by Lewis, Rykar
Before vun Buvka could even greet him, the man set the briefcase on the desk and began to open it. “It appears that you have ordered the team in Afghanistan to proceed with the operation,” the suited man declared. “Did you not?”
Vun Buvka nodded. “But how did you know, Mr. Hamzah?”
The Palestinian smiled slightly. “No secret is too secret for me to find out about,” he bragged. “However, in this case, your worried face gave it away. But, I have come on a different matter. A matter that concerns you a great deal.”
Vun Buvka sat on the couch and crossed his arms. “Spit it out,” he ordered gruffly.
“All right, all right.” A pause followed until Hamzah opened the briefcase and pulled out a paper. “The Viper Team Seven.”
“The Viper what?”
“The Viper Team Seven.”
The Iranian was not impressed. “And what might the ‘Viper Team Seven’ be?”
“An American counterterrorism team. Highly specialized. The best three agents from the FBI, and the best three from the CIA.”
Vun Buvka laughed. “Six men? Why should six Americans concern me or my team?”
“Let me finish,” Hamzah begged. “You have not heard the very important part. The leader is a Marine.”
“A what?”
“A United States Marine,” he clarified. “Major Keith Parks. A young man with a lot of experience.”
“Keith Parks.” Vun Buvka mulled the name around in his head. “Where is this Viper Team Seven?”
Hamzah was pleased that he had finally caught his friend’s full attention. “They are in Washington D.C. The team just stood up and is getting organized.”
“Who told you this?”
“The boss. He is completely sure of this information, and he believes this Parks will pose a threat to our regime.”
“We can chew up any American counterterrorism team and spit them out,” vun Buvka said. “Did not 9/11 and 1/16 teach the world that? The Americans can make a team and try to stop us. They will not be able to. We will carry out our operation right under their noses, and they won’t know what hit them until it’s over.”
“You are not listening,” Hamzah accused. “We have been ordered not to engage in any action with this team. We are to skirt around them, not fight them. That order came straight from the boss. Do you wish to think otherwise?”
Vun Buvka put his feet up on the coffee table and smiled sinisterly. “Of course not. The boss always knows best.”
“If I were you, and thanks be to Allah I’m not, I would give an order to the Afghanistan team telling them in no uncertain terms, not to engage the Viper Team Seven. No matter what.”
“I appreciate your advice, Mr. Hamzah,” vun Buvka lied. “But if the Viper Team Seven wishes to destroy us, we will be forced to crush them in return.”
“That would be a hard job,” Hamzah said, putting the paper he was reading from into a shredder. “You have never met a Marine, presumably, or you would have more fear for this team.”
Vun Buvka’s eyes burned with anger. He fought to keep his voice calm and his hands steady. “I suppose that a man like you has met one then.”
Hamzah stood motionless. “My older brother did. He never lived to tell me about it though.”
“What happened?”
The Palestinian looked around and answered. “I know this only because it hit international news a while after it happened.” He cast his eyes to the floor. “My brother was in a terror training camp in Afghanistan one night during the War on Terror when some Marines stormed it. I think it was a company or so but I can’t remember. All I know is that my brother was killed. I don’t know exactly how, but I do know the name of the man who led that company of Marines. He was shot in the shoulder, I believe. Anyway, when he got back to the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps awarded him the Medal of Honor and the Purple Heart.”
“So the Marine leader got a bunch of medals for taking out the camp?” vun Buvka questioned.
“Yes indeed.”
“Who was it?”
Hamzah stalled for a second and then looked vun Buvka directly in the eye. “His name...was Captain Keith Parks.”
25
Tuesday, March 18th – 1300 hours
The Oval Office
“Dad, how are you?” Renee Winnfield asked her father.
Winnfield had not been able to call his daughter earlier due to the emergency NSC meeting concerning the rising hostilities in the Middle East. The meeting proved to be fruitless and a waste of time, and it had left everyone with even more questions than answers.
“I’m not too bad,” the President replied honestly, cheering up at the sound of her sweet voice. “How’s my little girl?”
“I’m good. And why do I have the honor of taking a call from the President of the United States?”
Winnfield laughed. “Talk to me as your dad, Renee, not the President.”
“Okay, I’ll try my best.”
“So, how is everything in the land of terrorism?”
The phone was quiet for a minute as she tried to understand what her dad was saying.
“I say that because New York is where the most recent attacks and the Trade Center attacks were performed,” Winnfield clarified. “It seems like it’s a magnet for terrorists.”
“Oh, now I get it,” Renee said. “But that’s not a very comfortable thought. You make me want to move.”
“Actually, that’s kind of the reason I called.”
“What, for me to move or to get uncomfortable?”
“Well, I’d like for you to come down and visit us,” Winnfield stated. “Your mom and I both miss you terribly.”
Again, the conversation went dead for a second.
“Um, yeah,” Renee suddenly decided. “I could come visit sometime. I’d like that a lot.”
The President didn’t bother to hide his delight. “Good. Renee, that’s wonderful. When could you get time off?”
“Well, I could have my second-in-command take over the business for a few days sometime in April I think.”
Winnfield’s heart sank. “April? Why April?”
“Because for the rest of the month we’re doing a massive advertising campaign and I need to oversee it. But don’t worry, March is half over. April is right around the corner,” she assured.
“I know. Your mom is just getting impatient.”
“Mom is or you are?”
The President cleared his throat loudly. “We both are.”
Another silence came before Renee boldly asked, “Is Israel going to war with Lebanon?”
The question threw Winnfield for a loop. “That’s classified information, Renee, I can’t say,” he admitted. “What is the media saying though?”
“Some people say they are, others say they’ve got some other nation in their sights. Nobody knows what to believe.”
Neither do we, Winnfield thought. It’s not so much the attacks that scare me; it’s the uncertainty of who’s behind this.
* * *
Parks swung open his office door. His arms were loaded with office paraphernalia including miniature American and Marine flags, Germ-X, Marine posters, and other little items. He felt like he had to put up, at the very least, a few posters just to keep the Marine Corps spirit. So that’s what he’d do.
He threw the items on the couch and quickly sorted through them.
After a few minutes, everything was up and in place. Rubbing in a generous amount of hand cleaner, Parks walked again to his computer and checked his email. There were only twenty-five messages and they were from the senior watch officer of the task force at Langley.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he opened the first one and began reading. Instantly he became captivated.
* * *
“Tell me, Hamzah,” vun Buvka asked, “if Parks killed your brother, why do you not want my team in Afghanistan to kill him?”
The Palestinian sat on the edge of the desk and quietly respo
nded. “First of all, the boss ordered you not to engage Parks’ team. Second, I pride myself on not letting my hate or desire to kill blind me from seeing the truth. And the truth is, Parks and his team are superior to our team from the sounds of things.”
“So should the opportunity present itself, and if the boss authorizes you, would you attempt to kill Parks?” vun Buvka pressed, desperately grabbing for information.
“I can’t answer you yet. I doubt that my skill exceeds his, but if I ever saw him face-to-face, my hatred for him might uncharacteristically push me into it. On the other hand, I might play things smart and leave well enough alone.”
“It sounds to me,” the Iranian said while scratching the side of his head, “that your desire for revenge does not override your fear for that Marine. Am I right?”
Hamzah glared at his partner. “The fact is, Mr. vun Buvka, my brother is dead. I want revenge, but I also want to stay alive. I’m not sure that I would be willing to risk my life for the revenge of a dead man. Vengeance would be delightful. But what good is it if I die for it?”
“True. But then again, I still get the feeling you are afraid of him and that fear is standing in the way of what you may really want to do.”
“I am afraid,” Hamzah replied truthfully. “But when has fear stopped me when I set my mind to do something?”
Vun Buvka shook his head slowly in confusion. “You are afraid, but you would overcome your fear if you were certain you wanted to get revenge on Parks. You are not letting your hatred for him push you into doing something you’re not sure you want to do. Have I got that right?”
Hamzah nodded. “But if I ever see him I might become ‘sure’ that I want revenge.”
Vun Buvka suppressed a smile. This could be useful information, he thought. It just might come in handy should I ever need to end this Viper Team Seven.
* * *
Ghazi Siraj zipped his carry-on bag and prepared himself for what he had to do. His team of terrorists had received orders to carry out their operation at last. They were now converging on an airport in Afghanistan in different vehicles from different directions. The plan was that they would fly on the same plane heading for Mexico City, Mexico, without ever talking or having any affiliation with each other. Upon arrival at their destination, they would rent two vehicles and drive close to the U.S. port of entry in Santa Teresa, New Mexico. Instead of crossing into America by vehicle though, they would dump the cars and cross over on foot at some remote, unguarded location to the east of the port. It was too risky to try and get passports for ten men without showing their real identity, so they had to do it this way.
As far as Siraj knew, there would be no Border Patrol personnel at some locations east of the port, and that was where he would make his move. They would cross the border and walk to a sleeper agent’s house in El Paso where they would pick up the C4 that the sleeper had been smuggling in through Mexico for the last couple of months. The same man would give them a vehicle, and then they would drive to San Antonio. The actual target had not been determined as of yet, but when they arrived, they would find a lively spot and explode it.
Siraj’s cell phone rang and he checked the ID. It was a restricted number. He looked over at his driver and then back at the phone. He answered hesitantly.
“Is this Ghazi Siraj?” the caller asked before Siraj could even say hello.
“Mr. vun Buvka,” he said, recognizing the voice. “Do you not think it is dangerous for you to call me? And to say real names? What are you doing?”
“Easy now, the call is totally secure,” vun Buvka assured him. “I have a message for you to tell your team when you meet in Mexico.”
“And what is that?” Siraj questioned, feeling more comfortable.
“It appears as though President Winnfield has constructed a new counterterrorism team called the Viper Team Seven. It consists of three agents from the FBI and three from the CIA. And, a major in the United States Marine Corps is the leader.”
“A what?”
“A Marine. Surely you’ve heard of them.”
“Of course, I just didn’t expect – they aren’t supposed to operate in the U.S.”
“Your job is not to expect,” vun Buvka corrected sharply. “That’s mine.”
“Go on,” Siraj encouraged, eager to change the subject from his correction.
“Well, as I was saying, the boss wishes that under no circumstance you engage this new team. He feels it is dangerous and he orders you not to play with them even if they want trouble.”
“Are we supposed to run if they try to fight us?”
“Yes. You’ll have to accomplish your mission while on the run if need be. You might have to pick a different target city but you are not to engage this new team. Do you understand me?”
Siraj was not about to argue. He had been told not to do something and whether he agreed with it or not, he had to obey. “I understand,” he complied. “I will pass on your message to the team.”
Before anything else could be said, the phone went dead.
* * *
Regretfully, the President ended the call with his daughter. It was getting late and he needed to take care of some things. “I’m sorry, Renee, but I have to go now. There are a few things I have to see to,” he told her.
“Oh that’s fine. I have to get back to work myself. I guess I’ll talk to you later then.”
“Yes, that’d be great. Love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
The President hung up the phone and sighed. A picture of Renee that was sitting on his desk caught his eye. Picking it up, his heart sank even more at the sight of his only child. Suddenly, he put the photo down, walked to a bookshelf, and pulled down another picture of when she was only two. He still remembered the day it was taken. It was as if it had happened only yesterday. How time could fly so quickly was a wonder to him. He wished he could put the brakes on it sometimes.
There was a knock at the door of the Oval Office. “Come in,” Winnfield allowed, setting down the picture and turning to the door.
It was Smith. “Mr. President, am I disturbing anything?” he asked in dismay.
“No, no, come right in.” The President exhaled noisily and leaned against the wall. “What can I do for you, Tom?”
The National Security Advisor shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it’s about that meeting we just left. It was fruitless wasn’t it?” Winnfield nodded in agreement. “Well, I have a bad feeling. Now Mr. President, this is just a feeling, but feelings usually have a reason for coming about, so that’s why I’m telling you this.” The President motioned with his hand for him to continue. “I fear we are going to be attacked. I think that this Israeli trouble is merely a diversion of sorts.”
“A diversion? Like the one before Air Force One was hijacked?”
“I think so, Mr. President. It seems that the terrorists we’re dealing with here strike just at the moment we should be prepared and aren’t,” the NSA continued. “What I’m saying is, these guys attack in cycles. They attack in one place, they get our attention there, and then they strike in a vulnerable spot. Are you getting what I’m saying, Mr. President?”
Winnfield shook his head. “Kind of, but not really. I mean, I’m grasping what you’re saying about that terror strike a couple months ago, how they diverted our attention and all. I don’t really know if you’re implying that the terrorists are going to perform an attack on U.S. soil or in Israel. Which is it?”
“Either could happen, or both. I don’t know. All I’m sure of is that my senses are screaming at me that there’s going to be another attack.”
“I know either could happen, but which are you saying is more likely?” the President demanded.
“I’m guessing we’re going to be the target.”
“Okay, now I really don’t get it. If the terrorists wanted to strike us, they wouldn’t blow cover in this Israeli attack, they’d try and surprise us. They know that if they attacked Israel we wouldn’
t be slacking off; we’d be increasing our guard. Now I know the last time I said that I was wrong, and the whole terror plot unfolded, so maybe I had better shut up. But I don’t think that they believe the diversion deal would work again. What do you think?”
“Given what’s happened, I’d say they’re going to try and pull off the same drill. They want us to think that they wouldn’t do the same thing as on 1/16. They want us to relax and that’s when they’ll hit us. Just like last time.”
Silence followed before Winnfield said anything more. “You have anything to back up this feeling of yours, Tom? Do you have anything in writing or some kind of evidence? You’re not making much sense. If you don’t have any proof, what do you want me to do?”
Smith had expected a reaction like that and he was prepared. “I have nothing to back up my feeling,” he admitted. “But I would have the Viper Team Seven on speed dial if I were you, Mr. President. I’d have them close by and ready, just in case something does unravel.”
26
Wednesday, March 19th – 0435 hours
Mexican Airlines
Nervousness is usually made worse by motion, and the continuous rocking of the plane was knotting Siraj’s stomach.
Only an hour remained until they would land in Mexico City and begin their operation. Siraj had been up all night thinking about it. He was going over the plans again and again, just to make sure everything was perfect. He was confident that everything was.
He glanced at his team member in the seat across the aisle and nodded his satisfaction. The other terrorist discretely bobbed his head up and down in return and then went back to his crossword puzzle. The puzzle was in English and the man couldn’t read English words. He could speak it, but not read it. It looked the part though and that was the important thing.
Another terrorist who had been sitting near the front of the plane stood up and walked down the aisle, acting as if he needed to use the restroom. That wasn’t the case, however. He was really checking with Siraj to see if everything was okay.
