Viper Team Seven (The Viper Team Seven Series Book 1) (20 page)

Wednesday, March 19
^th
– 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.

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.
”
HH
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.”