General Tinny grunted as he pointed toward Stasia Wellington’s file.
“The Vatican is asking us that very question, Mr. Tilley, so here we are now asking you. You’re the one who brought us Mac Walker. You did the review of his file, you recruited him. And now…this. We have a 767 that’s up and disappeared from the sky. No warning from the cockpit, no distress signal, and, just as the media is now reporting, someone in that plane turned off the transponder. The Vatican operative was on that plane for some reason, and now the Vatican is asking us why Walker was there as well.”
Ray Tilley’s eyes narrowed as he realized the implications of what General Tinny was asking.
“How in the hell did the Vatican find out about Walker so quickly? And why would they come to us just as quickly to ask about him?”
The general glanced at Mardian, who then quickly interjected.
“That information is not for you, Mr. Tilley. As you likely know, cooperation between various intelligence groups is a common and essential component to protecting ourselves from the bad guys. They had an operative on that flight. I will assume it has to be related somehow to why it has gone missing. They’ve already accessed the passenger manifest via Atlantis Airlines, initiated a review of each passenger, came across your Mr. Walker, and are now asking questions. Simple as that. The only thing somewhat remarkable in this scenario is how quickly they’ve gone about it. Apparently, we’ve all underestimated both the resources and capabilities of the Vatican’s intelligence network.”
“Ok, so what now?”
Tilley’s question hung over the small conference room for a moment before Mardian provided a response.
“We’ve already reached an agreement with our Vatican counterparts and an administrative liaison for Atlantis. We intend to wipe any record of either Mr. Walker or this Stasia Wellington having been on that flight. The Vatican supports the decision and has already thanked us for our cooperation and continued discretion in this matter.”
“What if the plane is still out there somewhere – and Mac Walker is still alive?”
Mardian shook his head at Tilley’s proposed scenario.
“No, not likely, we’ve already received reports of a debris field about a hundred miles off the coast of France. French authorities hope to have rescue teams in the area within the hour. The initial review from the airline suggests a likely catastrophic failure of the plane’s primary systems, including electrical. That plane and everyone on board are most likely several hundred feet underwater by now.”
Tilley persisted, refusing to fully accept Mardian’s dismissal of the possibility the plane somehow, somewhere, remained intact.
“But what if the plane isn’t at the bottom of the ocean? What if it was hijacked and its occupants taken hostage? I have to assume the authorities are at least entertaining that possibility.”
General Tinny cut in.
“Certainly, normal protocols are being followed by the appropriate agencies involved, but the fact is, we also live in a world where planes do unfortunately crash and people die. I’m with Mr. Mardian, that plane is gone, and so too is your Mr. Walker. Besides, even if by some unlikely miracle the plane, and Mac Walker, were still functional, do you really think he has it in him to take back an airplane from what would have to be a group of well trained hijackers, and then manage to return it, and everyone inside that plane, back safely onto the ground? No Mr. Tilley, that is almost as unlikely as that plane not having crashed into the ocean in the first place.”
Ray Tilley stood up from his chair and glared back at General Tilley, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
“Did you even bother to go over Walker’s file? Do you have any idea what that soldier is capable of? He’s no military bureaucrat, General. Mac Walker has been out there in the muck and blood for years now, taking fire, and doing whatever this country has asked of him. What about the time he went back into hostile territory not once, but five times to go bring back the other men in his team who had become trapped behind enemy lines? Five times, General, Mac Walker risked his life while taking the lives of those who wanted so very badly to see him and his fellow soldiers dead. Twenty two kills in just over three hours, in some of the most brutal and dangerous conditions imaginable. After three hours, some forty heavily armed Lebanese militants ran from that one American soldier – Mac Walker. They thought he was a devil, a ghost come to take their souls. They were convinced he couldn’t be killed.
“That’s just one example of what Mac Walker is capable of General as you sit there on your ass, behind a desk, and ask me if it’s possible for him to take back a hijacked airliner and return it safely?
“Hell yes it’s possible. In fact, I’d go so far as to say if that plane was in fact hijacked, and Mac Walker is still alive among the passengers, those hijackers aren’t long for this world. He’ll find a way to kill every single one of them. If you are given an opportunity to ever see Mr. Walker again, General, I suggest you take a moment to really look him in the eyes. Then you’ll know what I mean. There are certain people in this world you simply don’t mess with. That’s Mac Walker.”
13.
“Look at me.”
Mac was leaning over the flight attendant, who was coming to after being knocked out by Stasia a few minutes earlier. Walter had shown them an access door from the food prep area to the primary cargo hold, the same place he had told Mac he found the other members of the flight crew gathered shortly after take-off before they attacked him.
“Danika, I need you to look right at me and tell me what is going on with this plane. If you don’t do that, there will be consequences for you, do you understand? Just nod your head if you understand.”
Danika looked up into Mac Walker’s eyes and nodded slowly, her lower lip trembling as she struggled to fight off tears.
“We weren’t supposed to kill any passengers. They are to be dropped off, left there safely, and then the plane will be used to send the message, to punish the Vatican Satan. But…but those men wasn’t supposed to be shot like that. Those poor, young men…”
Stasia leaned down next to Mac and placed a hand on each of Danika’s shoulders.
“Are we going to the drop off location now Danika? Where the passengers are supposed to be left?”
Danika avoided looking at Stasia, instead keeping her eyes on Mac. She nodded her head again before beginning to sob.
Stasia continued, her grip on Danika’s shoulders tightening.
“Where? Where is the drop off point?”
Danika shook her head, her eyes red, wild, near panic.
“I don’t know! They didn’t tell us, and we knew not to ask. We were just told there was an island where we would land, refuel, and the passengers and us would be left there, and the plane would fly off again to deliver the message to the Vatican. Nobody was supposed to be hurt except those who deserve to be.”
Mac and Stasia glanced at one another before Mac gently removed Stasia’s hands from Danika’s shoulders and whispered to the trembling flight attendant.
“Who’s in charge, Danika? Is it the air marshal?”
Danika’s face twisted in disgust as a soft snort escaped between her sobs.
“Reyos? He’s a pig. He killed the passenger and the co-pilot. He’s an animal. I don’t know why Captain Rogers defers to him so much. I’ve never liked Reyos, never trusted him.”
Mac was trying to keep tabs on the torrent of information spilling out from Danika.
Co-pilot dead – that would be the first gunshot we heard. She thinks the captain is in charge, but sounds to me like the air marshal is the one in control. He’s the only one on the plane with a firearm. Some kind of mission to attack the Vatican? Use the plane as a weapon? Is that the “message” she keeps going on about?
“Were you sent to the back of the plane to check on Walter and Mr. Walker?”
Danika peered up at Stasia and then quickly looked back down as her hands opened and closed repeatedly while they rested
over her thighs.
“Yes. Reyos ordered me to check on them. He said…he said the army boy needed to be killed. That I was to see if he was awake yet, and if you weren’t, he planned to throw you out of the cargo hold while we were still flying.”
Mac grunted to himself as he surveyed the cargo hold’s interior. It was a narrow space, but nearly forty feet long, the metallic walls gleaming with an off white glow. Most of the passengers’ luggage had already been thrown out shortly after take-off to create the deception of a floating debris field which allowed the 767 to speed away undetected as rescue efforts would be focused hundreds of miles from the plane’s actual and always changing in-air location.
“Danika, did the pilot shut off the transponder? And earlier, I was unable to acquire a cell signal from the cabin. Is there some kind of electronic shield device being used on board?”
Danika shook her head as she closed her eyes tightly and inhaled deeply.
“I don’t’ know about any of that. Maybe…maybe Milla mentioned something about a signal being shut off. I don’t understand those things.”
“She’s lying.”
Stasia coolly hissed her condemnation of Danika’s attempt to portray herself as a largely unknowing accomplice of the hijacking.
“She’s a member of the flight crew. Walter, is it possible a flight attendant wouldn’t know about the plane’s communications system? A transponder?”
Walter was looking down at Danika as if she were some kind of pitiful creature incapable of anything other than being a sobbing mess.
“No, even I know something about those things, and I’ve never been one for the details. We get training on all of that, every year. I would agree with you – she’s lying.”
The floor beneath them began vibrating with quickly increasing intensity as an almost unbearably loud rumbling noise filled the confines of the cargo hold. Mac knew instantly what the sound was.
“They’re lowering the landing gear!”
Both Mac and Stasia rightly assumed that meant the plane was nearing the drop off destination, the one Danika just told them she didn’t know the location of.
“Where’s the drop off location, Danika? And don’t lie to me.”
Danika’s eyes filled with tears once again and she cried out.
“I told you, I don’t------“
The cry was abruptly choked off as Stasia’s right hand clamped around Danika’s throat, causing the flight attendant’s eyes to bulge and a barely audible gurgling noise to escape her open mouth.
“Look you little bitch, I don’t have time to listen to you try and tell your friends where you are. And I sure as hell am in no mood to listen to you pretend that you don’t know what’s going on all around you. Mr. Walker here asked you a question. I suggest you answer him. Otherwise, I have no more use for you. So start talking - NOW.”
Danika took several deep breaths as she massaged her throat with her right hand.
“It’s somewhere off the coast of Northern Africa, an island. That’s all I know – I promise!”
Danika stood back up and then reached her right arm out to brace herself as the plane began veering sharply as its descent continued.
“Your call Mr. Walker…what now?”
Mac looked up at Stasia and then back to Danika, before slowly standing up, his eyes peering toward the opposite end of the cargo hold where he saw the unmistakable outline of a door.
“Walter, where’s the door down there open into?”
Walter took a step forward so he stood next to Mac as both of them now looked to the other end of the cargo bay.
“To the main boarding area. First Class is to the right, and the cockpit is just down the hall to the left.”
Mac Walker decided a visit to the cockpit needed to happen sooner rather than later, but first, he had to deal with the armed air marshal, and that meant he needed some help from Danika.
14.
“Secure location seven - one hour.”
Ray Tilley intended to call in a favor – a big one. He had left his meeting with General Tinny and Stephen Mardian knowing both men were holding back information regarding what might really be happening with that missing 767. The Vatican’s alleged involvement added an entirely new dimension that Tilley was determined to find out more about. Even though he had just told the general that Mac Walker wasn’t one of “theirs” yet, Tilley had been following Walker’s military career for nearly three years, pouring over summary reports, intelligence data from across various agencies, and everything to date pointed to Mac Walker as having the potential to be Project Icon’s best operational asset.
That made Walker worth protecting, even if he was stuck somewhere 40,000 feet in the sky.
Or he’s already dead, like Tinny and Mardian want you to believe.
That was the rub. They wanted Tilley to believe Walker was dead so he wouldn’t go chasing the alternative. Ray Tilley was rarely one to follow directives for the sake of directives. If he had an asset who needed help, it was his job to do everything he could to see that help was given.
Secure location seven was one of several places Tilley would sometimes meet with a longstanding NSA source who worked out of their Foggy Bottom apartment. Bradley Riker was a former college roommate of Tilley’s. The two men had kept in touch over the years, and as Riker rose through the ranks at NSA, he and Tilley initiated on unofficial and ongoing quid quo pro arrangement where both men would provide information to the other. Tilley suspected Riker’s primary means of obtaining intelligence data was from his own Communications Intelligence source who had access to the always accumulating Department of Defense materials. Tilley never asked who that source was, just as Riker never asked what Tilley needed the information for. Each man had long ago accepted that the less one talked about the specific obligations of their work, the better.
All that really mattered to Ray Tilley was that Bradley Riker was both very good at acquiring information, and even more importantly, could be trusted. Location seven was the corner of 19th and G. Riker was to wait on the sidewalk for Tilley’s arrival in one of the multitude of black limos that were always crisscrossing D.C. Once inside the limo, the two men could speak without fear of being seen or heard, well hidden behind the vehicle’s darkened privacy glass as the limo would simply continue driving until the conversation was ended, before dropping both men off at their chosen destinations.
Tilley looked through the privacy glass from the backseat of the limo and was pleased to see Riker waiting, right on time, as usual.
“Stop here, please, we’re picking that gentleman up.”
The limo driver, a balding, forty something man with unusually thick glasses, pulled the car over next to the curb, his eyes never looking to Tilley in the back seat. In Washington D.C., both limo and taxi drivers knew to avoid eye contact with the privacy seeking public figure politicians and politicos who were the source of their livelihood.
Just shut up and drive had long been the mantra for their line of work.
Bradley Riker appeared as Tilley had remembered him. Still lean, and an inch or two over six feet, with short cut dark hair that was just beginning to show the hints of grey at the sides. In college, Riker had always been the more successful with the girls, his easy going, confident manner and classic
Ivy League good looks proving a capable combination that lured many a willing young woman to his bed.
Ray Tilley, though hardly a recluse, was more devoted to his studies, and far less confident with the opposite sex than Riker. As Tilley would be sitting alone in his room reading a book, Riker was oftentimes across the narrow hall of their rented two bedroom apartment, quite literally, pounding the flesh.
“Hello again, Ray. You’re looking a little tired.”
Tilley’s face cracked the slightest of smiles as he waited for Riker to close the door.
“And you’re looking like you still have the world by the tail, Brad. How’s the family holding up?”
Tilley’s
greeting was no mere pleasantry, but rather a reminder of what Riker owed him. Five years ago, Bradley Riker’s daughter Daniela had been hit by a driver who then sped off, leaving the six year old girl lying unconscious in the parking lot of their apartment complex next to what remained of the red tricycle she had been riding. Four months later, though the young girl had physically recovered from the trauma, she was left with permanent brain damage, and would never live a life without constant care.
The investigation by D.C. Metro seemed unwilling to pursue the whereabouts of the driver, and within two weeks of the hit and run, informed Riker the case was being filed as open, but no longer ongoing, with no active detective assigned to it. Bradley Riker spent the next six months consumed with finding who had struck, and then left, his little girl to die.
That search led him to a man by the name of Cylis Rohrs, who also happened to be a longtime senior staffer for one of the most powerful members of the U.S. Senate. That kind of connection would prove more than capable of squashing an investigation being conducted by D.C. Metro, perhaps the single most corrupt big city law enforcement agency in the nation.
Rohrs had long been known throughout D.C. as a boozer with an affection for call girls. One such call girl lived in the very same apartment complex as the Riker family. Her name was Tawnya and it took just a little cash and pressure from Bradley Riker to get her to admit that Cylis Rohrs had left her apartment drunk that same day and time that Riker’s daughter had been run over. Tawnya also told Riker that Rohrs had not been back to her apartment since, but rather demanded she come to his place, which he had never had her do before.
After the call girl gave Riker Rohr’s home address, he made the twenty minute drive across town to the affluent Dupont Circle neighborhood, where Cylis Rohr’s rented a red bricked, Tudor-styled home at the end of a cul-de-sac of similar homes.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 6