Viper Team Seven (The Viper Team Seven Series Book 1) (21 page)

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 the 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.

Wednesday, March 19
^th
– 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.

The terrorists
planned to dump the cars when they were within sight of the border crossing. By
the time anyone found the abandoned vehicles and traced things back to the
owner and then to them, the operation would already be accomplished and identity
secrecy would no longer hold any value.

Siraj had balked
at first when vun Buvka had told them to come into the U.S. close to the Sunland Park Port of Entry area in Santa Teresa, New Mexico. Siraj had argued that
they could reach San Antonio much quicker by skipping the border at the center of
Texas, but vun Buvka insisted that east of the Sunland Park Port be the crossing point. He said that the Border Patrol guard was not intense around that
area, and that there was a safe house in a local neighborhood should anything
go wrong.

From Santa Teresa,
the terror team would walk on foot to the weapons cache in El Paso where the C4
was being kept. The sleeper agent had been ordered to have a vehicle ready for
them to use as transportation to their target city. Siraj was sure he had every
detail of the plan nailed down and every loose end tied. Now he was about to
test the perfection of it.

Personally,
Siraj could feel himself getting cold feet when he thought about why he was
really here. Sure he had trained for this mentally just as hard as physically,
but the real operation was different. There were no imaginative scenarios or
pretend enemies, it was all real. Siraj and his men really were going to die
for the cause. It was strange to base their success on dying instead of living,
especially since they would die by their own hands.

Suicide, the
Americans called it. Sacrifice, the Arabs said. But Siraj would be just as dead
either way. What would he merit by suicide or “sacrifice” for a cause besides
stories for his children to tell and peace in the arms of some “Allah” – of
which there was no proof he actually existed?

Siraj slapped
his face cruelly. How dare he think like that at a time such as this? He had
longed for this moment and now he was getting cold feet. How could he allow
himself to even think about denying the brotherhood, and his Muslim faith, and
all the values he’d grown to love?

Doubt was not a
good attribute to have right now, and Siraj was doing everything in his power
to shove it out of his mind. He wouldn’t have to for long. If all went well
he’d be offered for the cause in less than forty-eight hours. He could stand
this feeling for that long. Longer if he had to. This was his purpose, his
destiny, his dream. He would not give it up just because of doubt.

“Mr. Siraj, we
are ready,” a terrorist said into the black night while leaning against the
passenger-side door. His face was eerily illuminated from the vehicle’s
interior lights, but except for those, and an occasional passing car, all was
dark.

Siraj stared
down the road that he couldn’t even see because the night was so black, and
nodded. “Let’s go then. We cannot linger here.”

Everyone loaded
up and prepared to roll; everyone except Siraj, who was still staring at
nothing. Still looking for something he wanted but didn’t know how to find.

  “Mr. Siraj, we
are ready,” the same terrorist pleaded again. “It is time to leave, you said so
yourself. What is taking so long?”

Siraj didn’t
move. So deep in thought, he barely heard the man. He was being blinded and
crippled by his fear.

The terrorist in
Siraj’s vehicle’s passenger seat was catching on. “Is something wrong with
you?” he demanded to know.

“
No,
”
Siraj snapped a bit too loudly. “Even if there was, that is for me to worry
about, not you.”

A cool wind blew
in from the north and ruffled Siraj’s hair. Still he was not moving. He was not
sure he wanted to move. But then again, he was not sure he
didn’t
want
to.

Frustrated with
himself and life in general, he turned from the dark desert night, climbed into
the driver’s seat, and drove off, not uttering a word.

“I sense there
is something wrong, Mr. Siraj,” the annoying terrorist said at last as the
small convoy began to pick up speed. “May I–”

He never
finished his thought. In an instant, Siraj slammed on the vehicle’s brakes and
smoothly pulled out his 10mm, which had been pushed in his belt, and shoved the
barrel into the man’s face. “May you what?” he growled, feeling a sudden surge
of anger and fear of what the man might know. “May you try and read my mind?”

The terrorist’s
initial shock turned into a calm sense of discovery. “I don’t need to read your
mind, Mr. Siraj. You have made your feelings evident.”

“I warn you.”

But the
terrorist did not listen. “You have told me you are afr–”

Siraj didn’t
need him to finish the word to know what he was going to say. Suddenly the
deafening blast of a 10mm shot in confined quarters roared out. Everyone in the
vehicle gasped and instinctively reached for their guns at the sight. Sitting
right in front of them was Siraj with his pistol, looking at his dead comrade
whose head was no longer a member of his body.

“Let this be a
lesson,” he commanded, feeling a new dedication for what he had to do. “I will
not take nonsense. I am the leader of this team and my opinions and feelings on
a matter will be everyone’s opinions and feelings. I will allow no one to doubt
my leadership. Do you all understand me?”

The tension was
thick in the smoky air as the other terrorists considered whether they should
kill Siraj or follow him. Fortunately an interruption came.

“What happened?”
the driver from the other vehicle asked while pounding on Siraj’s window.

Siraj tucked his
pistol back in his belt and rolled down the window. “We had an act of
rebellion,” he explained. “But, never fear, the matter is settled.”

The terrorist
outside looked at the headless body and then back to Siraj. “I demand an
explanation.
What have you done?
”

Siraj turned to
his men in the backseats and gave a short order concerning the dead man. “Take
him up the hill and throw him in some ditch. Strip him of his gun and anything
else you might want.”

“What happens if
somebody finds him?” a terrorist questioned with concern.

“What is one
more dead body to the Mexicans? They won’t think anything of it.
Now do it
.”

The men
reluctantly stepped out of the car, dragged the corpse up the hill, and flung
him in a ditch. They were prepared for killing, but not this. Not fratricide.
They knew they would kill the Americans and themselves, but not each other. The
entire act had taken them completely off guard.

As doubts and
fear of Siraj swirled about in their minds, they completed their order and
walked back to the convoy. The other driver went back to his job and the two
vehicles proceeded with their travel just as if nothing had ever happened.

“There are nine
of us now,” Siraj announced unexpectedly. “The bad one is gone. We are now the
core team. We will be the ones who complete this operation. Unless of course
someone would like to turn on me as that traitorous man did.”

Silence ensued
in the vehicle. Fear of who would be killed next, and thoughts of uprising
filled all their minds. They were afraid. Not afraid of dying at their own
hands but at this man’s hand. They wanted to die for a cause, not because their
leader thought they were rebellious.

“How do we know
you won’t turn on us, Mr. Siraj?” a brave one finally asked.

“He turned on
me,” Siraj began. “Not the other way around. I am your companion. Not your
enemy. I do not want to kill any of you, nor will I. I wish only to see the
Americans die. Does anyone disagree?”

A small wave of
comfort passed over everyone, and they started to relax again.

“Rest my friends,” Siraj offered. “Rest well. The time for action will
come soon enough.”

*          *          *

The work day was
done for Parks and his team. He was at home sitting in his swivel chair reading
a Marine Corps novel. It was late and he was tired, but the book kept compelling
him to turn the next page to see what would happen next.

Peeling himself
away from the book, he glanced at the clock and saw that it was midnight. He
weighed whether he wanted to read more or go to bed, and at last his exhaustion
overtook him and he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.

He flipped open
his personal cell phone – that he rarely used or carried – and found that he
had missed a call from his parents.

Oh well,
he
thought.
I can call them later when I’m not so busy and it’s not so late.

He turned to his
nightstand and looked at the last family photo they had all taken together.
Loving, encouraging, and forever there for him, his parents had always been
good to him. He loved them dearly. He wished he could spend more time with them
but with the limited “leave” he had, that was impossible.

“Keith,” he could
hear his mom say even now, “you are the only child your father and I have, and
we want grandchildren. Can’t you grant a couple of old people their wish?”

Parks had to
laugh out loud as he thought of that. Marriage? For him? Impossible. For one,
he didn’t really want to be married, and two, he didn’t have anyone to marry.
He had met a few ladies he liked throughout the years, but he never was really
serious about marrying them. He liked being free and single. Maybe someday he
could make his mom’s dream come true, but right now he didn’t have the desire
to accomplish that task.

Parks turned from the picture and walked to the window to pull the blinds
down. He was ready for this day to end. Actually, it already had. It was Thursday,
March 20
^th
.

*          *          *

Border Patrol Agent
Jack Monroe sipped the last of the coffee in his thermos. It was a dark night
but the moon kept trying to shine through the overcast clouds and if it ever
succeeded, it might get halfway bright.

Monroe was posted on the U.S./Mexican border a couple miles east of the Sunland Park Port
of Entry, just as he had been for the last two months. He always had the night
shift and he was eternally posted at this remote location where action never
came.

He was young,
barely twenty-four, but his aspirations for becoming an accomplished agent
exceeded that of most of his superiors. Unfortunately he rarely fulfilled any
of his dreams. He was always thrown out here in this wilderness to watch for
illegals that never came. Tonight would be no exception. He’d sit here for
hours looking through his night-vision binoculars at sagebrush and rabbits, and
then the sun would come up and he’d be replaced. It was getting boring. He had
joined the Patrol so he could help ward off illegal aliens from coming into the
United States, but he had not done anything near that exciting for the entire
two months he’d been on the job.

Everyone kept
saying he’d get his chance, but he doubted it. Sometimes he wondered if maybe
he should have joined the CIA or FBI. He would have been sure to get some
action that way. But he hadn’t. He was here. Here in this barren desert where
no one ever came, except him.

His radio
crackled. “Hey, you got any action out your way?” a voice asked.

Monroe sat up quickly at the sound of the other agent’s voice. His partner was five miles
away in another SUV doing the same thing he was: nothing.

“Uh, no. Nothing
at all. You?” he reported, not really interested in what the other agent had to
say.

A muffled
response came that Monroe didn’t bother replying to. He already knew the other
guy didn’t have anything going on. They played this checkup game all night and
it was never any use. Nothing ever happened that needed checking.

The moon had
peeked out now and it was lighting the desert. Monroe’s eye caught movement. It
looked like it was across the fence border on the Mexican side. It was a ways
away from where he was posted.

Monroe put his binoculars up to his eyes and tried to focus on what he’d seen. Sure enough,
there they were.

“Hey, hey, hey,”
he almost shouted in his radio. “I’ve got five guys – no wait, six – no, seven
– no, eight. Okay, there are nine of them.”

“What guys?” the
lazy, tired voice asked across the radio.

“Illegals.
They’re playing around the border.”

“What? Are they
trying to cross?”

Monroe didn’t answer. He lifted his binoculars again and looked at the scene. “Oh boy,” he
said.

“What was that?”

“They’re coming
over.”

“You’re gonna
need help,” the man concluded. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

“No wait,” Monroe interjected, desperate to handle this alone. “I’ve got ’em. They don’t seem to be
armed.”