Hughes lowered his weapon. They moved out into the middle of the compound—the rest of the SEALs gathered around him. “Any problems?”
“Just one thing, sir,” a third-class petty officer said.
“What’s that?”
“Sir, when you’re going into the first building, you’ve got McGowan here yelling to ’em to surrender in Indonesian. We’re not yelling anything at these guys in the other buildings. How will they know what we’re doing?”
“I think you wait a few seconds after we go in before you break in. If it turns into a shooting fight in our building, you can count on the same. If it doesn’t, just try and take them in their sleep.”
“Sir, what if they’re not asleep, what if they’re waiting for us?”
Hughes stared at him. “Tell ’em in English. They’ll figure it out pretty fast. Other than that, standard ROE. Just use good judgment.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the sailor said, feeling slightly more secure than he had some seconds before.
“How’d it go with the Indonesian lingo?” Hughes asked McGowan.
“Okay, I guess. But what if they don’t understand me?”
Hughes hesitated and then said, “The linguist said you sounded all right, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, that’s good enough for me. I don’t think these guys are about to surrender anyway. They’re in way too deep.”
“It’s got to be a realistic opportunity for them to surrender,” McGowan said.
Hughes smiled ironically. “Oh, it will be very realistic. Realism is something that I guarantee.”
Dillon fumbled for the alarm clock to turn it off. He didn’t want to wake up. The alarm sounded different, more insistent yet somehow wrong. He finally managed to get one eye open and realized it was the phone. He picked it up. “Hello?”
“Jim?”
“Yeah.”
“This is the Speaker.”
Dillon squinted at his clock. It was 3:00 A.M. He made an effort to clear his head. “Yes, sir?” he asked, trying to sit up but getting his feet caught in the sheet.
“I’ve got some bad news.”
“What?” Dillon was still struggling with the covers.
“I got a call from the hospital a few minutes ago. Actually from Barbara Pendleton—”
“What in the world would she—”
“David had a heart attack at about one A.M. He—”
“David who?” Dillon was now sitting on the edge of his bed, having freed himself from the bedclothes. He switched on the bedside lamp, blinking at the light.
“David Pendleton, Jim. Barbara is his wife! Come on, wake up!”
“Oh, I never met.... Is it bad?”
“Yes, it’s very bad. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”
“Didn’t make—? He’s dead?” Dillon stood up suddenly.
“About an hour ago, I’m told.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“It’s true…”
“Oh God,” Dillon said, falling back down on the bed. “Oh, no.... What do you need me to do?”
“The President is scheduled to testify tomorrow. Actually this morning. You’ll have to get Chief Justice Ross to continue the trial until we can get someone to take David’s place. You can’t do this alone. You don’t have the experience.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Who do you have in mind?”
“Maybe a member of the House. I’ll be looking into it.”
“I’ll go in early and talk to Potts and Ross first thing. I don’t think there will be a problem.” He thought of Pendleton, and what great shape he had seemed to be in. He had turned sixty only recently. Not overweight, didn’t smoke. “How did it happen?”
“Just did. No family history, none of the usual indicators, no reason really. I guess you could say he’s been under a lot of stress lately, but he lived under stress. I don’t know.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“I don’t know that either. I’ll fill you in when I get more details. Let’s talk later in the day after we get the new trial date.”
“Okay.”
“Talk to you later on.”
“Okay,” Dillon repeated and hung up. He lay on the bed for a minute, then got up and went to the kitchen. He fixed a pot of strong coffee and stood watching as it dripped into the glass container. Dillon didn’t know what to think about first, the impeachment trial or Pendleton and his death. Suddenly he realized the coffee had been done for several minutes and poured himself a cup. He checked his watch, then opened the front door to see if his newspaper had been delivered. It hadn’t. Overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness, he picked up the portable phone.
Molly answered after three rings. “Yes.”
“It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily. “It’s the middle of the night—”
“Pendleton’s dead.”
“What?”
“Pendleton’s dead. Heart attack.”
“When?” She was wide awake now.
“Hour ago. Speaker just called me.”
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to ask for a continuance until the House gets a new attorney to replace Pendleton. But what if Ross says no?”
“For the death of the lead attorney? I don’t think that’s likely.”
“I know. I’m just sweating.”
Molly heard the tone in his voice. “Want me to come over?”
“Yeah. I really do. I’ll have to leave at about six or so.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be right there.”
“Thanks.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The entire world had heard about the death of David Pendleton by the time Chief Justice Ross convened the morning session. Some saw it as a sign—that’s what you get for going after the President and his mother. Others wanted to know Pendleton’s cholesterol count, his workout regimen, how often he ate red meat, his family history of heart problems.
Chief Justice Ross gazed out over the Senate floor and then raised his eyes to those above in the gallery. He observed Dillon, sitting alone at the prosecution table, and Potts, leaning back in his chair, at the table opposite. His eyes went again to Dillon. “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Pendleton’s death,” he said. “On behalf of the court, and I’m sure of all Americans, I extend my deepest sympathy.”
Dillon rose, feeling rather more consoled than he expected. “Thank you, sir. It was truly a sudden and unexpected loss. Very tragic for his family, and really, for all of us.”
“Yes,” Ross replied somberly. “We all share your sentiments. However, this trial must go on. You may call your next witness.”
Dillon’s heart seemed to stop. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Potts’s face showed his concern as well. “Sir,” Dillon said softly. “The next witness is the President, and Mr. Pendleton was the one who was going to examine him.”
“It is my understanding that the President agreed to be here this morning, and I expect that he will be. You may proceed.”
“Sir,” Dillon said, trying not to panic in front of the entire world, “I’m not prepared to examine the President. I wasn’t even involved in the preparation of that examination.”
Ross spoke in a low tone. “If the House wanted to appoint more managers, it certainly could have. It chose to appoint only two, Mr. Pendleton and you. There is still, therefore, a qualified manager, and I see no choice but to go forward.”
“Mr. Chief Justice, I request a continuance to allow me to at least look at the materials Mr. Pendleton prepared for the examination. If there are going to be any efficiencies here at all, I’ll need some time to prepare.” His brows were arched, half in surprise, half in supplication. “Please.”
“Mr. Potts, is the President here?”
Potts stood slowly. “Frankly, sir, the President and I assumed that with the untimely demise of Mr. Pendleton—may he rest in peace—that the Pres
ident would not be called today. He has made numerous important appointments instead. I’m afraid he isn’t here.” He looked at Dillon. “However, if the court wishes to proceed I’m sure he could rearrange his schedule.”
Ross scowled. “I suppose under the circumstances a one-day continuance won’t cause too much disruption. Very well, we are adjourned until nine tomorrow morning. At that time the President will be here to testify.” He addressed Dillon again. “One day. That is all, Mr. Dillon. Don’t come back here tomorrow asking for more time. You won’t get it.” He slammed the gavel down and stood up.
Dillon was stunned. Several senators murmured encouragement on their way out of the chamber, but most had decided early on that speaking to either side would be a bad idea as it might imply bias or lack of objectivity, as if impeaching a President of the other party would ever be an unbiased event. In any case, few spoke to him, making him feel even more alone than he already did. And now he was the trial counsel, not just the second chair. He looked at Pendleton’s place at the table for his outline, or anything that would help him prepare for the examination of the President. Dillon knew it was in a notebook, he had seen it. Knowing Pendleton, it would be complete and in final form.
He looked at the litigation bag under the table that had Pendleton’s initials on it, but it was empty. Dillon had expected as much. Pendleton was sure to have had it with him last night as he prepared for the President’s testimony. But where?
When he finally left the Senate chamber, he was immediately mobbed by the media. “Are you going to do the examination? Are you nervous? How does it feel to be going after the President all by yourself? Are you going to be ready for Manchester tomorrow?”
Dillon smiled, waved his hand, and kept walking. He went to the war room, shutting the outer door. He moved through the empty office and entered the conference room by the side door. There were six lawyers in the conference room. They all stared at him—the two attorneys on loan from the staff of the Judiciary Committee and four from Pendleton’s law firm.
Dillon knew them all, but not well. “I’m sorry about David,” he said. The attorneys murmured their agreement. “He was a fine lawyer.” More agreement. “I’m scared,” Dillon admitted as he sat down in a padded wooden chair. “I’m supposed to examine the President of the United States tomorrow, in an impeachment trial no less, and I’m not prepared. I have twenty-four hours to get ready. Will you help me?”
“Of course,” they said in unison.
“Does anybody know where David’s exam outline notebook is?”
“It’s right here,” Mark Sutter, the senior attorney in the room, said, holding it up. Sutter, in his mid-forties, was a partner in Pendleton’s firm. A skilled trial lawyer, he was humble yet sharp. He had been a tremendous asset during the preparation because he didn’t care who got credit, just that the job got done. He’d make the coffee if it needed to be made. “I was working with him on it last night when he started getting chest pains. He decided to go home. He thought it was just indigestion.”
Dillon stood up, putting out his hand to take the notebook. “Did he leave it here or is this a copy? Is there another more recent version?”
“No, this is it. He didn’t even want to take it out of the building.”
“Hallelujah,” Dillon said. “This is what he was going to use this morning?”
“Yep,” Sutter said.
“Have all the bar codes and exhibits been woven in?”
“Yep.”
“I need access to all the exhibits he was going to put up on the computer—”
“All right here,” Sutter said, pointing to one of the desktops. “We loaded it last night. He wanted to practice with all the exhibits in order, test the speed of call-up, check the video clips, everything.”
“What if I want to make changes?”
“We could, but we’re running out of time. If you just want to add an exhibit that’s already loaded into the computer, no problem. If you want to add one that we haven’t been made aware of yet, that could be a problem. We’d have to scan it—”
“No, I don’t expect anything like that. I just wanted to get a feel for how locked in I am.”
“Pretty locked in.”
“So be it. I’d better start learning this outline.” He walked to the table and sat in front of the monitor connected to the computer loaded with all the exhibits and video. He placed Pendleton’s notebook in front of him and opened it. He read the first page, and started to feel more comfortable. It was Pendleton’s mind on paper. It was succinct. Not an extra word anywhere. No questions, just short statements of what testimony he wanted to get out of Manchester: ‘Raised a Mennonite. Attended Goshen College. Embraced pacifism as a child.’ Dillon could then fashion any question he wanted, to best elicit the information listed. It gave him precision and flexibility.
Dillon began to feel excitement overcoming his anxiety. He glanced at the center of the table. “Would someone do me a favor, and get rid of these cardboard bran muffins we’ve been enduring, and get some American doughnuts? And some real coffee. French roast. And somebody order lunch now, and somebody else order dinner now, and somebody else order tomorrow’s breakfast now. I don’t want any wasted time.” He almost smiled. “Then I want each of you to imagine you’re Edward Manchester, and try to think of what you would say if you were him, depending of course on what you think he would actually say. I’m going to go through this outline six times, once with each of you playing Manchester. We’ll use all the technology, all the questions, and all the angles, and then we’ll sit down tonight at midnight and debrief what we’ve just learned. Then I might be ready to begin preparing for tomorrow morning.” He saw the shocked faces and smiled at them more openly. “Look, everybody out there is expecting us to fall on our faces. Me, more exactly. We’re not going to say a word to anyone, I’m just going to go in there and have at it. Fear is the cause of a lot of failure, and we’re not going to be doing any of that here. Are you with me?”
“Absolutely,” they replied.
“Where’s Grazio? I want him to play the President once too. As a politician…” Dillon was staring at Pendleton’s outline. He hesitated.
“What is it?” Sutter asked.
Dillon ignored him, his attention on Grazio, who had just come in. “Frank!” he said. “Frank. Come here.”
“What’s up?”
Dillon pointed to his desk. “Over there.” Then to the rest of the room, “Let’s get on with it. No time to waste.” They took the hint.
Grazio leaned on the edge of the desk. “What’s up?”
Dillon sat down heavily. “I think I know how to do it.”
“Do what?”
“The cross-exam. You can’t just ask Manchester a bunch of questions. He’ll dodge them. I have to have something else up my sleeve.”
“Okay. Makes sense to me. What can I do?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“You can’t tell anyone else about it. You’ll need to be very persuasive, and discreet, two things that you generally aren’t. But I can’t trust anyone else.”
“What?” Grazio said, growing frustrated.
“I need you to go to Houston.”
The Air Force C-17 descended gently to the jump altitude over the South Pacific. The newest cargo airplane built for the Air Force, the C-17 had become the workhorse it was designed to be. It had proved itself to be reliable and fast, and it had plenty of space for missions like the one Lieutenant Hughes had requested. His entire platoon with gear, and four Zodiacs, stacked one on top of each other in two sets of two, were to be dropped in the middle of nowhere to rendezvous on a GPS way point with the two Mirage boats.
The C-17 had picked up Lieutenant Hughes’s SEAL Team One platoon on San Clemente and taken off exactly on schedule. The long transpacific flight had been uneventful and the airborne refueling had gone smoothly.
The noise inside the airplane was just loud e
nough to make conversation too difficult to be worth the effort. The SEALs sat quietly, a few read and a few slept.
As they approached the jump point, Hughes got them up. The jump master indicated five minutes and they stood and began checking each other’s gear. Although they were in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and would not be within sight of any land, they didn’t want eighteen parachutes drifting down long enough to be spotted by a nearby airplane or boat. Their objective was to get down to the water as soon as possible, climb into the Zodiacs, and rendezvous with the two Mirages from Thailand. Hughes had been in the cockpit when the go-ahead had been received.
“One minute!” the jump master shouted.
The SEALs lined up in order with Hughes and McGowan in front. Chief Smith was at the back with Lieutenant Michaels in the middle.
Hughes adjusted the goggles on his face and pulled the chin strap tight on his helmet. Here we go, he thought to himself.
“Go!” the jump master watched the jump light go from red to green. He checked the ramp and looked at the ocean below. Clear. He deployed the drag chutes for the two five-hundred-gallon fuel blivots. They were ripped out of the airplane and their chutes deployed immediately, dragging the pallets over the rollers.
Lieutenant Butch Winter saw the blivots drifting toward the ocean from the lead Mirage. He started motoring toward the descending fuel cells.
The Price Of Power Page 44
