Balance of Power: A Novel (35 page)

Billings looked at him and at Beth. “How do you know he was from an E-2?”

“Well, I could tell he was using a lip mike, and not talking into an oxygen mask.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a helicopter?” Billings asked.

“You can usually hear the rotor vibrations in a helicopter transmission, and I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think the H-60 has an HF.”

“Good point,” the admiral said.

“Well, he was talking to her and they weren’t saying much of any substance; he was being careful not to tell her anything classified. And then when she asked where they were going, he said, ‘Well, I can’t tell you, but we’re heading south like a bat out of hell.’ ”

“Could you tell where he was?” Billings asked, immediately interested.

“No, sir. I had our DF on the signal, but all I got was a strobe. It was northeast of us, but it could have been anywhere from a hundred miles to a thousand miles. I couldn’t tell.”

“What do you make of this, Lieutenant?” Billings asked.

“Well, I don’t make much of it, sir. Commander Louwsma seemed to think it was pretty significant, but I’m afraid I frankly don’t see it.”

“You think it was an E-2?”

“Yes, sir, I’m pretty sure it was.”

“Whose E-2?”

“Well, the only one that I could think of that would be northeast of us would be the
Truman
Battle Group somewhere around the Philippines. But that’s just a guess.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, sir, I’m not sure, but I really think it was a lieutenant that I know.”

“You know him?” Billings raised his eyebrows.

“I think so. The E-2 community is not that large and I think it’s a lieutenant that I went through training with. His name was Eric Stone. He’s a real little guy with an
iddy-biddy voice, and it’s so distinctive that we recognized him all the time. In training we used to call him Chirp, and that’s pretty much stuck with him. I’m almost positive it was Chirp.”

“And what do you take it to mean?” Billings asked.

The lieutenant shrugged. “That’s what I’m missing. I don’t see the significance of that conversation.”

“Do you think that when he said he was heading south like a bat out of hell, he was referring to the E-2?”

The lieutenant laughed involuntarily, struck by the humor. “I’ve never heard anybody say that an E-2 with its big radome on top is flying
anywhere
like a ‘bat out of hell.’ Certainly not those of us who ride in them.”

“Exactly,” Billings said, smiling as well.

“So you think he was referring to the
Truman
Battle Group?”

The lieutenant shrugged again. “I guess he is.”

Billings looked at Beth. “They’re on their way.”

David Pendleton sat in the deep leather chair in his family room with his suit pants and white shirt on, his tie loosened. The fire burned low as he waited for word from the Supreme Court. He drank deeply from his glass of water and waited.

The telephone rang and Pendleton glanced at the clock: 2:10
A.M.
He lifted the receiver. “Yes.”

“Good very early morning, Mr. Pendleton,” said David Compton. “I told you that I would tell you when I was leaving the office and when their deliberations, if you will, were over for the night. Well, I am going home.”

“And what is the status of the emergency stay?” Pendleton asked cautiously.

“Mr. Chief Justice Ross considered it and decided to have it considered by the entire Court. It is going to happen tomorrow, actually later today. Saturday.”

“Nothing more tonight?”

“No, sir. They will be back to it first thing in the morning. Seven
A.M.
”

“Very well. Thank you for calling. Do you have any idea when they might have an actual decision?”

“No, Mr. Pendleton. They don’t tell me those kinds of things.”

“So he referred it to the entire Court, did he?”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

Pendleton paused. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Pendleton.”

Pendleton set the phone down and smiled. He quickly downed the rest of his water, waited five minutes, and dialed.

The Speaker of the House picked up his private line.

“Mr. Speaker, this is David Pendleton.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“Yes, sir. The Chief Justice has referred the application for emergency stay to the full Court.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Chief Justice, Justice Ross, is responsible for any emergency stays out of the D.C. Circuit. This application came from D.C. so the Chief Justice could hear it himself. But according to Rule—”

“Spare me the rules; what does it
mean
?”

“If the justice hearing the emergency application wishes to, he can refer it to the entire Court. That’s what Justice Ross did. And the clerk of the court said they’d get together on it early this morning, this being Saturday.”

“Hmmm.” The Speaker seemed to be considering.

Pendleton pressed. “How much time do we need, Mr. Speaker?”

“I don’t know. I think their intention is to go in—according to our time—tonight about six
P.M.
”

Pendleton looked at his clock. “Just over fifteen hours from now?”

“Right.”

“This could be close,” Pendleton said. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything, Mr. Speaker.”

“Okay. I, for one, am going to go home and lock myself in the house, turn off all the radios and televisions, and sleep as long as I can.”

“Okay, but make sure you have a phone where I can get to you.”

“Oh, yeah. You have my private home number, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, David, it’s been quite a day. Don’t know that I have ever seen one like it. Don’t know that we’ll ever see one like it again. Thanks for your help. I’m sure we’ll be talking later on. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Speaker.” Pendleton hit the button on his portable phone and set it down. He couldn’t relax yet. The Supreme Court could still upset the cart and impose a stay on someone and wreck Congress’s plans. But in the meantime Pendleton was going to enjoy himself as much as he could. And if he succeeded, he would earn his place in history.

J
IM DILLON WAS STILL OVERWHELMED BY THE EXPERIENCE
of being on an aircraft carrier. Every new thing he saw or learned amazed him more. Lieutenant Reynolds showed him around the ship, explaining how everything worked—no doubt out of a sense of duty—but Dillon was unable to retain any of it. Reynolds used acronyms and terms that were completely alien to him. He would nod knowingly and hope that his responses were appropriate, like an immigrant in a foreign land.

At every opportunity he would try for a glimpse of one of the many televisions on the carrier broadcasting CNN live. He pretended he was paying attention to Reynolds while his ears strained to hear the news of any developments.

He had been with the lieutenant at air wing meetings, squadron briefs, ordnance loading of aircraft, and televised briefs by the intelligence officers, who continued to claim that they knew very little about the situation as a result of the information cut off.

As he stood in CATCC, the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center, he listened as a twenty-five-year-old enlisted man, prompted by the ever-helpful Lieutenant Reynolds, explained how he would communicate with airplanes landing aboard the carrier at night, and “talk them down.” Dillon was sure this made sense to someone, but his mind was pulled away by the images on the television visible
over the sailor’s shoulder. It was bolted to the wall and was, of course, tuned to CNN. The President was holding a press conference. Dillon strained to hear him, but the sound was not turned up. He saw the President step up to the podium.

Dillon suddenly longed to be back in Washington in the midst of the turbulence. Washington was never more fun than when political hand grenades were going off. Dillon put up his hand, stopping the monologue of the sailor. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you think we might hear what President Manchester has to say?”

The lieutenant and the sailor both looked up at the television. “Yes, sir. No problem.” The sailor turned around and yelled to a shipmate across the room who was polishing a brass electrical cover, “Green! Turn up the tube!”

Dillon walked slowly toward the television as Manchester began what appeared to be a prepared statement. The President looked exhausted. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a red and blue striped tie. “I have just been informed by the Attorney General that the United States Supreme Court has agreed to hold a hearing on whether the stay requested in our lawsuit should be granted. As you know, as an individual citizen and also as President and Chief of the Executive Branch of this government, I filed an action against Congress attempting to get a quick declaration of the inevitable, that the Letter of Reprisal issued by Congress is in violation of the United States Constitution. I am quite confident that the Supreme Court will agree and am very pleased that they have agreed to hear this matter.”

Manchester stopped and gave the reporters the opening they had been waiting for. Every single one leaped to his feet and began yelling for attention.

Dillon shuddered. If the Supreme Court ruled the Letter unconstitutional, the entire plan would fail and the Speaker of the House would look like a fool.

Manchester held up his hand. “I had hoped that the hearing would be today, even though it’s a Saturday, but I have just been informed that the Court has met and the earliest time the Court can consider the matter, based on its calendar and workload, is Tuesday morning. I expect they would have heard it Monday, but as you know, Monday is a federal holiday—Presidents’ Day. The hearing is therefore set for seven-thirty
A.M.
on Tuesday at the Supreme Court.”

“Tuesday?” Dillon’s eyes opened wide. In Washington time that was two or three days from now. It was at least two and a half in Indonesia. Nothing was going to stop the attack now. Dillon’s brain spun as he considered the implications.

Manchester continued, “As you know, I disagree with the entire approach of the Letter of Reprisal. We should leave it to Indonesia and allow them to deal with their own criminals. We and Indonesia know where they are, and who they are. Indonesia is prepared to take appropriate action. I fully expect the forbearance of the Navy in waiting until there is a ruling by the Supreme Court on this issue. To act before such a decision would be imprudent, but I have full faith that our armed forces will follow their Commander in Chief.”

Manchester relaxed and took a breath. “That’s all I have to say at this point. I, for one, am hopeful that our country can ride out this storm caused by the Speaker of the House and allowed by Congress. Thank you.”

The President turned and walked off the stage. Without warning, a shrill voice from the front row yelled out, “Are you a pacifist?”

The room fell silent as the question thudded into the podium, its echoes resounding for all to hear.

The President turned around. He sighed heavily. “I will not respond to accusations by the Speaker of the House simply because he makes them. I am not a trained dog, and I will not sit up and beg for a bone.”

“Don’t the American people deserve to know—”

The President spun quickly and walked off.

Dillon stared at the television in disbelief.

Reynolds walked up and smiled. “Well, looks like the Supreme Court isn’t going to stop us.”

“Nothing is,” Dillon replied with enthusiasm in his eyes.

The aide looked at his watch in the dim light of the windowless room. “Did you notice what the President said, though?”

“What?” Dillon said, assuming he must mean something other than the obvious.

“He just announced to the world, including the terrorists, that it’s known who they are and where they are.”

Dillon immediately understood the implications.

Reynolds continued, “Nice of him to tell them we know where they are. Now they’ll be waiting for us, or heading to another island like they did last time. But you’d think he’d at least tell us the rest—who it is we’re going after.” Reynolds had a look on his face that Dillon hadn’t seen before: cold, hard. “Petty Officer Meehan, you want to go on?” he said, looking again at the controller who had followed everything that had been said.

“Yes, sir.” He pointed to a radar screen. “You can see right here, the last launch of the regular flight schedule before we arm up for the attack.”

Caskey and Messer turned right off the bow catapult and headed north past the Riau Archipelago, a long string of islands of which Bunaya was one. It was the hottest time of day and the sun was a large white ball beating on them through the thick Plexiglas canopy. It was the first time they had flown since being shot down and rescued. Caskey, like most squadron commanders, was a believer in the falling-off-the-horse wisdom—get right back on. If a pilot had an accident or was scared by something, he had to get him right back in the cockpit before he lost his edge. Once that edge was lost, it wouldn’t be recovered.

They passed through five thousand feet and leveled off, slowing to three hundred knots.

“Another exciting SSSC mission, Skipper.”

“Hey, you should be thanking me for getting us on the schedule.”

“No, you’re right, Skipper,” Messer said tongue-in-cheek as he started a radar search of the horizon for aircraft and shipping. “I was being ungrateful.”

“See anything?”

“Just the usual ten million ships. Plus fifty airplanes, most at flight level 350 and probably airliners.”

“Roger. Let’s take a look at a few ships since we’re out here. You can sure see ’em lined up to go through the strait.”

They descended to two thousand feet and headed toward the first large ship on the radar.

“You think this attack is really going to happen tomorrow morning?” Messer asked.

“Sure do.”

“How can we go in if the President has said not to?” Messer studied the radar picture.

“Yeah, we had quite a discussion about that among the squadron COs.”

“Come port ten,” Messer said, redirecting them toward the target.

Caskey slowed to 250 knots and lined up with the ship they were approaching. “How did we get to do all this SSSC anyway?” he muttered. “What happened to intercepts?”

“Of what? Airliners?”

“Sure. Anything in the air. I’m sick of looking at ships. Coming up on the port side.”

“Roger,” said Messer as he looked at the approaching ship over the nose of the Tomcat.

“You gonna take a picture?”

“Sure. I haven’t won photo of the week for months.”

“Okay. Here it comes.” Caskey gently banked the
plane and flew down the port side of the ship. As they passed, Messer took three quick photos.

“Got it,” Messer said, as Caskey pulled up hard into a three-G climb away from the ocean. “Hold it.” Messer looked back at the ship between the Tomcat tails. “Holy hell, hold it!”

“Hold what?” Caskey eased back on the stick and leveled off at seven thousand feet.

“That ship looks awfully familiar. Let’s take another pass.”

“What for?” Caskey said.

“Remember the mother ship they photographed from the submarine, the one they followed to Bunaya?”

“Yeah?”

“Looks just like that. Same superstructure, same crane amidships…” Messer groped through his helmet bag for the photo he had been carrying around. “Here,” he said into his mask. “I’ve got that photo. Let’s go take another look. Yeah, the
Sumatran Star
. This might be it.”

Caskey pulled into a hard left turn to bring the nose of the Tomcat back around onto the ship, suddenly interested. “Where is Bunaya from here?”

“About seventy miles west southwest.”

“Wouldn’t the
Los Angeles
have told us if the
Sumatran Star
had sailed?”

“Probably, if they knew about it.”

“Well, let’s check it out,” Caskey said as he descended rapidly to five hundred feet, five miles aft of the ship. They approached quickly and were within a mile. Caskey looked at the rounded fantail for the ship’s name and registry. He couldn’t make out anything at all. He slowed.

“Let’s not get too close,” Messer said, remembering the missile from a doorway on the
Pacific Flyer
and the “SAM from nowhere” on Bunaya.

“I hear that.” Caskey turned gently to his right to move outboard of the ship. “Name’s been painted over. I can see where it was. No flag or registry either. Very suspicious.” The ship was now at their side half a mile away.

Messer took ten more photos, then compared the ID photo he had with the ship to their left. “Either it’s the
Sumatran Star,
or it’s a sister ship. Either way, we’d better report this pronto.”

“Concur,” Caskey said, pulling up quickly and away from the ship. “Call the E-2. Give them a posit on this ship. Could be full of weapons, more troops, or nothing important at all. Either way, they’re going to want to know about it. He’s heading directly toward the island.”