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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  Gerald Wilkinson began to make a horrific wheezing sound as the bandit’s knife began to cut into his wind pipe. Because none of the major arteries of the neck had yet been severed, Gerald was still very aware of what was being done to him, and yet made no attempt to rise from the floor or fight his would-be killer.

  “Why isn’t he fighting back?”

  Bear’s question was posed to no-one in particular, but he wanted an answer.

  The godfather pointed to the bottom of the screen.

  “It is most likely the Wilkinson’s children are just off camera being held in front of the parents. They probably have knives or guns pointed at them, and their father has been told that if he attempts to fight back, he will watch as his children are killed right in front of him.”

  Gerald Wilkinson’s wheezing grew louder, as a flap of skin from his throat could be seen moving into and out of the bleeding gash as he struggled for each breath. The bandit that had initiated the cutting of Gerald’s throat was growing tired and motioned for someone to continue the work he was too weary to finish. Another man entered the screen and laughed as he pointed to Gerald’s neck, taking the small knife and cutting with even more ferocity than the first Muslim bandit had. Soon the bleeding from the wound increased significantly as the knife cut into an artery. Gerald Wilkinson’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his struggles stopped completely, though his body continued to be held up. The only sounds from the footage were the increasingly labored breathing of the bandit who continued to cut threw the flesh and bone of Gerald’s neck, and the sobs of his wife Kate.

  Another of the bandits walked up to Gerald’s body and pulled his head sharply to the side three times in an attempt to break the neck. A loud snapping sound could be heard on the video tape, as the bandit holding the knife began hacking away at the final bits of tendon at the back of Gerald Wilkinson’s neck. Moments later he grabbed the top of Gerald’s severed head and held it out in front of him as several shouts of “God is great” in Arabic drowned out all other sound.

  Throwing the head to the side, the bandit who still held the knife motioned for Kate Wilkinson to be raised from the floor of the cabin. Her face was devoid of almost all expression as she stared into the camera. One of the men kicked her in the back and sent her falling forward onto her face, unable to catch her fall due to her hands being tightly bound behind her. Again she was forced back up into a kneeling position, and again her face showed no emotion, though blood could be seen dripping down from her nose. The bandit with the knife leaned down in front of Kate Wilkinson and began screaming at her, slapping her face, and scratching her throat.

  Again Mac interpreted what was being said.

  “They are calling her a whore, a breeder of infidels, a slut of Babylon.”

  What was viewed next even caused Mac to blink several times in shock.

  The knife was suddenly plunged several times into each of Kate Wilkinson’s eye sockets, leaving two gaping, bloody holes where her eyes once were. The mother of three screamed at first, but then again grew silent.

  Dublin looked away as Bear cursed under his breath. Cooper and Reese remained still and silent.

  Again the men began to chant “God is great” as the knife began to cut into the neck of Kate Wilkinson. She did not struggle, or cry out, but appeared to simply await the inevitable. There was no fight left in her – only the release of death. When her head too was held up for the camera, the bandit holding it walked closer to allow the viewers a better look at his face.

  He was heavily bearded, so his age was difficult to determine. His dark eyes reflected brightly inside the camera lens against the dim light of the cabin, and a very visible large scar ran from the bottom of his left eye to the left corner of his mouth. He began to shout something that sounded unlike anything else the bandits had been screaming of before.

  Mac looked over at the godfather before telling the others what was being said. Imran closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  “He is saying the children of the infidels will be sold into slavery, and will fetch a very good price. He also says that soon the streets of Wilfrid will run thick with the blood of all those who oppose Allah and that from there, a great holy army will spread across the lands of Alaska.”

  The wall monitor went dark as the godfather turned to face Mac and the others in the room.

  “That is what you will be up against out there. Granted, if you are able to convince the Russian to help, you’ll be on the train, which will provide you some protection, but if you come upon any of these Muslims, please for the love of God – kill on sight. Don’t entertain the thought, even for a second, they are anything but the most dangerous and sickening animals you will ever find. I assume you’ve already come with weapons to protect yourselves, so please make sure you use them. Shoot to kill, every time, until you reach the priest in Churchill.”

  Mac rose from his seat and soon the rest did as well, though none of them cared to say anything after viewing the horror of what happened to the Wilkinson family. The godfather walked with them outside until they all stood beside Imran’s transport truck.

  “I’ve messaged the Russian. He knows my wishes to see him assist you with transport on the train. I cannot guarantee that will be enough. He is…he’s always been his own man, and a very stubborn one at that. But if he does agree to help, you won’t find a more loyal and dedicated partner in your journey. He’s different, but he’s honorable. Mac, thank you again for the fight last night, the conversation, and the song. I hope that you do manage to make it back down to Louisiana some day.”

  Mac looked back at the godfather and smiled as he shook his hand.

  “You make sure to protect yourselves. If there really is some Muslim uprising coming this way, you need to be prepared.”

  “Thank you, Mac – we already are.”

  Soon Imran’s truck was driving away from Wilfrid on the short journey to the Russian. Mac glanced out the passenger window as the town made in the image of 1950’s small town America faded from view, sensing he would never see it, its people, or the godfather again.

  XXX.

  There was no road leading to where the Russian was located, and the ride grew increasingly harsh, especially for those sitting in the back of Imran’s transport vehicle. Even Brando was having difficulty keeping his balance. Bear in particular appeared bothered by the violent bouncing as the truck drove over several jutting rocks.

  “For somebody who’s supposed to be so important, you’d think they would have invested a little bit into making some kind of road between here and there.”

  Cooper looked over at Bear and then up at the cloud covered sky.

  “The Russian is a different sort. Almost a hermit. Doesn’t like company.”

  Reese grabbed the side of the truck bed as yet another jolt shook the vehicle.

  “Is he as trustworthy as the godfather said he was?”

  Cooper scratched the several days worth of beard growth on his face as he contemplated Reese’s question.

  “Yeah – I suppose he is. Never heard of him not finishing a job that he said he’d take on. Stories about how he travels right into the heart of some of the worst Muslim areas has made him something of a legend. How true those stories are, I’m not sure. He’s always delivered for Imran, though, I know that.”

  Imran turned the transport truck sharply to the left and began to descend down a hill where at the bottom was a large structure with a sharply sloping steel roof. The truck paused halfway down the hill and Imran gave four, evenly spaced honks of the vehicle’s horn.

  Bear leaned up to peer over the roof cabin down to the building. His eyes spotted railroad tracks that appeared to run right through the middle of the structure. He could also see several dark piles of coal that leaned up against the one of the walls of the building. Each pile was covered with a light blue tarp.

  Imran again proceeded down the remainder of the hill until the truck was parked just outside of the bu
ilding. Again he honked the horn four times and then waited.

  After several minutes, the single door that marked the entrance into the steel roofed building opened up, and a short but powerfully built man with shoulder length grey hair and an enormous, grey and black beard stepped outside. He stared intently at Imran for another few seconds before walking toward the transport truck. Mac was the first to notice the man had a handgun stuffed into the front of his dark cotton pants.

  “He’s armed.”

  Imran nodded.

  “Oh yes – always armed. Look up there.”

  Mac followed Imran’s finger that was pointing halfway up the large building where the unmistakable black metallic glint of a large rifle was poking out of small opening. Mac instantly recognized the type of weapon it was.

  “That’s a Minimi machine gun, very serious firepower. Haven’t seen one of those in years, but they were the shit back in the day. Belgian made. Extremely reliable. They could rip us into shreds right now if they wanted to. We’re all sitting in here like sardines in a can.”

  The Russian stopped some ten feet from Imran’s truck and motioned for just Imran to step out.

  “You. Just you. Not the others.”

  The man’s gruff voice barked the order to Imran while his right hand tucked itself into the front of his pants alongside the handgun. Both Mac and Dublin were fascinated by the mass of unruly hair and beard covering the man’s head. Even the eyebrows that sat above his close set dark eyes spread out so thickly across the forehead they resembled a mustache more than eyebrows

  Imran looked back at Mac and Dublin and smiled.

  “It’s ok. I will talk to him first, then you can meet him as well.”

  The Russian was just a couple of inches taller than Imran, though his shoulders were far more broad. Unusually long arms were complimented by massive forearms and wrists, and ended in equally large and powerful looking hands. As he spoke with Imran, the Russian glanced back at the others in the transport truck with suspicion, shaking his head at whatever Imran was telling him. Finally he uttered one single word and turned to walk back toward the building.

  “Nyet!”

  Imran took a few steps to follow the Russian, who in turn spun around and pushed the smaller man back with enough force Imran fell to the ground. Seeing this, Bear jumped from the back of the transport truck and began to walk quickly toward the Russian. Mac spotted Bear as he passed by the passenger window.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Bear was already glowering over the Russian by the time Mac exited the cabin of the transport truck. Imran had regained his feet and was attempting to step between both Bear and the Russian.

  “Gentlemen, please, it is ok! I am fine, Bear! Fine!”

  The Russian then did something rather extraordinary that shocked everyone – particularly Bear. His right hand snapped upward until his powerful, thick fingers held the front half of the taller man’s throat. Bear’s eyes grew wide as he felt the considerable strength within the Russian begin to block his airway.

  Without thinking, Bear responded by doing the very same thing to the Russian. His right hand grasped the shorter man’s throat and squeezed as Imran grabbed Bear’s forearm and attempted in vain to have him release the Russian.

  By then the others were standing around both Bear and the Russian as the two men glared back at the other, each of them unwilling to release the other’s throat. Bear’s face had gone a deep red, and a massive vein popped out from both sides of his forehead. Though the Russian’s face was hidden behind the mass of beard, an opening within that beard revealed strong white teeth as the man smiled up at Bear.

  The former NFL lineman fell to his right knee, his oxygen-starved red face turning a deeper purple. Still the Russian held onto Bear’s throat, the smile growing wider and his fingers digging deeper.

  Imran shouted for the Russian to let Bear go, but his pleas were ignored. Dublin and Reese too began to shout for him to do the same. Mac grew concerned enough to consider drawing his weapon on the Russian, but before he had the half second needed to make the decision, another member of the group came to Bear’s defense.

  Brando’s teeth sunk deep into the Russian’s forearm as the dog’s head shook violently from side to side as the Doberman demanded the death grip on Bear’s throat was released. The Russian held that grip for a moment longer as he looked calmly down at the Doberman, his mind seemingly trying to process what kind of dog Brando was. There was no fear in the Russian’s eyes, or even a hint of pain – only simple curiosity.

  That curiosity quickly transformed itself into attempted action though, as the Russian’s left hand moved to remove the handgun from the front of his pants. This resulted in the barrel of one of Cooper Wyse’s Colt Revolvers pressing against the head of the Russian.

  “No, no, no. Don’t mess with my dog.”

  The Russian glanced to his left to look into Cooper’s eyes, and he apparently saw something that convinced him the rancher was very serious in following through with his threat.

  “Brando – release.”

  The Doberman instantly followed Cooper’s order and released his bite on the Russian’s forearm. The Russian in turn, let Bear go, causing the larger man to fall onto the ground gasping for air.

  Cooper Wyse looked back at the Russian and gave him a thin smile as he stepped back a few steps with the Colt six shooter still in his right hand.

  “Thank you.”

  Dublin and Reese helped Bear back to his feet. The big man was looking down at the Russian with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Never before in Bear’s adult life had another human being been able to best him in a test of strength.

  After rolling back the thick sleeve of his jacket to inspect his arm, and then apparently deciding there were no serious injuries from Brando’s bite, the Russian again turned back toward his building as Imran followed beside him and implored the Russian to take the job.

  “They will pay you for the trip Yakov! They will pay you very well!”

  Still the Russian refused.

  “Nyet! I am too busy! Manitoba – too far!”

  Imran persisted.

  “The godfather wants you to do this Yakov. He would consider it a personal favor to him.”

  The Russian turned to face Imran and then looked back at the group standing together behind Mac and Cooper.

  “You take my business while I am gone. Manitoba is many days there and back. Very dangerous. The godfather can go to hell. You…all of them.”

  Cooper Wyse stepped forward.

  “I got gold. You take us to Manitoba, it’s yours.”

  The Russian’s eyes, peering out from under those massive black and grey eyebrows, bored into Cooper, who in turn stared calmly back as Brando sat next to him.

  “How much?”

  Cooper Wyse shrugged.

  “Enough.”

  The Russian began walking quickly toward Cooper, causing Brando to issue a low warning growl.

  “Show me.”

  Cooper opened his jacket and reached into an inner pocket and extracted a small leather pouch. He removed a single, gold flinted nugget and held it out for the Russian to see.

  “Got about three pounds of gold. I know that can buy you a fair amount of stuff on the Black Market down here.”

  The Russian shook his head as he waved a dismissive hand toward the cowboy.

  “Not enough. Need double that. Long trip. Very dangerous.”

  Dublin leaned over and whispered into Mac’s left ear.

  “The drone gun, that has to be worth a lot.”

  Mac glanced back at Dublin, considering her idea.

  Imran, already sensing what Mac and Dublin were considering, put both of his hands up to the Russian and smiled.

  “Please – wait here. We will discuss other options.”

  The Russian glared back at Imran, but did not move.

  Imran walked over to the others and whispered to Mac.

  “Are you thinking of giving
him the drone gun?”

  Mac nodded and looked over at Cooper.

  “Fine with me. We need to get on that train.”

  Imran nodded.

  “Ok then. It is a very good sign that he’s waiting to hear what else we have to offer. That means he wants to negotiate. I will make this deal happen for you.”

  Imran returned to where the Russian stood waiting.

  “Yakov, we have something very rare, very much in demand for anyone fearing the drones. A weapon designed to shoot them from the sky. Portable. One person can use it. You could keep it here to protect your home.”