Just fifteen minutes earlier, Cruz had taken the S icon representing the secretary of state on her computer screen and dropped it into a box with the icon for the foreign minister of South Korea, connecting the call. Someone else took notes on the conversation, but, generally speaking, Cruz could figure out the gist of what was going on by the information that passed across her desk. Five minutes after the call with Korea, Secretary Adler’s box had dropped in with an icon representing Foreign Minister Tinubu of Nigeria. Two minutes after that, the group supervisor had set up a special Cameroon Task Force and briefed everyone in Ops. Cruz was pulled from her regular duties to focus on the embassy takeover.
Nine minutes after Task Force Cameroon was up and running, Cruz’s headset chirped. She clicked her computer mouse to answer the call.
“Hello, Ops!” the voice on the other end of the line said, relieved, as if coming up for air. “Special Agent Adin Carr in Yaounde, Cameroon. The ambassador is safe. I’m talking on a stolen cell phone, so we are not, I repeat, not, secure.”
Cruz hit another icon on her screen, notifying her group supervisor that she had a priority caller on the line having to do with Task Force Cameroon.
“Special Agent Carr,” Cruz said, “I’m connecting you with the secretary right now.” She dropped the icons but stayed on the line. The call would be recorded, and in this situation, all involved stayed on to ensure the call wasn’t fumbled or dropped completely.
The secretary came on the line an instant later, asking the question the agent surely wanted to hear. “Adin, this is Scott Adler. What do you need first?”
The chief of staff, secretaries of defense and state, and the director of national security stood in the middle of the Oval in the closest thing to parade rest they could muster while holding their leather folios.
“They’re moving her,” Adler said. “Carr will get back with us as soon as he can.”
Ryan’s desk line buzzed and Betty’s voice came over the speaker.
“Mr. President, I have President Njaya of Cameroon on the line.”
Ryan put the phone on speaker. “François, thank you for taking my call.”
“Of course, Mr. President. These are most concerning reports I am hearing.”
“That’s putting it mildly, François.” Ryan cut to the chase. “I need Mrs. Porter released without delay. We can discuss the embassy after she’s safe.”
“I understand, Jack,” Njaya said. “I, too, am concerned for the safety of Mrs. Porter. These military officers who have taken her have so far shown restraint, but I am not sure how long that will continue.”
“What could they hope to gain, François?” Ryan asked, playing along with the farcical game. “Your military has mounted an attack on United States soil.”
Njaya huffed. “Jack, I would not go so far as to say it was an attack—”
“Put the shoe on the other foot.”
“I see,” Njaya said. “I do not dispute the fact that your embassy is American soil. The men who surround it are merely angry at the aggression against the sovereignty of Cameroon. I am sure this can all be sorted out.”
“Have you been able to figure out why?” Ryan asked. Njaya knew exactly why. It may have taken on a life of its own now — matters with rogue militaries usually did — but Njaya had certainly ordered it. Ryan didn’t want to play his hand. Yet.
“This I believe I can answer,” Njaya said. “A teacher at a secondary school here in Yaounde discovered your very disturbing video on the Internet.
“You are a smart man, Jack,” Njaya said pithily, animosity creeping into his voice for the first time. “Perhaps we should stop playing games. In this video you pledge your support to General Mbida and the Anglophones. How could you do such a thing, Mr. President? I would have contacted you directly to work it out, but once my supporters became aware of this video, they began to act of their own accord. It will take some time for me to restore calm.”
“That video is obviously doctored,” Ryan said. “You cannot believe everything you see online. Surely you know that, François.”
“Come, now, Mr. President,” Njaya said. “It is your face and your voice.”
“Have your people take a look at the metadata. They will prove me out.”
“I will do just that,” Njaya said.
“And your military?” Ryan asked. “What are they going to do? Before you answer, I will remind you that the United States has been your partner against Boko Haram for many years.”
“As I say, Mr. President,” Njaya said, “I am sure we… they will get this sorted out very soon. In the meantime, it would go a long way to bringing this matter to a close if your embassy personnel would send out Mbida.”
“There’s a big difference in someone asking for asylum and someone being held against their will. Before we talk about anything else, Mrs. Porter must be released.”
“But I do not know where she is,” Njaya said, barely concealing his duplicity. “Do you, Mr. President?”
“François,” Ryan said through clenched teeth. “I would think these rogue members of your military would not want the United States as an enemy.”
“It would seem to me,” Njaya said, “that it is you who cannot afford another enemy. What with everything else you are facing, the influenza, loss of public trust, I should think you would want to clear up this unfortunate incident quickly, before lives are lost.”
“François,” Ryan said, seething now. “They do not want to test me.”
“Oh, Mr. President.” The gloating smile was evident in Njaya’s tone. “One of your own senators has already accused you of bullying those who do not agree with you.”
Ryan’s face twitched. Mary Pat Foley, the only one in the room brave enough to approach him at the moment, stepped up to pat a hand on his arm for support. He waved her off, nodding that he was all right.
Njaya, uncomfortable with the silence, spoke again. “I am telling you, Jack, this is not my doing.”
“I understand,” Ryan said. “And I assure you, François, help is on the way. You will not have to take care of this alone.”
“Jack,” Njaya said. “You must not act unilaterally.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Ryan said. “Not at all. Our countries have had a mutual aid agreement to fight Boko Haram for many years. You have already invited us.”
“Come, now, Jack—”
“We’re losing the connection, François.”
Ryan ended the call. He took a deep breath and then put both hands flat on the desk in front of him.
“We’re attack plus five hours and so far we have, what, two UAVs and one DSS agent on station? I want all of you thinking about options. Everything’s on the table. DevGru, Delta, the 82nd Airborne… hell, an entire Marine Expeditionary Force. Let’s get Task Force Darby headed south. Whatever it takes to get this woman out safely and protect our embassy. Am I clear?”
Van Damm said, “The Hostage Response Group fusion cell is—”
Ryan pushed away from his desk. “Arnie,” he said, after a deep, deliberative breath. “I fully understand the need for the HRG. But I want action. Coordinated, yes, but not just coordinated planning.”
“Understood,” van Damm said.
“Very well.” Ryan stood and shrugged on his suit jacket. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Mr. President,” Foley said, hanging back as the others filed out toward the Situation Room. “Would it be possible to have a momentary word?”
Ryan smiled. “We’ve been friends long enough for me to recognize an intervention when I see one. You don’t want me to go in there and bomb the hell out of Cameroon because Njaya’s a smarmy piece of shit.”