“Yes, sir.”
“As you may or may not know, the President has cut us off.”
Dillon squinted as he drank. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Cut off our communications. They can still receive ours in all likelihood, but they’re not sending us any information. They’ve also taken our identifier out of the transmissions and we believe have instructed all other commands and ships not to communicate with us at all. We’re on our own.” He waited for the information to sink into Dillon’s obviously foggy brain. “What do you make of it?”
“Well, I assume he’s trying to get you to change your mind or trying to make it so that you can’t go forward with your attack even if you want to.”
“He’s got to know that if we want to go forward, we can, and there’s nothing he can do about it.” The admiral shook his head.
“Mr. Dillon, do you think the President would do something drastic?”
“I’m sorry, Admiral, it’s too early. I’m just not following you.”
“Do you think he has the nerve to send another battle group down here to try and stop us?”
Dillon’s eyes got big as the thought sank in. “Is there one nearby?”
“There’s a battle group in the Philippines, and another one in the Indian Ocean near the Persian Gulf. He could send one or both toward us if he chose to do that.”
“What would they do?” Dillon asked, trying not to breathe too quickly.
“That’s the question. Would he have them come and try and intimidate us, or would he actually send them after us with orders to attack?”
Dillon sat silent as the implications of everything that had happened weighed on him.
The admiral addressed everyone. “Do you think the President has the nerve?” He lowered his voice as his staff hung on every word. “Would he be willing to tell the world that the United States of America has a battle group with its supporting ships, submarines, and amphibious group with Marines onboard that’s out of his control? And not only to tell them that, but do you think that he is prepared—by sending other battle groups toward us—to imply that we’re on the verge of civil war?”
Dillon bit his lower lip as he tried to think. “Admiral, these are very big questions and I don’t know the answers to them. Perhaps I could call the Speaker and find out.”
“I don’t think you heard me, Mr. Dillon. He’s cut us off. Even our normal communications of high-frequency radio communication and the like have been cut off. No one is responding.”
“I have my MI phone, though, Admiral. Couldn’t I just call? These new Motorola Iridium satellite phones are supposed to work anywhere in the world.”
The admiral looked at him with enthusiasm, “It may be just the thing. But if everyone is under orders to cut us off, it won’t do us much good to call anyone in the chain of command.”
The phone rang and the admiral’s aide picked it up. He talked quietly, then looked at Dillon and said, “Okay. I’ll tell him.” He placed the receiver back on its cradle. “I guess you’re going to be here for a little while longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“The COD is grounded in Singapore. Port engine ate a bird.”
Dillon grimaced. “Okay. Thanks,” he said, not very thankful. “So do you want me to call the Speaker?”
The admiral spoke into another phone and nodded at him.
Dillon stood on the flying bridge outside the admiral’s bridge on the 08 level. The admiral sat on his chair inside the bridge and Beth Louwsma stood next to him. Dillon took out his Motorola Iridium phone. It was linked to a network of sixty-six Motorola satellites that allowed him to make and receive digital calls anywhere without interference. He had owned the phone for only a month and hadn’t used it once outside Washington. He dialed the Speaker’s private number. His heart pounded as he waited. He heard clicking, and then the phone suddenly started ringing. Dillon breathed in expectantly, wondering what phone in the world was actually on the other end of this connection.
“Hello, office of the Speaker of the House, may I help you?”
Dillon blurted, “Robin!”
“Mr. Dillon, is that you?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said, amazed at the clarity of the connection. It sounded as if she were down the hallway. “Is the Speaker there?”
“Hold on.”
Dillon waited for three seconds.
“Dillon! What are you doing?” the Speaker asked.
“Good morning, Mr. Speaker.”
“It’s almost the end of the day here. Why are you calling?” Then with an anxious tone. “Did the admiral get the Letter?”
“Yes, I delivered it to him yesterday afternoon as soon as I arrived.”
“What did he say?”
Dillon looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. He was by himself on the flying bridge of the Constitution as it steamed westward in the dark morning at twenty-five knots. The wind whipped around his head, making the conversation on the telephone difficult. He stepped behind a large steel screen, which broke the power of the wind momentarily.
“You should have seen it, Mr. Speaker. People here were sweating bullets all over the place. They didn’t know what to do. There was a big argument between the admiral and his chief of staff on whether the Constitution or the order of the President would win.”
“Did the President send him an order?”
“Sure. Didn’t you know? He sent him a direct order from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the President telling him not to obey any Letter of Reprisal and to immediately evacuate this area and return to Pearl Harbor.”
“Stupid son of a bitch,” he growled. “What’d the admiral do with that order?”
“He hesitated long and hard. Frankly, I thought that because of what his chief of staff said he was going to ignore the Letter, and if he did, there would have been nothing that we could have done about it.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, but in any case, what did he finally decide to do?”
“He’s going to go for it, Mr. Speaker. H hour and L hour, whatever those are, are tomorrow morning.”
“Outstanding,” the Speaker said.
“What is going on with that lawsuit filed by the President?”
“David Pendleton was the right guy. He’s already been to two arguments. They had a hearing at the District Court and it was denied, so they asked for an emergency appeal to the Circuit Court. We’re waiting to hear from them now. If they deny it, I’m sure these clowns are going to try to go to the Supreme Court. We’ll have to see how this plays out.”
“One thing I wanted to ask you, Mr. Speaker. Do you know why the President has cut us off?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not getting any communications. They can’t get any intelligence updates, they can’t get any current photo intelligence, they can’t even get the normal Navy routine messages over the satellite. We’re blacked out.”
“You’re shitting me,” the Speaker said.
“No. The admiral said we can’t get anything. We’re sending out our messages just like usual, and they may be listening to them, but they sure aren’t talking back. The admiral thinks the President may be sending another battle group after us. Do you think that’s possible?”
“That pantywaist?” the Speaker responded with contempt. “Send another battle group after you? Not in a million years.”
“Anyway, could you check on that?”
“You bet,” the Speaker said. “I absolutely will find out the answer.” He hesitated as he considered the logistical difficulties and the actual implications of having a battle group cut off from Washington. “How do I get it to you?”
“Call me on my cellular phone number. You just dial like I’m in Washington. It’ll ring here. We’ll probably have to have a set time though, because I think if I’m down inside the ship, it won’t work. So let’s say one hour from now, at five-thirty Washington time, you call me back or I can c
all you…I’ll just call you then.”
“Fine,” the Speaker said. “And tell the admiral I want to talk to him then.”
“Sure will.” Dillon said. “See you later.” He ended the phone conversation and placed the phone in his pocket. He looked out over the ocean at the two or three ships that he could see accompanying the carrier as they smashed westward toward Bunaya. He felt a sudden sense of pride. He breathed in the salty air as he watched the power of the ships, the power of the Navy, and the power of Washington coming together in one act. One act to exact retribution against the murderers of innocent Americans.
25
THE PHONE RANG AND MARIA PICKED IT UP IMMEDIATELY. With barely a pause she yelled across the hallway, “It’s Rebecca. The Circuit Court’s decision is out.”
Pendleton swiveled around quickly and hit the button on his speakerphone. “Yes?”
Rebecca began with no introduction, “It’s half a page long, David. It reads as follows: ‘In the case of President of the United States v. John Stanbridge et al., Petitioner Edward Manchester, as President of the United States and Chief of the Executive Branch, and as a citizen, came before this court this day for a writ of mandamus. Having reviewed the pleadings, heard oral argument, and given due consideration, petitioner’s request is denied. Circuit Court of the District of Columbia.’ That’s it, David.”
“Perfect. They didn’t give the Supreme Court any hint of what they really want to do. So,” he said, satisfied, “now we wait for the Supreme Court. I’m going to sit here until five-thirty, then I’m going home. Keep your fingers crossed that the Supreme Court doesn’t feel like handling the biggest constitutional bomb it’s had in decades this afternoon. Why don’t you come back here and review these Supreme Court rules with me?”
“I’ll be right there,” Rebecca said.
Pendleton sat back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and smiled. With his eyes closed, he spoke loudly to his secretary outside his door. “Get the Speaker of the House on the telephone, please.”
A moment later she called back, “He’s on the line.”
Pendleton picked up the phone. “Mr. Speaker, good news. Circuit Court has denied their request.”
“Good,” the Speaker said distractedly. “Pendleton, I want you over here right now.”
Pendleton sat forward in his chair. “What for? I need to be here in case they take this to the Supremes tonight.”
“Get over here. Have somebody else stand by there and call if something comes up with the Supremes.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
As Pendleton walked into the Speaker’s office, he saw several people he didn’t recognize seated on couches and chairs around the coffee table. They were all clearly waiting for him. The Speaker was the only one to rise as he walked in. “Afternoon, David, glad you could make it. Nice work on the President’s lawsuit. Looks like that thing is dead in the water.”
“Not completely dead, Mr. Speaker. The Supreme Court might accept an application for emergency stay to hear it tonight. We’ll have to wait and see. They’ll probably give this the same consideration they would give a death penalty case for expediency.”
“Well, let’s hope not.” The Speaker chuckled with no humor in his eyes. “David, let me introduce you around. You know Rhonda, my staff historian; you know Chuck, my staff member for military affairs; you know Frank Grazio, my assistant; and these two gentlemen over here are the head legislative assistants for the Majority Whip and Bart Rutledge, my good friend and the congressman from South Carolina. Please, sit down,” he said, motioning to them all.
“David, we were just talking about the articles of impeachment.”
Pendleton’s eyes opened wider than he intended. “What?”
“I want to impeach the President.”
Pendleton hid his reaction. He leaned down and picked up the cup of coffee. He raised it to his mouth and sipped slowly. “On what grounds?” he asked.
The Speaker returned his gaze and paused. He spoke softly, deliberately. “Has any President ever been impeached?”
Pendleton looked to see who would answer the question and realized they were all looking at him. “Yes,” he said.
“Right,” the Speaker responded. “Who was it?”
“Andrew Johnson.” Pendleton responded. “Abraham Lincoln’s vice president. He became president after Lincoln was shot.”
“Right,” the Speaker said. “Were you around during Watergate?”
Pendleton nodded gently. “It’s my recollection that articles of impeachment were voted out of committee and were to be voted on by the entire House of Representatives when Nixon resigned in 1974.”
“Exactly!” said the Speaker. “Any other big impeachments?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Any Supreme Court justices ever impeached?”
Pendleton thought hard, wondering why any of this mattered. “I think one, but I don’t remember who.”
“Rhonda?” the Speaker said.
“Justice Chase,” she said.
“Was he convicted in the Senate?” the Speaker prompted.
“No, acquitted by one vote. So was Andrew Johnson.”
“Exactly. And how long ago was it that either of those things happened?”
“More than a century.”
“Right,” the Speaker said, nodding. Approving of his student. “Do you think that because the power to impeach hasn’t been exercised in a long time against a president, anyone could argue it doesn’t exist?” he asked rhetorically. “Of course not.” Stanbridge began walking around the office, fueled by his ideas. “It’s another power left exclusively to Congress. Just like the Letter of Reprisal. And we are going to exercise it again.”
No one spoke or looked at anyone else. They all looked at the Speaker.
Pendleton spoke. “On what grounds?”
“Incompetence,” Stanbridge said, sitting heavily in a chair next to Pendleton. “Incompetence, and a refusal to act as Commander in Chief to fulfill his obligation as President.”
Pendleton shook his head. “That would be politics. You can’t impeach somebody for not doing as good a job as you think they ought to do.”
“I’m not talking about a good job or a bad job. I’m talking about inability and unwillingness or refusal. And I’m not talking about just any kind of inability.” The Speaker stood up again, walking behind his chair and leaning against it. His eyes were alight. “I’m talking about inability as in a fundamental inability, an”—he searched for the right word—“incapacity. It’s like….it’s like”—he struggled to articulate the clear idea in his head—“being on a jury in a murder case. If they’re going to ask for the death penalty, you as a juror, you have to be willing to vote for the death penalty. Right? They ask you whether or not you are opposed to the death penalty as a matter of principle—if you are, then you can’t sit on the jury even to determine if the guy is guilty of the crime.” Stanbridge stopped and looked at the others in the circle. He saw mostly blank looks.
Pendleton asked the question. “So how does that apply?”
“The President of the United States is the Commander in Chief of the armed forces, right?” he asked. They nodded. “What if he is a pacifist? A genuine, committed, deep-in-his-heart pacifist?” He let the thought sink in for several seconds. “What if he is unwilling, under any circumstances, to employ the armed services of the country of which he is the president?” Stanbridge lowered his voice and looked around the room. “Wouldn’t that automatically disqualify him as president? Wouldn’t he have just lowered the nuclear defense umbrella completely? Wouldn’t he have just done in one fell swoop what the entire Soviet Union or Russia and everybody else in the world was unable to do? Wouldn’t he have completely emasculated our defense and left us vulnerable and exposed?”
“What does that have to do with Manchester?” the legislative aide for the Majority Whip asked.
“Because he is a pacifist.”
Nearly
everyone looked at him with shock.
Pendleton asked, “Why do you say that, Mr. Speaker?”
“Because I think that is the reason he wouldn’t send the USS Constitution after those terrorists. Think about it!” he said, waving his hand. “Where is he from?”
“Connecticut,” Pendleton answered.
“No, before that. Where did he grow up?”
They searched their memories and Rhonda spoke. “Harrisonburg, Virginia.”
“Right. And what church did he grow up in?”
“The Mennonite Church. Why?”
“Do you know anything about Mennonites, Rhonda?” the Speaker asked.
“A little, why?”
“How do they feel about the military?”
Rhonda nodded her head. “They are pacifists.”
“Right. And where did he go to college?”
“Goshen College in Indiana,” Rhonda answered.
“Right. Who owns and runs Goshen College?” the Speaker asked.
Nobody replied. The Speaker answered for them. “The Mennonites. Do you remember, during the presidential campaign, when Manchester was the governor of Connecticut, what he said when asked about his faith? He said he still ‘held to the tenets of the Christian faith.’ ” Stanbridge held up two bent fingers on each hand to indicate quotation marks. “Remember that?”
Rhonda replied, “But he said he isn’t a member of the Mennonite Church anymore, doesn’t attend, and hasn’t in a long time. Not since college. He said he isn’t a Mennonite anymore.” Rhonda smiled slightly. “Just like Nixon, who was a Quaker, or a former Quaker, and Quakers are pac—”
“Exactly!” said the Speaker. “It doesn’t necessarily tip you off. Nobody accused Nixon of being a pacifist….”
Pendleton shook his head. “I don’t know where this gets you, Mr. Speaker. Even if he is a member of the Mennonite Church, surely in running for the office of president he understood that it carried with it the obligation to serve as Commander in Chief.”
The Speaker leaned over and looked at Pendleton, “Exactly. That’s it exactly. What better opportunity to put into place a policy of pacifism than to run for the office of president of the United States? He never served in the military, never served in the National Guard. Even while governor of Connecticut, he never called out the National Guard even when they had that flooding several years ago. The National Guard was not employed once during his tenure as governor there. I checked. And with him as President of the United States, U.S. forces have not been deployed anywhere around the globe in any hostile activities, even though there have been several opportunities. Granted,” he said, building up steam as he went along, “those decisions could have gone either way politically. But isn’t it curious that none of them resulted in sending U.S. forces into action? And then this one, the one that we’re here about today, the one that we’ve been sued about, is the clearest example of an attack on American citizens in the last ten years. And what does he do about it? He dodges the issue and says we’re going to let the Indonesian police take care of it. The police! You’ve got to be kidding me!” He looked around.
Balance of Power Page 26
