by Lewis, Rykar
The man nodded ever so slightly as he passed his leader who returned the “all clear” signal.
The suspense was hard to take for all of the terrorists. They were willing to die but they all preferred just to get into the action quickly and get it over with. The hardest part was waiting on the plane. The hours of doing nothing but sitting and thinking of the possibilities of what could go wrong was affecting them all. But they had to endure it. For a while at least. Soon it would be over. Soon they would have their names alongside great jihadists like Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Khan Lahud, and Alka vun Buvka. They would be legends in the Arab world. Their children would talk of how great their fathers were and how they had bravely given their lives to wage jihad on the United States. It would be worth it all. America would be shocked yet again at their pitiful national security and weak counterterrorism teams.
A thought suddenly struck Siraj. What kind of threat was the Viper Team Seven to their mission? Were these Americans really that good? If the boss had ordered vun Buvka to inform this Afghanistan team about them, then they must be “that good,” Siraj concluded. But what could really happen now that would stop his team?
“Would you like some tea?” a female flight attendant asked him in Arabic, interrupting his thoughts.
Siraj was startled but he didn’t show it. “Um, no thank you,” he replied in perfect English, hoping to sound more like a bilingual businessman than a terrorist out of Afghanistan.
Decked out in a spotless, black, three-piece suit, he definitely didn’t look the part of a terrorist. That was the way it was planned. Vun Buvka had ordered everyone to be dressed nicely and to speak English. He hoped that would subdue any suspicions about them being terrorists, and of course it was working. Everyone on the plane thought Siraj was a businessman of some sort heading on a company retreat to Mexico, and he was not about to let them think otherwise. He was doing his best to be a gentleman and even he was surprised at his ability to do so.
“All right,” she said in English this time. “Should you need anything, sir, I’ll be in the back.”
Siraj smiled at her and watched as she completed her rounds. Peering out the window into the pitch-black sky, he saw lights down below. “Is this Mexico we’re flying above?” he asked a man seated behind him.
“It appears so,” the man grunted with exhaustion.
That man was not one of Siraj’s terrorists. He was just some overweight man flying alone to Mexico to meet his wife. The man had told him so during the long flight when Siraj had tried to strike up a conversation.
“We should be there in about thirty minutes,” the man declared.
The terrorist swallowed hard. Thirty minutes left. Thirty minutes until Operation LONE STAR would begin.
* * *
Parks hit the snooze button the instant his alarm clock rang. It was 0445 and time to get up, but he just couldn’t resist staying under the warm blankets. It was still quite dark outside and very cool. Compared to the temperature yesterday, it felt cold at forty degrees. The weather had changed suddenly in the night, and now the heat wave had been exchanged for colder weather.
Slowly, Parks rolled out of bed. He rubbed his eyes vigorously with both hands but it didn’t do any good. He felt awful. He needed some coffee to wake himself.
Stumbling down the stairs, he made some coffee and sat down on the couch. He was still tired. He felt like his head had just hit the pillow and then it was time to get up. He had stayed up late last night thinking about the intel emails he had read at work. They had all been about the Israelis preparing their missiles and military units, and how it seemed like they really were preparing for a war. Parks had figured that there would be activity around some silos, but reports were saying that all silos were having massive activity. Before he had read the emails, he doubted that Israel was really going to launch a nuclear armed ICBM at Beirut, but after he had read them, he couldn’t believe that they wouldn’t. They were preparing for an all-out nuclear war with someone, and Lebanon was in their crosshairs, it seemed. But was Israel really barking up the right tree? Parks didn’t have a clue, but it wasn’t his job to find that out. His job was merely to take out terrorists, not find out who they were.
The coffee was ready and he poured a steaming cup and drank it down. It didn’t do any good though. He placed the cup in the sink and shook his head violently, trying to clear his mind from the fog he was in. Dr. Pepper. That’s what he needed.
Parks threw open the refrigerator door and reached for a bottle, but then he remembered something. His team was supposed to arrive at the EEOB a little early so they could drive to Marine Corps Base Quantico for rifle marksmanship practice. How had he forgotten? He looked at the clock. He didn’t have much time left. “Oh no,” he complained aloud, slamming the fridge’s door and running back upstairs to ready himself for work.
Parks considered how to cut some time. He could skip a shower, that would cut ten minutes, and he could skip...well...yes, breakfast too. That would allow him to leave in about fifteen minutes. He hoped he wouldn’t be late. Parks scrambled to change out of his pajamas and into his camies. At least he was awake now, and that was important.
In a matter of minutes, he was in full uniform and ready to go. He grabbed his keys and headed for his truck, stopping only to retrieve the bottle of Dr. Pepper. Rapidly, he started the truck and backed out of the driveway. Traffic was still horrible even at this hour. Jams and collisions were at their peak, and police officers were swarming the metropolitan area. Still, Parks pulled out his cell phone and dialed Solomon. He didn’t want anyone to forget about the training as he had.
“Solomon. Go,” the Jamaican said while yawning.
“Yeah, this is KP. I was just calling to make sure you remembered that we’re going to Quantico today.”
“I remember all right. I’m on my way out now.” Solomon yawned again, almost with exaggeration.
“Okay, Solomon, I understand it’s early but it’s not that early,” Parks joked.
“If I can see stars when I wake up, it’s too early,” Solomon retorted tiredly.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Could you remind everyone about the training please?”
“Oh, sure. See you in the parking lot.”
“Right. Bye.”
Parks snapped his phone shut and threw it on the passenger’s seat. His stomach growled loudly from lack of food. He wished he’d have wakened earlier so he could have eaten, but chances were he still wouldn’t have had time after a shower. He could skip a meal without killing himself though. It wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it.
An orange sports car cut in front of Parks’ truck. He slammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending it, but his big truck wasn’t exactly an immediate stopper. Fortunately, he swerved into the right lane when a space opened, and managed not to hit the car. It was close, and Parks was getting fed up with the heavy traffic and inconsiderate drivers.
He stole a look at the digital clock – 0530. He didn’t have much time.
A headache squeezed itself into his head and intensified to the point where he felt like he was going to explode. It was so frustrating and stressful to drive in this monster city. He hated it. He wished there was some way around it, but of course there wasn’t.
After several more minutes of driving, the illuminated White House came into view, and Parks was never more thankful for the sight.
* * *
Siraj jogged down the steps into the airport and headed for the baggage area. His small carry-on bag was under one arm and his suit coat was under the other. It was hot and muggy in the airport. And crowded. People swarmed about looking for loved ones, business employees, or friends. Siraj and his men were the only ones not looking for someone. His entire team was behind him, and no one even suspected that they had anything to do with each other. His terrorists were all scattered about in the crowd, acting as though they were looking for their friends and family, all the while discreetly following Siraj.
Siraj grabbed his bag at
the luggage pickup area and headed for the car rental stations; his men following at a safe distance.
“What can I do for you, señor?” the car rental man asked as the terrorist approached.
“English. Do you speak English?”
“Sí, I speak muy bueno English. What can I do for you today, señor?”
Siraj leaned against the counter. “What do you have?”
“Seating?”
“Five.”
“Well señor, we have this,” he stated, shoving a key toward him. “It’s a Toyota Camry that can seat six.”
“Fine. How much?”
“Esteé, how long will you need this?”
“A day.”
The man pulled out a calculator and did some quick figuring. “400 pesos,” he declared, looking for Siraj’s reaction.
“How many American dollars?”
The rental man’s face lit up. “Thirty dollars.”
“Here,” the terrorist said while shoving thirty-five dollars toward him. “Thirty for the vehicle, and five for your excellent service.”
“Aye, gracias, señor. Muchos gracias.” He then calmed and explained, “Thank you, that is.”
Siraj signed all the necessary papers, with a fake name and identification, grabbed the key, and asked, “Where is this vehicle located?”
“Adrian,” the man yelled to a young man nearby. “Show the man to number fifty-seven. Rapido, rapido.”
Siraj smiled and followed the Mexican while glancing over his shoulder to see four of his men exiting the building through different doors, trying to keep up with him without being noticed.
* * *
The prime minister of Israel was sitting in his office. He had been thinking there for several hours now. The meeting Aziza had with his advisors was twenty-four hours old. It had been a wreck, just as he had expected. Everyone’s opinions and advice differed so greatly. Nothing had been accomplished.
Twenty-four hours ago, the Israeli army had prepared for war, and they were still standing ready. General Zimri had briefed the Israeli government during the meeting on Israel’s military condition and the position of their units. The defense minister had blown up at Aziza for authorizing the mobilization, and warned that by that action he might be causing a war when one was not needed. For whatever reason, the prime minister now was not at all concerned with the drastically different opinions of his government.
What confused Aziza the most was where to go from here. What should his next move be? What would that move accomplish? Thoughts of that nature consumed him. He knew the next day would be vital and that his decisions could possibly draw up the fate of his country. “It’s not the fight that will destroy us,” Hazeroth had said during the meeting. “It’s who we fight.” Those words kept ringing in Aziza’s ears and he could not silence them. He knew that statement was completely true. He knew that doing nothing was not an option, yet what was he supposed to do now that he had the entire Israeli army mobilized and ready to fight? Who should he hit? Should he strike conventionally, or with nuclear weapons?
Both scenarios could end up deadly. Still, he had to make a decision. He wondered if he attacked Lebanon what would happen. Would he be wrong for doing so? If so, what would the consequences be? President Winnfield seemed to think that Iran and/or the U.N. would crush them. But again, the question came back into Aziza’s mind. Could anyone really crush the Israelis?
* * *
“Jump in,” Siraj commanded, finally speaking in his native Arabic tongue. He was in the airport parking lot, driving the rented vehicle, and now he was picking up his half of the team. Everything looked good. He could see the other team members piling into another car halfway down the parking lot, looking as normal as anyone else. It was a good sign.
“How was your trip?” a terrorist asked while buckling his seatbelt on the passenger’s side.
Siraj didn’t answer for almost a full minute while he waited for the other vehicle to get ready. Finally, he spoke up. “Need I answer you? I believe you were with me the whole time.”
The other man grinned. “We planned it well, Mr. Siraj, did we not?”
“We will see,” he replied, putting the car into gear and speeding for the exit. “We will see.”
A long silence followed as the car picked up speed and pulled onto the main thoroughfare.
“You,” Siraj ordered, pointing back to a man in a rear seat, “get my luggage bag.”
The man reached back and then handed the heavy leather suitcase forward. Siraj shoved it onto the terrorist in the passenger’s seat. “Get out the pistol. Hand it to me and zip up my bag,” he demanded.
Each terrorist had managed to smuggle a sidearm along in their suitcase without the flight security crew ever noticing. Mexican Airlines, after all, was not a very high security operation, and that was why the team had picked them for transportation.
“Is it not a little early for such an action?” the passenger questioned.
“No. We need to be ready just in case somebody attempts to take us out.”
“Like who? No one hostile even knows we exist.”
Siraj stared at the road. “Like this new American counterterrorism team.” Everyone was quiet. “The Viper Team Seven, I believe Mr. vun Buvka called it. He says they are extremely good. We have orders not to engage them.”
“Then why the pistol?” someone in the rear wondered.
Siraj glared back at him through the rearview mirror. “I have a mission to carry out. Orders or no orders.”
Everyone was again silent. Save the noise of the engine, no sound was heard. Everybody was contemplating what had just been said. Some of them thought it was wise to go ahead even against orders. Others believed that they needed to follow orders to the letter if they wanted to make this operation work.
All of the terrorists had the same conclusion. They had trained for too long to let an opportunity like this one slip through their fingers. They had worked too hard and risked too much to allow this mission to go unfinished. They needed to make this one work. If they could accomplish their mission by following orders then so be it, if by going against orders, then that could be arranged as well. Either way, Operation LONE STAR was going to be successful.
* * *
Parks and Solomon walked together to their vehicles. The team had just arrived at the EEOB from MCB Quantico and was breaking for lunch. They all were ordered to meet in the parking lot again at precisely 1300.
The training they had done consisted of marksmanship with the Remington M-40A5 sniper rifle shooting at a target 500 yards away. Everyone had shot expertly and Parks had been impressed with their skill.
“Does your shoulder hurt from the recoil?” Solomon asked as he rubbed his own shoulder.
Parks shrugged. “It’s not too bad I guess. It did have quite a kick to it though.”
“Man I’m starving,” Solomon complained as his stomach began to growl. “How about you?”
“I haven’t eaten all day,” Parks said. “I didn’t have time to eat breakfast this morning. Talk about starving, I am dying right now.”
Solomon laughed and hit the unlock button for his car. “Well I suppose I’ll see you in an hour,” he stated. “Drive safely, KP.”
Parks acknowledged with a wave and then he began to jog to his truck. He was still in his utility uniform from the shooting session, and he felt much more at home in them. They were more comfortable than his Bravos and he didn’t have to worry about ruining them.
Parks reached his truck and started it. He slowly pulled out of the parking lot and followed the noise of Solomon’s reggae music which was even overriding the sound of the truck’s diesel engine. The music was bearable for the first few minutes, but after that the beat started irritating him.
“Oh come on,” Parks whispered to Solomon. “Do you really need to share your music with the birds? Not everyone appreciates your reggae. Can’t you just turn it down a little so I can hear my own engine?”
But t
he black Camaro kept on sending out the tunes, and Parks was caring for them less and less as the seconds flew by.
At last Parks turned off to go to his house and left the deafening music. As he was driving, he thought of Colonel Johnson and decided to give him a call soon. He was a good man and Parks enjoyed talking with him. He was knowledgeable yet not cocky or a know-it-all. He was like an uncle to Parks, or something along that line. The man was dedicated to everything he did, especially to the Corps. Parks could remember Johnson telling him that one day he hoped to give Parks command of the Anti-Terrorism Battalion. Unfortunately, Parks hadn’t stayed around long enough. But now he didn’t want to go back. He didn’t wish he was back at Lejeune, or in Montana, or anywhere else; he wanted to be right here in command of this team. He hadn’t at first, but those feelings had passed and a sense of excitement had taken its place.
Parks kept recalling the President’s words to him the first day on duty. “God bless you boy,” he had said. “You’ll need it.” Parks was already beginning to understand the truth of that statement.
27
Wednesday, March 19th – 2300 hours
Fifty Miles from the Sunland Park Port
A change of clothes can alter the entire appearance of a man. And that was definitely the case with Siraj and his men.
They had thrown off their suit coats and fancy slacks, and traded for rough jeans and t-shirts, since the weather was quite warm. They had stopped on a country road some fifty miles away from the U.S. border to change and arm themselves.
No longer did Siraj look like a pleasant, kindhearted businessman in a suit. Now he looked like any other lowlife in Mexico. But the time for fooling people with his appearance was done, and now fancy clothes no longer mattered. The speed which they would cross over the border into the U.S., and pick up the explosives, made all the difference. So far they were actually making good time.
Each man had a 10mm Beretta sidearm and enough rounds to fight an army. Of course, fighting an army was not the preferred method of doing things. Actually, if all went well, they wouldn’t even see a Border Patrol agent.
