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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  The last image Mr. X showed Mac was that of a little girl being pushed on a swing by man instantly recognized by Mac – the only other survivor of the Benghazi assignment from Mac’s special operations team, Benny Williamson.

  “This video was acquired just yesterday Mr. Walker. To ensure this wonderful family does not meet an untimely end, all you need do is cooperate during the trial. Make your plea of innocence and we will do the rest.”

  Mac’s ears caught the faint sound of tapping coming from the video footage. While Benny’s right hand was pushing his daughter on the swing, his left hand was tapping the bottom of his wedding ring against one of the metallic support poles.

  Benny had realized he was being filmed, and was sending Mac a message in Morse code.

  “Safe. Trial. Don’t do it. Help coming.”

  Mr. X turned off the television monitor and smiled back at Mac, his hands folded casually in front of him.

  “So Mr. Walker, I have answered your questions. Do we have a deal? Will you be participating in the trial? I imagine it won’t take more than a week or so. We don’t wish for it to be over too soon though – it will make for excellent messaging to the population.”

  Mac sat back down on the bed, his mind racing with Benny’s message telling him not to take any deal regarding the trial. How Benny knew of such a deal left Mac with far more questions than answers – a predicament never enjoyed finding himself in.

  “Mr. Walker – did you hear me? Are we on for tomorrow and the beginning of your trial?”

  Mac Walker’s face revealed a hint of a smile as he responded to Mr. X.

  “Yeah – I’ll be there.”

  XV.

  “You must put on the orange jumper Mr. Walker. It’s part of, uh, part of the agreement.”

  Mac looked at the prison orange jumper he had thrown onto the bed just moments before. The back was covered in large black letters with the words FEDERAL PRISONER.

  “And they will want you shackled when you enter the courtroom.”

  Mac inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly as he grimaced back at his assigned attorney Hubert Gresh. Gresh’s appearance was as lumpy and unkempt as ever, and Mac was certain he was somehow managing to sweat even more profusely than before.

  “Tell me Gresh, why do you look so damn nervous? You’re not the one facing these charges – I am.”

  Gresh mopped his forehead with the back of a hand and shrugged his rounded shoulders.

  “We are all dealing with these changes Mr. Walker, some of us more so than others.”

  Mac ran his fingers through the multiple day growth of beard on his face.

  “They gonna let me clean up first? A shower and shave would be nice.”

  Gresh shook his head.

  “Sorry Mr. Walker, they want you, uh, looking like you are.”

  Mac’s eyes opened wide as his mouth broke across his face in a wide, manic grin.

  “Want me looking like some crazy psycho killer of black people, is that it?”

  Hubert Gresh’s response was a silent shrug.

  Mac stepped into the prison jumper and zipped it up over his clothes. It felt a size too large, some of the material hanging loosely from his body.

  “Tell me Gresh – you ever think of not being a part of this shit? Seems pretty clear to me you don’t like what you’re doing.”

  Gresh’s face indicated he didn’t like the question.

  “I’m not here to talk about me Mr. Walker. You’re due in the courtroom in twenty minutes. I suggest you listen to my instructions.”

  Mac could hear a low murmur of sound coming through the thick walls of the building’s cellar.

  “Are those the protesters I’m hearing?”

  Gresh nodded.

  “There’s at least a thousand outside the courthouse today Mr. Walker. If we gave you over to them right now they’d probably tear you to pieces.”

  “Maybe that would be better than me going along with this bullshit charade of a trial.”

  The panicked look on Gresh’s face made Mac smile.

  “Mr. Walker, the threats they’ve made against you, should you not cooperate…I would not test them. These people…these people are very serious about everything they do.”

  Mac looked back at Hubert Gresh in pity.

  “My god, there ain’t an ounce of man left in you! I bet you start every morning pissing sitting down, don’t you?”

  Gresh’s face turned a crimson red as his mouth turned sharply downward, which in turn caused Mac to laugh out loud.

  “I’m stuck in here wearing this prison suit and wouldn’t trade spots with you standing out there for all the virgins in a Muslim paradise. I’ve heard people use the phrase sucks to be you, but Gresh old boy, you are living that phrase every damn day of your life.”

  The skin on Hubert Gresh’s face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of red.

  “Shut up!”

  Mac stepped toward the holding cell bars and pointed back at Gresh.

  “See there – you still got a little fight left in you!”

  “Mr. Walker, the guards will be arriving in the next ten minutes to shackle both your hands and feet. Do not attempt to fight them please. They will be armed, and I am sure already given permission to use deadly force if needed.

  We will walk upstairs to the courtroom and proceed to the front of the seating area. We will be on the left side of the room and you are to sit to my left. The judge will read the charges and then ask you to enter your plea. You are to enter a plea of not guilty, Mr. Walker. Do you understand?”

  Mac gave a slight nod as he sat back down onto the holding cell bed.

  “Wasn’t there supposed to be an arraignment, pre-trial, all that other stuff?”

  Gresh looked down at the floor, his response a barely audible whisper.

  “That was how it used to be Mr. Walker. Your case, uh, it’s different. All of that has already taken place. You are to enter your plea of not guilty, and then the trial will begin. The federal prosecutor will make their case against you. Witness testimony, your history of violence, anti-government tendencies, and it will all be broadcast live to the nation.”

  Mac sensed Hubert Gresh knew far more than he was telling him. Something was missing in his version of what was happening.

  “Am I the only one they’re going after like this Gresh – or are there others?”

  Gresh’s eyes remained fixated on the area near his own feet.

  “I believe there are others Mr. Walker. Similar to you, former or current military, people who are fighting the new anti-gun mandates.”

  “I see, so use me and those others to get Americans to give up their guns, to feel guilty for wanting to protect yourself. To become even more dependent on government to provide that protection, even though it’s that same government that’s taking away their rights. To make protecting your own family some kind of global human rights violation. That about cover it Gresh?”

  Hubert Gresh’s eyes finally rose to meet Mac’s stare. There was pain in those eyes, and even more fear.

  “It doesn’t matter Mr. Walker. They control the message, the politics, there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

  Mac heard the sound of many footsteps coming down the hallway toward the holding cell. The guards had arrived to escort him to the trial. There were four of them, all armed. Two carried M16s and had them pointed directly at Mac as he stood up from his bed. The other two entered the cell with the shackles they intended to bind Mac’s hands and feet with.

  “My attorney has just informed me I am within my rights to kick the shit out of each and every one of you.”

  The two guards with the shackles paused as Gresh whispered under his breath.

  “Good God Mr. Walker I said no such thing.”

  Mac held out his hands in front of him and smiled back at Hubert Gresh.

  “Just a little fun Gresh – no need to go shitting your drawers.”

  It took less than two minutes
for Mac Walker to be escorted up several flights of stairs and into a large and overcrowded courtroom with dark stained oak walls, matching oak floor, and several rows of media and observers crowding the narrow walkway that led toward the front of the courtroom.

  Outside, the roar of a sizeable crowd of protesters could be heard crying out in rage at Mac’s appearance.

  “Kill him!”

  “We demand justice!”

  “No more hate crimes!”

  “Stop the violence!”

  “Racist!”

  “No more guns!”

  “Kill him!”

  Mac Walker rolled his eyes slightly at the profound hypocrisy of a group of people demanding an end to violence while at the same time demanding he be killed.

  Mac was halfway to the front of the courtroom when he caught a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. Ella Lerner, the Israeli government operative who had helped him and his men escape Benghazi, stood at the end of one of the bench rows looking intently back at Mac. A man who Mac did not recognize, stood next to Ella. He was of average height and build, well dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and black tie, with a face that suggested an age of no more than forty years. He too was watching Mac with an intensity that almost matched that of Ella.

  Ella smiled reassuringly as Mac passed her and the former Navy SEAL did the only thing a man like him could do while being led in chains at gunpoint to a hopeless, fraudulent trial for a crime he didn’t commit with a mob of people outside wanting him dead.

  He winked.

  XVI.

  The trial judge entered the courtroom a few minutes after Mac and Gresh took their seats. The judge was an older man, possibly as old as seventy, with a shock of unruly white hair that stuck up from an age spotted forehead and scalp. His mouth formed a seemingly permanent scowl and his eyes ignored the throng of reporters and spectators who packed the courtroom while the bailiff, a lanky, mustached man of forty or so years, gave his directive.

  “All rise for the Honorable Judge Martin K. Harding presiding.”

  Everyone in the courtroom rose in a loud whoosh of movement. Mac watched the judge carefully, noting the man sat somewhat gingerly in his large leather bound chair behind the bench, and both hands shook slightly as he shuffled through a neatly stacked pile of paperwork that lay in the upper left corner of his desk.

  Mac glanced behind him and saw both Dasha Al Marri and Nigel watching him three rows back. Dasha’s face held the hint of an arrogant and self assured smile.

  “Thank you, bailiff. Everyone please be seated. This is quite a gathering for an arraignment. Normally I would not want the media distracting this court’s proceedings, but it appears there are some rather influential people in high places who demanded they be allowed to do so. To that I say ok – but I will caution that any and all who do become a distraction will be kicked out of this courtroom permanently.”

  Mac was pleased to hear a hint of a southern accent from the judge.

  Georgia perhaps?

  The judge looked over at Mac and stared at him silently for several moments before finally speaking.

  “Mr. Gresh, I presume that this is the accused, Mr. Mackenzie Walker?”

  Hubert Gresh stood up quickly and nodded, the sweat on his forehead already threatening to send droplets down onto his face.

  “Yes, your honor, it is.”

  Judge Harding then turned his head to the other side of the courtroom where the prosecution sat – two men and one woman. The men were dressed nearly identically in dark blue suits, white dress shirts, and pink ties. One appeared to be in his fifties, while the other was somewhat younger, perhaps not yet forty. It was the woman who captured more of Mac’s attention though. Tall and thin, with flawless ivory hued skin, and blonde hair that hung to her shoulders, she presented an imposing figure, dressed in an immaculate grey suit and skirt that matched her intensely focused grey eyes.

  “I want to thank the federal prosecutor’s office for their pre-trial overview. It was quite detailed. Mr. Gresh, I have received no such overview from your office. Care to explain why not?”

  The sweat on Hubert Gresh’s forehead doubled almost instantly as droplets streaked down the sides of his fleshy cheeks.

  “Uh, I will be sure to get that to your honor after, uh, after we officially enter our plea.”

  Judge Harding shook his head slightly at Gresh’s response before again turning his attention back to the prosecution’s table.

  “Ms. Templeton, you are the lead prosecutor on this case, is that correct?”

  The tall woman stood up from her seat and nodded.

  “Yes, your honor, I am.”

  Judge Harding smiled coldly down at Jinnet Templeton. Mac sensed the judge harbored no allegiance, respect, or kindness toward her.

  “You are new to our federal courts, is that correct?”

  The woman glanced behind her briefly in the direction of where Dasha Al Marri sat.

  “Yes, your honor, I was placed in my current position three months ago.”

  The judge’s frozen smile remained as he continued to stare down at Jinnet Templeton.

  “I see. And what did you do before, how did you just put it, before you were placed in your current position?”

  The older of the two men seated next to the woman stood up.

  “All due respect your honor, Ms. Templeton is not the one on trial here. We would like to proceed to the plea, and then get on with the trial itself.”

  Judge Harding’s eyes flared in anger.

  “I am sorry, sir, what is your name?”

  “Roger Sikes your honor, assisting for the prosecution out of the Maryland district office.”

  The judge pointed down at Roger Sikes.

  “Not anymore. Bailiff, please have Mr. Sikes removed from my courtroom.”

  Jinnet Templeton’s mouth dropped open as she watched the bailiff escort Roger Sikes out of the courtroom as shocked and confused murmurs grew steadily louder. Judge Harding tapped his gavel several times.

  “Silence! Anyone else from the prosecution wish to tell me how I should proceed?”

  Jinnet Templeton again looked behind toward Dasha Al Marri.

  The judge adjusted himself in his seat and looked out at the hundreds gathered in his courtroom.

  “I won’t keep it a secret that the procedural efforts of this case have done nothing but piss me off. I don’t like people telling me what to do. I don’t like seeing this one case being treated so differently than any other. Mr. Walker here has been charged with a hate crime. He has also been charged with the use of a banned weapon in the commitment of that crime. That weapon was a handgun the prosecution has indicated in their review documents to have been illegally modified. What the prosecution neglected to outline in those same documents is that this is based upon a law that was grandfathered in by a United Nations treaty that hardly anyone knew anything about. Now that don’t sit right with me, and I’ve been at this judging thing for nearly thirty-five years, so I’ve seen a thing or two.

  “Ms. Templeton, we just left off with me asking what you did before being placed in the prosecution’s office just a few months ago. I am directing you now to answer that question please.”

  Jinnet Templeton stood up again to address the judge.

  “I was with the legal counsel office of the United Nations your honor.”

  Judge Harding folded his hands in front of him as his upper body leaned forward slightly onto his desk.

  “And how long were you there at the United Nations, Ms. Templeton?”

  “Nine years your honor.”

  The judge nodded his head.

  “Nine years at the United Nations and just a few months with the prosecutor’s office and you’re made lead counsel in a case as high profile as this one? That strikes me as just a bit unusual, Ms. Templeton.”

  Jinnet Templeton remained standing, but said nothing in response.

  “And you know what else strikes me as unusual? That a represen
tative of the White House called me last night to indicate how important this case was to the administration. Now ain’t that something? The White House itself is all over this thing like flies on shit, and yet you have three months of experience with the office prosecuting the case, and you’re made lead prosecutor?”