Power and Empire

Jack Ryan didn’t exactly hate the concept of a photo op. He was not, however, in love with the photo portion of the op. Even before he’d been dragged by the scruff of his neck into the presidency, Ryan had long believed that a chief reason the commander in chief went gray or bald was the constant stress of being “on.” Photos with the President, whoever he — or she — happened to be, hung on walls and sat on mantels for decades. Ryan was self-aware enough to realize he was the personification of the stereotypical corduroy-wearing history professor. Still, he was comfortable in his own skin, and if kids from Mrs. Palmer’s eighth-grade national champion Project Citizen team didn’t like that he had a slight cowlick, well, there wasn’t much he could do about that.

Besides, this was a team of middle-school kids who’d excelled at civics. He couldn’t think of a better group to admit into the Oval Office for a meet-and-greet. They were intelligent and far more relaxed than Ryan had been the first time he’d come to the White House. Five-minute photo ops gave just enough time for the scheduling staff to usher in the students, Ryan to shake each hand and repeat back their names, and then maneuver everyone into place for a photo with him in front of or behind the Resolute desk. Staffers were already stepping forward to lead out the group as the photographer lowered his camera. Today Ryan caused the poor staffer from scheduling to screw up his face as if he’d been shot, when he interrupted the flow by asking Mrs. Palmer a question. Ryan gave him the “presidential eye,” which was an unspoken order to realign priorities with the boss, and then turned back to Mrs. Palmer. He was about to ask a follow-up question when Arnie van Damm stuck his head in. The look on his face said Ryan’s own priorities were about to shift as well.

Ryan’s gut churned by the time the last student left and van Damm shut the door. The chief of staff had been around the block enough times that there was very little that bothered him. Most bad news came with a knowing pat on the back and a confident reminder that things would “get better.” Not today. Today he was stricken, which meant someone had died.

Ryan eyed his friend.

“What is it?”

“Corporal Wesley Farnsworth of Shreveport, Louisiana, was killed in action three hours ago forty kilometers south of N’Djamena, Chad.”

Ryan took a seat in front of the fireplace, motioning for van Damm to do the same. It didn’t matter how many of these notifications he received, his first assumption was always that something had happened to Jack Junior. The revelation that it had not filled him with instant relief — and shame for feeling that way.

He shook his head. “Africa.” Then closed his eyes and gave a resigned nod. “Africa.”

Van Damm sighed. “Bravo Company, 3rd Battalion of the 7th Infantry, rotated into N’Djamena a month ago to assist Chadian forces in furtherance of the Trans-Saharan Counterterrorism Partnership.”

“Boko Haram, then,” Ryan said.

The chief of staff rubbed a hand over his bald head. “It looks that way, Jack. Burgess is on his way over right now to give you a more thorough briefing, but for now, it sounds as though Farnsworth was leading one of three fire teams training members of the Chadian Army in reconnaissance and patrol tactics. Thirty Boko Haram attacked an oil-drilling operation outside Koudjiwai, just south of our guys’ position.”

“A Chinese oil platform?” Much of southwestern Chad was designated a Chinese Oil Exploration Zone.

“That’s correct,” van Damm said. “Australian security personnel at the drill site were seriously outgunned and put an emergency call into the Chadian authorities for assistance at the first sign of an attack.” The CoS shrugged. “Men were dying, the government asked for help, and our guys were close. Exigent circumstances.”

Ryan took a deep breath, seething.

Van Damm shook his head. “Damn shame,” he said. “One of ours died protecting Chinese—”

“Stop it!” Ryan pointed a finger at his chief of staff. “It’s a damn shame that Corporal Farnsworth died. Period. I do not give a shit about the ethnicity of the lives he was trying to save.”

“Of course, you’re right, Mr. President,” van Damm said. “I don’t mean to minimize this young man’s death in any way.”

Ryan turned in his chair, looking toward the windows and the Rose Garden. “I know you don’t,” he said, already moving on. “To what end, Arnie? Why does Boko Haram attack an oil platform? Crude oil is worthless as fuel and impossible to transport if you need to move quickly, as they would have to do after something like this. Why not hit a refinery? At least there’s something there they can use. Was it payday or something?”

Van Damm shook his head. “I’m afraid there is an answer to that question, Jack, but you’re not going to like it. The platoon sergeant overseeing the fire teams swears that our soldiers were lured in.”

Ryan turned to face his friend, sitting up straighter.

“Lured in?”