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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  The Old Man nodded his agreement.

  “That is correct, offices in nearly every nation of the world. Has its own compliance enforcement agency, some 300,000 highly trained officers. Almost every facet of international commerce must now make its way through the Global Climate Exchange, overseen by a group who answers only to New United Nations leadership. Victor was on the ground floor of that development, working with some very dubious characters. The truth behind the climate change movement was never to eliminate fossil fuels; as recently as just thirty years ago private industry was expanding fossil fuel development inside the United States at a remarkable rate, easily adding a hundred, possibly two hundred years to the available resource. The Saudis, and those associated with them, wanted desperately to eliminate that competition. They demanded full and absolute control of energy production throughout the world, representing trillions of dollars in revenues. That’s trillions, Mr. Neeson, with a T. Wealth beyond measure, and power to equal it. Those are the people my son-in-law had unwisely become involved with.”

  “Explain what you mean by the climate change movement never being about eliminating fossil fuels.”

  “Look to the 1970s, the upheaval in the Middle East, OPEC’s control over global oil prices, the disastrous impacts upon the American economy. The Carter administration of that time was invested heavily in the environmental movement, something earlier initiated on the federal level by the Nixon administration. What you won’t find in the popular history of that time is how much the Saudis and others invested in the formation of the American Environmental Protection Agency, or how much they invested in Hollywood producing films and television that repeated over and over again the agenda of the environmental movement into the minds of Americans. They did the same to the public schools year after year. In the 70’s it was global cooling. Then when the scientific evidence was such that it made that agenda too difficult to fake, they simply transformed it to global warming. The data was much easier to compromise to reflect warming than it was cooling. And so for the next twenty years, propped up by hundreds of millions of dollars of money from the Middle East oil nations, the global warming agenda took root in the United States. And when the warming data became increasingly difficult to compromise, the label was changed to climate change, and nearly every negative example of weather was held up as evidence of human-caused climate change. By then the investment into the agenda from the Middle East was billions of dollars.”

  A knock sounded on the study door followed by Dublin’s voice.

  “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes, Grandfather. Do you need anything before then?”

  “Thank you, dear, no. We are fine.”

  The pause allowed me an opportunity to pose another question.

  “You said your son–in–law was involved in currency manipulation – not the climate exchange. Were the two connected? Why was he making trips to Riyadh and Chicago?”

  “Yes, it was currency manipulation. That is correct. And yes, the two were related in that it involved the very same groups. Where money was to be made in cornering the world’s energy resources, so too was there money to be made in manipulating the value of international currencies. Tell me…how do people pay for goods and services now? Throughout the world, what form of currency is used?”

  “A global exchanges credit card – each one has the logo of the New United Nations.”

  “And this card, it is the very same throughout the world, correct?”

  “Yes. As far as I know…yes.”

  “And who controls access to that card, every facet of production of that card? How it is used, the individual amounts, all of it?”

  “The New United Nations. The International Credit Exchange Office.”

  “And what was the former title for the International Credit Exchange Office?”

  I paused for a moment, uncertain of the answer.

  “The IMF? The International Monetary Fund?”

  “Exactly, and that is what Victor had become involved in, the climate change movement, which was simply a front for both the Middle East oil cartels and later, the currency manipulation groups. Figures such as George Soros – does that name sound familiar to you?”

  “Vaguely. He was one of the largest investors in various political campaigns, media operations, etc.”

  “That’s right. He was perhaps the most public representative, though far from the most dangerous, or even influential, of the joining of the carbon credit investors and the currency manipulation investors. The two forces had become, for the most part, one and the same.”

  “So your son-in-law was mixed up with these groups, these investors. And that led to the death of your daughter – of Dublin’s mother? Please explain the connection. How you came to that conclusion.”

  The Old Man took the photo of his daughter down from the wall and held it in his shaking hands.

  “As I told you, Alexandria was leaving the Four Seasons where she had enjoyed her regular Tuesday lunch with friends. She was on the sidewalk, stepping down behind a parked service van…alone, making a phone call. The investigation indicated she had dialed Victor’s number, but she was hit before the call went through. Before…before she was able to complete the call.

  “The taxi had driven up onto the sidewalk. The forensic report indicated it was traveling at least thirty miles an hour. The impact…she was thrown and pinned against the hood of the car and the back of the service van. Her head struck the glass of the van’s rear window with enough force to shatter it. That alone would likely have killed her, though her body, her left leg was nearly severed. Her spleen was ruptured, one of her lungs collapsed. I was told the trauma likely killed her almost instantly. Almost…

  “The driver fled the scene on foot. No one saw him. By the time others from the restaurant had come outside to see what had caused the terrible sound, he was gone. There was no identification insider the vehicle, but it took very little time to contact the taxi company and find the name of the assigned driver. The man had been in the United States for less than three months. He was originally from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.”

  “Did the authorities find him? The driver?”

  The Old Man shook his head slowly, his mind now fully re-living that time so many years ago.

  “No…he disappeared. That was when I really began to suspect there was more to Alexandria’s death than simply a terrible and tragic accident. I hired my own investigators, and within days discovered that the taxi driver had arrived to New York on the very same flight taken by Victor during one of his many trips to Riyadh. Such a coincidence was…unlikely. From there I requested information from a source in the State Department, and discovered the same man who had driven that taxi, who had killed Alexandria, was living in an apartment in Islamabad.”

  “Islamabad – another of Victor’s frequent travel destinations.”

  “Yes, the picture was becoming increasingly clear. My daughter had been murdered for something her husband was involved in. I confronted Victor, of course. He was genuinely traumatized by Alexandria’s death, nearly inconsolable. But…he became extremely defensive at my suggestion her death was related to something he was involved with. It was one of the very last times we spoke…”

  “After you knew where the man was living who drove the taxi that killed your daughter, what did you do?”

  The Old Man finished the last of the whiskey from his shot glass, peering at the light reflecting off its polished surface.

  “I did the only thing I knew to do. The only thing I hoped would lessen my own pain and my desire for some kind of justice. I had him killed. I hired two men to enter his apartment at night. They bound him to a chair, gagged him, and made it very clear why his life was being taken from him. Just as he had taken Alexandria’s life. His left leg was severed. Slowly. His spleen crushed. His lung collapsed. And finally…his head split apart.”

  The description hung between us as the sound of Dublin finalizing her preparations of dinner wer
e heard faintly outside the door of the Old Man’s study.

  “And did killing him make you feel better? Did it lessen the pain over the loss of your daughter?”

  The Old Man’s fingers brushed the photographed image of his daughter Alexandria, the shaking of his hands becoming more pronounced as he did so.

  “I suppose I should tell you no, that it didn’t. That such revenge…that in my heart I knew it to be wrong. That I was filled with regret for having done so. I would be lying to you if I said so. The fact is, it did make me feel better. It didn’t bring her back, of course, but I wanted them to know, any and all who were responsible, that you did not inflict harm upon the family of Alexander David Meyer without facing righteous revenge. Yes, it made me feel better to know that man died most painfully and on my orders. And if God deems that a sin, then so be it.”

  “And what about your son-in-law? You said he died just a few years after Alexandria?”

  “Yes. He descended into a terribly depressed state…refused to see me. I was being informed of increasingly erratic behavior, how he would disappear for weeks at a time. He hardly saw Dublin by then. She was being left with us more and more often. Alcohol, drugs, a myriad of rampant and repeated abuses upon himself. They found his body bound and gagged in Thailand, some sexual encounter gone wrong. He was not robbed, nor beaten. The autopsy indicated heart failure. The amount of drugs he had ingested was significant.”

  “So you don’t suspect the people he was working with had him killed?”

  The Old Man paused again, gathering his thoughts. The wheezing from his breathing had grown slightly louder.

  “Possibly. They certainly killed him indirectly if not directly. The guilt over Alexandria’s death, he simply lost himself in it. It’s equally possible he simply chose to kill himself, slowly…deliberately. His grief, guilt, his own weakness, his fear of getting me further involved, perhaps. He was gone. Alexandria was gone. That left myself, my wife, and our dear Dublin. And eventually, just Dublin and I.”

  “And your wife, Adina, how did she die? “

  “Oh, Adina passed from us as one should. Surrounded by love, support…that was twelve years ago now. Her health was already in decline when we lived in New York. Congestive heart failure, but she rarely ever complained. Even when I moved us up here to safety, she trusted my purpose. And she loved Alaska. She was the one who introduced Dublin to gardening and the greenhouse. They spent hours together out there, talking of life, things great and small. Adina deserves far more credit than I for helping shape the woman Dublin is today. I miss her…terribly. We had just over ten years together up here. And though the last few years were difficult for her, physically, the three of us in this cabin were the happiest days of my life Mr. Neeson.”

  “What year did you move to Dominatus full time?”

  “That was 2014. Twenty-three years ago. That would have made me a young man of just seventy-five then! I had owned the land for nearly four years. Had already initiated and completed construction of this cabin, a water system, generators…everything required to sustain a reasonably comfortable existence. I had done so in preparation of the arrival of more people. I knew there would be others wanting to escape the growing tyranny that was overtaking the United States, the mandates, the New United Nations. By then the direction the world was taking had become quite evident.”

  Dublin knocked on the door again before opening it, her smiling face peering into the study.

  “Gentlemen, dinner is ready. Do you need any help, Grandfather?”

  Alexander Meyer looked to me while waving away Dublin.

  “I believe Mr. Neeson can help me to the kitchen Dublin, thank you. We’ll be there shortly. Mr. Neeson, we shall continue this discussion after the meal.”

  I stood and moved around the small desk to the side of the Old Man and helped to lift him slowly to his feet – his weight felt to be no more than a hundred pounds. With his left hand leaning against my right arm, we made our way into the compact kitchen area of the cabin.

  A small square table sat against the wall, opposite a dark brown coal-fired stove that was clearly a relic from a bygone era.

  As he sat down in one of the three chairs at the table, the Old Man noted my attention on the stove, his hand tapping my arm excitedly.

  “That stove there was handmade by my wife Adina’s father one hundred and five years ago. It warmed their home and cooked their meals at the time of her birth…in 1945. When both her parents had passed, Adina had the stove removed and placed into storage, and when we arrived here in Dominatus, I had it installed in this cabin and it has served the same purpose for us since then. I find it comforting that there is something around here that is older than me!”

  Dublin paused to look back at her grandfather, concern showing itself on her face.

  “Are you having trouble breathing, Grandfather?”

  The Old Man ignored her question, clapping his hands together.

  “As always, the food smells wonderful, Dublin! And have you chosen an appropriate wine with our meal? And what of the music? Where is the music? We have a guest…there must be music! Mr. Neeson, do you see that small desk over there against the wall? We have a stack of old records next to the player atop that desk. If you care to, please select an album to play as Dublin serves the meal.”

  Following the Old Man’s direction, I looked down at a stack of records. My father had a similar collection in my home growing up. Vinyl discs that were very popular with consumers until tapes, CD’s, and personal data storage devices made them all but obsolete.

  While some of the musical artists displayed on the front of the album cover were unknown to me, there were other names I recognized. John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, and Charlie Parker. I picked up Charlie Parker with Strings, removed the disc, and placed it upon the player, though was uncertain how to proceed from there. Looking back, I saw the Old Man watching me intently with a wide grin.

  “Great selection! Take the needle, the stylus there on the right, go ahead and turn the player on and then use the stylus arm to place it gently at the beginning of the disc. Take your time though - don’t wish to scratch the vinyl.”

  I carefully followed the instructions, clicking on the power and slowly using the small arm to lower the needle onto the moving disc. I was delighted to hear string instruments followed by the sound of a single saxophone coming from the small speaker housed in the front of the record player.

  As I made my way back to the small dining table, the Old Man’s eyes were closed, the grin remaining on his ancient face, his hands gently tapping the top of the table to the beat of the music.

  “That disc there is…1951…from the original recording.”

  Dublin had already placed three glasses in front of each seat, and was now pouring from a deep red wine into each of them. As I reached for my glass her hand tapped the top of my own.

  “Not yet, give it some time to breathe.”

  The Old Man took his half filled glass and placed the contents to his nose, his eyebrows raising slightly as he did so.

  “Mr. Neeson, it appears Dublin believes you to be worthy of only the very best of my collection! Dublin, did you open a bottle of the Petrus?”

  “Yes, Grandfather, right again.”

  The Old Man swirled the contents of his glass slowly, before placing it under his nose once again and inhaling deeply.

  “Such memories, this wine. This was Adina’s favorite. We befriended the owner of Le Pavillon in New York…had dinner there often. They were noted for serving this wine, brought in from Bordeaux, France, near where we both were born. My family owned a vineyard there at one time. Please, drink it now and tell me what you think.”

  I placed the glass below my nose as the Old Man had done, detecting the hint of alcohol intertwined with a scent that was both sweet and peppery. I took a sip and let the liquid rest on my tongue before swallowing. The flavors became more pronounced, a hint of raspberry,
cedar, and most surprisingly, a hint of tobacco very similar to the cigar the Old Man was smoking earlier. Without realizing it, my eyes had closed and when I re-opened them, both Dublin and the Old Man were looking back at me.

  Dublin then drank deeply from her own glass, while her grandfather took a sip from his.

  Dublin smiled back at me, her dark eyes full of warmth and happiness, reminding me again of how attractive I found her.

  “Well, Mr. Neeson, what do you think of that wine?”

  My eyes turned from Dublin back to the Old Man.

  “It’s good. It’s interesting how the flavors seem to change, or mingle with each other.”

  “And what flavors did you realize Mr. Neeson?”

  I shared my experience of having tasted raspberry, cedar, and tobacco. The Old Man clapped his hands together, his smile somehow becoming even wider.