I Do Solemnly Swear (25 page)

Stevers—for no apparent reason except the Iranians’ behavior—felt safe, removed from harm’s way. This was a dangerous attitude for a prisoner of war. Maybe, he thought, it was the “calm before the storm.” It was risky to let down his guard. But until the Iranians did something to threaten his safety, he’d remain as polite and cooperative as his patriotic ethics allowed.

The helicopter landed fifty feet from the steel building. Two soldiers, young enough to be in high school and skinnier than pencils, assisted him out of the chopper. His kneecap felt like it’d been replaced with hot charcoal. With one soldier on each side supporting his weight, they helped Stevers hobble to the building. He could no longer move his injured leg without paying a painful price; he dragged it along the ground as if it were a dysfunctional prosthetic limb. The soldiers led him through an expansive building. He gazed up at the fifty-foot ceiling. A warehouse, he guessed. Maybe the one used to house the planes his fellow pilots and he’d destroyed.

The soldiers escorted him to a small square room with corrugated-steel walls. Two metal chairs sat side by side in the middle of the room; a narrow table in the corner reminded Stevers of a massage table. There were no windows in the room; the only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It could not have been more than sixty watts. The bulb swayed to and fro, casting
creepy shadows along the wall. The room was damp and smelled like oily rags. One of the soldiers gestured, and Stevers supposed they wanted him to sit down. He carefully sat on one of the chairs and extended his braced leg forward.

When the soldiers left the room, the younger one with the two-week beard and curly black hair looked over his shoulder and smiled at Stevers just before the door closed behind him. It was nine parts sinister, one part curious. His stomach growled, and for the first time since landing on Iranian soil, Stevers felt hungry. More like ravenous. He heard voices from the other side of the door. Doors slamming. Engines starting and stopping. Brakes squealing. The door swung open, and two men walked in. One looked like an officer. He was dressed in a military uniform, remarkably wellgroomed, and his cap had a havelock draped around the back. The other man’s complexion was pallid. He was wearing a doctor’s white smock and carried a black leather bag. Stevers thought it strange that anyone living in a desert could be so pale.

“My name is Dr. Aziz.” There was a trace of accent, but his English was perfect. “This is Colonel Bajraf.”

“Lieutenant Kyle Stevers, United States Navy.”

The doctor looked at Stevers’s extended leg. “Have you been injured?”

“It’s my knee. I think it’s serious.”

“Dr. Aziz will look at knee,” Colonel Bajraf said. “Get on table.”

The colonel grabbed Stevers’s right arm, stuffed his hand into his armpit, and helped him to stand. The colonel’s grip suggested that he was a powerful man. Stevers braced his palms on the edge of the table, cautiously lifted his body into a seated position, then slid back so his splinted leg rested comfortably. He noticed four straps hanging from the table.

“May I examine your knee?” Dr. Aziz asked.

“It feels like it’s on fire.”

From his black bag, the doctor grabbed an unusual-looking pair of scissors and cut the strips of cloth securing the shovel. He grasped the heel of Stevers’s boot, gently lifted his leg, removed the shovel, and allowed the back of his leg to rest on the table.

He carefully poked and prodded the area around the knee cap. “Does this hurt?”

Stevers grit his teeth, and his body cringed beneath the doctor’s touch. “Yes. Everything hurts.” It felt as if Aziz were pushing hot knives into his knee.

“Can you bend your knee?”

“Not without feeling as if I’m tearing something inside.”

“Roll to your left, please.”

With the doctor’s help, Stevers struggled but was able to position his body as the doctor requested.

“I am sorry for the discomfort, but I must check your range of motion. When my exam is completed, Colonel Bajraf will arrange to have you flown to a hospital in Abadan. Your knee must be x-rayed.”

Stevers’s glance met the colonel’s cold stare. Something didn’t feel right. He’d destroyed their air force base, slaughtered their people, and they treated him like a comrade?

“Doctor, has anyone found my copilot?”

“He was more fortunate than you. Perhaps Colonel Bajraf will allow you to see him.”

“Where is he?”

Dr. Aziz and the colonel exchanged words in their native tongue.

“He’s resting,” the doctor said.

The doctor gripped Stevers’s ankle with one hand, held the back of his right thigh with the other, and slowly bent his knee.

“
Holy fucking shit
!” Stevers clutched his calf and stopped the doctor from bending his leg any further. “Please. You’re killing me, Doctor.”

“I am concerned,” Aziz said. “Ten degrees causes extreme pain. You require more sophisticated medical attention than we can offer here, Lieutenant. Bending your leg beyond its comfortable range may result in irrevocable damage.”

Again, the two men spoke in a foreign tongue.

“Are you hungry, Lieutenant?” Dr. Aziz asked.

“Starving.”

“Our culture is quite different than yours. Do not expect hamburgers and french fries. After you eat, the colonel will arrange for you to be transported to a hospital.”

“Can I see Lieutenant Travis?”

“Perhaps,” Aziz said.

The men left Stevers alone. He wished he could understand Persian or whatever language they were speaking. Or maybe not.

***

After extensive deliberation with Toni Mitchell and Richard Alderson, to prepare them for their meeting with Ahmad Habib, Kate decided to have a peaceful dinner with her father. They sat quietly in Kate’s private dining room. Trevor barely touched his steak, and Kate used her butter knife to play with her garlic-and-cilantro mashed potatoes.

“Is the steak not to your liking?” Kate asked.

“It’s delicious, honey. I guess I’m more tired than hungry.” He pointed to her plate. “You’re not doing so well, either.”

“Whenever I slaughter people, I lose my appetite. Must be a quirk in my personality.” She wanted to ask his opinion, but his silence spoke volumes.

“Was the air strike solely your decision or predicated on the Joint Chiefs’ recommendation?”

“There were points of contention, but we all agreed that military intervention was necessary.”

“Then why are you bearing the burden of responsibility?”

“Because I pushed the button. I should have continued pursuing a diplomatic remedy.”

“The die is cast, Kate. You made the only decision possible.”

“Then how come I feel like throwing up every time I think about it?”

“My sweet, lovely, compassionate daughter. Your conservative measures prevented a full-fledged war. You saved hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives. No one can predict how Ahmadinejad or Prime Minister Netanyahu will react, but so far, you’ve prevented mass destruction and a bloodbath.”

“The ‘so far’ part is what worries me.” He had no idea how much his encouraging words lifted her spirits. Although this was neither the time nor place, there was a nagging question she’d wanted to ask him for years. Why Kate chose this particular moment eluded her.

“Are you disappointed that I haven’t given you grandchildren?”

He stared at her with saucer-like eyes. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

“Heavens no, Daddy. Just a hypothetical question.”

He gave her a thoughtful glance. “I can’t say for sure, but I suppose it could be fun.”

The telephone rang. Kate jumped, and her fork fell to the floor. Could it be Secretary of State Mitchell so quickly? Martin, one of the service staff, knocked twice and peeked his head through the slightly open door.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Madam President, but you have an urgent telephone call.”

Kate yanked at her left earring and almost tore her lobe. She rubbed her ear and lifted the cordless lying next to the dinner plate. “President Miles.”

“This is Toni, Madam President.”

Kate looked at her father, and he immediately stood up. She realized he misunderstood her gesture. She shook her head and motioned for him to sit back down.

“Did Ahmad Habib live up to his dubious reputation?” Kate asked.

“The pilots are alive. Supposedly, neither is seriously injured.”

“That’s fantastic news.”

“If we meet their demands, it is. President Ahmadinejad has agreed to stop all military action against Israel and promises to return our pilots unharmed—if we meet three conditions.”

“I’m listening.”

“First, we must withdraw our battleships and aircraft carriers from the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea. And sign an agreement prohibiting their return unless unanimously approved by the United Nations.”

“Other than their endorsement for the United States to launch a military offensive against Afghanistan after the September eleventh terrorist attack, the United Nations has never agreed on
anything
unanimously,” Kate said.

“I think that’s the method to his madness. Second, we cannot initiate future military action against Iran unless a declaration of war has been issued by the United States Congress.”

Kate took a gulp of ice water. “Ahmadinejad has done his homework.”

“The last one is the coup de grâce, Madam President. Within sixty days, we must withdraw our troops from Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Egypt, and Turkey. Their return is prohibited unless there is a valid declaration of war against an Islamic nation.”

“Did you tell Habib that he and his leader should seek psychiatric counseling?”

“Wanted to. I told him that Ahmadinejad’s demands were outrageous and unrealistic, and the likelihood of the United States considering them was less than remote.”

“His reaction?”

“If we do not comply within seventy-two hours, our pilots will be publicly executed as war criminals. He said they would send graphic videotapes of their execution to the media.”

Kate dipped her fingertips in the ice water and rubbed her flushed cheeks. “I’m going to convene the Joint Chiefs at once. I’ll have directives for you as soon as possible.”

“There’s one more thing, Madam President: Habib also said that it’s imperative we watch CNN news at eight p.m., eastern standard time.”

“For what purpose?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

Kate sculpted the mashed potatoes with her butter knife. “Clarify your position for me, Toni.”

“Richard and I have discussed it extensively, and our opinions differ. To surrender to extortion, under any circumstances, would result in disastrous consequences.”

“And if our unwillingness to comply is a death sentence for the pilots?”

“If we modify our Middle East military objectives in any way, our worldwide credibility and
thousands
of lives will be at risk. Besides, we have a strict policy that prohibits us from negotiating
with terrorist groups. Technically, of course, Habib represents Iran as a nation. But nonetheless, we’re dealing with a terrorist mentality. To acknowledge any ultimatum would show a sign of weakness on our part.”

Toni’s words struck a sensitive chord in Kate. “I’ll speak with you shortly.”

Kate set down the telephone, put her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her folded hands. Her eyes were misty. She gazed at her father and shook her head. “Do you suppose it’s possible that I was an executioner in a prior life?”

***

Kyle Stevers stuffed the unidentified ground meat and rice combo into his mouth as if it were an aged Omaha steak. He tried not to think about what he was eating, hoping it wasn’t some old decrepit camel. It seemed unlikely that this backward-ass country had free-range cattle or pigs roaming the desert. As the gamy flavor grew more unpalatable, he dropped the spoon and wished he had some Rolaids. He had no perception of time, but it had been awhile since the doctor and colonel had left him. Resting his back against the wall and extending his leg was the only comfortable position for his injured knee, so he remained on the massage table.

Stevers scratched his two-day stubble. What he wouldn’t give for a warm shower and shave, to change his sweat-stained clothing. But this wasn’t exactly the Ritz. Any sane man would feel delighted just to be alive; he could only feel guilt. For the first time since landing in Iran, Lance Wentworth’s double-dimpled smile crept into his thoughts. Stevers had convinced his wingman to play a deadly game. He could feel a lump growing in the back of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to rid his mind of the haunting image. But there was nowhere to hide from
the vivid video of Lance’s plane engulfed in flames. His stupidity, his reckless heroics, had cost Lance his life. Stevers had widowed Samantha and forced his two daughters to grow up without their father. For what? So one day—assuming he survived whatever the Iranians were planning for his sorry ass—he could bounce his grandson on his lap, point to a map of Iran, and tell a tale of how Grandpa beat the crap out of the bad guys?

Careful not to move his leg, Stevers reached behind his back and slid the picture out of his pocket. He tilted it toward the dim light so he could see Debra and Todd clearly.

Voices came from the other side of the door.

Stevers pressed the picture to his chest. The door squeaked open. Wes Travis stumbled in. Stevers had trouble clearly seeing his best friend’s face. Something was terribly wrong. Colonel Bajraf pushed the butt end of his rifle into Wes’s back and forced him to step further into the room, directly under the light. The bare bulb illuminated the surface of Wes’s face and grotesquely exaggerated his features.

“Sit!” the colonel ordered.

Wes Travis collapsed onto one of the metal chairs. His left eye was swollen shut, his right cheek bloody red, and his lips puffy and black-and-blue. Either he’d had a disastrous landing, which Stevers thought unlikely, or the Iranians had brutally beat him.

Three soldiers charged into the room and rushed toward Stevers.

The colonel pointed his rifle at Stevers. “Down on table!”