Captain Rogers looked toward the hanger as a pressurized portable fuel container was being put in place just under the 767.
“How long before we are ready for departure colonel?”
Colonel Mabazza followed the captain’s gaze to the hanger.
“Very soon now, Captain Rogers. Twenty minutes to refuel, and then I will have the canisters placed inside of your cargo hold. From there, you are free to go, and may Allah’s vengeance be with you.”
At the very moment Colonel Mabazza was blessing Captain Rogers with Allah’s vengeance, Mac Walker was peering out a window at the very back of the 767 as the fuel container was moved under the plane.
“They’re refueling the plane - two armed men below us.”
Mac looked back at Walter, who in turn was keeping watch for any sign of Milla, who they suspected had been left with the air marshal’s weapon.
“Walter, how long does a typical refueling take given the estimated fuel burn that’s already happened based on a flight from Paris to somewhere off the coast of Northern Africa?”
“We should still have half our fuel capacity left Mac, so no more than twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”
Mac considered the implications of the refuel. The plane could have made the relatively short crossing to Rome with the fuel it already had. Topping off the tanks confirmed for the former Navy SEAL that the 767 was in fact being used as a weapon – the more fuel, the bigger the explosion and resulting carnage.
Mac looked out the small window once again, catching a glimpse of blue waters in the distance.
Let them refuel the plane, we might need it once we fly out of here.
Mac had decided to take back the 767. He wasn’t sure how just yet, given he and the others were without weapons, and now appeared to be surrounded by armed soldiers. Just how many armed soldiers was another question that remained unanswered.
Those uniforms – I recognize them!
“We’re in Tunisia. That’s Tunisian military out there.”
Mac had spent nine days in 1998 with a contingent of other navy SEALS and NATO officials monitoring a suspected arms dealer who worked the border between Tunisia and Libya. That arms dealer also happened to be Tunisian military – a colonel by the name of Mabazza. After those nine days, Mac’s team was ordered to pull out of the area. No reason was given, and the operation was never mentioned to him again.
Stasia leaned her head into Mac’s to allow her to look outside the plane as well. She then nodded her head.
“You’re right, definitely Tunisian military, just as I suspected.”
Mac stood up and stared down at the Vatican Intelligence agent.
“Suspected? So your being on this plane is part of a mission?”
Stasia moved past Mac and into the food prep room where he followed closely behind her.
“No, Mr. Walker I’m not on a mission, I’m on a hunch. My being here isn’t official Vatican business. I have been monitoring airline activity even before September 11th, reviewing airline personnel files, travel records, affiliations, and over time, my instincts pointed me to Captain David Rogers, formerly, David Kurjak. Bosnian-American, with family who had been slaughtered during the Bosnian war ten years ago. I took my suspicions to my superiors, and was shut down. In fact, they said I was overworked, overly paranoid, and needed to take some time off.
“So, I took their advice and left the Vatican, instead tracking Captain Rogers’ flights personally. This is the third time in the last month I’ve been on a plane he is piloting. Guess the third time really is the charm, huh? Now knowing how the Vatican works, my guess is they are now panicking after this plane went missing, and they learned Rogers was the pilot, realizing I might have been right after all. Or, maybe they think I’m actually in on it. They’re more than stupid enough to go that route too.”
Mac knew the feeling well. His own attitude regarding Washington D.C.’s bureaucracy was much the same as Stasia’s toward the Vatican’s.
“Milla is coming! She has the gun!”
Walter’s whispered warning averted Mac’s attention away from Stasia and toward the front of the plane. A few paces behind Milla was Danika, whose eyes were straining to catch a glimpse of Mac or the others at the back of the plane.
“You! You there! Are you trying to use your phone? Idiot! You think I’m that stupid! Damn Americans with your phones and your arrogance! You won’t get a signal, we’re blocking it. All of your phones are useless inside this plane.”
Milla loomed over the young black man who earlier sat across from Mac, the man’s cell phone held between his bound hands. The flight attendant’s face was contorted into a grotesque image of mocking confidence, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she held the tip of the air marshal’s gun against the passenger’s left temple.
“Disgusting little ape, aren’t you?”
Mac knew the flight attendant’s tone all too well – she was preparing to kill the passenger. Something in her wanted badly to take a life, wanted to experience the power of doing so.
He stood nearly twenty feet from Milla, the food prep area’s thin blue curtain the only thing separating him from the main cabin and the business end of the handgun the deranged flight attendant held in her hand.
Even for a man capable of considerable speed and power, as Mac was, twenty feet was quite a distance when one’s opponent was armed and ready to shoot – perhaps too much distance. That left the former Navy SEAL with but one option to increase his chances for success.
Mac Walker reached for a bag of peanuts.
22.
“Father Barnes, what you are implying is outrageous, and frankly, I fear it’s an attempt to divert attention, and blame, away from Stasia Wellington. While I admire your loyalty to her, I suggest you reacquaint yourself to the loyalty you owe the church. You cannot expect me to call up the Italian president with this nonsense. What you have described is a plot in some spy thriller movie, not real life! I’ll be laughed out of Rome!”
Victor Barnes took a deliberately slow, measured breath as he found himself back in the cardinal’s Vatican office. The priest had expected the cardinal to react to the possibility of the Tunisian plot this way. The man was a politician, always looking to protect and better his position within the church power structure.
“You asked me to find out what was going on with that missing plane Cardinal Copilli. I believe I’ve done that. You worry about being laughed out of Rome? What if I’m right, and thousands are killed because of your failure to act accordingly? I’ve shown you the links between the cleric,
the flight crew, and a high ranking member of the Tunisian government. Yes, there’s still some space between one leading to the other, but given we may very well be running out of time, don’t you think it prudent to at least prepare? Call up the president, inform him of the possible plot, and let the government do what a government is supposed to do – protect its people.”
The cardinal’s eyes looked downward toward the top of his desk, where they remained for some time. When those eyes lifted to once again stare back at the priest, Father Barnes knew the cardinal would make the call, though his motivation was far more likely to be a case of self preservation than it was an opportunity to do the right thing.
“Very well Victor, I will contact the defense liaison to the president, and inform him of your theory, but know this – it will be your name attached to this, not mine. I am acting merely as a messenger.”
Father Barnes stood up while nodding down at the cardinal.
“I don’t give a shit about whose name is attached to what Cardinal, I just want to do everything I can to make sure innocent lives are saved. Give me the blame, or you take the credit, whatever gets you off, man. Just make that call, and make it quick.”
At the very moment Father Barnes walked out of Cardinal Copilli’s office, Ray Tilley found himself seated across from both General Tinny and Stephen Mardian in the same Pentagon conference room he had met with them earlier.
/> “Tunisia? That’s what you’ve come up with? The plane was taken to Tunisia? And you came up with this shit working with some priest in the Vatican? Are you aware of the most recent flight details Mr. Tilley? That 767 was flying erratically before it disappeared. It ascended, then descended, and most likely smashed itself to bits in the Atlantic Ocean. Everything points to some kind of catastrophic failure. It’s a tragedy, but not a conspiracy. 217 lives have been lost, including your Mr. Walker. Maybe you don’t want to accept that, you’ve come up with this outlandish bullshit, but there is no way I take this to anyone else outside this conference room. I already told you, we’ve initiated some clean up regarding Walker and Wellington’s presence on the plane. Other than that, I consider this event a tragedy, nothing more, and certainly not something we need to waste any more of our time on.”
General Tinny rose from his chair and then paused as Stephen Mardian looked up at the Pentagon veteran.
“Sit down, General.”
The general’s eyes widened as he stood over Mardian, who in turn was calmly looking over at Tilley.
“You don’t order me, Mardian.”
Stephen Mardian lightly brushed something from the left sleeve of his suit jacket and smiled.
“Let’s not pretend right now, General. I think Mr. Tilley’s concerns may hold merit. I think it would be prudent, at the very least, for you to give a heads up to our military presence throughout the Mediterranean. Perhaps a quick call to the State Department, see if they have anything that might clarify a possible Tunisian connection.”
The skin around General Tinny’s fleshy face transformed into a collection of mottled reds and purples, as he jabbed a stubby finger toward Mardian’s chest.
“I will do no such thing! Christ, Mardian, do you know the questions that will be raised if I march out of here and start crying wolf based on this asshole’s weightless premise of some Tunisian conspiracy! Project Icon is not your toy. That plane is gone, understand? We have a debris field, lost communication, erratic flight pattern moments before it disappeared – Atlantis Flight 444 is not sitting somewhere in Tunisia for god’s sake! It’s at the bottom of the goddamn ocean!”
Stephen Mardian leaned back in his chair and stared up at the still standing General Tinny.
“But what if he’s right, General? You’ll likely be brought up on charges for failing to notify. Call it chatter, a hunch, whatever you need to do to keep your own hands clean, but Mr. Tilley has shown us enough that we must, at the very least, forward the possibility to those who might be in a position to act. I’m giving you an opportunity right now to do it your way. If you refuse, that leaves me no choice but to do it my way, and that will leave you looking like you’re participation in Project Icon is of negligible importance, General Tinny. Is that the perception you wish to have known by others?”
The general’s mouth slashed downward as his nostrils flared open, his eyes glowering down at the lobbyist, knowing Mardian’s power and influence within Washington D.C. was likely far greater than his own.
“Sit down.”
This time Tinny did as Mardian asked, lowering himself back into his chair where he remained silently awaiting Mardian’s instructions.
“Thank you, General. Now, as I said, I think it wise for you to use whatever channels you deem appropriate to let U.S. military interests closest to North Africa know that there may be a quickly developing threat coming from that region. No need to get too specific if that concerns you, just a basic heads up. No harm in that, right?”
The general said nothing, his eyes staring back at Stephen Mardian who appeared even more at ease than he had been earlier.
“As for you, Mr. Tilley, there is to be no further communication with your Vatican source. Let them handle things on their end as they choose, just as we will do on ours, do you understand?”
Ray Tilley gave a brief nod, though privately, he had no intention of allowing Mardian to dictate to him who he could speak to.
“Very well then, gentlemen it seems we’ve come to something of a conclusion, for now. General, I look forward to a full report first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Tilley, you can go. Please give me and the general a moment alone. Thank you.”
Tilley walked to the conference room door and began closing it behind him, then paused to look up at Stephen Mardian, who in turn sat staring back at Tilley, his eyes unblinking, the hint of a smile marking his face.
It was the smile of a man Ray Tilley knew could never fully be trusted.
23.
Mac Walker held the pack of peanuts in his right hand, preparing to throw them at Milla’s head before she fired the gun, and hoping it would startle the flight attendant enough to allow him time to disarm her. Then again, he also knew her trigger finger might instead instinctively squeeze off a round into the young man’s head.
She’s gonna kill him either way, so this is the only chance he’s got.
Mac’s hand propelled the peanuts toward Milla, the packet colliding with the right side of her forehead. The flight attendant’s head snapped to the left a few inches while at the same time, Mac sprang from behind the curtain like a tiger pouncing onto its prey.
Milla recovered quickly, but not quite quickly enough.
Mac Walker’s left shoulder slammed into her side as his right hand clamped down around her wrist, squeezing the gun free from her grip. The woman let out an enraged howl, momentarily surprising Mac with both her strength and ferocity as her free hand attempted to scratch at the former Navy SEAL’s eyes.
“ENOUGH!”
Mac grasped Milla’s throat with his left hand and the inside of her right thigh with his right hand and lifted her upward, slamming her body into the 767’s ceiling, and then dropping her back onto the cabin floor where she remained unmoving.
“Tie her up, cover her mouth, and put her in one of the bathrooms.”
Stasia had already picked up the handgun, and was looking it over.
“Basic SIG Sauer P229, nine round capacity, with seven rounds remaining.”
Mac moved toward a window and opened it just enough to allow him to peer outside the plane. On the ground below, two armed men continued to refuel the plane, while some fifty yards behind them, a group of three more armed men were moving toward them, one man carrying what appeared to be at least two military assault rifles in his arms.
“Danika, where are you?”
The other female flight attendant stepped forward from inside the first class area, her panicked eyes looking down at the unconscious Milla as she was dragged into a bathroom by Walter.
“Danika, there will be some men coming onto the plane very soon. Keep them happy, ok? As for everyone else, we’re gonna get you out of those zip ties, but I need you to remain in your seats. Don’t move, don’t say anything, just look down at your feet. Right now, we don’t have the firepower to fight back. If they get even a hint of trouble, they’ll come in here blasting and that will be that. Everyone understand?”
The heavy set man with the “American Badass” tattoo stood up.
“I’m not listening to a goddamn thing you have to say, asshole! You’re gonna get us all killed! Untie us, and I say we all fight whoever tries to get on this plane! Don’t ask me to sit in my seat like some idiot waiting to die!”
Mac knew they didn’t have time for argument. The three Tunisian military men were likely at the bottom of the boarding steps, hopefully talking to the other two who were fueling the plane. Mac noted the man’s young son was once again crying in his seat.
“Sir, if you don’t shut up and sit down, your son will die in this plane. I need you, I need everyone, to listen to my directions. I don’t have the time to explain right now, but believe me, this ain’t my first rodeo. You’re gonna have a chance to fight back, but we have to choose the right time, and this isn’t it, not yet. Please sir, sit down.”
American Badass looked at Mac, and then Stasia before glancing down at his crying son. A moment later he sat down in his seat
while telling the boy to be quiet.
“They’re coming up the boarding stairs!”
Danika hissed the warning as her eyes held Mac’s for several seconds before she disappeared toward the front of the plane.
“Remember Danika, keep them happy, and try to keep them from coming back here.”
Mac and Stasia moved back behind the food prep area curtain where Walter was already waiting. He motioned toward one of the bathrooms.
“I put her in there. She’s still unconscious.”
Mac nodded silently as he peered out from behind the curtain. The passengers were doing as they were told, sitting silently, not moving, and looking down.
The sound of Danika’s laughter filtered to the back of the plane.
Good girl, she’s flirting, distracting them.
Mac’s praise was short lived as a short, uniformed man in his late 30’s walked slowly into the primary passenger area of the plane. His dark eyes scanned the rows of seats, stopping to stare at each passenger before moving on to the next. In his hands he held an older, Soviet made AK-47 with the common 30 round magazine.
Stasia stood on the opposite side of the blue curtain, holding the SIG Sauer and looking more than ready to use it if need be.
More of Danika’s forced laughter filled the 767 cabin. Mac detected a hint of nervousness in it, and hoped the woman could keep it together long enough to get the Tunisian soldiers back off the plane. The soldier who had entered the cabin turned his head at the sound of Danika laughing, and disappeared toward the front of the plane where he began barking orders that they were to return outside after leaving the weapons on the plane for the captain and his crew.
Mac let out the breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 10