Viper Team Seven (The Viper Team Seven Series Book 1) Read online

  VIPER TEAM SEVEN

  By

  Rykar B. Lewis

  Viper Team Seven

  Text copyright © 2014 by Rykar B. Lewis

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Author’s Note

  Welcome aboard. You are about to be taken into the world of Viper Team Seven – the creation of which has consumed my life for the last several years. This project has changed me in so many ways and has been such a pleasure to work on. The book that follows is more than just words on a page; it reflects a great part of my life. The story and characters that were molded during the entire process have come to life for me, and I hope the same will be true for you.

  The story that follows is not merely my own. I owe its existence to so many people. Firstly, I must thank the Lord Jesus Christ for His love and salvation, and for giving me the ability to write this book. I also give immeasurable credit to my father, Major Colt W. Lewis, U.S.M.C. (ret.). He spent innumerable hours helping me research and find ideas for this book throughout the years, and thus I bestow on him the title of “Intelligence Officer.” I sincerely thank him for his assistance, technical advice, proofreading and editing, and for his service in the Marine Corps, which inspired the writing of this book. I also owe endless gratitude to my mother, Sandi A. Lewis, who selflessly spent so many years of her life raising and homeschooling me. She taught me how to write as a child and guided me through this project with her superb writing skills. She has my deepest appreciation for her refinement of this novel. More than anything else, I thank and love my parents for always being there for me and for being Godly examples.

  I am deeply grateful for the cover design by Edd Natividad. He truly captured the essence of this book. His creativity and cover designing skills are unparalleled. If readers do judge this book by its cover then it will do well. Furthermore, I greatly appreciate the proofreading and editing of Lila Armstrong. She added so much to this work and helped to mold it into the final product. I also owe the greatest of thanks to the men and women of the United States Marine Corps. They risk their lives every day to keep America free so that writers like me can continue writing books. Their sacrifice is eternally remembered and appreciated.

  Thank you, too, for reading Viper Team Seven. I trust that you will enjoy the story. If you have any questions or comments about this book, please email me at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you. Also, if you like Viper Team Seven please do me the favors of writing a review and recommending this book to your family and friends. I hope you have as much fun reading this book as I did writing it.

  Enjoy the story,

  Rykar Lewis

  Roundup, Montana

  This book is dedicated with love to my dad – the hero and role model of my life.

  1

  Thursday, January 16th – 2127 hours

  New York City, New York

  Three minutes. That’s all Alka vun Buvka had to get out of the illustrious Paramount Hotel. Vun Buvka was not a suicide bomber, just a bomber, and a very skilled one at that. He knew his mission: wage terror on the Great West. And that was precisely what was going to happen in exactly two minutes and forty-five seconds. He had planted a bomb in his own room on the fifth floor, which was strategically located in the center of the towering hotel. Accompanying the bomb was approximately a hundred pounds of C4, ready to explode. He knew this mission was risky, but he was ready for it. He had practiced his escape several times throughout his week’s stay in this hotel, but now it was different; everything seemed to be moving at half speed. And vun Buvka could not afford to move in slow motion. He knew he could have easily set the bomb’s timer for half an hour but he lived for thrilling moments and close calls. Although he hoped this wasn’t going to be too close of a call.

  Vun Buvka descended the long staircase leading from the fifth floor to the fourth. He didn’t have much time, but he didn’t trust taking an elevator down to the lobby. If, for some unknown reason, the blast took place while he was in an elevator, he didn’t want to be stuck in there with no oxygen. So he was taking the long way down.

  He ran down the staircase at top speed, tripping once or twice during his flight. Midway down, he was blocked by a tired family coming up the stairs to their hotel room. Vun Buvka felt his breath vanish at the sight. This couldn’t be happening.

  Quickly and with determination, he began pushing through the family. Some of them resisted slightly, others muttered with irritation. Several precious seconds were wasted by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  The Iranian bomber bolted onto the third floor and glanced at his watch. One minute and thirty seconds until the explosion. He wondered if he had time to run down two more staircases. He had to try.

  Vun Buvka flung open the staircase door. Suddenly he heard voices and footsteps on the stairs below him. His stomach knotted. There were more people coming toward him. He knew he had to get out of the building, and fast. His eyes darted left and right, searching for a sensible answer to his dilemma. Not having anything else to blame, vun Buvka cursed the time. He measured his options: take the stairs and risk being blown to pieces by his own bomb, or take an elevator and worry about whether or not he could get out fast enough to escape the coming destruction.

  * * *

  The small freight ship cruised silently above the calm waters of Norfolk, Virginia. Everything was so peaceful on the ocean; everything but the crew on board the freight ship now coming into the bay at high speed. They didn’t want to be late. 2130 hours was their deadline to be in the bay, no later.

  The freight ship had sailed from China with cargo that supposedly consisted of toys for children. The ship had made a quick trip by Egypt and from there had sailed directly to the United States. The cargo the freight ship had originally carried was replaced for the new “cargo” from Egypt, and it was definitely not children’s toys. It was, however, the Iranian suicide bomber’s favorite toy.

  The freight ship, loaded with fertilizer and every other kind of explosive imaginable, was to lower its anchor in an unauthorized location. That place was next
to the great U.S. Naval carrier, the USS George Washington. The terrorists’ objective was to come alongside the George Washington and, when the signal came, blow up the freight ship’s cargo, sinking both of the vessels. The operation was codenamed FIRELIGHT for the light it would give the bay as the mighty U.S. ship sank to the bottom of the sea.

  The terrorists didn’t fear dying; they would be in a better place if they died, or so they thought. Nevertheless, they still blindly followed their game plan. And maybe, if everything turned out all right at the Paramount Hotel and the other targets, they would stamp their initials in the history of the United States forever. Making history was second only to terrorizing the American people. The scenarios about to take place would shake the Americans beyond belief. It would all start right here, on a little freight ship carrying the most deadly terrorists in the world.

  * * *

  Vun Buvka decided to take the elevator. He dashed to its door and slapped the “down” button. As he waited for the door to open, he suddenly wondered if other people were in it already. If so, would they be stopping at the second floor? He would hope with all his might that they wouldn’t. If they did, he would have to kill them, and right now he was just trying to escape and make a name for himself, not kill a handful of people in an elevator. The mass killing would come in exactly one minute and fifteen seconds.

  The elevator door jarred open. It was empty. Vun Buvka thanked Allah and leaped inside, pressing the “main floor” button almost in mid-air. He glanced at his watch and was relieved to see he had precisely one minute left. It wasn’t much, but that’s all he had, and he intended to use every millisecond of it.

  Vun Buvka’s senses were telling him he was approaching the second floor. If someone were to get on from there, he wouldn’t have enough time to make it out of the hotel alive, whether he killed the person or not.

  He was sure the elevator was beginning to stop; or was it just his nerves? The light in the elevator showed he was now at the second floor. The .44 Magnum semi-automatic pistol that vun Buvka carried on his person at all times, was drawn and pointed at the elevator’s doors, ready to slice a bullet into the first piece of flesh that came into his sight. The only thing he could do for now was wait.

  * * *

  Khan Lahud, the freight ship’s captain, went over his plans with his team for the hundredth time. The freight ship had successfully come alongside the USS George Washington, and was ready to carry out Operation FIRELIGHT. Now Lahud was just making sure his crew understood everything they had to do. In mid-sentence he was cut off by the crackling of his radio. Lahud grabbed the radio. Holding it to his ear he found it was a man on the George Washington, demanding an explanation.

  “USS George Washington to the freighter beside us. Do you copy? Over,” the voice began.

  “Loud and clear, George Washington,” Lahud responded, his mind working overtime to try and remember what he was supposed to say.

  “Identify yourselves and give an explanation. Over.”

  “We are a freight ship carrying goods from China. We want to unload them as soon as we can. Over.”

  “You’re not supposed to unload freight here. I don’t–”

  “Then where do I unload it? I have a schedule to keep too you know. Over.”

  “Not here, anyone knows that. Over.”

  Lahud was going to try to buy himself as much time as possible. “Are you the Officer of the Deck? Over.”

  “Look man, I ain’t the OOD, but I am still smart enough to know where freight ships can and can’t unload their cargo. And it is definitely not here. Understand? Over.”

  “Well, until I receive an order from the OOD of the George Washington, we are not, I repeat, not moving anywhere. Over and out.”

  With that, Lahud ended the conversation. He and his team continued all the last minute preparations. Glancing at his watch, Lahud noticed only a few minutes remained until his team could unleash the fury of Operation FIRELIGHT.

  * * *

  The President of the United States of America was enjoying himself immensely. He was in New York for his daughter’s thirtieth birthday party, and he was more proud of his “little girl” than he’d ever been before.

  Mark Winnfield – smart, loyal, and conservative as could be – had not spent much time with his daughter, since taking the Presidential Office in January of 2013, and finally he’d decided to spend some time with her and be there for her thirtieth birthday. Winnfield’s daughter, Renee Winnfield, had been his first child; however, she did have a younger brother who had died in the War on Terrorism in Baghdad, Iraq, in the year of 2009. It had been a hard blow for the entire Winnfield family. The young man had been an Air Force F-16 pilot, and he was extremely proud of his job. When he was deployed to Iraq he was pleased and excited. His mind had been filled with glamour, glory, and heroism as he had told his father that he was either going to come home a hero or not come home at all. In the end, he had delivered on both accounts. He had been killed while pursuing an Iraqi MiG attempting to get behind U.S. lines to blow up an ammunition vehicle. All Winnfield knew about the incident was that his son had collided with the MiG while trying to get behind it and shoot it down. The F-16 had clipped the MiG’s wing with its nose, causing the U.S. plane to explode. The close proximity of the explosion simultaneously downed the Iraqi.

  Even though Winnfield’s two children had been quite different from each other, they were close. When the news had come of her brother’s death, Renee had seemed to shut out everyone that tried to help her. But she learned that time heals wounds, and now Winnfield’s only child was a very successful woman. Her assets included over two million dollars, and one of the nicest homes in all of New York State. She was deep into gold and silver, and also owned a successful business in the area, which alone kept her bank account fat.

  Winnfield’s wife, Mary, had not been able to make the trip. She had been ill for days before the planned trip to New York, and on the appointed time of departure, she was no better. But she insisted that Winnfield go without her, and after a little hesitation, he went ahead. Now, he was glad he did.

  The President’s security personnel were standing watch, inside and out of the house, ever ready for the unexpected terrorist attack. Marine One was stationed just a few miles away, ready at a moment’s notice to extract the President and his security personnel to safety. But Winnfield was not worried about a terrorist attack or any other kind of disruption. He was having a great time.

  Little did the President know, that outside the walls of the splendid house, and away from the joyful noise of the party, loomed an evil force, working restlessly to accomplish their well-planned mission.

  * * *

  The elevator slowed to a stop. Vun Buvka slammed the “down” button with all the force he had, but never taking his .44 Magnum’s sights off the doors. In an instant the elevator abruptly plunged downward. Vun Buvka sighed with relief. He desperately wanted out of the metal box that contained him.

  Compulsively, he again checked his watch. Only forty-five seconds left. He couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. He wanted to see the United States be on the receiving end of destruction, but he didn’t want to die in some elevator just for vengeance. Now was not the time to think about that, vun Buvka told himself, as he geared up for the mad dash he was about to make out of this hotel.

  He hoped his driver and car were outside waiting for him as planned, but he also knew that the driver would speed off without him if only five seconds remained. But vun Buvka had practiced for this, and now the show was all his. Let come what may.

  The elevator again slowed, and the “main floor” button lit up. Vun Buvka put his pistol in its holster, concealed beneath his black suit coat. He didn’t want to draw any more suspicion than necessary. Running out of the hotel at top speed was enough to make people look, but if he had a pistol in his hand, he feared one of the bell boys would try to be a hero and stop him.

  The elevator doors began to slowly open,
and vun Buvka readied himself. In the next moment, he squeezed through the narrow opening. He took off like a rocket, without glancing behind him. He yelled in English for the bell boys to open the hotel doors for him. Startled by his hollering, they consented. Now vun Buvka had a straight shot out of the hotel. He spied his car as he burst through the doors, and sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him to the passenger side of the vehicle. The Palestinian driver didn’t even look at him; he just floored the accelerator after he heard the door slam, and they disappeared into the night.

  Finally vun Buvka felt victory. Only five seconds remained until the Paramount Hotel exploded, with over seven hundred and fifty people inside.

  Vun Buvka and his driver didn’t notice the man standing a safe distance away from the hotel in a nearby parking lot. He was an FBI agent, and he had just seen the man that matched the description of Alka vun Buvka.

  * * *

  Again the radio crackled, and a deep voice poured from it. “This is Officer of the Deck Lieutenant John Thompson of the USS George Washington, and I demand a legitimate explanation and a speedy exit. Over.”

  Lahud grumbled at the man under his breath and picked up the radio, carefully weighing his words. Lahud was a professional, and he could not afford to say the wrong words. “Lieutenant Thompson, sir, I understand you are the OOD of the USS George Washington. Over.”

  “That’s what I said. And who is the man I am speaking with? Over.”

  “Captain Sampson Jones,” Lahud elegantly lied, “and I am currently in charge of this freight ship. Now I am attempting to unload my cargo, and one of your sailors informed me that it was not proper to do so here. Is he correct? Over.”

  “Captain Jones…I don’t care who comes into this harbor; they all know where they are and aren’t supposed to go. And freighters don’t unload here. What’s your excuse for your actions? Over.”

  Lahud glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d better shut this guy up quickly. “I was told to unload here, and I make no excuse for my actions. I only ask how you intend to move my ship from this location. Over.”