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 little 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…