Balance of Power: A Novel (21 page)

The President stepped in with his calming voice, which sounded forced. “Okay, Admiral, what do
you
think we should do at this point?”

“Well, as I understand it, you’ve already put in motion
the legal challenge to this Letter. Am I right?”

“Right.”

“Well then,” the admiral said confidently, looking at the Attorney General, “if the legality is so clearly in our favor, this should be over quickly.” He looked around at each of the others. “Right?”

The Attorney General sat quietly.

“Assume we’re unsuccessful in getting an injunction, or order,” Manchester said, “what do you recommend?”

“I think, Mr. President,” the admiral began slowly, “the only thing we can do is order him back out of the area, say, to Pearl Harbor, and specifically order him not to follow the Letter of Reprisal or take any action against anyone without our authorization.”

“How soon can we get such a message to him?”

“It’s my understanding that the Speaker has sent a member of his staff down there with the letter in hand.”

“We’ve got to get our message there before he arrives.”

“That’s no problem, Mr. President,” said the admiral. “We can send a flash message five minutes from now if you want.”

“That is exactly what I want, Admiral. What should it say?”

“Just what we have been talking about. Do you want it coming from you or from me?” the admiral questioned.

The President hesitated, then nodded at the admiral. “From you
and
me. I think he might respect that more.”

“I will draft the order and get it out right away. Do you want to see it before it goes?”

“No. Just get it to him. I want him to have it in hand before that Letter arrives.”

“Will do, sir.”

The President looked around at his advisers. “Anybody got anything else to say?”

They sat silently in response. “Any new information?” he said, looking at Cary Warner.

“Only that we’ve gotten some more information back
from both the USS
Constitution
and the Indonesians.”

“What information?”

“The Indonesians aren’t buying that these guys are from some group for an Islamic Indonesia. They know all those guys. None of the usual Muslim fundamentalists are part of this group. They think there’s something else going on.”

“What about from the
Los Angeles
?”

“They followed the mother ship that craned aboard the three fiberglass boats and followed it to Bunaya.”

“Where’s that?”

“It is sort of near the Strait of Malacca, south of Singapore.”

The others in the room looked puzzled. “Why would they go there?”

“It’s uninhabited. It would also put them in place to harass other traffic that might be headed toward the Indian Ocean through the Strait of Malacca.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that at least two hundred people on the island have been identified as being somehow associated with this group. There are indications they have surface-to-air missiles and hardened buildings or bunkers.”

“Surface-to-air missiles and bunkers?” He looked at the CIA Director. “What do you make of it?”

“Hard to say, sir, could mean a number of things.”

The President shook his head. “Whatever it means, it would only make it worse if we tried to attack them. I don’t want to get a bunch of Americans killed attacking some island fortress—”

“I wouldn’t call it a fortress exactly. We only know of two bunker—”

“Anybody disagree?” the President said forcefully.

Van den Bosch jumped in before anybody could possibly say anything. “We’ve been through all this before; there is no significant change.”

The others exchanged glances and remained silent.

“One last thing,” Van den Bosch said awkwardly. The
others looked at him. “I have it on good authority the Speaker’s staffer is leaving from National with the Letter in less than an hour.” He looked at Manchester. “I think the CIA, or maybe the FBI, should have someone on that plane. Maybe Mr. Dillon won’t be able to deliver that Letter. Maybe it will get lost.”

Manchester stared at the carpet, then stood suddenly. “That’s all for now, gentlemen.”

E
VEN THOUGH HE HAD GROWN UP IN
S
AN
D
IEGO
, Dillon had never been west of California. The Singapore Airlines Boeing 747-400 had stopped in Los Angeles before making the sixteen-hour overwater flight to Singapore. He knew he was crossing the international date line and it became the next day. He tried to think about when today became tomorrow, and how, and gave up.

After landing, Dillon realized he was on the other side of the world from Washington. Twelve hours and twelve thousand miles away. Northern Hemisphere to almost the Southern. East longitude to west. Cold to hot. Light to dark. He stood in the middle of the large modern airport in Singapore wondering what to do.

Chuck, the only one on the Speaker’s staff with military experience, had reassured him that the message with his flight number had been sent to the
Constitution
and they would pick him up. What Chuck couldn’t tell him, though, was how they would pick him up and how they would establish communications. Chuck just said not to worry about it. Easy for him to say.

Dillon picked up his suitcase and walked toward the main terminal. He and his suit were wrinkled and saggy. He had worn a tropical-weight suit rather than casual clothes. He now regretted his decision.

A small burly American walked behind him as Dillon strolled through the terminal. Dillon felt a tug on his briefcase.
He looked around. The man behind him was carrying a camera bag that had become entangled with Dillon’s briefcase. “Sorry,” the man said, relaxing the pressure, as two women stopped directly in front of Dillon.

The two Caucasian women looked almost like twins. They were five five or five six, and both had blond hair done in a French braid that was tucked up underneath. They wore green Navy flight suits with black-leather name tags. One of them spoke first.

“Are you Mr. Dillon?”

“Yes, who are you?”

“I am Lieutenant Karen Morris and this is Lieutenant j.g. Shana Westinghouse.” The one speaking stuck out her hand.

He shook her hand and smiled.

“We’re the pilots from the COD.”

He stared at them blankly. “What does that mean?”

“Carrier onboard delivery, sir. We fly people and parts out to the carrier every day from various airports.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Morris looked at her watch. “We a have noon charlie time—we have to be overhead the carrier in two hours—so we need to launch out of here in about thirty minutes. Can you be ready then?”

“I’m ready right now,” said Dillon, smiling to impress them without knowing exactly why, other than they were pretty and he had noticed. He tried not to notice, but he couldn’t help it.

“Great,” she replied.

“Let me help you with your bag,” Westinghouse said, grabbing it from his hand.

He protested, but then stopped. They preceded him through the airport.

“So what brings you down here, Mr. Dillon?” Morris asked over her shoulder as they walked.

“Don’t you know?”

“Not really, no. We know you’re coming from Washington,
but we’re not sure why.” She glanced toward Westinghouse.

“I’m bringing a letter from the Speaker of the House to Admiral Billings.”

They both looked at him quizzically. “What’s wrong with the mail?”

“A Letter of Reprisal. Do you know what that is?”

“No. What does it mean?” Westinghouse asked, a light in her eye.

He sighed audibly. “It’s kind of a long story. Haven’t you been following the news?”

“Nope,” they said in unison.

“We haven’t seen much news for a while,” said Westinghouse. “We’ve been flying out to the carrier and back about every three or four hours for two weeks. If we get extra time, we sleep. They had some problems with the F/A-18’s engines and we were the only ones who could get them the parts. Why, what’s going on?” she said, shifting the bag to the other hand.

“Too hard to explain,” said Dillon. “Congress issued a Letter of Reprisal to this battle group to go after the terrorists who sank that American ship.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” said Westinghouse.

“Somebody ought to go mort those assholes.”

Dillon raised his eyebrows at her language but said nothing.

“So what kind of airplane do we fly to the carrier in?” Dillon asked.

Morris looked at him as if at a child. “A COD.”

“What is a COD?”

“A COD is a…COD. It’s an ugly, gray, bugsmasher kind of an airplane.”

She looked at Westinghouse, who picked up the theme. “They’re definitely ugly, but they’re slow and unreliable. We’ve had a lot of trouble with them lately. We’ve lost three CODs in the last twelve weeks.”

Dillon’s eyes got big. “What do you mean,
lost
them?”

“Lost, as in crashed. You know, pranged. They’re really
old. They were supposed to all be retired five years ago.”

“Was everybody okay?”

Morris and Westinghouse exchanged glances of mock concern. “No. ’Fraid not. They’ve had some very bad results.”

Westinghouse continued, “Don’t worry, Mr. Dillon. We’ve had most of our scheduled maintenance. They expect to identify the problem any day now.”

Dillon didn’t say anything as the pilots’ eyes danced with the inside joke. A COD hadn’t crashed in two years.

“Are there any helicopters going out to the carrier?” Dillon asked.

“No, sir. Helicopters don’t come this far. We’re it. If you have to deliver your fancy letter, you have to take it out by the COD. Your choice. Are you coming or not?”

Dillon hurried as they continued to walk at a pace faster than he was used to. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

They walked through an unmarked door, down a flight of stairs to the concrete tarmac near the tower, and out toward a Navy airplane. The heat surrounded him and tried to suck out all his strength. He was shocked by the humidity. It was much worse than Washington in the summer—something he’d thought impossible. He had noticed the heat as soon as he got off the plane, but only now did he realize that that heat was inside an air-conditioned terminal. This was the real thing—spirit-crushing heat with humidity.

Dillon breathed deeply as the moisture settled into his hair and lungs as he shuffled along the tarmac. He looked up at their destination and nearly passed out. It was the ugliest airplane he had ever seen in his life. A tall young sailor in a green Nomex flight suit walked toward them.

“Everything okay, Petty Officer Wilcox?” Lieutenant Westinghouse asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Little bit of an oil leak from number-one engine, but I think it’s the seal we replaced two weeks ago.” He narrowed his eyes. “I think it must have a little
wrinkle in it. It’s within acceptable limits though.”

Lieutenant Morris approached Dillon and said, “Now, sir, before we get going, a couple of things we need to be sure about.”

Morris continued, “Before you left Washington, were you given the password?”

Dillon looked really confused. “What
password
?”

“To get inside the island.”

“I didn’t think we were going to an island; I thought we were going to the carrier.”

Westinghouse jumped in. “Not an island,
the
island, the superstructure that is above the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. In order to get inside the carrier you have to have a password. Otherwise you’ll have to stand outside on the flight deck the whole time you’re here.”

“Are you kidding me?”
Dillon asked, beginning to panic. “Nobody told me that.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Dillon,” Westinghouse said. “We’ll try to cover for you.”

Dillon looked at Lieutenant Morris, who tried not to laugh as she turned quickly away.

“Wilcox,” Lieutenant Morris said. “Help Mr. Dillon here get situated and stow his gear, and we can get out of here. We have a noon charlie time.”

“Roger that.”

Petty Officer Wilcox turned to Dillon and extended his oily hand. “Can I take that, sir?”

Dillon took his bag from Westinghouse and handed it to Wilcox without looking at it.

“This way, sir,” said Wilcox. Dillon bent down and followed him into the airplane underneath the four vertical tails. Wilcox pointed toward an uninviting seat. The rest of the airplane was packed with boxes and airplane parts wrapped in bubble wrap. “Here you go, sir.”

“It’s facing backwards,” said Dillon.

“Yes, sir. But we don’t really consider it backwards. It’s facing
aft
—works better on arrested landings because the force of being stopped by the tailhook throws you into
the back of the seat instead of splitting you in half with a seat belt.”

Dillon looked at him incredulously. “We’re going to do an arrested landing?”

“It’s either that,” Wilcox replied, enjoying Dillon’s face, “or run off the pointy end of the carrier.”

Dillon sat down in the canvas-lined seat and pulled the lap belt tight across his wrinkled pants. Wilcox produced a flotation vest. “Let’s put this on, sir,” he said as he slipped it over his head. “You need to lean forward so I can get this strap around you.” Dillon did so and Wilcox secured the vest. Wilcox knelt beside him and looked into his eyes, looking suddenly serious.

“If we go into the water, sir, whatever you do,
do not
inflate this vest until you are outside of the airplane.”

Dillon swallowed hard. “Why not?”

“Because if you do, you won’t be able to get out. You won’t be able to swim hard enough to pull yourself down from the overhead to get out of any of the hatches.”

Dillon looked at him with a frown, confused. “Whatever,” he said, praying to God they didn’t go “into the water.”

Wilcox handed him a helmet made of hard plastic and canvas with ears like stereo headphones. Dillon put it on and tightened the chin strap.

He heard the two pilots climb into their seats behind him and heard Wilcox close the hatches. They began exchanging gestures, unknown words, and acronyms that made no sense to him at all. Before long he felt the airplane shudder as the engines came to life, filling the interior of the airplane with deafening noise. He was amazed at what an antique the airplane was.

They taxied to the runway and stopped. The engines ran up to what he guessed was full power; the airplane sat there and shuddered. The engines returned to their dull roar as they taxied onto the runway and took off, lumbering into the humid air like a salmon up a fish ladder.

The flight to the carrier was uneventful, though noisy
and bumpy. After nearly ninety minutes airborne and a feeling in his stomach of which he was ashamed, they began their descent toward the carrier. He unlatched his belt and peeked out of the window to see what an aircraft carrier looked like from the air. He had seen many aircraft carriers during his time in San Diego, but never from an airplane about to land on one. It looked like a dime on a big blue sidewalk.

He felt the airplane continue to descend slowly and noisily as it approached the carrier, then an explosive, shocking noise. He braced himself, waiting for the airplane to pitch over the side of the carrier and for the water to come rushing in. He found himself repeatedly taking large breaths of air, hoping to get a good one before the water rushed over his head. His back was pressed into the slat and his head jerked backward involuntarily. Instead of flipping over, the COD came to a halt with its engines roaring at full power, wanting to fly.

Dillon’s eyes darted from one side of the aircraft to the floor to the ceiling, looking for some indication of what was happening. Finally, the engines slowed and the COD taxied off to the side of the landing area aboard the USS
Constitution
. He let the breath out of his lungs and tried to look casual.

Wilcox walked down the minimal aisle and reached for a button above the rear ramp door. He pushed the black “down” button and lowered the ramp to the flight deck. He motioned to Dillon to unhook his lap belt and stand up, which he did, slamming his head into the overhead. He winced as he ducked down and waited for the stars in front of his eyes to subside. His mouth felt dry and coppery.

Wilcox motioned for him to follow him and then walked down the ramp to the flight deck. The wind nearly knocked him off his feet as his loafers gripped desperately at the nonskid deck. He knew if he fell on it in his tropical suit, both the suit and his skin would be ruined.

Dillon looked around, wide-eyed. He had never been
anywhere so loud or so busy. For a ship that looked so small from the air,
too
small, it suddenly seemed immense and overwhelming. Jets taxied in all directions and men walked fast, leaning into the wind with helmets and goggles on. There was so much activity he couldn’t assimilate it all and found himself stopping and staring. He felt a tap on his shoulder as Wilcox motioned again for him to follow. He walked toward the island on the carrier and stepped back as someone opened the large steel door and stepped through. Wilcox held the door and pointed for him to go in. He stepped inside the door and they closed it behind him. He was ushered into a small room inside the island where people were standing and conversing. Wilcox leaned over toward him. “I’ve got to get back to the airplane, sir. Good luck.”

Dillon looked at him and nodded, unable to speak. A man in a white turtleneck shirt approached him. “You must be Mr. Dillon.”

Dillon looked him over. “Yes, I am.”

“We’ve been expecting you, sir; the admiral’s aide is on his way. We were told to keep an eye on you until he got here. He called ahead and said that the admiral wants to see you as soon as you arrive.”