by DW Ulsterman
effective range of about a thousand meters, a distance the Janjaweed militants were now entering.
Let them get just a little closer…
The air sizzling arc of bullets tearing past his position sounded twenty yards to Mac’s left. The Janjaweed were already firing on him. Several more bullets ripped into the ground just ten yards to Mac’s right.
Now.
The belt fed PKM snarled to life, firing off multiple rounds in just a few seconds. Mac realized he fired high and wide by a few meters and quickly adjusted his aim. This time the PKM found its mark, sending the leading jeep careening sharply to the left, the vehicle almost rolling over onto its side. The second jeep veered to the right, as several more rounds from their AK-47s pelted the ground directly in front of Mac.
The PKM again barked its defiance, sending another series of multiple rounds into the Janjaweed. Mac grinned as he heard shouts of pain and panic coming from the jeep that had almost overturned. He fired the PKM again and again until its five hundred round belt was emptied, turning both jeeps into bullet riddled fragments of punctured metal.
That left him with only his trusted sidearm, his MK25 Sig Saur handgun he was first introduced to during his time as a Navy SEAL. The weapon had been slightly modified to provide an even quicker than standard firing response, and had in some ways, become a physical extension of Mac Walker himself.
He jumped from the back of the military jeep and crouched low, trying to hear or see movement from any surviving Janjaweed. While no such sounds or sights were given, Mac Walker remained waiting, his instincts informing him his work was not yet finished.
“America! America!”
Mac’s head snapped to his right, looking behind him as the small form of Musa ran toward him. The boy’s smiling face indicated complete ignorance of the danger surrounding him.
“America! America!”
The first shots fired from one of the Janjaweed missed Musa by no more than a few feet. The boy cried out as his just smiling face transformed into a mask of terror. Mac yelled out at the person, still hidden, who had fired the AK-47 at the young boy.
“Hey! Over here! Hey!”
Musa hesitated for a brief moment as he looked ahead at Mac and then behind him where his village stood.
“Run Musa! Run! Get away! Go!”
Musa’s wide eyes stared at Mac in confusion.
Another several AK-47 rounds flew into the dirt in front of Musa, this time just inches in front of his feet. Musa cried out again and fell backwards, his hands and feet scrambling to push himself back up.
Mac Walker fired off two rounds toward the military jeep to his left, thinking that is where the AK-47 shots were coming from.
“Run Musa! Move your ass!”
Musa had regained his feet and this time, no confusion resided in his eyes. He finally and fully comprehended Mac’s instructions and took off running toward his village. Mac fired two more rounds from his MK25, hoping to provide the boy needed cover.
Mac Walker watched gratefully as Musa’s quickly moving form had already covered half the distance back to his village. He would soon be out of range of whoever was left alive among the attacking Janjaweed.
Another series of gunfire sounded behind Mac – and then Musa dropped.
Mac stared in disbelief at the sight of the boy’s body as it lay unmoving in the dirt some two hundred yards away from him. The Janjaweed militants were a largely poorly trained fighting force, and certainly not noted for their marksmanship. The bullet that had entered Musa’s upper back and then tore through his chest, tearing his right lung apart, was a matter of fate - terrible, unforgiving, fate.
The former Navy SEAL forcibly calmed himself, entering a frame of mind known simply as his “killing place”. It was during these times Mac Walker had no fear for himself, and near total awareness of every detail surrounding him. His senses converged with his years of military training to transform him into something just beyond human.
It was during these moments that Mac Walker had the deliberate and deadly movements of an apex predator - a killing machine of the highest order with few, if any, equals.
Looking back at the still unmoving form of Musa, Mac catapulted himself into the driver’s seat of his vehicle, turned the ignition, and slammed it into gear, heading directly for the jeep to his left that he was certain provided cover for at least one surviving militant.
Mac heard and felt the impact of several more AK-47 rounds pelting his vehicle as his foot pressed down on the accelerator even further, catapulting the jeep toward the militant’s own still unmoving and bullet riddled jeep. Mac Walker rolled out from the driver’s seat and onto the ground just yards before impact, his handgun already held out in front of him. The collision of his jeep into the militant’s jeep shook the ground beneath Mac’s feet, the frightening sound of shrieking, twisted metal reverberating all around him.
Then all was still and silent.
Mac walked slowly to the right of the collision, his MK25 at the ready, his eyes and ears scanning the area for any sign of life.
There was movement to his left, on the other side of the wreckage, followed by the unmistakable sound of human hands re-gripping an assault rifle. Mac Walker knew the sound all too well, having heard it tens of thousands of times before.
More movement sounded to his left, quicker this time. A surviving Janjaweed was attempting to sneak up behind Mac and take him out.
The Janjaweed was fast.
Mac Walker was faster.
Just as he saw the AK-47’s barrel begin its upward arc toward him, Mac fired off a single round from his handgun, dropping the Janjaweed where he stood, the close range bullet tearing off a sizeable chunk of the militant’s skull just above his left eye.
A quick survey of the area revealed seven other dead militants, their bodies riddled with rounds from the PKM machine gun. Mac then kneeled down to take a closer look at the last of the Janjaweed who had died – the one killed by Mac Walker’s handgun.
What he saw staring back at him tore through Mac’s sense of right and wrong as horrifically as the bullet from his own weapon that had torn through the young child’s head.
The boy was no older than Musa, perhaps even younger. It must have taken every bit of his strength to lift the AK-47 to use it as a weapon. The child had been wearing an off white t-shirt with the image of the Statue of Liberty emblazoned across the front.
Irony…you cold-cold bitch.
Mac Walker closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying again to clear his mind and let the feelings of guilt and resentment wash away. This was a place of war, a place men like him were sent to try and do good, but sometimes, find themselves doing something else in the name of self preservation.
The sound of a woman’s wailing caused Mac to open his eyes again. He looked to see the form of Musa’s mother kneeling over the boy’s body, cradling her son in her arms. Mac stood up slowly and returned his handgun to its holster at his side and watched and listened to the sounds of the grieving mother. It was a sound Mac regretted knowing had become all too common in this world.
Musa died just as the young Janjaweed militant lying at Mac’s feet had died, another casualty of a time born of madness, greed and hatred, and seemingly perpetual inhumanity.
And while that time had dominated the landscape of Sudan, Mac Walker could not help but feel a certainty it was already making its way back to America, and the cries of mothers would surely engulf them all…
Here is the MAC WALKER series in chronological order
Available now at Amazon.com!
-MAC WALKER’S BULLET
(Short Story)
-MAC WALKER’S REGRET
(Short Story)
-MAC WALKER’S BENGHAZI
Books 1-3
-MAC WALKER’S BETRAYAL
Books 1-3
-DOMINATUS
-TUMULTUS
All titles available as an e-book or in paperback!
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