Akana planned to steam northward, meandering through the islands of Indonesia as part of a joint antipiracy operation with that country, Malaysia, and Singapore. His father had been a policeman in Honolulu and antipiracy duty made him feel like he was channeling his law enforcement bloodlines.
The message came in directly from Admiral Jenkins, Akana’s boss with the Seventh Fleet in San Diego. The communications specialist handed him the headset so he’d be able to hear over the hustle-and-bustle noise of the bridge.
The orders were clear, and according to the admiral came directly from the President. Not that that would have mattered. Akana was a Navy man. As far as he was concerned, an order was an order, whether from a captain or the commander in chief.
Akana ended the call and handed the headset back to the radio operator before motioning his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Nicole Carter, to the chart table.
“Bird’s Head Peninsula on the northwestern shores of New Guinea. Take her up as close to flank speed as you can without breaking something.”
“Our mission, Skipper?” the XO asked.
“Rescuing a couple of operatives,” he said, leaning forward so only the XO could hear. “And possibly a tiny invasion of Indonesia.”
51
We have the sat phone,” Adara said, pushing a broad, waxy banana leaf out of her path. “I don’t know if our trackers are still operational. We’ll need something to signal our exact location for pickup.” They’d been running for well over two hours, the many canyons and cliffs impeding their progress up the mountain. The sun was high in the sky now, making them feel as though they were boiling alive in the humid jungle air. Sweat plastered hair to their foreheads and stung their eyes. They’d slowed almost to a stop, partly to be more careful about how many tracks they were leaving, but mainly because the terrain had grown so steep.
“I have a lighter,” Chavez said, panting, as much from pain as exertion. “We’ll have to look for something dry enough to burn. The problem is, we signal the ship, we also signal the shitheads coming up behind us.”
“True,” Adara said. She bent the thick stalk of the plant beside her to pull a sagging hand of small orange-yellow mountain bananas close enough to reach. Each fruit was not much larger than a finger. “You think these are edible?”
“Sure,” Chavez said. “Not sweet, but they’ll give us some energy.” He gingerly touched his wrist. “You got any more of those Ranger M&M’s?”
“No ibuprofen for you,” Adara said. “I’ll give you another Tylenol, but that’s all. Let me wrap it while we’re here.” She peeled a small banana and gave it to Chavez before retrieving a rolled ACE bandage from her pack. “Apart from the bruised noggin and wrist, you okay otherwise?” she asked. “One broken bone means we’re supposed to look for more.”
“I think I’m good.” Chavez grinned, trying to add some levity. “Funny, Clark doesn’t want to die of old age… but I’d be fine with it right now.”
Adara expertly wrapped the wrist, giving it some support, if not an actual splint. “What was that I heard about JP playing some kind of sport?”
Chavez chuckled, wincing from the effort. “E-sports,” he said.
“E-sports?”
“Computer games,” Chavez said, panting. “Disguised as sports. The downward slide John sees in the youth of the world might be why he doesn’t relish the idea of a ripe old age. Anyway, I’m not sure what JP is going to do now that he’s graduated. He’s been accepted to Stanford, but he’s not as keen on it as he should be.”
“A gap year?”
“I sure as hell hope not,” Chavez said. “Patsy would freak out. She’s already got med school mapped out for him.”
A nearby branch snapped in the jungle below, causing them both to freeze.
52
It was common knowledge that any Air Force aircraft that carried the President of the United States was known as Air Force One. The convention held true through the other branches of the military as well — Marine One, Army One, Navy One, et cetera. Vice-presidential aircraft received the designation Air Force Two, and so on. In the unlikely event that POTUS flew on a commercial aircraft — it hadn’t happened since Nixon — that aircraft used the call sign Executive One. At the discretion of the White House and the U.S. Secret Service, any aircraft, military or civilian, that carried the First Lady could be designated Executive One-Foxtrot. The F designation was for family.
Tonight, wanting to stay off the radar of the hundreds of scanner folk who meticulously tracked the planes, trains, and automobiles that carried the First Family, they would use the tail number of their military aircraft.
As First Lady of the United States, Dr. Cathy Ryan could travel in any of several military aircraft flown by the Special Air Mission of the 89th Airlift Wing — her staff coordinating with the offices of VPOTUS, secretaries of state and defense, and, once in a while, congressional delegations, who utilized the same aircraft. The President customarily traveled via presidential lift on Marine One between the White House and Joint Base Andrews, just south of the Beltway. When she traveled without her husband, the First Lady usually made the trip in an armored Lincoln Town Car that was safely ensconced in a motorcade of D.C. Metropolitan Police and Secret Service vehicles.
Always hungry for anything to feed their twenty-four-hour news cycle appetite, dozens of media outlets kept their cameras aimed at the White House every moment of the day. The First Family, senior staff, and visiting dignitaries all received scrutiny, down to their clothes and type of shoes. Groundskeepers, other media folks, and especially Secret Service personnel blended in with the scenery like the proverbial postman whom no one ever saw.
Tonight, Dr. Ryan left the White House via the West Wing rather than the Residence. She wore a curly brunette wig over her blond hair, and one of Special Agent Maureen Richardson’s dark pin-striped suits. She got in the front passenger seat of the Town Car, opening the door herself — something the Secret Service never allowed her to do. The agent behind the wheel pulled away as if he was on a routine fueling mission, stopping to wave at the Uniformed Division officer at the vehicle gate. They didn’t join the follow-up Suburban and the lead sedan with Mo Richardson until they merged with the river of taillights on 15th Street.
The agent behind the wheel was of Asian ancestry. His name was Robert Leong, one of the Mandarin speakers borrowed from the VP detail for this trip. His father was a teaching physician at Johns Hopkins, where she’d done her residency, so that gave them something to talk about. He looked to Cathy like he was about fourteen, but everyone looked young to her these days.
Most of the aircraft flown by the Special Air Mission had the ubiquitous blue-and-white paint job resembling that of the VC-25A that served as Air Force One. Mo had arranged with the White House liaison officer for the 89th to have the First Lady fly in a plain white C-32, the military version of a Boeing 757–200. There were forty-five seats on board, all of them first class, allowing Mo to take a large complement of agents and gear.
An hour and a half after they left the White House, the First Lady’s plane touched down in Detroit. Airport Police escorted two Secret Service sedans onto the tarmac for a ramp pickup. They knew this was a visit from some kind of dignitary, they just had no idea who. Still wearing the wig, Dr. Ryan exited the plane with the first wave of her detail. A balding agent who bore an uncanny resemblance to a junior congressman from Florida came out in the middle of the pack and got in the backseat of the second vehicle after another agent opened his door.