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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  When his eyes reopened, he looked across the conference room table at a clearly hopeful Ray Tilley, and nodded slowly.

  “Yeah, I’m in.”

  Shortly after telling Ray Tilley he would join up with Project Icon, Mac Walker found himself outside in one of the many expansive Pentagon parking areas looking back at the all too familiar and shapely form of Stasia Wellington.

  She stood next to a rented white four door sedan, wearing a form fitting dark blue dress and matching heels, her thick, dark hair falling over her shoulders in light curls. She flashed an enthusiastic smile at Mac as he walked toward her.

  “You’re not going to faint on me again are you?”

  Mac stopped in front of Stasia and looked her up and down, admiring the view she was happily offering him.

  “No ma’am, feeling much better now. Maybe even a hundred percent. You think you can handle a hundred percent Stasia?”

  Stasia feigned outrage, as her lips pursed and she shook her head at Mac.

  “Are you being crude, Mr. Walker?”

  Mac leaned in close enough that his left cheek brushed up against Stasia’s right cheek.

  “Absolutely, Ms. Wellington.”

  Stasia turned her head slightly and playfully bit down on Mac’s ear lobe.

  “Good, I’m in the mood for some crude.”

  Mac leaned back, and shook a finger in front of Stasia’s face.

  “Not so fast. You promised me a dinner, remember? I won’t be any good to you on an empty stomach.”

  Stasia’s right hand reached down and gently squeezed Mac’s crotch as she leaned in to whisper her response.

  “It’s not your stomach I’m interested in.”

  Mac issued a low, hungry growl as he inhaled the scent of Stasia’s skin in that delicious space where neck met shoulder.

  “Mmmmm, maybe I can skip a meal or two, if it’s worth it.”

  Stasia moved away from Mac and toward the driver’s door of the vehicle, motioning for the former Navy SEAL to get in.

  “I have to be on the first morning flight back to Rome, Mr. Walker. I have a suite at the Hay-Adams, right above the Off the Record. Care to join me?”

  Mac Walker looked across the roof of the sedan at the beautiful Stasia, and then glanced behind him toward the massive, five sided Pentagon building, a portion of which was still undergoing construction following last year’s September 11th terrorist attack.

  Inside that structure, Mac knew the machinations of many were colliding with the counter plans of others, and within that conflict, he would find himself playing some part in his new role as a Project Icon operative.

  Life, as they say, was about to get complicated…

  Epilogue:

  The lamb stew was, as always, quite delicious, its thick hot juice running down the colonel’s chin. Even during an early Zarzis evening such as this, with temperatures persisting in being uncomfortably warm, Colonel Mabazza made certain to introduce himself to the night with a customary bowl of stew, and at least one bottle of deep red wine brought up from the luxury, beachfront hotel’s two thousand square foot wine cellar.

  It had been nearly two years since he last visited his ancestral home in southeast Tunisia, the idyllic, warm breezed place that formed a happy and content childhood most in this nation of corruption and radicalized politics, would have thought impossible.

  Colonel Mabazza had always led a charmed life, and he intended to keep it that way. More stew, more wine, more pleasures of the flesh, and more power of course. It was what Allah wished for him, of that, Mabazza was certain.

  So let his enemies gnash their teeth back in the capitol of Tunis. They were not his betters – far from it. His military would keep him safe, as they had always done. Even in the face of accusations of wrongdoing involving that damn passenger plane, or his alleged allegiance to the Saudis, none of it would stop his quest for more power.

  The boy looked increasingly frightened, the tears of earlier still wet on his cheeks. Good, that made the act so much more enjoyable, even if it was to be the second time in the last few hours. The child had been delivered to Mabazza’s room with the promise of having not yet seen twelve summers.

  Ah, the perfect age then – such sweet, delicious distraction.

  How many such boys had he broken over the years? Was it yet a thousand?

  The colonel’s glass was emptied as he issued himself a silent toast.

  Here’s to a thousand more, Allah willing!

  “Boy, get more wine from the kitchen, next to the sink. And hurry!”

  Colonel Mabazza’s eyes followed the boy’s movement from the hotel bedroom to the kitchen, pleased with how the young body moved as he scampered away.

  Yes, a thousand more just like that one…

  The wine was late in coming, stirring anger within the colonel, a man unaccustomed to waiting for anyone or anything.

  “Boy! What keeps you? My wine! My wine, and then I wash it down with more of you!”

  Where is the wretched child?

  The colonel rose naked from the large bed that dominated the hotel bedroom, and made his way angrily to the hallway, his bare feet slapping across the marble tiled floor.

  “Such a naughty thing, eh? In need of some good punishment then! To hell with the wine, I will first deal with---“

  Cold metal firmly pressed itself against the colonel’s right temple. He knew instantly it was a gun.

  “Hello, Colonel.”

  Colonel Mabazza froze, recognizing the tone of the voice indicated someone well versed in the ways of killing others.

  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know me, but I don’t believe I know you.”

  The gun was jammed into the side of the colonel’s head with even greater force.

  “You shout, or try anything to piss me off, and you die sooner rather than later, understand?”

  Though Colonel Mabazza maintained a calm exterior, his mind was racing for a way to escape, the panic welling up within him. He wondered it someone in the government had sent some assassin to eliminate him.

  If that was the case though, wouldn’t I already be dead?

  Whoever the man with the gun to his head was, he seemed to want something. The colonel knew that wanting gave him some bit of leverage. Hopefully it would be enough to keep him alive.

  “Over to the bed and sit down. And remember, no bullshit, or I shoot you dead.”

  Colonel Mabazza sat down once again on the hotel room bed, and was grateful to be able to look back at his would be killer. The man was of average height, clean shaven, with short cropped, slightly receding brown hair. He appeared to be a year or two shy of forty, with broad shoulders, lean hips, and an overall athletic, powerful build. The eyes were perhaps the man’s most striking feature. They had a flinty, almost savage nature to them, like an alpha predator from the wild.

  The colonel had no idea who the man was, having never seen him before.

  “May I ask who you are?”

  The weapon remained trained on the colonel’s head.

  “I was a passenger on a certain flight back from Paris recently.”

  It is the one Huskich called army boy! The one who killed several of my men!

  “Ah, I see. Well, that was an unfortunate thing. A…misunderstanding. I did not know what was intended, and was happy to see the whole thing prevented before many more came to harm.”

  The man shook his head and smirked, the look causing the colonel to forget the weapon pointed at him, his indignation momentarily overcoming his fear.

  “You find that funny?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Yeah, I suppose I do. Seems no matter where I go, a politician always sounds like a politician. Lying sacks of useless shit, saying whatever needs to be said to save their own ass.”

  Colonel Mabazza’s mouth extended into a thin, pained smile.

  “For an American, your Arabic is excellent.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as h
is trigger finger tightened ever so slightly.

  “And for a monster, you almost resemble something human.”

  The colonel’s smile disappeared.

  “What do you want army boy? Why this game? If you have come to kill me, why not be done with it?”

  The man issued a soft grunt.

  “Normally, you would be dead without an introduction, but I want information. The more you have to say, the longer you live.”

  Colonel Mabazza tried hard not to appear overly pleased. It was the very answer he was hoping for, confirming he did in fact hold some leverage over the visiting killer.

  “Well then, I guess that makes me a very willing informant for you. Please, ask your questions.”

  The man lowered his gun, but the eyes remained locked and loaded.

  “Why would you be part of an attack on the Vatican? The others had motive. They were radicalized, survivors of a conflict drenched in the blood of Catholics and Muslims killing one another. But why you? What would motivate you to take on such a risk? You’re clearly no Islamic fundamentalist. So why attack Rome?”

  The colonel rolled his eyes and shrugged, attempting to appear disinterested in the question.

  “Why not? I have no love of the infidels. I may not be your version of a Muslim, but I am Muslim nevertheless, and ten or twenty thousand fewer Catholics on this earth, is nothing more to me than a good start.”

  The man raised his gun again, and prepared to shoot.

  “You try and bullshit me like that again, and this conversation is over, and that means your brains are left all over that wall behind you.”

  Colonel Mabazza held up both his hands, each of which was noticeably shaking. When he spoke again, he did so in perfect English.

  “Ok, ok! Let me try again!”

  The colonel was pleased to see a hint of surprise cross over the man’s face.

  “Yes, my English is even better than your Arabic. Now why is that do you suppose? You come in here, waiving that gun at me, demanding answers, but I am nothing more than a middle man! If you kill me, you are simply chopping off the little toe of a much larger foot, one that will crush you underneath its heel.”

  “So who do you answer to, Colonel?”

  Colonel Mabazza’s eyes lit up with mischievous glee as he pointed back at the armed man come to kill him.

  “It is very likely the same people you answer to, army boy. Eventually, it all connects somewhere. There is wonderfully terrible change coming – so very quickly now! Those towers coming down was but the signal, a candle of hope that has been the too long darkness. Already your country hungers for more war, destruction, revenge. First is Afghanistan, but you won’t stop there, will you? Then Iraq, long the enemy of both Iran, and the House of Saud. Perhaps not long after, so too will Libya be transformed. And why not Syria too while you’re at it? Revenge breeds wars upon wars, funded by borrowed money you can never hope to repay, while enemies pretend friendship, and wait until the inevitable fall.

  “But do not look to me as an agent of that downfall army boy. No, the knife will be held by one who claims to be among you. His place at the head of the table is already being set. The great wound will be self inflicted, deep, and irreversible.

  “The blood will flow, America will fall, AND-WE-WILL-WIN.”

  The gun was once again raised, and then pressed against the colonel’s temple, a curious smile the armed man’s only initial response to the colonel’s rant regarding his hoped for end to America.

  “You know what you call the death of just one lunatic, Third World tyrant with allusions of grandeur and a sickness for raping young boys?”

  Before Colonel Mabazza had a chance to respond, a single bullet entered through his right temple, fracturing skull bone, searing a trench through brain, and then leaving a fist sized exit would out of which several handfuls of mottled blood and gray matter exploded against the wall behind him.

  As Mac Walker watched the colonel’s already dead body fall backwards onto the bed, he snarled the answer to his own question.

  “A damn good start.”

  END.

  MAC WALKER’S BULLET

  A short story

  “No one can confidently say that

  he will still be living tomorrow.”

  -Euripides

  August, 2003

  If you survive the initial gunshot, it’s not the getting shot that’s so bad – it’s the after.

  During his official, and unofficial, military service, Mac Walker had been grazed by a few bullets, the worst being a rather deep flesh wound that had actually come a half inch from severing his femoral artery. That one could easily have killed him.

  It didn’t kill him though, but man did it hurt like hell for days and even weeks, after.

  This time was different. For one, this was no flesh wound. The bullet entered the left portion of Mac’s upper chest, nicking the bone of his shoulder before imbedding itself under a rib toward Mac’s back. The amount of blood soaking through his shirt suggested that while no major arteries were involved, the damage and resulting blood loss were significant enough that he could very possibly bleed out within hours.

  Mac knew he was in serious trouble.

  His Navy SEAL training had attempted to prepare him, as it did all its recruits, for situations where a man finds himself trapped and wounded behind enemy lines. The primary purpose of that training was to have the recruit learn to focus their mind and body to work in synch, slow their breathing, push away the pain, and formulate an effective strategy. The most important thing was never to panic. In battle, panic kills.

  It was all bullshit.

  Bullshit that is, except for the not panicking part. Mac had always known keeping your wits as the shit is falling around you was the single best way to raise the probability of making it out alive. Didn’t matter if it was a gunfight, a bar room brawl, or an argument with your favorite lady friend – never panic.

  Mac Walker had walked nearly a mile since being shot. The late afternoon heat of the Somali desert was approaching nearly ninety degrees. He had no water, no food, no medical supplies. Oh, and whoever shot him was still out there, and most likely wanting to finish the job.

  Sure is pretty country though.

  The contradictions between the brutality of Somali life, and the harsh beauty of its surroundings fascinated Mac as his feet trudged over the compacted sand, dirt, and rock that made up the outskirts of the Somali border city of Borama, where Mac’s assignment had placed him with a very clear kill order.

  The assignment was completed – clean kill shot into the gunrunner’s head. Some asshole name Mahdi. Real bad little shit whose file indicated was responsible for about twenty percent of the pirating taking place up and down the Somali Coast. More recently he had become involved in a child prostitution ring, nearly four hundred in the last year alone. It was his donations to the Muslim militant groups in the area though, that really put him under the U.S. Military Intelligence microscope. Mahdi was communicating regularly with Al Qaeda operatives who had built a training camp facility in the Ogaden Desert along the Ethiopian and Somali border.

  Arming a ragtag group of Somali pirates was one thing. Helping direct weapons to Al Qaeda, so soon after September 11th, was something the United States was not going to simply let happen. Not anymore.

  So Mac took the assignment, and completed it. He watched through his scope as Mahdi’s head blew apart like a ripened gourd from the 50 caliber round fired from Mac’s SASR – “Special Applications Scoped Rifle”.

  It was that same rifle, weighing just over forty pounds, Mac was now struggling to carry with him as he focused on making his feet take the next step, his lips already cracked and broken under the glare of the Somali sun. The kill order had been completed almost an hour ago. Nightfall was another three hours away.

  Just keep walking. Make it back to the border check point. Just another ten miles and we’re there. Ten miles. No problem.

  Mac Walker knew
he was lying to himself even as he thought it. Ten miles in this heat, with a chest leaking blood, and a bullet scraping against a rib every time he took a step, made chances of getting out of this thing alive far from certain.

  I ain’t dying, so just shut the hell up and keep walking.

  The sound of an engine echoed back from the hills that rose up from the earth no more than a thousand yards in front of Mac’s position. Pausing, Mac held his breath and focused on the where the sound was actually coming from.

  Three hundred yards back and heading this way fast. Probably the shooter, coming for me.

  Mac scanned the area, grateful the ground was not entirely flat. The terrain offered a number of nooks and natural indentations he could find shelter in and wait for the shooter to arrive. He would have rather been in the hills looking down from higher ground at an enemy, but there was no way for him to make it to those hills in time. He’d have to improvise.

  The tell tale shadow of a small gulch peaked out from a thick row of grass and brush. Mac shuffled his way toward it as the engine noise grew steadily louder. Whoever was driving the vehicle was no more than a hundred yards away.

  A half second before leaping into the gulch, Mac Walker realized it could be filled with snakes, possibly some of those particularly nasty and aggressive Somali spitting cobras.

  Hell with it – snake bit and bullet ripped, here we go…

  Mac rolled himself down under the brush and into the gulch, almost losing consciousness from the pain that exploded from both his chest and back as he did so. He took several slow, deep breaths until his eyes could once again focus, held still for any signs of snakes, and then dragged his sniper rifle down next to him and waited.

  The approaching vehicle was now close enough Mac could feel the ground beneath him vibrate. A few seconds more, and a military green World War Two era jeep crept by the gulch Mac lay hidden in. It only contained the driver, a Somali man, likely younger than thirty, dressed in an off white short sleeved shirt. The man had a long scar that ran along the left side of his face, and his dark hair was cut almost to his scalp. His eyes were scanning the area in front of him, his right hand holding what appeared to be a Soviet made AK-47 assault rifle.