The Price Of Power

by James W. Huston

  On the C-17 five thousand feet above, they circled back to drop the Zodiacs and SEALs in the same drop zone. The Mirages stopped and pointed into the wind so that the pilot could fly directly into the wind as it was on the surface of the ocean.

  The jump master gave Hughes a thumbs-up as he deployed the drag chute from the stacked Ducks—the two Zodiacs. The four boats were jerked out of the C-17, accelerating from zero to two hundred knots almost instantaneously, down into the darkening blue sky.

  Hughes and McGowan waddled to the back of the ramp and stood there holding the steel bars on the side of the bulkhead. Hughes ensured the Zodiacs were clear, glanced at McGowan and signaled. They dived off the ramp and immediately scanned the sky for the falling Zodiacs. The two behind them went off the ramp as soon as Hughes and McGowan were clear and the two behind them did the same. In less than a minute the entire platoon was drifting down silently in their MT1X rectangular maneuverable parachutes. Their silver gray color made them almost invisible in the dark.

  Hughes checked his altitude on his wrist altimeter. Everything was going according to plan. They were descending fast, but still well above the Zodiacs. As they approached two thousand feet, Hughes donned his swimming fins and released his chest strap. Hughes watched the boats splash into the ocean and the two parachutes collapse around them. As soon as the tension was released from the parachutes the explosive bolts released the boats from their canopies. The Zodiacs gave Hughes a good reference point for his own altitude. Approaching the water, he reached up and slowed his descent. He watched his feet touch and immediately shifted his hands to his parachute release. When his feet went into the water, he released his leg straps and swam free. He pulled the parachute under the water and McGowan joined him, as did the others. They swam to the boats. In less than ten minutes the boats were untethered and bobbing in the darkening ocean. Those assigned to driving the boats had the engines started and idling as they helped the others climb aboard.

  The sun was below the horizon, reflecting off the wispy clouds to the west. The sixteen SEALs sat four in each Zodiac and scanned the distance waiting for the Mirages. They recognized the Mirages, the newest, most deadly special forces boats ever designed. They could see the 50-caliber guns and grenade launchers on each boat. “I’m sure glad they’re not coming after us,” Hughes said to McGowan.

  McGowan agreed, staring at the Mirages. “I’ve never seen one before,” he said. He studied the blue and black splotchy camouflage that made the approaching boats even harder to see. When the Mirages reached the Zodiacs, Lieutenant Butch Winter raised his hand to the Zodiacs. “Y’all lost?” he said.

  Hughes laughed. “How about a lift to the nearest Wasp?”

  “Let’s do it,” Butch said.

  “Hand me the lead bricks so we can sink the parachutes.”

  “You got it. As soon as we refuel from the blivots we’ll be off.”

  * * *

  Dillon sat at the counsel table by himself. He had been careful to clear the table of anything that would remind anyone of David Pendleton. He wanted to be underestimated today. He wanted everyone to be sure he would falter. He had worn a dull gray suit with loafers to look young and unsophisticated. The top of the table was clean, except for Dillon’s black, three-ring binder, which sat closed in front of him, and a single manila folder. The folder contained two exhibits that Pendleton didn’t even know about. The last questions of cross-examination were supposed to be the most effective. The silver bullet. That bullet was in the folder.

  “All rise,” the Supreme Court clerk cried as Chief Justice Ross entered the chamber and strode to his elevated seat. “You may be seated. This trial is once again in session.”

  Everyone sat. Ross surveyed the chamber and, finally, Potts and Dillon. “You gentlemen ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dillon said, rising.

  “Is the President ready to take the stand?” Ross asked Potts.

  “Yes, sir,” Potts said, relishing the battle to come.

  “Call your next witness, Mr. Dillon.”

  “We call Mr. Edward Manchester, the President of the United States.”

  The doors opened quickly and Manchester walked regally down the beautiful carpet to the witness chair. He was shockingly good-looking, the kind of man who stopped conversation in a room when he entered. He was accustomed to it, but was also aware it was a power that could be used.

  Dillon took his notebook to the podium. He opened the book and waited for his heart to stop beating like a fuel pump on a chainsaw. He glanced at the first page of his outline. He had changed it slightly from Pendleton’s, and after seven dry runs was now completely familiar with it. He was exhausted, but knew he had enough energy to get through the day. He also knew that if examining Manchester took more than a day, he would have failed.

  The President took the oath, sat down, and stated his name. Every senator was in his or her seat, even the two who were ill. Molly was up in the gallery, sitting alongside Grazio; there were two empty seats next to them, and those seats would remain empty for now. Those in line to get into the gallery knew by this time that it was unlikely that they would get in, but they remained in the hope that someone inside the gallery would die. Many in line listened on portable radios.

  Dillon began, “Good morning, Mr. President. I hope today finds you well, sir.”

  “Likewise,” Manchester replied comfortably. Manchester was dressed in a navy blue, three-button suit with a fine Egyptian cotton white shirt that set off his red tie with blue diamonds dramatically. He looked powerful and confident.

  “I take it, Mr. President, that you’ve heard what those witnesses who have already testified had to say. Am I right?”

  “I caught some of it,” the President said vaguely.

  “You did not watch all of it?”

  “No. I have the business of the presidency to conduct, Mr. Dillon. While I am willing to come here and testify, and I’m willing to answer your questions, I am not willing to allow this to derail the business of the United States. I did catch your examination of my mother, though.”

  Ouch, Dillon thought. “I see,” he said.

  Potts rose. “Mr. Chief Justice, it is really not relevant to the Senate whether Mr. Dillon ‘sees’ anything that the President might say. Might the court instruct Mr. Dillon to reserve his comments to himself.”

  “That’s a very nice objection, Mr. Potts,” Chief Justice Ross said. “You probably should have waited until he was a little more egregious before pulling that one out. Overruled.”

  Dillon decided to go right at Manchester. “You’re a pacifist, correct?”

  Manchester raised his eyebrows, surprised by the sudden and direct question. “It depends what you mean by that.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  Potts started to rise and Dillon held up his hand. “Let me go on.” Dillon focused on the first point of his outline and picked up the light-pen attached to the computer. He suddenly had an image of this moment burned into his mind. The President of the United States sitting in a newly constructed witness box in the Senate chamber, the room packed with one hundred senators, two from each state, and the gallery overflowing with the press and other clever people who had maneuvered their way in. Through the live television feed, they were hooked up worldwide. Dillon’s computer, with all the exhibits and videotape loaded, was connected to the same feed; he had only to run his light-pen over a particular bar code for anything to be viewed.

  Dillon continued, “You were raised a Mennonite, correct?”

  “I used to be a Mennonite.”

  “Move to strike,” Dillon said, drawing his light-pen across the bar code under the first point in his outline. A copy of Manchester’s baptismal certificate came up on the computer screen by the podium. It also appeared on the computer screen in front of the Chief Justice of the United States, the thirty-six-inch television screen behind Manchester, the thirteen-inch television screen on Potts’s table, the thirteen-inch scr
een on Dillon’s table, the thirteen-inch screen immediately to the left of the witness box, so the witness could see it clearly, all the monitors freshly mounted all around the Senate chambers, and it was transmitted instantly via C-SPAN2 onto five hundred million television sets around the world.

  “I’ll show you what’s been marked as Exhibit One. Do you recognize this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Objection,” Potts said.

  Chief Justice Ross asked Dillon, “Have you cleared these exhibits with Mr. Potts?”

  “Yes, sir, all the exhibits that I will be using during this examination have been stipulated to for purposes of authenticity. I take it Mr. Potts’s objection is one of relevance.”

  “Mr. Chief Justice, this document is completely irrelevant, and Mr. Dillon is correct that we have stipulated to at least the authenticity of several exhibits.”

  “Overruled. Continue please.”

  “You were raised as a Mennonite, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mennonites are pacifists, correct?”

  “I don’t know that I would say that—”

  Dillon pulled his light-pen across the bar code in the second question in his outline and a computer-scanned version of a document flashed onto millions of television screens around the world. “President Manchester, I will represent to you that this is the Mennonite Church Confession of Faith. Do you recognize it?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Dillon drew his pen across the next bar code and Article Twenty-two flashed onto the screens. “Peace, Justice, and Nonresistance.” “Without reading the entire paragraph, it’s fair to say that this paragraph reflects Mennonite Church teaching that it is against war, correct?”

  Manchester read it and replied, “Yes.”

  “You went to a Mennonite college, isn’t that so?”

  “That’s right.”

  Dillon drew his light-pen across the next bar code and Manchester’s transcript from Goshen College came up. “This is your transcript from Goshen College, right?”

  Manchester examined it. “It appears to be.”

  “President Manchester, you’re hesitating in looking at these documents—didn’t you review them before this trial commenced?”

  “I reviewed some of them.”

  “You’re aware that they were all given to your counsel and he has agreed that they are all authentic?”

  “Objection,” Potts said. “That would be attorney-client privileged communication.”

  “Withdraw the question,” Dillon said. “This transcript shows that you took at least four courses on national security, warfare, or foreign affairs, isn’t that right?”

  “It says that.”

  “It’s correct, isn’t it? You did attend those four classes, didn’t you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “After graduating from Goshen College you were eligible for the draft, weren’t you?”

  Manchester smiled wryly. “I was eligible in that I was alive, male, and of a given age.”

  Chuckles went through the gallery.

  “You never received a draft notice, did you?”

  “I was never drafted.”

  “You never received a draft notice, correct?”

  “What do you mean by draft notice?”

  “You were never given notification by the federal government that you were being drafted, isn’t that right?”

  “I believe that’s right.”

  “But you had a pre-induction physical conducted by a private physician?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You went out of your way to have a physical examination conducted by a physician, one who did physicals for induction into the military, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t recall—”

  Dillon drew his pen across the next bar code. A letter came up addressed to the Selective Service Board from Dr. Benjamin Wilkins of Harrisonburg, Virginia. “Do you recognize this letter?”

  Manchester studied the screen. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this…”

  “This was a letter that was written by your physician to the Selective Service Board in Harrisonburg, Virginia, correct?”

  “It appears to be.”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  “No.”

  “In this letter, the doctor who did the induction physicals for Harrisonburg indicates to the Selective Service Board that you are physically ineligible for the draft. Do you see the line that is highlighted on the screen?”

  “Yes.”

  “It says that your classification, if drafted, would be 4F. Do you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he prepare this letter?”

  “What?”

  “Why did Dr. Wilkins prepare this letter on your behalf?”

  “Because I was not physically qualified.”

  “But you were never drafted, President Manchester, were you?”

  “Well, no, I wasn’t physically qualified.”

  “But why did you go out of your way to determine you were not physically qualified when you never received notice that you were being drafted?”

  “I don’t know, it just seemed prudent.”

  “Isn’t it true, President Manchester, that if you had been drafted you would have had to claim that you were a conscientious objector? Against war?”

  “Had to?”

  “Yes. Based on your beliefs as they stood at the time that you graduated from Goshen College. If you had been drafted you would have claimed the status of conscientious objector. Correct?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Which part of that is unclear?”

  “Objection, argumentative,” Potts said.

  “Sustained.”

  “Let me restate it,” Dillon said. “If drafted after graduating from college, without a medical exemption, you would have claimed the status of conscientious objector, right?”

  “I’m not sure. It didn’t happen.”

  Dillon smiled. “Isn’t it true, Mr. President, that even back in Goshen College you had political ambitions?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dillon sighed. “Even in college you considered a career in politics, right?”

  “It was one of many career paths that I saw as open to me.”

  “You were the President of the student body, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ran as a student body representative all four years in college, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were the editor-in-chief of the student newspaper, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you were in college, you had considered running for public office at some point in the future, right?”

  “I’m sure I thought about it as many people thought about it. One evaluates many options.”

  “President John F. Kennedy was one of your heroes, wasn’t he?”

  “Hero is too strong, but I respected him.”

  “Didn’t you write a paper for a junior history course entitled ‘An American Hero’ dealing with John F. Kennedy?”

  “I don’t really recall.”

  Dillon drew his light-pen across another document and the cover page of that term paper flashed on the screen. “Now do you remember?”

  “Yes,” Manchester said.

  “Did you consider, at least to some degree, a political career while in college?”

  “I suppose.”

  Dillon moved his pen back up and once more drew it across the bar code for Wilkins’s letter, which immediately replaced the Kennedy term paper on the screen.

  “Mr. President, the reason that you had Dr. Wilkins write this letter, that you were not physically qualified for the draft, was to avoid having to claim the status of conscientious objector, thereby jeopardizing your future political career, correct?”

  The air was full of expectation as everyone waited for Manchester’s response. “I didn’t want to be drafted. Many people of my generatio
n didn’t want to be drafted. I disagreed with the conduct of the war.”

  “Is that it?” Dillon asked, waiting.

  “Is that what?”

  “Is that the entirety of your answer to that question?”

  “I think so.”

  “There was no part of that answer which implied that you were trying to avoid having to declare yourself a conscientious objector, did I hear you correctly?”

  “I said whatever I said.”

  Dillon studied Manchester’s face. “You never did serve in the military, did you, sir?”

  “No.”

  “You have two adult children, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Neither of them has ever served in the military?”

  “No.”

  “Neither of your parents ever served in the military?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, no one in the history of your family has ever served in the American military, correct?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “As you sit here, Mr. President, can you think of any member of your family on either side who you know or even suspect has ever served in the military?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “And that’s because they’re all Mennonites, correct?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “In the 1970s when you were studying for your master’s degree in foreign relations at Harvard, you subscribed to several magazines, correct?”

  “Probably,” Manchester said, staring at Potts.

  “You used to subscribe to Sojourners, didn’t you?”

  “Sojourners?”

  “Yes, isn’t that right?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Are you familiar with that publication?”

  “It sounds familiar.”

  “Do you claim to not be familiar with a magazine called Sojourners?”

  “I’m just not sure.”

  Dillon drew his pen across a bar code and a subscription form came onto the screen. “Do you recognize this document?”

  “It looks like a magazine subscription form.”

  “It is and it is for you to subscribe to Sojourners. Do you recognize it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you recognize your signature?” Dillon asked, moving the mouse on the podium so that the arrow underlined Manchester’s signature.