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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  The jeep came to a halt no more than forty feet from Mac’s location. Mac could hear the man talking into a cell phone. The Somali was definitely searching for the American, his words indicating he was in fact the one who had shot Mac in the chest just seconds after Mac had shot dead his assigned kill target, Mahdi.

  The bleeding from his chest wound had increased to the point the dirt and gravel below him was turning a dirty red. The front of his shirt was entirely soaked through with his own blood.

  Mac removed his long trusted and quick action modified SIG SAUER MK25 handgun from its side holster. He had the gun since his Navy SEAL days, and as soon as his right hand encircled the well worn and familiar grip, Mac felt a sense of calm come over him, like an old friend assuring another friend that everything was going to be just fine.

  Unfortunately for Mac Walker, the Somali didn’t feel the same way. He detected Mac’s movement to his right and spun quickly spun around, the AK-47 pointed in front of him. Mac kept his body as close to the ground as possible, and froze, hoping the foliage and darkness of the gulch would keep him hidden.

  The Somali took a few steps toward Mac, his eyes seemingly staring directly at the former Navy SEAL. Suddenly, Mac felt the urge to cough, his throat constricting in upon itself. Mac’s mind focused inward, ordering himself to remain quiet.

  His throat refused the order.

  The sound of the cough likely sounded much louder to Mac than it actually was, but it was enough to make the Somali fire off several rounds just over Mac’s head. Mac brought his handgun out from his side and calmly squeezed off two rounds.

  The first shot missed a half foot wide, the second grazed the Somali’s upper left shoulder, creating a small explosion of blood. The man cried out as he fell backwards onto the ground, his right hand clamping over the wound.

  Despite his weakened condition, Mac Walker was disgusted with how poor his aim was. From that distance, the Somali should have been dead on the first shot, let alone the second.

  You’re shooting like a goddamn amateur Walker! Get your shit together!

  Mac grabbed the SASR with both hands, and aimed it at the Somali who was quickly rolling back onto his feet, his own AK-47 already pointing back at Mac’s location.

  Mac fired first.

  The SASR jammed.

  Ah, hell.

  Mac pressed his body even further against the ground, his face burrowing into the dirt as multiple rounds from the AK-47 hissed past him just inches over the back of his head and shoulders.

  The Somali, clearly lacking in both competent military training and intelligence, continued to fire at the space he believed Mac Walker was, not realizing that none of the bullets were hitting their target. After expending nearly thirty rounds, the gunfire ceased, and Mac heard the Somali cursing loudly to himself.

  The AK-47’s magazine was empty.

  Mac grabbed his MK25 and pushed himself out of the gulch, his weapon pointed at the stunned Somali man. This time there would be no missed shot.

  The pain in Mac Walker’s chest intensified to a level he was unable to even draw breath, and his knees buckled beneath him. Somewhere within his own mind, Mac realized he was going to pass out. The world went dark in front of him as a faint buzzing noise filled his ears and he felt his face slam into the ground in front of him. There was no pain, only an increasingly distant sensation of hearing his own breathing coming from some far off, distant place.

  Mac regained consciousness seconds later, but it was during that brief interim the Somali militant had unsheathed a long knife and placed his right knee onto Mac’s upper back while gripping Mac’s forehead with his left hand, causing Mac’s head to be pulled back to more easily expose his neck.

  He’s gonna cut off my damn head!

  Somali militants were notorious for decapitating their enemies, and it appeared this one was no exception. From the corner of his eye Mac caught the flash of the Somalis’ blade as he brought his right hand around and under Mac’s neck.

  For 99.99 percent of people, such a scenario would have been a once in a lifetime moment, quickly followed by their own brutal death. For Mac Walker though, this was not the first time he faced the sharp edge of a knife on his neck. He had in fact trained himself to defend against just such an attack.

  Mac plunged his head forward toward the knife, yanking his head to the right at the very last moment, bringing the man’s wrist up against the lower part of Mac’s chin. Mac then pushed his chin toward his own chest with as much force as possible, effectively trapping the man’s hand and rendering the knife useless – at least momentarily.

  That moment was all Mac Walker needed.

  His left elbow flew backwards with both speed and force, crunching into the Somali’s left cheek. Mac then rolled onto his side as his left arm wrapped itself around the other man’s neck while at the same time his right hand ripped the blade from the Somali’s grasp. The blade was then plunged several times into the militant’s left kidney. After the fifth blow, Mac left the knife imbedded in the kidney and pushed the Somali away from him.

  The Somali remained on his knees looking back at Mac Walker in disbelief, his body already shutting down from the internal trauma. Moments later, he collapsed dead onto his side.

  Mac knew of others who said they could recall every face of every human being they had killed. Not Mac Walker. He would be the first to admit such recollection would prove too difficult, given the vast number of faces. Second, he knew that one of the qualities that made him so effective at his job was his ability to dissociate from carrying out an assignment, and going on to live life as a relatively normal human being within regular society. Those who could not do so were doomed to become burnt out shells of themselves, inflicting the kind of mental and emotional trauma on their own psyches that was irreparable.

  Mac Walker enjoyed life far too much to risk that. He enjoyed good Cajun food from his home state of Louisiana, a day of fishing, good beer, better music, and beautiful women. So he removed himself from the job of killing, so that he might go on and enjoy living.

  As he passed by the body of the Somali, Mac noted the man was younger than he had originally thought – likely barely over twenty years of age. A life cut short because it had attempted to do the same to Mac Walker.

  Such was life.

  Such was death.

  Mac rummaged through the Somali’s military jeep, pleased to see a screw driver laying on the driver’s seat that was likely used to turn the ignition. Under the passenger seat he found a decade’s old first aid kit.

  Fortune smiles on the one left standing.

  Mac quickly opened the kit and was again pleased to find it was nearly full. Clean gauze, tape, and most important, a small vial of iodine.

  Ok, this is gonna hurt like hell.

  Mac soaked some gauze in iodine and the rolled it into a ball and began pushing it into the bullet wound that had left the bleeding hole in his upper chest. The nerves surrounding the wound screamed out even as Mac’s jaw clamped down to keep himself quiet. With most of the iodine soaked gauze pushed inside the wound, Mac then ripped off some tape and placed it over the wound. The bleeding was slowed considerably, giving him more time to make his escape to the safety across the Ethiopian border check point where Mac would have to remain waiting for someone to come get him.

  The cell phone!

  Mac had almost forgotten about the Somali’s phone. He moved quickly back to the man’s body and rummaged through his pockets until he located the phone tucked deeply in the front right pocket of the Somali’s khaki styled pants.

  The phone was nearly fully charged.

  Mac proceeded to call a number intended only for operatives like him facing imminent danger. It would be the first time he had used the contact. The phone rang three times before being picked up. The voice on the other end spoke in a flat, monotone voice, sounding almost bored by having received a call.

  “Identification.”

  Mac’s mind struggled to r
emember the identification given to him for the assignment.

  “Walker…218.”

  There was a slight pause, and then the voice continued.

  “Location.”

  “Border crossing 44. Borama – ten miles. ETA twenty minutes.”

  Again there was a slight pause before the voice spoke again.

  “Status?”

  Mac glanced down at the body of the dead Somali, and again recalled the image of Mahdi’s exploding head.

  “Assignment completed.”

  “Condition?”

  The voice wanted to know if Mac was injured.

  “Condition…need medical. Gunshot to the chest.”

  “218 confirmed. Pickup point 44. Twenty minutes.”

  The voice ended the call.

  Mac Walker retrieved his weapons and positioned himself behind the wheel of the Somali’s jeep, using the screw driver to turn the ignition. The engine fired and Mac was soon making his way toward the hills that marked the Somali-Ethiopian border.

  Each jarring bump along the way created a deep flash of excruciating pain inside of Mac’s chest. He could actually feel the bullet scraping against the rib it was lodged against. To help keep himself focused on his direction and progress, and less focused on the pain, Mac began singing loudly a favorite song of his mother’s, who would play it often on Saturday mornings as she gave their house its weekly deep cleaning – Frank Sinatra’s iconic version of My Way. Mac smiled as he recalled the sound of his mother’s and Frank Sinatra’s voice, combined with the smell of Lemon Pledge, filling their home.

  It was quite a sight and sound to behold for the seventy year old Ethiopian sheep herder who watched from a hillside a hundred yards above Mac, as the former Navy SEAL bellowed out “I did it myyyyyyyyyy waaaaaaaaaaaaay” as he drove quickly by.

  Hours later Mac Walker woke up in the medical facility of an American aircraft carrier travelling seventy miles off of the Somali coast. He was immensely pleased to see the smiling face of an attractive American female military doctor looking back at him. She had a pleasant, somewhat rounded face, with medium length dirty blonde hair that framed her full lipped face nicely.

  “Well good morning Mr. Walker – I’m Lieutenant Peterson. I was assisting on your surgery late last night. You had quite a chest wound. Do you remember arriving at the pick up point and being transported here yesterday evening?”

  Mac closed his eyes and focused on trying to recall the last moments spent in the jeep as he neared the Ethiopian border outside of Boroma. The bleeding from the bullet wound had increased again, likely exacerbated by the jarring ride inside of the military jeep. There was the border check point, a few armed Ethiopians looking back at him in confusion…and then nothing.

  “We found you unconscious Mr. Walker, passed out behind the wheel of an old jeep. I’m amazed you were able to drive that thing as far as you did considering the amount of blood you had lost and the bullet that was moving around inside of you. It took four hours of surgery to clean you up, and almost three liters of blood. You’re very lucky to still be alive.”

  Mac smiled back at the military doctor.

  “For having almost died, I feel fantastic.”

  Lieutenant Peterson placed a hand on Mac’s right forearm and squeezed it gently.

  “That would be the drugs Mr. Walker. Believe me, in another hour or so, you won’t be saying the same.”

  Peterson flashed a brilliant smile back to Mac and then her eyes widened.

  “Oh! I almost forgot – would you like to see it?”

  Mac grinned like a naughty schoolboy, his head nodding with enthusiasm.

  “Sure doc, I’d love to see it.”

  Lieutenant Peterson’s brow furrowed momentarily, indicating she didn’t quite understand Mac’s meaning. That understanding soon arrived, followed by her mock outrage at Mac’s words.

  “Not THAT Mr. Walker – the bullet! Do you want to see the bullet we removed from you?”

  Mac Walker shrugged his shoulders in disappointment and then nodded.

  “Sure, let me see the damn thing.”

  The military doctor left the room briefly and then returned holding a simple plastic cup containing the bullet the ship’s medical staff had so recently removed from Mac’s chest. On the cup in permanent black marker had been written the following words:

  Mac Walker’s bullet

  “You can see the deformity at the top of the round where it hit your shoulder blade. That shoulder will probably cause you some discomfort for a while Mr. Walker – that kind of wound tends to heal slow.”

  Mac rolled the bullet around inside of the cup, feeling a twinge of resentment toward its deadly intent toward him. Then he lost interest, and handed it back to the Lieutenant.

  “Don’t you want to keep it Mr. Walker? Like a memento of having survived a gunshot?”

  Mac shook his head.

  “Nah – maybe the next one.”

  Lieutenant Peterson took the cup and placed it on a small metallic table a few feet from Mac’s bed.

  “Well, I’ll leave it here for a bit in case you change your mind.”

  The doctor moved to leave the room when suddenly she turned, her smile once again on display as she looked back at Mac.

  “You remember waking up on the operating table Mr. Walker? I was prepping you, the anesthesiologists hadn’t administered to you yet, and suddenly you just woke up. Scared the hell out of me.”

  Again Mac found himself with no memory of what the Lieutenant was describing.

  “Did I say anything?”

  Lieutenant Peterson laughed as she shook her head at Mac.

  “You were singing Mr. Walker – loudly. A Sinatra song.”

  The doctor left the room leaving Mac to look back at the plastic cup next to his bed containing the bullet that had almost killed him. The fragment of metal with deadly intent whispered silently, seeming to taunt Mac with the knowledge that more of its kind would follow, and eventually one of them would find its mark.

  Mac glared back at the cup’s contents and lifted his right hand, his middle finger rising defiantly back at the bullet.

  Mac Walker’s bullet.

  END.

  MAC WALKER’S

  AMERICAN JIHAD

  “It's a hell of a thing, killing a man.

  Take away all he's got and all he's ever gonna have.”

  -Unforgiven

  Prologue:

  April 21st, 2004

  Hamid Gilani had been killing men, women, and children not necessarily because he enjoyed doing so, but that he was quite good at it. He recalled very few of the faces and even fewer of the names. Those who died were no more than passing casualties for a much greater cause and his was the blessed hand to deliver God’s justice upon this earth. Lives were meaningless in a world torn asunder by moral corruption.

  So...let them taste part of what they have done that perhaps they will return to righteousness.

  It was a quote from the Koran Hamid repeated often. Humankind must be returned to righteousness, and he would be a great soldier to pave the necessary path for that return.

  The detonation just outside the Riyadh national police headquarters was considerable, promising the great blessings of death and injury to the many caught in the blast, including if all went as planned, the death of the American Deputy Secretary of State who was to be using the facility for a meeting with the Saudi Foreign Minister.

  Hamid watched the explosion and the resulting panic from the top of a business district building some five hundred yards away. The car was stocked with ten pounds of a simple Semtex that had originated from a trusted Indonesian supplier. The family of the vehicle’s driver was given a hundred thousand Saudi Riyads for their oldest son’s willingness to sacrifice himself for what was described to them as “Allah’s will.” Such participants were legion throughout the world, yet another sign Hamid took as confirming his work was in fact blessed by God Himself.

  It took several minutes
for the smoke to dissipate enough to allow Hamid to get a better look at the damage. Nearly the entire front of the police barracks was blown apart with only remnants of the former fortified structure remaining. Hamid smiled at the sound of shrieking sirens as security forces began to respond to the chaos.

  Praise Allah, this is a great success!

  His phone was ringing. Only one other knew the number – Ramtin Armeen, Hamid’s longtime benefactor and primary investor in their shared goal of bringing the sinful tyranny of Western Civilization to an end.

  “You failed.”

  Ramtin’s low voice made clear his dissatisfaction. Hamid lifted his binoculars to his eyes once again and surveyed the damage below.

  “No, it is done. I am watching it now.”

  There was a long pause before Ramtin continued.

  “The American politician was not yet there. The original meeting time was delayed by thirty minutes. The most important aspect of the operation failed, thus you failed as well. Return to the safe house for pick up. Transport will arrive within the hour. I have another job for you. It is time we activate the cells. Today’s failure indicates our work is being too closely monitored. Let us expedite counter measures. Understood?”

  Hamid nodded to himself as he watched several Saudi emergency response vehicles begin to set up a perimeter around the just destroyed police barracks.

  “Yes, understood.”

  The call was ended.

  Hamid looked up at the deep blue Saudi Arabian sky. The late morning temperature was already nearing ninety degrees. He was going to miss Riyadh. It was truly among the most beautiful cities on earth, a fascinating blend of old and new and filled with some of the most wonderfully vibrant people.