When journalism reveals a government’s dirty deeds, a country founded on constitutional constraints faces a stark test. Reports allege that a senior U.S. official ordered Special Operations commanders to “kill everybody” on a suspected Venezuelan drug boat in September, and after the first missile strike disabled the vessel, survivors clung to the shattered hull and were finished off by a follow‑on strike. Senators on both sides of the aisle have called for investigations, and former military lawyers have warned that the instructions amount to war crimes or outright murder. Critics from human‑rights lawyers to libertarian scholars point to a shocking departure from law enforcement norms, a blatant rejection of international humanitarian rules, and a disquieting expansion of executive power. If ever there were a moment to dust off the constitutional text and ask what limits actually bind the state, this is it.
The basic facts of the September attack are undisputed. Witnesses have testified that the official’s pre‑strike directive was to “kill everybody” on board. The initial strike disabled the boat and killed some passengers, leaving survivors clinging to the burning wreck, and a commander then ordered a second strike that killed those survivors. A former Navy pilot who now serves in the U.S. Senate observed that “going after survivors in the water…is clearly not lawful,” noting that in military aviation, attacking wounded sailors is a war crime. Another senator said the episode “rises to the level of a war crime.” Former Judge Advocates point out that such “double tap” instructions are indistinguishable from “no quarter” orders denounced as barbarous in the Lieber Code and prohibited by Article 40 of Additional Protocol I. International humanitarian law requires that persons rendered hors de combat by wounds or surrender not be attacked. Under domestic law, the War Crimes Act criminalizes intentionally killing persons who are “out of combat by sickness, wounds or detention.” Even if one accepts the administration’s assertion that it is at war with a cartel, a second strike to kill wounded survivors violates both treaty and statutory law.
Defenders of the September strike insist that everything was “lawful under both U.S. and international law.” They rely on the executive’s designation of a South American cartel as a terrorist organization and on the claim that the United States is in an armed conflict with drug traffickers. Yet designating criminals as terrorists does not conjure a war. International law allows force only when necessary and proportionate in self‑defense, and legal analysts note that the United States could have interdicted the vessel rather than destroy it. Long‑standing Coast Guard rules require warning and disabling shots and emphasize arrest over annihilation; none of those procedures were used here.
Turning to constitutional law, no statute authorizes the president to assassinate suspected smugglers. One former Justice Department official concludes that the president likely “lacked any affirmative domestic authority to order the strike.” Article I vests Congress with the power to declare war, and there is no precedent for unleashing missiles against non‑violent crime suspects far from American shores. Even if the War Powers Resolution were satisfied, due process prohibits depriving people of life without trial; drug smuggling is not a capital crime and federal law prescribes incarceration, not incineration.
Supporters of the strike respond that the War on Drugs has metamorphosed into a Global War on Terror. In this logic, criminals are relabeled as terrorists so that wartime authorities can be invoked. Legal analysts counter that drug cartels are profit‑seeking criminal enterprises, not insurgents or terrorist groups, and that designating them as terrorists will not restrain violence but will invite misguided military action. Misapplying the terrorism label strips the term of meaning and renders every crime suspect killable at the president’s whim. International observers warned that treating traffickers as wartime enemies invites escalation; in the United Nations Security Council, multiple states described the strikes as “extrajudicial killings” and cautioned that militarizing counternarcotics efforts sets a dangerous precedent.
The strike on the Venezuelan boat is not unprecedented. In 2011, the U.S. government killed three of its own citizens in Yemen without charges or trial. A lawsuit filed by civil‑liberties groups notes that the killings of Anwar al‑Aulaqi, Samir Khan, and 16‑year‑old Abdulrahman al‑Aulaqi violated the Constitution’s fundamental guarantee against deprivation of life without due process. These killings were part of a broader program of targeted killing outside any armed conflict zone. Outside of armed conflict, both the Constitution and international law prohibit killing without due process except to avert an imminent threat; even in war, lethal force may only be used against individuals directly participating in hostilities. The 16‑year‑old Abdulrahman, a Denver‑born U.S. citizen, was killed by a drone strike while eating dinner with his cousin. Years later, an analysis recounts that officials conceded the boy’s killing was a case of mistaken identity and quotes his grandfather describing how his grandson was blown apart by a missile, and laments that the drone program normalized extrajudicial assassination under a tortured interpretation of constitutional due process.
These earlier killings highlight a pattern: the executive claims the authority to kill Americans and foreigners alike based on secret criteria and with no meaningful judicial oversight. Civil‑liberties advocates argue that outside zones of active hostilities, the proper response to crime is arrest and trial, not remote execution. That lesson applies with equal force to the recent Venezuelan strike. If the government may kill a teenager eating dinner in Yemen, it will not hesitate to kill unarmed survivors clinging to a wrecked boat. The Constitution’s due‑process guarantee is not a suggestion; it is a command.
For those who value individual liberty, the moral indictment of these strikes is even more severe. One analyst calls the September attack a “criminal and impeachable” extrajudicial execution. Reclassifying civilian drug criminals as combatants militarizes a low‑level law enforcement incident, and the penalty for possessing drugs is incarceration after trial, not death by missile. Critics warn that giving any government a license to kill suspects inevitably leads to innocent deaths and argue that prohibition breeds violence, pushing markets underground and fueling homicide rates; decapitating cartels through assassinations creates power vacuums and increases killings. The better path is to repeal prohibition rather than to militarize it.
This skepticism reflects a classical liberal distrust of concentrated power. The founders wrote a constitution predicated on limited powers and checks and balances, not a roving commission to wage private wars. Libertarian writers bristle when modern officials treat constitutional constraints as speed bumps. The executive now decides who counts as a terrorist and uses that designation to justify lethal force; targeted killing programs rely on vague legal standards and a closed decision‑making process. Classified legal memos can become a “golden shield” protecting officials from accountability. When the government kills first and explains later, it erodes the rule of law and invites tyranny.
Originalists interpret the Constitution according to its text and public meaning. On that view, there is no general “commander in chief” authority to kill civilians abroad absent congressional authorization. Article I gives Congress—not the president—the power to make rules about captures, issue letters of marque, and punish offenses against the law of nations. The framers included these provisions to curb executive adventurism. One of them warned that “the executive is the branch of power most interested in war,” so war powers should remain with the legislature. Because treaties like the Geneva Conventions are part of the “supreme Law of the Land,” ordering a strike on survivors without legislative authorization cannot be squared with Article II. Due process forbids the federal government from depriving anyone of life without law; even captured enemies receive some process.
International law and prudence converge on the same conclusion. Rule 46 of the International Committee of the Red Cross’ study on customary international humanitarian law prohibits ordering that “there shall be no survivors,” and this protection applies at sea. Self‑defense allows force only against an actual or imminent armed attack, not against non‑violent smugglers.
The alleged order to “kill everybody” on a drug boat exposes more than a single act of brutality; it reveals an executive branch determined to stretch the law to the breaking point. In their zeal to wage war on drugs and terror, officials conflated law enforcement with combat, redefined suspects as enemies, and claimed war powers without legislative sanction. From an originalist standpoint, the Constitution grants the president no authority to wage such private wars. From a libertarian standpoint, the state’s will to kill without trial is tyrannical and immoral. International law, American statutes, and basic decency converge: killing survivors is murder. The proper response is to enforce the plain language of the Constitution and the Geneva Conventions. If we fail to do so, we embrace the dangerous logic that any person the executive deems a terrorist is expendable—and in the process abandon both our legal heritage and our humanity.
