Balance of Power: A Novel (22 page)

Captain Clay Bonham looked around at his new setting. He was surprised they hadn’t blindfolded him. He was glad, but that could mean they planned to kill him soon. The island was tropical—hot, dense, and humid. He longed for the seventy-two-degree bridge of the
Pacific Flyer
. He had been too casual. He’d left security arrangements up to others. Ford, the government, Indonesia. If it had been up to him…but it hadn’t been. But he hadn’t even taken his own security measures when he could have. He should have had security on the ship ready for any eventuality. He breathed deeply as he began to feel nauseated. He wanted desperately not to throw up. He hadn’t been fed since being taken. They didn’t seem to
care whether he lived or not. They gave him water when he asked for it, but that was all.

He looked at the three guards escorting him to one of the many huts in what appeared to be a village. Washington was beside him, personally supervising his transfer to this new island.

“The Navy is going to come and get you,” Bonham said through gritted teeth to Washington.

Washington yelled something to the men that caused them to stop. He turned toward Bonham and slapped him in the face. “Do not speak to me about what will happen. You know nothing.”

“I know that you’re a goner,” Bonham said.

“Captain, your President has already said to the entire world that he is not going to do anything about this. He’s going to leave it up to Indonesia.”

Bonham looked concerned. “He said nothing like that.”

“CNN,” Washington said, showing his teeth.

“I don’t believe you,” Bonham said.

“I don’t care,” Washington said. “They will comply with our demands. The President is already doing so. The Navy will be out of Java Sea within two days, you’ll see.”

Bonham shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Washington looked at him and then glanced around with his arms wide. “It doesn’t matter. If they come, we will be ready.”

“Thank you for coming in at this late hour, Mr. Pendleton.” David Pendleton nodded, his silvery hair perfectly in place. His face was tanned, but less wrinkled than one would expect from a man of sixty. He wore a double-breasted glen-plaid suit with a maroon handkerchief in the pocket. His French cuffs extended the perfect quarter inch beyond the sleeves of his suit and the gold wraparound cufflinks were barely noticeable.

David Pendleton had come to Washington when his
firm decided it needed an office in the nation’s capital, especially since the Speaker of the House was from San Diego. They had almost waited too long, but Pendleton had made the office a success. He was a senior partner in the litigation department of San Diego’s largest law firm, Blanchard, Bell and Martinez. He had tried over two hundred civil cases and had won an award as the best trial lawyer in California. Since coming to Washington he had specialized in representing California interests before regulatory agencies and Congress. He hadn’t tried a case in five years.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this,” said the Speaker. “Have you?”

Pendleton shook his head without speaking. He had a reputation for being slow to speak and slow to anger, but intense and efficient. “Not really,” he said finally.

“Well, what do you make of the lawsuit?” the Speaker asked, always wanting to cut to the chase.

“According to some quick research of my associates, and after reviewing the memo of your staff member, Mr. Dillon, this is a very close question of constitutional law. It does not seem to be appropriate for a temporary restraining order.”

“What’s our next step?”

Pendleton sat still with his legs crossed. He had no emotion on his face at all. After a pause that was too long for the Speaker’s comfort, Pendleton asked, “What is your objective?”

Stanbridge just stared at him. “What do you mean, my
objective
?”

Pendleton repeated his phrase. “What is your objective?”

“With what?”

“With the issuance of your Letter of Reprisal. What is it you want to accomplish?”

The Speaker sat down directly across from Pendleton. “I want the United States Navy, and the United States Marine Corps, to go down and find those terrorists or
whatever they are, knock the hell out of them, capture them if possible, then return to the United States to the hero’s welcome they’ll deserve.
That’s
what I want.”

“Do you believe that the admiral—Billings, I think—will accept the authority of the Letter?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure,” replied the Speaker.

“You didn’t have some communication with the admiral before issuing the Letter?”

“No.” The Speaker felt uncomfortable, realizing that perhaps he should have taken more steps to prepare Billings rather than letting him receive it cold. “Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. But I will tell you this. I was in the Navy and I know how these guys think. They would like nothing better than a change in the daily routine, to test their equipment and tactics. Whether they acknowledge it or not, given a chance, I think they’ll take it.”

Pendleton let the Speaker’s comments sink in. “Do you have any secondary objectives?”

“What are you
talking
about?” the Speaker replied impatiently. “I thought you were here to represent me and Congress in defending this unbelievable lawsuit that the President has filed. To get us out of this.”

“I’m getting to that,” Pendleton said quietly. He started again, as if to a dull witness, “Do you have any secondary objectives? Is there anything else that you want to accomplish other than attacking the terrorists?”

“Like what?” asked the Speaker.

“Like challenging the President’s authority,” said Pendleton.

The Speaker looked at him without responding. “Not exactly. I want to challenge this President, but not the office. That’s not my objective. If he wants a fight, I am perfectly happy to fight,” he acknowledged, “but I didn’t set out to challenge his authority, and I don’t want to do it now.”

Pendleton nodded. “Good. Then we are clear as to what the objective is. That makes it easier to make decisions on how to approach this lawsuit.” Pendleton uncrossed
his legs and stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the Washington Monument with his hands behind his back. He turned and addressed the Speaker. “Do you have any particular instructions on how you wish this handled?”

“I don’t even know what my choices are, David. Talk to me about what we can and cannot do.”

“The way I see it, Mr. Speaker, you and Congress have two choices. If you wish to make this a
cause célèbre
, then we can meet them on the merits at each step and attempt to prevail based on being right. The other choice is to delay the procedure as much as possible so that when this ultimately is decided, the facts and events will be behind us and the court will in all likelihood dismiss the case as being moot. Do you understand those two options?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“I really have a preference for having this heard on the merits. I believe that Congress has this power, and that it should exercise it more often.” The Speaker stood up, suddenly energized. “For the last fifty years, ever since Korea, we’ve been fighting people all over the planet, and
not once
has Congress declared war against anybody. Not since World War Two. That’s a scandal. It’s a usurpation of power by the President, but it’s also an
abdication
of power by Congress. They passed this lame War Powers Act trying to limit the President’s ability to send troops abroad. That’s when all this should have been decided. But it wasn’t, so here we are. The power to make war must be decided. It is Congress’s power—that’s clear in the Constitution—and not the President’s. This Letter of Reprisal is the next step.” Stanbridge scratched his scalp, then rubbed his eyes. “But,” he said, fatigue overwhelming adrenaline, “I don’t want to lose. I want to get these guys in Indonesia, and if that means stalling so that it happens, then I’m all for it.”

Pendleton picked up his briefcase. “I understand. I will
be attending the hearing at nine in the District Court by myself. I do not recommend that you come, nor do I recommend that you send any other member of the House.”

Stanbridge indicated agreement.

“I will be in touch directly after the hearing to let you know what happened.”

As Pendleton reached for the door handle, Stanbridge spoke. “David.” Pendleton turned. “Let me ask you something. This is a question of constitutional law, isn’t it?”

Pendleton nodded.

“The President is Commander in Chief of the armed forces. Right?”

Pendleton, acknowledged the obvious, but said nothing.

“What if the President of the United States is a pacifist?”

Pendleton’s eyes narrowed as he tried to discern Stanbridge’s thoughts.

Stanbridge rose and tucked in his shirt as he crossed the room toward Pendleton. “If the Commander in Chief of the United States armed forces had no willingness, and I mean
no
willingness, to use the armed forces or the nuclear defense under
any
circumstances, he wouldn’t be
fit
to serve as President, would he?”

Pendleton looked back understanding but without answering.

Stanbridge finished his thought. “Wouldn’t it be the obligation of Congress to impeach him?”

L
IEUTENANT
R
ICK
R
EYNOLDS
, A
DMIRAL
B
ILLINGS
’
S
aide, led Dillon down the ladder to the 03 level, the deck below the flight deck and slightly less full of violent noise. They walked inboard onto the blue-tiled area and turned right, toward the bow. The lieutenant made an immediate left and rapped smartly on the door marked
ADMIRAL’S WARDROOM
. A Marine sentry opened the door and Reynolds stepped through. Dillon followed.

Reynolds stopped ten feet inside the door, facing a table full of officers. Dillon glanced around the room. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. He had heard how cramped and uncomfortable Navy ships were, and even though carriers were much bigger, he assumed they weren’t much more comfortable. But this room was huge. It had a table with ten chairs around it, nearly all occupied, a separate area with a couch and chairs and a coffee table, a kitchen nearby. The walls were covered with paintings, not the emergency instructions he had noticed elsewhere. He gazed longingly at the leather couch to his left and wished he could lie down on it and go to sleep. He noticed on the wall a framed, poster-sized replica of the United States Constitution. The ship’s namesake. “We the People…” Right next to it was a painting of the original USS
Constitution
,
Old Ironsides,
the undefeated frigate that fought the English so gallantly and was still commissioned and sitting regally refurbished in Boston Harbor. John Stanbridge
had sponsored a special act of Congress to allow two U.S. ships with the same name to be commissioned at the same time.

Dillon looked at the officers surrounding the table. His mouth went dry and his stomach jumped. He was accustomed to dealing with people in power, but he was out of his element with the military. It was a foreign world to him, full of people he had stereotyped, and an environment that made him very uncomfortable.

“May I present Mr. James Dillon, assistant to the Speaker of the House of Representatives.” The lieutenant then turned to Dillon.

“Mr. Dillon, may I present Admiral Ray Billings, commander of the
Constitution
Battle Group, and his staff.” Admiral Billings rose and crossed over to Dillon. He extended his hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dillon. Welcome to the
Constitution
.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”

“I hope your trip wasn’t too taxing.”

Dillon responded with a pained expression. “I had no idea how big the earth was until I traveled halfway around it in one day.”

The admiral laughed. “Imagine how long it took to deliver such a Letter the last time one of these was issued. You would have been traveling six months to get here. If you got here at all.”

Dillon nodded and smiled without speaking.

“Please, sit down. Join us. We were just discussing what to do about this Letter. The attack is scheduled for approximately thirty-six hours from now.”

Dillon felt a cold chill.

“Coffee?” the admiral asked as he took his seat.

“What attack is that, Admiral?” Dillon asked as he gestured to the messman with the coffeepot.

“Well, the attack on these terrorists on Bunaya.” Admiral Billings indicated a seat at the far end of the table. “Please sit there, Mr. Dillon.”

Dillon looked around. “I seem to have misplaced my bag.”

The aide spoke. “No, sir. That was taken care of. I gave it to Petty Officer Johansen, who put it in your stateroom.”

“My stateroom?”

“Yes, sir. It is my understanding that you are going to be here at least a day, maybe two, and we have you in a stateroom on the second deck.”

Dillon looked at him curiously. “Why two days?”

“It depends on the COD schedule, sir,” the aide said, looking to see if he was speaking out of turn. “We have you scheduled on the COD ashore tomorrow evening, but it may not be until the day after that, and if we are involved in the attack it may be even later.”

Dillon was taken aback by the thought of being aboard the carrier during the attack. It could be exciting to see his Letter of Reprisal in action, but it also brought the ramifications into sharp focus. Dillon sat down slowly, hoping to appear at ease. He tried to seem older and more sophisticated.

“Well,” said the admiral. “First, Mr. Dillon, let me introduce my staff to you.” He went around the table and introduced his chief of staff, his intelligence officer, his operations officer, and the rest. Dillon was surprised most by Beth Louwsma and had to force his eyes on to the next officer introduced.

“Mr. Dillon,” the admiral asked as a messman poured Dillon’s coffee into a porcelain cup with a blue anchor on it, “before we do anything else, I take it that you have brought the Letter of Reprisal with you.” He looked at the leather folder lying on the table next to Dillon. “Is that right?”

“Yes, sir, it’s right here,” he said, tapping the folder.

“Mr. Dillon, would you please read aloud that letter?”

Dillon raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised at the request, and then opened the folder.

The rest of the room grew deathly quiet. No more stirring of cups, no sipping of coffee; even the inevitable shifting in chairs had stopped, as every person in the room gave him their undivided attention.

He read the language, taken almost directly from the Letter of Marque and Reprisal issued by Congress and signed by James Madison in 1812. The flowery language had been toned down, but the flavor was the same. When Dillon finished he looked around the table. No one spoke.

“Well,” the admiral said, “there it is. Sounds like an op order, with timing, target, and objective. Any comments?” Some shook their heads gently; others did nothing. Beth Louwsma rubbed her finger around the top of her coffee cup without looking up.

“So the question for us, Mr. Dillon, is, should we do it?”

Dillon sat at the table and listened to the noises of the carrier: the loud aircraft directly overhead on the flight deck, the hum from the power plant somewhere below—the nuclear power plant—the air-conditioning, the conversations and rushed footsteps in the passageway on the other side of the thin metal door. Dillon felt the sweat under his arms, even though the wardroom was cold. He couldn’t tell if the admiral’s question was rhetorical, or whether he was truly expecting a reply. Was he looking for Dillon to say the obvious? To go over all his thinking, or the thinking of the Speaker? He finally spoke, hesitantly. “Yes, you should.”

The admiral drank deeply and set his cup down with a loud clank. “Why is that?”

Dillon sat forward slightly, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. “Because it comes directly from the Constitution and was lawfully passed by Congress.”

Billings nodded slightly, then reached for a folder that sat on the table. He opened it slowly and took out a one-page document. He began to read:

Billings looked up and glanced quickly around the table as he finished reading the message. Nothing needed to be said. He sat up straight in his chair and rested on his elbows on the table. “Which wins? Your letter, or an order from the President and Joint Chiefs?”

Commander Mike Caskey and Messer Schmidt re-checked their switches as they turned the Tomcat toward the island. Caskey could see it clearly in the high afternoon sun. The objective was to get imagery so that the intelligence specialists could do mensuration on anything that was casting a shadow. One pass. That’s all it would take.

“We got good radar paint on the island, skipper.”

“Roger that. Anything unusual?”

“Nope. Not a thing.”

“All right, here we go,” said Caskey as he bunted the nose of the F-14B toward the horizon and went to full military power. The island was fifteen miles away. His objective was to pass by the island at six hundred knots, just under supersonic. There were no expected difficulties, but one lucky bullet from a ground-fired rifle could ruin their whole day.

Caskey loved flying the F-14. He had spent his entire aviation career flying F-14s and now was at his peak as commanding officer of an F-14B Squadron aboard the Navy’s newest carrier and he loved it.

“Range,” he asked Messer.

“Five miles.”

“Okay. This island isn’t very big so we ought to be able to get the thing in one pass. Remember to keep your RAW gear on to check for SAMs. Somebody thinks they may have some.”

“Roger that,” said Messer, looking to his left inside the cockpit to adjust the timing for the cameras.

“How does it look on the television?”

Messer adjusted the angle of the television sight unit,
TVSU, in a chin blister under the nose of the aircraft. Its magnification allowed him to zoom in on the island and examine it via his internal screen. “I don’t see anything unusual at all, but this island is completely covered with foliage. I don’t know that we would see anything.”

Caskey said, “I’m going hot mike,” as he flipped a switch in his cockpit to activate the microphone inside his oxygen mask. They could hear each other breathe and could speak to each other without pressing any buttons.

“Remember where those concrete bunkers are supposed to be?”

“South side of the island, couple of miles in from the beach.”

“Keep your eye open in that direction.”

“Will do.”

“Camera on!” Messer announced.

Caskey went into afterburner to accelerate as they passed the island.

Messer heard a buzz in his headset and looked down at his indicator. “Skipper! SAM radar at one o’clock!”

Caskey looked at his one o’clock position to see any missiles coming their way. “Nothing in the air,” he said, his breath coming hard, his hands poised to slam the stick in whatever direction might be necessary to avoid a SAM. “Any launch indication?”

“Negative,” said Messer, his voice rising in pitch. “They’re just tickling us.”

“Roger that, keep your eyes open.”

“Roger.”

Caskey was thrown forward into the stick as the surface-to-air missile slammed into the F-14 just between the engines in the rear of the Tomcat. Sections of the engines and fuselage fell to the ground underneath the burning airplane. Their momentum carried them past the island and out over the dark blue ocean as Caskey fought the forces, leaned back, and pulled the stick back in a desperate automatic attempt to keep the Tomcat in the air. He traded some of his speed for additional altitude.

“You got it?” Messer asked, nearly panicked.

“Engines are overtemp. I’ll keep them going to get as far out as we can!” Caskey said through clenched teeth. “All the systems are failing. I’ve got two solid fire warning lights!”

Messer wrapped his right hand around the ejection handle between his legs. “Go to idle on both engines, turn the air source off. Check the lights!”

“No chance! We’re going to lose both engines—we just need to get away from the island.”

“Let me know when you’re ready! I’ll punch us…” Messer said as they lost electric power and their internal communications stopped. The Tomcat suddenly rolled violently to the left and pitched over toward the ocean.