Balance of Power: A Novel (31 page)

“Bobby,” Dillon said, trying to sound friendly.

“Who is this?” Bobby barked.

“Dillon.”

“Where the hell are you?” Bobby said.

“On the USS
Constitution
in the South Pacific. I am surrounded by Tahitian women who are trying to get me to eat this really cool fruit—”

“I don’t have time for this, Dillon. What do you want?”

“I was just calling to say hi. Calling to show you the magic of technology. Here I am sitting in the middle of nowhere on a Navy ship and I’m talking to you in Washington on my new little portable phone. I don’t know, I just thought it would be neat.”

“You got any idea what’s going on here?”

Dillon hesitated, “Yeah, I pretty much do.”

“Are you aware that your boss has got a case in front of me right now? Right this second while you called and
interrupted
me doing research on whether your boss ought to be enjoined?”

“Yeah, I kind of did know that.”

“Then what the hell are you doing calling me? Is this about basketball? Are you going to use that ruse again?”

“It wasn’t a ruse. I’m not trying to do anything, Bobby. Get off your horse.”

“I’m not on a horse, man. What I
am
on is a short time schedule. What do you want? If it’s not about this, what’s it about?”

“I just wanted to see how it was going. Do you have any idea when this thing is going to be resolved?”

“Dillon, you just said it wasn’t about this. The timing is
the whole question
.” Bobby suddenly changed his tone.

“Did you say you are on the USS
Constitution
?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that the ship that this is all about?”

“You’re awake!”

“What are you doing down there?”

“I’m the one who delivered the Letter of Reprisal to the admiral, Bobby. I was the delivery boy.”

“You’re unbelievable…How’d you get that job?”

“I don’t think they wanted to send anybody from the military. I can’t really get into it,” Dillon said, cutting himself off, regretting he had said anything at all.

“Then you can answer a question for me. Maybe you can make my job a lot easier.”

“What’s that?”

“This big thing with the aircraft carrier and the Marines,
when
is it going to happen?”

“What big thing?”

“The big attack. When is the carrier going to go after these guys, if they are going to. Has the admiral even decided whether he is going to follow the Letter?”

“Yeah, he’s decided.”

“So? What’s he going to do and when is he going to do it?”

“What if I told you? You gonna use that information?”

“I wouldn’t do that. It would be
inappropriate
.” He paused to make sure Dillon didn’t miss his point. “Wouldn’t it?”

Dillon stood and listened to the phone connection. He thought about what to do, how hard to press it, how hard to work for his boss, how hard to lean against the ethical line. He imagined Bobby staring at the photo of their study group, which they both had on their desks. “Hey, Bobby,” he said.

“Yeah, man?” Bobby said.

“Do what’s right,” Dillon said.

“You got it,” Bobby said. “But there’s one thing I gotta know….”

“What?” Dillon said. He waited for Bobby to respond but heard nothing. He continued to wait, wondering what it was that was so hard for Bobby to say. “Hello? Bobby?” There was no response. His phone connection was dead.

J
OHN
S
TANBRIDGE HELD UP A STUBBY HAND TO STOP
the questioning. “…I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only. I wanted to tell you something that your President hasn’t told you.”

The members of the press corps were pushing each other out of the way to get the best position for what might be the biggest story of their lifetimes.

Stanbridge held up his hand again and moved back from the microphone. He wasn’t going to continue until they got control of themselves. The noise subsided slightly, and he stepped forward.

“First,” he said, “the President has cut off the USS
Constitution
Battle Group. The Navy is no longer talking to them—the ships in the battle group are still transmitting messges but our Commander in Chief has had the coding of messages changed and instructed all military units not to communicate directly with the most powerful battle group in the world….”

The reporters began shouting like schoolchildren.

Stanbridge signaled for them to quiet down. Then continued, “Thus, not only has the President failed to go after the terrorists, he has impeded Congress’s ability to do so by disabling the communications of the battle group on the scene and depriving them of critical intelligence.

“But it’s worse than that! These terrorists have not only murdered innocent Americans and sunk a valuable ship,
they have now attacked the military directly.” He paused for effect. “Yesterday, about five o’clock
P.M.
Jakarta time, the terrorists fired surface-to-air missiles at one of our F-14B aircraft—clearly flying in international airspace—hitting it and shooting it down….

“This direct attack on our military was well known to the President SECDEF, and the Joint Chiefs, because the
Constitution
Battle Group sent them a message. As the airplane was burning and falling to the ocean, two aircrew ejected from the F-14 and parachuted into the water.” Stanbridge sensed the intense fear and interest of his listeners, as if he were telling a good ghost story to children. He lowered his voice and slowed his pace. “As night fell they were sitting in their rafts waiting for rescue. Shortly after the shootdown, three boats raced from the island to the downed airmen and got there before the rescue helicopter could arrive. The three boats were going to do the same thing to those pilots that happened to the crew of the
Pacific Flyer
. Thankfully,” he said with relief, “Admiral Billings saw fit to post an F-18 over the downed airmen, and the F-18 fired warning shots and, when ignored, shot and sank the three cigarette boats before they could get our men. For that we are grateful….”

One particularly tall and loud reporter shouted a question from right in front of Stanbridge, “Mr. Speaker, have you talked to the Presid—”

Stanbridge ignored him. “Those three high-speed boats that were trying to get our airmen were the same three boats on which the men that shot our citizens on the
Flyer
escaped.”

“How do you know it was them?” the loud reporter demanded.

“How do we know? How do we know? Because we followed them to one island and then another by submarine, that’s…”

Manchester’s face looked as serious and grim as any of them had ever seen it. A vein on his forehead stood out. It was usually only visible when he was on the verge of fury. “Can somebody explain to me how this happened?”

The President had called yet another unscheduled meeting. Only this time it was in the Situation Room on the ground floor of the West Wing of the White House. Electronic boards and world situation maps covered the walls.

“We don’t know for sure, Mr. President,” said Central Intelligence Director Warner. “We have to assume he got all his information from Dillon before we cut him off. Unfortunately, we had no idea he was communicating through one of those mobile satellite phones until he called Ms. Vaughan here.”

Molly sat in a chair in the corner, not comfortable being at the main table where all the others were sitting. She felt out of place and exposed.

“Didn’t you think someone on board might have a cellular phone? Didn’t that even occur to you?”

“We were monitoring everything, sir. That’s why we were finally able to locate his signal when he called her.”

“It was kind of a good thing he called, actually,” Molly said, uncrossing her legs and sitting forward in her chair. “He confirmed the admiral is in fact still planning to go forward with the attack and is
not
going to comply with your order.”

“Now there’s some big news.”

“He also confirmed that he was the ship’s only communication link to the outside. My guess is that anything the Speaker knows, he learned from Jim Dillon, no other source.”

“He’s a friend of yours?” Van den Bosch demanded.

“Yes, we went to law school together.”

“You’re not giving him information that you’re gathering from these meetings you’re sitting in on, are you?”

Molly flushed red down to her V-neck suit coat. “I’m surprised you even asked that question.”

Van den Bosch stared at her. “Well, what’s the answer to that surprising question?”

“No. I haven’t told him anything, nor would I. That would be inappropriate.”

Van den Bosch returned his gaze to President Manchester.

Manchester turned to Admiral Hart. “Where’s the other battle group? The one that was in the Philippines?”

Admiral Hart crossed the Situation Room to a large chart of the Pacific. He studied it for a moment. “Right here,” he said, pointing to an area southwest of Manila.

Manchester looked at the Attorney General. “What about this impeachment thing?”

The Attorney General was surprised by his change of subject. He weighed his response. “This is a clear attempt to try to knock you down, to defeat you. It’s pure politics. The Speaker clearly has it in for you. The Letter was just one step, but now he’s shown his colors. He’s going to try every means possible, even
arguable,
to try to destroy you.”

“I know that,” the President said with a wave of his hand. “I know that. My question is: Is there any chance he will actually get this through?” Manchester clenched his jaw. He looked at his Chief of Staff. “Arlan, I want the Speaker stopped.”

The Chief of Staff studied his boss. He glanced around the room at the others, who were equally confused and concerned. “What do you mean by ‘stopped’?”

Manchester stared straight ahead. “He’s trying to destroy me. Why?”

Van den Bosch looked around again. “Political. Obviously. He wants your job.”

Manchester shook his head. “No. There’s more to it than that. Everybody in the House and the Senate wants my job. This feels personal.”

“Well, Mr. President,” Van den Bosch continued,
“could be the old military thing. He served and you didn’t. He’s held that against you since you first met him fifteen years ago.”

Manchester rubbed his eyes. “Could be. But I don’t think that explains it. I think it’s time
we
got personal.” He looked at Van den Bosch again. “How can he be stopped?”

Van den Bosch waited for the words to come. “Well, Mr. President,” he said haltingly, “there are several things that we, uh, could do. Do you have in mind using the press?” he asked, testing the water. “Or did you have in mind just political…”

Manchester looked at him with his steel eyes. “Whatever it takes. It’s either him or me. I know that now.”

“Hold on here,” the Attorney General chimed in. “I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable about this. Let’s not have a John Dean conversation about what we’re going to do to the Speaker of the House.”

“I’m not talking about anything illegal,” the President said with a look of disgust on his face. “I’m simply talking about something effective. So far everything we’ve done has been made to look ridiculous. Including this lawsuit that your shop is in charge of,
Mr
. Attorney General. We’ve lost two rounds; the third strike and we’re out. What are our other alternatives, not only to stop this craziness but to take the Speaker out of the picture.”

“Well, our political alternatives are really quite limited,” Van den Bosch continued. “I can call the Minority Leader and ask him to stir things up a bit, make it hard for the Speaker, make sure that they don’t agree to anything and that he tries to make the Speaker look bad, but he’s not really in a position to do that much. The Speaker runs the House. But if you’re thinking of simply reducing the Speaker’s credibility with the public, there is that one little gem that we’ve been saving for quite a while.”

Manchester understood him. “Try,” he said. He looked at the Attorney General. “So, any chance of this impeachment thing succeeding?”

The Attorney General sucked in his breath. “Well, Mr. President, that really depends on you. Is there any truth to the charge that you are a pacifist?”

Suddenly the room was filled with electricity. All eyes were riveted on the President’s face for any sign of anger or indication of the truth of the accusation. Every one of them had been involved in his campaign indirectly, except Hart. They had all studied his position papers, his speeches, his campaign promises. And they all now realized that they didn’t know whether the President was, deep in his heart, a pacifist. It was a shocking thought to each of them and they wanted to hear him answer the question directly.

“My goal,” the President started slowly, “is to prevent the unnecessary death of American servicemen. Congress can attempt to avoid my decision in this matter in whatever way it chooses, but this decision has to stand on its own merits.” The President was no longer fully with them. He was somewhere in a moral universe where they weren’t welcome, or which they couldn’t understand. He continued with an air of superiority. “Whether it is moral or immoral for the President to decide not to pursue terrorists when the country of their origin, or the country in which they are currently found, has given us assurances of pursuit—”

“As to the terrorist angle, Mr. President,” Warner interrupted, unmoved by the President’s speech, “I’m afraid we have some new information in that regard.”

The President looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “What new information?”

“Remember the videotapes they sent earlier?”

“Sure.”

“It was a bunch of crap. The content was nonsense. But the photographs, or rather the tape itself, helped us finally track down who these people are. We think we’ve identified them.”

The President looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you serious?”

“We think so.”

“I thought we already knew—the Front for Islamic Indonesia. The country has been in turmoil, everybody hates the military dictator, so it all fit.” He finished his sentence with something of a questioning tone.

Warner seemed almost apologetic, as if he understood the President’s confusion. “That’s right, Mr. President, it does all fit. That’s why I don’t think anyone was looking real hard to find out whether their story was true. We just accepted them at their word—not always the smart thing to do when dealing with terrorists, I must admit—but the Indonesians smelled a rat; they knew every Islamic fundamentalist group in the country. They’ve infiltrated most of the movements. They’ve had all of their intelligence and security police review the tape. They even showed it to every undercover operative they have. Nothing.”

“So?” the President asked impatiently.

“One of the Indonesian intelligence officers took a look at the ring on the head terrorist’s hand.” Warner held up his ring finger. “It was only visible for a moment in the corner of the videotape. When he hit Captain Bonham. We slowed the tape and enhanced the image. It’s a very common ring, and we didn’t notice anything remarkable about it at all. He did. He recognized one of the symbols—it is a Thai symbol. You see it elsewhere now and then, but it is used almost exclusively in Thailand.”

“And?” the President asked.

The director strung out his explanation, relishing it. “The ring from Thailand, Mr. President—that was what made him look elsewhere. They finally talked to their Navy Intelligence people and they think they have put it together.” He paused and looked around the room. Admiral Hart was riveted, annoyed that he had paused. “They think in fact, Mr. President, it is an Indonesian group working with a Thai group to form an international piracy ring to control the Strait of Malacca.”

“What?” the President asked clearly shocked. “Pirates?”

“It all fits. They didn’t sink our ship because they wanted us to stay out of Indonesia for the freedom of an Indonesian Islamic front. They wanted us to stay out of the Java Sea and the Strait of Malacca so they can jump on foreign ships. They don’t like the U.S. Navy presence because ours is the only Navy left that is much of a threat to them.”

The President scratched his forehead. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs sat up on the edge of his chair and looked into Warner’s face. “How sure are you about this?” Manchester asked.

“The Indonesians feel pretty sure, but I haven’t seen enough to be sure myself.”

“Does it makes sense to you?”