“The plane, there’s a signal. It’s in Tunisia, just like I told you. I have a source in Washington D.C. who confirmed it. Mac Walker left him a message. The passengers were ok, but the plane was hijacked, and it’s to be used as a weapon for an attack on the Vatican. My source believes the attack is imminent. Did you contact the president, the Italian military?”
Cardinal Copilli glanced behind the priest to see if anyone else was nearby. Satisfied they stood alone in the massive Vatican hallway, he took a step toward Father Barnes, his voice a hushed yet urgent whisper.
“Have you spoken to anyone else about this, Father?”
Father Barnes shook his head, somewhat confused by the question.
“No…I spoke with my D.C. source and then made my way directly to you, why?”
The cardinal placed his right hand on the priest’s well muscled shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
“I don’t wish to unnecessarily panic anyone. I will contact the office of the Holy Father personally as soon as I return to my study and inform them of what you just told me. Was there any word on Stasia Wellington? Is she ok?”
Father Barnes’s confusion increased, as well as his already considerable suspicion regarding what was motivating Cardinal Copilli’s actions throughout this crisis.
“I assume she’s ok, yes. And I imagine she will be helping to keep all of the passengers alive and well until help can arrive.”
A very brief, almost undetectable flash of disappointment crossed over the cardinal’s face. He quickly recovered though, and smiled up at the priest.
“That is very good then. Lord willing, everyone will be safe and this terrible attempt will be thwarted, and those responsible will be punished. Now if you will excuse me, I am off to raise the alarm. Oh, and good work, Father. Well done.”
As Father Barnes watched the quickly departing cardinal scurry off to his office, the priest realized his papal superior had avoided giving any indication of whether or not he had already notified Italian authorities of the threat, as he had promised earlier to do.
What is that rat faced little bastard up to?
At the same time as Father Barnes posed that question to himself, Mac Walker was addressing the passengers of Atlantis Flight 444.
“Right now, the safest place for all of you is inside this aircraft. The hijackers won’t harm this plane if they believe there’s a chance they can still use it as a weapon. They’ll try and take it back first, and that’s where I come in. I’m gonna be out there holding them off, buying us some time, until U.S. military arrive, or the Italians or whatever other friendly force gets here first. Until then though, it’s us against them, and that means we need to stick together, and be prepared for anything.”
“Why the hell do you get to decide how we defend ourselves? Why do you get a gun, and not me?”
It was the tattooed father once again placing himself as a most determined pain in Mac Walker’s ass. Though his first inclination was to tell the asshole to shut his mouth, Mac decided a change in tone might illicit a more favorable result.
“Who I am isn’t important right now, sir. The fact I might be your single best hope of keeping you and your boy alive, is all that matters. I need your help though – we all do. Like I said, this is gonna take everyone working together. What’s your name?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, uncertain if Mac was mocking him or being sincere. He glanced to the other passengers on his left and then his right, before finally responding.
“Lenny…Lenny Rorke. This is my son Lenny Jr.”
Mac offered up a half smile, appreciating the avoidance of yet another confrontation with Lenny.
“Nice to know your name, Mr. Rorke. I’m sorry about earlier, that was…that was me being me. I’m not always the most patient of people, especially when I think the safety of others is at risk.”
Lenny straightened his shoulders, more grateful of Mac’s apology than Mac thought he would be. The former Navy SEAL was not a father, and did not understand that for a man to be seen as weak in front of his son would make the alleged source of that shame a father’s number one enemy.
“No problem, man. Just tell me how we can help. I’m not about to sit on my ass waiting for the hijackers to come in here shooting.”
Mac looked around at all the passengers sitting in the 767. Some were young, many were older. Most were American, returning home, like Mac, from vacationing in Paris. Some were French, travelling to the United States, while others were from other nations, visiting family in the States, or just hoping to see America for the first time.
They were all scared, though Mac Walker was impressed with how well they continued to maintain a surprising degree of calm given the circumstances. This included Eldra Peabody, who still sat in her seat, her warm eyes looking back at Mac with a mixture of pride and affection.
“I’ll be the first line of defense. The woman standing next to me, and the young man just behind me, will be the second line of defense. They will guard the entrance. If they go down, it’s up to all of you to keep this plane from taking off. Every one of you must do whatever it takes, to prevent that from happening, because if this plan gets back in the air, it could be used to kill thousands of people, and we can’t let that happen. We won’t let that happen.”
The passengers looked at both Stasia and Walter, and then their eyes returned to Mac Walker as he stood there calmly holding an AK-47 over his left shoulder as if he were about to embark on a leisurely Sunday stroll. They knew the risk Mac was about to take – knew it likely meant his death. He was but one man against many.
Then again, they didn’t really know Mac Walker.
27.
“I believe the weapon should be securely in place on the plane, Captain. The craft has been refueled, and you are ready to depart, may Allah protect us and bless the justice you bring to the infidels of the Catholic Satan.”
Captain Rogers was nervous, his eyes scanning the distance between the colonel’s office structure, and the hangar. He could see the outline of the boarding steps and noted to himself how the two soldiers who were to deliver the chemical canisters had yet to return.
“Where are your soldiers, Colonel? The ones who carried the canisters onto the plane?”
Colonel Mabazza waved a dismissive hand toward the captain, shaking his head and chuckling.
“Captain, you must learn to relax! All is well! All is well! My men are the very best. Well trained and highly professional! They likely took a moment to ensure the passengers remain in their seats, like perfect little lambs awaiting their slaughter. Ok? Please, allow me a toast in honor of this great occasion of which you are its primary component!”
Captain Roger’s jaw set as he glared at the colonel. The man claimed to be a devoted Muslim, and yet, here he sat pouring himself alcohol.
“I do not drink, Colonel. As you know, the Koran forbids it, and my soul must be in a state of purity if I am to ascend to paradise later this day.”
Colonel Mabazza’s eyes flashed indignation at the captain’s implied challenge, though the smile remained on his lean, smooth shaven face. For the colonel, the fanatics were useful tools, easily motivated, but entirely expendable. Just like the airline pilot who now sat before him.
No worries, let the idiot make his religious speech. He will be dead and gone soon enough, but my journey to greater power will continue.
“Of course, Captain, how rude of me to suggest otherwise. Ah, look there! The soldiers are returning now.”
Captain Rogers turned to confirm what the colonel saw. A moment of relief washed over him as his own eyes took on the form of one of the uniformed Tunisian soldiers walking slowly back down the boarding steps.
The relief evaporated as he realized the other soldier was missing, his paranoia at something going wrong once again gripping him.
“Where is second soldier, Colonel? Why is only one of them returning?”
Colonel Mabazza followed the captain’s gaze toward the makeshift island hangar. He co
uld see one of his uniformed soldiers nearing the bottom of the boarding steps, though his face was hidden within the shadows of the hangar’s interior. Just outside the hangar, another soldier was making his way inside the hangar as well.
“No worries, Captain, see? All appears to be fine.”
A loud, clapping noise reverberated across the beach as the colonel watched the soldier who had been walking toward the boarding steps suddenly fall to the ground, where he remained unmoving.
Captain Rogers stood up snarling back at the colonel.
“You wretched dog! What is this? We are under attack by one of your own men!”
Colonel Mabazza ignored the captain’s outrage, instead ordering four of his men to take positions just outside the hangar. Flight 444’s hijacking air marshal, Reyos Huskich, holding an AK-47, had already made his way to Captain Roger’s side.
“It’s the army boy, has to be. The idiots delivered to him the very weapons he will now be using against us!”
The captain’s lips pulled back from his teeth as he watched the colonel’s men slowly encircle the hangar. With the just slain Tunisian soldier, and the two other soldiers who had been sent to deliver the weapon onto the plane also likely dead, Captain Rogers realized their opponent was proving far more capable than Huskich’s derisive “army boy” designation implied.
Whoever that man standing inside the hangar was, he clearly knew his way around the business of killing.
Another two shots were fired from within the hangar, causing the Tunisian soldiers to scramble for cover, their cries of alarm drowning out the echoes of earlier gunfire.
The air marshal growled his disgust.
“Cowards, they look as if they’ve never been shot at!”
Captain Rogers grunted his agreement and then turned to his fellow terrorist.
“Can you circle the structure, kill him from behind?”
Reyos Huskich nodded once and then began making his way to the other side of the hangar, circling wide to avoid being seen doing so. Captain Rogers watched Huskich’s progress as the four Tunisian soldiers fired multiple rounds into the hangar and then waited for a response. When none came, one of the soldiers began pumping his fist and declared they had killed the traitor.
This celebration was cut short by a single gunshot from the hangar, and then the side of the soldier’s head detonating as Mac Walker’s Ak-47 tore through the Tunisian’s skull. The three remaining soldiers began firing their weapons in a mixture of rage and panic, still not believing anyone could be so accurate with a weapon noted for quantity of rounds fired, not quality.
The captain turned toward the water as he heard the sound of a marine engine roaring to life. On one of the two boats that had brought the Tunisians from the naval vessel to the island, was Colonel Mabazza and another of his soldiers, clearly intending to escape the island and the deadly chaos that now threatened to overtake it.
“Cowardly pig! You run away? Allah will damn you to hell!”
The colonel waved back at the captain as the boat plunged into the water and raced away, the scream of its engine indicating it was being pushed to its limits in order to safely return Colonel Mabazza back to the awaiting Tunisian military vessel.
Captain Rogers turned back to once again face the hangar, realizing only three armed Tunisian soldiers remained, as well as himself and Reyos Huskich. Five armed men left to face one.
Surely that would be enough.
As the rogue airline captain who hoped to decimate the Vatican stood pondering the odds of the hijackers taking back the plane, Mac Walker lay on his belly inside of the hangar, watching the three Tunisian soldiers attempting to inch their way closer toward him. The soldiers appeared uncertain, and likely far more afraid for their own lives than Mac was of losing his.
In fact, these were the moments of life and death wherein Mac Walker seemed to find himself most at peace. His mind became entirely focused on the task directly in front of him, with no distractions from the myriad of secondary concerns that life too often presented. Free from boredom, or transient obligation, there was only the here, and the now, to live, or to die, to kill, or be killed.
Such risk was the essence of Mac Walker, making up who he truly was, and likely who he would always be.
Multiple other rounds were fired into the hangar, missing well above Mac’s prone body. Mac silently rolled several feet to his left, and then scrambled to the far wall on the right at the hangar’s main opening. He could see one of the Tunisian soldiers attempting to move into the hangar from the left side, the soldier’s body plastered against the outside wall as he shuffled closer.
Mac slowly lifted the AK-47 upward and peered through its sight, locking in on the soldier’s position no more than forty yards from where Mac crouched in the shadows of the hangar’s interior.
Another single shot and the soldier fell backward, a bullet leaving a massive gash in his neck just below the chin. It took less than twenty seconds for him to bleed out, his body twitching as the last remnants of life left the soldier’s body.
Mac Walker knew that left two soldiers just outside the hangar, and then the possibility of more to arrive from the ship that sat five hundred yards offshore. He had heard the sounds of a departing boat, and knew it likely meant someone had left in order to bring back reinforcements.
Nothing could be done about that though. For now he would simply focus on the two other soldiers who yet remained.
Mac didn’t feel the aluminum fragment as it imbedded into the lower back portion of his skull, though the impact pushed him down onto the ground where he found himself looking up at the high ceiling above him and wondering what had just happened as his right hand scrambled to grip the AK-47 that lay next to him.
The sound of gunfire seemed to be coming from a great distance, even as Mac Walker knew it was in fact just outside the wall that separated him from the Tunisian soldiers. He could see small holes of daylight streaming above him, shooting across the hangar and lighting up the outline of the silent 767 that sat behind him like some great hibernating metallic beast inside the bowels of a cave.
Shot in the head. I’ve been shot in the head. Got to move. Get up. Get up. They’re coming in. Protect the passengers. Move your ass Walker! Get up!
An unrelenting ringing noise filled Mac’s ears as he pushed himself onto his knees, nearly overcome by nausea as he did so. He could feel a thick wetness on the back of his neck, and knew it was his own blood.
Get up!
Somehow, Mac Walker found himself standing, the AK-47 cradled in his arms as his body lurched to the left and then the right. He could see the shadowy outlines of both the remaining Tunisian soldiers making their way into the hangar.
Come and get some assholes…
28.
Stasia peered out from one of the left side cockpit windows, trying to see if Mac was ok. She heard the gunfire, and thought she saw him fall. Behind her, in the main cabin, some of the passengers cried out as each shot was fired from outside. Walter stood behind her, holding an assault rifle, his eyes wide, and his hands trembling slightly.
The Vatican Intelligence agent inhaled sharply as she watched Mac’s form rise from the packed earth ground, clearly wobbly, but otherwise intact. He was fighting on.
“Stasia, there’s someone coming from the other side of the hangar. Look.”
Walter was pointing toward one of the left side windows. He was right, a shadowy form moved slowly but deliberately toward Mac’s position.
He’ll be trapped, pinned down, shot at from both sides.
Stasia Wellington turned to Walter. The flight attendant already knew what she intended, and was shaking his head in protest.
“You’re supposed to stay here, Stasia – protect the entrance. If Mac dies, you’re the next line of defense.”
Walter was right of course, those were the instructions Mac had left her with. That didn’t mean she intended to follow them though, especially when it meant watching Mac shot to piece
s when she could have done something to prevent it.
“That’s going to be your job, Walter. If something happens out there, if I can’t make it back, you get all the passengers to the very back of the plane and you hold this position here for as long as you can, ok?”
Walter continued to protest, his panic compounded by the idea of being the one responsible for keeping others alive.
“I’m not a soldier, I don’t know how---“
Stasia cut him off.
“You’d be surprised what any of us are capable of when we have to be Walter. You WILL hold this position. Any of those soldiers try to make their way inside, you shoot the bastards. Don’t waste ammo though, make every shot count. You sent out a distress call, right?”
The flight attendant nodded.
“Yeah, about ten minutes ago.”
Stasia smiled.
“Good, then it’s just a waiting game for us. Help is coming, Walter so we just need to buy a little more time. See you soon.”
And with those words, Stasia Wellington opened the cockpit boarding door and made her way quickly down the steps, crouching low and moving with the kind of stealth a cat would have envied. At the bottom of the steps she stopped, looking first to Mac’s position some fifty yards north of her, and then the last noted location of the figure moving from the back of the hangar, which was nearly a hundred yards south.
She could hear Mac’s feet shuffling as he held himself up against a wall. He hadn’t noticed Stasia’s descent, and had no idea she was watching him. From her position just behind the boarding steps, she could make out one of the two Tunisian soldiers ducking low, trying to gain access into the hangar.
Stasia moved to the other side of the 767’s landing gear, hoping to locate the man attempting to sneak up behind Mac. She stood unmoving, holding her breath as her eyes peered into the structure’s dimly lit interior.
There he is – Huskich.
The air marshal was no more than sixty yards in front of Stasia, moving along a wall as he continued to creep up behind Mac Walker. The Vatican Intelligence operative raised her weapon and took aim, confident in the imminent kill shot.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 12