The Price Of Power Read online

  The lieutenant commander preceded him down the gangplank with three Masters-at-Arms around him. Billings turned and faced the officer of the deck, where he would normally salute him, and paused, then turned toward the stern of the enormous aircraft carrier to salute the flag he couldn’t see. He loved saluting the flag as he left the ship. But he couldn’t. He stood at attention, then turned to walk down the gangplank. He was careful not to misstep on the inch-high treads. If he stumbled, the zooming lenses would rush to see him doing a face-plant into the gangplank.

  He continued cautiously. He stepped onto the pier and waited for instructions. The reporters and others rushed toward him, relieved of whatever restraint had held them back. “Admiral Billings!” they yelled. “Admiral Billings! How do you feel about your upcoming court-martial?”

  Billings said nothing. Not a single word. Let them answer their own questions. Carolyn fought her way through a line of reporters being held back by several sailors trying to maintain a pathway to a van for Billings. Carolyn told one of the sailors who she was. They stepped aside and she went to her husband, tears forming in her eyes. Her strawberry blond hair framed her freckled, ageless face as she hugged him. She closed her eyes and rested her head on his scratchy gold shoulder board. “I missed you,” she said, trying to sound warm and comforting.

  He couldn’t hold her. He could only lean his head into her awkwardly or risk sending his cap flying. “Sorry you have to see this.”

  “I’m not,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “You did the right thing.”

  “Not here,” he said, pulling back slightly, his lips firm and unresponsive.

  She stepped back, understanding.

  “Admiral Billings! When is the trial?” one particularly loud reporter yelled.

  “What’s going to happen?” Carolyn asked.

  Billings shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  The lieutenant commander was growing impatient. “Admiral, if you don’t mind, we need to head…”

  “I know, Commander.”

  They walked slowly toward the van. Sailors watched from the Constitution from every available spot: the hangar deck, the flight deck, and every deck above it.

  Carolyn fell in behind her husband. “Where are they taking you, Ray?”

  “To the brig,” he answered, aggravated at having to say it.

  “When will they let you out?”

  He was about to respond when an MAA gave him an unsubtle poke to move toward the waiting van. His glance over his shoulder told Carolyn his expectation.

  The MAA opened the side door and waited. It was a prisoner van with bars and grilling on the windows.

  “Ray!” Carolyn called out “When can I see you?”

  She didn’t hear any response as he climbed into the van and the door slammed behind him. “When will he be out?” she asked one of the petty officers with an MAA armband.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. You’ll have to ask the JAG officer.”

  “What JAG officer?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” the petty officer said as he ran around the van, jumped in, and started it. The driver waited for the sailors to push the reporters back to clear a path off the pier. Carolyn backed slowly toward the ship out of the way of the van and the reporters. She felt stupid and exposed in the slightly low-cut sundress she had worn. Her gold wedding band and engagement ring glimmered in the sunlight from the cleaning she had given them that morning. She ached for her husband. She had never seen him ashamed before.

  “See the Admiral getting led away like a rapist?” Frank Grazio said, breathing hard as he followed Jim Dillon on their daily run through Rock Creek Park in Washington, D.C. They ran on a well-worn path in the early morning darkness. The February night’s frost made the ground slippery, but not enough to slow them.

  Jim Dillon, special assistant to the conservative Republican Speaker of the House John Stanbridge, led Grazio through this run every day. Grazio was another aide on Stanbridge’s staff. They tried to maintain a seven-and-a-half-minute-mile pace, which made conversation somewhat difficult.

  Dillon responded over his shoulder. “Completely humiliated.” He wore expensive running shoes, dark blue running tights that had reflective paint on the sides, and a fleece sweatshirt. They both wore gloves and knit hats. “President did it on purpose,” he said breathing quickly. “Sickening.”

  “Wait till the admiral gets court-martialed.”

  “Yeah,” Dillon said.

  “I’d love to have been there when the Speaker saw the footage.”

  “Not me. Surprised we didn’t get a call in the middle of the night.”

  Grazio checked his watch to check their elapsed time. “What do you think he’ll do?”

  Dillon glanced at Grazio behind him. “We’ll have to peel him off the ceiling.”

  “What’ll he do?”

  “He’s got to do something. When they met at the Supreme Court the President declared a truce. This breaks that truce, big time.”

  Grazio grabbed the trunk of a tree to help him pivot around a sharp turn. “Just when we thought it was safe.”

  “It’s never safe in Washington.”

  Dillon made the last turn on the path and headed up a steep hill. Boulders were on both sides of the path with only enough space for one person to pass. They continued single file with Dillon in the lead as he increased his pace and pulled away from Grazio.

  Grazio yelled at his back, “You trying to prove something?”

  Dillon ran faster. He passed under trees at the top of the hill. Against the gray sky, the bare branches overhead looked like a huge spiderweb. The hill flattened and he effortlessly navigated the curb two blocks from his Georgetown apartment. He turned left down the street and ran on the pavement. Grazio broke out of the park thirty feet behind him. Dillon slowed to allow Grazio to catch up. As soon as Grazio pulled up next to him, Dillon accelerated to a six-minute pace.

  The fog formed by their hard breathing made a cloud that followed them down the street. They ran the last four hundred yards with steady efficiency and stopped at the mailbox in front of Dillon’s building where they always stopped.

  “What did you mean you’ll find out this morning?” Grazio asked Dillon.

  Dillon inhaled deeply. “When I got home last night and saw Admiral Billings on the news,” Dillon paused as he thought again of the image, “I asked the Speaker if I could meet with him this morning.”

  “For what?”

  “About Admiral Billings.”

  “What about him?”

  “We’ve got to do something.”

  “We who?”

  “Us.”

  Grazio looked confused. “What can we do?”

  “The President declared a truce, Frank. He broke it.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Help Admiral Billings get off, and go after the President.”

  Grazio stared, his mouth open. “How are we going to do that?”

  Dillon didn’t answer. He took off his knit hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I don’t know yet.”

  Grazio studied Dillon’s face. “You serious?”

  “Serious as a heart attack.”

  “You gonna tell Molly?”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That you’re going to go after the President again. That ought to set her off.”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “You talking about starting the impeachment stuff again?”

  “Maybe,” Dillon said. “He’s got no business going after Admiral Billings.”

  They stopped in front of Grazio’s car, a shiny royal blue Mustang GT convertible. He reached under the front bumper and retrieved his keys in the magnetic box he kept there. He pressed the button on his key chain and disarmed the car alarm. “I want to do whatever I can to help.”

  Dillon was pleased. “Meet me at the office at seven-thirty. We’ll go see the Speaker together.”

  “I’ll be t
here.”

  The U.S. Marshals’ buses edged through the crowded pier and parked where Admiral Billings had stood. They were large, blue, custodial buses with bars on the windows. Armed marshals stood beside them. Reporters looked on curiously as they waited to catch a glimpse of the prisoners. But they weren’t quite as excited as before—taking Indonesians into custody didn’t have the sex appeal of a shining white admiral in stainless-steel handcuffs.

  Deep inside the Constitution, the U.S. marshal in charge of transporting the prisoners waited at the door to the ship’s brig. He had expected the steel door to open immediately after his knock, but now, after waiting some minutes, began to grow impatient. He knocked again, harder. Ten other marshals stood behind him, crammed into too small a space. Finally, the door swung open. The master chief petty officer in charge of the brig stepped out and offered his hand.

  “Good day, Marshal, I am Master Chief Calvin Spanner. An MACM if you’re interested.”

  “Glad to meet you,” the marshal said, studying Spanner. “I’m Marshal Tim White.” He took the clipboard Spanner was holding that had the list of prisoners he was to pick up. He studied it silently. “I thought there were fifty.”

  “There were,” the master chief said gruffly. “Two more bought it coming back.”

  “Bought what?” White asked uncomprehendingly.

  “Died,” the master chief said as if to someone stupid.

  White searched the master chief’s eyes for malice. “How?” he asked.

  “Wounds.”

  White frowned. “What wounds?”

  “From the battle. When the Marines went ashore, you may recall, they killed about a hundred fifty of the sons a bitches. They also injured a bunch. Those two took a couple of rounds. They lived long enough to get captured, but not enough to get tried and executed,” the master chief said with a wry smile. The master chief’s uniform was impeccable. The hundred percent polyester khaki looked better than it should have on him. His long bare arms hung from the short sleeves, overemphasizing his formidable strength.

  “So where are they?”

  “In the fridge,” said the master chief.

  “The fridge?”

  “Yeah. We were gonna bury them at sea, but the admiral figured we ought to hang on to ’em in case somebody wants to ID their asses.”

  “Not the dead ones, the live ones,” the marshal replied.

  “The live ones,” Spanner said. “Oh, sure. Sorry In the brig. Right through that door.”

  “Are they bound?” the marshal asked.

  “Nope, just sitting there enjoying themselves.” The chief smiled. “You ready for ’em?”

  White indicated he was.

  “Roger that,” Spanner said. “Sign this.”

  “Nope,” the marshal said. “I’m not signing anything till I see ’em and count ’em.”

  “Wrong,” the chief said. “As soon as the brig door opens, they are your property. If you don’t sign, the door doesn’t open. Simple as that. You take responsibility for opening the brig door.”

  The marshal stared at him and the chief stared back. “What if there aren’t forty-eight of them?” the marshal asked.

  “I will leave this form right here; if there aren’t forty-eight of them you can come back and make whatever notes you want on this piece-a-shit form.”

  The marshal glanced at the men standing behind him. They all had dozens of plastic handcuff links jutting from their pockets like trash bag twist-ties. The marshal considered for a moment, then signed. “Let’s have them.”

  “Stand back!” the master chief bellowed. He jammed a key into the heavy brig door and turned the heavy latch with a bang. He put the keys back in their place behind the counter and called for the other MAAs who were beside him on either side of the door.

  “Master-at-Arms on deck!” the chief yelled at the top of his lungs as he threw open the heavy door. The marshal followed the master chief into the brig, then stopped and stared openmouthed. Forty-eight small Indonesian men clad only in underwear sat on the floor with their hands folded in their laps. Their hair was buzzed to a quarter inch. They didn’t even look up to see who had come into the brig.

  “What the hell have you done to these guys?” the marshal asked, half from surprise and half from concern.

  “Nothin’,” Chief Spanner said gruffly, surveying the group on the floor as he spoke. “Told them to sit their asses on the floor and stay there. At first they didn’t want to do that. Then they learned. Just like all brig rats.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Marshal, they got treated the same way anybody gets treated who comes into the brig on this ship. We take infractions of the law seriously. If they dick it up, they get in … trouble.”

  “What do you do, hit them?” the marshal asked accusingly.

  “Nope. Never touch them. We just make it hard on them.”

  “How?” the marshal asked.

  “We don’t let them have ice cream, or … eggs benedictine.”

  “Benedict,” the marshal said.

  “Yeah, whatever,” the chief said. “So get these assholes out of here.” To the Indonesians he shouted, “On your feet, assholes!” They immediately got up and stood at attention, looking straight ahead.

  “They all speak English?” the marshal asked.

  “Nope, not a one of them, not one damn word,” Spanner said, his piercing eyes moving back and forth, watching the prisoners for any sign of disobedience.

  The marshal studied Spanner to see if he was being had. “How did they know what you said?”

  Master Chief Spanner regarded him as he would a child. “Hell, Marshal, even a dog knows how to obey commands. You think your dog speaks freakin’ English?” He faced the prisoners. “Line up!” The prisoners immediately formed two immaculate lines, which they had obviously done several hundred times before. The other Masters-at-Arms walked between and around the Indonesians ensuring that they were in proper formation.

  Master Chief Spanner looked at the marshal. “Where are their clothes?”

  “I was gonna ask you the same question.”

  “Hell, their clothes were so full of lice and filth and shit we burned them. Right in the incinerator. I did it myself. Went up like a bunch of damn oil rags.”

  “They don’t have any clothes?”

  “Just these skivvies, which we were nice enough to give them,” the master chief said. “We didn’t have to.”

  The marshal said, fighting back his frustration, “Don’t you have any clothes for them?”

  “Well,” Master Chief Spanner answered, “we could probably scrounge them some bathroom flip-flops and some dungarees and T-shirts. I’ll have to bill you for ’em though,” he said with a glint in his eye.

  “Bill whoever you want,” the marshal said. “Get them some clothes.”

  Spanner called to the third-class petty officer standing just outside the door to the brig. “Petty Officer Hammond—get these assholes some clothes. Probably all size small. I don’t think one of these dickheads weighs one-fifty. Now!”

  Hammond disappeared, then returned with dungarees, flip-flops, and T-shirts for each of the Indonesians. They immediately put the clothes on and returned to their line.

  “Okay, Marshal, they’re all yours,” Spanner said with finality.

  The marshal’s team went to each prisoner and put on the plastic handcuffs.

  “You’ll have to lead us out of here.”

  Spanner turned and hurried up the ladder toward the hangar deck.

  The group followed Spanner and reassembled on the hangar deck in their two perfect lines. They snaked across the enormous bay to the enlisted brow, the gangplank to the pier. As they approached the brow, Master Chief Spanner stepped back. “You’re on your own now, Marshal.”

  “Thank you for your help, Master Chief,” the marshal said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “You’re quite welcome, Mr. Marshal. What do you want me to do with the two stiffs?”
<
br />   The marshal shrugged. “Leave them there for now and I’ll get back to you.”

  Spanner watched as the marshal led the prisoners down the gangplank toward the pier, stopping to face the ship, knowing he was supposed to do something to acknowledge the flag, but wasn’t sure what. He stood there awkwardly, then proceeded the rest of the way to the pier. The cameras rolled as the reporters hurled questions at the marshals, who tried to look serious and busy and not look directly into the cameras. The faces of the Indonesian prisoners showed their confusion. Some were angry, their expressions hate-filled; others seemed young, wide-eyed, and unknowing. They were all men, mostly in their twenties and thirties, but a few were in their teens.

  They walked carefully up the steps of the large buses, knowing if they fell they would land on their faces. As soon as the last prisoner was on the bus the drivers began pulling away from the Constitution. The reporters yelled complaints about not being able to approach the prisoners. The buses accelerated, turned, and headed toward Honolulu.

  Lieutenant Dan Hughes slowed his Suburban and dimmed his lights as he approached the gate of the Navy SEAL base in Coronado, California, across the bay from San Diego. The sailors manning the gate knew him, knew his jet black Suburban, and knew that he was the only one who arrived at 0500 every morning. Hughes lowered his window, leaned slightly to his left to make sure the petty officer saw him, and held up his ID. “Good morning!” he said loudly.

  The guard stepped forward, saluted, then said, “Good morning, sir.” He motioned Hughes forward.

  Hughes gunned the engine on his Suburban, turned his lights back on, and headed onto the base. He loved The Beast, his midnight black Suburban. The 2500, not the pathetic 1500; the four-wheel drive, not the soccer-mom two-wheel drive, leather-lined yuppie van. Hughes had oversize tires on his Suburban and had taken off the yuppie luggage rack to install a much more usable, multifunctional rack that converted to hold a mountain bike, a kayak, skis, or a surfboard. All of which he had. Hughes needed his Suburban to haul his gear. And Hughes was known for many things, not the least of which was his gear. He had bought a condo on the water in Imperial Beach. Two elements had been critical to him: It had to be on the beach, and it had to have a three-car garage, two thirds of which was for storing his gear.