Balance of Power

by James W. Huston

  “Actually, it was James Madison who issued the last Letter of Marque or Rep—”

  “I don’t care who issued the last one, Admiral.” He looked around the room. “Does this change anything?”

  Van den Bosch immediately jumped in. “It sure does! We’re not going after terrorists who are fighting for freedom of religion in their own country, or actually purity of religion in their own country, we would be fighting pirates. Everybody hates pirates; this country has a long history of fighting pirates. You just have to squash them. Like bugs.”

  The President looked at Warner. “Are they or are they not Indonesians?”

  “From what I hear, we’re not sure, but it seems…”

  “And this island, Bunaya, is it an Indonesian island?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The President was recovering his cool. “So we are talking about Indonesians conducting illegal activity, on Indonesian soil, and launching missiles from Indonesia?”

  “That’s right,” Warner echoed. “That’s all correct,” he said, implying that it didn’t matter.

  “Well, I need to think about that. What is the status of the application before the Supreme Court, Mr. Attorney General?”

  “There’s more,” the Director said.

  “What?”

  “We don’t think they’re operating alone.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this,” the President said. “Let’s have it. Tell us everything.”

  “Well, sir, when we heard there were South African missiles involved, we began doing some digging into the international arms trade we keep track of. We initially thought Iran was involved. The international pariah. Our early intel, our early indications, all pointed to Iran. Their favorite sport is supporting fundamentalist Muslims who then wreak havoc on secular Arab states, or anyone else that isn’t die-hard Muslim. It fit nicely. Plus, Iran is a major player in international arms sales. But the South African connection threw us. We don’t have any indication of South Africa dealing with Iran….”

  “Get to the point,” the President muttered.

  Warner stopped, stung, and said suddenly, “China. That’s the point. China.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  Warner shrugged, almost smug. “You didn’t want all the in-between stuff,” he said. “The end of the analysis is China.”

  “They’re behind this? Why?”

  “Behind it may be too strong. We think, though, that China at least ‘encouraged’ it, and probably financed it. Over the last few years China has been building up its military. They’re trying to build up their navy, but it’s slow going. Their primary objective is certainly to get us out of the Southwest Pacific. We’re the only ones left who have any influence there. If we’re not around”—he shrugged, as if stating the obvious—“China fills the void. And one way to get us not to be around is to encourage others, like these idiots, to hurt us. Maybe we’ll go away. Kind of a Vietnam-writ-small theory.”

  “Why do you say China is involved?” Van den Bosch broke in.

  “Because a few months ago China sent another shipment of Silkworm missile crates out. We thought they were going to Iran. We tracked the arms carrier to the area around the Strait of Malacca, but then we lost them. We expected them to go to Iran, but weren’t ever sure if they did. It was such a fungible ship; it could have been repainted in a million ways and we’d never know where it came from. But no new Silkworm sites were set up in Iran, and none received new missiles.” Warner looked around. “We think those crates contained the South African SAMs, and maybe other things we don’t know about. Maybe even Silkworm surface-to-surface antiship missiles.”

  “Have we told Indonesia about this?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir. I discussed it with them. That’s what clinched it for me,” Warner said.

  “What?”

  “The biggest hitters, financially, in Indonesia are of Chinese descent. Most of them have no ties to mainland China and in fact despise the communism China stands for. But a couple do have such ties. Secret ties, which we have learned about. Two Indonesians in particular. The two, Mr. President, whom you know. The two who know you.”

  Manchester seemed puzzled.

  Warner continued, “The two who opened a bank in your hometown in Connecticut. Whom you’ve met.”

  “What does that have to do with it?” the President said with concern.

  “They may have been the ones who told China you wouldn’t do anything about it. They may have said you didn’t have any nerve—”

  “Who said I don’t have any nerve?”

  “Nobody. This is hypothesis, Mr. President. But it is a curious coincidence. They are thought by some to be positioning themselves to have influence when China extends its tentacles into Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, and Thailand, which some think will happen in the next five years if…”

  “This is all conjecture,” the President finally said, waving it off with his hand. “When you have some facts, come tell us about them.”

  Warner sat back, hurt by the sudden dismissal of what he thought was magnificent intelligence work. “There’s one additional development, Mr. President.”

  “What?” Manchester said angrily. “Make it fast.”

  Warner spoke quickly, “A missionary family has been kidnapped.”

  “Where?”

  “Irian Jaya,” Warner said, then, seeing the lack of recognition, continued, “an island in eastern Indonesia.”

  Manchester frowned. “Is it related to the rest of this?”

  “We don’t know. We don’t know anything except that they vanished. The natives say it wasn’t them. Somebody came and got them.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We’re already doing everything we can….”

  “Keep me posted,” Manchester said, turning to the attorney general.

  Manchester didn’t want to hear any more about it. “So, Mr. Attorney General, Ms. Vaughan, where are we on the emergency stay before the Supreme Court?”

  “Well, Mr. President,” McCormick said, “it has been accepted for emergency review by the Supreme Court, but it is such an extraordinary circumstance that nobody knows what it means. They’re handling it like a death penalty case, keeping counsel on standby on the telephone and talking to everybody in the process, but they are not telling us what their plan is. We don’t know if they want to hear it on the merits tonight, or issue a temporary order or stay pending ultimate resolution, or when they are going to set a hearing. These are uncharted waters.”

  “Nice analogy,” the admiral said.

  The President glanced at the admiral, unamused, then turned back toward the Attorney General. “When do you think we’ll hear anything?”

  McCormick shrugged. “We’ve got our best attorney on it—there is really nothing to do. We’re just waiting to hear from the Supreme Court, and we have no idea when they’re going to call. If I were personally going to guess, I think we would hear something from them in the next couple of hours, but”—he shook his head—“I don’t have any feel for how accurate that guess is.”

  Manchester looked at Molly, sitting quietly. “You still think it’s a winner?”

  “The restraining order?” she asked. “Yes, I do. It would solve everything by freezing it—maintaining the status quo. And the court could decide the merits at another time.”

  The President looked at his Chief of Staff. “Arlan, is there any way we can derail this rubbish over at Congress—this impeachment stuff?”

  “Yes, sir. You can restore communications with the Constitution and order them to go after these pirates.”

  “I told you I needed to think about that. What else?”

  “I think you should let it fall of its own weight.” He leaned forward and spoke to the President in a tone he usually saved for subordinates. “Unless you are prepared to go before the press and deny that you are a pacifist and tell them how eager you are to send troops if necessary. I would recommend you do that. Sho
rt of that, I’d let others come to your defense for you and make it look like the Speaker is just trying to cut your head off.”

  “May I speak?” the admiral said.

  “Go ahead,” Manchester said grudgingly.

  “Is anybody going to tell the battle group down there that the people they’re going against aren’t a bunch of wackos? That maybe they’re backed by China and have sophisticated weapons, possibly including Silkworms? And that they may have a missionary family as hostages?”

  “They’re cut off,” the Chief of Staff said.

  “That’s the point. They’re our Navy, and we cut them off, and we know what they don’t. Don’t we owe it to them to at least tell them what we know?”

  “They’re not authorized to do anything, Admiral. When you operate against orders, you take risks.”

  “Sure, but…”

  “No ‘but’ about it,” Manchester said, cutting him off.

  The admiral sat back in his chair red-faced, fighting with himself. “At the risk of being accused of insubordination, Mr. President,” he said with quiet dignity, “your decision could get people killed. Americans. Sailors.”

  “Not if they obey their orders,” the President shot back.

  “One last thing about that Supreme Court hearing, Mr. President,” Warner said cryptically.

  Manchester looked at him quizzically. “What?”

  “The last person Dillon was talking to when we located his signal? His friend on the Supreme Court. The clerk to the Chief Justice.”

  Colonel Brandon Tucker had made his way from one Marine company to another aboard the Wasp. The best amphibious ship in the United States fleet. It carried Harriers, the vertical takeoff and landing jets the Marine Corps loved and nobody else wanted, as well as the helicopters the Marines had flown for years—the CH-53E and the CH-46, and up to sixteen hundred Marines.

  Tucker had met with each company commander and discussed with him the tentative plan. Tentative because they really didn’t know where they were going. Final approval would be based almost entirely on the reports they would get back tonight from the Navy SEALs.

  Tucker had called all the company commanders together for an afternoon brief after he had inspected each one, and they were now before him, anxiously waiting for that most precious commodity: information. Lieutenant Jody Armstrong was there along with the colonel’s staff.

  “Does everyone understand the plan?” Tucker began severely. “Let me say it again. In less than twenty-four hours we are going to be standing on the island of Bunaya. I have to tell you, in all the landings that I have done, I have never felt more uneasy.” He hesitated. “This should be a cakewalk. We should be going in against a bunch of terrorists with limited experience and probably not many substantial weapons—although they apparently have SAMs. It is unlikely that they have any antitank weapons. It is unlikely that they have armor-piercing shells, howitzers, land mines, or an ability to prevent our landing. However, we will assume that they have all of those. We are going to treat this as if we are going against the Russian Army and we are walking ashore in Petropavlosk.” He put his hands on his hips. “We are going to assume that these people are defending their homeland and we are coming to take their wives. We will assume that these are the greatest fighters ever trained in the history of warfare. We will assume that they have weapons that are more advanced than ours, and that they can shoot better than we can. We will assume they have armor, armor-piercing ammunition, satellite intelligence, and video data link of our entire landing. We will assume CNN will show them a live shot of us commencing our landing.” This brought a laugh from the gathered officers.

  He looked around. “Most of which is probably not the case, but if you assume the enemy is stronger than he is, you will take additional precautions and live longer. Don’t get me wrong. This does not mean that we are not going ashore hard. This means that we are going to go ashore twice as hard and twice as fast with twice as many forces. Frankly, gentlemen, we are going to beat the shit out of them. This is going to be their worst nightmare. They picked on the wrong people. And for those of you who don’t yet feel the need to do this, just remember those twenty-five merchant sailors, who were simply trying to carry goods to the people of Indonesia, and the SEAL off this ship who was murdered in cold blood.” He paused for effect. “The people we are going against can call themselves Islamic fundamentalists or a convention of Bozo the Clowns. Doesn’t matter to me. If they abduct, shoot, and blow up my countrymen, they better dial 911, ’cause they’re gonna need all the help they can get. Any questions?”

  There weren’t any. They had gone over the plan a dozen times and were simply waiting for the updated information.

  Tucker looked back at Armstrong. “Your men are ready, right? When are you off?”

  Armstrong looked at his watch. “Eighteen hundred.”

  “When are you ashore?”

  “Twenty-three hundred,” Armstrong said.

  Tucker looked at him hard. “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yes, sir. I could use some more imagery, but I guess we’re not getting that.”

  “Not happening. We’re not risking another TARPS bird to get another set of pictures. The satellites are out of our control and we’re on our own. You’re gonna have to get the information for us.”

  Armstrong nodded. “Roger that. We’ll get it.”

  Tucker’s enormous arms bulged against the rolled-up sleeves of his camouflage uniform. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

  29

  DILLON WATCHED CNN, THE ADMIRAL, HIS AIDE, and the ocean all at once. His stomach felt queasy. He had heard that aircraft carriers were so big that you couldn’t even tell they were moving. He could definitely tell this one was moving. Most of the movement was because of the ship’s speed—about twenty-five knots. But he could also feel it rolling just slightly from one side to the other. He looked at others around him and could detect no sense of movement or queasiness from them. He wondered how much of his current unease was due to the forces that had been set in motion by the Letter. His Letter. His idea, his research, his enthusiasm for an obscure constitutional concept. He couldn’t think about it without a rush of battery acid into his stomach.

  He watched his boss, the Speaker of the House, on TV, answering questions posed to him in a press conference in the hall outside his office. A reporter said, “So, Mr. Speaker, there is a rumor on the Hill that you are going to request the House approve articles of impeachment against the President for being a pacifist. Is there any truth to that?”

  “On the night the President gave the speech declaring that we would not go after these terrorists, I went over to the White House—I think most of you reported on that. I asked the President directly whether he was a pacifist, and he refused to deny it.”

  Stanbridge watched the reaction of the reporter.

  “So are you going to pursue the articles of impeachment?” Another reporter repeated the question.

  “As you have reported, this issue has been under consideration by some members of the House. I have considered it myself, so I think frankly that the President should put this issue to rest by answering the question. However, he does not seem willing to do so. That gives me pause. It also makes me think that maybe there is some truth to it. However, after meeting with my colleagues, it is our considered opinion that now is not the time to go into this. The President has already shown that he has no intention of protecting American citizens against vicious attack, and he can answer for that later. Right now, the ones who need to answer for this are the terrorists in the Southern Pacific.”

  Stanbridge raised his hand and shook his head indicating that he wasn’t answering any further questions. He walked to his office and turned around. “That’s all I have for now. I may have more for you on this later, but right now, I have other things that are pressing. Thank you.” He closed the door behind him as the reporters turned to the cameras to close.

  Dillon smiled. Nicely done
.

  Lieutenant Reynolds stood beside him. “This is unbelievable. You ever see anything like this?” indicating the television hanging from the overhead.

  “Never,” Dillon said.

  “You think the Speaker means this? Do you think he’s really gonna lay off trying to get the President canned?”

  “Sure looks like it. The press is frothing at the mouth. They haven’t had this much to write about in decades. This is better than war, because it’s all right in front of them. The reporters can sit in their little offices and write all kinds of things; then when they want to stir it up a little more, they go and get a bunch of quotes from some politician, roll those words into a sharp stick, and poke some other politician in the eye with them. Works great.”

  Reynolds spoke softly so he wouldn’t distract Admiral Billings, who was glued to the television. “You like working in Washington?”

  Dillon looked out over the ocean, at the sun glistening on the water. He breathed in deeply, trying to suppress his nausea. “I used to. Sometimes it gets tedious with all the infighting, the backstabbing, and the self interest—that’s probably the worst of it. Everybody looking out for himself and not enough people caring about what’s really going to happen. Still, if you want to actually change anything in this country, politics is about the only way to do it. But I don’t really see myself as a politician.”

  “So, do you like it?”

  “I like it sometimes, sometimes no.” Dillon shrugged. “How about you, do you like being out on the ocean, do you like being in the Navy?”

  The aide smiled. “Sometimes yes.”

  “This is unbelievable.” The admiral shook his head. “Washington has gone mad. Funny thing is, the country may think that I’m the only one who is out of control and I’m probably the only one that’s under control.”