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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “That was my design. It runs directly off the solar panels. We store the heat generated by the panels and cycle tubes of water through it to warm the air. A basic radiant system that uses very little energy. Keeps this place above 50 degrees even when it’s well below freezing outside, so allows us to grow year-round. And this one building…this greenhouse, can feed everyone in and around Dominatus. This is where I come almost every day. I spend hours out here. From seed to harvest, I love planting. I love helping things to grow and then sharing the harvest with others.”

  We walked a path running down the center of the greenhouse, as Dublin proudly pointed to various areas where this one crop had just been seeded, or another crop was almost ready to be harvested. Each plant showed the great time and care Dublin had provided.

  “Dublin, this is amazing. I really mean that. You did all this?”

  “Oh no, I’ve had help, but most of what is grown in here now, yeah…I just love doing it. There’s something very relaxing about it.”

  Looking around, I shook my head in amazement.

  “Just…wow. Gardening isn’t my thing, but this is really impressive.”

  Dublin took a deeply colored green bean from a row that ran up a large trellis, and snapped it in two, handing me one of the halves. As we happily chewed our half, the sharp crunch of the bean’s exterior echoed in our mouths.

  “So what do you think?”

  I swallowed the remaining bean and smiled down at Dublin.

  “That’s the best bean I’ve ever had, hands down, by far.”

  Dublin returned my smile, unable to hide the pride she felt in the compliment.

  “Well thank you, good sir, I do aim to please.”

  An uncomfortable pause made its presence known, and I turned away to look back toward the entrance.

  “So, where to from here?”

  Dublin walked past me, answering my question as she did so.

  “Off to the cabin. My grandfather wants to talk to you before dinner, and his talks can take a while so we better get going.”

  The Old Man’s cabin sat amidst tall evergreens – a simple structure that would have looked appropriate in the location a hundred years earlier. Its simplicity surprised me given the legendary wealth of the man who had called it his home for over twenty years. The warm glow of light coming through a small window and the faint trace of smoke from a fire emanated from a small chimney pipe. Another snow machine sat parked outside the cabin’s hand made door.

  Dublin tilted her head toward the vehicle.

  “That’s Doc Miller. Grandfather was very tired by the time I got him back home today. His breathing is a bit off, so Doc stopped by to check in on him.”

  I followed Dublin through the door, my winter clothed body protesting at how warm the cabin’s interior was as I also detected the rich aroma of cigar smoke.

  “Sorry about the temperature. If I don’t keep it warm in here it gets very uncomfortable for him. You’ll want to take off that jacket.”

  As I handed over my jacket I was already forgetting about the warmth of the room. My eyes took in the numerous photos and mementos of a life very long lived, showing Alexander Meyer as a much younger man shaking hands with President Ronald Reagan in a room I was certain to be the Oval Office of the White House – the former residence of American presidents before the New United Nations designated it as a public museum shortly after eliminating the position of President in 2024 – two years after the former American president had been declared Great Consulate.

  Three other past presidents were shown photographed with the Old Man, the most prominent one of him shaking hands with Bill Clinton in an outdoor area that was likely the top of the Capitol Building steps during the 1993 presidential inauguration. Yet another picture had Alexander Meyer shaking hands with Vladimir Putin, the long-ago leader of Russia. Next to that photo was a rather surreal snapshot of the Old Man laughing, his arm placed about the shoulders of an equally laughing Queen Elizabeth of England.

  Dr. Miller appeared from a side door, walking directly to Dublin and asking her to sit down on a small dark brown leather couch that was placed against the right wall of the room.

  “Dublin, his breathing has stabilized. Blood pressure is fine. Kidneys functioning normally. He’s comfortable, but there is some fluid in the lungs. Not a great amount, not yet. But we are going to have to monitor it carefully. If this were to develop into pneumonia, at his age, his condition could deteriorate very rapidly. Keep him inside, plenty of fluids. No cigars. And plenty of rest. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to check in again.”

  The doctor turned to me and gave a brief nod.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Neeson.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Would it be possible, tomorrow…to interview you tomorrow?”

  The doctor’s face registered surprise at the request.

  “Me? Why?”

  “Well, it would be interesting to get the perspective of someone who was in the medical field before they came up here to live in Dominatus. The reasons for that decision, that kind of thing.”

  Doctor Miller paused for a moment before replying with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “Ok, fine. I’m not known for being much of a conversationalist but, if you want to interview me I’m ok with it. As I just told Dublin, I’ll be here first thing tomorrow, say 8:00 o’clock. We can talk then, after I’m done, if you plan on being here too.”

  I detected a hint of mischief in the doctor’s voice as he finished his response and glanced back over at Dublin. Dublin’s reply was to simply smile and tell the doctor thank you as he left, leaving just the two of us standing in the small main area of the cabin.

  “Grandfather is in his room, first door on the left there. It’s both his study and bedroom. I will be out here making dinner for us. He may seem tired, but I know how important it was to him to speak with you, so just give him some time. Be patient. I’ll let you know when the meal is ready.”

  I knocked outside the door.

  “Please come in, Mr. Neeson.”

  The room’s dimensions, like the Old Man himself, were small. No more than ten by ten, each wall lined with bookshelves. A simple oak desk was placed in one corner of the room with a single candle that sat on the right edge. A small bed sat in the opposite corner. Two chairs were available, one occupied by the Old Man seated at his desk, the other on the other side of the desk which he gestured for me to take.

  The room smelled of aged paper, cigar smoke, and the burning candle. Unlike the other room of the cabin, no portraits of Alexander Meyer with world leaders hung on the walls of his study. Only three photos were placed behind the desk. One was of a man and woman standing below the Eifel Tower in Paris. The second photo was a young Alexander Meyer next to a beautiful dark haired woman holding a small child. The last was of a man and woman holding a baby. The woman looked very much like Dublin, and Reese guessed her to likely be Dublin’s mother.

  The Old Man noted my attention to the photographs behind him.

  “That one there is Dublin’s mother Alexandria, my daughter, and her husband Victor, and of course, Dublin as a baby. Such a beautiful baby…a great blessing. Alexandria was hit and killed by a taxi in New York leaving lunch at the Four Seasons. Her husband…they were already separated at the time. He was found murdered three years later. Singapore. Some kind of sex game gone bad according to the investigation. That left Dublin without a mother or father, so her grandmother and I took her in and raised her as our own, living for a time at our home on Centre Island. We no longer trusted New York City. That was 2009. We remained there for five years. Until…until we made our way here permanently to Dominatus. It wasn’t called Dominatus then of course, that was…that was Mac’s doing.”

  The Old Man’s eyes moistened as he spoke, his hands clasped in front of him. He smiled at me and continued speaking.

  “The photo there is of me and my wife, Adina, holding Alexandria. The world was mine then. Family, friends, we
alth, power, influence – and youth. To see me now as I am, and to look at such a picture as this, my mind cannot help but ask, how is it possible? How is it that time has changed me so much? And the world, so too has the world changed so much…so much for the worse.

  And there, those two in front of the tower. Those are my parents – my father Benjamin and my mother Sarah shortly before the war, before Hitler’s tanks came. Before happiness turned to nightmare…”

  I detected a hint of wheezing coming from the Old Man as he spoke.

  “So then, Mr. Neeson, shall we do a formal interview, a recording of my words to you?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Meyer, if you’re feeling up to it.”

  The Old Man chuckled, opening a drawer in his desk and bringing out a finely wrapped cigar, its rich tobacco aroma already filling the room.

  “Well then, there was a time when I gave interviews, certainly took many meetings, and always I smoked a proper cigar or two on those occasions. It became something of an adornment to my personality if you will. You don’t mind do you Mr. Neeson, a bit of good quality second hand smoke?”

  Not waiting for my reply, Alexander Meyer took a small metal device and cut off the tip of the cigar, his hands shaking noticeably as he did so, and then placed the unlit cigar into his mouth. The Old Man leaned over toward the candle on his desk with the end of the cigar just above the flame, inhaling and exhaling slowly as he did so. The warming smell of the lightly burning tobacco swirled around each of us, filling the room completely – the very smell that must have made its way past the closed door and alerted Dublin to her grandfather’s refusal to follow all of Doctor Miller’s most recent instructions.

  “Grandfather! No cigars! Dr. Miller made that very clear!”

  There was a brief knock on the door before Dublin opened it, glaring over at the Old Man behind his desk as smoke hung over his head and broadly smiling face. Alexander Meyer raised his right hand to his granddaughter, his voice, though still unmistakably frail, managing to still convey authority.

  “Do not direct me, Dublin. I am a man of a great many years. If this cigar shall be the cause of my demise, you can convict it accordingly after the fact. Until then, I am having a conversation with our invited guest. Please do not allow concern to overcome good sense and basic manners.”

  Dublin began to protest, but her grandfather again cut her off.

  “This is not a discussion, Dublin. I am telling you, close the door and allow me the opportunity to speak with our guest.”

  Alexander Meyer’s voice softened again.

  “Please, granddaughter, prepare the meal, and allow me to speak to Mr. Neeson in private.”

  Dublin’s gaze went from her grandfather to me, before gazing briefly at the same three photos behind the Old Man’s desk I had noticed moments earlier.

  “Ok, Grandfather, but please, just one cigar. No more than that.”

  The Old Man’s smile returned, his head nodding.

  “Yes, yes…but one cigar.”

  The door closed as the Alexander Meyer drew deeply from the cigar, his hand motioning for me to begin the interview. I placed my recorder on his desk and asked my first question.

  “What is your name?”

  “I am Alexander David Meyer, born in France, 1940. I am almost one hundred years old.”

  “Are you the founder of Dominatus?”

  The Old Man paused as he considered the question.

  “I purchased the land from the village corporations, the Alaskan Natives group in 2010.”

  “How many acres was that purchase?”

  “The lands now known as Dominatus represent, in total, nearly two thousand acres - approximately three square miles.”

  “And why did you purchase the land in 2010, Mr. Meyer?”

  The Old Man blew another cloud of smoke from him, his eyes drifting to the low ceiling of the study.

  “A hunch. My instincts were warning me, telling me things in the country, the world…were becoming increasingly unstable. I had contacts, long standing contacts, political, financial, military…people from across the globe sharing similar concerns. For one such as myself, a childhood that witnessed a world gone wrong, I knew not to ignore these warnings. And there were the deaths of my daughter, and soon after, her husband. He was involved in politics, of a sort.”

  ‘What kind of politics, Mr. Meyer?”

  “Money politics, Mr. Neeson, the manipulation of currencies, an international organization involving a great many players. Some of them were of the most dangerous sort. I warned him, urged him to remove himself from it, but he was earning a significant annual income. More so than my own personal revenues at that point. And my daughter, she loved him. Despite his consistently secretive nature, his many trips abroad, his repeated willingness to use my name to secure further business, she persisted, always persisted in her love of him.”

  The Old Man’s eyes refocused on me momentarily, followed by him moving to another of his desk drawers and bringing out a bottle of amber-colored liquid, accompanied by two shot glasses.

  “Mr. Neeson, I am going to share with you information that I have told very few others…some of it I have kept to myself entirely, but before I do that, I ask that we share in a bit of drink. There are things I intend to tell you, Mr. Neeson, things of this world, of my past, and the events surrounding the downfall of the United States, that I have not even shared with Dublin. I also request this of you – do not hesitate to ask me anything regarding what we are to speak of now. I fear if you were to hesitate, out of some attempt at good manners or otherwise, my own courage may fail me. So please, make certain to ask your questions, Mr. Neeson.

  “Now, what we have here is a bottle of Glen Garioch, perhaps the single best example of a proper Scottish Highland whiskey that has ever existed. There were just 328 bottles ever produced in 1958. By the time I arrived here permanently to Dominatus over twenty years ago, there were less than one hundred known to exist in all the world. I owned five of those bottles. This is now the last of those five bottles, and it would be my honor to share some of it with you.”

  The Old Man slowly filled each of the shot glasses, the aroma of the poured whiskey dancing nicely with that of his cigar. He raised his own glass as I raised mine, and offered a simple toast.

  “L’Chayim! To Life – life lived in freedom, love, and happiness!”

  The whiskey warmed my throat, its flavor a mixture of flowers, earth, and wood, followed by just a hint of citrus.

  Without my asking, the Old Man filled each of our shot glasses again.

  “Sip it now, get to know it better as we talk. Please, continue the interview, Mr. Neeson.”

  “Were the deaths of your daughter and son-in-law related to the government?”

  “Not directly, no. By the time they were murdered, the presidency of the United States was but one facet of a much larger operation – an operation that had been coordinated for decades prior.”

  “You said your daughter died due to a car accident, hit by a taxi?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “But you just said ‘by the time they were murdered.’ Your daughter’s death was not an accident?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Neeson, Alexandria’s death was no accident. Her death was intended rather as a sort of warning, primarily to her husband Victor, I suppose, though I have always suspected I was a secondary target of that warning.”

  “What makes you certain it was no accident?”

  The Old Man closed his eyes, leaned his head back and drew deeply from his cigar, his face momentarily hidden behind a curtain of thick billowing smoke.

  “Months before, I became aware of Victor’s dealings with certain interests in the Middle East, Saudis, as well as the Chinese, another group in India. He had been traveling back and forth from New York to Riyadh, to Islamabad and to Chicago regularly, so much that Alexandria was complaining of his absences. Victor’s demeanor changed during that time. He was far more stressed, short tempered. Thi
s was unlike the man I had come to know just a few years prior, so, I investigated.

  I had contacts in Israel who in turn were able to forward my inquiries to others familiar with those in and around Riyadh and Islamabad, and familiar as well with my son-in-law. Victor had become involved with those who for years oversaw the direct manipulation of the oil markets, dealing with representatives connected to OPEC, the Saudi government, and back in the United States, with those invested heavily in the CCX – the Chicago Climate Exchange. Are you familiar with the CCX?”

  “Yes – it’s now called the Global Climate Exchange, one of the largest departments within the New United Nations, right? It became part of the Intercontinental Exchange before later being updated when the New United Nations mandates were first implemented.”