Balance of Power: A Novel (6 page)

Armstrong spoke into his throat mike. “Talk to me, Lee, what the hell was that?”

Lee’s voice came through strained and full of static. “Prager, sir! He must have dicked it up!”

“Shit!” Armstrong yelled as he ran back the way he had come, the other two SEALs following, having heard the same conversation.

“Did he try and clip a wire?” he asked, looking around for other mines as he ran.

“Don’t know, sir!”

A thought suddenly hit Armstrong. “How do we know he dicked it up? How do we know that wasn’t just the first one to go off on a timer?”

“I guess we don’t, sir!” Lee said, realizing the implications.

“Everybody out! Everybody out!” Armstrong shouted into his throat mike. “Muster on the fantail! Roach, get
on the radio to the 53. Emergency extraction! Emergency extraction!”

Armstrong continued to run with his offensive handgun in his hand, but it was utterly useless. Armstrong’s mind raced. “Davidson! Get to the fantail. Set up the SPIE rig. Roach, tell the 53 we’re going to extract on the SPIE rig.

“Listen up!” Armstrong said with forced coolness as he climbed a ladder toward the open deck. “I want everyone hooked onto the SPIE rig in thirty seconds. Drop whatever you’re doing and head to the fantail now!”

All the SEALs immediately ran toward the fantail.

The two CH-53s raced from the horizon toward the ship. The fourteen SEALs and the remaining EOD tech gathered on the fantail and looked around, each unconsciously counting the number of SEALs missing as the seconds passed.

Armstrong was the last to arrive. He watched the CH-53E Super Stallion tear toward them, less than half a mile away. All the other SEALs were hooked up to the SPIE rigs. “Prager buy it?” he asked no one in particular.

“Yes, sir.” Lee unhooked himself from the SPIE rig and ran back to Armstrong. “Take a look at this,” he said, handing Armstrong something. Armstrong looked around, assessed the situation and checked for the helicopter, then took what Lee was offering. It was a Polaroid photograph.

“What’s this?” Armstrong asked.

“Looks like a picture taken on the bridge. I picked it up off the binnacle before the bridge blew. I think they wanted us to find it.”

Armstrong studied the picture of a crewman with the silencer of an automatic weapon pressed against his ear. Electronically superimposed on the photograph was the date and time of one hour ago.

Armstrong handed it back frowning, “What kind of weapon is that?”

“Can’t tell for sure, but it looks like it might be a
Chinese Type 64. I’m prepared to bet that’s the captain. I think they took him with them.”

Armstrong looked at him and narrowed his eyes. Lee returned to his position and attached his chest ring to the eye hook on the SPIE. As Armstrong hooked on, he and the rest of the SEALs were nearly knocked off their feet as another mine went off three decks below them, disabling the engines, gearing, and steerage.

“Stand fast!” Armstrong said, reassuring them as they watched the helicopter pull up over the fantail and hover directly overhead. The helicopter crew chief kicked out a length of rope, which touched the deck near the front of the SPIE rig. Chief Lee reached down and connected the rig and gave the helicopter crew chief a thumbs-up as another explosion went off in the bow. Every one of them heard it and the helicopter pilot saw it. The crew immediately began pulling up. Half the SEAL platoon was lifted quickly off the deck of the
Pacific Flyer
. The second CH-53E raced in behind the first. Its crew chief threw the line out and Davidson hooked up the second SPIE rig. The Super Stallion jerked the eight remaining SEALs off the deck and pulled away from the ship. The SEALs hung from the Special Insertion and Extraction Rig underneath the helicopters like a clump of grapes, as the helicopter banked away and flew toward the horizon.

Armstrong thought about Prager and allowed the rage in his belly to climb to his head. Whoever hijacked the cargo ship and slaughtered the crew had set a trap to kill anyone who came to the ship’s rescue. The
Pacific Flyer
receded as they gained altitude and pulled away. Almost instantaneously, explosion after explosion rocked the
Flyer.

I
T WAS
D
ILLON
’
S TURN TO HOST
M
OLLY AND
B
OBBY
at his place to watch the basketball game. They had considered canceling after the hijacking was announced. But a couple of hours after the President’s news conference they thought they would sneak out for the last half of the game.

Dillon helped Molly take off her coat in the entryway to his apartment. He loved the opportunity to study her from behind, to stare without being noticed. He caught the scent of her perfume and thought it might be a good sign, since she rarely wore a scent. He also knew that he would have to maintain the appearance of perpetual nonchalance.

They went way back—Dillon, Molly, and Bobby Nichols, who came in a few minutes after Molly. They had gone to law school together at the University of Virginia and had been in the same study group, commonly known as Dillon’s Study Group.

He and Bobby had been close friends, sharing dreams and fears. They had played basketball and taken classes together during the last two years of law school. There wasn’t any ambiguity or conflict about their friendship. When Dillon moved to Washington, reuniting three fourths of their study group—the fourth, Erin, had gone to New York—he had reestablished his friendship with Bobby. He frequently walked across the street from the

Capitol building to the Supreme Court where Bobby was the Chief Justice’s clerk. Bobby and Dillon would play basketball in the Supreme Court gym.

But with Molly it had been different. They had been rivals: intellectual, political, and academic. Even though they were very close and had feelings for each other that were often confusing, those feelings had for the most part gone unexpressed. They had dated a few times, and Dillon had found her not only stunningly beautiful but also challenging. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman. But for a reason he couldn’t identify he wouldn’t let her get close to him. After three years of ambiguity and unexpressed feelings, they had graduated and gone their separate ways, each knowing that they could become more than friends if they made the effort, but neither wanting to be first. That was four years ago. Now they were back in Washington on opposite sides of everything.

“Y’all mind if we turn on the damned game?” Bobby asked as he took off his jacket and threw it in the corner. “Got any food?” He turned on the television and changed the channel. The noise from the fans filled the room. “I’m starved,” he said as he sat down on the couch beside Molly and Dillon. “Got any brew?”

Dillon looked at him, “Why, I’m fine. Thank you. Nice of you to ask. Yeah, I’ve got brew. Get it yourself.”

Bobby smiled enthusiastically and got up. As he walked into the kitchen, he yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, what about Indonesia? What is
that
?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about that,” Dillon replied as he reached out to turn down the television. “It doesn’t look like the usual terrorist game at all.”

“People are pretty uptight at the White House,” Molly added. “I just can’t imagine what they hope to accomplish by taking an American ship.”

“Notoriety, I guess. I just hope they’re able to get the Americans off the ship without anybody getting hurt. What do you think will come of it?”

“I don’t know,” Molly said. “I’m not even sure what happened.”

“How are things at the White House?” Bobby asked Molly as he returned and sat in the overstuffed chair next to the couch, placing three beers in front of them. Although the Chief Justice of the United States, for whom Bobby worked, had been appointed by President Manchester and was therefore automatically expected to be liberal, Bobby wasn’t.

People’s politics were important but not critical to Molly. She was more interested in their integrity and honesty. “Fine. How are things at the
Big
Court?”

“Fine.”

“Okay. We got that out of the way,” she said.

They watched the second half of the game between the University of Virginia and North Carolina and tried not to think about the hijacking that dominated the thoughts of each of them, particularly how each might be involved.

Dillon went into the kitchen to get some snacks.

“You dating anyone?” Molly asked Bobby.

“Not a soul. You’d think that in Washington, D.C., capital of the country and the world headquarters for professional black women, I could find
one,
but no. Not me. Must be my looks.”

“Right.”

“What else could it be?” he asked.

“Molly? Could you give me a hand?” Dillon called out.

She stood up and headed for the door. “What?”

“Could you carry that tray, please?” he said handing her one full of dip and cut vegetables as he carried another with chips and pretzels.

The familiar voice of Johnny Hines, the ACC basketball announcer, filled the room. The crowd in Charlottesville was yelling so loudly the announcer was pressing his headphones against his head to hear himself. Molly placed the tray with vegetables and guacamole next to the chips.
Dillon carefully removed the sagging cellophane from the bowl.

“What’s with the soggy cellophane?” Bobby asked.

“Keeps the air out,” Dillon replied. “Air turns guacamole brown.”

“What are you, the guacamole expert?” Bobby asked.

“Sure. We had avocado trees in our backyard the whole time I was growing up.”

“Where’d you find avocados in February in D.C.?” Molly asked.

“You can find
anything
in D.C. if you’re willing to pay enough for it.” Dillon heaped guacamole onto a large potato chip. His eyes fixed on the television as the Virginia point guard hit a three-point shot from the corner. The crowd screamed its approval.

The phone rang and Dillon reached for it without looking away from the television screen. He punched the button on the portable phone and grunted with his mouth full, “Umhm.”

He suddenly stood up and grabbed his beer, taking a deep gulp to wash down his food. After a pause, he blurted, “Yes, sir. Sorry, I had my mouth full…. No, sir, just watching the basketball game.” He covered the phone with his hand and mouthed to the others: “
The Speaker!
”

Molly and Bobby looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

“Yes, sir. Any military nearby?…What did…” He listened. His face became more and more serious, then angry. “Damn. Yes, sir…I don’t know, sir. Whatever you say. Want me to call…okay. I’ll see you then.” He looked at the phone, then pressed the button to hang up. He walked over and turned off the television. The eerie silence accented the grim look on Dillon’s face.

“What?” Molly said.

He spoke reluctantly, “You know that ship that was hijacked?”

They nodded.

“Well the Navy had an entire battle group nearby, including
an Amphibious group with SEALs, Marines, the whole thing. The SEALs went to take the ship back, and they found it booby-trapped with dozens of mines or bombs. Every member of the crew was executed. Murdered. Shot in the head.”

“Holy
shit,
” Bobby said.

“The SEALs tried to disarm the mines. One of the SEALs was killed. He got blown up. The rest of them got off the ship. The mines exploded and the ship sank.”

Molly sat back stunned. “What are we going to do about it?”

Dillon breathed deeply, “Don’t know. Up to the President. I’m sure we’ll have to do something. Probably something pretty drastic. Especially with that much force already in the area.”

“Who
did
this?” Bobby asked.

Dillon shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if we can’t tell, or I just don’t have all the info. One other thing,” he said remembering. “They took the captain hostage.” He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “You guys can stay here if you want, but I’m going to the Hill. Speaker wants the whole staff there to explore the options.”

Molly stood up. “I’m sure there’ll be some midnight oil at the White House. I’d better go, too. I left the President some material on international law before coming over here, but that may not be enough now.” She stood up and started toward the hallway, then stopped. An angry frown clouded her face, “Why do people do these kinds of things? It never accomplishes
anything
.”

“Sure it does,” Dillon answered bitterly. “Terrorism pays
big
dividends. Look at the PLO. They blew up people all over the world, killed innocent children, and now they have their own country, right where they wanted it.” He paused. “They do it because it
works
. They do it because too often people like us don’t ever
do
anything about it.”

“But it’s so cowardly,” she said, her eyes burning. She
hesitated. “And we do too usually do something about it.”

“We don’t even know it’s terrorists, really,” Bobby said.

Dillon looked at him with surprise. “What do you think, some country is declaring war on the United States by attacking a defenseless cargo ship?”

“I don’t know. I’m just saying, don’t assume you know what’s happening until you know.”

“Fair enough,” Dillon said. “I’ve got to go.”

Bobby reached for the remote control as Molly and Dillon were leaving. “I doubt this will involve the Supreme Court so I’m going to watch the game. I’ll lock the door behind me when I leave.”

Dillon didn’t reply as he walked out the door with Molly right behind him.

“What do we know, Admiral Hart?” President Manchester asked, looking carefully at Hart and the others gathered in the Situation Room on the ground floor of the White House. They sat around a table, like any ordinary conference table, but the walls were covered with screens, charts, and electronic information. The closest wall was at least ten feet from the table. The large map of the Pacific nearly reached the floor, allowing everyone to see clearly.

The admiral walked to the map of the Southwest Pacific and Southeast Indian Ocean areas and looked at them for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He was a man in his fifties, of average height with graying brown hair. Known for his intensity and his brilliance, he had come up through NROTC and Penn State University, had had a stellar career in Naval Aviation, including command of a carrier and a carrier battle group, then CINCPAC—Commander in Chief of all Pacific forces. Now he was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “We know there were twenty to thirty terrorists aboard the
Pacific
Flyer,
that they took over the ship posing as Ford employees when the ship docked in Jakarta, that they were well organized, knew the ship, and took it to sea.”

He turned back to look at President Manchester and the rest, who included the Vice President, the Chief of Staff, the National Security Adviser, the Secretary of Defense, the Director of Central Intelligence, and the Secretary of State. They all listened carefully. “They took the ship out to sea, then set sophisticated mines all over the ship, inside and out, mines like we’d never seen before, and murdered the entire crew, except the captain. They then abandoned the ship, were picked up by cigarette boats, and made their escape, leaving mines which later killed one of our Navy SEALs,” he said grimly.

“What’s a cigarette boat?” the President asked.

“It’s basically a very fast, offshore race boat. They’re capable of seventy knots or so in the open ocean. They’re used a lot by smugglers because there isn’t much that can keep up with them, other than an airplane. They were first used to smuggle cigarettes.”

“Where’d they go?”

“We don’t know, Mr. President,” the admiral said, casting a glance at Cary Warner, the Director of Central Intelligence. “A helicopter spotted them, but the E-2 never saw them after that.”

“We didn’t have any birds in place to do any imagery during this event,” Warner said, picking up on the cue. “It isn’t exactly one of our hot spots….”

Manchester stood up and looked at his group of advisers. “How could this have happened? We didn’t have any idea this was coming?”

Warner shook his head, moving the unlit pipe he kept in his mouth. “No, sir. I’m afraid they caught us with our pants down.”

“We don’t know who. Anyone care to speculate why?”

Nathaniel Corder, the professorial Secretary of State, spoke up. “I see this as a direct challenge to your new
foreign policy, sir.” Corder had taught International Affairs at Yale, and then served as ambassador to Spain. He still wasn’t completely comfortable as Secretary of State, a position he had held only for six months. His forehead reddened when he spoke.

Manchester interrupted him by saying to the chief of staff, “Arlan, would you get Ms. Vaughan here? I want her in on every meeting. Somebody needs to watch my backside.”

“We’re all watching out for your interests, Mr. President,” Van den Bosch replied.

“Well then, one more won’t hurt, will it?” Manchester said. “You were saying, Nathaniel?” he asked, watching Corder’s glowing forehead.

“Your peace and diplomacy through commerce program’s goals are to have the military play less of a role in the world and increase our maritime presence in the world. To rejuvenate our shipping industry, you proposed a law that requires fifty percent of the goods carried into U.S. ports to be on U.S.-flagged vessels by the year 2010. And half of those had to be built in the U.S.”