The Price Of Power

by James W. Huston

  His gear was legendary. Nothing but the top of the line. It was rumored that since he was not married, his paycheck went directly to a sporting goods store where he simply picked up additional gear at the end of each month. In his garage he had skis, a snowboard, water skis, a Jet-Ski, a ski boat, snowshoes, a tent, a long board, a short board, mountaineering equipment, two mountain bikes, two road bikes, diving equipment, fishing poles (bait and fly), a windsurfer, a dirt bike, and a street motorcycle that his friends called his donor-cycle—because it was only a matter of time until he completely whacked himself and became an organ donor. The third bedroom of his condo was reserved for his other sports equipment. Tennis, soccer, weights, golf clubs, everything. Hughes’ life, outside of work, was taken up by his gear, and using it.

  So was his life at work. Hughes was a Navy SEAL, a lieutenant with SEAL Team One, tasked with always being ready for action in the Pacific Theater. His days on the job were also consumed with gear, and the opportunity to use it, only gear of a more deadly nature. Although Hughes loved all the SEAL missions, he particularly liked their occasional counter-terrorist actions and the equipment they used on those operations. Gear to find and kill bad people—people who were either attacking Americans or holding them hostage. He wanted every terrorist in the world to have sweaty palms when they thought of SEALs. He wanted anyone who thought of doing anything bad to Americans to wake up in a cold sweat knowing that either tonight, or the next night, or the one after that, somebody from some SEAL Team was going to come through a window or a roof or a door and would be the last thing they ever saw.

  Hughes turned the Suburban into the street leading to SEAL Team One’s headquarters. Even though it was fifty degrees outside, he wore his khaki, Navy-issue shorts, water sandals, and a dark green nylon jacket with the collar turned up. He pulled into the parking lot, maneuvered into his reserved spot, and cut the engine. Climbing down from The Beast, he went to the back and opened both rear doors. He unhooked a bag that was hanging on the special hook he had rigged in the back of the Suburban for just this purpose—to keep his uniform perfect en route. He picked up the uniform bag and his two gym bags, slammed the doors, and locked The Beast with the button on his key.

  He moved to the headquarters building, keyed in the code on the keypad of the entry door, and heard the solenoid release it. He pulled it open and walked onto the quarterdeck of SEAL Team One.

  “Helluvamorning!” Hughes said to the petty officer sitting behind the desk, who quickly dropped the magazine he’d been reading.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” the petty officer answered, controlling his voice.

  “Any message traffic?” Hughes asked.

  “Yes, sir, a couple of things of interest. They should be highlighted when you log on.”

  Hughes leaned forward so he could see Blake’s eyes more clearly. “You been sleeping?” he queried.

  “No, sir,” Blake said.

  “Didn’t think so,” Hughes said with a smile. “You look tired!”

  “Oh, a little, you know how the watch is.”

  “Hell, Blake, I’ve spent more time on watch than you’ve spent in the Navy!”

  “No doubt, sir,” Blake said, trying not to roll his eyes.

  Hughes threw his uniform bag over his shoulder. “You ready to go whack somebody today?”

  “Oh, sure, sir, always ready for that.”

  “You know how much extra training you get if you have to go on a mission today?”

  “None, sir,” Blake said, answering the question that Hughes asked him every day.

  “That’s right!” Hughes said. “Zip, none, by definition!” he said, picking up his bags and going past Blake in the direction of his office. “Take that for action!” he called over his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir, first thing,” Blake said automatically, returning to the pages of his newly arrived Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

  Hughes went into his office, turned on the overhead lights, and clicked the switch on his desktop computer with its seventeen-inch high-resolution monitor. He opened the closet door, hung up his uniform bag and set the two bags down inside. Before sitting down in his government-issue chair behind the gray, government-issue desk, he checked the coffeepot across the room, which he shared with two other lieutenants. “Well done, Blake,” he said to himself. Blake had set Hughes’s coffeepot on automatic to brew at four forty-five so that when Hughes arrived at five o’clock, it was fresh. Hughes poured a cup of coffee into his Navy SEAL mug and sat down. He typed his log-on name and password and called up the overnight messages. Hughes arrived at 0500 not to get in his workout—which he did with the rest of the team at six-thirty—but to get caught up on the paperwork that he never seemed to get to the day before. While the computer pulled up the messages, he took the papers out of his in-box and began leafing through them. The message reader came up on his screen and he set the papers aside. He clicked through the subject matter of each message, some of which were deleted unread, others he skipped to read later. He scrutinized the list for hot items—terrorist activity, suspected terrorist activity, or turmoil that might involve Americans.

  The most interesting messages were the ones from Navy Intelligence. Some from SPECWARCOM, CENTCOM, CNO, JCS, and others were certainly informative, but those from Navy Intelligence got his attention first. He scrolled down and one caught his eye. “Indonesian terrorists still at large?” Hughes clicked on the message subject and the full message came up on the screen. His scowl deepened as he read.

  “… the full debrief of Captain Bonham, the captain of the Pacific Flyer, will be forwarded under separate message within twenty-four hours. Of particular significance is the growing possibility that the lead terrorist of the action in Indonesia was not killed in the amphibious assault. It was initially believed that the terrorist known as George Washington had been killed by setting off a booby trap in an escape tunnel during the assault. While it is not known to the public, a contingent of Seabees was dropped on the island after the amphibious assault group had left. It was their job to search the tunnels, check all construction, and with EOD assistance, disarm any remaining booby traps or mines. While numerous booby traps were found, it was thought that all the tunnels had been cleared, including the location where George Washington was supposed to have died, but no bodies were found. It was then believed that he was among the group captured and brought back aboard the USS Constitution. However, Captain Bonham observed each prisoner in the brig and said that the terrorist formerly known as George Washington was not among them. It is now suspected that he is still at large and escaped the island somehow between the evacuation of the assault group and the arrival of the Seabees. His current whereabouts are unknown. The possibility remains that he was killed in the attack and the Seabees simply failed to find his body. However, that is considered less likely than that he survived…”

  Hughes finished reading the message. “Well, well, well…” Hughes stood up quickly, grabbed his coffee mug, and walked directly to the quarterdeck.

  “Blake!”

  “Yes, sir?” Blake said, reluctantly tearing his eyes from a voluptuous woman on the pages in front of him—he’d been wondering whether she had had implants or not. He had heard that forty-two of the last fifty Miss USA participants had implants. That seemed somehow unfair, like they should have a plain Miss USA pageant and an augmented version, where you can dye your hair, wear fake nails, put on as much makeup as you want, and implant whatever the hell you want…

  “Are you listening to me?” Hughes said loudly.

  “Yes, sir,” Blake replied.

  Hughes sipped from his coffee. “You ever been to Indonesia?”

  Blake hesitated a moment, and then answered, “No, sir, I don’t believe so.”

  “You know how much additional training you’d get about Indonesia if we had to go today?”

  “Zip, sir.”

  “Exactly,” Hughes said. “Zip, nada. When Lieutenant Michaels gets here tell him t
o get with Intel, we gotta renew all of our stuff on Indonesia now. We got smart there for a while, but I’m afraid we took our packs off. We gotta relearn that stuff today.”

  It was a report Cary Warner, President Manchester’s National Security Advisor, did not want to give. He took a deep breath, knocked once, and walked into the Oval Office. “Evening, Mr. President,” he said, trying to remain controlled.

  “What brings you here?”

  “I have some bad news, Mr. President.”

  “Let’s have it,” the President said, putting down his pen and sitting back in his chair.

  “I’m afraid our Indonesian friends have hit again.”

  “What happened?” the President demanded.

  “Several men landed on the north shore of Irian Jaya in speedboats. Four boats.” He looked at the President grimly. “Walked through the jungle and attacked the headquarters of the largest gold mine in the world.”

  “So?” the President said.

  “So,” he continued, “it’s American.”

  The President recoiled.

  Warner anticipated his questions. “The gold mine is operating legally—contracts and treaties with the Indonesian government. But it is American-owned, at least as a majority.”

  “What happened?” the President asked again, impatiently.

  “They killed several guards and did a lot of damage to the mine. But more important, they kidnapped the president of the company and his wife right out of their bed. On the way out they set off enough explosives to cripple the mine for a long time to come.”

  Manchester put his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. “Didn’t they have any security?”

  “Yes, sir. They had armed guards, fences, quite a lot actually. This was an inside job. One of the guards in the compound was a native of Irian Jaya who apparently had it in for them. Not only did he know exactly what time to strike, but he opened the gate for the intruders. Then, of course, he disappeared after the attack.”

  Manchester opened his eyes reluctantly. “What do you make of it?”

  “Well, kidnapping is usually for one reason and one reason only: extortion. To demand something.”

  “Do you think it’s a private kidnapping? For money from the company?”

  Warner shrugged. “Possibly, but I don’t think so. My guess is they’re with the ones who are on their way to jail in Honolulu. My guess is we’re going to be hearing from them.”

  Chapter Three

  In the interview room of the Pearl Harbor brig, Admiral Billings sat stiffly in a metal chair next to a gray metal table too small for the cavernous space. Billings’s wrists had noticeable red marks. His uniform was soiled and tired-looking from the booking process.

  The gold braid, ribbons, and gold wings were a shocking sight in the brig. So shocking that each of the Masters-at-Arms who worked there walked by his cell to take a mental snapshot of an admiral in the brig. Several wanted to take a real snapshot, but the officer in charge had prohibited it.

  Billings sat alone at the table and stared at its rubber-like surface. His face showed resolve and confidence. His anger had diminished but his resolve had hardened.

  The door opened and a Navy lieutenant commander in tropical whites walked in. Billings stood up.

  “Good morning, Admiral. I’m Lieutenant Commander Bryan Lynch, head of the JAG office here. Actually the office of defense counsel.” He put out his hand, which Admiral Billings took, examining Lynch with a critical eye. He was in his thirties, with an unremarkable face and thinning sandy hair. His uniform was a little too small and the fabric strained across his paunch.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” Lynch said cheerily. “I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

  “Me too,” Billings said. So far, he wasn’t impressed.

  Both men sat down and Lynch opened his briefcase, pulled out a manila file, and placed it on the table in front of him. “Since I am the officer in charge of appointing defense counsel for courts-martial, I took the liberty of appointing myself as your defense counsel in this case—”

  Billings held up his hand. “Before you go on any further, I want to ask you two things.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lynch said.

  “Number one, what am I being charged with, and number two, are you the best attorney available to defend me?” Billings sat forward to address Lynch in the no-nonsense style he had adopted as an ensign. He found it the most effective way there was of cutting through what usually passed for military conversation. He wanted to get to the heart of the matter. The more senior he got, the more important it was to him not to waste time on irrelevancies. “You see, Commander, this is not your ordinary dope-smoker case. I’m not some shoplifter who got caught sticking a Playboy down his pants. This is a political case. You understand that?”

  “Well, yes, sir, I do understand that—”

  Billings interrupted. “Do you understand that this is a vendetta by the President against me? Do you understand that?”

  “Well, I don’t know that I would put it in those terms…”

  Billings scowled. “What terms would you put it, Commander?”

  “Well,” he said, fumbling through the file. He read: “The charge is going to be violation of a direct order. Article Ninety-two of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You were issued a direct order to retire your battle group from the Java Sea, away from Indonesia, and to return to Pearl Harbor. You were specifically ordered not to follow the Letter of Reprisal that had been issued by Congress and you were not to attack or harm anyone.” He read on. “They’re going to say that you violated that order and went forward with the attack, killing one hundred fifty Indonesians…”

  Lynch scanned his notes for the meat of the charge. “… Also resulting in the deaths of twenty-one Americans who went ashore in the raid, and one American missionary who was killed by one of the missiles launched in the attack.”

  “I know the facts, Commander,” Billings said curtly. “It shouldn’t have surprised anyone that there were casualties. Am I being held responsible for casualties in a combat action?”

  “Well, sir, I think the point of it is that you are being held responsible for the combat action itself.”

  “Commander, the Letter of Reprisal was issued by Congress. A branch of our government using a power that’s been there since the founding of our country. Are you aware of that?” Billings tried to control his temper.

  “Yes, sir. I think everybody in the world is aware of it.”

  “I followed the Letter of Reprisal, Commander. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s the issue, isn’t it? Whether you were entitled to follow that letter after you received a direct order from the Commander in Chief not to,” Lynch said, trying to figure out how to calm his new client, yet ensuring he didn’t talk down to him. He went back to his notes. “There’s another thing here you need to be aware of,” he continued.

  “What’s that?” Admiral Billings asked, sitting back.

  Lynch hesitated, not wanting to look into Billings’s eyes. “They are contemplating charging you with negligent homicide. Manslaughter, basically.”

  Billings squinted and rested his forearms on the table. “What?” he said in almost a whisper, his eyes boring holes in Lynch.

  “For the death of the American missionary. He was kidnapped by the Indonesians, probably to use as a hostage, and was in the bunker when the attack occurred. According to this, one of the missiles fired killed him.”

  “True,” Billings said reluctantly. “But what does that have to do with me?”

  “They’re holding you responsible for his death.”

  Billings hesitated, not believing what he was hearing. “Me personally?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Lynch said, putting the file back in his briefcase.

  “Who is the convening authority?” Billings asked angrily. “What admiral signed the charges against me? I’m sure I know him and…”

  Lynch grimac
ed. “No, sir. No admiral convened this court. It was the President.”

  “The President? He has convening authority for a court-martial?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Billings stared at Lynch. He had been sure he could deal with whatever admiral was in charge of the court. But not the President. “Has a President ever convened a court-martial before?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Jim Dillon hung his jacket quickly on the hanger behind the door in his office in the Capitol building. As special assistant to the Speaker of the House, his office was on the fourth floor, up two floors from the Speaker’s. Level A in the elevator, for attic, which is what it used to be. Grazio’s office was just outside his. He turned on his computer, logged on, and called up the news brief he read every morning. It was sent to him on an e-mail distribution list. It was better than most newspapers. He sipped his coffee as he waited for the long e-mail to load.

  Grazio interrupted his thoughts. “It’s almost seven-thirty,” he announced from the doorway.

  “Hang on a minute,” Dillon replied, trying to catch the headlines before facing the Speaker.

  “Figured out what you’re going to say yet?” asked Grazio.

  “Nope,” Dillon said. “Just want to raise the issues.”

  Grazio glanced quickly at his watch. “I know he’s in his office. Want to go?”

  “Yeah,” Dillon said, tired of waiting for his computer.

  They hurried down the staircase to the second floor, where the Speaker’s suite was located. They went through a red-carpeted anteroom toward Robin, the administrative assistant who sat outside the Speaker’s office.

  “Morning, Robin,” Dillon said cheerfully. Grazio echoed the greeting.

  “Good morning, Jim, Frank,” she said, amused. Grazio always amused her. Dillon she loved, but Grazio amused her. “He’s waiting for you.”