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

by D. W. Ulsterman

So far so good…

  “Walter, is there anything in here that you can use to cut all the zip ties with?”

  Walter turned and opened a drawer from which he withdrew a butter knife.

  “This is all we got.”

  Mac looked down at the knife and then nodded.

  “That’ll be fine, Walter. Just have the passengers pull their hands apart as far as they can, and then you pull up with the knife. I need you to move as fast as you can on this, we probably only have a few minutes before we get some more visitors.”

  Walter’s face took on a decidedly determined look as his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. He moved quickly past Mac and began to work the first of the passengers free from their bonds.

  “Stasia, stay with the passengers and keep them calm and focused. We may need them ready to fight soon.”

  The Vatican Intelligence agent began to move out into the main cabin and then stopped to turn around and face Mac.

  “Where are you going?”

  Mac’s eyes motioned toward the front of the plane.

  “The cockpit - gonna try and send out a communication. Figured it was worth a try.”

  Stasia smiled as she held the SIG Sauer up next to her face.

  “Tell you what, Mac, we get out of this alive and dinner’s on me.”

  Mac leaned in so his own face was a mere inches from Stasia’s, his voice a near whisper.

  “Do I look like the kind of guy who lets a woman buy him dinner?”

  Stasia moved her mouth close enough that her lips brushed the outside of Mac’s right ear as she murmured her response.

  “Do I look like the kind of girl who gives a shit?”

  24.

  Though he had always favored the American made AR-15 to the AK-47, Mac Walker was never so happy to see a pair of the Soviet made assault rifles lying just outside of the cockpit as he was that day. Those rifles provided them sixty rounds in which to defend themselves, a number that Mac felt provided, if not fair odds, at least the possibility to be able to fight back. Plus, there was the air marshal’s weapon which Stasia still held. That was another seven rounds of firepower.

  Shortly after picking up the rifles, Mac sat in the 767’s cockpit with Walter, trying to decipher the plane’s communications system while ignoring the body of the co-pilot which remained shoved in the right back corner of the narrow and low ceilinged confines of the cockpit space.

  “That shouldn’t be there. What is it?”

  Mac’s eyes followed to where Walter was pointing out a small, yellowish metallic box, similar in size to an old school lunch pale from his childhood, that sat to the far right of the cockpit panel. The back of the box was constructed of a clear plastic, inside of which Mac could see a series of thin wires, and thicker cables, as well as what appeared to be a sizeable battery. A single circular LED light no larger than the tip of an eraser was housed on the bottom half of the box and flashed green every few seconds.

  “Is that a bomb?”

  The panic in Walter’s voice was clear. Mac shook his head.

  “No, I don’t think so. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s some kind of electronic blocking device. I’ve seen something similar to this, though a much larger version, used to black out cell phone coverage for an area the size of a small village. I suppose this one would be large enough to keep everyone on the plane from being able to use their cell phones. If none of the passengers could get a call out, that would reinforce the belief by investigators that the flight suffered some kind of catastrophic occurrence, and give the hijackers more time to do whatever it is they intend to do with this plane – and all of us.”

  Walter separated the back of the box from the rest of its body by several inches, looking down at the myriad of wires attached to the batter device. He then looked up at Mac who then shrugged.

  “Rip ‘em out Walter. See if we can shut it off.”

  The flight attendant reached a thin fingered right hand into the opening and grasped onto several wires and then pulled. The LED light turned to a constant red color.

  “Well you did something. Let me try my cell.”

  Before Mac could remove his Project Icon cell phone, Walter pointed outside.

  “More of them coming this way.”

  Two more armed soldiers were making their way toward the 767, carrying a simple wooden box between them. Mac knew he had very little time to construct a plan, though despite that fact, he remained absolutely calm, focusing his energies not on panic, but a practical application of action and reaction that was the foundation of every great soldier throughout history.

  “Walter, I want you to be the one to greet those two soldiers. You’re wearing an airline uniform, so they’ll assume you’re part of the captain’s flight crew. They won’t know any better. Direct them to place that box in the cargo hold. Get their attention and hold it – all I need is a second or two.”

  Walter let out a slow sigh and then nodded back at Mac.

  “Ok, I can do it.”

  The male flight attendant stood up and tucked his shirt into his pants, trying to look as professional as possible.

  “You look fine, Walter. Like I said, into the cargo hold and then keep their attention for a second or two.”

  While Walter left the cockpit, Mac stayed back, hiding himself just behind the door. He could hear the soldiers making their way slowly up the boarding steps, complaining about how heavy the box was. Mac couldn’t understand every word they spoke, but over the years, and countless missions, he had managed to pick up a bit of language from nearly every corner of the globe.

  “Yes, come in. You can put that right inside here.”

  Mac smiled to himself, happy to hear Walter doing such a good job of sounding so at ease. Next came the sound of the cargo door being opened and the soldiers grunting as they shuffled the box just past where Mac stood hiding behind the cockpit door.

  “The captain wants the box on the other end of the cargo hold over there.”

  Again Mac was impressed with Walter’s clear thinking. The soldiers’ attention would be on getting the box to the back of the cargo hold, and not on what was coming up behind them.

  Mac Walker slipped silently into the cargo area, no more than ten feet from where the two Tunisian soldiers were still complaining over the weight of the box they had been ordered to deliver. He held one of the two AK-47s and was pointing it at the back of the soldier on the left, but knowing the last thing he wanted to be doing was opening fire. The sound would bring more soldiers, and put the passengers at risk of being slaughtered.

  A high pitched, friendly whistle issued from Mac’s lips as his body tensed, awaiting the moment to act.

  The soldier on the right was the first to turn at the whistling sound, his face greeted by the crunching impact of the butt of the AK-47 rifle, the blow cracking open the man’s skull and sending his body dropping like a wet sack of potatoes, along with his half of the cargo box he had been holding onto.

  The second soldier cursed as the right side of the box fell toward the floor, and then his mouth opened wider to shout out his shock at seeing his comrade being attacked. Mac’s movement was a blur of hands and arms that resulted in his left hand clamped over the remaining soldier’s mouth while the thumb of Mac’s right hand jabbed twice into the cartilage of the man’s throat.

  The soldier fell, gasping for breath that would not come, as Mac then grasped onto his head from behind and twisted it violently to the right, causing the soldier’s chin to move well past his right shoulder. Walter flinched as he heard the surprisingly loud, and sickening pop of the man’s neck being broken.

  Mac Walker wasted no time looking over the results of his efforts, his own attention already focused on the contents within the just delivered box, and soon, Walter found himself doing the same.

  “What are those things?”

  Mac shook his head.

  “Not sure exactly, but I’d guess a chemical, or maybe biological weapon of some sort. Nasty looking th
ings that’s for sure. Close it back up.”

  As Walter put the cover back onto the cargo box, Mac strode quickly back toward the cockpit to take another look outside. The portable fueling container had been removed from the plane, and there appeared to be no soldiers inside of the hanger. A single drop of dark red blood splattered onto the cockpit floor from the end of the AK-47 Mac held, a remnant of the blow to the first soldier’s forehead.

  That bit of blood gave Mac Walker an idea. He had no intention of remaining inside of this plane much longer, knowing that eventually, their recently won freedom would be discovered, and everyone’s lives likely ending shortly after.

  Mac moved back into the cargo hold where Walter was dragging the bodies of the soldiers behind the just delivered box containing the metallic cylinders.

  The former Navy SEAL was already unbuttoning his shirt as he barked an order at the flight attendant.

  “Walter – help me get out of these clothes. Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

  Walter’s brow catapulted upward as his mouth fell open. He did as he was told, running toward Mac Walker, his hands already working to pull Mac’s pants off.

  “Lucky you, Mr. Walker, if you ever need someone to rip your clothes off quickly, I’m your man.”

  25.

  Stasia Wellington heard the commotion coming from the front of the plane and moved to investigate. What she found was Walter and Mac both in the cargo hold. Walter was on his knees in front of Mac attempting to pull his right foot free from his pant leg while Mac had a cell phone to his ear.

  “Sorry, gentlemen, I didn’t know you were on a date.”

  Mac looked over at Stasia and then down at Walter, and then wagged his finger at the Vatican Intelligence operative while shaking his head from side to side.

  “No-no-no, this is not what it looks like. Just swapping some clothes out. We can’t remain in here just waiting for something to happen. It’s time to make something happen.”

  Stasia saw the military uniform on the floor just behind where Mac and Walter stood, and realized with no small amount of alarm, what the former Navy SEAL intended to do.

  “You can’t go out there by yourself Mac. There’s too many of them, you’ll be shot to pieces before you reach the bottom of the boarding steps.”

  Walter had grabbed a pair of the light olive colored Tunisian military pants and was helping Mac step into them while Mac attempted to dial a number on his cell phone.

  “C’mon, Tilley take the damn call.”

  The attempt went to voice mail.

  “Tilley, it’s Mac. The plane was hijacked. We are currently sitting inside a makeshift hanger somewhere on the Tunisian coast. These people intend to bomb the Vatican using some kind of chemical or biological weapon. Alert Italian authorities, and pull the satellite data for this location. The shit’s about to hit the fan here, and I’d be happy for whatever help you can send my way. Gonna do everything I can to keep this plane grounded. Walker out.”

  Mac Walker was fully dressed in the military uniform.

  “Thanks for the help, Walter. Take the weapons from those two and keep one for yourself, and give the other one to the younger Black guy in the cabin – the one that was sitting across from me. He seems to be keeping his wits about him.”

  Walter moved to leave, but then stopped as Stasia posed a question.

  “Did you turn the transponder back on? I assume the captain shut it off to allow the plane to fly without being easily tracked. If you turned it back on, they’ll pick up the signal within minutes.”

  Mac felt like an idiot, realizing he hadn’t thought to do that earlier.

  “Walter, can you take care of it?”

  The flight attendant nodded and then disappeared into the cockpit holding an AK-47 in each of his hands.

  “Normally I wouldn’t have missed something like that. Thanks for pointing it out.”

  Stasia gave her shoulders a slight shrug and then placed a hand on each of Mac Walker’s shoulders.

  “So how’s this going to end for us, Mr. Walker? You really think we can keep all of these people safe? How many guns are out there waiting for us?”

  Mac shook his head momentarily forgetting about what he knew was awaiting him outside the plane. Instead, he simply wanted to enjoy looking into Stasia’s eyes, and wondering if they would be given the opportunity to get to know each other better.

  “Remember, you said you’d buy me dinner after we’re done here.”

  Stasia placed her right hand behind Mac’s head and pulled him toward her, kissing him gently on the left cheek.

  “I hope to be able to keep that promise Mr. Walker, so don’t go getting yourself killed.”

  Mac began to pull away, and then realized Stasia was right – he was likely to die soon. He had just thirty rounds of ammunition against multiple armed men outside. Even for one as well trained and experienced as him, the odds were not proving kind.

  That meant a kiss on the cheek simply wouldn’t do.

  Mac’s face moved back toward Stasia’s as his right arm encircled the small of her back and pulled her aggressively against his body, his mouth pressing into hers. She welcomed the embrace, matching Mac’s hungry intensity with ample amounts of her own.

  It was an all too brief moment, a mere few seconds, but it left Stasia breathing heavily and looking up at Mac with unrefined lust.

  “Don’t you dare die out there, Mac Walker. There’s going to be much more than a dinner waiting for you after this.”

  Mac looked Stasia up and down and then nodded, his eyes gleaming with the possibility of things to come.

  “Alright then, looks like I got something to live for.”

  Thousands of miles away, at the same time Mac Walker was embracing Stasia Wellington, Ray Tilley stepped out of the shower and saw his Project Icon cell phone indicating a call had recently come in. He stood with a towel wrapped around his midsection and held the phone up and then felt a creeping, stunned numbness overtake his body.

  The call had come from Mac Walker.

  The son-of-a-bitch was alive!

  Tilley realized his hand was shaking slightly as he held the phone to his ear to listen to the message.

  Tilley, it’s Mac. The plane was hijacked. We are currently sitting inside a makeshift hanger somewhere on the Tunisian coast. These people intend to bomb the Vatican using some kind of chemical or biological weapon. Alert Italian authorities, and pull the satellite data for this location. The shit’s about to hit the fan here, and I’d be happy for whatever help you can send my way. Gonna do everything I can to keep this plane grounded. Walker out.

  Tilley replayed the message twice, memorizing every word. Then he called Stephen Mardian, who picked up on the second ring.

  “Mardian, I just received a message from Walker. The plane is being held in Tunisia, hidden inside a hanger. He confirmed the attack on Rome. The hijackers have a chemical or biological weapon. Sounds like he’s about to take them on himself. Alert the general and see if we can scramble some fighters out of Sigonella. Find out if we have any CIA in the area, anything or anyone that can provide assistance.”

  Stephen Mardian’s response was to push Tilley for clarification.

  “Tunisia? What the hell would they be doing there? Are you certain it was Walker?”

  Ray Tilley fought the urge to throw the phone against the wall, knowing every minute wasted put Mac Walker and the passengers at greater risk.

  “The call came from his phone. It was his voice so yeah, I’m sure it was Walker. We don’t have time to play what if, Mardian. Make the call to the general now. Those people in that plane need our help.”

  “Hold up Ray, I got another call coming in. It’s the general.”

  Tilley stood shivering in his bathroom, each second of silence feeling like an eternity. Nearly three minutes passed before Mardian’s voice continued.

  “Pentagon reported a signal from the plane was received no more than ten minutes ago. Someone must ha
ve turned the transponder on. They’ve tracked the location. It’s sitting on an uninhabited island about five miles off the Tunisian coast. We have a carrier from the Sixth Fleet about four hundred miles away. They’re scrambling a pair of F-14s to the island with an ETA of no more than thirty minutes. No idea yet on how long it will take on the ground support to arrive.”

  “Has there been any official communications between our government and the Tunisians?”

  Though he couldn’t see him, Tilley knew Mardian was shaking his head.

  “Not that I’m aware of. Our State Department is slow to react on this so far. As of now, it’s strictly a Pentagon matter.”

  Ray Tilley lifted his head toward the ceiling as he closed his eyes and inhaled and then exhaled slowly while still keeping the cell phone to his ear.

  “Looks like you were right about this Mac Walker, Ray. He’s a fighter.”

  Tilley already knew that of course. He just hoped for Mac and the passengers of Atlantis Flight 444, it would prove enough to keep them all alive until help arrived.

  26.

  Father Victor Barnes ran down one of the many marble tiled corridors of the Vatican, having just received a phone message from Ray Tilley, a message Tilley initiated that was a direct violation of his own superior’s orders. Mac Walker was alive, which meant Stasia was likely alive as well. The plane was somewhere along the Tunisian coast, being prepped for an attack on the Vatican – likely within the hour.

  “Cardinal! I need to have a word with you – NOW!”

  Cardinal Copilli turned around to face Father Barnes while at the same time, motioning to the two young male robed assistants to go on without him.

  The cardinal’s face betrayed his annoyance at seeing the priest moving toward him at such a deliberate pace.

  “Running inside the Vatican, Father? What could possibly be so important for you to draw such unwanted attention to yourself?”

  Father Barnes stood heaving in front of the cardinal, gasping to catch his breath.