Viper Team Seven (The Viper Team Seven Series Book 1) (18 page)

Tuesday, March 18
^th
– 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
bridge, 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.

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?”