Balance of Power: A Novel (3 page)

“I’m not going to comment on that, Elizabeth,” he said, looking away from her.

“May I follow up?” she pleaded.

“Go ahead,” he said reluctantly.

“Is this the kind of thing the military could respond to? Do we even have the capability, whether or not they are in the area?”

“I’m still not going to comment on that. David,” he said, pointing to the White House correspondent for CBS.

“Sir, have you been in consultation with Congress on this?”

Manchester nodded. “I have spoken with the Speaker of the House. We are of one mind on what to do at this point.”

The Chief of Staff gave the secret “cut” signal, and the President stepped back from the podium. “That’s all for now. I’ll tell you more when I know it.” He turned around and walked out of the room, with the reporters yelling after him.

Manchester and his Chief of Staff, Arlan Van den Bosch, walked into the Oval Office, where other members of the presidential staff had watched the press conference on television. The President sat down heavily in his chair and looked at his staff. He turned to Van den Bosch. “Well, what did you think?”

“That was truly excellent, sir. Not too much information to pass at this point, so there wasn’t much that could have gone wrong.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Manchester said, removing his coat.

“I didn’t mean it like that, sir. Everything was fine. Now we have to decide what to do.”

“What new information do we have?”

“Nothing sir. We’ve moved the
Constitution
battle group toward the
Pacific Flyer
and they’re going to start looking for it.”

“That’s all we can do right now,” Manchester said with resignation, then looked at Van den Bosch. “Didn’t our intelligence folks have any idea this was coming?”

Van den Bosch shook his head and glanced at Cary Warner, the Director of Central Intelligence. “Cary?” he said, giving him a chance to speak.

Warner shook his head slowly and uncrossed his thin long legs. “No, sir, not a thing. These guys are very closemouthed and very organized. We would have heard something if it was one of the usual organizations.”

Manchester looked at him, unsatisfied. His intense gaze made others uncomfortable. He liked it that way. “And why do you think the Speaker felt he had to call? What could he possibly add to what we might do?”

His Chief of Staff shook his head. “Easy. Anytime he thinks you might stumble, he wants to be there to push—” Van den Bosch was interrupted by the entrance of Richard Benison, Counsel to the President, accompanied by Molly Vaughan, deputy White House counsel. Even though they knew her, they were happy to have the excuse to look at her.

Benison held out his hands apologetically, “Forgive me, Mr. President, for being late.”

Manchester waved his hand at him, “Welcome, Richard, not a problem.”

“The Chief of Staff said you wanted someone from my office involved in this from the earliest stages. I thought Molly would be just the right person, Mr. President. She has the most experience in international law.”

The President nodded at her and smiled warmly.

She looked him directly in the eye and returned his smile. She was five feet seven and thin, her figure both subtle and alluring. Her dark auburn hair was parted on the side, tucked behind her ears, and hung to her shoulders. She wore an elegant, fitted navy blue gabardine suit and a cream colored silk blouse.

“Thank you for coming. This may be overkill, because we’re going to have a lot of lawyers looking at this situation, both at the State Department and at the Pentagon. But I told Richard I wanted somebody on my staff, in the office of the Counsel to the President, looking out for the interests of the presidency.”

“Of course,” Molly replied. It was the fundamental purpose of the job in the office of Counsel to the President. That he felt like he needed to mention it, she found slightly amusing.

“I want you to evaluate all the implications. Rules of Engagement, International Law….” He hesitated, unsure of what the other implications might be. “Anything else that occurs to you. Just look out for my interests. Will you do that?”

Molly nodded. “It would be a pleasure, Mr. President.”

The President smiled again and let his eyes linger on her. He then turned to the rest of the staff. “Stay close by. As soon as we have any more information, I’ll want to know what our options are. Arlan, get Admiral Hart over here. I want the Joint Chiefs involved in this from the earliest minute in case we have to do a hostage rescue or something else.”

“Yes, sir.”

C
OMMANDER
M
IKE
C
ASKEY FOUGHT BACK A YAWN AS
he sat down in the ready room chair to brief. They had been at sea for thirty straight days on the USS
Constitution
(CVN-77), the latest and last Nimitz-class nuclear-powered aircraft carrier. He was ready to go home. It had been five months since they left San Diego.

Caskey had been on numerous cruises since he first started flying in the Navy. He had been to sea for a month on many occasions before this, but he’d never gotten used to it. It was always a challenge. He stretched his legs out in front of his chair. He was just under six feet two and in superb physical condition, which he maintained mostly by doing chin-ups on the steel beam that ran through his stateroom. He kept his blond hair so short that it barely held a part. When at sea he would occasionally get a flat-top from one of the ship’s barbers, but not this time.

“Morning, Skipper,” muttered Lieutenant (junior grade) Bill Schmidt, called Messer by his squadron mates. A recent Naval Academy graduate, Messer was crewed with Caskey as a RIO, Radar Intercept Officer. Their squadron, VF-143, considered itself the best fighter squadron in the Navy. They were called the Pukin’ Dogs because of their symbol—a Griffin—half eagle, half lion—in a bent-over position to accentuate the wings. When first painted on a VF-143 plane decades ago, it had looked like a dog throwing up. The squadron
loved
that image. They
called themselves the Pukin’ Dogs until the early nineties, when someone from the Navy brass thought the image of a puking dog wasn’t quite proper and forced the squadron to change it. The new name, the Dogs, had been used until Caskey took over. One of his first acts was to change the name back to the Pukin’ Dogs. Nobody had forced him to change it back, yet.

“You ready to fly, Messer?” Caskey asked. The battle group was in the area to take part in a naval exercise.

“Sure.” Messer smiled casually. “A low level over Bali?
Hurt
me. I can’t believe they pay us for this.” Messer’s smile was infectious. He was regarded throughout the squadron as an extremely competent RIO for a first-tour officer. Even though he was a junior grade lieutenant, he was at least as skilled as the lieutenants in the squadron. He also was easygoing and funny. As much as the other officers in the squadron liked Messer, Messer worshiped Caskey. For him, the opportunity to fly with the squadron commanding officer was an honor. It was also a tremendous responsibility, and a chance to screw up right in front of the guy who would write his fitness report. Messer wore his curly blond hair as long as he could under Navy regulations, in contrast to virtually all the other officers. It was the only thing that ever got him in trouble with Caskey.

“Check the route?”

“Of course I checked the route,” he said, looking up at Caskey, miffed he would doubt him.

“What jet we got?”

Messer glanced at the schedule board. “Haven’t assigned us one yet.”

The second crew on the low level sat down next to them for the brief—Lieutenant Commander Larry Landretti, the pilot, and Lieutenant Bill Warber, the RIO. Landretti and Warber made quite a sight. They were, respectively, the smallest and largest officers in the squadron. Landretti was five feet six and bald; Warber was almost six three and constantly fighting his weight at two
hundred forty pounds. Warber was called Beef for obvious reasons.

They settled in for the usual brief: the weather, where not to fly, what not to do, what
really
not to do, and miscellaneous other information.

Suddenly the 1MC, the ship’s loudspeaker, came alive. “All Squadron COs to CVIC. All squadron COs to CVIC.”

Caskey raised his eyebrows and looked at the others with some surprise. They looked back with equal curiosity. He stood up and shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his olive flight suit with the blue Pukin’ Dog patch on the shoulder. “I’ve got no idea,” he said. “But I’m about to find out.” He walked down the starboard passageway to CVIC, the carrier intelligence center. He was the last one there.

Captain Zeke Bradford, commander of Air Wing Seven, strode into the room. He was a handsome black man with a deep and authoritative voice. Loved by the entire air wing, officers and enlisted men alike, he had the reputation of being a great pilot and a gentleman, but one who didn’t suffer fools gladly. He had flown A-6s in the old days, then F/A-18s.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Bradford said. “You’re just not going to believe it.” He shook his head. “You heard about that Ford deal where they were going to open a dealership in Jakarta? Joint venture, co-ownership with Indonesians or something? ‘Diplomacy through commerce,’ and all that?” He held up a piece of paper. “I just got a copy of this mayday transmitted in the clear from the
Pacific Flyer
….” He looked at their blank stares. “That’s the name of the ship carrying all those Fords to Jakarta—a U.S.-flagged vessel. Someone hijacked the ship.”

The COs looked at each other, puzzled.

“How’d they do that?” Caskey asked.

“Walked aboard,” Captain Bradford answered.

“What do you mean ‘walked aboard’?”

“Get this,” he said, reading from the message in his hand. “ ‘Mayday! Mayday! This is the
Pacific Flyer
in Jakarta. As soon as we pulled in, a bunch of men in blue Ford coveralls came aboard. They have bags with them, and guns. They are taking over the ship. We are being hijacked. I don’t know what their intentions are…hold on for a second’ ”—Bradford looked up at them, then continued reading—“ ‘I can hear us getting under way. We are backing away from the pier. There are at least twenty of them, maybe thirty. I have no idea what is happening, but we need help fas—’ ” Bradford stopped reading. “And then he was cut off.”

Caskey shook his head. “Who are the guys in the coveralls?”

“We don’t know.”

“What’s the plan?”

Bradford shook his head. “Don’t have one. We’re waiting for instructions from the National Command Authority, but you can bet we’ll be doing something soon. In the meanwhile, we’re already headed west at flank speed.”

The COs looked at each other. Caskey was the first to speak. “Not really much the air wing can do. We can’t exactly attack them. Sounds like a job for the SEALs.”

Bradford nodded. “My feelings exactly. But I thought we should do a fly-by first, to let them know we’re in the area. Let them know anything they do from now on will get them in deep kimchi.”

“Won’t that tell them there’s a battle group around, that we may try something?” said Dave “Drunk” Driver, CO of VFA-136, one of the two F/A-18C squadrons.

Bradford shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d rather let them know we’re here, and that we’re going to spank ’em if they do anything stupid.”

The COs nodded.

“Who can get to them first?”

Caskey raised his hand. “The F-18s can get there at the same time the F-14s can, Captain, but we can also get
back
.” Caskey smiled, poking at the weak point of the F/A-18C: its constant need for more fuel.

“With the proper tanking assets…” said Drunk Driver defensively.

Bradford interposed. “No, this is a job for the F-14. I want a TARPS bird to go so we can get some pictures,” he said, thinking of the Tactical Air Reconnaissance Pod System that the F-14 could carry to act as a reconnaissance plane. “But they may have shoulder-fired SAMs; we don’t need to lose an airplane. I want you to do a supersonic fly-by too. Let them know we mean business.”

Caskey shook his head. “Can’t do both. You want TARPS or supersonic?”

“Can you take a hand-held camera with you?”

“Sure. Messer’s great at that. We win ‘photo of the week’ all the time.”

“Okay. No TARPS.”

“Roger supersonic,” Caskey said. “Are we waiting for approval before we go?”

“Absolutely,” said Bradford. “Right now the rest of the flight schedule is canceled. The
Constitution
is heading west at flank speed with the rest of the battle group that can keep up. We’ll launch as soon as we’re close enough and when we have approval. In the meantime, the SEALs on the
Wasp
are getting ready, and the Marines are on alert as well. We’re not sure how this is going to go, so stay loose.” He looked at Caskey. “MC, I want you to fly this mission yourself. I don’t want anyone to screw it up.”

“Roger that,” Caskey replied, feeling a rush of adrenaline. “When do you want us to go?”

“I’m not sure.” He turned to the PLAT. The Pilot Landing Assistance Television in every ready room and in CVIC had a continuous readout of the ship’s latitude and longitude. He memorized the numbers and crossed to a wall chart. The ship was north of Bali, heading west at thirty-plus knots. “I’d say we’ll launch in about two hours. But before that, I want every up S-3 we’ve got out
there looking for this ship.” The S-3B, a Viking of VS-31, a hefty two-engine antisubmarine airplane, was well established as the best airplane on the carrier for surface surveillance because of its excellent radar and its ability to stay airborne for a long time. “We have no idea where she went after leaving Jakarta.”

Caskey looked at the chart and nodded. “I’ll be ready.” He looked at his air wing commander. “Flight of two?”

“Yes. One for cover in case anything happens we’re not expecting. I want the E-2 airborne too, to keep radar coverage of the entire area, as well as a section of F/A-18s in case somebody else shows up we’re not expecting. Could be a surface ship or two involved in this. We’ve been trying to reach the ship ever since we got the distress call, but there’s no response. We don’t know if they don’t want to talk or if the radio was destroyed.”

“What kind of radars they got?” Caskey asked. “Any air-search?”

“We don’t think so. We’re checking on that right now with the ship’s owners. It’s a really fancy new ship. The owners are
pissed
. But we think they had only surface-search radars—some air capability—but mostly for surface ships and navigation.”

“So they probably won’t see us coming.”

Bradford shook his head. “
Probably
not,” he said a hint of caution in his voice.

“Admiral aware of all this?” Caskey asked.

Bradford frowned. “No, MC. I thought I’d just run this show on my own. Cancel the flight schedule, order the ship west, fly sorties.”

“Sorry,” Caskey said, feeling stupid. Caskey knew the admiral well. Admiral Ray Billings. “Steam.” His former commanding officer when they were on the
Nimitz
in the Jolly Rogers.

“I’ve got to see the admiral right now, in fact. Any more stupid questions?” Bradford asked. He scanned them once, then turned and walked out of CVIC.

“I wonder what they want,” said Wayne Berry, the Commanding Officer of VF-11, the other F-14 squadron.

“Notoriety. Always the same thing. Publicize some cause that’s important to them,” said Drunk. He looked up as if a new thought was struggling to get out. “Who decided it was okay to be a terrorist anyway? That it was like being a soldier?”

“Nobody’s ever said that,” said Caskey.

“But
look
at us,” Drunk said. “Nobody’s outraged, nobody’s flaming mad, nobody’s running up the bullshit flag.” He looked around, then went on, not caring whether he had any support. “It’s like we’ve
accepted
terrorism as part of the scenery. We’re not upset by it anymore.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Caskey said, squinting. “It’s just that we’ve seen it for so long we’re accustomed to it.”

“That’s exactly my point. We shouldn’t
ever
get accustomed to it,” Drunk said as he stood up and walked out of CVIC.

Two of the men in Ford coveralls took Franklin’s arms and dragged him across the deck. The blood ran down his face and neck, soaking his shirt. Bonham tried to control his anger, both at the terrorists and at himself. He was responsible. He had failed to take adequate security measures. He had failed to take
any
security measures and hadn’t done anything to stop the attack. If anyone deserved to die it was him, not Franklin.

Washington looked at the rest of the crew and pointed to Jenkins. “He unwise to use radio,” he said with cold look in his eyes. “Understand?” he asked. The crew watched sickly as the two terrorists pulled Franklin up over the railing. His body tumbled over the side of the ship and plunged into the ocean below.

“All go back to places,” Washington ordered. He spoke to his men, then again to the crew. “One man will
go with each of you. If you stupid, they shoot you. Go,” he said with authority. “No talking. Go.”

The crew dispersed, slowly, afraid to make a mistake. No one wanted to test the rule against talking. They walked off to their stations, each followed closely by a terrorist with a gun and a blue bag.