotanker were 688 nautical miles northwest of the Federated States of Micronesia, equidistant between Guam and the coral atoll known as Wake Island, 35,016 feet above sea level. Capable of speeds up to nine-tenths the speed of sound, or roughly six hundred miles per hour, the massive tanker had slowed to a more manageable three hundred and twenty-five knots indicated air speed, or KIAS.

  Onboard computers indicated that the refueling boom had been extended. The radios were active as the pilots of the tanker and the approaching aircraft communicated with each other but, unable to translate speech to text, Calliope paid no attention to that noise. She waited for the approaching aircraft to “handshake,” the integrated airborne computer-to-computer communication that Dexter & Reed had developed.

  But this aircraft was an F-18 Super Hornet from a nearby aircraft carrier. Calliope was waiting for something else, an aircraft capable of launching from a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship—a Harrier or an F-35 Lightning II stealth strike fighter, or even a helicopter—anything that would get her aboard the USS Makin Island. The Stratotanker was two-thirds full of fuel, and still heading south, over the open ocean. Many more aircraft would crowd up to her fuel boom over the course of the next several hours. Statistics and odds said the F-35s would eventually show up and drink.