Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  “In the kitchen.”

  Sami smiled. “Of course. Why do I ask?”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “What do you have?”

  “How about some iced tea?”

  “Sure. That sounds great.”

  There was a pitcher and glasses on the table next to his chair, and his father poured tea into one of the glasses and handed it to him. As Sami took it the door slid open again and his mother, Linda Haddad, came in. She was tall with dark blond hair, and had a gentle face. Smiling at Sami, she said, “Sami, thank you for coming,” and hugged him.

  He hugged her back. “Of course,” he said.

  “So,” his father began in Arabic, “we must discuss the developments in Gaza.”

  Sami balked. He didn’t like discussing the Middle East with his father. Too often, such talks ended in arguments. To Sami’s opinionated and intransigent father, it was inconceivable that Sami might know more than he did about the place where he had grown up. Sami hadn’t spent more than a few months there, total. Sami didn’t dare tell him that he actually knew much more, but couldn’t share it with him. This made for some awkward conversations.

  “What about it?” Sami answered in English.

  “What do you think of what happened?” his father countered in Arabic.

  “Speak English.”

  “Your mother speaks Arabic as well as you do. There is nothing wrong with speaking the language of my youth.”

  “No, there isn’t. But you live in America now, and some day you’re going to have to acknowledge that.”

  “Ha!” his father exclaimed. “I acknowledge it every day by staying here.”

  Sami drank from his glass. “It is a great tragedy,” he said in Arabic, “that just when the peace process was nearing completion, when Syria and Israel had finally reached an agreement, when the Palestinian state is operating—although not with great health—someone tries to stir it all up again.”

  His father looked satisfied. “I wouldn’t put it past Syria to be behind it.”

  “What?” Sami asked. It had never occurred to him. “How could that be?”

  “They speak peace with one side of their mouths, and pay others to destroy it at the same time. This regime is just like the one before it. They gain nothing from peace with Israel. Their power comes from conflict. They don’t know how to build roads or a great economy.”

  “But who is this Sheikh?” Sami asked, not wanting to tell what he knew.

  His father was pleased by the question. “You’ve never heard of the legend of the Sheikh al-Jabal? It goes back many centuries. To Hassan al-Sabbah, the first man to take the name. In the eleventh century. The founder of the Assassins. The guardian of Islam and the region. It is fascinating that someone is calling himself that today. It will inspire others.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “Are you working on this at all?”

  “Father, you know I can’t discuss my job.”

  “Yes, well, you speak Arabic better than anyone in Washington who didn’t grow up in Syria, and better than many of them. Since you work as an intelligence agent,” he said with a hint of contempt, “it follows that you study the area of my home.”

  “Of course I do. You know that. I am an analyst of the Middle East. No mystery there.”

  “But what are you working on right now?”

  “Father—”

  His father acknowledged the rebuff with a wave of his hand. “All right, all right. But keep one thing in your mind when you do your analysis of this attack. At the base of every tree is the root. And the root of all problems in the Middle East is Israel.”

  “What?” Sami asked, annoyed. “Come on. The Sheikh didn’t do what he claimed? Israel did it? They attacked their own people? For what?”

  “No. I meant they take positions which ensure outrage from others and then plead innocence. To gain sympathy, maybe to set back the peace process, who knows. Their brains don’t work like the rest of us.” He raised a hand and pointed one finger toward the sky. “Just mark my word. The root of all trouble in the Middle East is Israel. You’ll see one day. Maybe not today, but one day, you’ll see.”

  “It’s time for dinner,” Sami’s mother announced.

  “Come,” his father said, putting out his arm around Sami’s shoulder. “I will tell you of the book I have decided to write.”

  15

  Can I borrow your laptop?” Woods asked Big. Big looked up from his desk, where he was working on a Sailor of the Month nomination. “Are you kidding me? This is my baby. This is the machine that contains all the great novels and screenplays I’m going to write.”

  “So can I use it? I let the Ops O borrow mine.”

  “Hold on. Let me get out of this,” he said, saving the file. “I suppose you’re going to want the printer too?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  Big pulled out a ream of paper, carefully taking out two sheets and handing them to Woods. “Is this the Big Letter to your congressman?” he asked as Woods turned on the computer.

  “Yep.” Woods stared at the screen. “What do you call a congressman? Your Honor? The honorable whatever? What is it?”

  “You must have been an engineering major.”

  “What do you call him?”

  “You address it to ‘The Honorable Joe Schmuckatelli at the address for the House of Representatives, which I do not know off the top of my head. Then inside, you say, ‘Dear Mr. Schmuckatelli,’ or ‘Dear Congressman Schmuckatelli.’ Nothing to it. It doesn’t really matter though. No one will see it except some twenty-two-year-old puppy-dog-college-grad who has never done anything, never served his country in the military, and is destined for law school in three years.”

  Woods stopped typing. “You’re really encouraging, you know? Everybody tells you to work through the system, and then ridicules the system as being unworkable. Which is it?”

  “I thought you were the one who was cynical about the system.”

  “Sometimes. I guess I always hope that someone will do the right thing.”

  There was a loud knock on the door and Woods heard voices. “You expecting anybody?” Woods asked.

  Big shook his head, reaching behind him and opening the door from his chair. Lieutenant Rayburn and Lieutenant Commander Maloney entered together.

  “I didn’t know you had your staff doing your research for you,” Big said, amazed.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Woods asked.

  Rayburn answered first. “I just came to talk to you about some things I’ve found, and the padre here was hovering outside your door.”

  Maloney looked at Rayburn horrified. “I was not hovering. I was composing my words. I wanted to say the right things.”

  “He was hovering,” Rayburn replied, looking at Woods. “Anyway, I found some interesting things,” Rayburn said. “You got time? You want to talk about this stuff now?”

  “Absolutely,” Woods said excitedly. “Come on in.”

  Rayburn and Maloney entered the stateroom and looked for somewhere to sit down.

  “Pull up a bed,” Woods said, indicating his own tightly made bed, which of course was welded to the deck. They sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward so their heads didn’t hit Big’s upper bunk. Woods turned his chair to face them. “I was just drafting a letter to Congressman Brown, the congressman from my district in San Diego,” he said, trying to contain his excitement. “He’s got to love this—he’s a retired Vice Admiral. Former AIRPAC.” AIRPAC was the Commander of Naval Air Forces, Pacific. “He was the one in charge of all the carriers in the Pacific, all the airplanes and all the training.”

  Rayburn spoke first. “I’ve got to tell you,” he said, “I thought you were nuts. But I understood,” he acknowledged. “Predictable response to losing your best friend. Then when I heard what you wanted to know I knew you’d lost it. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought you might be on to something.” He
opened the massive blue book in his hands. Adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, he looked from Woods to Big. “I was going to show you the Constitution, and tell you how stupid you were. But when I read it again, I started thinking about it a little . . .” He fumbled with the book, trying to balance it on his lap while he flipped to the back.

  “What is that?” Woods asked.

  Rayburn glanced up at him. “What? Oh, this?” he said, looking at the book. “Kind of funny. Even though I’m a lawyer, I don’t really read the Constitution very often. I wasn’t even sure where to find a copy,” he said, chuckling. “This is my Con law book from law school. The Constitution’s in the back, in an appendix. First time I’ve pulled it out since I graduated five years ago. Never thought it’d be to see if we can declare war against somebody,” he said. “Let’s see,” he said. “Article I, Section 8 . . . Congress shall have power to . . . it goes on for a while,” he said, turning the page, “but here it is, to declare war.”

  Woods waited, watching Rayburn. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Just what it says,” said Rayburn.

  Woods spoke carefully. “Anything that would make it impossible for Congress to declare war against one guy?”

  “I read the entire Constitution several times. I looked in every article, every section. I couldn’t find anything that says you can’t do it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Woods asked, his heart pounding.

  Rayburn put up his hand. “But Con law isn’t just about reading the Constitution. The Supreme Court stopped reading it decades ago. It’s about what the cases say—it’s about what the Supreme Court says it says, not what it actually says.”

  “So, what do they say?”

  “I have a lot of case books aboard, most of the federal cases. I looked. And I got on the Internet and looked on Lexis.”

  “And?”

  “Never been dealt with at all. At least not that I can find. I may be missing something, but I haven’t found anything that would stop Congress from declaring war against the Sheikh.” He waited for a reaction from Woods. “I haven’t done a complete job of the research, but I feel pretty sure if I did I wouldn’t find anything. There isn’t even much in the law review articles. Lots of talk about the balance of power between the President and Congress, and talk of Letters of Marque since Congress pulled that stunt a few years ago, but nothing about declaring war against a person. In fact, what I’ve found so far shows that not only is there no prohibition it used to be ordinary.”

  “What did?” Woods asked, confused.

  “Declaring war against somebody by name. When you go back and look at how it once was done in England, centuries ago, they used to declare war against the king of Spain. As a person. Naming him as an individual. Sure, it was in his capacity as the King of whatever, but it named him as a person. So to say you can’t declare war on a person is simply wrong at least historically. The question is could we declare war against Joe Smith, a citizen of England. And I haven’t found anything that says Congress can’t do just that if it chooses to but it kind of goes against what war is. It’s sort of defined as against a sovereign country.” He paused. “But it seems to me the definition is ripe for expansion. We don’t get attacked by sovereign countries anymore. Our battles are against groups of people, or individuals. Seems like a great idea to me, and I don’t see anything that would stop you.”

  “That’s amazing,” Woods said. “Nothing?”

  “Nope. Not a thing. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I love the idea. This could change foreign policy forever . . .”

  “See, Big! What’d I tell you?” Woods said. “It’s a great idea, isn’t it?” he asked Rayburn, seeking further confirmation.

  “I don’t know why someone hasn’t thought about it before. It solves so many problems. It could add a few too, such as what to do with a country that is protecting a terrorist. But just put them on notice, and pretty soon they’d realize maybe it’s not such a good idea to let terrorists run training camps there. Could shut down the whole operation. I mean if Switzerland had allowed the Nazi armies to hide in Switzerland, you think we’d have just said, okay, no problem, we’ll wait? No chance. It would have been at their peril. There’s the doctrine of pursuit in warfare and international law. Nixon got in trouble for bombing Cambodia, which might be similar, but hey, they didn’t even declare war in Vietnam.” Rayburn adjusted his bent wire-rim glasses. “I think what would really happen is that there would be a huge constitutional law argument, about whether you really can do this or not. But at least as to whether there is something out there that says Congress can’t, it’s not there.”

  Woods smiled like a little boy. “I really appreciate your help. I’ll let you know when he answers. We may hear about it on the news first, when Congress goes after the dicks that killed Vialli. Thanks.

  “What about you, Padre?” Woods said, looking at him, then speaking to Rayburn. “The chaplain is an expert on ethics and warfare. That kind of stuff. He was going to help me convince Congress that it would be a just war. Right, Padre?”

  Maloney’s round face flushed pink. “I didn’t see my role as convincing Congress that it would be a just war,” he said. “I was simply trying to analyze the situation as you described it, hypothetically, and bring my understanding of just war theories to bear . . .”

  “Don’t go intellectual on us. What did you find?”

  Maloney was clearly uncomfortable. He debated with himself whether to continue at all, but he saw no way to extricate himself. “I am hesitant to give you my preliminary conclusions, because if you send them off to your congressman they may be used to justify decisions with which I am not wholly comfortable. I came here only to discuss them with you. Having said that . . .”

  “What’s the bottom line, Padre? Would it be a just war, or not?” Woods asked impatiently.

  Maloney nodded. “I think it would. May I explain?”

  “Did you write it down?”

  “Yes, I prepared a preliminary analysis, very superficial . . .”

  “Can I see it?” Woods said, sticking out his hand.

  Maloney pretended not to hear him and spoke without looking at the document rolled up in his hand. “There are seven criteria. I have given some thought to each of them. First,” he said, touching his left forefinger with his right, counting, “it has to be the last resort, your last option; this may be, I don’t see any diplomatic options here. I don’t know enough to say. Second,” he said, continuing to count with his fingers, “it must be aimed at deterring or repelling aggression; this probably is. Third,” he said, sneaking a look at the paper he had rolled up, “it must be undertaken by legitimate authority; that, I take it, is your current objective, and why Mr. Rayburn is here. Fourth, it must be a right intention, such as defending against a great injury; this might qualify, since he shows no signs of quitting. Fifth, there must be probability of success; clearly, there would be. Sixth, there must be proportionality of goals and means; that remains to be seen, depending on what exactly we did after such a declaration—”

  “And?” Woods asked. “Cut to the chase.”

  “Lastly,” Maloney continued without missing a beat, “care must be taken to protect the immunity of noncombatants; I assume that would be done. In summary, Mr. Woods, I think St. Thomas Aquinas would not consider your cause unjust. These are just preliminary you under—”

  “Unbelievable!” Woods said, standing up suddenly. “How can Congress not do this? I’ll tell the congressman you endorsed it.”

  Maloney was startled. “I haven’t endorsed anything.”

  Woods fixed him with a gaze the chaplain had never seen before. “Not willing to put your ass on the line a little?” Woods let the silence linger for a few seconds. “That’s what being a Naval officer is all about. You make decisions, things happen. You live with them. We don’t usually get to study them forever, or argue about them with our coll
eagues for a decade while we sip tea. We decide based on the information we have. Can you do that?” He looked at the paper Maloney was carrying. “Will you let me send that to my congressman?”

  Maloney handed him the paper. Beads of sweat were visible on his temples. “I hope they know what they’re doing.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Big said sarcastically. “Congress always knows exactly what they’re doing. I for one have all the confidence in the world—”

  “Can I send it?” Woods asked Maloney again, not allowing him an ambiguous ending.

  Maloney hesitated, then nodded.

  “Thanks, Padre,” Woods said, smiling. “I’ll let you have a copy of the letter I send out. And I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back.”

  “Thank you,” Father Maloney said. “This is a very unusual thing. I hope we can learn from this.”

  Woods turned to Rayburn. “Would you be willing to write a memo that says what you just told me?”

  Rayburn hesitated. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I don’t want to give a legal opinion to Congress without my superiors knowing about it. I don’t think it would make them very happy.”

  Woods looked back at the chaplain. “What are you going to do, Padre, when Congressman Brown proposes this on the floor and cites you as his justification?”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Maloney said, feeling trapped.

  “Let’s hope it does. I think Brown will be on national television within two weeks. You’d better be ready.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Big said.

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Father Maloney said to Woods. “I think you are overestimating one person’s ability to affect things. Or at least political things.”

  “Ideas have power of their own.”

  “Who said that?” asked Big.

  “I did. One way or another, this country will take care of Vialli.”

  Father Maloney and Lieutenant Rayburn got up, ready to head out.

  “Thanks for your help, you guys,” Woods said.

  “Sure,” they both replied. “We’ll see what happens,” Rayburn added. “You never know.”