Balance of Power

by James W. Huston

The Speaker shook his head, lost in thought. “There’s something strange about this.” He pondered silently. He began to pace near the window. “Gut feeling. He’s going to do something different.”

  “Like what?” Dillon said.

  “I don’t know. But he hasn’t consulted with Congress.” He rubbed his chin and looked out the window.

  “It doesn’t feel like he’s using this to challenge the War Powers Resolution. Maybe he isn’t going to send them at all.” He turned. “But if he isn’t going to send them, what’s he up to?”

  They looked at one another, then at the Speaker. No one spoke.

  The Speaker went on, “I don’t know either. Be back here at eight-thirty. If anything occurs to you before then, come see me. Otherwise”—he held his hands up—“we’ll learn about it together.”

  At exactly 9:02 P.M. the news anchor stopped rambling and looked seriously at the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

  Manchester was seated in the usual talking-president position at his desk in the Oval Office, in the usual presidential blue suit, with the usual unremarkable presidential tie. His hair was perfectly groomed. He looked into the camera and paused—longer than the usual presidential pause—for effect. He had a flair for the dramatic, a sense of timing that most other presidents before him had lacked. He used a TelePrompTer, but spoke from an outline instead of a prepared speech. It gave his staff heart palpitations every time he did it because they were afraid he would say something that hadn’t been cleansed by the infinity of staff filters. The public loved it for the same reason.

  President Manchester glanced down at his notes, then back at the camera. “Good evening.” He never started with the usual presidential “My fellow Americans” because he thought it was trite and he couldn’t get Lyndon Johnson out of his mind whenever he said it.

  “As you all well know, two days ago terrorists from Indonesia attacked a U.S. merchant ship called the Pacific Flyer and took it out to sea where they killed twenty-five crewmen and a Navy sailor, sank the ship and its cargo, and took the captain hostage. This act was clearly intended as an attack on the United States itself and intended to harm not only our citizens but our reputation and our influence in the commercial world and especially the emerging economies of the Pacific. It was a cowardly act and conducted against defenseless and unsuspecting civilians. I cannot express how strongly I condemn this barbarism, nor will I give respect or credence to the terrorists by repeating their demands issued since the murders.

  “As President it is my responsibility to deal with events of national importance, wherever they occur.” He looked down at his notes and breathed a little more deeply than some would have liked. “It is difficult to find the proper balance all the time, especially when things are examined under the bright light of hindsight. But because decisions are difficult doesn’t mean you don’t make them. You have to make them. I have to make them.

  “Tonight, America takes a different course than we have in the past. Tonight, we take the high ground against terrorists, against people everywhere who believe that by being evil they can make us evil, that enough wrongs deafen our ability to hear truth and know what is right. No more. Terrorism has been around for a long time, but is the particular curse of my generation. Since I was a young man, terrorists have been attacking and killing innocent people in order to make a political point. Their attacks so anger people that countries strike back. More killing. A cycle of violence that the society claims is started by the terrorist, and that the terrorists claim is caused by the oppression or political situation in which they find themselves. Then the terrorists conduct more attacks, and the retribution continues. Once the cycle of violence begins, all seem powerless to stop it.

  “No longer will America take a leg for an eye, or even an eye for an eye. No longer will our conduct, our response, be determined by someone else. We are not going to participate in the cycle of violence.”

  Manchester casually looked at his outline and then back up. “As you know, the U.S. Navy has been diligently looking for the terrorists and any base from which they may have operated. The latest information leads us to believe we know where they are. We have indications they are still on Indonesian soil. We will relay their location to Indonesian authorities who can bring them to justice through their judicial system. We will cooperate. We will help with reconnaissance, surveillance, or whatever other means are necessary to assist Indonesia in its quest for justice on its own soil. But we will not not lash back at the terrorists like an angry child.

  “I know some of you will be disappointed by this decision. I know many of you were hoping we would bloody their noses. I have those same feelings of anger, of fury at the cheapness with which they view human life. But striking back simply endorses their low value of life. In this country we treasure life. Every life. If a life is taken, revenge is not the response. Justice is. Justice based on cool evaluation, not instantaneous rage.

  “We need to apply the same coolness to international events, to bring to the problem the same detached objectivity, in spite of the emotions raging inside urging us to strike. Civilization requires that of us, if we ever hope to progress. Because ultimately, progress is measured to some extent by our ability to rise above our instincts, our emotions, and our selfish desires, and to put justice, truth, and goodness in their place. Now is the time to begin to do that, and that is the message this decision will send to the world—that America is different. We base our decisions on justice, on ideals, not on emotions.”

  Manchester blinked and pursed his lips. He stared at the camera with his huge, soft, but piercing blue eyes. “Thank you for your attention. If you have time, think of the families of the murdered sailors. Pray for their loved ones and work with me to make this country greater than it already is. Good night.” The picture faded.

  The news anchor sat in his studio stunned, momentarily at a loss for words.

  The Speaker was not. “Robin, get my car,” he said softly but with double the usual intensity. “I’m going to the White House right now. He’s finally flipped. That was the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard.” He looked at his staff. “You guys look like you’ve been watching a silent movie and they got the reels mixed up. Did that make any sense to anyone here?”

  No one spoke. Rhonda, the historian with the squarish wire rims, finally answered. “It wasn’t exactly incoherent. It was actually a good speech if you agree…” She saw the Speaker’s furious countenance and changed direction.

  Grazio interjected, trying to rescue her, “I know what he was trying to say—it’s just incredible to me that he said it. Talk about encouraging terrorism. Smoke a bunch of Americans and we’ll let Indonesia put you on trial? They must be curled up in balls laughing right now, wherever they are….”

  “We know exactly where they are,” the Speaker said. “They found them about three hours ago.”

  “Are you kidding?” Dillon asked, concerned.

  “You think Manchester would make a speech like that and not be aware of the latest intelligence? Now not only does he know it, but the whole world knows it, because he just told them we know where they are! He just sabotaged our effort to catch them.” He walked to the door of the office and jerked his suit coat off the hangar. He added his heavy blue-wool overcoat and strode quickly to the doorway. He stopped and turned around. The six staff members in his office watched him, curious. They had never seen him so focused. “I want a solution to this. I want a way around this. Find it,” he said as he walked out.

  Dillon rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, which flopped back down to its usual carefully unkempt look. None of the other staff members spoke.

  Grazio finally spoke. “I’ve never seen the Speaker so pissed.”

  “I think the President has lost it,” Rhonda said.

  Dillon stood up and looked at them. “It’s not the Speaker, and it’s not the President, it’s the system. One person decides whether we do
anything about it or whether we don’t. If we have a president who doesn’t feel like taking action, then we’re the laughingstock of the entire world. If he feels like taking action, then Congress attacks him for taking action, and we’re still the laughingstock of the world.” He challenged his fellow staffers. “Aren’t you sick of everyone passing the buck in Washington? Are we ever going to do anything that matters?” He waited for a response from someone, but most avoided his gaze. “If I can’t make this thing come out right, I’ll quit. Whatever it takes to get those murderers, I’m going to find a way.” Dillon grabbed his coat off of the back of his chair and put it on roughly. His tie was askew and he didn’t seem to care. He headed quickly toward the door.

  “Like what?” Rhonda asked, stopping him.

  “I have no idea, but you’d better start looking too. If we don’t find something creative, they’re going to get away with it. You can count on that. If we’re waiting for Indonesia to fix this for us, then we deserve whatever we get.” Dillon turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  “I’m here to see the President,” Stanbridge explained to the Chief of Staff.

  “I’m sure he can meet with you tomorrow, Mr. Speaker. This is unscheduled.”

  “It sure is unscheduled. My reaction to that stupid speech was unscheduled. His disclosure of secret information was also unscheduled, at least I hope it was.” He looked at Van den Bosch coldly. “If I’d known what he was going to say, I would have scheduled my reaction so it fit into the President’s calendar. But as it is,” he said, shrugging, “I’ll have to see him now. You should be starting to get all the irate calls, and I want to see him now. Just him. Not you, not six other sycophants. Just him and me.”

  “I resent your insin—”

  “Shut up. I don’t give a shit what you resent. Are you going to get him, or am I going to?”

  “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “If he doesn’t already know I’m here, somebody isn’t doing his job. Get him.”

  Van den Bosch realized he had failed to deflect the Speaker.

  Stanbridge paced in the foyer with his coat on for fifteen minutes, his anger building like superheated steam. The Chief of Staff returned. “He will see you in the Oval Office.”

  “Ah, formal tonight, are we?” he said, glancing at his watch. He walked directly to the office and opened the door. Manchester was sitting at the desk reading, his glasses low on his nose. He looked up and saw Stanbridge. “Welcome, John. What an unexpected surprise.”

  “Cut the crap, Mr. President,” Stanbridge said, crossing to stand in front of the desk. “I want you to tell me to my face what you were thinking about in making that speech. You may have derailed U.S. foreign policy for the indefinite future, and I for one want an explanation unfiltered by your staff, or CNN, or anyone else.”

  Manchester looked at his Chief of Staff. “Thanks, Arlan. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, sir,” said Van den Bosch, backing out with his eyebrows raised, one last chance for the President to enlist his services. The President shook his head subtly. The door closed behind Stanbridge.

  President Manchester spoke first. “Why do you say that?”

  The Speaker breathed deeply and sat on the couch. “You’ve given terrorists a license to kill Americans abroad, and the worst that can happen to them is they’ll be pursued by the police of some Third World country.”

  “Indonesia is not a Third World country.”

  “Of course it is. Who are you kidding?”

  “They have a very vibrant economy, one of the Asian Tigers.”

  “Spare me the marketing brochure. If you think the Indonesian police have any hope of catching these murderers and bringing them to justice, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  Manchester smiled without humor. “I think it is very likely. We’ll be giving them intelligence support—in fact, we already know where the terrorists are.”

  “I know. I got the brief. Some island. Thanks to your little speech, the terrorists know we know where they are too.”

  Manchester frowned, but wasn’t surprised. He went on, “Yes, some island. On Indonesian soil, subject to Indonesian law.”

  “Right.” Stanbridge stood up and walked around the room, the tail of his coat flapping behind him, sweat forming on his forehead. “Why didn’t you send in the Marines who are right there? We know where they are—why not go in and get them?”

  Manchester stood up, energized. “And do what? Kill them? Murder them? We’d make martyrs of them and thousands would be lining up to take their places. It just continues the cycle of violence.”

  Stanbridge had never liked Manchester. He was too clever by half, too willing to find a complex solution when a simple one would do, just to make a point. “Where’d you get this cycle of violence…stuff?”

  “Seems to be an accurate reflection of what it is,” Manchester said, feeling suddenly warm and rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

  “That it?” Stanbridge asked, incredulous. “That the only reason?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “No political considerations?”

  Manchester shook his head. “No. All those considerations seemed to point in the opposite direction. I know everyone will disagree, probably even the public. But I need to do what is right.”

  Since when? Stanbridge thought. He couldn’t stand it. “How is it right to let people murder Americans?”

  “We’re not letting them murder Americans. Indonesia will handle it through their system.”

  Stanbridge shook his head vigorously, “You can’t dodge this. As far as the world is concerned, we are letting them murder Americans. No other conclusion to draw.”

  “I’m tired of this. Did you have anything else to say?”

  “Mr. President, you’re basically just afraid, aren’t you?”

  Manchester closed his eyes and held them closed. “Mr. Speaker, I’m trying to control my temper. I really don’t need to sit here and be insulted by you.”

  “Well, you need to be insulted by somebody, Mr. President. You need to appreciate the seriousness of this situation. You seem to be taking this very lightly. I think it’s because basically you’re a coward.”

  “I really doubt that our definitions of courage are the same, Mr. Speaker. Yours seem to reside in your knee-jerk conservative response to everything. Frankly, I’m tired of it. This country needs a new response, and that’s what I’m giving them.”

  “You’re not giving them anything,” the Speaker said. “What you’re doing is worrying about yourself, trying to become some kind of historical figure.”

  “Are you done?”

  “I want to ask you a question,” Stanbridge said, crossing to stand directly in front of the desk.

  “What?”

  Stanbridge leaned forward, put his hands on the desk, and spoke softly. “Will you give me a straight answer?”

  “What’s the question?”

  “Will you give me a straight answer or not?”

  Manchester pursed his lips. “Say what you have to say.”

  Stanbridge narrowed his eyes and pointed to Manchester’s chest, “In your heart, way down there where the rest of us can’t see”—he paused and looked into Manchester’s eyes—“are you a pacifist?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” Manchester said suddenly, loudly.

  “A direct one. Straight. What’s the answer?”

  “I’m not going to subject myself to cross-examination by you at eleven P.M. I have other things to do. If you want to discuss this further, I am willing,” Manchester said, color coming to his cheeks. “But if you only want to grandstand, or insult me, I’ve got better things to do.”

  “What’s the answer?” Stanbridge said quietly, pressing.

  “Is that it? You came over here for that?”

  “No. I came over to find out why the President of the United States, whose sworn duty, whose obligation, it is to defend the
citizens of this country, has chosen not to do that. I want to know why you as Commander in Chief aren’t lining up the forces necessary to go after the murderers who attacked a U.S.-flagged vessel, killed its crew and sank—”

  “I know what happened. You don’t have to—”

  “Do you really? Do you know they shot each one of them in the head like a dog? Do you know they booby-trapped the ship and set the mines so our SEALs had just time enough to get aboard, and almost killed them too? You realize they have flipped you off and you’re just walking away?”

  “I don’t believe in returning killing for killing. It doesn’t accomplish anything.”

  “War doesn’t accomplish anything? World War Two didn’t accomplish anything?”

  “That’s a different thing entire—”

  “Are you saying killing someone who is the enemy of your country never accomplishes anything?”

  “No, that’s not what I said. I said this wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

  Stanbridge stared at him. He stood near the couch and adjusted his coat. “I’m wasting my time. Is that it? You’ve made up your mind?”

  Manchester sighed heavily. “That’s all I have to say to you. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “This isn’t over, Mr. President. I’m going to take this to the people.” Stanbridge looked around the office, as if measuring the walls for his paintings. “This is the biggest mistake of your presidency. It may be fatal.”

  “Foreign affairs and the military are areas exclusive to the president and his administration. What are you going to do? Operate the War Powers Resolution backward? Say that if Congress decides to send troops, the president has to?” He grinned slightly. “Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. Why, I’ll bet you had your staff all cranked up to accuse me of not complying with the War Powers if I sent troops without consulting you. Am I right?”

  “We certainly were going to make sure you complied with the Resolution by consulting us, but we certainly also expected and hoped you were going to respond to this direct attack on this country.”