Dillon found the taxi stand. A cab with ISLAND TAXI on a side door and no hubcaps on its wheels pulled up. “Where to?” the driver said as he lifted Dillon’s suitcases into the trunk. “Honolulu,” Dillon said, opening the back door of the cab.
“What hotel?” the driver asked as he started the cab and left the curb.
Dillon said, “Just take me down to Waikiki Beach.”
“Which part?” the driver asked, annoyed.
“I don’t know, the middle of it. Where you’d want to be dropped off.” The driver stared at him in the rearview mirror, then shrugged. Dillon could see the lush green mountains topped with wispy clouds in the middle of the island. The slopes stood out against the dark blue sky and cast shadows toward the ocean, as if longing for the coast. Dillon felt clammy, but loved the feeling. He was tired of being cold in Washington. He unbuttoned another button on his polo shirt and put his arm over the back of the seat. When the cab left the freeway, rounding a curve in the wide street heading toward Honolulu, Diamond Head loomed in the distance. Dillon’s heart sank. This was a beautiful sight. He should have seen this on his honeymoon, not with a cab driver.
The taxi came to a stop on a busy street; the driver popped the trunk open and climbed out. “Here you are.”
Dillon handed the driver a fifty. The man gave him his change—much less than Dillon had hoped—and waited for a tip. Dillon parted with a dollar and felt cheap. The driver regarded him with scorn and drove away quickly as soon as Dillon got out.
Dillon had asked for Waikiki, and had been dropped off in the middle of a shopping district. He scouted the neighborhood for a place to buy a newspaper and spotted one a half block away. He pulled his suitcases down the street and bought a paper from a lift-up box. His only criteria for an apartment were that he had to be able to walk to it from here, and it had to be on the beach. His youth had been spent on the beach in San Diego and he had missed it in Washington.
He walked slowly down the main thoroughfare parallel to the beach. He stopped at a bench and sat down, flipping to the real estate ads. He read the odd street names, not knowing where any of them were. Lua this and Kame that—innumerable names with excessive Ls and Ks. He scanned for any that claimed to be on the beach, and spotted one listed on Waikiki.
He called the number from his Motorola Iridium phone, the one that had allowed him to call the Speaker of the House directly from the USS Constitution while in the South Pacific. He made a mental note to change his address so the phone company didn’t cut off his service. The owner answered the ring. She lived in the same building as the apartment that was for rent. She said she would meet him there in fifteen minutes and gave him directions on how to walk there.
He squinted at each new building he passed anxiously. He went by a McDonald’s. Guaranteed place to eat. He reached the end of the street and grew more concerned; there weren’t any other buildings. He double-checked the number and saw that the last building was the one he was searching for. To his right was a museum with tanks and Army guns right on the beach. Odd place for a museum. Helped the view though.
Dillon found the lobby and the elevator after some looking. His hopes grew with each step. This building was right on the beach. Nothing between him and the ocean except sand. Probably should have asked how much it was. He rode the elevator to the twelfth floor and walked to the end of the hall reading the numbers. The number he had written down was directly in front of him at the end of the hall. He knocked on the door loudly. It was opened immediately by a small Oriental woman. “Mr. Dillon?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Come in, please,” she said gently. She backed away and motioned him into the room. Dillon couldn’t believe his eyes. The apartment was at the end of the building, overlooking the ocean with a spectacular view to the left of Waikiki Beach and Diamond Head.
“Best view in Hawaii,” she said. “You like?”
“It’s spectacular,” he said. “How big is it?”
“Two bedroom, one bath,” she answered.
“How much is it?” he asked, not wanting to know the answer.
“Four thousand dollars a month.”
Dillon swallowed and tried not to gasp audibly. About two and a half times what he could afford. “How long is it available?”
“Furnished, did I tell you it’s furnished?” she asked.
“No,” he said, looking around. It was beautifully decorated with solid furniture that had a tropical flavor.
“Two months,” she said. “The man who was renting it died last week in a surfing accident.”
“You’re kidding?” Dillon said.
“No, very odd accident. Fell off his board on the north shore and landed on coral reef headfirst. Broke his neck.” She sighed.
“Did he live here by himself?” Dillon wanted to know.
“Yes. His lease expires in two months. It is only available till then, unless you want to rent it after that, but the rent will be going up to five thousand dollars a month.”
“No, two months would be perfect,” Dillon said. “I’ll pay you thirty-five hundred a month.”
She grinned enthusiastically. “First month’s rent and a five-hundred-dollar security deposit.”
Dillon pulled out his checkbook and wrote her a check for four thousand dollars.
“East Coast bank?” she asked, annoyed.
“Yes,” he said, studying her. “I just moved here. I haven’t even opened a bank account yet.”
“The check better clear,” she said, pointing her finger at him.
“It will,” he said, having recently maxed out his last Visa card with a cash advance of five thousand dollars.
She examined him carefully, her eyes moving up and down. At last, she decided. “Good thing you called. Ad went into the newspaper just this morning.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“My name and phone number are on the refrigerator door. I left the phone on, but it’s still in that other man’s name. The phone bill will come here. If you just pay it, you won’t have to reconnect it.”
“Okay,” he said, feeling strange about paying a dead man’s phone bill.
She walked out and closed the door quietly behind her. Dillon went immediately to the balcony overlooking Waikiki and opened the sliding glass door. He listened to the surf twelve stories below. He could toss a penny into the ocean from his balcony on either side. He drank in the warm air and the soothing sounds of the cooing doves on the beach. But a knot was forming in his stomach. He couldn’t forget that he was unemployed for the first time in his adult life and spending money like it was candy. His most daunting thought was the idea of helping a man he respected tremendously in a court-martial he knew very little about. How hard could it be?
Reluctantly, he left the balcony, sliding the glass door closed and crossing the living room to one of his unopened suitcases. He pulled a notepad out of the side pocket.
Commander Beth Louwsma tried not to sound excited. She wasn’t quite sure how to relate to Admiral Blazer. She and Admiral Billings had established an excellent rapport, but Blazer was a different breed entirely. She found him on the ship’s bridge with the captain. “Request permission to enter the bridge.”
The officer of the deck glanced at her. “Permission granted.”
She crossed immediately to Admiral Blazer, who was standing next to the captain. They weren’t saying anything; both men simply staring out at the darkness. “May I have a word with you, sir?” she asked Admiral Blazer.
“Sure.”
“We’ve got them.”
“Where?” Blazer asked quickly.
She pulled out a chart that she had folded into a twelve-inch square. There was a large ellipse over the middle of the chart, with another strobe passing through the middle of the ellipse. Only two islands were touched by the strobe. “It’s one of these two.”
“They’re sure it’s the same transmitter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get a message out f
or some overhead imagery,” Blazer ordered. “Let’s image both of those and see what we can find.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Beth said, turning quickly and heading off the bridge.
Chapter Twelve
The sailor stepped out of the guardhouse at the main gate at Pearl Harbor Naval Base and looked into the backseat of the cab. “The brig,” Dillon said.
“Are they expecting you, sir?”
“I’m an attorney for Admiral Billings.”
“Do you know where the brig is?” the sailor asked the driver.
The driver nodded, and the guard motioned them through the gate.
The base was lush and tropical, much prettier than Dillon had expected, with several buildings predating World War II and others that were new and modern. Dozens of ships lined up in gray formation were in port. There was a buzz of activity around the base as sailors strolled to and from their ships and McDonald’s, the two places they knew well.
The cab drew to a stop in front of the brig. Dillon paid the driver and got out. He stood for a moment in front of the nondescript, ugly cream-colored building and hesitated. Then he walked up the three steps into the brig office and approached the sailor at the window. “Good afternoon. I’m Jim Dillon. I’m here to see Admiral Billings.”
The man studied Dillon and then glanced down at a list that he had in front of him. “He expecting you, sir?” the sailor asked, meeting Dillon’s eyes.
“No,” Dillon said.
The sailor chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered his response. “Wait here, please.” He picked up a phone and spoke with someone. “A Mr. Dillon here to see the admiral.... No.... Roger.” He put down the receiver. “I’ll let you know in just a minute whether he wants to see you.”
Dillon stepped away from the window. He paced back and forth in the small lobby with his notepad in his hand waiting for some word. His mouth was dry and he felt slightly dizzy. He heard a solenoid lock retract and a large metal door opened to his left. “Right this way, sir,” said a sailor with an MAA—Master-at-Arms—armband.
Dillon followed the man down a hall to a small room with a table and chairs in it. Billings sat at the table in a blue submariner’s jumpsuit. He stood as Dillon entered. “Well, Mr. Dillon,” the admiral said, holding out his hand, looking serious.
Dillon took the admiral’s hand and forced a more vigorous smile than he felt. “Admiral, how are you doing?”
“Oh, not too bad, considering,” Billings said. “Please, sit down,” he said, indicating one of the chairs. Dillon sat down and put his empty pad on the table.
Billings waited for Dillon to say something, but then after a few seconds broke the silence himself. “So,” Billings said. “Why are you here? Has the Speaker finally decided to do something?”
Dillon fought back a negative remark about Stan-bridge. “No, sir. The Speaker has not decided to do something, at least not about your plight. I got a call from your wife—”
“Yes, I know. I told her to call you.”
“Right,” Dillon said. “She sounded very nice. I’d like to meet her.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Anyway, I asked the Speaker if there was something he could do, and he basically said no, there wasn’t.”
“That’s what Carolyn told me.” He studied Dillon, trying to figure out why he was here. “Did you fly all the way out here just to tell me that again?”
“No,” Dillon said, recognizing the admiral’s confusion. “I quit my job at the House.”
Billings sat back slightly. “You did what?”
“I quit. I don’t work for the Speaker of the House anymore.”
“Why?”
“I was suffocating.”
“How?”
“It’s just … I don’t know, like the Letter of Reprisal. We did the right thing, but it’s getting really political. When the President convened the court-martial to try you, the Speaker was outraged. That’s why he started pushing the impeachment again. And he’s serious about it. So am I. But I think he’s doing it because he smells blood. Basically, the Speaker wants the President’s job.”
“So you quit? Now what are you going to do?”
“I came out here to help you,” Dillon said.
Billings held up his hand. “I’ve got attorneys coming out my ass, Dillon. I’ve got an appointed Navy JAG officer, probably a C-plus player; I’ve got the most expensive lawyer in the world, probably an A-plus player; I’ve got associates at his firm billing me like I’m the U.S. Treasury; and I’ve got a bunch of young JAG officers running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”
Dillon winced. “I came to work for you for free.”
Billings stared at Dillon in disbelief. “What?”
“This is my fault. You wouldn’t be where you are if it weren’t for me.”
“Nonsense,” Billings said, relaxing. “It’s funny. I’ve sat on courts-martial, nonjudicial punishments—captain’s masts—all kinds of Navy disciplinary proceedings. Probably the most common excuse is it was somebody else’s fault. Either I didn’t do it, or somebody else made me do it. That summarizes most of the cases I’ve heard. I’m not blaming anybody, Dillon. I had a choice to make, and I made it. I knew it was risky, but I made a choice that I thought was right. I may not understand constitutional law, and I may not understand the Uniform Code of Military justice as well as I should, but what I do understand, at least I used to, is what’s right and what’s wrong. And when a bunch of terrorists shoot Americans in the head and sink their ship, something’s gotta happen. If what I did was wrong, I’ll stand up and take what’s coming to me. I just want to be heard.”
Dillon picked up the pencil he had brought with him. “What I would like, Admiral, is your permission to work on your case. I don’t want to stick my nose in where it’s not welcome, but I’ve got to tell you, if you don’t allow me to work on your team officially, I’m going to do it unofficially. I’m going to do the research, the footwork, think about the case, and come up with ideas. I’m going to send them to every attorney who is working for you officially. I’m going to help them whether they want the help or not. They can read my memos and tear them up, they can tell me to go away, they can change their phone numbers.” His face reflected his determination. “But I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that you get off.”
Billings almost smiled. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you deserve it.”
“Why are you really doing this? Guilt?”
Dillon sniffed, his ears and sinuses still tingling from the long flight. “I’m proud of what you did and I’m proud of what we did. I’m not proud of Washington and I’m not proud of our government. I’m not proud of the President, and right now I’m not very proud of the Speaker. I want to dedicate my time to something that I think is a cause worth dedicating it to. And at least for now, that cause is you. Admiral.”
“Do you know anything about military law?” asked Billings.
Dillon grimaced. “Not really. On my way out of Washington, I stopped by the government printing office and got a copy of the Manual for Courts-Martial, and the JAG Manual—the Judge Advocate General’s Manual. I read them both on the airplane coming out here, at least the sections that seem to apply. So I have a superficial understanding.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Dillon, not only are you on the team, I want you part of the decision process. You’re smart, energetic, and enthusiastic. I like your style. I want you to call Mr. Chung and tell him what we’ve talked about. I’m sure he’ll want to hear it from the, and you tell him that he can call me or come see me and I’ll confirm it. If you want, he can put you on his staff, and I’ll pay you.”
“No, Admiral. I refuse to accept a penny.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want it.... Welcome aboard,” the admiral said.
“My first goal is to get you out of here,” Dillon said, regarding the dark room.
“Out of where?” t
he admiral asked.
“Out of the brig.”
Billings shrugged. “It’s hopeless. The prosecutor will never agree. It’s coming down from the highest levels. I’m not to be released under any circumstances. Don’t waste your time.”
Dillon stood up. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
Lieutenant Dan Hughes stood in his garage waxing his long board. His full-length wet suit restricted him only slightly in his vigorous attempt to scrape the old wax off the board. He wanted to get the new wax on so he could get out to the surf before sunset in forty-five minutes. The waves were unusually good for a Coronado winter and Hughes could hardly stand the waiting. The platoon’s second in command, Lieutenant Junior Grade Brad Michaels, waited impatiently at the garage door with his short board. “Come on! Screw the wax, you don’t need new wax every time you surf.”
“I don’t wax it every time I surf, just when it needs it.”
“Right,” Michaels said impatiently.
Hughes’s phone rang. He had brought the handset for his 900-megahertz portable phone to the garage. “Get that,” Hughes said.
“Hughes’s Sporting Equipment,” Michaels said. Hughes sighed, his disapproval obvious.
Michaels suddenly stood up straight and focused on the telephone. “What? When?”
Hughes stopped waxing.
“Okay, we’ll be right there.” Michaels hit the button to turn off the handset. “We’re on alert.”
“For?” Hughes said, reaching behind his back for the long zipper cord to unzip his wet suit.
“They’re not saying on the phone. They’re doing a recall.”
“Team leaders?”
“Everybody, but only our platoon.”
“Let’s go,” Hughes said as he peeled off his wet suit, put on a T-shirt, a blue hooded sweatshirt, and climbed into The Beast. Michaels hopped in beside him and they roared out of Hughes’s garage. Hughes said, “When we get there, have the quarterdeck call the Ops O at the boat unit. We may need their help.”
The Price Of Power Page 14
