I Do Solemnly Swear (20 page)

They walked single file down the long, narrow corridor, their heavy steps echoed in the air like rhythmic beats on a metal drum. When they reached the circular stairway, they climbed two flights to the main deck. The brisk wind whistled hauntingly. The thick air felt heavy in Stevers’s lungs. Ready to make history, a dozen fighter planes, their wings glistening in the bright moonlight, sat quietly along the perimeter of the runway. Armed with radar-activated missiles and smart bombs, six Stealth bombers had already taken off, prepared to level the Iranian Air Force base. The more nimble, swifter F-18s would accompany the Stealths and protect them from an air attack.
Lizzy Borden
was first in line. Stevers and Travis had named their F-18 only weeks ago. Walking side by side, they approached
Lizzy
. Their flight helmets were tucked securely under their arms. Commander Bradley stood adjacent to
Lizzy
, his neatly creased trousers waving in the breeze.

They stopped and saluted.

Bradley nodded. “Lieutenant Stevers, Lieutenant Travis, make us proud, gentlemen.”

Stevers could never remember Bradley’s voice sounding so benign. Did the commander actually call him by his surname?

They climbed into the cockpit. Stevers snugged his body into the gunner position, and Travis settled in behind him as navigator. Stevers flipped switches and toggles and fired up the engines. With fastidious detail, they went through their regimen and checked every control, every gauge. Stevers signaled a thumbs-up to the flight safety officer, and he waved them forward. The engines whined, and
Lizzy
inched her way to the edge of the runway. Both pilots secured their helmets and let their oxygen masks hang loosely. The canopy slowly lowered over their heads. Stevers couldn’t help but feel that a glass coffin had just entrapped him. His nauseous stomach heaved bile into his mouth.

The FSO waved the white flag.

Stevers yanked on the throttle, and
Lizzy Borden
screamed down the runway. She was airborne in less than ten seconds. One by one, fighter planes ascended off the deck of the
Ronald Reagan
and thundered into the night sky. Led by
Lizzy Borden
, twelve F-18s in a V-formation cruised toward Abadan at an altitude of twenty thousand feet.

“It was brotherly of you to volunteer my services,” Travis said to Stevers. “This is the one we’ve been waiting for.”

Stevers looked at the wrinkled photo of Debra and Todd taped to the dash. “Yes, indeed,” Stevers said. A few years ago, he’d fantasized about a mission like this. But as
Lizzy Borden
raced through the dark sky, all he could think about was whether or not he’d live to see his wife and son again.

Twelve minutes after takeoff, the F-18s rendezvoused with the Stealths, and the fighter planes maintained visual proximity to the bombers.

The Stealths slowly began their descent.

The sky was cloudless, an inky dome as black as soot. Stars were scattered across the heavens like salt sprinkled on black tile. For a moment, Stevers forgot where he was. His mind journeyed to another dimension, and he was absorbed into a world of soothing peacefulness. He’d had episodes of retreat before, periods of disconnection from reality, particularly at times of great stress. But never had he wandered during conditions demanding such painstaking concentration. Unlike daydreams or fantasies, this world was three-dimensional. He could see Debra, touch her, feel the contours of her warm body against his. Debra’s sweet breath filled his senses with joy and excitement.

“Hang on to your nuts!” Wes Travis yelled.

Stevers jumped, adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he grudgingly returned from his momentary lapse. It took a moment for him to reorient himself with a world much less appealing. Stevers watched in utter disbelief as, one by one, the Stealth bombers released their first round of smart bombs and RAM missiles. For twenty, perhaps thirty seconds, Stevers neither heard nor saw anything. It was as if time had stopped. But then, like a Fourth of July fireworks display, the ground lit up with one burst of fire after another.

Stevers checked his coordinates.

The hits were dead-on.

As the bombers cruised past their target and repositioned for a final attack, six Thunder fighters—Iran’s most sophisticated fighter planes—emerged from nowhere. The sky was peppered
with flashes of light and rumbling explosions. Out of the corner of Stevers’s eye, he saw one of the Stealths explode into a ball of orange fire.

He yelled into his mask, “Thunder fighters at three o’clock! Intercept! Intercept!”

With his wingman maintaining his position, Stevers led the counterattack. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and rested his anxious finger on the trigger. Stevers checked the heads-up display and tried to lock one of the Thunder fighters in his sites. The Iranian pilot’s evasive maneuvers were the best Stevers had ever seen. The Thunder fighter swerved, twisted, sharply turned left, trying to elude
Lizzy Borden
. Stevers steadied his hand and tried again to lock on his target. The heads-up display went berserk. He squeezed the red launch button, and a Sidewinder missile under
Lizzy
’s right wing ignited, burst forward, and chased the twisting and turning target. Stevers watched the helpless fighter explode into a cloud of red flames. He knew it was time to leave, but the Stealths were unable to complete their second hit. He wanted to be certain the mission was completed.

“Let’s unload on these bastards!” Stevers yelled.

Stevers’s wingman, Lance Wentworth, said, “No can do, hotshot. The base is history. We’ve done our job. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“No!” Stevers shouted. “Follow me, Lance. The rest of you maintain your formation. And watch your asses!”

To further destroy the air force base, Stevers and Wentworth maneuvered into position while the other ten F-18s continued their battle with the five remaining Thunder fighters. As Stevers locked the air force base in his sites, ready to squeeze the launch button, a thunderous explosion rocked his plane. At first, he
thought he’d been hit, but when he looked to his right, he saw his wingman’s plane engulfed in a ball of fire.

“Lance has been hit!” Stevers yelled.

He’d barely spoken the words, and Stevers watched in horror as Lance Wentworth’s F-18 tumbled out of the sky. He clenched his teeth and pounded his fist on the dashboard. “This is for Lance, you motherfuckers.”

He launched a Maverick missile, and it thrust toward its target. Just as he was about to pull back on the stick and join his fellow pilots, an antiaircraft missile tore into
Lizzy
’s left wing. The F-18 tilted to its right and rolled out of control, rapidly losing elevation. He grabbed the throttle with both hands, but the plane would not respond. Stevers looked to his left and saw half of
Lizzy
’s wing shredded off.

“We have to eject! We have to eject!” Stevers screamed.

Travis grasped the eject lever. “Let’s do it!”

Lieutenant Kyle Stevers snatched the picture of his wife and son, stuffed it inside his jacket, and closed his eyes. He pulled the eject lever, and his body catapulted into the ominous Iranian sky.

***

When the telephone rang, Kate was still sitting on the yellow sofa in the Oval Room, restlessly sleeping in an upright position. She lifted her head and cranked it from side to side, hoping to get the knot out of her neck. She lifted the receiver. “This is President Miles.”

“Madam President, it’s Charles. I have information regarding Operation Freebird.”

Kate felt her heart thundering. This was not a conversation for the telephone. “Meet me in the Oval Office in twenty minutes.”

Kate had no time for a shower and was not interested in sporting a chic business suit at four a.m. She brushed her teeth,
took a swig of Listerine, and threw on a pair of wool slacks and a cotton sweater. She dragged a comb through her hair and touched up her makeup. Without a thick coat of concealer, she could not hide the puffy bags of flesh hanging under her red eyes.

Kate entered the West Wing and found McDermott and Toni Mitchell waiting for her outside the Oval Office. McDermott was sitting on the corner of Emily’s desk, and Toni Mitchell was pacing the floor. Kate studied the chief of staff’s eyes. His stoic expression didn’t yield a clue. McDermott and Mitchell followed Kate into the Oval Office. The president sat on the striped couch; the chief of staff and secretary of state sat opposite her. McDermott looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept in days. But it was more than that. His cheeks were sunken in, and his glassy eyes were severely bloodshot. McDermott and Mitchell remained silent.

“Maybe you’d like to tell me what the hell’s going on?” Kate was raw with impatience and full of dread.

McDermott folded his hands. “Just gathering my thoughts.” He glanced at Toni Mitchell. “For the most part, Operation Freebird has been an overwhelming success, Madam President.”

Kate curled her hands into fists. “‘For the most part’ doesn’t give me a warm-and-cozy feeling. Would you care to elaborate?”

“We believe that all communication between Ahmadinejad and his field commanders has halted,” McDermott said. “The two warehouses have been completely destroyed, and the air force base is no longer operational. A handful of fighter planes evaded our attack, but for all practical purposes, the base can be referred to in the past tense.”

Kate knew there was more. “American casualties?”

“We lost two F-18s and one Stealth.” McDermott’s face was ghost white. “Five airmen are confirmed dead. Two MIA. Their plane was hit and on fire, but before the plane went down, another
pilot watched the two airmen eject. We can only assume at this juncture that the two pilots parachuted to Iranian soil.”

“God forgive me.” Kate closed her eyes for a moment, her mind illuminated with an obscure image of the dead pilot’s faces. “Has Ahmadinejad or the Iranian ambassador issued a statement?”

“Not yet, Madam President,” McDermott said.

“How about our allies?”

“Not a word,” Mitchell said.

There were more pressing issues to discuss, but Kate was still puzzled why Admiral Canfield, rarely known to be militarily aggressive, had pushed for the United States to bomb the chemical weapons factories. “Do either of you know anything about Admiral Thomas Canfield?”

McDermott said, “I did a thorough background check on all members of the Joint Chiefs for President Rodgers.”

“Walter Owens was pressing for me to bomb two chemical weapons factories in Iran,” Kate said. “Admiral Canfield agreed. Seems out of character for the admiral, doesn’t it?”

McDermott said, “Admiral Canfield lost his only son during the Middle East war. An antiaircraft missile shot down Lieutenant Canfield’s F-16 over Baghdad. The admiral has no love for Arabs.”

Kate now understood. “Charles, contact Richard Alderson. Find out how Prime Minister Netanyahu has reacted.” Her voice was unsteady. “See if there’s word on the two missing pilots, Toni.”

***

With an empty duffel bag securely tucked under his right arm, Joseph Angelo Vitelli left his suite at the Grand Cayman Hotel and strolled down Main Street toward the Island Bank. It was an unusually hot day for November, but the Caribbean breezes felt exhilarating. The excessive sweat drenching his linen slacks and
silk shirt was more from nerves than the tropical sun. How often does an ex-chef walk into a foreign bank, hand them an empty duffel bag, and leave with five million dollars of unmarked American currency? He guessed only a lotto winner could relate to his windfall. Considering the number of multimillionaires living in America, five million dollars might not be a fortune by US standards, but in a country like Italy, a prudent man could live like a king. And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

He walked past quaint sidewalk cafés, tiny gift shops, brick buildings. People were sipping espresso, spreading jam on toast, buttering croissants. He could smell the salty sea air.

At ten fifteen a.m., Vitelli pushed open the door and entered the bank. He tried to remain inconspicuous, but with an empty duffel bag stuffed under his arm, he couldn’t have felt more obtrusive if a flashing red beacon were mounted on his head. While he nervously waited for the next-available banking officer, his foot bounced up and down and the loose coins in his pocket jingled. A middle-aged woman with mocha-colored skin acknowledged him with a nod. She held up her finger as if to say,
One minute
. He spotted the nameplate on her desk. Cybil Curtis. He gazed around the bank. The floors were black-and-white marble. The walls were covered with rich mahogany. He watched two men painstakingly polish abundant brass railings to a lustrous shine. He guessed that he was not the first American to withdraw a huge amount of money from this bank. More than likely, to some of the bank’s depositors, five million dollars was a pittance.

Cybil Curtis hung up the telephone and stood. “How may I assist you?” she said. He found her light accent charming. Vitelli had always thought a woman’s British accent was sexy, but a man’s grated on his ears like fingernails dragging across a blackboard.

“I’d like to make a substantial withdrawal.”

“Please have a seat.” Cybil hit some keys on her computer. “May I have your account number, please?”

Vitelli had memorized it. “US3-45213-225.”

She entered the number. “How much would you like to withdraw?”

“I wish to close the account.”

Obviously, accustomed to similar transactions, Cybil didn’t flinch. “Are you aware of our withdrawal fee?”

He’d suspected there’d be a catch. Vitelli remembered an HBO movie. A Swiss bank had charged a mafia don 20 percent for withdrawing his laundered money. Vitelli didn’t think his money was laundered but guessed that the Island Bank would still reach into his knickers. “How much?”

“Five percent.”

Two hundred fifty thou? Ouch
. “I wasn’t expecting to pay
that
much.”

Her wide mouth formed a smile. “I wish there was something I could do”—she glanced at the monitor—“Mr. Crandall, but our bank is quite rigid on this policy. Shall I proceed?”