Balance of Power: A Novel (30 page)

“I had
heard
it, but I didn’t
know
it. Don’t get so accusatorial.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything. It’s just that there’s not much trust of Washington on this ship right now.”

“There’s not much trust of that ship in Washington right now either.”

“All the admiral’s done is follow the law…”

“I gotta go,” Molly said. “I’m not enjoying this conversation.”

“That’s the whole point,” Dillon said. “Don’t hold all
this against
me
. Keep your mind open until all this is history.”

“It’s not a matter of timing, Jim, it’s a matter of integrity and honesty. I just don’t know what I think right now. I’ve got some serious concerns—”

“Really, and how’s your character doing right now?” Dillon asked. “You’re the one who came up with this lawsuit to throw a wrench in the works of Congress, aren’t you? Are you holding yourself to the same standard you’re holding
me
?”

Molly hesitated and immediately thought of her call to Bobby. She didn’t know what to say.

“Well, are you?” he pushed.

“I always hold myself to the same standard.”

“Are you meeting it?”

“Well, we’ll see what happens, and then we’ll talk. When are you coming back?” she asked.

Dillon breathed deeply, regretting he had called her at all. “Couple of days anyway. The airplane I need to get out of here broke down. This whole thing is gonna happen before I get back.”

“What whole thing?”

Dillon perceived her heightened interest and its implications. He stopped himself from saying what he had been thinking. “Never mind. Sorry I bothered you. See you later.”

“The admiral’s going forward with the attack? When?” she asked directly.

“Gotta go. See ya.” He pressed the “end” button on his phone and headed into the admiral’s bridge.

Dillon walked into SUPPLOT and looked around for Lieutenant Reynolds as his eyes grew accustomed to the low light. Dillon could find only three locations on the ship, his stateroom, SUPPLOT, and the admiral’s bridge. Unfortunately, they were separated by eight stories. His legs were killing him. His eyes felt like four eyelashes
had been floating in each eye for two days. His hair was greasy and stuck to his scalp, and his new gray suit pants looked like pajamas as they hung loosely on his legs with no remnant of a crease. He was grateful for the air conditioning in SUPPLOT, which felt like forty degrees but was actually set at seventy-five.

Beth Louwsma was drinking from a heavy coffee cup with her name on it, studying an official-looking yellow publication three inches thick. She looked up and smiled. “Morning again,” she said. “How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess.” He scanned the large screens and recognized Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Strait of Malacca. “Well,” he said, half looking at Beth and still looking at the board, “at least there aren’t as many ships out there today as there were yesterday.”

She looked at the board and then at Dillon. “Actually there are probably more.”

“There don’t seem to be as many.”

“Exactly. That’s because a lot of the information we get on ships and their positions is from other aircraft, other ships, satellites, all kinds of sources. We’re able to put information from all those onto our screens automatically. But we’re not getting information anymore. The computer will keep a track that it doesn’t have new information on for only so long; then it will drop it. So all we can see now are the ships and airplanes that we detect with our own radars. Just like the old days.”

“Does that matter?”

“Sure. One of the critical things you want in any kind of naval operation is the best information possible. This means that we won’t have it.”

“Think it will make a difference?”

She shrugged. “We’ll have to see.”

“When is this big thing supposed to happen?” Dillon asked tentatively.

“Tomorrow morning, dawn.”

“Do you think the admiral will really go through with it?”

Beth looked at him for several seconds with a curious expression, to see if Dillon was joking, and seeing he wasn’t, said, “Absolutely.”

T
HE REQUEST FOR AN EMERGENCY STAY HAD BEEN
submitted to the Supreme Court over an hour ago. The clerk’s office usually closed at 5:00
P.M.
It was now 5:30 and Pendleton hadn’t heard anything. Rebecca, who was at the Supreme Court building, had told him that the clerk’s office, while closed to the public, was still occupied. All the Supreme Court law clerks were there with the justices. It was her impression that they were deciding right now whether to hear the application. If anyone understood the implications, they did.

But Rebecca hadn’t called in over twenty minutes. Finally the phone rang. He tried not to leap at it. He walked to the phone and stood by it, letting it ring three times before lifting the receiver. “David Pendleton,” he said slowly.

“Mr. Pendleton, this is Earl Compton, clerk at the Supreme Court.”

“Yes, Mr. Compton. What can I do for you?”

“I believe that the Justice Department informed you they were filing an application for emergency stay to the United States Supreme Court, am I correct?”

“Yes. I have a copy of their application.”

“The Chief Justice asked that I call you directly to inform you that application has been accepted.”

“Will there be a hearing?” Pendleton asked, forcing his heart back down his throat.

“Yes, sir, there will be a hearing.”

“When do you expect that hearing to occur, Mr. Compton?”

“Sir, I don’t believe they have decided. My understanding—this is rather extraordinary in a civil case, you understand—is that the Chief Justice is going to have a preliminary review tonight without a hearing and will contact you either tonight or tomorrow to let you know they’ve ruled without a hearing or to set a specific hearing date. I therefore need to have numbers where I can reach you throughout the evening and tomorrow as well.”

“Very well,” said Pendleton as he recited automatically his work, home, cellular phone, and Rebecca’s numbers. His mind was already planning his strategy and drafting the brief that he hoped he wouldn’t have to write. This was absolutely the last thing he wanted, a Supreme Court review of this question before it was moot. “I will look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Compton.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pendleton. I have already called Mr. Gray of the Justice Department and he is aware.”

“Thank you for calling,” said Pendleton as he heard the clerk say good-bye to the air while the telephone was on its way to his desktop. He took one deep breath. He didn’t allow himself more than one. He turned toward his door and said in a voice louder than his usual secretarial instructional voice, “Get the Speaker on the line!”

Pendleton dialed four numbers quickly and got Rebecca’s voice mail. He remembered he had stationed her at the Supreme Court and wondered what had happened to her. He hit a button to skip her greeting and said into his speakerphone, “Rebecca, call me as soon as you get back. The Supreme Court is going to hear this matter tonight privately, then perhaps set a hearing date. We need to convert our Appellate Court brief into a Supreme Court brief overnight. Call whatever other associates, paralegals, and staff you need. This will be a maximum effort.” He hit the button for his other line as soon as it lit up.

“Mr. Speaker?” he said, assuming that his secretary had gotten through.

“Yes, David. What’s up?” The Speaker sounded harried. “I have to get onto the floor. Word’s out that we’re going to be considering articles of impeachment. The press is double swarming,” he chuckled slightly. “They were already swarming; now they are double-swarming. You get the implic—”

“Yes, I get the implications, Mr. Speaker. I just received word from the Supreme Court that they are going to be hearing the emergency application tonight. I can’t tell if it’s only some kind of preliminary look or whether they’re going to hear it on the merits. The clerk was unclear. I need to be prepared to brief this and go before the Court tonight or tomorrow morning.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to stay here, so if you need anything, call me. Are you going to be where I can reach you if I need anything from you?”

“Not really. I’ll be on the floor, it’ll probably be pretty late, but get word to me somehow if you need to hear from me. I can always call a break.”

“Okay. I’ll be in touch,” Pendleton said as he reached for the release button on his phone. His finger stopped in midair as another thought occurred to him. “Mr. Speaker?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any…how should I put this…” Pendleton said hesitatingly, “…influence on the Supreme Court? And I don’t mean improper influence. I mean do you know anybody who knows anybody over there who could give us a feel, not so much for what they plan on doing but how they plan on doing it and when—timing, that sort of thing?” Pendleton was forming the idea in his mind as he spoke.

The Speaker thought for a moment. “Not really, no. I knew one of the justices many years ago, but it would be completely inappropriate for me to call him. He would also probably take it the wrong way.”

Pendleton interrupted. “No, I didn’t really have that in mind. Is there anything else?”

The Speaker hesitated. “Well, I know that Dillon gets together with the clerk for the Chief Justice all the time. I think they’re friends. He’s the only one that I know of.”

“That may be just the thing.” Pendleton paused, considering. “See if you can convince Mr. Dillon to see how his friend is doing.”

“That will be tough. Dillon’s down on the
Constitution
and they are incommunicado. But I do have his cellular phone number. He has one of those fancy new satellite phones. I can try it.”

“Please do, we need to use whatever…tools we have.”

“I hear you,” said the Speaker. “I will be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Pendleton said, hanging up.

Dillon stood on the 0-10 level, Vulture’s Row, overlooking the flight deck. He watched the sailors scurry around preparing the planes for the early morning launch. The fact that people could take off and land from an aircraft carrier to him was still just short of miraculous. People had been doing it for a long time, and the United States had nearly perfected the art, but it still impressed him much more than he expected. He was also surprised that he was jealous of the officers on the carrier. Many were his age, had similar educational backgrounds, and shared many of his values and ideas. Yet they had more of a mission than the average Hill staffer. He wanted to identify with the pilots in the airplanes and be part of them, to share in their camaraderie and sense of mission. It was like watching a football team from the stands.

Dillon thought of himself back in his small office in the Capitol building. The thought was singularly unattractive to him. He compared himself sitting in an office in Washington, one of a sea of staff members for the House of Representatives, to the active, thriving men and women
aboard the USS
Constitution
, who were actually
doing
something. Dillon argued with himself. He
was
doing something: He was the one who came up with the whole idea of the Letter of Reprisal, he was the one who brought it down here and gave these people their mission. But still, he would rather be taking off in an airplane right now than getting a muffin with Grazio.

It was a spectacular morning in the South Pacific as the carrier battle group and the amphibious ready group, as he had learned they were called, raced toward Bunaya. The sun was just above the horizon, casting a golden glow on the Americans through the cloudless blue sky. The wind whipped past, invigorating him. His fatigue receded as he thought of what lay ahead.

He felt a vibration in his rear pocket and heard an unusual sound. It took him a moment to realize his phone was ringing. He had never heard it ring before, and its ring was different from the cellular phone he had carried before. He opened it up. “Hello?”

“Dillon!” the Speaker exclaimed. “I’m glad I caught you. Can you hear me okay?”

“Yeah,” Dillon said surprised. “Boy, am I glad you called.”

The Speaker stopped, interrupting his own thoughts. “Why are you glad I called?”

Dillon tried to stop himself, but he had always been aware of his compulsion to say exactly what he thought. “Mr. Speaker, ever since we spoke a few minutes ago, I’ve been thinking about this impeachment thing.”

“Isn’t it a great opportunity?” the Speaker asked enthusiastically. “Finally, we can bring this pointy-headed President of ours down to earth.”

“That’s what’s been bothering me,” Dillon said. “This feels very political.”

“What are you talking about?” the Speaker said impatiently.

“I think this is a big mistake, Mr. Speaker. I’ve got a
real strong feeling about this. I think you definitely should not go forward with the impeachment.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it looks vindictive. It looks like you’re after the President personally, like you want to run him out of his job.”

“I
do
.”

“But that’s not the right motive. If it’s not done for the right motive at this point, we shouldn’t do it at all. It looks too personal.”

“It’s not personal. The President doesn’t deserve to be president. It’s as simple as that. He’s unfit.”

“This is really about your Purple Heart, isn’t it?” Dillon asked pointedly.

The Speaker hesitated. “You mind explaining that?”

“You ran riverboats in the Delta, got shot at, got wounded. Purple Heart. You’re pretty proud of that….”

“Yes, I am. What’s the matter with that?”

“Nothing. But Manchester managed to avoid serving in Vietnam.”

“Yeah, avoided is the right way to put that. Four-F, physically unfit, flat feet. What a bunch of bullshit. He jogs three miles a day.”

“What I’m saying here, Mr. Speaker, is that I think you’ve got it in for him. I think you should consider whether your impeachment is personal or not.”

“It is the right motive. He’s unfit to be President.”

Dillon ran his hand through his hair and held it back from his forehead. “Mr. Speaker, you cannot go forward with this. It could kill the whole thing. It could turn public opinion against us, could put the whole Letter of Reprisal into question; it could be a disaster.”

The Speaker stopped. Instead of responding automatically as he wanted to, he listened. “Why do you say that?”

“You know politics a lot better than I do,” said Dillon. “We’ve already got a two-front war, Mr. Speaker. The last thing we need is another front. People are going to
start thinking Washington has just lost its mind.”

“I’ve already got this thing under way. The articles of impeachment have been drafted, the committee’s considering them, I don’t know…”

“Well, it’s your decision, but that’s my input,” Dillon said.

“I’ll think about it, but you’ve got to do something for me,” the Speaker said ominously.

“What’s that?”

Stanbridge spoke quickly. “Can you call…I can’t remember his name…your friend over at the Supreme Court?”

“Bobby?” Dillon responded.

“The Supreme Court has agreed to hear some kind of motion about the President’s lawsuit against me…I don’t know the details. Pendleton called. They’re going to consider it tonight.”

“You’re kidding me,” Dillon said. “On what grounds?”

“I don’t know, they aren’t saying. Just that they’re going to hear it. They’re probably going to set a hearing date, but we don’t really know. Pendleton is handling it.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Call Bobby, find out what the plan is…see if it wouldn’t be better for them to hear it on, say, Tuesday….”

“I can’t do that,” Dillon said, his stomach churning.

“What do you mean, you
can’t
do that?” the Speaker asked with anger in his voice. He paused.

Dillon listened to the silence on the phone as the sounds of the ship filled the void.

The Speaker continued, “You mean you won’t.”

Dillon’s heart pounded.

“Find out what’s going on. When they’re going to set the hearing.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Speaker…” Dillon said, his voice trailing off, the panic of being cornered tightening his gut.

The Speaker of the House was quiet on the other end of the phone.

“Dillon, I’ve never asked you to do anything for me that I didn’t think was appropriate. Call this friend of yours, see if it isn’t in the Supreme Court’s
best interests
to hear this matter next week and not tonight.” The Speaker paused again. “Are you following me?”

“Yes, Mr. Speaker, I
follow
you.”

“Call me back in an hour,” the Speaker said.

“Yes, sir,” Dillon said and ended the call. He put his phone back in his rear pocket and looked out over the water. His jaw was tight as he thought of the Speaker’s request. He looked at his watch.

The crisis sparked by the attack on the
Pacific Flyer
was putting every relationship he had at risk. Why couldn’t the President just do what he should have done in the first place?

He pulled out his phone and dialed. The phone rang and Bobby picked it up on the first ring.

“What?” Bobby said, agitated.