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

by Lewis, Rykar

  Parks began to walk toward the EEOB and Solomon followed close behind, eager for a detailed answer. “Well, you are gonna love it, believe me,” Parks joked, pulling out his badge and handing it to the guards. Solomon did the same, and this time the agents did not scrutinize Parks’ badge as much as they had the other day.

  Solomon was not satisfied with the answer so he pressed on. “Like what?”

  “Like running, sit-ups, pull-ups, push-ups. You know, the basics. Is that fine by you?”

  “That’s cool by me, KP.”

  Parks was silent for the rest of the way to their offices. Solomon did all the talking. He talked about the drill last night and what he felt like this morning, and on, and on, and on. Finally the two reached their destination and split ways.

  Parks closed his office door, slumped down into the swivel chair, and powered up the computer. After quickly scanning the price of gold and silver, he logged on to his email account and punched in his password. There were dozens of messages in the inbox. All were from Langley, and all were about the crisis unfolding in Israel.

  After reading all the messages, he logged off and walked over to the windows. It was yet another beautiful morning. Solomon had said that it was an unusually warm March day for D.C. It was perfect weather for PT.

  * * *

  “They are?” President Winnfield was not shocked at what his National Security Advisor was telling him, he was more concerned than anything.

  “Yes sir, Israel is mobilizing everything military oriented in the Golan. Missile silos have much activity around them, military units are being moved to the front, support units are being rushed into the Golan at alarming rates, and it’s looking as though Aziza is moving into Lebanon.”

  “Moving in, or just defending the Golan?” Winnfield asked.

  “No one can tell for sure, Mr. President, but given his reaction yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if he nuked Lebanon within the next hour.” Smith cracked open a fresh can of breath mints and threw two or three in his mouth. “Do you still think Iran is the bad actor?”

  The President leaned back in his chair and pondered the question. “Given what we know now, yes. Considering what we might know in the next hour, no. But I do know one thing.”

  “And what is that, sir,” Smith pressed.

  “The same person or persons that ordered the attacks on us – whether Iran, Lebanon, Iraq, you name it – have ordered the attack on Israel.”

  “I’d say so, Mr. President. But who? We need to strike back as much if not more than Israel does, we just need information.”

  “I know,” Winnfield assured him. “Hamas looks guilty but something doesn’t match up. The terrorists/Secret Service agents had absolutely no dealings with Iran. I’m thinking we would have found out about it had they done so. It makes no sense. That’s really the only reason I have not declared a full-scale war on Iran. I don’t want to start a war with the wrong enemy. I’d like to see Iran taken out, again. I will not attack them, however, without further confirmation that they are behind the attacks on the U.S.”

  “I don’t see how anyone else, Lebanon included, could have performed those attacks, Mr. President,” the National Security Advisor told him. “All the terrorists, minus the agents of course, were workers for Hamas, not Hezbollah, Al-Qaida, the Taliban, or otherwise. I don’t know what to tell you yet, Mr. President.”

  “We’re going to find out who’s responsible soon. When we do, the culprits will wish they were never born. That, I promise you.”

  “I believe you, Mr. President, completely. I want revenge as much as you do. I just hope we can unleash a bit of our fury on the ‘culprits’ soon.”

  Winnfield looked out his many windows and suddenly realized he missed his daughter so much. He also missed his wife, even though he’d just seen her that morning. He wanted to be near her at a time like this. Mary Winnfield was the only thing keeping him running, and he wanted to spend more time with his beloved wife. He wanted more than almost anything to bring his daughter to the White House and spend a few family days together. Time was flying by so quickly, and he needed to prioritize the important things.

  “Tom,” the President said, looking back to his National Security Advisor, “I need to bring my daughter here, soon.”

  Smith seemed taken aback by the statement. “Who, Renee? Now? Why?”

  “What other daughter do I have? And no, not now, but soon. As for why, if you ever had a daughter, you’d know the feeling I have now. I want to see my baby girl together with my wife. I want to make some memories. That’s what really counts. She’s not even married yet you know. I want grandchildren and my only child is not even married.”

  The NSA looked sideways at the President. “Are you sure that now is the time to think of those things, Mr. President?”

  Winnfield hung his head. “Yes, I’m sure. What’s more important than family anyway?”

  “Nothing I guess, but we do have a possible war on our hands. We have to stick with our nation’s best interests now more than ever.”

  “I know, I know. I didn’t say I was going to spend three months at Camp David, I only said I wanted to see my daughter. Is that really too much to ask?”

  Smith didn’t respond. To be truthful, he didn’t know how to respond. He knew what the President was saying was right, but he needed to keep Winnfield focused on what was happening with the Nation. Not on children and grandchildren. “Mr. President, may I remind you, your daughter is merely a phone call away,” the National Security Advisor finally stated, trying to cheer the President a little.

  Winnfield stood up and agreed. “Tom, that’s right. If I can’t see her in person, at least I can talk to her.”

  “That’s the spirit, Mr. President. Family first and country second.”

  The President patted Smith on the back and they both walked out of the Oval Office.

  24

  Tuesday, March 18th – 0700 hours

  Washington D.C.

  “We’ll start out by doing a seven-mile run,” Parks said. The team was gathered at the gym and ready to go. Parks had changed into his Marine PT clothing, and the others were wearing sweatpants and t-shirts too due to the unusual heat of the day.

  Parks eyed each man and began his explanation. “I’ve been called to Washington to make an unstoppable counterterrorism team, and that’s what I’m going to do. During missions we’ll be put in situations that demand utmost physical fitness, and that’s why we’re here today. I want to assess everyone’s physical condition, and I hope to improve us all to the best of our ability. So let’s get at it.”

  After stretches and a daily seven of calisthenics, the team lined up for the run on the gym track. Parks led out and the others followed close behind.

  Everything was going well for the first three miles, they were averaging about eight minutes per mile, and everybody was holding up fine. However, on the fourth, an exhausted Norse fell out of the line and sat in the grass.

  At first, Parks didn’t see him, but Solomon reached over and tapped him. “KP, Greg’s out. Do you want me to get him up?”

  Parks shook his head. “No, let him sit. It’d be more trouble than it’s worth. We’ll get him built up, don’t worry.”

  Between deep gasps for air Solomon continued to talk. “Most of the guys probably won’t make the full seven. You know, agencies’ physical training is not as stringent as the Marines’ training.”

  Parks didn’t answer. He had guessed that most of the men had not done PT this hard, but even he couldn’t remember running seven miles since completing OCS.

  Three-quarters of the fourth mile were completed when three other agents fell out of the run. Lee, Marler, and Samuels all had sweat-stained shirts and faces as they keeled over and gasped for oxygen.

  “Three more down,” Solomon announced, wiping off the sweat on his forehead. “One left to go.”

  Parks was surprised that Corley had not dropped out yet. He had figured that Solomon would be
the only one to complete the run with him.

  Corley did eventually stop on the beginning of the fifth mile. The five agents gathered themselves on the sidelines and watched the two leaders run for the last two miles.

  “That looks like everyone,” Parks declared. “It’s just you and me.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way. There are still two more miles to go.”

  Parks felt sweat drain into his eyes and he unavailingly tried to wipe it off. The sun was getting hotter with each step they took and both of their energy levels were dropping at alarming rates.

  Sixth mile, Parks thought, once they had crossed the mile line. Almost done.

  Instead of decreasing speed they both increased. It now was looking as though the runners were doing a hundred-yard dash instead of a long-distance run. Solomon was right beside Parks and still going strong. He was now running off pure heart, just like Parks. Parks was setting the standard for the team and it was Solomon’s job to be the example. Half dead if need be, they were going to finish this run.

  “Half-mile left,” Parks encouraged his partner after a while. “Only a half mile. We can do it.”

  The last half-mile was the absolute hardest. Parks now was going at top speed and Solomon was desperately trying to keep the pace. He was doing a good job of it too because they both crossed the finish line at exactly the same time. Parks instantly collapsed and Solomon did the same. But after a five second rest, both men started stretching.

  “Seven miles,” Parks said more to himself than to anyone else. “That was rough.”

  “Rough doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel,” Solomon moaned as he continued stretching.

  The team regrouped and Parks informed them on the next exercise. “We move on now to the pull-up bar. Every man will take a turn at it and will perform his maximum number of pull-ups. I’ll go first, and then Solomon, Corley, Norse, Marler, Lee; and Samuels, you’ll go last.”

  Parks and his team walked to the bar and prepared. Grabbing hold of it, Parks felt the sun-heated metal burn his hands. He winced and took in a long, deep breath, and then began.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, he counted silently for each repetition. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. He felt himself slowing down but he determined to at least complete twenty of the reps – twenty-five if he could do it. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. His muscles burned and threatened to give out, but he kept thinking of the Marine Corps poster his dad had hanging above his bed. “Sweat dries, blood clots, bones heal. Suck it up. Be a Marine,” it said. It motivated him to keep on. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

  Just twenty-five, he concluded in a whisper to himself, as he searched for every ounce of strength he had left.

  Twenty-two...twenty-three...twenty-four. Only one more remained, but the Marine hung on the end of the bar drawing in massive breaths, as of yet, unable to complete the final one. Then at a snail’s pace, he forced his way upward. Sweat beads flowed into his eyes, forcing him to close them.

  “Go,” he could hear Solomon whisper. “Do it.”

  Parks felt his chin clear the tops of his hands and he opened his eyes for a brief second to see that he had surpassed the scalding hot bar and could now let himself down. Slowly he eased down to the lowest point his arms would allow him to, then he opened his hands and felt his feet hit solid ground.

  “Way to go,” Solomon praised while doing a last-minute stretch.

  “Yes, that was impressive,” Corley agreed.

  “Thanks,” Parks replied as he caught his breath. “You’re up Solomon. Let’s see it.”

  The deputy commander jumped up suddenly and grasped the bar. “Count for me,” he asked pulling himself up.

  Parks counted aloud as he watched Solomon go up and down, up and down, eighteen times. On the nineteenth, he struggled just as Parks had, but with the team’s encouragement, he completed it and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “Nice job, Solomon,” Parks stated as the agent sat down in utter exhaustion.

  The men that followed did not do as many. Corley pulled off fifteen, Norse did seventeen, Marler completed fourteen, Lee managed twelve, and Samuels ranked highest with eighteen.

  As they were taking a thirty second breather, a cloud briefly shaded them from the burning sun and everybody cheered for joy. The temperature was spiking to ninety degrees, and even with the slight breeze, D.C. felt like an oven.

  “All right guys,” Parks began, “let’s get the sit-ups over with.”

  “Did you say we are doing two sets of eighty?” Lee wondered.

  Parks nodded and the exercise went under way.

  The first eighty were easy for the team to whip out but on the last set, things became more difficult. Parks had a fairly easy time of it but the rest of the men had troubles with the final ten of the second set. In comparison to the other exercises they had done, the sit-ups seemed easy. Everyone agreed that the running was the worst because coupled with the scorching weather, their energy had evaporated.

  After push-ups and several other exercises the PT was done for the day. “Good work men,” Parks said flatly. “That was good for day one. We’ll drive back to the EEOB so everyone can grab their vehicles. I’ll give you an hour break to go home, clean up, and get changed, but you guys need to be in your offices at promptly 1300. Okay?”

  The team jumped into ICEBERG and Parks drove back to the White House parking lot, feeling like he’d accomplished something.

  * * *

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” Adnan Harake, the chief of staff for the Lebanese government, said to Jamil Zacka, “I have an urgent message to give you.”

  Zacka turned from the window and focused his attention on his chief of staff. “What is it?” he demanded harshly.

  “It’s about the Israelis,” Harake explained, closing the door that led into the hallway.

  “What about them? Hurry up Adnan, I haven’t got all day.”

  “We have reason to believe, Mr. Prime Minister, that Israel is preparing for a nuclear war.”

  Zacka keenly listened.

  “There is a heightened state of activity around short- and long-ranged missile silos everywhere inside Israel. Ninety percent of their military’s leaves have been canceled, and they have moved about seven thousand troops into the Golan to reinforce the three thousand they already had there in place.”

  “So they are preparing for a war? But why would they move troops into the Golan Heights if they were going nuclear against someone?”

  Harake jumped on the question. “Perhaps because they want to be ready if someone invades the Golan, yet they want the option to go nuclear against a country should the need arise.”

  Zacka was panicked. “Who do you think they are going against? Certainly not us.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Prime Minister, but obviously they think their enemy will be trying to take the Golan.”

  “That narrows it down to either the Syrians or us. Does it not?”

  “I’d say that’s a true statement. It’s probable that Israel is preparing for both a defense of the Golan and a nuclear retaliation should the Golan be invaded. From whom they are expecting an attack, I still don’t know for sure, but we are not in a very comfortable position.”

  “We have nothing to fear, Adnan,” Zacka confirmed in a more calm tone of voice. “Nothing at all.”

  “Israel has been known to make us fear them,” Harake addressed cautiously. “Especially when they’ve got a dozen nuclear warheads presumably pointed at us.”

  “I have a healthy fear of Israel,” Zacka admitted. “But I have no reason to be afraid of their nuclear warheads. They are not pointed at us.”

  “I wish I could be as sure as you are, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  “I am sure that we are safe. Israel will not fire their missiles at us.”

  “And if they do, how will you respond?”

  The prime minister turned again to the window. “We will cross that bridg
e, if and when we come to it. But I doubt Israel would make that mistake.”

  * * *

  Alka vun Buvka basked in the sun’s warm rays shining through the window in his “office.” His office was really a corporate apartment strategically located in Tehran, Iran. No one in the world, other than his boss and his Palestinian driver, who had driven him away during the Paramount Hotel bombing, knew he was here. He had rented the apartment with a fake name and a stolen credit card, and vun Buvka was confident that neither the CIA nor Mossad could track him now.

  No one expected or suspected him to be the second-ranked terrorist in the world. He had been silent since his last attack in New York, but he had been busy. His boss had promoted him to oversee the training of fifty new terrorists around the Middle East. Ten were ready to go. Twenty would be ready for action by the end of the month, and the remainder would definitely be set to go by the time his boss was ready to unleash the final part of this operation.

  In his mind, he was doing an excellent job, and the situation was only going to improve from here. It was time to give the thumbs-up to his team in Afghanistan. It was time to sign his name in history, once again.

  Vun Buvka logged on to his email account and typed a message to the leader of the team. It was a short message that merely read:

  Do it.

  Quickly he sent it and logged off. Pacing the room, he looked at the large map of the United States on his desk. He held his finger on the target city, San Antonio, Texas.

  The plan was simple and was not traceable. That was just as he wanted. His team had trained for this mission for weeks, and they knew the things that could go wrong and had trained to overcome them. Vun Buvka’s boss would love it, and this was only the start. For this attack, vun Buvka was not going into the action. He was now the chief coordinator and in too high a position to actually perform the operation.

  There was a knock on the door. Vun Buvka looked through the window and saw a small man in a neat black suit, carrying a briefcase that he was hanging on to as if it carried gold. The terrorist recognized his partner/driver instantly and opened the apartment’s door, inviting him inside to escape the cutting winds which were blowing at impressive speeds.