Uncivil Liberties (20 page)

He didn’t hear her approach, so the soft
,
warm hand on his neck surprised him. He turned to look back over his left shoulder to find his wife, Helen, leaning down to kiss him.

“Got time for a sandwich before you meet the wolves?” she asked.

“That would be great,” he said, clicking off the TV and rising to follow her to the sitting area at the other end of the room. Knowing what some of his NSC cohorts were likely to request, he had decided to cut them off at the knees and hold a pre-emptive press conference as soon as the ‘wolves’ had had sufficient time to digest the Sacramento announcement and the various states’ press statements. The presidential conference would begin in just over an hour. He sat in a leather chair and Helen handed him a roast beef sandwich with mayonnaise and pickles, wrapped in a paper napkin.

“Where would I be without you, lady?” he joked.

“Probably still practicing law in Phoenix,” she replied.

“Wouldn’t
that
be nice.” He took a bite of the sandwich and leaned back in the chair, resting his head on the rear cushion for several moments as he chewed and swallowed. “Where
did
the road divide?” he said as Helen sat across from him on the couch.

“Excuse me?” she said, tilting her head.

“At what point did we change direction? Why aren’t we
still
in Phoenix, and why am I not still practicing law, or better yet, playing golf?”

Helen smiled and nodded. “I can tell you the
exact
moment, Mr. President,” she said. “Do you remember Clarence Henshaw?”

“The city councilman from Mesa?”

“That’s him. You were doing what you referred to as ‘community involvement’ and serving on the Phoenix city council. Do you remember when Clarence announced that he was going to run for governor of Arizona? We were sitting at our breakfast table and you read his announcement in the paper. Do you recall what you did then?” Helen asked.

Bill Snow laughed, shaking his head. “I do, actually. I think I said,
‘heaven help us if such fools take charge of our lives.’”

“That’s right. At that exact moment, I knew you were going to run for governor of Arizona. The rest is history.”

“Are you kidding me? I didn’t even know myself for about three months.”

“
I
  knew,” she replied.

“How?” he said, a bit more serious in his query.

“Because I knew
you
, Bill. We were making pretty good money in those days, but that was never your goal. You used to teach the kids,
‘We each have to take a turn standing on the wall to defend America. It’s not someone else’s duty, it’s ours.”

“I said that?”

“You did. That morning, at that moment, our lives changed direction. And Councilman Clarence Henshaw lost his next election for the Mesa city council, and you ran for governor and won.”

Snow rose from his chair and came to sit beside his wife on the couch. “Any regrets, sweetheart?”

“Not for a moment, Mr. President. Most people will never know this job isn’t at all what it’s perceived to be. Sure, there’s lots of power, lots of prestige, everyone stands up when you enter a room, and, if you eventually write a  book and enter the speaking circuit, there’s recovery of the money you forego in your government service. I don’t make light of that. But in fact, it’s a sacrifice, clear and simple. A personal sacrifice for those who hold the office. It certainly is a sacrifice for their families. Personal lives and privacy are sacrificed to the nation. And half the nation, or more, disagrees with everything you do. And the political opposition will impugn your every motive.”

“And if we go home after one term, having never been elected?” he asked, holding her hand and looking into her eyes.

“You won’t be the first, and besides, I’ve always wanted to learn to play golf with you. We’d have plenty of time for each other, wouldn’t we?”

President Snow looked at his wife for several long moments, then cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her lips. “I love you more than my own life, Helen. Thank you for always standing
beside me.” He continued to look at her, knowing that she was always uncomfortable with praise or, in this case, adoration.

“Well,” she said, rising
and brushing off her dress, her face flushed. “Finish your sandwich and go meet the press. This promises to be an adventurous day. What will you do? Have you formulated your plans?”

“Lots to consider, but I know what I
won’t
do. I will
not
go to war over the secession. I’ll do everything in my power, short of military intervention, to try to stop this break-up of our nation, but I will not use the military to oppose it. And that’s what I intend to tell the press before I meet with the Security Council. That should put a kink in their plans.”

Helen stepped toward the door and paused, looking back at her husband. “I love you too, Mr. President. Do what needs to be done, and if the nation doesn’t agree, then you can take me home to a beautiful Arizona sunset, probably in the Republic of Western America,” she added. “By then, it will be time for someone else to stand on the wall.”

From the bridge of Her Majesty’s Australian Ship,
HMAS North Lakes,
an
Armidale
class patrol boat, Lieutenant Commander Kate Cartwright, Royal Australian Navy, sat in the captain’s chair, watching the wharf facility at the Brisbane Bulk Sugar operation pass by on their starboard quarter, while Midshipman Barker, a JOUT, or Junior Officer Under Training, nervously took his first attempt at pilotage under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Jones, ship’s navigator. Very little activity was apparent in the commercial sugar facility, not surprising for a Sunday morning, especially in light of the long four-day Easter weekend. Most people had, in fact, turned their attention to the celebrations planned from Brisbane to Coolangatta, in concert with the Australian University Games along the Gold Coast. Many were simply taking one last weekend away before summer ended.

As
North Lakes
ploughed steadily forward, the imposing Gateway Bridge drew closer, then loomed overhead. They passed beneath the graceful arch on their way east down the Brisbane River toward the rendezvous with
HMAS Defiance,
an
ANZAC
class frigate, scheduled for half an hour later in Moreton Bay. Both ships were newly commissioned, the most recent of their respective classes to be built.

As a patrol boat commander, depending on the daily work load, Cartwright crossed beneath the bridge several times a week, yet there was always something exciting—satisfying, even—about sailing under the graceful overhead span, either entering or leaving the river basin.

Opened for traffic in 1986, the bridge had originally presented a design problem. Due to the proximity of the Brisbane International Airport, the bridge was restricted in overall height to a total of 80 meters, but to accommodate the passage of bulk container vessels, it needed a minimum lower elevation of 55 meters. The result was a nearly flat profile, with a gently sloping arch in the center, the design problem having been transformed into an aesthetically pleasing engineering and architectural solution.

Commissioned in 2008,
HMAS North Lakes
was a Royal Australian Navy Patrol boat, one of two on temporary assignment to patrol South Queensland waters. Built in Henderson, Western Australia, the ten
Armidale
class boats had nearly replaced the
Fremantle
class, only two of which remained in service.
Armidale
patrol boats,
like the
Fremantle
before them,
were more than the traditional river gunboats operated by navies around the world. With some functional improvements since the original HMAS
Armidale
had been commissioned in 2005,
North
Lakes,
a twin screw capable of more than twenty-five knots, was fifty-seven meters in length with a crew of twenty-one and capable of handling two to three meter seas as she performed various coastal duties around Australia.

At twenty-nine and an honors graduate of the Australian Defence Force Academy in Canberra, class of ’05, Lieutenant Commander Cartwright was justifiably proud of the sleek lines of her new ship, and, understandably proud also of her new posting as captain of the
North Lakes.

In twenty-five minutes, they entered the western stretch of Moreton Bay, the original location of Brisbane, which, when founded in 1824, was the home of a penal colony to house the truly incorrigible who were formerly incarcerated in Sydney as part of the 19
^th
century British determination to colonize Australia.

Later, during WWII, Moreton Bay had been the home of a contingent of the United States Navy’s Task Force 72, more specifically designated Navy 134, U.S. submarine headquarters for the eastern half the South Pacific. Another U.S. submarine operation, responsible for the Indian Ocean, had been headquartered in Fremantle, Western Australia. Both bases had been commanded by General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of the Pacific Theater of operations, who was based in Darwin after his evacuation from the Philippines.

Nearly two hours earlier, near Mooloolaba at the mouth of the estuary through which all ships entering Brisbane had to pass, north of Bribie Island,
HMAS Defiance
had taken on her harbor pilot for the two-hour transit into Brisbane’s port facilities.

Two of the most imposing harbor entrances in the world are San Francisco, California, and Sydney, Australia. Each harbor is entered directly from the open waters of the Pacific Ocean and each has a magnificent bridge guarding its entrance. In a centuries-old custom the Americans called “Man the Rails,” or, as the Australians call it, “Procedure Alpha,” sailors line the railings of the vessel as it passes under the arch. Brisbane was a less imposing entry point.

Being further inland, entry to Brisbane was a circuitous route, requiring a roughly two-hour passage through a maze of channels, Northwest, Spitfire, and Main among them, before actually entering the broader reaches of Moreton Bay.
HMAS Defiance
had traversed this route through the morning and was due to meet
North Lakes
at the western edge of the bay, just short of where both vessels had been directed to conduct a ceremonial run up the Brisbane River.

As
North Lakes
left the river proper and entered the more open waters of the bay where navigation was confined to a series of well-marked channels imposed by the limited depth of parts of the bay, Lieutenant Commander Cartwright lifted her binoculars and immediately could see
Defiance
making her way toward them.

Several other vessels, including two VLCC crude oil tankers and one ULCC tanker, were also navigating their way back to sea. By the time ultra-large crude carriers had come on the scene in the late 1990s, some drawing as much as fifteen meters, sections of Moreton Bay were reduced to clearance of only a single meter between seabed and the ship’s keel, making the pilot’s job all the more demanding.

At 0920 hours,
North
Lakes
and
Defiance
commenced their run into the Brisbane River system. Both ships’ companies were dressed in S3s, or ceremonials—the Australian Navy’s dress white uniforms for formal occasions.
Defiance
was in the lead with
North Lakes
in line astern, a by-the-book procedural 500 meters separating the ships. Ships’ crew not on specific duty elsewhere lined the rails as the vessels made their way upriver. A few spectators were beginning to appear at various vantage points along the bank.

The two-ship parade passed the Port of Brisbane on their left side, and, off to the north, on their right, or starboard side, Lieutenant Commander Cartwright noticed three commercial aircraft spaced out on their final approach to the Brisbane International Airport. The channel began to narrow slightly as the ships entered the actual entrance of the Brisbane River and more commercial facilities began to appear, predominately on the north shore. Passing the BP Products oil refinery and then Cement Australia, despite the fact that the requirement to maintain proper separation from
Defiance
required constant attention, Cartwright had continued to allow Midshipman Barker to con the ship. She could detect growing tension in his commands as the procedural formalities increased and the ship’s maneuvering room decreased.

Directly over the port bow about two miles distant, Cartwright observed a small aircraft flying northeasterly, coming low over the Bulimba Creek tributary and turning toward their vessels. Casually, she lifted her binoculars to get a better look. It was a two-engine Beechcraft with what appeared to be a single pilot in the cockpit, flying low and fast at about 200 meters. Cartwright thought this peculiar, given the speed and the flight path to Brisbane International, plus the direction of the morning wind. The commercial airliner’s approach pattern had indicated an approach from the east. But on an otherwise calm Sunday morning, the small anomaly registered no alarm in her mind. She had seen her share of show-off pilots buzzing the local beaches. The small aircraft flew directly over the gap between
Defiance
and
North Lakes
on a course for the north shore and, as Cartwright assumed, was probably destined for the airport or for a trip to impress early sunbathers.