Balance of Power

by James W. Huston

  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.”

  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 h
is 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.”

  19

  EVEN THOUGH HE HAD GROWN UP IN SAN DIEGO, 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 f
ar. 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.”