Balance of Power: A Novel (10 page)

“How about seven o’clock?”

“Okay, I’ll be there,” she said and hung up.

“This is some mighty special Hamburger Helper, Jim,” Molly said sarcastically as she wrinkled her nose.

“Next time
you
cook,” he said, eating heartily.

“I will,” she said pushing her half-eaten food away. She put her plate on the counter and began making coffee. “What do you think is going through their minds?” she asked, letting the question she was pondering find a voice. “Murder American sailors just so they can have their fifteen minutes of fame?”

“Seems to be the way things are done these days. A few freaks with bombs or guns, that’s it. No more big wars, no more mass destruction, just the world slowly bleeding to death.” He stood and leaned on the counter, placing his plate in the sink. “What do you think we should do about it?”

She looked over her shoulder, “In general?”

“In general.”

She thought for a moment, then pulled her hair away from her face. “I don’t really know. Being tough didn’t seem to help Israel. Not only did terrorism not stop, now the PLO has its own country right in their backyard. It’s as if it doesn’t matter what you do.”

“You think Israel would have had fewer terrorist attacks if they’d been
easier
on the terrorists?” he asked, amazed.

“We’ll never know, will we?” She poured the water into the coffeepot and turned around. “I guess I think we should try a peaceful approach more often than we do.”

“Even with the FII, whoever the hell they are?”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m not sure.”

He shook his head slowly. “What’s to be sure about? If we find them, can you think of any reason we shouldn’t attack them?”

“I can think of a lot of reasons not to. We need some more information first.”

“What’s the President going to do about it?” Dillon
asked quickly. He saw the look on her face. He had crossed the invisible line. She was unhappy with his question.

“You know I can’t discuss his plans. I can’t believe you even asked.”

“Why can’t you discuss it?” Dillon asked, handing her the sunflower cup he had bought for her to use at his apartment. She loved sunflowers. “I just want to know.”

“It’s
inappropriate
. You know that,” she replied coolly.

“I just want to know the answer.” He leaned on the counter next to her. “It’s the President’s deal, and you work for him. He is the Commander in Chief, right? If someone is going to act, it has to be him.”

She nodded. “But that’s no news. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“So what’s he going to do?”

She didn’t answer. “Sorry,” she said.

“Okay, then tell me what
you
think he ought to do.”

“I just told you I don’t
know
.”

“Why are you so touchy?” Dillon seemed puzzled. “What is this? Why is this making you annoyed?”

Molly looked at the ceiling and closed her eyes. She finally lowered her head. “If I were going to be completely honest, I guess I’d have to say that it bothers me personally that you seem all gung-ho to go attack these Indonesians—”

“Well, why shouldn’t I? And what does that have to do with—”

“Let me finish,” she said. “Whenever I get close to you, something gets in the way.” She hesitated, not sure if she should speak her mind. “Our differences seem to go beyond politics. I’m not as anxious for blood as you are. The country needs to
think
about things, not act before we understand the issues. And even then, we have to be willing to
not
act, if that’s what’s called for.”

“Why would that be called for?” Dillon asked, perplexed. “Tell me what you think those circumstances
could even possibly be.” He smiled, as if amazed. “Look.
Whatever
comes of this, we can’t let it get in the way. We were just starting to be comfortable around each other. It’s funny that you mentioned us getting together. I’ve been thinking the same thing.” He took a step closer to her and looked into her eyes as he put his hands into his pockets. “Don’t let this get in the way.”

She looked back at him. “It already has.”

P
RESIDENT
M
ANCHESTER RECEIVED HIS USUAL MORNING
briefs, read his usual morning papers—actually excerpts from countless newspapers around the country—and thought about what to do. Everyone in the world was waiting to hear what he was going to do about the attack on a U.S.-flagged ship in international waters. Would he strike back like a child on a playground? Try the diplomatic approach that mature politicians were supposed to prefer and always seemed to choose because at least it bought them time? Respond like the Israelis, or at least the way the Israelis used to—never negotiate with terrorists? What was there to negotiate anyway?

He knew he would be second-guessed. He was always second-guessed by those who disagreed. Even when they agreed in their hearts, if there was any possible advantage to be had by questioning his decisions, they would do it. It was part of the job.

The door opened slowly. “Your secretary told me to come on in,” said Molly. She was wearing a black suit and high heels.

Manchester rose and said, “Yes, come in. Sit down.”

“Certainly, Mr. President.”

“Good morning,” he said, returning to his seat behind his desk. “Thanks for coming in so early. I have breakfast meetings, but I wanted your opinion on how my backside was doing so far before I talked to the rest of the staff.”

“So far, I don’t see any problem at all, Mr. President. There’s a lot of pressure for you to respond, but that kind of goes without saying.”

“You mean militarily.”

“Well, that’s what everyone seems to want you to do.”

“What do you think?”

“That’s certainly an option. There are other options, of course.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve thought of trying to negotiate, trying to work through Indonesia itself, trying to back off militarily as a gesture of good will…”

“Yes, I have thought of all of those. I just wanted to hear from you since you’re always in on these meetings and don’t have the same inclination to tell me what I want to hear.”

“Well, I may very well have that inclination; you just may not know about it,” she said, smiling.

He smiled back. “I guess that’s right.” He sat up. “You know, since I first heard of this attack, I have basically known what I had to do.” He looked at her directly. “I’ve also had the sense that this is going to be the turning point of my presidency.”

Molly didn’t know what to say.

“Let me ask you a question, Ms. Vaughan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which is more courageous—to lash out in anger or hold back in mercy?”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “Well, I guess it would depend on the circumstances. If you mean
these
circumstances, I think a case could be made for either course.”

Manchester nodded.

He had sensed the rest of his staff backing away from him, including his close advisers. The attitude was difficult to pinpoint, but it was there. Backing off so they could watch him make his decision from a distance and, if the plan failed, claim they hadn’t really encouraged
that
decision, or if it was successful, claim they were part of
the inner circle of trusted advisers who had come to a consensus. That was routine, that was politics.

He hated politics. He hated hating politics. He had gone into politics out of principle, to do something right, to make the country—and ultimately the world—a better place. But like every president before him, he found himself having to bargain with truly difficult people, always being challenged to compromise his principles.

But this was the time to make a decision, unequivocally, because it was
right,
to stand for something, no matter what the polls said, or his advisers, or his adversaries. He got up, walked over to a window, and looked out across the South Lawn, which was winter brown. He was angry at himself for the thoughts that had been coursing through his head. He had been feeling pressure from Congress, from the press, from the private shipping company whose ship had been lost, from the Indonesian ambassador, from his staff, from his wife, from everybody.

Everybody had an opinion in a crisis. And this was the first real crisis his administration had faced, the first time the world hung on every word, wondering what he would do. It was time to lead. He went back to his desk and spoke into his intercom, “Would you get Arlan on the phone, please?”

“Yes, Mr. President” came the immediate reply. “Should I tell him what this is about?”

“Tell him I’ve decided what we’re going to do,” he said, looking at the surprise on Molly’s face.

Dillon dropped
The Washington Post
and
The Washington Times
on his desk and hung his coat on the hook on the back of his office door. The door came back toward him. Grazio walked in.

“Speaker wants to see you.”

Dillon looked at him and breathed deeply. “I haven’t had breakfast. I haven’t even had a cup of
coffee
.” He followed Grazio out the door. “What’s up?”

“Don’t know. But he’s got that energized look in his eyes.”

Dillon walked down the hallway, hurried down the stairs, and into the Speaker’s outer office. “Hey, Robin. He in?”

She nodded.

Dillon didn’t even break stride as he walked into the Speaker’s office. “Morning, sir,” he said.

Stanbridge sat up straighter and looked up at Dillon. “You looked at the War Powers Act recently?”

Dillon tried to evaluate the importance of the question as he answered it. “Not in a couple of months,” he said, stretching the currency of his knowledge. “As I recall—president can’t send troops into hostilities without notifying Congress and getting permission for an engagement longer than thirty days…something like that. Reports required…”

The Speaker nodded. “Thanks to Nixon and Vietnam,” he said, then shook his head as he stood. “Funny history behind that. Congress got the U.S. into Vietnam with the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. Congress funds the war for a dozen years, then blames the president when he goes into Laos, like
that’s
different somehow. Then, when it doesn’t work out, they yell at him for even thinking of sending troops without their permission. Unbelievable. What exactly did they think they were funding? Target practice? Pure hypocrisy.” He ran his hand through his bristly brown hair. “Anyway, it’s in place and it keeps a president from committing a bunch of troops without Congress’s permission.”

Dillon nodded. “Yes, sir. You want me to do some quick analysis of how it plays into the current deal in Indonesia?”

The Speaker nodded as he crossed to his favorite window. “I’ve heard the President’s going to make an announcement soon. My guess is he’s going to make some big move to shore up his image as a military lightweight, which of course he is.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Speaker paused and looked at Dillon, as if wondering something for the first time, “You ever serve in the military?”

“No, sir.”

“How come?”

“No reason really. Just didn’t. By the time I was in college you didn’t even have to register for the draft. Just never entered my mind as something to do.”

“You should have. Builds character,” the Speaker said. “Anyway, let me know what you come up with about the War Powers before lunch. I don’t want to get caught off guard. I need to have the basics at the tips of my fingers.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it. You want a memo or something?”

“One page. Bullet points. What he can and can’t do.”

“I’ll take care of it. Mind if I get some help?”

“Whatever it takes—don’t work on anything else right now.” He looked up at Dillon. “We know any more about the jerks who did this?”

“Just what’s on CNN.”

Stanbridge nodded.

The sun had already set on the sweltering Java Sea. Swells were calm and the water was smooth with a slight chop. The engines on the three cigarette boats throbbed as they reduced their throttles entering the beautiful lagoon. Captain Clay Bonham stood behind the small man driving the boat with his hands tied behind him. Another man held a large knife at his back.

Bonham tried to memorize the entire scene in case he could ever break free of his captors and try to describe this island to the Navy. He strained to read the latitude and longitude from the GPS satellite navigation unit on the dash. He knew the chances of getting free were zero. He knew the chances of living through this were about the same. No blindfold. They didn’t care what he saw
because he wasn’t going to be telling anyone about it. He winced as he remembered his crewmen. Even though the F-14 had spotted the
Pacific Flyer
, the Navy had not been able to reach the ship before Washington and his terrorists executed his crew and kidnapped him. There was no hope anyone was going to get him out alive. Bonham gritted his teeth.

The three boats coasted to a pier that had obviously been recently constructed. It was solid and well built. One of the men jumped off the bow of the lead boat in which Bonham and George Washington were riding and secured the bow line to a post. As soon as the aft line was secured, the men scrambled onto the pier and into the jungle surroundings. The man with the knife pulled up on Bonham’s arm, causing pain to shoot through his shoulders. Bonham refused to cry out. He stepped onto the side of the boat and onto the pier and marched forward as directed by the man with the knife. There were several tents and lean-tos in what was obviously a temporary setting.

I’ll bet they have dozens of these, Bonham thought. Good pier, temporary settings, fast speedboats, and a mother ship to carry them around. He shook his head. The Navy would never find them.

Admiral Billings growled to himself as he stared at the chart. The thought of an entire battle group looking for three speedboats in the immense Java Sea was ridiculous. If there was one thing he hated, it was looking ridiculous. Only seventeen thousand islands in Indonesia. And he was supposed to find three little boats, no matter what. Even though it was considered critical to the security interests of the United States, for some reason they couldn’t redirect the necessary satellites to the area to help in the search. Satellites would be able to image and identify the boats if they were in port. But other commitments were more critical—even though no one would tell him what those commitments were.

He looked around the table at his staff, who were all staring at him, trying to read his mind. They knew better than to speak first. He pointed to the chart. “You see how many islands there are? By now, those boats could be on any of them, or none of them. Agree?” he said looking at his intelligence officer, who nodded her head. “I’m up for any ideas you have. We’re steaming around here looking stupid, wasting nuclear fuel, jet fuel, and sleep.”

“I think we need to start flying recce hops over the beaches of some of the closer less-inhabited islands, Admiral,” the CAG said. “We’ll never find them in the open ocean. They can’t be that stupid.”

“What else?” Billings asked, peeved.

The chief of staff looked around, then spoke. “I think we need to be coordinating with Indonesia to get permission to overfly their territory. We’ve got to lean on them.”