Stasia’s face crumpled into itself just slightly, as if her feelings had been hurt.
“I didn’t mean to try and tell you what to do, Mac. It’s just the captain said…”
The woman’s voice trailed off as Mac looked over at a young black man in his 20’s sitting directly across the aisle from him. He wore the baggy street-inspired fashion so popular among his age group, including the all too common backwards baseball cap that sat to the side of his closely shaved head.
“Excuse me, can you see if your phone will get a signal?”
The man turned his head slowly to stare back at Mac, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused.
He’s stoned out of his damn mind.
“Yeah, your phone, can you see if it gets a signal?”
The man sat motionless for several seconds before nodding his head slowly while grinning.
“No problem, man.”
Mac watched as the man withdrew a cell phone from the right pocket of his dark grey sweatshirt and stared down at it. A half minute passed before he shook his head and shrugged, his eyes retreating once again into the drug induced haze that was likely his day-to-day existence.
“No go…got nothin’.”
The 767 was vibrating even more violently than before, the roar of its engines drowning out any other sounds inside the cabin. It felt as if the plane was being pushed to its 570 miles per hour limit. Mac decided it was time to speak to a member of the flight crew to try and find out what was really going on. As he began to rise from his seat, Stasia’s left hand clamped around his right forearm.
“What are you doing? You can’t just get up. We’re all supposed to remain in our seats.”
Mac gently removed his arm from Stasia’s grip and glanced toward the air marshal in front of him, and then turned his head to look to the back of the plane. There were no flight attendants to be found.
“You moved yourself to sit here, right? Don’t worry, Stasia I’ll be right back.”
“Hey, asshole - sit down!”
The directive came from a goateed, heavy set man seated in the row behind Mac who had an American flag tattoo on one of his large forearms with the words American Badass scrawled over it. He was the father of the boy who had been kicking Mac’s seat earlier, the same child who now sat silent and afraid as the 767 continued to shake all around them.
“You heard me, sit down. We ain’t supposed to get up.”
Inside his head, Mac Walker slowly counted to ten, trying to remain calm and not throat punch the buffoon, who had crossed his heavily tattooed and fleshy forearms across his broad, man-boobed chest.
Tattoos. I’m so damn tired of wanna-be toughs and their tattoos. Fat chunks like this asshole to pathetic girls with far too many insecurities and not nearly enough common sense.
“Don’t make me tell you again buddy – SIT YOUR ASS DOWN.”
Mac felt his right eye twitching, an uncontrollable tick that often revealed itself just prior to his dealing out some serious whoop-ass on someone.
“Please, Mac, just do what he says. We don’t want any trouble. People are getting scared. I’m scared, and Eldra’s probably scared too.”
Stasia’s soothing tone brought Mac back from the precipice of direct confrontation with the overly confident father seated behind him. He looked down at Eldra who offered a thin smile, her eyes confirming she was in fact afraid.
“Whoa! What the hell is that?”
It was the young black man who cried out the question as Mac felt the plane’s entire structure cry out in protest as the floor beneath their feet literally buckled inward several inches, causing several more passengers to scream including the father who had just recently warned Mac to sit back down.
Mac looked around and again found no sign of any flight attendants trying to calm the passengers. He also noted the air marshal’s seat was now empty as well.
And not a word from the captain.
Another powerful shudder shook the 767 as the floor buckled once more. Mac closed his eyes as he sat back down in his seat, trying to focus his thoughts on what might be happening. The only thing he could think of that might cause the kind of strain coming from the bottom half of the plane would be if its cargo door had been opened while in flight. He recalled a drop in mission during his time with SEAL Team Six, when he and nine others jumped from the open cargo door of a C17 as it flew over the rolling hills of Liberia. The C17 had made a similar shudder as its cargo door opened, though being built for such use, didn’t feel like it was about to break apart as did the 767.
Why would they be opening the cargo door of a passenger jet while it’s still in the air? That would be suicide.
“Oh my goodness, we’re almost touching the water!”
Mac opened his eyes to look out the window next to Eldra and was shocked to find she was right, the 767 was no more than a few hundred yards above what must have been the Atlantic Ocean.
The plane’s engines were howling with even more intensity as the 767 pushed upward away from the water and back into the cloud cover. The g-forces created by the jet’s ascent were enough to push every passenger firmly back into their seats, making it almost impossible to move.
Mac could see the mouths of the passengers open, though their screams were drowned out by the ear shattering din of the 767’s twin turbine engines being pushed well beyond their intended capabilities.
Nearly a minute passed before the passenger jet emerged from the clouds and into the brilliant blue of a much higher altitude, and yet, the 767 continued to climb as the sound of the great machine’s multitude of metal parts screeched under the strain of the ascent, the sound merging with the horrifying howl of the engines.
We’re all gonna die…
4.
The former Navy SEAL couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of dying while a passenger on a commercial flight back from Paris. Of all the things he had seen and done, the bullets, blood, and chaos of a life so often lived with a finger on the trigger, death by vacation seemed preposterous to him.
Guess that settles it then – I ain’t dying.
Mac attempted to rise from his seat but found his body felt as if a great weight now pushed him back down. He looked around and saw other passengers’ heads dropping down onto their chests, while others were trying to move as he was, but instead merely floundering weakly in their seats.
To his left, Eldra’s eyes were closed though her mouth was opening and closing as her hands slowly clawed the seat in front of her. On Mac’s right the seat where Stasia should have been was now empty.
Mac leaned back into his seat, his mind trying to focus on where Stasia might have gone, though soon that focus dissipated as he instead began replaying his recent meeting with the Project Icon directors last week.
Project Icon was an off the books cooperative entity between high ranking members of Congress and the military, funded via a hidden Department of Defense slush fund and made up of operatives who had proven themselves capable of carrying out the most demanding and high risk military intelligence and operations assignments.
When Mac received a phone message from a man named Ray Tilley asking if he was interested in interviewing for Project Icon, Mac jumped at the opportunity. He was at the time languishing behind a desk inside the bowels of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade going over intelligence data and writing up scenario projections in a seemingly never ending process of replacing one pile of paper for another. For a youngish man who had just a few years earlier travelled the globe as a member of SEAL Team Six, it was torture.
Project Icon was Mac’s ticket out of the office cubicle hell that was his existence at Fort Meade.
“Mr. Walker, can you please explain to us this description in your review file as being a soldier of great courage and dedication, who at times, displays an over-willingness to engage in conflict rather that consider alternative solutions?”
The two-star general who asked the question was a dime a dozen military pencil pusher
. The general’s eyes were a watery red, under which sat a pair of overly fleshy jowls. General Tinny was his name, and Mac disliked him the moment he stepped into the third floor Pentagon conference room.
Ray Tilley sat to the general’s right. Tilley had been a longtime staffer for one of the highest ranking members of the U.S. military and worked as the direct liaison between Project Icon and those few members of Congress aware of its existence. Unlike General Tinny, Mac sensed Tilley was a good man who wanted the best both for Project Icon, and more importantly, those men and women responsible for carrying out its missions.
To the general’s left was a middle aged, attractive woman by the name of Francesca Porter. She worked for the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Ms. Porter sat silently watching Mac closely, also waiting for his response to the general’s question.
“Well, General, I’ve always been one to believe the quickest way to the other side is by a straight line. When one is engaged in the act of saving lives, be it others or your own, pausing to consider alternative solutions is often a luxury one simply doesn’t have time for.”
General Tinny folded his smallish, soft hands on the conference table desk and leaned forward toward Mac.
“Well, Mr. Walker, would you say you’re prone to looking for trouble, when the better tactic might be to try and avoid it altogether?”
Mac glanced at Ray Tilley whose eyes were pleading for Mac not to blow the interview. Tilley had carefully reviewed Mac’s file, knew the extent of his experience and abilities, and very much wanted him to be a part of Project Icon.
“No, General, I don’t go looking for trouble, but if it finds me I’m more than willing to kick the shit out of it.”
Tilley winced at Mac’s response while Francesca Porter’s mouth hinted at a smile.
General Tinny appeared less than amused by Mac’s bravado, his deeply lined brow furrowing as the corners of his mouth turned downward.
“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Walker. Project Icon requires the very best of the very best.”
Mac nodded his head as he stared into the general’s glossy wet eyes.
“I assume that’s why you called me in here for this interview, General. You want the best? Well here I am.”
Francesca Porter stared at Mac for a moment longer before concluding the interview.
“We’re done here. Thank you, Mr. Walker, we’ll be in touch.”
General Tinny appeared ready to say something more, but was cut off by Francesca.
“I said we’re done here, General. I’ve heard enough for now.”
Ray Tilley said nothing as he escorted Mac outside to one of the many Pentagon parking areas. Finally, nearly a hundred yards from the massive structure, he stopped.
“I have no idea if that went well or not, Mac. Tinny’s an asshole, that’s no secret around here. Maybe Porter liked you though and she has the ear of the Senate Intelligence Chair, and that could make the difference in your favor. Tell you what – how about you take a trip? You know, some time off? Your file indicates you haven’t taken any vacation time in years so my treat – where’d you like to go?”
Tilley was right. Mac had been on the job in one form or another for a very long time. That was his nature. He was most happy when he felt he was being productive though he also thought perhaps a little down time wasn’t such a bad idea though. Being a product of the American Bayou had always left him hoping to one day visit Paris and if Tilley was willing to foot the bill, all the better.
“I’m gonna take you up on that, Ray. I’d like to chill out for a week or so in Paris.”
Ray Tilley didn’t hesitate, his right hand clapping Mac on the shoulder.
“Great, I’ll set it up for you. Can have a limo pick you up and take you to the airport first thing tomorrow morning. Enjoy yourself, rest, relax, and when you get back we should have word on whether or not you’re gonna be a part of Project Icon. You know where I stand, Mac. You would be an incredible asset to the team. I’ve reviewed hundreds of personnel files, and very few of them indicated someone as talented and capable as you.”
Mac’s semi-conscious recollection of his initial Project Icon interview broke apart as the 767’s passenger oxygen masks fell down from the plane’s ceiling.
We’ve lost…pressurization. Altitude…too high.
Mac struggled to place the mask over his face and then turned to try and put Eldra’s mask on her as well. His fingers wouldn’t move properly though, and the mask slipped from his hands.
Not working. Not getting any air.
“This one is still awake!”
Mac heard the voice but it sounded as if it came from a great distance away, though he knew that was impossible. He was in the confines of a passenger plane. The source of the voice had to be very close.
It took every bit of remaining strength left in his oxygen depleted body for Mac Walker to will himself up from his seat as his eyes strained to focus just a few feet in front of him.
The blurred figure of someone, Mac couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, moved toward him. They appeared to be holding something up to their face but Mac’s eyes were unable to focus more clearly to determine what it was, though his mind whispered the only logical explanation.
It’s a portable oxygen mask. That means this thing was planned. My instincts were right…should have acted sooner.
“Sit your ass back down.”
A pair of strong hands easily pushed Mac back into his seat. Any remaining strength in his body quickly dissipated as the lack of oxygen fully overtook him, and the world soon went dark.
5.
When Mac came to, he found his hands and feet secured by a pair of zip ties. Looking around, he saw every other passenger was bound the same way, including Eldra who sat motionless in her seat, her shallow breathing the only sign she remained alive. Stasia remained missing and there was no sign of the flight crew or the air marshal.
The 767’s turbines were humming quietly now, no longer being pushed to their limits. Mac couldn’t see outside anymore. All the plane’s window covers had been pulled shut, preventing him from seeing if they were flying over land or water.
A dull, creeping pain covered him as his body slowly recovered from the earlier oxygen depletion.
They didn’t kill us – at least not all of us. That means they need us for something. Now I just have to figure out what that something is.
Almost any other human being would have been overtaken by panic if faced with the same scenario as Mac Walker found himself in at that moment – a plane and its passengers clearly taken hostage, no more than six months after the terrible and tragic events of September 11th, 2001.
Mac Walker was unlike most though. He was a man who had devoted himself to the mission, whatever that mission might be, and this situation was for him, simply another opportunity to utilize those talents that had made him such a valued commodity for men like Ray Tilley and an organization like Project Icon.
The sound of footsteps came from behind Mac’s seat, followed by a whispered conversation between the air marshal and one of the female flight attendants. Mac closed his eyes and remained still as he focused on what language the two were speaking to one another.
“They will be searching in the area of debris we left behind us. That will likely give us another twenty four hours. We’re already two hundred miles from that location and in another two hours will be landing and safely hidden, so calm down because everything is going as planned. Even if they figure out our flight path, we will use the passengers as our shield. They won’t risk killing us all. Not yet.”
They’re speaking Bosnian.
Between 1993 and 1994, Mac Walker spent nearly nine months moving throughout the region of the Bosnian War during the ethnic conflict that erupted between those small Eastern European nations following the collapse of the Soviet Union. It was a time of brutality between people the likes of which even a hardened Navy SEAL was not fully prepared to witness. Women and children wer
e rounded up, raped, beaten, tortured, limbs cut off, decapitations, entire villages wiped out.
Bosnians were primarily a Muslim people surrounded by Christians. While the media often portrayed Bosnia as the victim, Mac Walker knew better. All sides in that conflict were more than capable of repeated and horrific acts against each other. As is so often the case in war, there were no clearly defined good and evil – but simply mayhem, suffering, and death.
What are Bosnians doing taking over a passenger flight from Paris to Washington D.C.? Are the pilots also involved, or being forced against their will to do so?
Mac watched with barely open eyes as the air marshal and the flight attendant moved past him toward the front of the plane, his mind going over the details revealed to him in that all too brief conversation.
The air marshal mentioned debris being left behind. That must have been when I felt the cargo door opening beneath us. The rescue deployment will be focusing on that area of debris. A rapid descent, a debris trail left out over the water, then they climbed to 40,000 feet or more and depressurized the cabin to incapacitate the passengers. Got us tied up, the windows closed, and heading to God knows where. He said they would be hidden in two hours, so this isn’t a suicide mission. At least not at this point.
Mac couldn’t help but smile as he contemplated what he had managed to get himself into.
Tilley sent me on this vacation to rest and relax. Thanks a lot, Tilley you asshole.
Eldra began to stir next to Mac, her eyes slowly opening and then looking around her in panic.
“Sshh…it’s ok, Eldra. I need you to sit there as quietly as possible right now. You don’t want to get their attention. The more they think we’re incapacitated, the longer I have to try and figure out my next move.”
The older woman looked at Mac and then nodded slowly, letting him know she understood. The former Navy SEAL admired how quickly Eldra adjusted to what was a remarkable and likely very dangerous situation.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 2