“I sincerely appreciate that. I look forward to your call.”
“You are quite welcome. I will extend the same courtesy to the attorney general’s office.”
Pendleton smiled. “I would expect no less.”
“Good evening, Mr. Pendleton.”
“Thank you. Good night.” Pendleton hung up.
He looked at Rebecca. “Well, Rebecca, the Chief Justice is backing himself into a very tight corner.”
Rebecca looked confused. “How?”
Pendleton’s eyes sparkled. “He is the justice for the circuit for the District of Columbia.”
“Right…” she said, uncomprehending.
“That means that he’s considering this emergency stay by himself. He can refer it to the Court, of course, if he chooses to under Rule 38, but typically a justice will handle an emergency stay by himself.”
“Right.” Rebecca agreed.
Pendleton glanced down at the phone, then back at her. “As Manchester’s appointee, does he dare decide for him alone?”
“I see what you mean.”
“They claim to be nonpolitical, but they’re not.”
“So he’ll refer it to the rest of the Court?”
“That’s my bet.” He drank from a glass of water.
“How could he do anything else?” she asked with less confidence.
“But what will the Court do?” Pendleton asked. “And when?”
The air wing commander, Zeke Bradford, stood in front of them in his flight suit. His black-leather name tag had gold Navy wings and one word: CAG. The air wing commander. The head guy. The one who decided how, when, and where the air wing went. He looked at his squadron commanders. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, the operation is a go. Tomorrow morning, 0540 H hour and L hour.”
The commanders nodded.
“I’m sure you all feel just as strange and awkward about this as I do. This is the most bizarre circumstance I have ever found myself in as a Navy officer. And I suppose we each have our thoughts about whether we ought to be doing this or not.” He looked around but nobody responded. “Frankly, I am more than happy to go and beat the shit out of anybody who kills Americans by shooting them in the head. I think we ought to return the favor. I just wish they had some airplanes so we could have a fair fight. That doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. They do seem to have surface-to-air missiles, though, I hear. Anybody here got any more information on that?” he asked, looking at Caskey with a wry look. Caskey put his hand over his eyes, as if in shame. “You all right, MC?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just embarrassed.”
“I don’t know how you could have known they had South African SAMs and knew how to use them and would give you a head fake in the shot.”
“I’m still embarrassed,” MC replied.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s only a forty-million-dollar airplane. I’m sure the taxpayers understand,” CAG said. “What I was saying was, I’m sure you guys feel as awkward about this whole thing as I do. I’m just not sure what we can do about it. Seems to me that we do whatever the admiral tells us.” The squadron commanding officers on board the USS Constitution murmured in agreement.
“Anybody got any problem with that?” CAG asked.
They shook their heads in unison, almost enthusiastically. “Okay. As you know, we still have part of the flight schedule to complete, then at 1600 we’ll knock off flying so that we can do final maintenance and get the ordnance loaded on the airplanes. There will be some birds airborne for SSSC, EW, et cetera, but most will be standing down.”
“You got any better idea what our targets are going to be?” asked Drunk Driver. “We’ve heard about hardened concrete bunkers and jungle over the island. Do we have any more information?”
“Negative,” CAG replied. “We’re supposed to get some updated intel from the SEALs tonight, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. I don’t think they’re going to give us much good target info. I think basically we’re going to be flying close air support and overhead protection. Our current plan is to lob some SLAMs into the bunkers we’ve identified, and be ready with some HARMs if any of their radars show up. We’ve tweaked our ESM to be triggered by those South African SAMs, but other than that, this looks like a bullet fight to me. We don’t know enough to be after them with any big ordnance. This is going to be mostly fighting by the grunts, and they’ll have to look out for the captain of the Flyer. More power to them. Anybody got any questions?”
MC raised his hand and lowered it as soon as CAG looked at him. “What’s Indonesia gonna do about this? Isn’t this an Indonesian island?”
“Yeah, it is, but it looks to me like they’ve abdicated it to these Islamic terrorists. Anytime you let a bunch of guys have a mother ship and bring their attack boats ashore, build some concrete bunkers and surface-to-air missiles unchallenged, I think you’re waiving any claim that nobody else can go smack them.”
Drunk responded, “Yeah, but wait a second, I thought the President said that we were just going to tell Indonesia where these guys were, and then let them take care of it. Have we told Indonesia that these guys are on this island?”
CAG looked at him curiously. “You know, I don’t know. Since they cut us off we’ve been telling Washington everything we know, but what we don’t know is whether they’re passing that information on.”
“So Washington may have told Indonesia that these bad guys are there, and that we are going in, but they’re not telling us?”
CAG shrugged. “Last we heard, before they cut us off, Indonesia was talking to Washington every hour. They were with us. But we don’t know the current status ’cause nobody’s telling us. All I know is that the admiral is telling us we are going in hot tomorrow morning at first light, that we’re flying cover and shooting anything that moves, and they have SAMs. That’s about the extent of everything I know. Let’s not get into political speculation and wondering the who, the what, and the when. You copy?”
“Sure, I copy. I just don’t want us to run into somebody or have somebody come after us because they think we are going to do something they don’t know about.”
“I hear you,” CAG replied. “There’s nothing we can do about that right now.”
Drunk looked dissatisfied. “I just don’t know, CAG. It seems to me if the admiral’s driving us off a cliff, we’d be better off not going.”
The other squadron commanders watched him closely. He continued, “I mean, we are sworn to obey orders, but only lawful orders. We’re supposed to use our brains.”
CAG let his impatience show. “So what do you suggest we do, Drunk? Convene a committee and sit around and make some kind of ultimate decision on whether the admiral’s order’s lawful, whether his interpretation is right? And then what—we decide not to do as he has instructed and order people below us not to go? Then maybe all your department heads and pilots wonder whether your orders are lawful? How far down does this go? What if each level of the chain of command questioned whether the guy directly over him is ‘lawful’?”
“That’s what Nuremberg was all about, CAG.”
Caskey intervened. “So now we’re war criminals? Ordering Jews into the gas chamber? Come on!”
“No, I don’t mean it’s like that.” Drunk sat up a little straighter. “Every one of us has an obligation to obey only lawful orders.”
“And what if it’s not clear-cut?” Caskey asked, perturbed. “I hear what you’re saying, Drunk. I just don’t think we can get into it right now. This isn’t one of those clear-cut ‘shoot the prisoners’ kind of orders. This is a question of authority, and whether our admiral has it. I would say that it’s his problem, not ours.”
Driver looked relieved. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m not saying I’m not going to do it, I’m just saying that we ought to think about the implications. Sounds to me like we have.” He paused. “I’m in, CAG.”
CAG’s face brightened. “All right. Fair enough. Anybody got anything
else they want to get off their chest?”
When there was no response, he concluded, “Okay. Get your birds in one hundred percent up status, get your men up and ready, line up the bullets, get your bombs and missiles ready, and get your crews some rest. We’re going to be up early.”
Beth Louwsma pushed the steel door open after the magneto released the lock. A tall, lanky lieutenant in a flight suit stepped through the door right behind her. She glanced over to make sure he was still with her and proceeded directly to Admiral Billings.
SUPPLOT was a frenzy of activity with the final preparations for the dawn attack. Billings and his staff were poring over the operational orders and flight plan.
Beth approached the admiral. “Excuse me, sir.”
Billings did not hear her. The lieutenant looked at her, then at the admiral, and then back at her, feeling awkward.
“Excuse me!” Beth said loudly.
Billings stopped his conversation and looked up at her. “What?”
“This lieutenant has some information that I think you’ll need to know immediately.”
Billings stood up straight. “Good evening, Lieutenant.”
“Good evening, Admiral.”
“What is it, Beth?” Billings asked, impatience in his tone.
“I happened to be in CVIC for the debrief of the last recovery, sir,” she said, “when I heard the debrief of the E-2 crew. This lieutenant was giving the debrief. He said he was listening on the HF radio and overheard a conversation. I’ll let him tell you.”
Billings looked at the lieutenant. “Well?”
The lieutenant began, uncertain why he was being questioned. “There really wasn’t much to it. I was spinning through the HF frequencies and listened in on a conversation between a man and I believe his wife. I’m pretty sure it was an E-2 guy, but he obviously wasn’t from our squadron since we were the only E-2 up. It was clearly an HF patch into the U.S. phone system.”
Billings looked at him and at Beth. “How do you know he was from an E-2?”
“Well, I could tell he was using a lip mike, and not talking into an oxygen mask.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a helicopter?” Billings asked.
“You can usually hear the rotor vibrations in a helicopter transmission, and I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think the H-60 has an HF.”
“Good point,” the admiral said.
“Well, he was talking to her and they weren’t saying much of any substance; he was being careful not to tell her anything classified. And then when she asked where they were going, he said, ‘Well, I can’t tell you, but we’re heading south like a bat out of hell.’ ”
“Could you tell where he was?” Billings asked, immediately interested.
“No, sir. I had our DF on the signal, but all I got was a strobe. It was northeast of us, but it could have been anywhere from a hundred miles to a thousand miles. I couldn’t tell.”
“What do you make of this, Lieutenant?” Billings asked.
“Well, I don’t make much of it, sir. Commander Louwsma seemed to think it was pretty significant, but I’m afraid I frankly don’t see it.”
“You think it was an E-2?”
“Yes, sir, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Whose E-2?”
“Well, the only one that I could think of that would be northeast of us would be the Truman Battle Group somewhere around the Philippines. But that’s just a guess.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, sir, I’m not sure, but I really think it was a lieutenant that I know.”
“You know him?” Billings raised his eyebrows.
“I think so. The E-2 community is not that large and I think it’s a lieutenant that I went through training with. His name was Eric Stone. He’s a real little guy with an iddy-biddy voice, and it’s so distinctive that we recognized him all the time. In training we used to call him Chirp, and that’s pretty much stuck with him. I’m almost positive it was Chirp.”
“And what do you take it to mean?” Billings asked.
The lieutenant shrugged. “That’s what I’m missing. I don’t see the significance of that conversation.”
“Do you think that when he said he was heading south like a bat out of hell, he was referring to the E-2?”
The lieutenant laughed involuntarily, struck by the humor. “I’ve never heard anybody say that an E-2 with its big radome on top is flying anywhere like a ‘bat out of hell.’ Certainly not those of us who ride in them.”
“Exactly,” Billings said, smiling as well.
“So you think he was referring to the Truman Battle Group?”
The lieutenant shrugged again. “I guess he is.”
Billings looked at Beth. “They’re on their way.”
David Pendleton sat in the deep leather chair in his family room with his suit pants and white shirt on, his tie loosened. The fire burned low as he waited for word from the Supreme Court. He drank deeply from his glass of water and waited.
The telephone rang and Pendleton glanced at the clock: 2:10 A.M. He lifted the receiver. “Yes.”
“Good very early morning, Mr. Pendleton,” said David Compton. “I told you that I would tell you when I was leaving the office and when their deliberations, if you will, were over for the night. Well, I am going home.”
“And what is the status of the emergency stay?” Pendleton asked cautiously.
“Mr. Chief Justice Ross considered it and decided to have it considered by the entire Court. It is going to happen tomorrow, actually later today. Saturday.”
“Nothing more tonight?”
“No, sir. They will be back to it first thing in the morning. Seven A.M.”
“Very well. Thank you for calling. Do you have any idea when they might have an actual decision?”
“No, Mr. Pendleton. They don’t tell me those kinds of things.”
“So he referred it to the entire Court, did he?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
Pendleton paused. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Pendleton.”
Pendleton set the phone down and smiled. He quickly downed the rest of his water, waited five minutes, and dialed.
The Speaker of the House picked up his private line.
“Mr. Speaker, this is David Pendleton.”
“Have you heard anything?”
“Yes, sir. The Chief Justice has referred the application for emergency stay to the full Court.”
“What does that mean?”
“The Chief Justice, Justice Ross, is responsible for any emergency stays out of the D.C. Circuit. This application came from D.C. so the Chief Justice could hear it himself. But according to Rule—”
“Spare me the rules; what does it mean?”
“If the justice hearing the emergency application wishes to, he can refer it to the entire Court. That’s what Justice Ross did. And the clerk of the court said they’d get together on it early this morning, this being Saturday.”
“Hmmm.” The Speaker seemed to be considering.
Pendleton pressed. “How much time do we need, Mr. Speaker?”
“I don’t know. I think their intention is to go in—according to our time—tonight about six P.M.”
Pendleton looked at his clock. “Just over fifteen hours from now?”
“Right.”
“This could be close,” Pendleton said. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything, Mr. Speaker.”
“Okay. I, for one, am going to go home and lock myself in the house, turn off all the radios and televisions, and sleep as long as I can.”
“Okay, but make sure you have a phone where I can get to you.”
“Oh, yeah. You have my private home number, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, David, it’s been quite a day. Don’t know that I have ever seen one like it. Don’t know that we’ll ever see one like it again. Thanks for your help. I’m sure we’ll be talking later on. Good night.”
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“Good night, Mr. Speaker.” Pendleton hit the button on his portable phone and set it down. He couldn’t relax yet. The Supreme Court could still upset the cart and impose a stay on someone and wreck Congress’s plans. But in the meantime Pendleton was going to enjoy himself as much as he could. And if he succeeded, he would earn his place in history.
31
JIM DILLON WAS STILL OVERWHELMED BY THE EXPERIENCE of being on an aircraft carrier. Every new thing he saw or learned amazed him more. Lieutenant Reynolds showed him around the ship, explaining how everything worked—no doubt out of a sense of duty—but Dillon was unable to retain any of it. Reynolds used acronyms and terms that were completely alien to him. He would nod knowingly and hope that his responses were appropriate, like an immigrant in a foreign land.
At every opportunity he would try for a glimpse of one of the many televisions on the carrier broadcasting CNN live. He pretended he was paying attention to Reynolds while his ears strained to hear the news of any developments.
He had been with the lieutenant at air wing meetings, squadron briefs, ordnance loading of aircraft, and televised briefs by the intelligence officers, who continued to claim that they knew very little about the situation as a result of the information cut off.
As he stood in CATCC, the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center, he listened as a twenty-five-year-old enlisted man, prompted by the ever-helpful Lieutenant Reynolds, explained how he would communicate with airplanes landing aboard the carrier at night, and “talk them down.” Dillon was sure this made sense to someone, but his mind was pulled away by the images on the television visible over the sailor’s shoulder. It was bolted to the wall and was, of course, tuned to CNN. The President was holding a press conference. Dillon strained to hear him, but the sound was not turned up. He saw the President step up to the podium.
Dillon suddenly longed to be back in Washington in the midst of the turbulence. Washington was never more fun than when political hand grenades were going off. Dillon put up his hand, stopping the monologue of the sailor. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you think we might hear what President Manchester has to say?”
Balance of Power Page 32
