“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.”
Captain Clay Bonham looked around at his new setting. He was surprised they hadn’t blindfolded him. He was glad, but that could mean they planned to kill him soon. The island was tropical—hot, dense, and humid. He longed for the seventy-two-degree bridge of the Pacific Flyer. He had been too casual. He’d left security arrangements up to others. Ford, the government, Indonesia. If it had been up to him…but it hadn’t been. But he hadn’t even taken his own security measures when he could have. He should have had security on the ship ready for any eventuality. He breathed deeply as he began to feel nauseated. He wanted desperately not to throw up. He hadn’t been fed since being taken. They didn’t seem to care whether he lived or not. They gave him water when he asked for it, but that was all.
He looked at the three guards escorting him to one of the many huts in what appeared to be a village. Washington was beside him, personally supervising his transfer to this new island.
“The Navy is going to come and get you,” Bonham said through gritted teeth to Washington.
Washington yelled something to the men that caused them to stop. He turned toward Bonham and slapped him in the face. “Do not speak to me about what will happen. You know nothing.”
“I know that you’re a goner,” Bonham said.
“Captain, your President has already said to the entire world that he is not going to do anything about this. He’s going to leave it up to Indonesia.”
Bonham looked concerned. “He said nothing like that.”
“CNN,” Washington said, showing his teeth.
“I don’t believe you,” Bonham said.
“I don’t care,” Washington said. “They will comply with our demands. The President is already doing so. The Navy will be out of Java Sea within two days, you’ll see.”
Bonham shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Washington looked at him and then glanced around with his arms wide. “It doesn’t matter.
If they come, we will be ready.”
“Thank you for coming in at this late hour, Mr. Pendleton.” David Pendleton nodded, his silvery hair perfectly in place. His face was tanned, but less wrinkled than one would expect from a man of sixty. He wore a double-breasted glen-plaid suit with a maroon handkerchief in the pocket. His French cuffs extended the perfect quarter inch beyond the sleeves of his suit and the gold wraparound cufflinks were barely noticeable.
David Pendleton had come to Washington when his firm decided it needed an office in the nation’s capital, especially since the Speaker of the House was from San Diego. They had almost waited too long, but Pendleton had made the office a success. He was a senior partner in the litigation department of San Diego’s largest law firm, Blanchard, Bell and Martinez. He had tried over two hundred civil cases and had won an award as the best trial lawyer in California. Since coming to Washington he had specialized in representing California interests before regulatory agencies and Congress. He hadn’t tried a case in five years.
“I’ve never heard of anything like this,” said the Speaker. “Have you?”
Pendleton shook his head without speaking. He had a reputation for being slow to speak and slow to anger, but intense and efficient. “Not really,” he said finally.
“Well, what do you make of the lawsuit?” the Speaker asked, always wanting to cut to the chase.
“According to some quick research of my associates, and after reviewing the memo of your staff member, Mr. Dillon, this is a very close question of constitutional law. It does not seem to be appropriate for a temporary restraining order.”
“What’s our next step?”
Pendleton sat still with his legs crossed. He had no emotion on his face at all. After a pause that was too long for the Speaker’s comfort, Pendleton asked, “What is your objective?”
Stanbridge just stared at him. “What do you mean, my objective?”
Pendleton repeated his phrase. “What is your objective?”
“With what?”
“With the issuance of your Letter of Reprisal. What is it you want to accomplish?”
The Speaker sat down directly across from Pendleton. “I want the United States Navy, and the United States Marine Corps, to go down and find those terrorists or whatever they are, knock the hell out of them, capture them if possible, then return to the United States to the hero’s welcome they’ll deserve. That’s what I want.”
“Do you believe that the admiral—Billings, I think—will accept the authority of the Letter?”
“I think so, but I’m not sure,” replied the Speaker.
“You didn’t have some communication with the admiral before issuing the Letter?”
“No.” The Speaker felt uncomfortable, realizing that perhaps he should have taken more steps to prepare Billings rather than letting him receive it cold. “Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. But I will tell you this. I was in the Navy and I know how these guys think. They would like nothing better than a change in the daily routine, to test their equipment and tactics. Whether they acknowledge it or not, given a chance, I think they’ll take it.”
Pendleton let the Speaker’s comments sink in. “Do you have any secondary objectives?”
“What are you talking about?” the Speaker replied impatiently. “I thought you were here to represent me and Congress in defending this unbelievable lawsuit that the President has filed. To get us out of this.”
“I’m getting to that,” Pendleton said quietly. He started again, as if to a dull witness, “Do you have any secondary objectives? Is there anything else that you want to accomplish other than attacking the terrorists?”
“Like what?” asked the Speaker.
“Like challenging the President’s authority,” said Pendleton.
The Speaker looked at him without responding. “Not exactly. I want to challenge this President, but not the office. That’s not my objective. If he wants a fight, I am perfectly happy to fight,” he acknowledged, “but I didn’t set out to challenge his authority, and I don’t want to do it now.”
Pendleton nodded. “Good. Then we are clear as to what the objective is. That makes it easier to make decisions on how to approach this lawsuit.” Pendleton uncrossed his legs and stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the Washington Monument with his hands behind his back. He turned and addressed the Speaker. “Do you have any particular instructions on how you wish this handled?”
“I don’t even know what my choices are, David. Talk to me about what we can and cannot do.”
“The way I see it, Mr. Speaker, you and Congress have two choices. If you wish to make this a cause célèbre, then we can meet them on the merits at each step and attempt to prevail based on being right. The other choice is to delay the procedure as much as possible so that when this ultimately is decided, the facts and events will be behind us and the court will in all likelihood dismiss the case as being moot. Do you understand those two options?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“I really have a preference for having this heard on the merits. I believe that Congress has this power, and that it should exercise it more often.” The Speaker stood up, suddenly energized. “For the last fifty years, ever since Korea, we’ve been fighting people all over the planet, and not once has Congress declared war against anybody. Not since World War Two. That’s a scandal. It’s a usurpation of power by the President, but it’s also an abdication of power by Congress. They passed this lame War Powers Act trying to limit the President’s ability to send troops abroad. That’s when all this should have been decided. But it wasn’t, so here we are. The power to make war must be decided. It is Congress’s power—that’s clear in the Constitution—and not the President’s. This Letter of Reprisal is the next step.” Stanbridge scratched his scalp, then rubbed his eyes. “But,” he said, fatigue overwhelming adrenaline, “I don’t want to lose. I want to get these guys in Indonesia, and if that means stalling so that it happens, then I’m all for it.”
Pendleton picked up his briefcase. “I understand. I will be attending the hearing at nine in the District Court by myself. I do not recommend that you come, nor do I recommend that you send any other member of the House.”
Stanbridge indicated agreement.
“I will be in touch directly after the hearing to let you know what happened.”
As Pendleton reached for the door handle, Stanbridge spoke. “David.” Pendleton turned. “Let me ask you something. This is a question of constitutional law, isn’t it?”
Pendleton nodded.
“The President is Commander in Chief of the armed forces. Right?”
Pendleton, acknowledged the obvious, but said nothing.
“What if the President of the United States is a pacifist?”
Pendleton’s eyes narrowed as he tried to discern Stanbridge’s thoughts.
Stanbridge rose and tucked in his shirt as he crossed the room toward Pendleton. “If the Commander in Chief of the United States armed forces had no willingness, and I mean no willingness, to use the armed forces or the nuclear defense under any circumstances, he wouldn’t be fit to serve as President, would he?”
Pendleton looked back understanding but without answering.
Stanbridge finished his thought. “Wouldn’t it be the obligation of Congress to impeach him?”
20
LIEUTENANT RICK REYNOLDS, ADMIRAL BILLINGS’S aide, led Dillon down the ladder to the 03 level, the deck below the flight deck and slightly less full of violent noise. They walked inboard onto the blue-tiled area and turned right, toward the bow. The lieutenant made an immediate left and rapped smartly on the door marked ADMIRAL’S WARDROOM. A Marine sentry opened the door and Reynolds stepped through. Dillon followed.
Reynolds stopped ten feet inside the door, facing a table full of officers. Dillon glanced around the room. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. He had heard how cramped and uncomfortable Navy ships were, and
even though carriers were much bigger, he assumed they weren’t much more comfortable. But this room was huge. It had a table with ten chairs around it, nearly all occupied, a separate area with a couch and chairs and a coffee table, a kitchen nearby. The walls were covered with paintings, not the emergency instructions he had noticed elsewhere. He gazed longingly at the leather couch to his left and wished he could lie down on it and go to sleep. He noticed on the wall a framed, poster-sized replica of the United States Constitution. The ship’s namesake. “We the People…” Right next to it was a painting of the original USS Constitution, Old Ironsides, the undefeated frigate that fought the English so gallantly and was still commissioned and sitting regally refurbished in Boston Harbor. John Stanbridge had sponsored a special act of Congress to allow two U.S. ships with the same name to be commissioned at the same time.
Dillon looked at the officers surrounding the table. His mouth went dry and his stomach jumped. He was accustomed to dealing with people in power, but he was out of his element with the military. It was a foreign world to him, full of people he had stereotyped, and an environment that made him very uncomfortable.
“May I present Mr. James Dillon, assistant to the Speaker of the House of Representatives.” The lieutenant then turned to Dillon.
“Mr. Dillon, may I present Admiral Ray Billings, commander of the Constitution Battle Group, and his staff.” Admiral Billings rose and crossed over to Dillon. He extended his hand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dillon. Welcome to the Constitution.”
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”
“I hope your trip wasn’t too taxing.”
Dillon responded with a pained expression. “I had no idea how big the earth was until I traveled halfway around it in one day.”
The admiral laughed. “Imagine how long it took to deliver such a Letter the last time one of these was issued. You would have been traveling six months to get here. If you got here at all.”
Balance of Power Page 20
