“Roger,” Michaels said.
The SEALs from Hughes’s platoon of SEAL Team One had assembled in less than twenty minutes. Lieutenant Commander Whip Sawyer stood in front of them. “This is Secret. SCI: you’ve all been read in. We got a message from the Constitution battle group. They’ve identified the location of this George Washington character. Some of the cryppies in the SSES,” he said, referring to the Navy cryptologists who worked in the Ship’s Signal Exploitation Space, “not only got an ellipse from some UHF COM but they may be able to link it to this George Washington guy. Not sure. They’re still working it, but that’s where they think they’re going to end up.” He laid a map of the western Java Sea, including Sumatra, Malaysia, and Singapore, on the overhead. A series of lines was on the sheet with an ellipse at a point where the lines intersected.
“We think the island that they’re on is within this ellipse.”
Hughes interjected, “Have you narrowed it down to one island?”
“Not yet. There are about twenty islands within the initial ellipse, but the latest ESM pinned it down to one or two. They’re imaging those two islands now. We think we’ll have a hard fix by this time tomorrow, especially if they transmit again.”
“Is the woman still alive?” Hughes asked.
“Can’t tell.”
“So, what’s the plan from Washington?” Hughes asked.
“No indication there is a plan. We got a request from Washington that we be put on notice.”
Hughes responded, “On notice, aye. Do we have any movement orders?”
“Negative,” Sawyer replied, taking the map off the overhead and turning it off. “We have no orders, we’re just ‘on notice.’ ”
Hughes stood up next to Sawyer. “Anybody got any questions?”
“What is their objective?”
“Getting their pals released from Hawaii. But we’re not cooperating. And now we know where they are and they don’t know that. Pretty tricky though, getting a hostage off an island with nothing but bad guys on it.”
“I’m ready to give it a shot,” Chief Smith said.
“So am I,” Hughes said. “I don’t hear them begging yet. They’re asking, but not begging.... And if they’re begging?”
“Then we give it to them.”
“Exactly,” Hughes replied. “Now, listen up. These guys are pretty wily. Sounds to me like they’ve got a lot of islands that have setups. They could be off this island and onto another one overnight. We’re not close enough to monitor any of that.” He surveyed the back of the room. “I’ve asked the Special Boat Unit guys to be here, because we may go tonight, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now. We may have to jump in with a couple of boats, or use a Mark V, or even a sub. I’ve got a feeling we’re going in on this one.”
The Mark V, the SEAL Cigarette boat, was highly respected in the special forces community. It was big, fast, and heavily armed—able to do fifty-plus knots in the open ocean over a long distance. It could carry an entire SEAL platoon in special seats. Most of the SEALs rode standing up encased in padded seatbacks holding on to steel bars, although if they chose, they could sit in the hydraulically assisted seat that attempted to absorb the pounding from the high-speed boat bouncing over the open ocean. The Mark V could carry not only the SEALs and their special Zodiac insertion boats on its fantail but could also hold .50-cal. guns and a 40-mm grenade launcher on its side rail. It could navigate by GPS, and scream from over the horizon like a banshee. The SEALs loved it.
He looked at the SBU people again. “Where’s the nearest Mark V?”
“Guam,” a lieutenant answered. “The Mirages are in Thailand, though.”
Hughes was intrigued by the increased capabilities the Mirages would bring to the mission. “Any chance you can get them moved down to the battle group?”
“You have a posit on the battle group?”
“Yeah,” Lieutenant Commander Sawyer said. He turned the overhead back on, pulled out the acetate with the map of Indonesia and the lines with the ellipse on it, and took out the message. He read the latitude and longitude for the battle group’s most recent position, and marked it with an X. “Right there.”
The SBU lieutenant studied it on the overhead, and stood in front of it so that his body blocked out the right-hand third of the screen. “That’s a long way from Thailand.”
“Can you do it?” Hughes asked.
“I think so.”
“Let ’em know we might need them.”
“WILCO.”
Dillon rode the elevator to the top floor of the Honolulu high-rise. The elevator doors opened and he stepped directly into the lobby. He had to fight the urge to gasp. He’d been to a lot of law firms, maybe hundreds. He’d been in the fanciest, the brightest, the ones with the most walnut, the ones with the most marble, the ones with the oddest angles, the ones with the newest furniture, and the ones with the prettiest receptionist. But he’d never seen a lobby like this—one that had a panoramic view of Oahu from Diamond Head to Pearl Harbor to the mountains behind. He tried hard not to look impressed.
He crossed to the receptionist. “I’m Jim Dillon—I’m here to see Mr. Chung.”
The Polynesian receptionist studied him. “Is he expecting you?” she asked gently, doubting it.
“No,” Dillon said.
“What should I tell him this is about?”
“Admiral Billings.”
She picked up the telephone. “A Mr. Dillon here to see Mr. Chung, concerning Admiral Billings. Who are you with?” she asked Dillon.
“Myself.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“No,” Dillon said, transferring his pad of paper from one hand to the other, “I’m an attorney.”
“Whom do you represent?”
“Admiral Billings.”
She reported the information into the telephone and set it down. “Someone will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks,” Dillon said. “Maybe a glass of water.” She picked up the telephone again and spoke quickly into the handset. Dillon sat down on the edge of the couch waiting. A girl, probably a teenager, came through from a door and handed him a glass of water. “Thank you,” he said as he took it from her.
A young woman came into the lobby. “Mr. Dillon?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, standing up.
“Come with me, please.”
He followed her past the receptionist down the hall to a corner office. She opened the door and showed him in. A man stood up and walked to the side of the desk. “I’m Mr. Chung,” he said, extending his hand. Dillon shook it.
“Hello, Mr. Chung. I’m Jim Dillon.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Dillon,” Chung said, regarding him with interest.
Dillon watched Chung’s face and tried to read him as each man sat down. “The receptionist said that you were an attorney representing Admiral Billings.”
“That’s right,” Dillon said.
Chung waited for Dillon to go on but Dillon didn’t say anything. Chung didn’t want to ask the obvious question. “What can I do for you?”
Dillon flipped the pages of his pad and tore off about thirty handwritten pages. He tried to flatten them out before handing them to Chung. “Here.”
Chung took the pages and set them on his desk. He glanced at them briefly and then asked, “What are these?”
“It’s a motion to get Admiral Billings released from custody.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following this,” Chung said. “Why are you bringing me a motion?”
“Because I’ve written it, and I think you ought to file it.”
Chung spoke slowly, measuring his words. He didn’t understand what was going on, something that didn’t happen to him often. “Two things, Mr. Dillon. First, I don’t know who you are or why you have written this motion. Second, we’ve already done this.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult, Mr. Chung. It’s just that I’m not really
quite sure how to proceed. It’s kind of awkward.” Dillon sat back and rested his elbows on the arms of the leather chair. “I’m representing Admiral Billings, just like you are.”
“So,” Chung said. “That makes three of us.”
Dillon nodded. “Exactly. The JAG guy, you, and me.”
“Well, I don’t see why Admiral Billings needs three attorneys. Perhaps I should just bow out,” Chung said.
“I don’t think he wants you to bow out, I just think I’ve imposed myself on the situation enough where he’s accepted me. Mr. Chung, up until yesterday, I was the Special Assistant to the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States. I quit, and flew to Hawaii to help Admiral Billings prepare his defense. I’m here to work for free. If that means working directly for him, or for you, or for the JAG officer, or whoever needs my help, that’s what I’m here for. Nobody has to pay me anything. I’ll eat beans and rice if I have to, but I’m here.”
“You came out here on your own without being asked?”
“Yes, sir. I think the admiral needs a defense, and I want to help any way I can. If that means I do something that another associate on your staff might do and save Admiral Billings some money, that’s fine. I just want to help.”
Chung sat back and put his hands together, touching his fingertips. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this, Mr. Dillon.”
“So are you going to file it?”
“A motion to get him released from custody? We’ve been through that.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“What do you mean you saw that?” Chung asked.
“I reviewed the file.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“I see.”
“But you requested it from the convening authority. You didn’t bring a motion before the military judge. It’s a separate motion that you can bring under Rule 305J.”
Chung stared at him. “Do you have much experience with military law, Mr. Dillon?”
“None at all. I just have a copy of the Manual for Courts-Martial that I bought at the government printing office. I read it on the plane out here. After I found the rule, I checked the case law and this is the way you do it. You bring the motion before the judge. Obviously the convening authority is the President. He’s the one who had the admiral arrested and led off the carrier in handcuffs. He’s not very likely to release Admiral Billings just because we ask. This is a political trial, Mr. Chung. I’m sure you know that. That’s why they have Admiral Billings locked up like some kind of a druggie.”
“There is quite a bit of political pressure. But we can’t bring this motion yet, Mr. Dillon, because a military judge has not yet been appointed to the case.”
“Yes, he has. He was appointed yesterday. Lieutenant Commander Lynch got an e-mail. It’s Captain William Diamond.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dillon strolled through the computer store carrying his notepad. He examined all the printers lined up and their prices.
“May I help you?” a young man said as he approached tentatively.
“What’s the cheapest printer you’ve got? Of any kind.”
“Well, we have a color printer that’s two hundred dollars.”
“Do you have anything cheaper?”
“Yeah, we’ve got some single-page bubble-jet printers that run about one hundred thirty dollars.”
“Will they work?”
“I guess. But I wouldn’t want to print War and Peace on them. You’d be there till the war was over and the next war started, but yeah, you know, if you want a few pages printed out, it’s fine.”
“Do you have any floor models?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one display model.”
“How much is it?”
“It’s also a hundred and thirty dollars.”
“And it’s sitting out on the floor getting dusty and abused?” Dillon asked, pretending to be shocked.
“Well, I might be able to get you some discount.”
“I’ll give you ninety bucks for it,” Dillon said. “Stick it in the box and I’ll give you ninety bucks.”
“Let me talk to the manager.”
“Okay. Tell the manager it’s the only printer I want. I want that one and I’ll give you ninety dollars cash for it. If the answer’s no, I’m walking out.”
“All right, all right,” the salesman said, putting up his hands. “Hold on.”
After a few minutes, the salesman came back with the bubble-jet printer in its box and said, “Ninety dollars, it’s all yours.”
“Great,” Dillon said. He handed the clerk the cash, took his receipt, and walked to his new apartment.
He opened the door and entered into his cool air-conditioned paradise of an apartment, kicking himself for having committed so much money to the place that he couldn’t afford a good printer. Should have found a studio or basement somewhere. I am going to be eating beans, he thought. He walked into the bedroom and surveyed the office supplies he had purchased in the last hour. He was glad he owned a laptop or he would be completely unable to prepare anything even approaching a professional-looking brief. It was going to be close as it was. He didn’t want to be beholden to anybody, especially Mr. Penthouse Criminal Lawyer. A stack of notepads, a few pens, a new bubble-jet el cheapo printer, and his brand-new personally owned red copy of the Manual for Courts-Martial. No office, no secretary, no online electronic legal research, no car, no motor scooter, no bicycle, no income.
Dillon went back out into the living room. He checked the time on his wristwatch. She’d be home. He picked up the phone and dialed Molly’s number. She answered.
“Molly?” he asked.
“Yes, hey, Jim.”
“I’m sorry, hold on a second, I’m going to have to close the sliding glass door, the surf is so loud, I can’t hear you very well,” he said, moving over to the door and closing it and opening it again.
“Very funny,” she said. “You in some Motel Six near the sewage runoff?”
“No way. I’m in a beautiful apartment on the twelfth floor right on Waikiki Beach. To my left, perhaps you can see”—he held up the phone toward Waikiki—“Diamond Head, and hold on”—he turned in the other direction—“and to my right, you can see the beautiful Rainbow Hilton and the aqua-colored water. How do you like it?”
“Ha, ha,” she said sarcastically. “Do you know how cold it is here?”
“Yeah, I really wish I was there.”
“How’s it going?” Molly asked impatiently.
“Off we go.”
“Is Billings going to let you help him?”
“Yeah, he seemed kind of touched.”
“He should be. A guy quits one of the best jobs in the country to go work for free. Doesn’t happen every day.”
“I think I stepped on the toes of the head guy. The really expensive guy I told you about. I don’t think he wants me around.”
“Oh well,” she said.
“So when you gonna come see me?” Dillon asked.
“Right, like I’m going to take off and fly to Hawaii. We just went skiing.”
“Yeah, but you only missed one day of work. Don’t you have any more vacation?”
“Yes, but I don’t have any more money.”
“Hey, I paid for your trip last time.”
“I know, but still, I don’t have any money.”
“Okay. Whatever,” he said, disappointed.
“Believe me, I’d rather be there. I’m not having much fun here.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. Whenever I walk into a room, the conversation stops. Or I see people whispering behind my back. Oh, and I got another phone call.”
“From who?”
“The French guy. Remember the French guy from the embassy?”
“Yeah.”
“Guess what he said?”
“What?”
“He said that he felt he owed it to me as a friend to tell me this. He said at t
hat party we went to, that the Chief of Staff stayed after we’d gone and kept drinking and at the end of it he was very happy. He was feeling no pain.”
“Now there’s a bulletin. Better call the Post. Chief of Staff drinks heavily. They’ll put that on page eight hundred and sixty.”
“No, there’s more. He said he was talking to the Chief of Staff. The Chief of Staff said he was going to get me.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“DeSalle said he didn’t know. That’s why he didn’t think much of it, but it was an odd comment. He said Arlan had this … look in his eyes.”
“That’s weird,” he said.
“He also said that Arlan told him he was going to get Admiral Billings.”
“Well, that won’t be too hard. He’s in jail with a big target painted on his chest.”
“Yeah, but still, that’s a weird comment coming from the Chief of Staff. He didn’t say he’s going to be convicted, he said he was going to get Admiral Billings. I think he’s getting real personal on this one, Jim.”
Dillon tried to keep his concern out of his voice. “Aren’t you glad you work for him?”
“Well, I don’t really work for him. I don’t see him very much.”
“You work for him.”
There was a pause before she spoke again. “How long you going to be out there?”
“Till it’s over.”
“Have they set the trial date?”
“No, Mr. Penthouse wants to delay the trial as long as he can so the political pressure lessens. He’s going to bring a motion to continue it or get an extension or something.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. We’re going to meet with Admiral Billings tomorrow morning to talk about that. I wrote a motion to get him released from custody.”
“Pretty aggressive for the new guy. Sounds like fun. Give me your address.”
He did.
“I’ll be sure to write.”
“Bye. Talk to you soon.” He put the phone down on the coffee table. He walked back onto the balcony, and leaned on the rail to watch the sunset. Finally, he thought. She was starting to see the White House for what it really was.
The Price Of Power Page 15
