McCormick shook his head. “You won’t have to wait that long, Mr. President. I’m going to draft it at home now. You’ll have it tonight via fax.” There was a knock on the dining room door and a White House staffer stuck his head in.
“Excuse the, Mr. President, but there’s a message from Indonesia.” The President looked at the other three and then back at the staffer.
“Do you have it with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring it in.” He handed the envelope to Van den Bosch, who opened it and read the contents. He looked ill. “It’s a message from our ambassador to Indonesia. From Jakarta. They received a letter”—he looked at his watch and converted the time of the message to local time—“one hour ago. It’s from George Washington. He has new demands,” Van den Bosch said. “His message is as follows: ‘Thank you for releasing my then. They will be well employed. Thank you. I insist on you obeying earlier demands given through Captain Clay Bonham. The United States, and all its businesses and missionaries, must leave Indonesia and the United States Navy must leave the area oceans immediately and stay away for ten years. If you do not agree, in public, Mrs. Heidel will be killed and her body sent to the White House. Have heard of attack on Admiral Billings and death of Captain Clay Bonham. Very tragic. Give my regards to their families until I can deliver them in person. You have five days. Signed, George Washington.’ That’s it.”
Manchester waited. “I may need you to stay on, Greg.”
The Attorney General shook his head. “You’re on your own,” he said, walking out.
Commander Mike Caskey raised the landing gear on the F-14 as they climbed away from the USS Constitution. “Gear up, Messer, I’m level at five hundred feet.” Caskey loved flying off the carrier. When operating VFR—Visual Flight Rules—after a clearing turnaway from the cat, the carrier’s planes leveled off at five hundred feet above the water until they were seven miles away from the carrier. It kept the aircraft down and away from the airplanes circling above the carrier waiting to land in their ever-descending race-track pattern, hitting the deck thirty to forty-five seconds apart, like clockwork. Caskey set his radar altimeter for four hundred fifty feet to avoid an involuntary descent into the water. He looked down at the white caps of the choppy blue ocean below him and smiled beneath his oxygen mask. He spoke into the microphone in the middle of his mask to Messer Schmidt, his RIO, sitting five feet behind him.
“ ’Member last time we flew over one of these islands?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We ended up going swimming in that big blue ocean down there. At night. And a bunch of bad guys with Cigarette boats decided they wanted to come out and talk to us. If it weren’t for Drunk Driver, we’d have been goners.”
“Yes, sir. I would, therefore, recommend that we go nowhere near the island we’re going to photograph today.”
“My point exactly,” Caskey said as he watched the DME click over to seven miles. He pulled back hard on the stick. The vapor from the moist air condensed on the wings as the Tomcat pulled up through one thousand feet at 3 Gs.
“Remember EMCON,” Caskey said. “They’ll be looking for us.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Messer said, annoyed. EMCON. Emission Control, no electronic transmissions, depending on the category of EMCON. Today the F-14 wasn’t emitting anything. No radar, no IFF—Identification Friend or Foe—no radio, and no navigation aids. The only emitter allowed was the radar altimeter, and only during takeoff and landing. They were to use the newly installed GPS to navigate to the island, do one TARPS run to make the snake-eaters happy, and return to the carrier.
Caskey leveled off at three thousand feet, much lower than their normal cruising altitude. They didn’t want to be seen by any other radars that might be on.
“How far to the island?” Caskey asked.
Messer looked at the GPS indicator. “Eighty-two miles.”
“Should be a milk run,” Caskey said.
“Should be,” Messer echoed.
“Cold mike, Messer.” Caskey turned the microphone in his mask off so that he and Messer could not hear each other breathing anymore. Caskey felt the same apprehension he knew Messer did. Every time they did anything involving this George Washington character, things didn’t work out so well. Caskey had flown the initial supersonic pass by the Pacific Flyer, when it had first been found. A nice clean sonic boom to let them know that the Navy knew where they were. They had gotten a shoulder-fired SAM as a thank-you card. Fortunately, the SAM had run out of gas before the F-14 did and they escaped unharmed. The next time they had not been so lucky. In flying over the island of Bunaya for a reconnaissance mission, they had avoided the electronic SAM indications only to be hit by an infrared SAM from behind. They had gone down in the ocean and only through the good shooting of the F/A-18 squadron commander were they able to eat another hamburger on the Constitution. Caskey was annoyed by his uneasiness.
They flew in silence for a while. Then, “Twenty miles,” Messer called.
Caskey pushed the nose of the Tomcat down and descended to a thousand feet. They were still five miles off the coast, which with their altitude, would give them an extremely flat angled picture, but it was what the SEALs had requested. Caskey was happy to stay five miles away from the island, almost certain to be unseen and undetected.
“We gonna transmit these pictures live back to the carrier?” Messer asked.
“We’re EMCON, Messer.”
“Roger that. Sorry. Approaching way point one.”
Caskey scanned the horizon for something unusual. He couldn’t see anything. He felt blind not having the radar on, but he was pleased by what he saw. “You got the tape rolling for the TVSU?”
“Yeah,” Messer replied.
Caskey switched his display to bring up the television picture. The island came through clearly in black and white. “Pretty dense,” Caskey said.
“You got that right. Cameras coming on.”
Caskey felt his entire body tighten as they began their photo recon run on the island, one of the outposts for George Washington. They screamed by the island, far enough away that their engine noise would easily be mistaken for a jet passing high overhead. The cameras took a series of automatic digital pictures at the same time Schmidt recorded the video images from the TVSU.
“End of run,” Messer said.
“Roger,” Caskey replied. He banked hard left to distance himself from the island and stayed at a thousand feet. When they were twenty miles away, he pulled up sharply and climbed to fifteen thousand feet. He pointed to the carrier. “What’s our station for our AIC hop now?”
Messer peered at his kneeboard, where he had written down their Air Intercept Control hop information from the brief before the flight. “One two zero at forty-five.”
“Who’s the bogey?”
“S-3.”
“Oh yeah. Very exciting. Real challenge. Like pulling the legs off an ant.”
“Hey, at least we’re flying.”
“Fair enough. Give the a heading.”
“Zero seven five,” Messer replied.
Caskey pulled the nose of the Tomcat up sharply and rolled the airplane over on its back to his left.
Dillon opened the door to his Georgetown apartment, still musty from his absence. Molly stood next to him, much closer than she would have a month ago. Dillon felt a rush of adrenaline, just as he always did if he hadn’t seen her for more than thirty minutes. He was falling for her, and he wasn’t putting on the brakes for the first time in his life. It was freeing. He wasn’t afraid he would say or do something that would make her disappear. The last two weeks had built a relationship based on commitment. Poverty will do that.
They still differed on many important things. But they found less of a need to talk about their differences and more opportunities to reinforce the things they had in common. Commitment will do that. He helped her with her coat. He leaned forward and kissed her on the neck, which was covered by a turtleneck sweat
er. Her warmth and scent came through. She leaned her head back and put her arm around him. They stood there for a moment and then she turned and he took her in his arms. He kissed her gently on the forehead, then softly on her lips. She returned his kiss.
He smiled warmly. “You’re awesome I’ve got a question for you,” he said, holding her to him with his hands around her waist.
“What?” she asked.
“Will you marry me?”
She stared at him, not sure what to say or do. It was one of those big moments in life that you are supposed to have been thinking about since adolescence. “What?” she asked again.
“I want you to marry me.”
“We just got back to Washington. We’ve been in Hawaii, Neither one of us has a job. You’ve never even uttered that word before.”
“I know, I’m supposed to do the romantic thing, the ring, the knee, whatever, but I just had to tell you what I was thinking about. I’ve got to tell you how I feel about you. I want to marry you.”
She walked to the couch and sat down.
He sat next to her and his words broke into her thoughts. “I hope I didn’t shock you. Don’t have a heart attack on me.”
She smiled. “How can I have a heart attack—actually, I might. Are you serious?”
“Quite.”
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. We’re supposed to talk about it, or something.”
“I know. I fouled it all up. So will you?”
She thought of their time in law school, the two years when he completely ignored her, the one year when he made faltering attempts at starting a relationship, the four years after law school when he ignored her again, and their renewed awkward relationship over the past few weeks in Washington and Hawaii. “No,” she said.
“What?”
“I said no.”
Dillon studied her. Never did he think the first time he proposed to a woman the answer would be no. Never. “No? Just like that?”
“Well, not just like that. No for now. I’m not ready, Jim,” she said. “We just started dating. Maybe one day. But not yet.” She met his eyes. “I have to be completely sure. Divorce isn’t an option. I’m going into marriage knowing it’s once only. That’s a heavy burden. In the back of my mind, there’s always that question of what it is that will take you away from me. A job? Another woman? Some career I don’t see now? I don’t know. We need more time.”
“So you’re not saying no, never. You’re saying no, not right now.”
“Right,” she said.
“Fair enough, that’s good enough for me. Are we still dating?”
“Of course.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“So that’s it, the end of the discussion?” she asked.
“What else do you want to say?”
“Nothing I guess. You’re just amazing. It’s like … what do you want to get at the grocery store? Wanna go see a movie? Wanna marry me? Wanna watch a game? It’s like casual to you.”
“It’s not casual to me at all. Why do you say that? I’ve been holding it in for days. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
“You’re a mess.”
“You’re right. So what do you want to eat?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How’s your new job?”
Dillon stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “What new job?”
“Working with David Pendleton, the chosen executioner.”
“Don’t start,” he said, pointing his finger at her.
“I’ll start whenever I want.”
“I don’t work for him.”
“Who do you work for?” she asked, going toward the kitchen. Dillon followed her.
“Nobody.”
“You’re still not getting paid?”
“No.”
“How are you paying for this swank place?”
“Credit card, before I left. One more month and I’m bankrupt.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to make your car payments.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They found my car.”
“Oh, great.”
“Not great. It’s completely totaled.”
“Well, you’re in fine shape. I don’t think my father would approve.”
Dillon didn’t say anything. He began taking plates out of the cupboard and putting them on the small table.
“Where’s my sunflower cup?” she asked, her eyes traveling over the shelves.
His eyes suddenly got big. “Umm…” he said, hesitating. He knew he had to tell her. “I tossed it.”
“Did you break it?”
“No.”
“Help me,” she said, confused.
“Last time you were here. When we argued?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“You were drinking out of it at the time.”
“So?”
“Well, I was mad at you.”
She suddenly realized the implications. “You threw it in the trash?”
“I was frustrated,” he said, ashamed.
“How immature is that!”
“Very,” he said. “I meant to replace it before tonight, but I forgot.”
“Well, I’ve just learned another little point of interest about you. When angry, throws mug—into the trash.”
“Well, whatever. Look, I’ve got some Hamburger Helper,” he said going through the cabinet, “Some macaroni and cheese … that instant soup stuff that you put in a cup with hot water…”
“I’m not eating any of that. Forget it. I think I’ll just go home. You probably gotta work after this, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“With the guy that doesn’t employ you. Mr. Pendleton. Right?”
“The reason I came back here, Molly, instead of staying in paradise with you, is because I believe President Manchester shouldn’t be the President anymore. Especially now, since he won’t deny that he’s a pacifist. If any country that has the ability to do us harm decides to test whether or not he’s a pacifist, it could be big trouble. I don’t think he should be there. I think he should either resign or be convicted.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” Molly said, giving him a pitying look.
“No, I guess I don’t. But I don’t see why that matters either. I see him the way every other citizen does. I don’t know the inner workings of his brain, I have to go by what he says. And so far, what he has said is not reassuring.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stanbridge raised his hand for quiet. “Please, please,” he said to the representatives assembled on the House floor. “Let me be heard. I know that we’ve done this recently. I know that I’ve kept you here after hours too often in the past month. But too often Congress has had to control events outside of its normal sphere. We now know through the release of those who we thought were responsible for that fiasco in Honolulu that the terrorists are still at large. They’re still out there in the world prepared to wreak more havoc. And in fact they have wreaked more havoc. They captured the American president of a mining company that was doing business legally and under contract with the Indonesian government on the island of Irian Jaya. He’d been running the largest gold mine in the world, to the benefit of the people of Indonesia and of the United States, and they executed him. They captured his wife as well. They demanded the release of the people in Honolulu, who coincidentally were released by the judge. Those men are back in Indonesia now, but Mrs. Heidel is nowhere to be seen. For all we know, they could have killed her too. She sure hasn’t shown up.
“But for those of you who have short memories, let me review where we are. This body, in accord with the Senate, issued a Letter of Reprisal, which was delivered to the USS Constitution battle group. Admiral Ray Billings recognized the constitutional authority of the Letter of Reprisal and his obligation to support and defen
d the Constitution of the United States. The very same oath that you and I have taken. Admiral Billings did conduct a reprisal attack on these pirates. He cleaned out their den on that island, at the loss of too many American lives, and several Indonesian lives, and captured the rest of them. But because we could not prove that any of them were involved in the Pacific Flyer attack, they had to be released.”
The Speaker paused as a murmur passed through the House. “The President then had the temerity to challenge the Letter of Reprisal on constitutional grounds. That challenge failed before the Supreme Court and although it now still lies before the District Court of the District of Columbia, it’s a dead issue. It is moot.
“But Mr. so-called George Washington, the one who seems intent on challenging the United States, is still at large. He may have Mrs. Heidel, he may not be with her at all. But what I want to say right here, right now, is that the United States will never rest until he is found and brought to justice or killed. And to be clear, I am not recommending that we act like a bunch of policemen and go out there and give him his Miranda rights and handcuff him. If we can capture him and bring him back to the United States for a murder trial, fine. But if we can’t, if he puts up any resistance whatsoever, whether or not we give him notice that we’re coming, then I would not be sad if he were killed in the process.” Half the House applauded while others sat stonily silent.
“But I bring before you tonight not another request for a Letter of Reprisal. As appropriate as I think it would be to do just that, or to even allow Admiral Billings to finish the job that he started under the previous Letter of Reprisal, Congress has another more appropriate tool this time. As I’ve already told many of you, I am here requesting that we issue Rules of Capture on Land and Water under the United States Constitution, Article One, Section Eight. You have all received copies of the rules that I think are appropriate. These rules will not be general rules of capture, but will be rules specific to this incident. While it is unusual for us to pass specific rules, it is particularly appropriate in a unique situation where Americans have been killed, retribution has been obtained, and more Americans are killed. Our President continues to do nothing except perhaps to pressure the U.S. Attorney in Honolulu to release the very people who murdered the seamen on the Pacific Flyer.”
The Price Of Power Page 38