Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  Riker let out a long, low sigh as his head fell back against the limo’s rear seat headrest.

  “Why are you so invested in finding out what may or may not be happening with that plane, Ray? Do you have an operative on there? Is all of this about trying to protect your team? Whatever it is that you’re involved in?”

  Tilley again considered a response, and again decided to simply tell Riker the truth.

  “Yeah, I do have one of mine on that plane. Actually, he’s being considered for the program. It was my idea that he take some time off while I try to get him approved.”

  Bradley Riker’s eyes indicated his increasing understanding of why Tilley was so willing to try and save a man who was not yet even part of his team.

  “So you were the one who unwittingly put him on the missing plane.”

  Tilley nodded once as he looked to his right and saw a large, black SUV pull up in the other lane next to the limo.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “I assume you’ve had a few others die on your watch, Ray. What makes this guy so special?”

  This was something Ray Tilley wasn’t ready to share with Riker, or anyone else for that matter. His interest in Mac Walker went beyond thinking him as merely another valuable asset to the program. There was something about Walker that led Tilley to believe the former Navy SEAL had a destiny far beyond, and far greater, than Project Icon. Call it a hunch, intuition, or even a whispered suggestion from the Almighty, Ray Tilley believed Mac Walker would one day somehow play a pivotal role in helping to save them all.

  “Just get me the information I’ve asked for, Bradley. I’m dropping you off at your home. Go inside and do what you got to do to bring me that information later today. I’ll contact you again in three hours.”

  While Riker exited the limo on his way back to his apartment, Ray Tilley looked down at his watch. In three hours it would be almost four o’clock. Hopefully, that would leave him enough time to figure out what the hell was going on with Mac Walker and that missing plane.

  Until then, he had no choice but to simply wait.

  17.

  The priest hated these meetings. The Vatican was one long, unending meeting. Robed men scurrying about, nodding, sly smiles, knowing eyes…and the damned meetings.

  Father Barnes wanted to get as far away from Rome as he possibly could, back to his medical studies, his cancer research. The Jesuit Order he had devoted his life to, demanded he now remain here though until this mess with the missing plane be resolved. There were whispers of a plot against the church, perhaps even an imminent assassination attempt. And so, the Vatican sent for Father Barnes and his somewhat unique skill set. That, and the fact Victor Barnes knew Stasia Wellington, and the church feared Stasia had gone rogue. She had been out of communication for over a week with no indications of whether she remained dead, or alive.

  Father Barnes knew an operative like Stasia would prove exceedingly difficult to kill, so he remained convinced she was out there, up to something. What that something was, he didn’t yet know.

  “Victor, you do not appear pleased to be here today. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

  Cardinal Copilli’s heavily lidded eyes reminded Father Barnes of how a snake might gaze at the rat just before clamping its mouth around the wretched creature and swallowing it whole. The cardinal was among the most powerful figures within the church hierarchy, a man whose counsel went directly to the pope himself. Some even believed the pope feared

  Cardinal Copilli more than he feared God. Such was the scope of the cardinal’s position as head of Vatican Intelligence.

  “You can make me more comfortable by allowing me to go back home to Maryland. My research is my primary interest these days Cardinal. Of course, you already know that.”

  The fifty-seven year old Cardinal Copilli smiled back at Father Barnes, his thin lipped mouth slashing across the lean, almost gaunt face while the reptilian eyes remained absent any warmth.

  “Need I remind you that your position at the hospital, and your subsequent research there, is due in great part to the support and approval of the church, Father Barnes?”

  I could jump across this table and snap the man’s neck like a dried out chicken bone.

  “I always figured it was my family’s money that was primarily responsible for that Cardinal Copilli – no offense to the church of course.”

  Father Barnes watched with well hidden satisfaction as he saw the cardinal’s eyes flash with indignation at having someone of such low ranking as Victor Barnes speak to him with such seeming indifference.

  “Be that as it may Father, I would remind you that the hospital you spend so much time at, is a Catholic hospital. I would also point out that the time this church has invested in your development, requires that you honor that investment by doing what is asked of you, when it is asked of you. Now is such a time. There are those here who fear for the safety of the Vatican itself, and I am personally convinced your former student, Stasia Wellington, is a central figure in whatever threat is being perpetrated against us.”

  “Stasia wouldn’t harm the church. She wouldn’t harm innocents.”

  Cardinal Copilli shifted himself in the large, leather bound chair that sat behind the massive and ornate oak desk that likely dated back at least three centuries. The cardinal’s office was said to have once been the private library of Pope Pius II, who had led the church in the mid-1400’s. It wasn’t necessarily a large space, but every inch of it was ornately carved, crafted, and constructed from an era dating back nearly a thousand years ago. Rich, deep purple tapestries hung from dark wooded walls that met a gold flecked ceiling. The artwork alone positioned throughout the office was invaluable, including a genuine Botticelli sketch the predated that author’s famous Map of Hell painting used for Dante’s Divine Comedy.

  The faint, sickly-sweet smell of burning incense permeated the office, a scent that always made Father Barnes feel slightly nauseous.

  “How do you know that, Father Barnes? Why are you so certain of Stasia’s devotion to the church?”

  He’s trying to determine if I’m helping her – if I’m part of the plot.

  “So you want to question my loyalties too Cardinal, is that it? I already told you everything I know about Stasia Wellington. She is a highly intelligent, very capable operative, and someone I wouldn’t care to insult.”

  Cardinal Copilli pursed his lips while folding his thin fingered hands under his chin.

  “Then what was she doing on that plane, Father Barnes? She was not authorized by this church to do so. And now that plane has gone missing.”

  Victor Barnes held up his hands and shrugged. It had been nearly a decade since he had trained Stasia, and that was shortly before he left Vatican Intelligence to devote himself entirely to his medical research.

  “I don’t know, Cardinal, I haven’t been involved in this shit for a long time now. This is your world, not mine. You want to know what Stasia Wellington was doing on that plane, I suggest you get off your ass and try to find out yourself.”

  Cardinal Copilli’s cheeks flushed an angry red, matching the color of the worn vestment favored by the highest ranking church officials.

  “I don’t approve of your insolence, Father Barnes. Profanity is a sign of a weak and ignorant mind, to say nothing about your unkempt appearance. When is the last time you had a shave?”

  Father Barnes chuckled.

  “You really think God gives two shits about a potty mouth or some facial growth?”

  The cardinal’s right hand slammed down onto his desk.

  “Enough! You will not speak that way inside of this office! I am your superior, Father Barnes! You answer to me, and I answer to God!”

  Father Barnes leaned back in his chair opposite the cardinal and folded his heavily muscled forearms across his chest.

  “Now hold on, Cardinal, I get that I have to answer to you, but I thought that you answered to the Sancta Sedes - the Holy Father our
pope, and he answers to God. Or do I have that wrong somehow?”

  The former crimson red of the cardinal’s cheeks burned a darker hue as outright rage filled his eyes. His words hissed across the desk toward Father Barnes, who sat unimpressed.

  “I am scheduling a full inquiry into your involvement in this matter, Father Barnes. You have an hour to prepare for questioning. I suggest you take a moment to pray for forgiveness, as clearly, you are a lamb gone far astray from the flock.”

  The priest’s deep, rough voice issued forth in an ominous, low growl.

  “I eat lamb, Cardinal, and I’ve never been one for following the flock. Instead of wasting time trying to intimidate me, questioning me, or whatever else you have in mind, how about you just get me all the information you already have on that missing plane, and let me see if I can put together a more legitimate idea of what might be happening, because it’s become all too clear during what little time we’ve spent talking here, that you couldn’t find your own ass from a hole in the dirt.”

  Cardinal Copilli sat unmoving in his chair. Even his eyes refused to blink as he watched in silence as Father Victor Barnes stood up and made his way toward the door of the study. Finally, just as Father Barnes extended a

  hand to pull the door open, the cardinal’s voice spoke just loud enough to be heard across the room.

  “I’ve been told the American FDA has concerns over your research, Father, though they have hesitated from acting on that concern out of respect for the church. It would be a shame to see that hesitation dissipate, and your life’s work effectively shut down. Your full and respectful cooperation in the matter of the missing plane might lessen that unfortunate possibility from happening.”

  Father Barnes was not one to accept threats with indifference, but he also knew his medical work did enjoy a certain degree of protection through his affiliation with the Catholic Church, protection that he very much wanted to continue to be the recipient of to ensure his research would continue – research he believed would save lives otherwise lost to the disease of cancer. He knew that he must, in essence, suffer the figurative cancer that infected the bureaucracy of the church, in order to protect himself from the potentially more aggressive, bureaucratic cancer of the American government.

  Without looking back, he let the cardinal know the less than subtle threat was both received, and fully understood.

  “Get me the information you have on the missing plane Cardinal, and I give you my word to do my best to find out what’s going on.”

  18.

  Bradley Riker appeared literally ready to jump out of his skin. Ray Tilley had assumed the time constraints he placed on his longtime NSA informant would prove difficult, but apparently, it was just about breaking the poor bastard.

  It was just over three hours since last they spoke in the back of the limo. Now they sat across from one another at a roadside diner some twenty miles north of Washington D.C. on Route 108. Tilley knew D.C. politicos didn’t do roadside diners, so the chance of being seen by anyone from that world was all but nil.

  “You don’t know what this cost me Tilley. I have my entire ass hanging out on this one.”

  Riker’s voice was a seething whisper, his eyes looking toward the diner door and then back to Tilley, a layer of sweat covering the entirety of his forehead as his lightly folded hands trembled in front of him where they sat atop an unmarked manila folder.

  “This thing has people way up in the food chain asking questions. I’m talking Defense, NSA, Interpol, the French government, the Italians, I was told there are lobbyists from Atlantis Airlines meeting at the White House this afternoon. What have you gotten yourself into Ray? What the hell have you gotten me into?”

  Ray Tilley had never seen Riker so agitated over intelligence data, confirming his earlier feeling that both General Tinney and Mardian had been less than forthcoming on what was really involved with Flight 444’s disappearance.

  Tilley sat silently, waiting patiently for Riker to hand over the just compiled intelligence file. Bradley Riker, knowing there would be no more information forthcoming from his former college roommate, slid the file across the table and then glanced once again toward the door.

  “That’s it, I’m done, Tilley. No more calls, no more meetings, you are on your own. We’re square now, right? Even if I somehow manage to get out of this with my career intact, if you want information, you need to find someone else to get it for you.”

  Ray Tilley gave a short nod but said nothing, his attention already focused on the contents of the file. He barely noted Riker’s departure from the diner, as his eyes came first to the section detailing the woman known as Stasia Wellington.

  Bosnian-born, her original surname had been Kavik, but the family changed their name to Wellington shortly after arriving in London in the late 1980’s when Stasia was still a teenager. The Kaviks were Catholic, meaning that during their time in Bosnia, were among a distinct minority and likely often persecuted by the Muslim majority of that small nation who outnumbered Catholics by ten to one.

  Soon after her nineteenth birthday, Stasia Wellington entered the Holy Trinity Monastery to begin her formation process to becoming a nun. It was at that point her file indicated an absence of information for nearly three years, until she again appeared as an operations manager for a Catholic monastery in Washington D.C. where she remained for just over a year. Then her timeline went blank once again until she reappeared two years later as a consultant for the Vatican Public Relations Office, where, if Riker’s information was correct, she remained to present day.

  This information mirrored that of the file General Tinny had shared with Tilley during their meeting earlier that day. Stasia Wellington was an active operative within the Vatican Intelligence Service, her position as a “consultant” simply a title to afford her anonymity within the vast, multi-layered tiers of Vatican government.

  Directly below the section devoted to Stasia was a black and white photograph of a broad shouldered man in his early 40’s named Victor Barnes, a medical doctor and Jesuit priest who was listed as an instructor to Stasia during her time in Washington D.C.

  Following the pages devoted to Stasia Wellington were several more outlining the missing plane’s flight crew. First was Captain David Rogers, formerly David Kurjak. Like Stasia, his family originated from Bosnia, and like Stasia, he too had been London educated before moving full time to the United States. He had been a pilot for two decades, and worked for Atlantis Airlines since 1996, shortly after changing his last name from Kurjak to Rogers.

  It was also in 1996 that Rogers had taken a three week vacation to travel to Switzerland where he attended a conference by a controversial Muslim cleric named Torgal Al-Muhamed. Tilley knew the name well. The seventy three year old Torgal Al-Muhamed had publicly declared his approval of the 9-11 bombings from his mosque in Baden, Switzerland just hours after the tragedy took place.

  The fact both the U.S. government and Atlantis Airlines were allowing Rogers to continue flying planes even after his relatively recent interest in the works of a clearly radical, terrorist supporting Muslim cleric, made Ray Tilley clench his jaw in frustration.

  Political correctness will be the death of us all.

  The co-pilot’s name was Frederick Anderson, a thirty nine year old former Air Force fighter pilot who had joined Atlantis Airlines two years earlier after retiring from the Air Force. Born in Atlanta, Georgia, he had enlisted just two months out of high school. Anderson was married with three kids. Nothing in the report suggested any connection to terrorist groups, or a previous relationship to either Captain Rogers or Stasia Wellington.

  The two female flight attendants were another matter. Each one, like the pilot and Stasia Wellington, were Bosnian. Tilley scanned over the picture of an attractive blonde named Danika, who had been working for Atlantis since 1999, and a somewhat older, brown haired woman named Milla, who had been with the airline for almost seven years. In the right margin next to each of the wom
en’s photo was a handwritten note from Riker:

  Both women’s families originate from same Bosnian village as pilot.

  Other than the link to the same village as Captain Rogers, there was no evidence in the report to suggest either woman had any affiliations to terrorist groups.

  The other flight attendant was male, and had no connection to Bosnia. His name was Walter Hill, a white male in his early 30’s, born in Boston, who attended a year of junior college in upstate New York. Hill then worked several odd jobs for a number of years before being hired by Atlantis Airlines just four months ago.

  The next page in Riker’s report was devoted entirely to the air marshal assigned to Atlantis Flight 444 - Reyos Huskich. Huskich maintained the Bosnian link, though unlike the others, he had direct experience as a member of the U.N. peace keeping mission during the Bosnian Conflict, likely exposing him to some of the most brutal atrocities committed during that brief, but very intense war between various ethnic groups. Reyos was born an American citizen, was a veteran of the U.S. military, and had been accepted into the air marshal program three years earlier.

  Another hand written note was left by Riker:

  Live in same Huntington Beach neighborhood – predominantly Bosniak-Muslim street. Attend same mosque. Attended same Torgal Al-Muhamed conference in ’96 as did Capt. Rogers.

  Next to the handwritten note was a photograph of Torgal Al-Muhamed attending a June, 2001 fundraising event with the head of the New York based Allah’s Children Group, a highly influential political action committee that generated millions of dollars in donations to numerous political campaigns across the country during each election cycle, dating back to the 1970’s. Tilley had researched the organization shortly after the September 11th attacks, and found nearly half of their fundraising dollars originated from Saudi donors.