If everything went as she desperately hoped it would, she would be liberated from the militants’ compound before the next sunrise. Free from the unrelenting stress, free from the unsanitary living conditions, but most important, free from the fear of being found out, which meant certain death.
Stifling her growing angst, Maritza rose from the straight-backed wooden chair and walked across the cracked cement floor to one of two windows in her cramped room. She surveyed the familiar squalor and the bearded, unkempt men guarding the compound. It was not difficult to understand how the leaders of the front-line terrorist cells managed to recruit so many “suicide bombers” from the ranks of their illiterate, uneducated drones. Returning to her chair, Maritza attempted to channel her nervous energy into confidence.
The militants seemed to be growing more suspicious of her by the day, especially their leader, Bassam Shakhar. A shrewd man who prided himself in manipulating people, Shakhar had an uncanny ability to tell when someone was not being truthful.
Staring at a portrait of the late Iranian leader Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, a mythical figure to the militants, Maritza quietly prayed that her rescue would be swift and safe.
Without warning, Shakhar opened the door and slowly walked into the small room. Maritza’s heart skipped a couple of beats. During previous meetings with Shakhar, she had always been summoned to his quarters. This was a first for the wealthy supporter of Islamic Jihad, and it had a paralyzing effect on her. The slender man closed the door, then sat down under a yellowed banner marking the victory of the Islamic revolution in Iran.
Maritza willed herself to breathe slowly and be calm.
Adorned in his usual dark cloak and a rumpled turban, Bassam Shakhar did not say a word while he slowly examined Maritza from head to toe. Although no one would ever accuse Shakhar of being a charismatic person, Maritza could see that he was unusually solemn this day. He absently tugged on his salt-and-pepper beard and then stared into Maritza’s piercing dark eyes, looking for a sign of fear that might give her away — a hint of worry that would tell him that she wasn’t truly one of them.
After clearing his throat, Shakhar finally broke the silence. “We will go to Tehran tomorrow,” he declared in his scratchy, strained voice. “My associates are looking forward to meeting you.”
“I am honored,” she said evenly as a tremendous sense of relief rushed through her. Don’t allow your voice to quake.
Shakhar paused, then gave her a slow, crooked smile. “If you prefer, we can leave today.”
Maritza’s heart skipped another beat and lodged in her throat. He’s toying with me. “Whatever you wish,” she said with as little emotion as possible. “My loyalty is to Allahu, and to you,” she said with conviction in her voice. “I live for Islam.”
Without saying another word, Shakhar rose from his chair and walked out of the room.
Maritza took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Don’t panic. Stay calm and think.
17
Captain Nancy Jensen, USN, the first female skipper of a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, leaned back in her cushioned chair and watched the last of the F-14 Tomcats and F/A-18 Hornets trap aboard Washington. Tall, blond, athletic, and outgoing, Jensen was a distinguished graduate of the prestigious Test Pilot School at the Naval Air Test Center in Patuxent River, Maryland.
After leaving TPS, the vivacious aviator had flown Tomcats with the “World-Famous Fighting Black Lions” of VF-213, served as executive officer of the “Jolly Rogers,” and later CO of the skull-and-crossbones squadron, commanded Nashville, an Austin-class amphibious transport dock, then served the obligatory stint at the Pentagon before advancing to her present position.
Always the professional naval officer, Jensen took great pride in the fact that she was in command of the enormous nuclear-powered, self-contained floating airport. From keel to mast top, USS George Washington measured twenty-four stories high and weighed over 99,000 tons when loaded to her maximum combat displacement. With a full complement of more than eighty embarked warplanes and helicopters of Carrier Air Wing One, the 1,094-foot-long-behemoth could travel to the far corners of any ocean and be ready to fight on arrival. Like the other U.S. carriers, GW provided the commander in chief with an air option that didn’t need the permission of a host country.
Jensen raised her binoculars and studied the variety of ships operating between Washington and the opening to the channel linking the Persian Gulf with the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea. Only twenty-nine miles wide at one point, the crowded Strait of Hormuz is of great strategic and economic importance, especially since a continuous flow of oil tankers passes through the narrow bottleneck. Jensen walked to the starboard side of the bridge and gazed at some of the other warships in the flotilla. Guiding the huge carrier through the narrow choke point would be a stressful time for her.
When Rear Admiral Ed Coleman, the task-force commander, left the bridge to return to the tactical flag command center, Jensen turned her attention to a Grumman E-2C “Miniwacs” Hawkeye on the starboard bow catapult. The airborne warning-and-control aircraft would orbit high above the carrier while the Washington battle group traversed the Strait of Hormuz and steamed toward their operations area.
Rotating shifts with three other VAW-123 “Screwtops” crews, the close-knit group would provide continuous surveillance while the warships were in the Persian Gulf. In order to enhance coordination, the tactical picture from the Hawkeyes was data-linked to Joint Task Force Southern Watch.
The “Hummer” pilot came up on the power and the “shooter”—the yellow-shirted catapult officer — gave a snappy hand signal to launch the twin-engine turboprop. The E-2C squatted, then charged down the deck in a vortex of steam.
Immediately after the Hawkeye cleared the bow, two VF-102 “Diamondbacks” F-14s taxied forward to the starboard catapult. The heavily armed warplanes would serve as the group’s combat air patrol until they were relieved by two fresh crews. The bridge was hushed as Jensen watched the first Tomcat go into afterburner, then thunder down the deck, rotate sharply, and make an immediate clearing turn.
While the pilot of the second F-14 taxied into position, Jensen walked aft on the bridge to check the Alert Five birds parked behind the island. The pair of F/A-18 Hornets were manned and ready to launch on five minutes’ notice. Hearing the Tomcat go to burner, Jensen returned to her chair in time to watch the big fighter blast down the deck and claw for altitude.
“Howszitgoin’?” a familiar voice asked.
Jensen turned to greet her executive officer when he stepped beside her elevated captain’s chair.
“Well, we haven’t been gassed or hit any mines yet.” She smiled, absently tapping her Naval Academy ring on the side of the armrest. “What more could I ask for?”
“Yeah, life couldn’t get any better.” The XO chuckled as he glanced at the departing F-14. “I thought you could use a change.”
“Thanks, Jim,” she said, accepting a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee. “I’ve had about all the tea I can stand.”
“Same here.” A smile twitched his mouth. “It’s starting to taste like warmed-over jet fuel.”
Captain Jim Lomas, a dashing Hornet pilot and fast-tracker on his way to flag rank, was a likable man who had no qualms about Nancy Jensen’s history-making status. “I hope the folks in the puzzle palace know what they’re doing.”