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

by Lewis, Rykar

Solomon was deep in his story and Parks was listening intently. “Grandpa Solomon was so excited about his new name and what it’d done for him, that when he married, he named his first son Solomon Solomon II. And so, over two hundred some-odd years and eight first born Solomon sons later, I received my name.”

  Parks thought that was an incredible story. Everyone did, even though most of them had heard it dozens of times before. Solomon was pleased now, so he began to tell another story, but Parks had to cut him off.

  “Sorry guys, but I think we need to get some things straight today,” he declared, standing to his feet and clearing his throat.

  13

  Monday, March 17th – 1700 hours

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Head of the Mossad, Judah Hazeroth, burst into the prime minister of Israel’s personal office. A lead on a terrorist had just come in from intelligence sources in Lebanon. The source stated that a probable suicide bomber had just crossed the border from Lebanon into Israel. The lead was red hot, not more than five minutes old. But those were precious minutes Hazeroth didn’t have. He couldn’t believe it had taken that long for the sources to contact up the chain of command to finally reach him. What was their problem? This wasn’t a game or a drill, this was real, and every second was as precious as gold.

  Upon taking the office of the Mossad’s head, Hazeroth had worked relentlessly to beef up intelligence sources and sleeper agents in the countries surrounding Israel. He had always been a firm believer that what happened on the outside was what counted most. He was usually right. What happened behind the curtain was often what would do the most damage to his country. Lebanon had been a prime target for his sleepers lately. The nation had been up in arms for the past two months. The Lebanese had offered a conditional peace treaty to Israel, the United Non-Nuclear Plan, (UNON) and the prime minister of Israel had denied it. It was for good reason though. The Lebanese government’s new “peace plan” had demanded that Israel destroy all its nuclear warheads and cut its InterContinental Ballistic Missile (ICBM) supply by nearly half. But that wasn’t all. It also ordered Israel to withdraw from the Golan Heights and to give that land to the Lebanese government, and then make plans to unite military forces with the Lebanese. Israel had laughed at the outrageous proposal as it was all one-sided. That was no peace agreement that was suicide, pure and simple. But Lebanon had not seen it that way. They had been outraged at the out-and-out denial Israel had done to their long-planned peace treaty. But Israel was firm. They wanted peace with the surrounding countries, but not at the expense of ridding their only defenses.

  Lebanon was a long-time enemy of Israel. Ever since Hazeroth could remember, the two countries had been at odds. Not always at war, but there was always friction. The bomb finally exploded one day, and the 1982 Lebanon War – better known to Israelis as Operation Peace of the Galilee – had begun. Israeli military forces invaded southern Lebanon in June, as retaliation to the attempted and unsuccessful assassination of Israel’s United Kingdom ambassador, Shlomo Argov. The war had begun in June, and lasted until September of the same year. Israeli forces had moved into and held southern Lebanon, but upon yet another peace treaty they backed out and the war came to a close.

  Likewise in 2006, the Second Lebanon War, between the Israelis and Hezbollah – a fancy named terrorist group being “hired guns” for Lebanon – erupted into a deadly fight. That war was only stopped by the United Nations Security Council Resolution 1701, and a desperate conference held in Rome. Fifteen different nations attended the conference and heard the Siniora Plan being presented by the Lebanese prime minister. To sum things up, the plan was merely another treaty asking for peace between two warring countries. But the plan was passed, and Israel and Lebanon ended the war.

  In early 2013, one month after American President Winnfield had taken office, the Lebanese moved military units into the Golan Heights after the Israeli foreign minister had been killed by terrorists. The Israelis hadn’t known for sure if Lebanon had ordered the assassination or not, but the Lebanese military’s presence in the Golan was enough for them to declare war and assume they had ordered the attack. Israel had been frantic to drive them out. Five days later, the Lebanese had been driven back into southern Lebanon, but this time, the Israelis didn’t take over their land. Upon the advice of the prime minister’s senior advisors, Israel prepared to launch an ICBM into Beirut, the capital of Lebanon. Several other missiles were being prepared to be launched at the country’s key power plants. The American President had completely backed the Israelis’ actions, and offered his assistance wherever necessary. But Israel could handle this one on their own. March 1st, 2013, an ICBM streaked through the sky toward Beirut, followed by several others headed for different cities. The missiles had not been equipped with nuclear warheads, but if this operation failed to put the Lebanese in their place, another missile, with a warhead, would be launched at Lebanon. Fortunately, the first missiles made the point. The ICBMs took out Lebanon’s major power plants, and the one that was headed for Beirut hit dead center. Lebanon was in the dark and without power for days, and they had crawled back to Israel on their knees, begging for mercy. Israel had consented to making a truce, but still no peace treaty had been signed between the two countries. Now, an intel source claimed that a terrorist had crossed the Lebanese border into Israel. No one was taking chances. Hazeroth could only think that this was Lebanon’s way of getting back at Israel.

  * * *

  Benjamin Aziza, the prime minister of Israel, snapped his head up from the papers he was studying and stared at Hazeroth. The prime minister opened his mouth to speak, but the head of the Mossad spoke first.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, we have a possible bad situation on our hands.” Without waiting for a reply, he bulldozed on with his briefing. “One of our intel sources in Lebanon just informed me that a terrorist has crossed the border into Israel. He is presumed armed and dangerous; we need to take him out immediately. We have no choice.”

  Aziza put up his hand to stop him. “Mr. Hazeroth, slow down, please. Did the source say who the terrorist was?”

  “Yes. He’s believed to be Fadi Qasim – a deadly terrorist found responsible for the assassination of Israeli Foreign Minister Jeshua, which took place a year ago.”

  “Do we have a file on him?”

  “We do. I can have that for you immediately if you wish. But I must stress, there isn’t much time. He could pull off his mission at any moment.”

  “Get me the files on him quickly. I want to know everything about him, and get Mossad teams set up at a good intercepting point. Tell them to stand by and prepare for action. But understand, if we attack Qasim, I want him dead,” the prime minister commanded. “One more thing, contact the source and verify that this really is Qasim. Get to it!”

  The aging Hazeroth obeyed quickly. At fifty-five, he was still in great shape, but in the back of his mind, he knew he was getting a little too old for this kind of job. The excitement of taking out the enemy was wearing thin, and his desire for a peaceful State of Israel was growing.

  In the next minute, the prime minister and his highest advisors were gathered, and Hazeroth was rapidly briefing them on the terrorist threat. Hazeroth informed them that the suspect sighted by the source had a description which matched that of Fadi Qasim.

  Qasim was an Iranian terrorist working for Hezbollah, who, sure enough, had taken a large part in killing the foreign minister of Israel, just a year ago. The Mossad had not been able to pin down who had killed the foreign minister until a month had passed, when they finally found a man who had witnessed the incident. Without hesitation, he had given the Mossad a description of the man whom he had seen kill Jeshua. Hazeroth had then matched the description to a file he had that best fit the details. After they knew who was to blame, the Mossad had hunted Qasim, but to no avail. He had vanished into thin air. Now he was coming back into Israel, and no one was about to let him get a step further.

  “Is there any doubt in your mind
that this is Fadi Qasim?” the prime minister asked.

  “There is no doubt. He is definitely the same man. I request your permission to take him out,” Hazeroth stated boldly.

  “Are the teams in position?”

  “They are. They can strike at your command.”

  “How many men do you have on the field, Judah?”

  “Twenty of the best agents, Mr. Prime Minister. We need to act fast though. Do I have your permission to let them proceed?”

  “Go ahead, but make sure he is neutralized. Tell the agents to search his body and vehicle thoroughly.”

  Without a further word, the head of the Mossad walked out of the room. If everything went well, they should have the job done in a few minutes. Hazeroth prayed that the agents would be successful, and that this terrorist wasn’t a diversion of some kind.

  * * *

  The lead Mossad agent, Hadid Uzza, made sure his men were in position. His Quick Reaction Team (QRT) had been flung into action without warning only minutes ago, and now great responsibility rested on his shoulders. Fadi Qasim supposedly was to be coming down this low-key town road via a small car in less than a minute, and it was Uzza’s job to take him out. Uzza had posted two snipers on a local rooftop who were ready to blow the car’s tires out whenever it came by. Next, five men would open fire from the building that the snipers were on top of, and pin Qasim in his vehicle by firing nonstop from machine guns. Three more agents on the other side of the street would fire rockets at the vehicle by a Shoulder-Launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon (SMAW), in an attempt to explode it and its occupant. It would work; it had to. But if it didn’t, there were nine other agents standing by, acting as backup, not a hundred feet from the rooftop where Uzza was laid out. He was the lead sniper, and was positioned across from the other two. The firing of his first shot was the signal for the other two snipers to open fire. However, Uzza’s main job was to make sure to shoot Qasim in the head if he tried to escape on foot or by some other means of transportation.

  * * *

  “I think I’d better start off by saying how honored I am to be able to come to Washington D.C. and be a part of this team,” Parks told the men. “Now, I am a Marine Officer, not a federal agent, so our tactics and ways of operation will vary. I hate dictators, so I must say that I am open to bending on some of the ways I am used to doing things, so we can fit some of the ways you all have done things in the past. I know you are all skilled at counterterrorism, and I must say, I have had a few brushes with terrorists myself. But I can still imagine your shock when you heard that this team was going to be commanded by a Marine.” Everyone nodded slightly. “However, we can learn from our differences, and choose the best way to approach every obstacle we face. I am not saying my military tactics are superior to yours, nor am I saying yours are better than mine. We’ll have to take the best way, no matter what that may be.”

  Parks felt awkward, but he kept on. “As I get to know each one of you – and I’m sure you all know each other very well – I will assign each man to a certain ‘task,’ if you will. That way when we confront our enemy, we will each be specialists at one or multiple things. For example, the most proficient shot can be the sniper, or the best undercover agent can do the undercover work, and so on.”

  Norse was already not liking the military words that Parks was using, but he’d have to get used to it. He had hoped that Solomon would have been the leader; he was the most experienced and trusted out of them all. Norse frequently wondered why the President had chosen a Marine of all people.

  Parks wasn’t finished. “So, putting all personal feelings aside, I am your team leader now. This is an assignment that we cannot fail. The President – the Nation actually – is counting on us. Maybe some of you think that I am not the right man for this job, but let’s not let personal preferences stand in the way of accomplishing our mission.” He searched for something else that might need to be addressed, but decided there was nothing else. “Well, that said, you are all dismissed.” Parks hoped he’d chosen the right words to say.

  As the agents left the room one by one, Solomon stood by the door and lingered. “Keith, I think I must warn you,” he said, closing the door and leaning against it. “A couple of the agents are not happy about you being here and commanding the team. I don’t think they’ll be any trouble during an operation, but I think they’ll challenge you on your decisions before and after.”

  Parks nodded slowly. “I’ve gathered that already by the looks on some of their faces.”

  “Greg Norse for one?” Solomon asked.

  Again Parks nodded. “And Eric Lee. I guess I don’t blame them.”

  “You should. You were the President’s choice, and they should not doubt it. He’s the boss.” Solomon stared at the floor. “He chose you instead of me, and that’s against what most of them hoped. You see Keith, for a long time I was the lead agent for some of them in the counterterrorism line of work. To be exact, I led Marler and Lee, and worked with Norse, Samuels, and Corley. They all know me, and right now, they doubt your ability.” Solomon stopped for a second, looked straight at Parks, then added, “I for one, think you were the best choice.” With that done and over with, Solomon opened the door and went down the hall, leaving Parks alone with his thoughts.

  * * *

  Uzza could see the vehicle that was identified as Qasim’s, coming down the road hard and fast. It was still a ways off, but approaching at seventy or eighty miles an hour.

  “LASER ONE, this is STRIKE LEADER. Over,” Uzza softly spoke to one of the snipers through his radio.

  A second later, the response came. “STRIKE LEADER, this is LASER ONE. Go ahead. Over.”

  “Our target is approaching, be ready. Pass the information on to LASER TWO. Over.”

  “Got it, STRIKE LEADER. Over and out.”

  Next, Uzza checked on the five agents who would keep Qasim pinned in his vehicle. “GUNMAN ONE ONE, this is STRIKE LEADER. This is a status check. Over.”

  “STRIKE LEADER, everything’s good on our end. We can see the target approaching. Over.”

  “Good. Stand by, and pass the word on to your team to get ready. Over and out.”

  There was only one more wing of the team Uzza had to check: the SMAW team. “STREAK ONE, this is STRIKE LEADER, do you copy? Over.”

  The reply was immediate. “STRIKE LEADER, STREAK TEAM is ready to go. Over.”

  “Stand by. Estimated thirty seconds left. Over and out.”

  Everyone was in place and ready for action. Let Qasim try and get out of this one alive, Uzza thought.

  * * *

  Fadi Qasim could tell trouble was up ahead. His sixth sense told him so. He couldn’t see anything wrong, he couldn’t detect anything unusual, but he felt something bad was about to happen, and to him. He slowly pulled his .44 Magnum semi-automatic pistol out from under his seat. It was loaded with nine shots and ready for use. For use on what, he didn’t yet know. But was he just being too cautious, or were his senses right?

  Qasim’s stolen, little, silver Mercury slowed as it entered the small border town. Suddenly, from a building on Qasim’s right, a gunshot could be heard. The Mercury’s usual smooth driving turned hard and bumpy. Several more shots could be heard from the top of a building to his left, and Qasim knew whoever was up there was also gunning for his tires. But before he could do anything, all four of his tires were blown, and he could feel the Mercury slowing to a stop. He knew he couldn’t press it. He could not drive anywhere with blown tires, but he had to do something, and fast. Suddenly to his left, five men with automatic weapons opened fire. All of Qasim’s windows shattered and burst in his face. In an instant, he pushed the driver’s door open and rolled out onto the street, his gun pouring fire from its muzzle. Qasim spied a hooded man’s head sticking out from behind the building’s doorway. Literally diving headlong for safety, Qasim managed to shoot the hooded man in the head. It exploded with the effect of a dropped watermelon. The sight was horrific, even for
a killer like Qasim.

  STREAK TEAM fired their rockets at the vehicle, and upon impact it erupted like a volcano. But none of it harmed Qasim. He was now running for the first safe building in sight which was a local apartment complex on the left side of the street.

  * * *

  Uzza had a hard time processing what he was seeing, but he slapped his face and forced his mind back in the game. It was now his turn to play. He centered the red dot in his scope with the back of Qasim’s head. He squeezed off a shot. Qasim went down but Uzza couldn’t tell if he was hit or not. He positioned for another shot, just in case. The chase was on now. The four agents that had been trying to pin Qasim down were now bolting after him, firing rounds from the hip as they ran.

  Uzza called for the backup team. “RESERVE ONE, this is STRIKE LEADER. Get up here now! The target is running for the apartment complex across the street. Take him out, I repeat, take him out.”

  Uzza didn’t wait for a response. He shouldered his sniper rifle and looked through his high-powered scope. He tried to see what was happening and see if he could take a follow-up shot.

  * * *

  Qasim’s head was violently bleeding from the shot that had grazed it. But still he had managed to pick himself up and now he was running for cover. There was an apartment complex not three hundred yards away, but he doubted he could make it. He had to get to some closer cover fast. Several more agents were on their way over to him, and the snipers on the roof could take him out easily if he stayed in the open. Qasim had the explosives on him now; they were strapped around his waist, ready for use. He could flip the ignition switch at any moment and the C4 would blow him, and everyone around him, to pieces. But that was not what he had wanted to do. He was supposed to have waited until Jerusalem to use his explosives, yet he didn’t have too many choices now. Either he would have to die by these agents’ hands, or blow up them, himself, and everyone around. He decided on the last option. To die waging terror on Israel was more favorable than to die by these agents’ bullets.