Balance of Power

by James W. Huston

  Billings looked at him without saying anything.

  “He believes if the admiral would turn on CNN, he would find something very interesting being discussed.”

  The admiral waited for Reynolds to do something. “Well turn it on, Drano.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Reynolds said as he reached to the overhead and turned the button on the small receiver.

  Beth came through the door. Billings glanced at her and then back at the television. CNN came on in a clear picture that they could pick off the satellite anywhere in the world. He studied the picture. It wasn’t the usual House of Representatives scene of someone making a passionate speech before an almost-empty floor. This scene was full of energy, full of people with red cheeks and messy hair.

  Beth stood next to Billings. “What’s up, Admiral?”

  “Don’t know. Chief of staff just called, said I should turn it on. So I did.”

  “I thought you’d want to see this right way, Admiral,” she said, handing him a Navy message.

  The admiral read it quickly, watching the television out of the corner of his eye. He read it again, and handed it back to Beth with a pleased look on his face. “Do we know where that is?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get the chart.” She saw it on the starboard side of the bridge and walked back opening a large chart that she had folded like a road map from a gas station.

  She laid the map out on a table near the admiral’s chair and smoothed the folds. She leaned over the table and looked for the latitude and longitude listed in the message. The admiral leaned over her shoulder as she worked.

  “Zero degrees, thirty minutes north, and”—she grunted as she pressed against the table—“one hundred four degrees…” She drew two faint arced lines with the compass that intersected on a small island.

  “Bunaya?” the admiral asked. “What the hell is there?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Beth said. “Uninhabited. One of the many uninhabited islands of Indonesia. They have seventeen thousand, but only six thousand or so have people on them. They’ve even tried forced resettlement on some of them, to relieve pressure on Java.”

  The admiral picked up the message lying on the chart. “Good call to have the submarine park offshore.”

  “I think this is it,” Lieutenant Reynolds said as he stood watching the television. “Here we go.”

  Billings and Beth looked up at the television. Reynolds turned it up so it could be heard easily. A reporter was following the Speaker of the House down the hallway, one of about twenty or thirty reporters trying to get his attention. He was waving them off without turning around. He walked quickly to the door to his office, only to find more reporters stationed there to block his retreat.

  “Give us something,” one woman finally yelled in a piercingly high voice.

  Speaker Stanbridge turned and raised his hands in surrender. “All right. I’ll answer questions for”—he looked at his watch—“ten minutes. We’re taking a fifteen-minute break. I’ve got to do a few other things. But if I do…” He stopped and looked up, then shouted, “But if I do,” then waited for a semblance of quiet, “you have to leave me alone until we adjourn. Agreed?” They all nodded, not meaning it for a second. “Okay. What?” he said.

  The closest one spoke first, a television reporter. “Is it true that if you can get it through Congress, you intend to issue this Letter of Marque or Reprisal to the USS Constitution Battle Group already on the scene?”

  “That’s right. That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  “Do you think you have enough votes to do it?”

  “Yep. They’re ready to go, to authorize our Navy to defend American interests, since the President isn’t willing to do it.”

  “Isn’t this a usurpation of the President’s power?”

  The Speaker shook his head and smiled. “Nope. Right in the Constitution. ‘Congress has the right to Declare War, and grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal.’ The power to fight a limited private war, if you will, is Congress’s power as well. You might say the presidents through the ages have been usurping Congress’s authority, like in Panama, in Granada, or with the Contras against the Sandinistas. The whole War Powers Resolution was intended to rein in the president from unauthorized acts of war or hostility. Those powers rest with Congress. We should either declare war, issue a Letter of Marque and Reprisal, or stay out. The President isn’t authorized to go to war without Congress, nor should he fight a limited war or action. It’s our power, and we are about to exercise it. Now if you will excuse me…”

  “What is the President going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know, ” he said. “Ask him.”

  “What did he say when you met with him last—”

  “That was a private conversation.” He stopped, looked around, and decided to finish his thought. “But I can tell you that the Letter didn’t come up at all.”

  “You never mentioned it to the President? He’s never told you what he thinks about it?”

  “Exactly,” he said finally, looking at his watch. “He’s probably hearing about it for the first time right about now.” He quickly went through the door to his office and disappeared as it closed behind him. The reporters turned to face their cameras and began to report on what everyone watching had just seen live.

  The admiral turned down the volume and looked at Beth. “Now that’s amazing. That is a twist.” He seemed almost amused. “If he’s trying to rattle the President’s cage, this ought to do it.”

  The first F/A-18 was hurled down the flight deck by cat 2, the catapult on the port side of the bow, and made a clearing turn away from the ship before resuming the ship’s heading and leveling off at five hundred feet. The admiral watched his bridge clock click over to 0701.

  “Rick,” the Admiral said. “Get a staff meeting together at 0800. We need to talk about this Letter of Marque. Ask the ship’s captain and the CAG to be there too.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Reynolds, reaching for the phone.

  “And make sure Lieutenant Commander Falls is available.”

  Reynolds picked up the phone to track down the staff officers.

  Admiral Ray Billings took a deep breath. He could feel things closing in on him, as he usually did when he had to make a big decision, the big decisions that separate admirals from lieutenants. “Good thing we had our submarine station itself offshore from those cigarette boats,” he finally said, returning to the tactical problem at hand.

  “Yes, sir. That was good thinking.”

  “It was obvious. Those boats were intact for only one reason—to use again. If they weren’t going to use them, they could have scuttled them, or loaded them aboard a mother ship, like they have now.” He looked up. “What is the name of that tub we saw crane them aboard?”

  Beth looked at his memo. “The Sumatran Star. Indonesian registry.”

  “And where did they go?”

  “Bunaya.”

  “Right. Bunaya.” He drank from his coffee, then realized how cool it had become and put the cup down on the table. He watched the airplanes shoot off the deck, one after the other, thirty seconds apart. The sun was above the horizon now, scorching everything in its path.

  The admiral walked to the chart and stared at it. “What’s our current position?” he asked no one in particular.

  His aide looked at the PLAT television in the corner of the bridge, which carried a constant readout of the ship’s latitude and longitude. “Four degrees ten minutes south, one zero eight degrees thirty-four minutes east,” he called out loudly.

  The admiral stood over the chart motionless. He picked up the handset of a heavy red phone on the bulkhead as an F-14 went to full power on catapult 1 beneath him. He looked out the bridge windows as the captain picked up the other receiver. “Morning, Captain,” he said cordially. “Please set a course for Bunaya.”

  14

  “BOBBY, HOW YOU DOING?” DILLON ASKED, HOLDING the phone on his shoulder as he typed on his computer.<
br />
  “Dillon?” Bobby replied from his desk deep in the U.S. Supreme Court building.

  “Yep.”

  “That place must be about to explode. You can’t turn on the news without seeing your boss, or the debate, or somebody standing somewhere in the Capitol building talking about it. It’s unbelie vable.”

  “The reporters are even starting to recognize me. That’s a first. They used to look right through me. They’re trying to talk to anybody they figure knows something.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “Wanted to see if you’re going to Molly’s tonight.”

  Bobby paused. “What for?” he asked finally.

  “For the game, stupid. Don’t you have your schedule? Games on red days are at my place, blue for hers, and green for yours. This is a blue day. Clemson. Only a few more regular season games.”

  “You talk to her about this?”

  “Well, no. Why?”

  Bobby hesitated. “I don’t think she’s very happy about you right now. This whole Letter thing. She thinks it’s all your doing.”

  “It is. Mine and the guys who wrote the Constitution.”

  “I think it’s personal, really,” Bobby speculated. “It’s a matter of integrity. She sees politics in you, not integrity. She says you’ve become political.”

  “What a crock,” he said, sitting forward suddenly. “Where does she get off saying that?”

  “The Letter.”

  “I looked into it because I didn’t know what it was. Then after I’d looked into it more, it just…well, it got momentum of its own.”

  “Well, she thinks it’s your idea.”

  “Brother.” Dillon sounded exasperated. “Well, I’m not backing off. So you going to her place or not?”

  Bobby sighed. “Can you get away?”

  “Sure.” Dillon shrugged as well as he could with the phone cradled on his shoulder. “I’ve done what I need to do. I need to get out of here for a couple of hours. I’ll be here all night again anyway.”

  “What time is the game?”

  “Seven-thirty. I’m going to take the Metro, so I should be there about ten after.”

  “All right,” Bobby finally agreed. “I’ll see you there.”

  They stood on Molly’s doorstep, waiting for some sign of life. The windows were dark and her car wasn’t there.

  Bobby looked at Dillon. “You call before we came all the way out here?”

  “I didn’t figure she’d stand us up. I can only stay for a quarter anyway. I need to be on the Hill.” He looked at his digital watch in the dark.

  Bobby shuffled from one foot to the other, trying to stay warm. “I think the Supreme Court is the only branch of government not burning midnight oil. Kind of fun for a change.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” Dillon said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just got a feeling about this one.”

  Bobby knocked loudly and looked at the windows for any light. “She’s not here,” he said after giving Molly enough time to react to the knock. “Would you stipulate to that, Counsel?”

  “So stipulated.”

  “What the hell you doin’ dragging me out here when you didn’t even call?” He was becoming more aggravated the more he thought about it.

  Dillon looked around, then interrupted, “I say we go to the Bear and the Rugged Staff.”

  “The pub? What for?”

  “They show every UVA game. There’ll be a bunch of alums there. It’ll be great. What do you say?”

  “You sure you’re not supposed to be somewhere? Researching some obscure question of admiralty law for your boss’s next move?”

  “You coming or not?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not?” Bobby said as they walked off the porch.

  The pub was dark and warm. In the main room a fire burned brightly in a fireplace large enough to walk into. The crowd was more interested in the game being shown on a television hanging from the ceiling in the corner farthest from the door. Dillon chose a table close to the fire, but with a clear view of the television. “How’s this?” he said as they sat down with their backs to the fire.

  Bobby shrugged.

  “How’re David Ross and the Supremes?” Dillon asked, making the same joke that had been made a thousand times since David Ross was sworn in as the Chief Justice of the United States two years ago.

  “How long do I have to hear that?”

  “Probably until they break up for their own recording contracts,” Dillon said smiling. “What’re you working on?”

  “Couple of real exciting cases. In personam jurisdiction for a foreign corporation through its wholly owned sub, and whether Indians can have gambling on their reservations when the state doesn’t want them to.”

  “Enjoying it?” Dillon asked, getting the attention of the waitress.

  “It’s pretty heady, writing opinions that become the supreme law of the land, signed by a judge. Sometimes the justices change a lot from the draft opinions we write; sometimes they don’t change a word. Kind of scary.”

  “Two Bass ales,” Dillon said, ordering for both of them.

  “It’s like I’ve always said,” Bobby continued, “the United States is run by people under thirty. We’re the ones who do all the work. It’s the old guys who take all the credit.”

  Dillon smiled. “We’re living proof,” he said, sitting back. “You tell the Chief Justice of the United States what to do, I tell the Speaker of the House, and Molly tells the President. The three most powerful men in the world.” He paused, then looked at Bobby. “It really is kind of scary, isn’t it?”

  The waitress placed a glass of dark beer in front of each of them. Dillon paid her with a single bill and motioned her to keep the change. Behind her the referee threw up the ball in the center of the floor for Virginia and Clemson. Dillon looked hard to see which team was wearing the orange away jerseys since they both wore orange.

  “So, you think Molly’s really mad?” Dillon asked.

  “I’d say that’s fair. I think you set her off. She’s probably figuring some way to outdo you right now. I’ll bet that’s why she wasn’t home. It’s like in law school when you got the best grades of any of us the first semester. Remember?”

  Dillon nodded and winced.

  “She looked at you with this stare and said, ‘That’s the last time that will happen,’ and tried to bury you every semester after that. Friendly competition, she said.” Bobby laughed. “She’s driven, man. Don’t forget it.”

  Dillon changed the subject. “So what do you think would happen if this Letter thing came before the Supremes?” he asked nonchalantly as he took his first drink.

  Bobby, who had been watching the game, looked quickly at Dillon, his usual easygoing face clouded over. “Why’re you asking me that?”

  “Just interested.”

  “Don’t—” Bobby said, shifting his weight in his chair.

  Dillon spoke without looking at him. “Why not? There’s no case in front of you, or even on the way. I just wondered if you’d thought about it.”

  Bobby sat silent, suddenly cool. He kept his eyes focused on the television as he answered Dillon in a soft, direct voice. “I don’t think that’s it at all. I think you want to know what I think and what I’ll say in the bench memo, if there ever is one.” He looked at Dillon, remembering. “You said you had a feeling about this one. You didn’t really expect Molly to be there, did you.”

  “Of course I did,” Dillon said defensively. “You think I’d go all the way out to her house knowing she wasn’t going to be there?”

  Bobby’s eyes burned holes in the side of Dillon’s head. Dillon finally turned and looked at him. Bobby didn’t speak.

  Dillon felt uneasy. “What?” he protested.

  “You know what. This whole thing was a scam. You called me but not Molly. Why? You meet me there and we’re by ourselves, so you recommend this nice warm place with English beer and try to
find out what the Supreme Court is going to do with what may be the most important case in fifty years—”

  “There isn’t any case! I told you that! How can you accuse me of setting you up?” Dillon sat up, shaking his head. “This thing is making people go crazy. You know me. You know if I were trying to influence you I’d argue the case outright; I wouldn’t come to a bar and try to pump you for information. Geez, Bobby.”

  Bobby softened, thinking perhaps he had been too quick to judge. “Sorry. I think this whole thing has people edgy. It’s not like the usual political debates. This is the kind that could change the government.” He looked around. “Or the world.”

  Dillon nodded. “I’m just trying to do my job. I’ve researched it till I’m blue in the face. But there isn’t much authority at all. I just thought, if you’ve looked at it, and know of some silver bullet that says we’re dead wrong and way off base, it’d be nice to know now. To prevent whatever’s going to follow”—he looked at his watch again—“if Congress adopts it tonight. So, do you know of any reason why we’re dead wrong? That this isn’t even arguable?”

  Bobby swirled the beer around in the tall glass and stared at the distant television without seeing anything. He drank a last sip and put the glass down. He finally looked at his old friend Jim Dillon, the head of his study group in law school, the one who was in some way responsible for his grading onto the Virginia Law Review. That had given him access to any law job he wanted and put him where he was right now. He studied Dillon, feeling the palpable strain on their friendship, hoping there wouldn’t be more. He looked him in the eyes and shook his head slowly, as if in disappointment. Without saying anything else, Bobby stood up, tossed a bill on the table, and walked toward the door of the Bear and the Rugged Staff.

  Bobby stopped as the image on the television changed from the basketball game to a news bulletin. The anchor looked extremely serious. He couldn’t hear what was being said, nor could anyone else at the bar. Somebody closer to the television yelled, “Turn it up!”

  Bobby walked back toward the table where Dillon was still sitting. They watched as the image changed to a rough videotape clearly taken outdoors in a jungle setting. The camera zoomed in on Captain Clay Bonham, who was suspended from a bamboo pole that had been passed between his arms and his back so that his elbows were pointed to the sky and his head was toward the camera. The pain was clear on his face, which was swollen from being beaten and covered with nick marks and bruises. His feet dangled six inches off the ground. A voice came on the tape. “You Americans don’t learn. You think we stupid. You try to come ashore and get us on an island. You flew airplane over island. The Navy has not gone away from the Java Sea. You have not complied with our demands.”