Viper Team Seven (The Viper Team Seven Series Book 1)

by Lewis, Rykar

  Flustered, the lieutenant stated, “I’ll get someone to blow you into the ocean if you don’t leave at once. And if you don’t believe me, just stay there and see. Over.”

  Lahud was not frightened. If someone destroyed his ship, that would only mean a quicker explosion of the cargo, and a more sudden destruction of the lieutenant’s beloved George Washington. It didn’t really matter that much if the explosion happened now or five minutes later, the outcome would be the same. Still, Lahud wished to have things happen on schedule. “Mr. Officer of the Deck, sir, you have no authorization to do such an act. On the contrary, however, I have authorization to unload my freight here, and I have no intention of compromising that order. Do I make myself clear? Over.”

  “Well I can get authorization real quick, and the outcome of your lovely cargo wouldn’t be very desirable if you do stay there. You have five minutes to evacuate your position or–”

  “Or what? You’ll gun down my ship? I really don’t think any man in his right mind would authorize that, and you know it. Don’t you? Over.”

  “Over and stinkin’ out,” the OOD concluded, slamming his clenched fist on his small desk. His thoughts toward the little freight ship were frustrating, but in five minutes, it would be the cause of him never thinking again.

  * * *

  The driver of the fleeing vehicle, with vun Buvka in the passenger seat, whipped a U-turn and parked by a sidewalk, in perfect view of the hotel. Before the two could even blink, the Paramount Hotel exploded from the very center, then caved in. By vun Buvka’s estimation, half of the hotel’s occupants would be either killed or injured. Charles Williams, the FBI agent in the parking lot, was thinking the same thing and he knew he needed to act fast. There was nothing anyone could do about the hotel explosion now, but Williams could do something about the one responsible for the demolition. He could see his target, and he knew if he played his cards right, he would take this guy out in no time.

  Williams began driving up to vun Buvka’s vehicle, considering his best option. He decided against calling for backup. After all there were only two of them, and he had the element of surprise. He drove by the terrorists, rolled down his window, and fired four bullets from his 9mm pistol at the vehicle. The bullets shattered the windows, but Williams couldn’t tell if he’d hit anyone or not. Not taking any chances, he emptied the rest of his bullets into the immobile car. What happened next was totally unexpected. At first there was no sound or movement from the car. Then suddenly, as Williams reloaded his pistol, a hand grenade was thrown into the driver’s side window. The terrorists’ vehicle sped off toward the northern end of the city, and left Williams alone. In a flash, he tore open his door and scrambled out. And just in time too. The grenade exploded his beautiful Lexus into pieces. Shrapnel ripped into Williams’ stomach and chest, leaving him unconscious and bleeding on the sidewalk.

  * * *

  There it was. The signal had finally come, and none too soon. Lahud threw down the satellite phone and bellowed orders in Arabic to his team. He now had no fear of speaking in his native tongue; secrecy no longer mattered. The time had come for all of them to be offered up for the cause. All it took was the flip of the switch, and that would set off the C4 plastic explosives in the center crate. That explosion would most likely kill all on board, but they had planned it that way. To die like that would be superior to drowning or being captured by the Americans. The fertilizer and other explosives would go off after the first C4 crate exploded.

  “We are ready. Whenever you give the word, we’ll commence the attack.” Those words were spoken by Lahud’s most trusted man, Yulka Kabril. The one thing Lahud hated most about dying was not being able to do exactly what he was doing now – attacking the Americans with his best friend Kabril. But now it was time to die, both of them, for something they believed was right, and both men had no fear or shame. They would be heroes; their names chanted for months by their family and friends. Everyone would be proud, and Lahud was more than ready for someone to be proud of him.

  Khan Lahud had been a bratty kid, always getting into trouble, and always bringing shame to his family. His father had once told him he regretted he ever had him for a child, and that his life would be better without his pesky little son. “It would be an honor for me never to see your pitiful face again.” Those were his father’s precise words, and they clung to Lahud like his own skin.

  At the age of sixteen he had left home and began waging terror on the Israelis. Nothing major, just small things like bus bombings and murders. At twenty-five he trained with terrorists in a camp in Iraq. He was so good at terror attacks that he was deemed the leader of a terrorist team bound for a major attack in Israel. After completing that mission with flying colors, he was promoted to the new terrorist trainer, and he held that position for ten years until he was chosen for this operation. He was able to hand pick his own team, and he chose the best in the business. And now here he was, striving to make his father and mother proud. He only hoped he would.

  Lahud and his team stood on the main deck. Now was the time. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat and with a loud voice said, “For the glory of Allah, country, and our families, release Operation FIRELIGHT.” He nodded to Kabril to proceed.

  Kabril grasped the ignition switch and with one voice the terrorists all cheered, “For the glory of Allah, country, and our families!” The massive explosion could be heard and seen for several miles around.

  The first explosion tore open the freight ship, but the dozens of other larger explosions ripped wide holes in the USS George Washington. The last and most devastating blast blew up the entire midsection of the grand George Washington. The ship ignited in flames as she slowly sank, lighting, as said, the entire bay before plunging to the depths of the ocean.

  Operation FIRELIGHT was a success, as was the hotel bombing. Yet they were just the beginning. What would happen throughout the night would shake America forever.

  * * *

  “Mr. Vice President, sir, you’ve got to get out of here. Now!” the lead Secret Service agent yelled, interrupting the Vice President’s nightly swimming exercise.

  Confused, Stan Anders stopped mid-stroke. “What is it?” he asked, clearing the water from his eyes.

  “No time to explain, sir, but we’ve got to get you to the safety of the White House immediately. There’s no time to lose.”

  The Vice President climbed out of the pool. “Um, give me a minute to change into something decent,” he said, pointing to the baggy t-shirt and green checkered swimming trunks he was wearing.

  “No sir. There isn’t time for that. Get your wife and let’s get rolling. Marine Two Foxtrot is ready and waiting. Hurry,” the man begged, pulling on the Vice President’s arm.

  The Vice President met up with his wife inside the house, and the Secret Service detail urged them down the hall to the front door. The agents reluctantly allowed the couple to pull on their shoes and grab jackets, but no sooner had they done that than they were yanked out the door and guided toward the helicopter. The cold night air met the VP with a jolt. He wanted to ask what on earth was going on, but no one seemed to want to give an explanation.

  Seconds later, the VP and his wife were successfully aboard Marine Two Foxtrot. Secret Service agents still swarmed around them, even in the helicopter. Once the helicopter began rising, the Vice President finally asked what the big rush was about.

  “Sir, there’s been a hotel bombing in New York City. We are not taking any chances of letting the terrorists attack you, sir, so that’s why we’re evacuating you immediately. We’re sorry to have interrupted your exercise, but it was of utmost importance.”

  Even as the lead agent spoke those words, the Vice President’s mind was racing. Who did this? Why? Is the President all right?

  “We just don’t know much about the situation yet, although I’m sure the National Security Council has had some more recent information within the last few minutes.” The lead agent went on, “The NSC
is gathering as we speak, sir, and apparently the FBI had an agent witness the whole thing. He’s been mortally wounded and is unconscious, so they couldn’t get any answers out of him. Everyone is totally in the dark about the whole deal.”

  “Is the President okay?” the VP asked in a concerned voice, running his hands through his short brown hair.

  “As I said, sir, we are completely in the dark. But I’m sure the President will be in good hands.”

  That still didn’t comfort the Vice President. Anders was not an anxious man, but he did care a lot about his friend, President Winnfield, and even more than that he cared about the safety of his country. Everything was hanging by a thread right now, and all it took was a sharp knife to cut the thread and it would be all over. He just hoped the President’s security guards were fast enough to beat the knife. They’d better be, or the weight of the Country would be on him.

  Anders tried to push those thoughts aside and focus on the present. After all, first things first. And the first thing to do was get himself into the White House Situation Room safely and quickly.

  * * *

  “Happy birthday, Renee,” the President told his daughter while giving her a sideways hug. “I wish your mother could be here to see you. Unfortunately circumstances just would not allow it. Maybe she could fly over and see you some other time soon.”

  “Or I could visit you both at the White House. Whatever would be more convenient for you guys is just fine with me,” she replied as she sipped her cup of ice cold punch.

  The President’s lead Secret Service agent burst through the double French doors and raced toward him. “Mr. President, sir, we have a major problem.”

  “What?” Winnfield asked, his smile fading from his face.

  “Appears there was a bombing – at the Paramount Hotel in New York City. We want to get you back to Air Force One immediately, sir, we fear an attack on you.”

  “No way. How’d it happen?”

  “Really sir, we haven’t the slightest clue yet.”

  “Get me on the phone with the Vice President.”

  “Sir, we can do that when you’re safely aboard Air Force One.”

  “But,” the President argued, “the bombing was in New York City, we’re in Albany. If the terrorists were after me, they wouldn’t blow cover and attack some hotel first, they’d try and surprise us.”

  “I understand your desire to stay here with your daughter, sir, but terrorists really have no certain rhythm to their attacks. For all we know it could be a diversion, sir.”

  “That doesn’t make sense and you know it,” Winnfield accused. “They know you guys would be guarding me even more once the bombing took place.”

  “Sir,” the agent said with frustration, “you really don’t have a choice. Am I right?”

  The President sighed. “I think I have every right to say where I should go. Now get me on the phone with the Vice President right now. We’ve got to prepare in case there are more attacks.”

  “Not in a suicide bombing; you don’t have a choice,” one of the other agents chimed in, jogging up to the lead agent and whispering something in his ear.

  “What’s wrong now?” Winnfield questioned with a tone of irritation in his voice.

  The lead agent cleared his throat and responded. “The, uh, bomber of the hotel. He got away, sir. We believe he’s headed this way.”

  * * *

  The moment Marine Two Foxtrot landed on the White House’s South Lawn, several shadowy figures emerged and raced toward the White House. It hadn’t taken the VH-3D helicopter but a few minutes to travel from Number One Observatory Circle to the White House. Once inside, the VP was ushered to the Situation Room where the National Security Council was gathered and ready.

  Without even nodding to anyone, Anders sat down in his chair, adjusted, cleared his throat, and finally spit out the words, “What’s up?”

  The National Security Advisor, Tom Smith, seized the opportunity. “Sir, we are doing everything we can to ensure the President gets to Air Force One and is safely brought back here. But so far he has not been transported from the house.”

  “What house was that again?” the VP questioned.

  “His daughter’s in Albany. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I do. Go on.”

  “Well, not to change the subject, but that FBI agent who was at the hotel at the time of the bombing finally regained consciousness. Oh, and apparently the terrorists are appearing to be heading toward the President.”

  “What exactly happened to the FBI agent?” the Vice President wondered.

  “Oh, sorry sir. He attempted to take the hotel bombers out, and was severely wounded in the process by a hand grenade. He’s not expected to make it through the night.”

  “Did he identify who the bomber was?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, who?”

  “Mike, would you like to explain?” Tom asked, knowing the CIA had a more in-depth file on the international terrorist than the FBI did.

  “Of course.” Mike Cummins, Director of the CIA (D/CIA), forty-five years old, personal friend of the President, and a top advisor at the White House, stood up and slid some papers over to the VP.

  The Vice President scanned the papers, and glanced over a picture of a man he didn’t recognize, then threw them down on the table. “I really don’t care to read a bio on the man, just give me a name.”

  “Alka vun Buvka,” Cummins replied.

  “Vun Buvka.” The VP milled the name around in his mind, not sure if he recognized it.

  “Yes sir. No doubt you don’t recognize him. He’s a new guy trying to make a name for himself. He’s good at what he does – skilled, would be a better word.”

  “All right, look everybody, all this is amusing but we really need to concentrate on the matter at hand. Like getting the President back here,” Nathaniel Roxon, the Director of the Secret Service, voiced as he tapped his fingers on the table. He had been invited to the NSC meeting for the first time in his career, but he was not being bashful about his opinion on this matter.

  “I agree with Nathaniel,” the Vice President stated as he leaned forward in his chair. “We need to make priorities.”

  “No, no, no!” Cummins retorted. “That is precisely what the terrorists want us to do: get our attention onto the President and then that’s when they’ll strike again.”

  “Okay Mike, but what good is thwarting attacks if we lose the President? Huh? I mean how long will it take just to make sure he’s all right?” Roxon threw back.

  “All right, zip it both of you. We’re here to make a decision, not to argue about something that’s going to be done in a minute,” the VP snapped, throwing his hands in the air with frustration. “Smith, check to see if the President’s in the air. Cummins, press your sources, see if they know where this vun Buvka guy is really headed, and if they can take him out. The rest of you stand by, we’ll resume in a minute.”

  With that said the VP stood and quietly walked out of the room, knowing in his heart that this was just the start of a horrible night.

  * * *

  “Get the President on Marine One, now!” The voice of the National Security Advisor could be heard over the satellite phone the lead agent was holding up for the President to hear.

  “That doesn’t sound like you have an option, sir,” the lead agent noted as he turned to Winnfield.

  The President slammed his cup on the counter. “Why? Why always at the worst time?”

  “Terrorists have no respect for time I’m afraid,” the agent informed him.

  “Tell Tom I’ll be in the air in a minute,” Winnfield said disgustedly.

  Quickly the President said his goodbyes to his daughter and without bothering to take anything with him, he walked out the door.

  In the next few minutes, the President was driven to the helipad and escorted into Marine One. The helicopter tore through the night toward Air Force One. Unknowingly, the President wasn’t heading away fro
m danger, but toward it.

  * * *

  Marine One touched down right beside Air Force One, emptying the President and his security guards. Winnfield boarded the plane as the lead agent chose seven other men to come with them back to the White House. Four of them the lead agent trusted. The other three wouldn’t be such a problem though, because they feared nothing from their fellowmen, which would give Ron Tandy, the lead agent on the President’s security detail, and his men, the edge they needed.

  Winnfield retired to his office aboard the plane, weary and broken hearted. Tandy couldn’t help but smile to himself as the Air Force pilots made the flying White House soar into the sky. Things were going just as planned – a little resistance from the President – but the National Security Advisor had made things perfect, without even knowing he had.

  Five minutes later, when Air Force One was well up into the sky, Tandy walked past one of his agents, giving him a curt nod. Then he casually ambled to visit the plane’s pilots and take care of some business.

  The agent knew what the signal meant. Every one of the crooked agents did. But none of the other agents or the exceptionally few crew and communication members had a clue what it meant. Nor would they ever.

  * * *

  Hahmed Jassin was late – five minutes late. He would have been in position even now at the Wal-Mart supercenter in New York City but he was stuck in traffic.

  An Iranian, Jassin had been in the United States for quite some time now and he had no idea that his boss was going to wait so long to let him attack. He’d thought maybe he had been forgotten, but just when all hope was lost, the message came from his boss to carry out his operation.

  Jassin jogged through the store’s doors, patting the “surprise” which was around his waist. The “surprise” consisted of explosives that, at Jassin’s pleasure, would be set off. The job was nothing spectacular when thought of independently, but in conjunction with the happenings of the night, it would be the perfect final touch.

  Jassin walked into the center of the building and took in a long breath. He looked at the dozens of people around him and could hardly believe the time had come for him to be a sacrifice for Allah. It was Jassin’s pleasure to die for the cause of destroying the U.S. That was his job.