I Do Solemnly Swear (19 page)

“May I have your recommendations, General Cumberland?”

He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and reopened the folder. “There are four primary targets that would pose minimum risk to nonmilitary Iranians. Two others that you may wish to consider, but with greater potential for civilian casualties.”

“Outline them for us, please,” Kate said.

“The main communication center in Tehran undoubtedly should be our principal target. By destroying this facility, we will prevent Ahmadinejad from relaying orders to his field commanders. It will cripple their ability to sustain any offensive or coordinate defensive measures—at least temporarily.”

Kate looked at her notes. “According to my research, the facility was strategically designed and rebuilt after it was destroyed during the Iran-Iraq War.”

General Cumberland displayed a surprised look. “That is correct, Madam President.”

“It was constructed to withstand an air strike,” Kate said. “Isn’t that why it was built four stories underground?”

Cumberland removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and blotted his shiny forehead. “In theory. But we have developed highly sophisticated cruise missiles capable of penetrating its defenses.”

“Will these missiles cause substantial damage to surrounding structures?”

“Minimum damage.”

Kate picked up a pencil and put a checkmark next to
Communication Center
.

General Cumberland said, “The main Iranian Air Force base is located a few miles east of a city called Abadan. The
USS
Ronald Reagan
, situated in the Persian Gulf, could deploy a squadron of F-18s and wipe out the base before they had sufficient time to respond.”

“Would such an attack jeopardize the city itself?” Kate asked.

Cumberland shook his head. “The base is far enough east of Abadan to ensure the city’s safety.”

Destroying both targets would achieve her objectives. She checked off
Air Force Base
without asking further questions.

Cumberland continued, “There are two storage facilities in the city of Shiraz, about one hundred miles north of the Persian Gulf. We believe they warehouse missiles. A barrage of ICBMs could tear the heart out of Iran’s most significant firepower.”

“So far, we seem to be on the same wavelength, General.”

General Cumberland looked at Admiral Canfield and nodded. Canfield took a long swig of water and cleared his throat. “Madam President, there are also two factories in Qom thought to produce chemical weapons. If we are determined to end Ahmadinejad’s reign of terror, these two structures should also be targeted.”

It made sense, but Canfield’s voice was edged with reservations. Kate remembered what Saddam Hussein had done to the Kurds during the Iraq-Iran War. She could still visualize the graphic photos printed in
Time
—mutilated bodies heaped in piles, charred skin, faces melted like wax. She could not fathom why these factories should be preserved but had an eerie feeling the admiral was going to tell her.

“The danger,” Admiral Canfield said, “is that we are unable to determine how these chemical weapons will react once the facilities are destroyed. They are very unstable substances.”

“What’s the worst-case scenario, Admiral?” Kate asked.

“A cloud of deadly chemicals could float into space and dissipate or descend to the ground.”

“Quite possibly on top of Iranian citizens?” Kate asked.

Canfield nodded.

Images of the Kurds flashed through Kate’s mind. “It’s out of the question.”

Walter Owens tapped his knuckles on the table. “Madam President, surely the long-term benefits far outweigh the risks. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the United States to reassert itself as a competent world leader and rid the Middle East of their dangerous chemical weapons.”

“I agree, Madam President,” Admiral Canfield said.

Kate was taken aback. “Am I missing something? We are dealing with lethal, volatile substances. Our objective is to disable Ahmadinejad, not to pollute the atmosphere or endanger innocent people. Walter, how would you feel if a deadly cloud of nerve gas descended on New York City?”

“With all due respect, Madam President, that’s highly unlikely.” He passed a black binder to Kate. “President Bush ordered an extensive study on nerve gas prior to Desert Storm. This report may change your mind.”

Kate slipped on her reading glasses, opened the binder, and leafed through the two-inch-thick stack of papers.

“Considering the amount of time required to analyze this report, perhaps you would be kind enough to summarize it for us, Walter?”

Owens stood and glowed with self-importance. “Chemical weapons are stored in highly compressed cylinders. The cylinders, armed with detonators, are dropped from aircraft. But unlike conventional bombs that explode on impact, they are
programmed to discharge one hundred feet above the ground. Coming into contact with the toxic cloud is almost always fatal. When it settles on the ground, however, its potency lasts for only twenty-four hours, after which it is relatively harmless.”

Kate could feel her face getting hot. “So, Walter, you wouldn’t mind if we filled your grandchildren’s sandbox with these relatively harmless chemicals?”

“That’s an unrealistic scenario,” Owens said.

President Miles held up the binder. “Has anyone else reviewed this report?”

“I have,” General Wolfe said. He removed the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Kate. “Read it back in ‘90. It was hogwash then, and it’s hogwash now.”

If war monger Wolfe opposed bombing these factories, Kate thought, then the potential for catastrophe had to be unfathomable.

Frank Wallace, the other hawkish general, said, “I doubt that anyone would love to see Ahmadinejad, his chemical weapons factories, and his entire goddamn country reduced to a pile of rubble more than I, but even during war, there must be limitations on destruction. These chemicals are monstrous, inhumane. I would not wish them on my worst enemy. Besides, President Bush’s report may not apply to recent innovations. God only knows if their characteristics are the same as they were over two decades ago.”

“Would anyone else care to comment on these factories?” Kate asked.

There were garbled mumbles but mostly heads shaking in concert.

She surveyed the faces of the esteemed group, wishing she could delegate this supreme decision to one of them, to lift the
burden from her shoulders. But she remembered the promise she’d made to herself.

“The majority opinion opposes bombing the chemical weapons factories,” Kate said. She glanced at Owens and Canfield. “I concur. The other four targets are a go.”

Kate looked at General Cumberland, then at General Wolfe. What was she supposed to do next? Her requisite political training had not taught her protocol for blowing up other countries.

“Well, am I supposed to sign an executive order and have it notarized?”

Cumberland smiled. “Operation Freebird is the code name, Madam President. General Wolfe, Admiral Canfield, and I will issue the necessary directives and coordinate a simultaneous attack.” The general checked his watch.

“Operation Freebird will commence on November second, at fourteen hundred hours, eastern standard time. We will advise you of any and all developments, Madam President.”

***

President Miles left the Situation Room and went directly to her private quarters. She shuffled into her bedroom and kicked off her shoes. She slipped her suit jacket off her shoulders, unzipped her skirt, and let both fall to the floor. It was unlike her to throw her clothes about haphazardly, but she did not have the energy to walk another step and hang them in the closet. Her brain, for good reason, was like mush, and her body felt like she’d been laboring in the coal mines of Pennsylvania.

Her bedroom was rapidly becoming her hideaway, a sanctuary of peace and quiet where she could decompress. It was the only room in the White House that ensured her absolute privacy, a secure haven of solitude.

She lay on the bed and, without forethought, reached for the telephone. Kate was filled with uncertainties and self-doubt, and a part of her longed to consult her father. Validating her decision was the curative ointment her weary conscience needed right now. How easy to dial the White Stallion Ranch. She’d never forget the number. But would a competent president, a prominent world leader,
need
to call her father? Only a cold-blooded monster could bomb another country without second thoughts and reservations. Kate had every right to feel unsettled. To search for approval from the man she respected more than any living human was only natural. The central issue, however, flowed from waters much deeper. For how long could she continue running to her father whenever her neat, orderly life unraveled? Would she ever cut the umbilical cord?

The receiver slipped from her fingers and fell into its cradle. She tried to convince her troubled conscience that Operation Freebird had been a mutual decision. The Joint Chiefs, after all, had determined that military intervention was the only logical solution. But Kate was the commander in chief. It was her finger poised on a trigger that would end innocent lives. When people were killed, torn to shreds, buildings destroyed, and the effects of her actions felt by the entire world, Kate would stand alone and assume full responsibility. Nobody would point an accusing finger at the Joint Chiefs.

Kate’s decision placed Americans at risk; young pilots with families and dreams and visions of hope could be maimed or captured or killed. How would she deal with this very real possibility?

Kate forced her body off the bed and headed to the walk-in closet. Giant goose bumps covered her skin. She wrapped the terry cloth robe around her body and searched the pockets for her lucky silver dollar. Wadded up tissue. Tagamet. Peter’s lighter?
Ah. She found the coin, held it tightly, and made her way to the kitchen. She felt strangely disoriented, as if she’d never been in this suite before. She snatched the bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet and poured a whisper of it into a tall water glass. Anymore and she’d be knocked out for hours.

I just need to take the edge off.

Other than an occasional glass of wine, Kate was a teetotaler, but at this particular moment, she required something more potent. She scuffed into the Oval Room and flopped onto the yellow sofa. She filled her mouth with the bourbon, swallowed hard, and grimaced as it burned a trail to her stomach.
Peter actually likes this crap?
Kate set the empty glass on the cocktail table and blankly gazed at the portrait of George Washington hanging above the fireplace. The muscles along the back of her shoulders twisted into a knot.

Why had Admiral Canfield and Walter Owens tried to convince her to bomb the chemical weapons factories?

She leaned back, rested her head, and waited.

***

It was almost midnight, and Charles McDermott was still at the White House. It wasn’t work or dedication that kept him there; he’d done little all day except chew his fingernails and curse President Miles. Adelina had just left; her arousing scent lingered, but the stench of stale cigarette smoke overpowered it. Her visits had become more frequent. More intense. The ravishing redhead was as addictive as cocaine. And McDermott had once been well acquainted with the insidious enticement of coke. What had begun as a thoughtless indiscretion had blossomed into a torrid affair. What else could he call having sex with a married woman? He had to end it. But how? Adelina had explored every nook and cranny of McDermott’s body and mind. She knew too much. He’d
placed himself in a touchy situation. The Brazilian beauty knew precisely where McDermott’s hot buttons were. And she’d pushed them all.

The COS gulped the last of the vodka and tried to set the glass on the corner of the cocktail table as he fell onto the leather sofa. He watched the glass wobble, then fall on the carpeting. “Son of a bitch!” He crushed a cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.

As he lay down and closed his eyes, he could see his promising career coming to a bitter end. Adelina Menendez was not the only demon in Charles McDermott’s life. The peace-loving president, exalted high priestess, had decided to take military action in the Middle East. The COS had no empathy for Arab extremists, but Kate’s actions could jeopardize his political future. Supposedly, he was her quintessential advisor, yet she hadn’t asked his opinion. Why? He wasn’t
merely
the chief of staff. Charles McDermott was the advisor to the president for policy and strategy. If bombing a foreign country did not fall under the heading
Strategy
, what did? Understandably, the Joint Chiefs had tremendous influence over her decision. But shouldn’t she have consulted him? Paid him the professional courtesy? If President Miles took a fall, so did her advisor for policy and strategy. It was a package deal. And he hadn’t even had the opportunity to express his opinion.

He struggled to sit up, and the room began to spin. Steadying his weary legs by grasping the armrest, he eased off the couch. McDermott took a step toward his desk and stopped. He extended his arms as if he were walking a tightrope and tried to stop his body from reeling. He reached his desk and plopped into the chair.

Adelina, Adelina, what shall I do with you?

***

As Lieutenant Kyle Stevers laced his spit-shined boots, his heart battered his rib cage like a sledgehammer. He expected that a general quarters alert would rescue him from this heinous nightmare at any moment. But the only sound he heard was a pounding on the door. As if standing in front of Commander Bradley, preparing for a zone inspection, Stevers instinctively snapped to attention. He grasped the handle on the metal door and pulled it open.

Wes Travis, displaying the most authentic Elvis Presley sneer Stevers had ever seen, stood in the doorway. Stevers’s six-foot-three frame towered over his best friend.

“It’s zero hour, hotshot,” Travis said. “Ready to kick some butt?”

For four years, he’d waited for this exact moment. Now that it was upon him, Stevers wanted to crawl into his bunk, throw the covers over his head, and weep like a lost child. But he had an image to preserve. “Let’s go blow up some bad guys.”