Balance of Power: A Novel (20 page)

Dillon looked mystified. “I’m not really sure, Mr. Speaker. I know there was a lawsuit filed by Congress years ago against President Reagan when he sent troops into Grenada, so I guess turnabout is fair play. There was one against George Bush for Desert—”

“But what happens, how does this work?”

“Well, they asked for a temporary restraining order. Right?”

“Right.”

“Did they give notice of a hearing?”

The Speaker walked to his desk and picked up a note in Robin’s handwriting.

“Yeah. Tomorrow morning.”

“Then you have to have somebody show up tomorrow morning to argue your case before whatever judge it’s set before.”

“What if we ignore it completely and say that it’s none of the court’s business?”

“You could do that, but then the court might rule against you and issue a restraining order against the use of the Letter.”

The Speaker balled up the note and threw it across the room. “Get out of here. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be in touch.” Dillon turned and walked toward the door.

“Dillon,” the Speaker said. Dillon turned. “Should we get the House Counsel to answer this thing?”

“I wouldn’t, sir. I’d get the best lawyer in Washington.”

The Speaker nodded. “I know just the guy.” He looked up suddenly. “Does the process server know who you are?”

“I doubt it.”

“I want to make sure you’re out of the building before he serves me with this thing. Get your stuff from your office and head straight to the airport. Don’t let anybody stop you. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.” Dillon pulled the door open and walked quickly out of the Speaker’s office.

He grabbed his computer, briefcase, and bag.

“You off?” Grazio said, passing him in the hall.

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

Dillon nodded, thinking luck was unlikely to have much to do with whatever happened after this. Things were under way, and neither he nor luck was in control. Other forces were.

T
HE
USS
C
ONSTITUTION
B
ATTLE
G
ROUP STEAMED
west at twenty-five knots for Bunaya, two hundred fifty miles away. The most recent F-14 reconnaissance flights had confirmed the location of the mother ship in a covered cove, and infrared photography had confirmed at least two hundred people on what was supposed to be an uninhabited island. More troubling, though, was the existence of what appeared to be reinforced concrete buildings, and the synthetic aperture radar of an S-3 Viking had also shown outlines of trucks pulling what looked to be portable weapons systems.

The news of the photos, radar reports, and infrared imagery had spread quickly through the air wing on board the
Constitution
. The response had been nearly universal enthusiasm; they were in a real fight instead of a turkey shoot. The fighter squadrons were disappointed so far because no fourth-generation Air Force had shown up to defend the island. But they could always hope.

Caskey stretched out at his place in the CVIC, the intelligence center and nerve center of the air wing aboard the
Constitution
. All the squadron commanders were there with Captain Zeke Bradford. They all felt the buzz, that excitement from the anticipation of action. None of them was sure what lay ahead, but they all knew it would probably involve the expenditure of ordnance and flying fast, two of their favorite things to do.

Zeke Bradford, the air wing commander, turned and pointed to a large chart of an island that was taped to the bulkhead. The island was approximately one hundred miles from Singapore, and sixty miles from the Strait of Malacca. He looked around for a pointer, then found it and slapped the rubber tip against the center of the island. “Good evening, gentlemen. This,” he said, emphasizing by hitting the chart again, “is where they are. As I am sure all of you know, our latest intelligence indicates that there are at least two hundred people, and maybe more, on this island. We will assume that they are all allied with the terrorists who attacked the
Pacific Flyer
. We hear they may not be regular old terrorists. We’re not really sure who they are….”

“How many of them are just regular old inhabitants of the island?” asked Caskey.

“Probably none. Until very recently, this island was uninhabited. Word we get from Washington is that Indonesia does not believe it has ever been inhabited permanently. Occasionally they’ve seen a transient fishing village there.” He scanned their faces. “For the slow-witted among us, reinforced concrete is not typical of a transient fishing village.”

They chuckled. “What’s the plan?” asked Drunk Driver, the F-18 squadron commander.

“We’re waiting to get the go-ahead from the President. But either the President is putting on a good show, or he has no intention of sending us in. The question then of course becomes whether this Letter thing, this—whatever Congress has done—will have any effect on what we do. That, of course, is up to the admiral. I have no opinion on that and don’t expect any of you to have any opinion on that. If told by the admiral to go, we go. Is everybody with me? Any of you want to second-guess the admiral and tell him he’s stupid?”

He looked at each of the squadron commanders, who gave him no response. “All right. Here’s what I think will happen. This island is going to be as difficult a target
as you will see for any kind of airborne strike. The buildings we’ve identified, at least those made of concrete, appear to be reinforced and sunk into the ground except for the top two or three feet. You won’t see any of that fancy footage of one of us putting an LGB down somebody’s smokestack,” he said, referring to the laser-guided bombs made so famous in Desert Storm. “There aren’t any smokestacks. We’re going to have to use penetrating weapons to get through any of these bunkers. For all we know, the bunkers are empty and the real weapons and people are in thatched huts elsewhere on the island and the bunkers are there just to suck us in. We’ll do the best we can to ferret that out, but assume we’ll be hitting reinforced targets for now. We’ve had some electronic emissions that appear to be a fire-control radar—we have yet to categorize them—so they may have some SAMs, or antiaircraft. We are trying to find that out too—where they might have come from, and whose they are. It does appear that these folks are serious.

“It’s my guess that within the next two days we’ll launch a coordinated strike with the amphibious ready group going ashore.” He breathed deeply and blew out through slightly pursed lips. “Whatever weapons they have, I’m sure they don’t have any armor. They’ll be hard-pressed to deflect an attack by the Marines. Our role will be generally one of support. Flak suppression, if there is any, striking the buildings, and close air support when the Marines land. Questions?”

There weren’t any.

“All right. Tonight’s missions are on the air plan. Self-explanatory. One other thing—we might try a supersonic overflight to see if we can get their AAA or SAM battery to light up to identify it. Any volunteers?”

Caskey and the F-18 squadron commander raised their hands simultaneously.

Bradford smiled, his teeth brilliant against his dark skin. “That’s the spirit. I’ll let you know if we’re gonna to do that; otherwise go with the flight plan.”

The SEAL leader, Lieutenant Jody Armstrong, and their intel officer, Lieutenant Commander Tyler Lawson, studied the same chart that Bradford had on the wall on the
Constitution
. The
Wasp
was humming with activity as the Marines prepared for the expected assault on Bunaya. The Marine Expeditionary Unit and the Special Warfare Task Unit, including the SEALs had gone from the routine boredom of preparing for the joint exercise in Thailand to the real thing. The difference was palpable. They had been told to be prepared to go ashore within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Armstrong had been told that he would be the first ashore prior to the raid—to reconnoiter the beach, do some preliminary surveillance of the island, take out suspected missile launchers, and with a follow-on mission as snipers. He didn’t like this at all. They were going against an unknown foe, of unknown strength, on an unknown island, with no intelligence. Welcome to the Navy. Unknown foe, unknown island, and no intel.

Armstrong looked at Lawson. “This chart sucks. Is this the best we’ve got?”

“Yup.”

“Well, our Defense Mapping Agency is doing a lousy job.”

“I certainly will tell them that at my earliest opportunity.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Armstrong, still looking worried. “You know, I’m always the first idiot to go ashore. Have you ever noticed that about us, Tyler—we are always the first idiots to go ashore?”

“Of course, that’s our job.”

“I know that’s our job, but it’s hazardous.”

“I think it’s part of our job description—what we do is hazardous,” Lawson said with a twinkle in his eye.

Armstrong just looked at him with mock contempt. “Where is Colonel Tucker?”

“I don’t know.” Lawson shrugged. “He said he’d be here.”

“I thought the idea here was to go over their landing plans so I can know which beach to take our unsuspecting SEALs into so we can get our asses shot at first.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know which beach to get my ass shot on if he doesn’t come here to tell me?”

“Did you get up on the wrong side of your rack this morning or something?”

“Nah, I’m just pissed off. I don’t like the way this whole thing is falling out.”

“Why not?”

“Because the President doesn’t want us to go. He’s our Commander in Chief, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Lawson visibly stiffened. “He’s a dick,” he said. “He’s an idiot; he has no idea what he’s doing. These guys come down here and pop twenty-plus Americans and sink a U.S. vessel and he says he doesn’t want to get involved in the cycle of violence? What kind of bullshit is that? The cycle of violence is already under way. We’re just on one side of it—the receiving end. I get so sick of these politicians pretending this is all some kind of game, like if we’re just nice to everybody, everybody will be nice to us. What a bunch of
bullshit
. I remember…”

The door opened and Colonel Tucker ducked his head and stepped in. He was six feet three inches and wore Marine Corps camouflage utilities with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen.”

“No problem, sir,” said Armstrong and Lawson together.

“I was meeting with my staff to finalize our plans. Lieutenant Armstrong, did you get the word that the beach we anticipate is the south-facing beach?”

“Yes, sir, that was the word I got,” he said, glancing at Lawson, who knew he had gotten no word at all. “I’ve been looking at that beach, but as you know, we don’t
have any beach studies and not many people know much about this place. By the way, sir, how many people do you anticipate taking ashore?”

“We don’t know how many people they have ashore, do we? My current plan is to take everybody.”

Armstrong looked surprised. “All fifteen hundred?”

Tucker glanced up from the chart and nodded. “What’s your plan?”

Armstrong studied the chart. “We’ll be doing the underwater hydrographic survey of the beach, which we’ll transmit back. We’ll use our new CLAMS. He noticed Colonel Tucker’s frown. “The clandestine acoustic mapping device—it takes soundings and makes a picture from the returns. Anyway, then we’ll do recon and surveillance….”

President Manchester sat in the rocking chair he preferred at the end of the rectangle formed by the two striped couches in the Oval Office. He had ordered his Chief of Staff, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Chairman of the National Security Counsel, the Secretary of Defense, and the Attorney General to appear. He looked at Admiral Hart. “Who’s the admiral of the battle group?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a four-star admiral in a dress-blue uniform, spoke with trepidation. He knew where this was going, and he didn’t want to go there. “His name is Ray Billings.” He pushed his lips out together as he tried to decide whether to go on. “Naval Academy, former fighter pilot—F-14s, commanding officer of Fighter Squadron 84, the Jolly Rogers—former commanding officer of the USS
Constitution
. Hardcharger. Golden boy.”

“Is he reliable?”

“Absolutely, he’s one of our best naval officers. But I suppose it depends on what you mean by reliable.”

“Can we count on him?” the President asked.

Hart hesitated. “Count on him to do what, sir?”

“Count on him not to follow this stupid Letter of Reprisal.”

“That’s a tough question. Navy officers have a historical appreciation for the concept of Letter of Marque and Reprisal that most politicians don’t,” he said, looking around. “Frankly, I don’t know how he will respond.”

The President stood up and pulled his rocking chair back to the side of the room and began his customary pacing. “You mean to tell me that there’s a chance he’ll actually do it?” The anger in his voice was uncharacteristic. The others noticed.

“I would say it is possible.”

“How can we stop him?”

“Well, I think the thing that we should do is order him not to do it,” the admiral answered. “A straightforward order from either me or you, or both, ordering him to do something else and to disregard that Letter of Reprisal.”

“Would he follow that order?”

The admiral paused and stared ahead. His mind worked as he evaluated his next comment. “Let me ask you gentlemen something. Which takes precedence, a direct order from a senior officer or a direct commission from Congress straight out of the Constitution?”

Van den Bosch blurted, “It is
not
straight out of the Constitution. It is out of thin air.”

“I beg to differ,” said the admiral. “The Constitution clearly has a provision in it for a Letter of Marque and Reprisal. The real question is whether what Congress has done fits within that power; I don’t think there is any precedent to say either way.”

“Whose side are you on?” demanded Van den Bosch.

“I didn’t know we were picking sides,” said the admiral. “I thought we were trying to sort this out.”