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

by Lewis, Rykar

  As Parks waited for the man, he noticed that the airstrip and the parking lot were fully illuminated, giving the night a bright look. But the truth of the matter was, clouds blanketed the sky, and not a star could be spotted, which made the night very dark. It would be hard to fly in this, especially if a storm came, but there was no way around it.

  Looking back, Parks saw a uniformed airman running his way. Parks pivoted around and faced the man who was now very close.

  The middle-aged man came up and asked, “Which one’s Major Keith Parks?”

  “That’d be me,” Parks said, straining to read the nametag on the man’s uniform.

  The man saluted.

  “Carry on,” Parks ordered.

  “I’m Technical Sergeant Wilcox, sir, U.S. Air Force. I work for your logistics officer, Captain Bohn. I head up the matters pertaining to the C-17. It’s an honor to meet you,” he announced joyfully, stretching out his hand to Parks. The two briefly shook hands, and then got down to business. “I’m to show you to BIG BIRD, sir,” Wilcox informed him. “Everything’s loaded and ready. All that’s needed is your team, and then it’ll be ready for takeoff.”

  Parks quickly nodded and followed the tech sergeant who was motioning for the rest of the team to follow him. The next thing that Parks knew, he was looking at the rather large C-17 called BIG BIRD.

  “Hop in, sir,” Wilcox offered. “She’s ready to go.”

  Parks embarked, and was greeted by a man in an Air Force flight uniform.

  “I’m Senior Airman Thomas, Major Parks,” the man told him. “The crew chief.”

  “How are you, Senior Airman?” Parks asked out of courtesy.

  “Most excellent, Major. Thank you. Uh, all of your war bags are over there, sir,” Thomas stated as he pointed to the bags. “Rifles, ammunition, night-vision goggles, radios, and the like, are toward the rear, and of course the Stinger missile launcher is at the tail-end.”

  Parks thanked him, grabbed his bag, unzipped it, and fished out his black utility uniform. The NSA had issued each man an anonymous utility uniform to be worn on operations such as this. He had said that anonymity was important, which was the reason Parks couldn’t wear his Marine utilities. He quickly changed and shoved his civilian clothes back inside the bag.

  “When are we going to takeoff?” Solomon asked Thomas with concern.

  “We are about to right now I think, sir. Why, do you get motion sickness?”

  Solomon shook his head. “Only on helicopters. I always puke when I get on those.”

  The plane lurched forward onto the runway and began to pick up speed. In the next minute, they were in the air, gaining both speed and altitude. The C-17 was not the most agile or speedy of planes. Top speeds were about 520 m.p.h., with average speeds around 450 m.p.h. It wasn’t the perfect luxury plane, but it would get the job done, and that was all that mattered.

  22

  Tuesday, March 18th – 0030 hours

  BIG BIRD

  “What? A drill? A drill?” Parks asked in utter disbelief.

  The C-17 had flown into the air a distance only to circle and land back at the very spot it had taken off from not ten minutes before. The crew chief was just now informing the team that the whole ordeal had been a drill ordered by the National Security Advisor.

  The crew chief shied away some at the tone of Parks’ voice. “Yes sir, that seems to be right.”

  Parks sighed deeply and turned to Solomon who was shaking his head slightly and chuckling. “Did you know about this?” he questioned his deputy.

  Solomon raised his arms in innocence. “Not a clue. But I’m not shocked that they’d order a drill. Actually, they do it all the time.”

  “I know, but did it have to be so late at night?”

  “I guess the National Security Advisor wanted to check on our late-night skills,” Solomon suggested as he vainly tried to rub some feeling into his tired eyes.

  Parks surrendered to his exhaustion and slumped into his seat, whipping out a pocket-size Germ-X bottle.

  “You’ll be able to get out and go home soon,” the crew chief assured them. “It’s been a long night.”

  Parks nodded and changed out of his uniform and back into his civilian clothes. It had been a chaotic night. A purposeful night, but still very chaotic.

  * * *

  Parks came into the National Security Advisor’s office and stood at attention.

  “How are you, Keith?” Smith asked. “I hear you made good time and handled things well.”

  “It went all right for the first day, sir,” Parks responded.

  “Is that all you think?” Smith wondered aloud.

  Parks hesitated. Was he really supposed to tell the National Security Advisor that he didn’t enjoy the time he’d just spent doing a drill? Instead, he chose a different answer. “I’m glad that we all have an idea of what will happen when a terrorist does come in.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s why we did it. My apology for the late hour it was performed, but we all feel that the sooner we train, the better.”

  “Yes sir,” Parks agreed.

  “Sir, who was in that vehicle when you had the image playing? I mean, was it just a civilian who didn’t have a clue about it, was it an agent, or...” Parks let Smith finish for him.

  “It was an FBI agent. We set him up for the job so everything would be realistic.” The National Security Advisor paused and after a few seconds said, “I must say, you and your guys got in the air pretty fast.”

  “That was Corporal Yahtzee’s doing, sir. I had nothing to do with that. Oh, by the way, sir, is there really a Naji Wa’il?” Parks prodded again, desperate for answers to his many questions.

  “Yes, there is as a matter of a fact. He’s the number five-ranked terrorist in the world. There is a very real threat that he’d come into the States and try and pull off a terrorist attack.”

  “When you play act you go all the way, sir.”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but we have to. We have to make sure that everyone on your team is ready for what lies ahead. We don’t have time to take things slowly; we have to push things through quickly. For all we know, a real terrorist could come in tomorrow.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Now that you have an idea of how things should go, I’d say when it’s time for the real thing, it’ll go pretty smoothly. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes sir, I should say so.”

  The NSA rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Get some rest, Major. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

  “Yes sir,” Parks said. Then he did a quick about-face and left the office.

  * * *

  The President, VP, NSA, and the Directors huddled in the Situation Room for a late-night meeting. They were the only White House officials still at work, and though the President wanted to talk with them about the drill, he mainly wanted to hear what everyone had to say about the crisis unraveling in the Middle East.

  “It went well, Mr. President,” Smith stated, breaking the ice.

  Winnfield nodded. “I like it. I like it a lot. They were pretty quick and they’ll only get faster with time. After ten or fifteen drills they should be set to go.”

  “Parks seemed to think it went well,” the National Security Advisor added.

  “Yes, well there’s a lot more to their job than getting to Andrews in a timely manner,” Cummins retorted. “I’m going to like to see how Parks will handle a real operation with real terrorists.”

  “He’ll do fine,” the Vice President countered. “What else can you expect from a Marine?”

  After several minutes of discussing the drill, the President brought up the topic of Israel. “While everyone’s here,” he began, “I’d like to ask you all what you make of this Israeli-Lebanon deal. Do you think it’s a threat? Do you think it’ll blow over in a few days? Or do you think this is going to be something serious?”

  For several seconds, no one spoke. Everyone evaluated the possibility of another Lebanon-Israeli w
ar and everyone knew that it was highly probable.

  “If, I say if, Israel went to war with Lebanon,” Anders spoke up after a long silence, “what kind of damage do you think would be done to the Israelis?”

  Winnfield looked over at his friend, partner, and Vice President. Anders’ advice was usually solid and correct, so the President was eager to hear what he had to say on this situation. “Depends,” Winnfield stated bluntly.

  “On?”

  “What approach they took.”

  The VP nodded slowly and quietly asked, “What about a nuclear approach?”

  The thought had been on the minds of many, but Anders was the first to vocalize that possibility.

  “I think using that approach they would be the most unscathed, at first,” the President replied. “Lebanon would be done and gone, and Iran would be skeptical and cautious about attacking Israel. They’d know that the Israelis would be ready and willing to nuke them at the first sign of trouble.”

  “What about global opinion?”

  “There’s the catch. I believe the U.N. would jump on Israel if they went nuclear. They’re trying to keep the Israelis in check, and if they think Israel could be getting nuke happy, I believe they would move against them. The Israelis would make short work of Lebanon and Iran by going nuclear, but then the U.N. would most likely try and make short work of Israel.”

  “Worst case scenario?”

  The words hung in the air unanswered. A nightmare could definitely unfold for the worst case scenario, and at best, a bad dream.

  “Worst case scenario would be every hostile Middle Eastern nation against Israel,” Winnfield finally answered. “They couldn’t handle that; we’d have to jump in with them.”

  “Nuclear or militarily?” the VP questioned.

  Winnfield shook his head with uncertainty.

  “You think that it’ll really come down to that, Mr. President?” Cummins wondered.

  “Who knows? But we need to be prepared. I pray to God that we won’t be faced with a situation like that. But it all rests on Prime Minister Aziza. Will he go hastily against Lebanon and risk being obliterated by Iran or the entire U.N.? Or will he think things through and decide to wait for more positive information, like we have done?”

  “I seriously doubt the U.N. would go against both Israel and us, Mr. President,” the Secret Service Director put in. “We have a high enough seat that we could throw our weight around and the U.N. would adjust to our bidding.”

  “We’ve got a good seat in the U.N., but not that good,” Watkins shot back seriously. “We can only swing our threats around for so long before they become dull and unheeded. We have to prepare for the worst, and pray for the best.”

  “We can prepare for support or a counterattack if and when Aziza moves into Lebanon or Iran,” Winnfield finalized.

  Anders nodded and then stared at the floor. It was too late for comfort. Someone had moved their chess piece against the U.S. as well as Israel, and now both nations were put on the defensive side of things. Someone needed to take the offensive and stop this threat in its tracks. Before it was too late.

  23

  Tuesday, March 18th – 0930 hours

  Jerusalem, Israel

  It was time to do something. Today was a new day and it was a day of decisions. The happenings of yesterday had pointed toward war for today. It was Tuesday, still early in the week. What Aziza decided for today could make or break the rest of the week to come.

  The prime minister was sulking in his office. A meeting had been scheduled with his top advisors for 1000 hours today, and he knew it was going to be a war zone. Every person had a different opinion and various advice to give. Very few people agreed on a single matter. Somehow though, Aziza had to get everybody on level ground so he could reason with them. He had to get everyone agreeing on matters and solutions. But how? It would be hard. Very hard. His own wife did not totally agree with what he was planning to do. So how could he possibly make all of his advisors agree?

  “Mr. Prime Minister, may I have a word with you?”

  Startled, the prime minister looked up to see General Ahiezer Zimri, the top military commander in the Israeli government. “Come in, Ahiezer,” Aziza invited. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, may I start out by saying that it is nonsensical not to mobilize our units in the Golan Heights. We are risking being blindsided by the enemy every moment we allow our forces to remain isolated and unprepared.”

  “General, I ordered you yesterday to prepare our units in the Golan for mobilization. I did not tell you to mobilize them, but I did order you to have all forces ready and waiting should we decide to. Did you not carry out that order?”

  The general nervously rubbed his left hand and continued speaking. “I carried out your order, Mr. Prime Minister. But I must say, we need to, need to, mobilize our military in the Golan and prepare for a preemptive strike or a strategic defense. If we do not, we are allowing ourselves to be vulnerable to the enemy’s attack. The time to move is now, Mr. Prime Minister. We have no time to lose.”

  Aziza turned and stared at the wall. A framed map of Israel was proudly displayed there, and from his chair, he could see every detail plainly and clearly. He could see the Old City, and Bethlehem, and all the other historic, holy sites. He could see the military bases and camps, missile silos, and every other defense mechanism. Aziza began to think hard about if Israel really was strong enough to take on the Middle Eastern powers threatening to destroy them. He wondered if maybe his military and weapons were not as capable as he thought them to be. It was very possible that other Middle Eastern nations’ militaries and weapons were equivalent to Israel’s.

  The thought made him insecure, and he didn’t like it. Turning back to Zimri, who had been standing quietly for that time, he gave a desperate, three-word order. “Mobilize them. Now.”

  “Everything, Mr. Prime Minister?”

  “Everything Israel has. Prepare rockets, nuclear missiles, military units, support units, everything. Do it fast. As you say, there is no time to lose.”

  The general quickly nodded and left the room, eager to carry out the new order.

  This was it. Israel was preparing for war. Not declaring a war, but indeed preparing for one.

  * * *

  Parks rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he turned a hard right into the White House parking lot.

  It had been quite a night last night. Too much excitement for the first night on duty. So much had happened yet none of it was real; Parks was still trying to process it all. That was a slow ordeal. Especially since he had only caught two hours of sleep at most last night.

  The coffee in the cup that he was balancing as he drove almost spilled onto his Service Bravos. Breathing a sigh of relief, Parks rapidly drank the remaining liquid. That would not have been good had he spilled coffee on his uniform. He had done that many times while wearing his utilities to work and nobody had noticed, but to do it while wearing this uniform, everyone wouldn’t have been able not to notice.

  Parks waved to a passing Secret Service agent who just stared back without as much as a nod. Real nice guy, he thought. The Marine Corps would chew that guy up, spit him out, and do it all over again. What is wrong with these people? Don’t they have any respect for anyone?

  The truth of it was, he already missed seeing Marines. He was used to seeing hundreds per day, and it was hard to adjust to some of the longer-haired, sometimes unshaven, disrespectful people working around him.

  Military life was in his blood. All of his early childhood years he was moving every three years or so, always seeing his dad come home in uniform, constantly seeing long, impressive lines of Marines drilling on the field; everything was military oriented. Now with his own military career he was even more used to those things. It was killing him to be off a military base, even for a couple days. He needed the military as much as it needed him. He couldn’t do without it. It was hard to explain to anyone, but he knew that he wou
ld be miserable doing any other job.

  Parks turned the truck into his personal parking spot but he waited a while before shutting off the engine. He was tired. Almost too tired to concentrate fully on the tasks that could be waiting for him today. After staying up most of the night last night, and the night before, and the night before that, he was drop-down-dead tired. He needed to catch up on some sleep soon. But when would he have the time? After today he was sure to be even more tired. He had planned rigorous training for his team today. Physical fitness was the plan for the first few days, and after that, strategy plans and scenarios would be hammered out.

  To be honest with himself, Parks wasn’t really looking forward to it all. He knew it was going to be a battle to get those agents doing Marine Corps training techniques. But he was the leader, and the way he wanted to train was the way they’d train. They had better get used to the idea because he wasn’t about to bend too far to their agency tactics.

  Parks turned off the truck and headed for the office. It was going to be a long day.

  “KP,” a voice yelled from behind him. “Wait up.”

  Parks didn’t have to turn around to know that the Jamaican voice was Solomon’s. There he was, clad in his usual garb, including a turtle-neck sweater, jogging toward him.

  “KP,” he said again upon his arrival. “Good morning.”

  Parks just stared at him in confusion. Had he really run for who knows how long just to say good morning to him? He must have because no other words were being spoken. “Well, good morning,” Parks replied, brushing off the dust on his uniform pants. “Something you want to tell me?”

  Solomon paused to catch his breath before speaking. “No. Actually, I wanted to ask you something. What time are you planning to start training?”

  “Oh, about 0700. What do you think?”

  Solomon didn’t think twice before saying, “Sure, that sounds great. What have you got planned?”