The Price Of Power

by James W. Huston

  “The United States must maintain the same balance. We must have not only the power to resist those who would harm us but the wisdom to use that power wisely. We must also resist the use of power when it is not justified.

  “I thought this was a good time for us to consider what kind of a face we have as a country. If we act out of vengeance, or retribution, if we act outside of the authority that has been passed down to us in our history, we will be just another nationalistic bully. In this case, I was exploring many options to solve the crisis. But Congress couldn’t wait.”

  Everyone around the world seeing this on television, and everyone in the chamber, especially Jim Dillon, was watching President Manchester. Dillon realized this had been Manchester’s plan all along. It was his one chance in his presidency to discuss something of importance to him in a way that would never be possible otherwise. Dillon didn’t know where to turn. He saw the Speaker, sitting in the back of the Senate chamber, his eyes fixed on him, equally unsure how to proceed. Dillon had no choice but to ask for dismissal of the charges. He felt outmaneuvered and stupid. He wished Pendleton were there. Dillon looked at Chief Justice Ross, who was waiting for him to go on. Something inside him shouted it was over—it was time to request a dismissal of the charges from Chief Justice Ross and let Manchester go. But another voice was telling him to do—what? He caught sight of Molly and Grazio in the gallery. When he saw the two empty seats next to Grazio, he realized immediately what he had to do.

  “Mr. President, then you agree there are times when military force should be used?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Like now?”

  “Not necessarily,” Manchester replied. “We still have other options.”

  Dillon observed Manchester’s pleased expression—he was so sure of himself. He glanced at Potts, who was barely containing a grin. Dillon was furious but knew he couldn’t show it.

  “Mr. Dillon?” Chief Justice Ross asked curtly. “Are you finished?”

  “No, sir,” Dillon said immediately. “I’m not.” Now, he thought. He walked quickly to his table and picked up the manila file folder lying on it. He opened it briefly to make sure the two items were inside and crossed back to the podium, taking the folder with him.

  “President Manchester,” Dillon began. “You are aware, are you not, that recently Mr. Heidel, the President of the South Sea Mining Company, and his wife were abducted off the island of Irian Jaya in Indonesia by the same people who attacked the Pacific Flyer.”

  “I’m aware that they were abducted. I’m aware that someone who says he’s the same person who attacked the Pacific Flyer is claiming responsibility. He and his group.”

  “And you’re also aware that Mr. Heidel was murdered in cold blood by that person?”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw the photograph of Heidel with bullet holes in him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was an American citizen legally operating an American company on Indonesian soil, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “They held the Heidels hostage to get you to free the terrorists the United States was charging in Honolulu with attacking the Pacific Flyer. Correct?”

  “Yes. It was blackmail, leverage.”

  “Mr. President, those terrorists who were being charged in federal court with piracy and murder were released after the kidnapping and the threat was made, correct?”

  “They were released because there was insufficient evidence to prosecute them.”

  “But it was after the kidnapping, wasn’t it?”

  “It was after it in time, yes. I don’t think there was the causal link that you would like to imply.”

  “I understand that,” Dillon said. “After they were released, it was expected that Mrs. Heidel would be freed, right?”

  “Yes. That was my expectation.”

  “And you’re aware that because of that kidnapping, Congress passed a joint resolution called Rules of Capture on Land and Water in accordance with Article One, Section Eight, of the Constitution. Correct?”

  “Yes. The same clause that has the so-called Letter of Reprisal power that is now pending in court to determine whether it is constitutional.”

  “Well, you took it to the Supreme Court and they were unwilling to forestall the Navy attack, correct?”

  Manchester’s eyes showed anger as he shifted in the hard chair. “No, sir, they were not unwilling, they were unable. They continued the hearing on the Letter of Reprisal until after the attack had already occurred. When they had the chance to face it on the merits they declared it moot. I need not remind you of that, Mr. Dillon, since you were there.”

  “True enough,” Dillon said. “But, Mr. President, if those attackers are located,” he said, exchanging a glance with the President, both knowing that their location was not only known, but fixed, “then the Navy or the Marine Corps could comply with the Rules of Capture issued by Congress and attack or capture those pirates, correct?”

  “I think that’s what Congress believes the Navy would be empowered to do.”

  “Do you disagree with that?”

  “Perhaps not in this case. I think the Rules of Capture clause is clearer than the Letter of Reprisal.”

  “Mr. President, you have not signed that bill, have you?”

  “No.”

  “In fact,” Dillon said, “it’s fair to assume that you intend to veto it, just as you did the Letter of Reprisal.”

  “I’m not sure what will ultimately come of it.”

  “Mr. President, that bill was passed quickly in all-night sessions in both Houses of Congress, but as we sit here today, you haven’t done anything with it, have you?”

  “I have not signed it.”

  Dillon pulled out a formal-looking document from the manila folder. “I asked the clerk of the House to provide me with the original of the Rules of Capture passed by the House and Senate awaiting your signature. I’d like to mark this as next in order, Mr. Chief Justice.”

  Ross said, “It will be marked as Exhibit One Hundred Twenty-seven. Mr. Potts, any objection?”

  “I don’t understand the relevance of this bill passed by Congress to this matter.”

  “Well, I think we’re about to find out,” Chief Justice Ross said. “Proceed, Mr. Dillon.”

  Dillon handed the original document to the President. “That is the original as it stands, correct?”

  “I will assume what you said is true.”

  “All it would take to put it into effect, to allow the military to take action to go after those pirates, is for you to sign it. Correct?”

  “I suppose so,” the President said, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Mr. President, it’s my understanding…” Dillon said, reaching for something in a pocket on the inside of his suit coat, “… it’s my understanding that you like to sign bills with a fountain pen. I went to a store yesterday and bought the most expensive fountain pen I could find. A Mont Blanc.” He pulled out the pen. “May I approach the witness?”

  “You may,” said Ross. Dillon took the cap off and handed the pen to the President.

  Manchester took it awkwardly and studied the bill in his hand. “Is there a question?” he asked, dodging the obvious implication.

  “I’ll be happy to ask it. Will you or will you not sign it? Right now? You say you’re not a pacifist. Prove it.”

  The President appeared stunned. Potts was speechless. The issue was crystallized. “I have been presented with this previously. I have not yet decided whether it is appropriate for me to sign it.”

  “Do you refuse?” Dillon demanded.

  “It isn’t appropriate for me to consider it in this setting, Mr. Dillon.”

  Dillon returned to the podium and opened the folder again, pulling out the remaining item. Without speaking, he stared at the President for some time, long enough for senators and spectators alike to become uncomfortable.

  Potts finally regained his composure and stoo
d. “Is there a question pending?”

  “No,” Dillon said, “I’m simply giving the President a chance to change his answer.”

  Chief Justice Ross regarded Potts and Dillon silently. President Manchester was motionless, his hands still holding Dillon’s brand-new fountain pen.

  “Will you or will you not sign it?” Dillon asked.

  “I just answered that.”

  “Do you want to change your answer?” Dillon asked immediately.

  “I do not,” Manchester said.

  “I’d like to approach the witness again, Chief Justice Ross.”

  “Feel free.”

  Dillon handed a copy of the second item in the folder to Potts, and then moved toward the witness box and handed the second item to Manchester. Potts spoke to Chief Justice Ross hurriedly. “I’d prefer this not be shown to the Senate or on the monitors at this time.”

  Chief Justice Ross scrutinized his copy. “Overruled. Continue.”

  Dillon returned to his position at the podium. He signaled Grazio, who quickly left his seat and headed out of the gallery. Dillon placed the item—a photograph—on the Elmo, a small TV camera overhead projector, and touched a button. The photo flashed onto the TV screens around the room. “President Manchester, what you have before you is a satellite photograph. Do you recognize it?”

  “What do you mean, do I recognize it?” he asked.

  “Have you seen it before?”

  Manchester tried to cross his legs and realized he couldn’t because of the size of the witness box. He hesitated just long enough for everyone to wonder what he was doing. “Yes, I’ve seen this before.”

  Dillon’s expression grew intense. He asked his next question in a tone louder than he would have liked, but he was unable to remain calm. “Isn’t this a satellite photograph of Mrs. Heidel on an island in Indonesia?”

  “That has been asserted, although I don’t think it’s been proved.”

  “This photograph, in fact, Mr. President, may show her being carried out inside a rolled-up bundle. Dead. Correct?” Gasps came from the gallery.

  “That may be the case,” Manchester said slowly, almost apologetically. “We’re not really sure.”

  “The murderers, Mr. President, appear to have killed Mrs. Heidel as well as her husband. Isn’t that true, Mr. President?”

  “I don’t think we’re sure exactly—”

  “Do you deny that she’s been murdered?” Dillon asked.

  President Manchester stared at Dillon uncertainly. “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to discuss this. There is information about this that is classified—”

  “Mr. President, are you unwilling to tell the people she was murdered because you say that the information you’ve gotten in that respect is classified?”

  “I said I wasn’t sure—”

  “Well, if she isn’t dead, then she’s still alive, and desperately waiting for our help, right? It was the belief of those who showed you this photo that it was of someone carrying Mrs. Heidel in a rug or tarp, correct?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “And you’re unwilling to sign the document that would allow the U.S. military to go after those who have done this?”

  Manchester didn’t answer.

  “Are you willing to defend the citizens of the United States and go after those responsible, by signing the Rules of Capture? Yes or no?”

  Manchester clearly felt cornered, but his eyes showed no panic. “I will need to consult with—”

  The door to the gallery above opened and Grazio came back inside, followed by two young people, a boy and a girl. They were nicely dressed—a jacket and tie for the boy and a dress for the girl. The three of them took seats next to Molly.

  Dillon looked at Manchester. “You clearly don’t want to sign it, Mr. President. For whatever reason. Perhaps you can take a minute and explain to Richard and Rebecca Heidel, fourteen and twelve, why you won’t take steps to rescue their mother, or avenge her death, which-ever it might be. They have come here all the way from Houston, Texas, to hear your explanation.”

  Manchester was horrified. The two children peered down at him. They had seen the entire procedure on a television that had been set up in a waiting area. They were composed and quiet, but were watching Manchester carefully.

  “Sign it!” Dillon shouted, surprising himself and everyone else.

  “It may not be constitutional.”

  “Then order the Navy to go in! You’re the Commander in Chief—just give the order!”

  Manchester hesitated, adjusting his tie and licking his lips. He wasn’t accustomed to being outmaneuvered. He looked at the satellite image. He turned the fountain pen around in his fingers as he battled within himself. He placed the first document in front of him with the signature line underneath his hand. Suddenly he raised his hand, put the fountain pen on the line, and signed his name quickly. He looked up, his face a collision of triumph and capitulation. “I have signed it, Mr. Dillon.”

  “And it is your will then,” Dillon said, making sure there was no room for mistake or ambiguity, “that the military take action against the people responsible. Correct?”

  Manchester nodded his agreement. “It is. It is time. They have done enough damage.” The Senate erupted.

  Dillon took a deep breath and addressed Chief Justice Ross. “Based on the President’s statement, Mr. Chief Justice, the House of Representatives would like a recess to consider withdrawing the current charges.”

  “Very well, Mr. Dillon, we are in recess,” the Chief Justice said.

  Dillon walked to the witness stand, took the signed bill, and crossed to the counsel table. He sat down and began writing on a notepad. Dillon waved to Grazio in the gallery. Grazio ran up the aisle and made his way down to the floor.

  “You sure that Billings is ready?” Dillon asked him when he arrived, breathless.

  “The e-mail last night when he forwarded the photograph said they’d be ready to go within five minutes,” Grazio answered.

  “Get it to him.”

  “What time is it in Indonesia?” Grazio asked.

  “Midnight.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Billings had known Dillon would pull it off. He just didn’t know how. He hoped it would be tonight. Because if it wasn’t tonight, George Washington might be gone again. He just had a feeling. He might already be gone, but with the good intel and photography they had, everyone believed they were in time. Billings had ordered the Wasp in to sixty miles off the tiny island. Close enough for the SEALs and their Mirages to get there in just over an hour.

  Lieutenant Dan Hughes checked the SEALs standing by their seats on the boat, preparing for the punishing, high-speed, open-ocean dash to their destination. Most elected to stand, surrounded by the cushioned padding on the sides and to their backs, holding on to the welded steel armrests. Their GPS receiver glowed a quiet green that told them their location within ten meters.

  Hughes stood by the helmsman anxiously. They had seen the results of the President’s examination live on screen. Everyone had. They had been riveted to the television. Cheers had gone up when the President signed the Rules of Capture and Hughes’s men had headed straight for their weapons and the two boats.

  They were ready. The boats idled aggressively and bobbed next to the Wasp. The SEALs’ faces were dark with jungle camouflage that matched their dark green camouflage uniforms. Hughes examined the dial of his watch again. They were waiting for confirmation that the signed Rules of Capture had actually been received, with a confirming order from CINCPAC, and they could go. Hughes waited impatiently. Five hours until sunrise. He wanted this thing over in three hours. He would have preferred to go in at dawn, but they couldn’t wait. If they were going at night, he wanted to hit them at the darkest time of the night, when they least expected it. He sure hoped they didn’t get C-SPAN.

  Tyler Lawson’s head suddenly appeared at the hangar deck opening of the Wasp. Hughes could see him clearly just fifty
feet away. He knew what to look for. If it was thumbs-up, the mission was a go. If it was a “cut” sign—hand across the throat—the mission was canceled. Hughes could see Lawson smiling. He put his open hand out in front of him, then with one lightning fast movement rolled his hand into a fist and rotated his arm showing Hughes a snappy, enthusiastic, thumbs-up.

  Armstrong turned to Lieutenant Butch Winter and gave him a crisp nod. The throttleman next to Winter gunned the engines and they turned quickly to the heading indicated on the point to point navigation computer, guided by the satellite GPS system. The helmsman of the second Mirage followed with Hughes’s platoon aboard.

  The boats moved quickly through the water and were instantly on step—skimming over the surface of the ocean. The powerful engines thrust the boats forward with frightening speed. Thirty knots. Forty. The throttleman worked the engines to avoid hitting one of the swells too fast or launching off another.

  The night was clear and the ocean smooth. Sea state two—maybe five-foot swells. Perfect for a dash to the island. Fifty knots.

  The boats started to crash into the ocean at each wave, but didn’t slow down a knot. The SEALs stood stoically, hanging on to the steel hand rails. A few sat on the hydraulic seats that absorbed the pounding from the boat. The dark blue camouflage boats were invisible on the surface of the water. Their running lights were off, dashboard lights a low dull green that could only be seen by those directly in front of them. The SEALs blended with the darkness, the whites of their eyes visible only for a few feet. Their eyes were adjusted to the night, except for the two gunners wearing night-vision goggles. The one on the port side of the Mirage manned the .50-cal machine guns that could cut an equivalent boat in half, and the one on the starboard manned the grenade launchers. They looked for anything suspicious that might be approaching them, particularly Cigarette boats.

  The boats pounded toward the island through the blackness. There were no other ships, no airplanes. Even the moon was obscured by a deep black cloud formation to the east. Butch Winter raised his hand. Five minutes. Armstrong watched the GPS receiver, and searched the horizon for any sign of a dark spot, what an island looks like at night. The radar would have told them that sooner, but Armstrong had ordered it turned off on the chance that Washington and his men had sensors that would detect the radar frequency. They wanted complete surprise. He glanced around at his men. There was no conversation. It would have been almost impossible with the pounding of the boat and the straining, deep-throated engines. But nothing needed to be said. Each knew the mission. They had gone over it a thousand times in their heads and knew exactly what the plan was. They also knew there would be surprises, but they believed themselves to be ready.