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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “Ok, then…take what you can, and let’s go.”

  XLIX.

  As promised, the ride back to the church took but a few minutes. Khalid’s vehicle was an older commercial sized van with a snow plow shovel jutting out from its front hood and bumper. The rear tires were heavily studded, allowing the van to easily navigate the snow and ice covered roads of Churchill, but making the ride a rather noisy and uncomfortable one.

  None of the van’s occupants said anything to each other during the short trip. Mac had positioned himself directly behind Khalid, the shotgun sitting against the back of the driver’s seat. Churchill appeared to be deserted. What few buildings the van passed were dark. There were no street lights, no other vehicles, no signs of life. Khalid pointed to a small digital temperature display on the van’s dash.

  “Almost October, the snows will be coming again soon! The Reverend Father says it will be a particularly cold winter this year.”

  The Russian, who had insisted he sit next to Khalid so he could keep an eye on him, snorted loudly at the attempted small talk.

  “Just shut up and drive shit van.”

  Khalid turned right onto a narrow gravel road that rose upward onto a small hill on top of which the van’s headlights revealed a large, white painted church. A narrow steeple jutted upward from the left side of the church’s roof, capped by a large wooden cross.

  A faint shimmer of light from inside the structure could be seen through the large, stained glass windows of the chapel. Mac and the others peered into the darkness, trying to make certain they were not being led into some kind of trap. As the van slowed, nearing what appeared to be the parking area directly in front of the church entrance, the large double doors of that same entrance were pushed open, and out walked the tallest human being Mac or the others had ever seen. Yakov’s mouth dropped open as his eyes grew wide, his mind attempting to comprehend how tall the priest appeared to be. From the back seat of the van, Cooper Wyse was heard muttering to himself.

  “Holy hell...”

  Khalid grinned as he looked back at Cooper in the rear view mirror.

  “Yes – the Reverend Father is a unique man in many ways, his stature being among them.”

  As the group exited the van, the priest made his way slowly down the steps of the church entrance. Mac noted the man appeared to be hobbling slightly, and was using a long thick staff to assist his movement. Khalid walked quickly toward the priest and extended his hand to help the man he addressed as The Reverend Father, down the last step and onto the cold ground.

  The priest was dressed in a very simple, long dark robe made from a thick, woolen material suitable for the often frigid temperatures of Manitoba. The sleeves hid his hands, while the bottom of the robe just touched the ground below the priest’s dark shoed feet. The Reverend Father’s dark, nearly shoulder length hair framed a lightly bearded, wide face with a particularly prominent forehead. He appeared to be around forty years of age, with especially deep set dark eyes residing just below a large brow. Even as his back and shoulders slumped forward when he walked, the top of the priest’s head reached nearly seven and a half feet in height.

  Mac was the first to step in front of the priest, looking up at the man they had journeyed so far to see. Before Mac could introduce himself, the deep baritone, French-accented voice of the priest addressed him and the others first.

  “Welcome to Churchill, I am The Reverend Father Riel. This church is a sanctuary to all seeking safety from the dangers of the godless globalists. You are now safe and in God’s loving hands, for this is His home as much as it is ours.”

  Father Riel than looked directly at Mac and extended an incredibly long hand and fingers crippled and bent by arthritis.

  “And welcome to you, Mackenzie Walker, defender of Dominatus. It is both an honor and a pleasure to meet you.”

  Mac quickly extended his right hand. Father Riel’s grip was light, but also warm and comforting. Mac made certain to keep his own grip light as well, not wanting to cause pain to the man’s contorted, arthritic fingers.

  “Please, everyone, come inside from the cold. We have food and drink, and after we talk, warm beds for you to rest in.”

  The priest leaned heavily on his staff as he made his way slowly back to the church doors, the effort causing him to grunt softly as he went back up each of the steps.

  Several candles were burning inside of the small chapel. Six rows of dark wood benches lined both sides of the room, with a space between those benches extending down the middle, ending at a small altar area that was on the opposite end of the church. As the priest crossed the doorway’s threshold, he paused in front of a small stone bowl that sat atop a matching pedestal. The stone was half filled with what appeared to be clear water.

  Father Riel paused next to the pedestal and quickly dipped the tips of his right fingers into the water, then just as quickly made the sign of the cross, before continuing to make his way toward the other end of the church. Mac looked to his left to see Cooper Wyse following the priest’s example, as he too wet his fingers in the water and crossed himself. Seeing Mac staring at him, the rancher gave a small shrug.

  “Reminds me of my mother.”

  The group then followed behind the priest and Khalid as they opened a door into another part of the church building. The second room was lower ceilinged than the chapel area. A simple long wooden table with matching chairs sat in the middle, and in the far left corner was an equally simple kitchen - an old wood burning cooking stove, and an ice box.

  The floors were the same as the chapel, a wide planked wood, aged a deep brown. The walls were painted a simple cream white, with two small windows that looked out toward what was once the main outpost of Churchill, an area now neglected by years of abandonment.

  Though they had eaten a small meal just a few hours earlier, all but Mac felt their stomachs wake up to the scents of whatever had been cooking in the kitchen. Khalid motioned for the group to take a seat at the table before making his way to the wood burning stove.

  From the small oven compartment, he brought out a pan filled with several baked trout covered lightly in nothing more than salt and pepper. Plates were placed in front of each of the group, as well as a fork, and a glass of water.

  The priest slowly lowered himself into a chair at the end of the table, his incredibly long legs stretched out to the left side as his arms rested on the table’s edge.

  “The fish is freshly caught this morning from a stream that a hundred yards or so from here. Khalid has transformed himself into something of a fisherman since he arrived. While there is not enough to fully satisfy your hunger, hopefully it will lessen it.”

  Mac picked at a small piece of fish while looking back at Father Riel.

  “And how long has Khalid been here, Father?”

  The priest looked at Mac and then to Khalid.

  “Thirty-four days. Tomorrow will make thirty-five.”

  As the others hungrily devoured their fish, Mac continued to press for more information.

  “And what about you, Father? How long has this place been your home?”

  Father Riel folded his twisted hands together on top of the table and closed his eyes for a moment before answering.

  “I have been the Church’s representative in Churchill for nearly twelve years now, by way of Ontario. That was when…when the Muslims took over the city, took over much of Canada, as you already know. Soon after, they burned every one of our churches, and in some cases, with many Catholics still inside of them. I knew of Churchill, having spent a summer missionary here in my youth. So I fled Ontario and came here, and have remained in this place ever since.”

  “Getting out of Ontario must not have been easy, especially someone who looks like you.”

  The priest opened his hands and nodded at Mac’s remark.

  “True, I was certainly well known by then. My size made anonymity near impossible. There was so much chaos in Ontario then, that running away proved simple
r than one might now believe. And God of course, guided my way. He protected me, as He has, it would seem, protected all of you.”

  “So what about this weapon? Khalid already told us he was the weapon. I’d like to hear you explain to us how that works. We’ve come a long way, and we don’t have the time for games or friendly chit-chat. I need to know what Khalid has, and how it can be used against the globalists.”

  Khalid placed a chair next to the priest and sat down. He rested his arms atop the table and leaned forward, looking to each one in the group before beginning to speak.

  “My full name is Khalid Al-Rashid, nephew to Prince Mishari Al-Rashid, of the House of Saud.”

  Cooper Wyse let out a low whistle, while Mac uttered a just audible curse under his breath.

  “Bullshit.”

  Khalid heard Mac’s response, and leaned further forward over the table.

  “I assure you, Mr. Walker that I am who I say I am. There are thousands of members of the Saudi Royal Family. I am indeed one of those members.”

  Mac glared back at Khalid, his doubt cutting through his words.

  “Then what the hell are you doing hiding out here? And why would you be working to destroy the New United Nations. Your goddamn family IS the New United Nations!”

  Khalid remained calm, seeming to expect Mac’s distrust of his background story.

  “Yes, my family has been, and remains, the driving force behind the globalists. They have provided the resources, and the motivation, of the New United Nations since its inception. That is not to say all members of the family agree with this fact. There are some who have been quietly working to dismantle the globalist machine, to return the world to itself.”

  Mac sat silent, processing what Khalid had just told them. He could feel the now all too familiar pain in his lower back flaring up again, though now it was also wrapping itself around both of his hips.

  “So what is this weapon? Get right to it. Explain it to us.”

  Khalid rose from his chair.

  “I will be right back. I will show you.”

  Bear was eyeing the fish that remained uneaten on Mac’s plate.

  ‘Hey Mac – you mind?”

  Mac glanced at Bear and then down to his plate.

  “Oh…yeah, go ahead.”

  Bear gratefully pulled the plate in front of him and devoured the remaining portion of baked trout.

  Khalid returned to his chair holding a fist-sized, dark plastic box.

  “This is it - a polymorphic viral distributor. All I need is a connection to a main frame application. Any application, and within seconds of uploading, the code will begin to multiply at an increasing rate, eventually crashing the entire system.”

  Mac’s chin dropped toward his chest as he brought both hands to the sides of his head.

  “Are you kidding me? We were sent out here for a goddamn computer virus? Tell me that isn’t what you’re talking about here. Because if you are…”

  The priest raised his hand, indicating he wished to speak.

  “Mac, please listen to what Khalid has to say. There is more to be explained – much more. This weapon is very real, if but given the opportunity to do its work. As you have just said, you travelled a very long way to be here. That alone suggests you allow Khalid the opportunity to explain why the Texas Resistance deems this opportunity worthy of your help.”

  Mac folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.

  “Ok then, Khalid, keep talking.”

  Khalid opened the top of the small box, where a tangle of thin wires was pushed against the sides of the opening. To Mac it appeared to be no more than a homemade mess of nothing, but Khalid’s enthusiasm for what he thought the black box could do was apparent as he proceeded to explain further.

  “I simply need a direct transmitter that feeds into the system main frame. Well…I say simply but that is our challenge of course. Initially, your contact with the Texas Resistance, Mr. Calhoun, believed this box needed to be in their possession in order to initiate the upload. That is not so. I could do it from here if we had a direct transmitter application. Something that uploads into the New United Nations’ system. If I had such an application, I would simply coordinate the viral distribution from that point. Simple.”

  Mac’s arms remained folded as he shook his head.

  “No, not simple, or you would have done that already. If I’m understanding you right, you’re telling us you need to get across the border, sneak into a government office, or maybe steal a compliance officer’s communications device, something along those lines, right?”

  Khalid nodded in agreement.

  “Yes! That is exactly right!”

  Mac flinched slightly as a small explosion of pain erupted in his right hip. His jaw clenched tightly until the pain subsided.

  “First, getting you across the border into the former United States is one hell of an issue, and given our last communications with the Texas Resistance, we don’t have the time. They’ll be dead and gone by then. Second, I’d like to know how in the hell you think you’ve developed some device, or program, or whatever you’re going on about here, that could somehow bypass all of the electronic protections I know for a fact the New United Nations has in place to prevent this kind of thing from happening.”

  Khalid smiled back at Mac.

  “I know this because I was among those who developed the latest anti-viral system protections for the main frame that was initiated just six months ago. My name, my position within the Saudi Royal Family, allowed me that access. My expertise from years of study, gave me the ability to create the polymorphic virus. It will work. I am certain of it. I would in fact, wager my life on its success.”

  Mac remained unconvinced.

  “Maybe it works, maybe it don’t. Either way, like I said, we don’t have the time. How in the hell do we find you access to the main frame? We’re a thousand miles from any source like that. We’re literally sitting out here in the middle of nowhere! That little black box of yours is worthless! This entire goddamn trip has been worthless! If this was Calhoun’s plan, no wonder the Texas Resistance if getting their asses kicked! They’re being led by a moron!”

  Mac covered his mouth as he was racked by a series of deep coughs that caused him to cry out from the searing pain that enveloped his lungs. When the coughing finally subsided, Mac slowly rose up from his chair, waving away Dublin as she attempted to help him stand.

  The priest stood up as well, rising to his full height, towering over Mac as he looked down at the former Navy SEAL with a mixture of hopeful sadness.

  “God will provide us the means, Mac. There comes a time when every one of us must be willing to believe in our own place within a far greater plan. For you, that time is now.”

  Mac Walker sneered back at Father Riel, his hand again slamming down against the table.

  “To hell with your god! I’m dying over here! I dragged my dying ass to this piece of shit place – for nothing! We got no plan! That’s it! Nothing! You want to stand there and tell me how God will provide? How about He takes this cancer out of my lungs? How about He flies us on out to wherever we can go so Khalid can hook up that goddamn little toy box of his? How about He fixes those messed up crippled fingers of yours? How about He brings back all the poor bastards this government has killed off? How about it, priest? Where is your god in any of that? Tell me! Tell me, because I would sure like to know!”

  The tip of Father Riel’s staff hit Mac in the middle of his chest with enough force to send him crashing onto the floor, putting him on his back struggling for breath. The speed at which it happened left the others at the table momentarily stunned before Bear bolted from his chair to confront the priest.

  ‘What the hell you think you’re doing!”

  Again Father Riel’s staff struck with both incredible force and speed, this time halting Bear’s progress as it stuck him in the side of the head, causing Bear’s eyes to momentarily lose focus. Reese was the next
to charge the priest, though he made it only halfway down the table before his legs were swept out from beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor as well.

  The Russian rose from his chair and prepared to turn the large table over onto the priest’s legs, but he too failed to follow the speed of Father Riel’s staff as it descended onto the top of his head, making him cry out in pain and stumble backwards, eventually tripping over Mac’s still prone body.

  That left only Dublin and Cooper Wyse still sitting in their seats. Dublin moved slowly to where Reese lay, while Cooper, with Brando sitting quietly next to him, stared calmly back at both Khalid and the priest. Unseen to them were the two revolvers the rancher held pointed at them from underneath the table.