Balance of Power: A Novel

United States Constitution.
Article I, Section 8: The Congress shall have Power…To declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal, and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water.

T
HE FASTEST SHIP IN THE WORLD COASTED SILENTLY
to the Jakarta pier just before dawn. Its six jet engines idled for the first time since leaving San Diego ten days ago. Captain Clay Bonham leaned on the rail of the flying bridge and shook his head in disgust as he watched the dockworkers eight stories below struggle to tie the ship to the pier. The cargo ship had set a new world record for crossing the Pacific and there wasn’t anyone there to greet them. Lindbergh’s welcome to Paris it wasn’t. Preoccupied with his place in history, he didn’t notice the dark blue bus as it turned onto the pier two hundred yards away. He walked back onto the enclosed bridge of the
Pacific Flyer
as the Indonesian harbor pilot climbed over the portside rail down to the tug. “Nice job, Bacon,” Bonham said to the helmsman grudgingly. “Maybe I’ll let you go back with us.”

“Ford people are here early,” said John Franklin, the chief engineer, as he squinted at the bus, just now able to make out
FORD
on its side. His thick glasses made his eyes look unusually large, as if he were always surprised.

“I guess they need a bus full of mechanics to get their new cars running.” Bonham smiled sarcastically. “Did you
see
those cars when they were brought aboard? Look like they were designed by a committee.” He sipped his coffee slowly. “Probably were. ‘The car for the world—the new international sedan.’ Stirring. What’s it called?”
he asked, looking at Franklin. “The…” He groped for the name.

“Ascenda.”

“Right. What the hell kind of name is that?” Bonham looked at the bus as it neared the ship. “Better get down there and give ’em a hand,” he said. He forgot the bus and watched the beautiful city lights extinguish themselves at the start of sunrise.

Dawn in Jakarta. Ships, boats, people, and heat everywhere. Mind-stifling heat, but not on the
Flyer
—Captain Bonham always kept the ship’s temperature at seventy-two degrees. Bonham glanced over at Franklin to see if he was moving. He tolerated Franklin because he was a good engineer, but deep inside he thought Franklin was a misfit. Probably president of the short-wave club in high school.

“Who’s supposed to be here?” Franklin asked.

“Chairman of the Board of Ford,” Bonham replied. “But not for a couple of hours. And the Secretary of Commerce and a bunch of”—the word stuck in his throat—“politicians…at ten or so. New car to a new dealership, big ceremony, cutting of some ribbon or other—the usual waste of time and taxpayers’ money.” He watched the crane move slowly toward the ship with the gangplank. The Ford bus stopped next to the
Pacific Flyer
. “Get
down
there and help those Ford guys.”

Franklin nodded and walked off the bridge. He slid down the ladders at a quick, experienced pace and crossed outboard to the main deck access hatch where the gangplank was being attached.

“Everything okay?” Franklin asked Phillips, a brawny sailor in his thirties who had sailed with Bonham and Franklin on several trips.

Phillips stood smoking a cigarette, watching the crane lift the long metal gangplank. “No problem. The guy on the crane seems to be drunk, but he’s coming close.”

Franklin watched the swaying gangplank. Two men stood on the pier waiting. The Ford bus was twenty feet
away. Finally the gangplank touched the ship. Phillips grabbed it, secured it to the
Flyer,
and walked to the middle of it to unhook the four crane cables. He released the shackles and the gangplank was in place. The two men on the pier yelled to Phillips, who waved them aboard. Franklin stood at the top of the gangplank and waited. The men stepped off and extended their hands to him. He shook their hands and nodded. “Morning. You speak English?”

“Yes, a little,” said one of them. “Are you an officer?”

“I’m the chief engineer,” Franklin replied.

“You have your papers?” the official asked.

“Sure. Come to my office,” Franklin said, walking ahead of them down the passageway. He stopped and turned. “Hey, Phillips.”

“Yeah?” Phillips said, interrupting his conversation with another sailor.

“Would you give those Ford guys a hand?”

Phillips frowned in confusion, looked over at the pier, and saw men in blue coveralls getting out of the Ford bus; he turned to Franklin, rolled his eyes, and nodded. Thirty Ford mechanics picked up their blue satchels and walked quickly onto the ship. Phillips stepped aside and let them onto the deck. The space was only large enough for about twenty; the others stood restlessly on the creaking gangplank. Their satchels look heavy, Phillips thought. Probably tools. He chuckled at the idea of these Indonesian mechanics bringing new starters for all the brand-new American cars they assumed weren’t going to start. The leader of the workers approached him. “Morning,” Phillips said, extending his hand.

“Good morning,” the man said in English, not taking Phillips’s hand.

Phillips looked into his dark brown eyes. There was no joy at being a Ford mechanic in them. “You boys here to get the cars ready?”

“Where is captain?” the man asked. He had a perfect
complexion and dark eyes. His eyebrows were thin lines. He was much shorter than Phillips, who was six feet tall and weighed two hundred fifty pounds. The small man weighed half as much.

I could crush him like a bug, Phillips said to himself as he unconsciously sucked in his belly. “What do you need to see the captain for?” Phillips asked, annoyed. “Can I see your papers?”

“Where is captain?” the man said in a quiet voice, standing steadily, unintimidated by Phillips.

“I suppose he’s on the bridge. But before we do anything, I need to see your papers.”

The man put his satchel down and squatted next to it. He opened the zipper halfway and quickly pulled out a Chinese Type 64 machine pistol with a long silencer. He came up suddenly and placed the barrel under Phillips’s chin. “Where is captain?”

“What the hell…?” Phillips’s mouth suddenly went dry.

“Shut up,” the man said quietly.

Phillips nodded.

“Take us to captain,” the man insisted. “Now.” He eased the pressure of the barrel on Phillips’s chin. Phillips swallowed hard. His heart raced. He tried to think of some way to deflect them, to get them into a compartment he could lock, but his mind wouldn’t work fast enough.

“Now,” the man said again.

Phillips walked forward down the passageway Franklin had used. He stopped at the foot of a series of ladders that led to the bridge. As he missed the first step, his boot smacked the tiled deck with a loud noise. The leader moved up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned forward. “More noise, I shoot.” He put the pistol in Phillips’s back. “Understand?”

Phillips nodded. He climbed the ladder carefully. As his head reached the next deck, another sailor was waiting to go down the ladder. “Get out of here!” Phillips said in a terrified whisper with a wild look in his eyes.

“Why the hell should I?” asked Bart Jenkins in his usual cavalier tone as he stood waiting for Phillips.

“Now!” Phillips whispered, wanting to scream at him.

The leader noticed Phillips had slowed. “What doing?” he said, pushing up through the hatch with surprising force. Phillips rolled off the top of the ladder onto the deck. The leader stuck his head up through the hatch and saw Jenkins, who froze as the man raised his gun and shot.

Jenkins’s knees gave out and he fell as two bullets screamed by just above his head. His adrenaline took over. He scrambled on his hands and knees through a hatch and around a corner.

The leader pushed his way past Phillips and stood. Two other men in Ford coveralls climbed up next to him and looked around hurriedly with their AK-47 assault rifles ready. They pointed anxiously in the direction Jenkins had gone. The leader shook his head, clearly not concerned.

Phillips stood.

The leader looked at him closely. “Who that?” he asked.

“Bart Jenkins.”

“What does he do?”

Phillips almost answered automatically, almost told him Jenkins was the radio operator. “Engineer,” he lied.

He looked at Phillips for several seconds before speaking again. “To the bridge,” he said.

Phillips made his way up the next ladder, and the one after that, followed by a long trail of men in Ford coveralls. As they moved snakelike through the ship, the
Pacific Flyer
’s crewmen assumed they were the Ford mechanics they had been expecting.

They stopped behind the bridge, and Phillips pointed to the door. “That’s the bridge.”

The leader looked around and put down his bag. The next five did likewise and removed their AK-47s. They spoke rapidly in what Phillips guessed was an Asian language, walked quickly through the door onto the bridge,
and covered every entrance. Bonham leaped to his feet from his captain’s chair, confused. Tommy Bacon stared openmouthed. The leader crossed to Bonham and lowered his gun. “You captain?”

“Yes, I am. Who the hell are you?” he replied, trying to control his anger.

“Shut up.” He pointed to the other men in coveralls with a wave of his handgun. “They do what I say. Understand?”

Bonham stared into his eyes, trying to read his intentions. “What do you want?”

“Ship.”

Bonham tried to hide his surprise. He lowered his voice. “You can’t have it,” he said, his blue eyes burning.

“Already have,” the man replied gruffly.

“The
hell
you do. You can do anything you want to me. The rest of the crew won’t do what you want.”

“Yes, they will,” said the leader. “You have weapons aboard?”

“No,” Bonham said.

“Yes, you do. Small-arms locker on second deck,” the leader said, shaking his head. “You think we not find out before, Captain Bonham?”

“How do you know my name?” Bonham asked, stunned.

“You lied,” he said to Bonham sternly. He motioned to one of the men, who pulled Phillips to the center of the bridge. “Need punishment.” The second Ford man took Phillips’s hand and held it on the brass railing around the helm. He smashed his rifle on Phillips’s left forefinger. Everyone on the bridge could hear the bone snap. Phillips fell to his knees in pain.

“You son of a bitch!” Bonham yelled at the man with the rifle as he held Phillips’s shoulder.

Phillips’s face turned bright red as sweat beaded on his forehead. He held his left hand with his right, fighting the pain, trying not to scream.

“Small warning,” the leader said. “Next time more
serious. Understand?” He looked up at Bonham.

The captain stared at him without speaking.

“You have weapons?”

“Just in the small-arms locker,” Bonham said through gritted teeth. He watched Phillips trying to get up. He looked like he was going to cry, or throw up. Bonham looked at the leader again. “Who are you?”

“No security for morning ceremony?”

“They’re supposed to meet us here. What’s your name?”

The leader showed a hint of a smile. “George Washington. I fight for freedom for my country. Just like him. What time?”

“What time what?”

“Security come.”

“Eight.”

“Washington” looked at his watch. “Where is radio room?”

Bonham didn’t respond.

Washington pointed his gun at Phillips and spoke to one of his men, who pulled Phillips up, grabbed his right hand, put it on the railing, and smashed his right forefinger with his rifle. Phillips cried out and his knees again buckled.

“Where is radio room?” he asked again, more insistently.

“Behind the bridge,” Bonham said. Washington signaled to two men at the back of the bridge.

“Correct. Now get under way,” he said.

“What?” Bonham said, not believing what he had heard.

“Give command. Get under way.”

“Why?”

“I say so. Five minutes.” He looked around the bridge to make sure nothing was happening without his direction.

“It’ll take longer than that to get the boilers up.”

“No boilers!” Washington said, raising his voice. “Jet engines. Start them. Give commands!”

Bonham turned to his control board and picked up a phone. “Cast off from the pier!” he yelled into the receiver. “No, I’m not kidding. Cast off!…You don’t need to know why. Just do it!” he said, slamming the phone down. Bonham started to walk across the bridge.

“Where are you going?” Washington asked.

“To the wing of the bridge. I have to see when they’ve cast off.”

Washington nodded and followed him.

Bonham went outside, not believing what he was doing. His mind raced for some way out. He saw the lines being taken off the bollards by confused dockworkers. Bonham looked for the crane to remove the gangplank, but didn’t see it. He walked back inside the bridge and crossed over to Phillips, who was bent over the radar repeater. “You okay?” he asked, bending over to talk into his ear. Phillips didn’t respond.

“Give the command—get under way,” Washington said.

“I can’t,” Bonham said. “We have to wait for the crane to come back to lift off the gangplank.”

Washington crossed to him and spoke directly into his face. “No. Don’t care about gangplank. Give command.”

Bonham crossed to the engine-order telegraph. He rang it, set it at all reverse one third, and spoke into the microphone next to it. “All reverse one third,” he said.

“Are you serious?” came the reply from the engine room. “We were just shutting her down.”

“I know. All reverse one third!” Bonham looked around, his eyes full of hatred and confusion. He watched the RPM of the shafts climb. The helm wasn’t manned. He didn’t care. Let her run aground.

“Who steers?” Washington asked.

“What?”

“Who steers the ship?”

“It depends.”

Washington looked at Bacon. “You steer?” he asked.

Bacon nodded as blood drained from his face. Washington pointed to the helm. “Steer.”

He reluctantly took the helm.

“Left rudder,” the leader said to him.

Bacon looked at Bonham, who nodded slightly. He turned to ten degrees left rudder. The ship began backing slowly away from the pier.

Washington moved outside to the bridge wing and looked over the side. The dockworkers looked up at him, then spoke to each other animatedly as they watched the gangplank slide along the pier still attached to the ship. It skidded sideways for thirty feet, then hit a bollard. The gangplank ripped away from the ship and fell into the water next to the pier as the
Pacific Flyer
pulled away from Indonesia.