Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  Smoke, screaming animals, gunfire and the shouts of desperate men created mass confusion and the inevitable fog of war. Despite the chorus of bedlam around him, an uneasy feeling rose in the back of Bishop’s mind, an eerie sensation that he was the only one shooting. It might have been a trick of sound caused by the bark of the AK rolling off the surrounding hillsides, or perhaps he was in the early stages of panic. Whatever the cause, it sure didn’t feel like much lead was being directed at the men charging his position. After the stampeding horses had passed by, Bishop raised up and let loose a long burst of automatic fire. His efforts were repaid by dozens of rounds snapping past his head. The men from the caravan were within 100 feet, shooting from the hip and screaming ferocious cries of battle as they gained ground.

  The dire situation worsened when movement caught Bishop’s eye. He watched in horror as a grenade arched through the air directly at his position. Managing one and a half steps and then a lunge for the ground, Bishop landed squarely on the AK magazines strapped to his chest. The hard earth, poor angle and badly designed load vest resulted in the impact knocking the air from his lungs. That painful collision was minor compared to the grenade’s concussion. A giant hammer slammed into Bishop’s left side, picking him up and then flinging him down while vacating what little oxygen remained in his lungs.

  Two things happened almost simultaneously. A shadow appeared over Bishop, and the roar of a rifle reverberated off the surrounding stone cliffs. Bishop managed to move his head enough to see the Marine pumping AK rounds into the charging Afghans. Slowly gathering his wits, a stunned Bishop managed to move his body slightly in a vain attempt to use his weapon. He couldn’t control his arms.

  It was then that the second event occurred. Without warning, the line of men charging up the knoll disappeared in a roaring hailstorm of red rain, flying debris, and dust. The scheme looked as though a curtain of boiling magma had descended of the Afghans. Shocked at the vision, Bishop’s attention was then drawn to the sky as a black helicopter roared overhead—a multi-barrel Vulcan mini-gun showering a laser-like beam of tracer rounds and hot lead onto the attackers. Firing over 6,000 rounds a minute, Bishop watched the door gunner walk the stream of lead up and down the group of charging men. The carnage was off the scale.

  The Marine yelled, “Oh, yeah! It’s the cavalry! Now that’s how you take out a convoy!”

  Bishop was fascinated as the gunship banked sharply, flared its nose, and quickly lost altitude on the far side of the bloodbath below. Rather than landing, the craft slowly progressed in a straight line, the skids just a few feet from the earth. One by one, five men in full combat load began leaping out and moving toward the site of the ambush. After the last had exited, the pilot landed in a position where the door gunner and his dominate mini-gun could cover his comrade’s approach. Nice, thought Bishop, very nice. That’s one tricky deployment.

  The haze of smoke and dirt partially obscured the approaching team, but Bishop could see well enough to determine they were skilled. Fanning out from the bird, they spaced perfectly so as to leave a field of fire for the supporting mini-gun.

  Two of the men immediately progressed toward the pack animals where they began cutting loose bundles of cash. The other three advanced toward the string of dead Afghans, strewn about in grotesque poses of death. Bishop was shocked when the lead man drew his pistol and fired a round into the first corpse. There was no hesitation. His action was quickly followed by his comrades’ systematically depositing a bullet into each body along the line. What the hell, thought Bishop, who are these guys?

  The action of the newcomers tore at Bishop’s conscience. Killing wounded men on any battlefield was somehow just wrong. While it was doubtful any of the Afghans had survived the initial attack, that was beside the point. Each summary execution boiled Bishop’s anger to a higher temperature. Were it not for being completely outgunned and still recovering, he might have begun firing his own weapon.

  Watching as the first bundles of cash were being carried back to the idling copter, Bishop noticed there weren’t any markings on the craft. No unit insignia, no numbers—nada.

  The Marine next to Bishop was obviously angered as well. In a whispered voice he muttered, “What the fuck? Americans don’t do that,” and started to rise. Bishop reached for the man’s load vest and pulled him down.

  “Quiet,” Bishop hissed under his breath, “Look at the bird … these guys aren’t US military.”

  He could tell the Marine was furious, but the man held his temper. “CIA?”

  Bishop shook his head and whispered, “Who knows? But they aren’t searching the bodies. It looks like they just want the cash and don’t want to leave any witnesses. You would be a witness.”

  “No shit.”

  After verifying they hadn’t left any survivors, one of the assault team reached inside his vest and pulled out a stack of papers. While his comrades hauled bundles of money back to their bird, Bishop watched as the man pulled the knife from each corpse and used it to pin a single sheet of paper onto each body’s chest.

  Ten minutes later, it was all over. The five men humped the remaining bundles of currency back to their craft and were gone. Bishop watched, as the aircraft became a tiny black speck in the sky and then disappeared.

  He and the Marine finally rose from their hiding spot, approaching the scene of the crime. They were quickly joined by two other members of their team—the only survivors. Mike and the others had been killed in the initial exchange with the convoy’s security force. Everyone milled around, stunned by the surreal chain of events that had just unfolded.

  Bishop reached down and picked up one of the papers left by the assaulters. It contained neat, blocked type, both in English and what appeared to be Arabic characters. It read:

  TO: General Khumri, Regional Governor, Balkh Province

  FROM: Erik King, CEO, Darkwater, Incorporated

  General Khumri,

  Nine days ago at Firebase Pensive, your men assassinated two of my contractors. Consider this as an act of retribution. The funds confiscated by my team will be used to compensate the families of the men who were murdered in cold blood as a result of your direct orders.

  Let me make my position clear, General. Any further acts of aggression against my men, my company, or our associates will be answered with exponentially greater violence.

  Erik King

  Bishop replaced the paper on the corpse at his feet, minus the dagger-pin. He had read the headlines about the attack at the firebase a few days before. The civilian contractors had been training Afghan policemen when someone tossed a bomb into their barracks. Such atrocities were becoming common.

  Darkwater was also a well-known entity. Famous for their security and contract operations in Iraq, the press often referred to Mr. King’s contractors as everything from “mercenaries” to “the president’s private army.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent carrying their fallen teammates back to the SUVs.

  Two days of flight time home provided Bishop with opportunity to reflect on the events of the past few months. The colonel was right; Tri-Borders and the loss of life experienced there had eroded a foundational value that he had built his life upon. Perhaps it was being raised in West Texas – maybe all Americans felt the same way. Regardless, some life-experience had instilled the concept that good eventually triumphed over evil.

  Bishop wasn’t naïve. He didn’t view life as if it was a super-hero comic book where all villains eventually met a harsh demise at the hands of those fighting for truth, justice and the American way. Bishop’s outlook was rooted in the fact that the species had survived…no, thrived. Evil was destructive, good was constructive. Since society had continued to advance, the constructive side had to be winning – right?

  For a while during the flight, Bishop thought time was the component of the equation he was missing. Maybe the destructive energies flowing through mankind won a few battles here and there, but lost the war. Maybe Tri-Bo
rders had simply been the rare example of victory for the dark-side. Even that logic didn’t seem to comfort him.

  Glancing down at the newspaper sitting on his lap, he re-read the article detailing the attack on the Darkwater personnel. The reporter provided some details about the contractors killed in the incident that had led to Mr. King’s revenge. The commentary wasn’t in-depth but did include a brief obituary of both employees. They were both family men – decorated veterans with good military records.

  Bishop kept circling back to the ambush by the Darkwater team. He had been so furious with the summary execution of the wounded. Watching the act had sickened him, and he had immediately condemned the contractors as war criminals. Reading the names of the deceased changed those feelings. The newspaper’s account of the incident somehow managed to inject a human element into Bishop’s thought process. It wasn’t what it appeared to be, thought Bishop. It wasn’t a robbery or act of greed, it was a message intended to stop an escalation of death.

  Folding the paper on his lap, Bishop sighed and looked out the plane’s tiny window. Was anything on this earth what it appeared to be? Was there any way for a man to know? Bishop leaned his seat back, deciding on a half-hearted attempt at sleep. His racing mind slowed its pace, and exhaustion finally took over.

  Six days later, Bishop was back in the States, standing in front of the colonel’s desk. “I feel 100% fit as a fiddle, sir. I wish to officially report for duty.”

  The colonel was skeptical, “So you feel like you’re squared away, Bishop? No more unresolved issues floating around inside that thick skull of yours?”

  “That statement, sir, would be an exaggeration. What I did resolve was that there’s no clear line separating good and evil. It’s not black and white, it never has been, and it probably never will be. I believe that’s about the best I’m going to do with the issue, sir.”

  The colonel digested Bishop’s words, his intense gaze never leaving Bishop’s face. Finally, he responded. “Okay, son. So be it. Let’s get you back in the saddle and see if your little vacation to the Far East did the trick.”

  Chapter 1

  Fort Bliss, Texas

  December 22, 2015

  The three men were dressed in ninja black, looking more like choreographed warrior demons than human flesh. Thick body armor, vests bulging with pouches, and skull-like helmets added to the sinister effect. Mechanical-looking cylinders with glowing green pulses provided their vision. They moved with power and grace, electric pupils scanning right and left, looking for work.

  Down the hallway they progressed, silent, synchronized performers, executing a deadly ballet. Move . . . bound . . . cover . . . slide— precise motions, accented by sweeping weapons, ready to destroy any threat. The intent was unquestionable—they were hunting.

  Black boots stepped heel to toe, rolling the predators forward in a well-rehearsed march of coiled violence. Their advance boiled down the corridor, engulfing the passageway as dark clouds fill the sky before the thunderstorm unleashes its fury upon the prairie.

  Finally, they arrived at a plain, simple-looking door and stopped. Caution replaced aggression as they were close to their prey, and the quarry was dangerous. Slowly the leader raised his hand to the entrance, and then it was open.

  In a single motion, Bishop pushed back the covers and rolled his legs over the edge of the bed. A second set of neural commands left him standing upright, the pistol from the nightstand in his hands. Extended arms moved in blurs as they followed his eyes, sweeping the room for intruders. If the pistol could speak, it would protest the pressure exerted by his grip. Thumb on the safety and index finger on the trigger—both were ready to engage at the same instant. Bishop’s lungs started to object to their lack of air, the desire for oxygen competing with the heartbeat pounding in his ears. The impulse to breathe was pushed back, every fiber of being focused on finding the invaders. He had to protect Terri and the baby. His mind raced with the taunt, Where are you—come on out and play.

  Terri rolled over, the movement from the other side of the bed rousing her from a not-so-deep slumber. Bishop had been kicking and churning restlessly all night, keeping her on the edge of a deeper sleep. She blinked the fog from her eyes and looked up to see her husband standing with his gun pointing around the room. The light leaking through the window blinds was just enough to make out the detail of the tightened muscles and straining cords of his body. Had the situation been different, she might have let out a wolf-whistle at the sight. Bishop standing shirtless, glistening with sweat and flexing every muscle on his frame was an image a girl could appreciate. This big pistol in his hand ruined the image though, and her mind immediately shifted to concern for her mate. Her senses expanded for a moment, trying to feel out the room. Her female intuition straightaway determined they were alone. He’s been dreaming again, she instinctively knew.

  Terri waited a few moments and then quietly whispered, “Bishop. Bishop, are you okay?”

  Her voice instantly calmed him. The pistol slowly lowered as he relaxed. He turned and faced her, his expression a combination of embarrassment and helplessness. Terri propped up on one elbow and observed as Bishop’s shoulders slumped and his head fell forward. The gun was returned to the nightstand, and then he perched on the edge of the bed. His voice was unsteady, “I’m sorry . . . I thought . . . I was sure . . . I just don’t know.”

  Terri scooted across the bed, reaching up to rub the back of her husband’s neck. His skin was cold and damp, the sinew around his shoulders taunt. Terri maneuvered beside her mate and simply held his hand. The couple sat motionless for several minutes, Bishop staring down at the floor, and Terri maintaining her warm and reassuring grip. Bishop finally broke the silence. “I hate this world. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all the killing. I’ve had enough of all these head cases running around with an attitude of ‘every man for himself.’” Bishop rotated his head, trying in vain to release the stress from his shoulders.

  Terri leaned up and gently kissed his cheek. “It’s okay, my love; you’ve been through a lot the last few days. I think it’s only natural to be a little stressed. Besides, I know you’re dreading seeing the colonel today after how things worked out.”

  Bishop nodded and flashed momentary eye contact. “I did my best, Terri. I don’t think I let the colonel down at all. He’s going to try and talk me into re-upping with the Army, and I don’t want to. I just want us to head back to the ranch and get on with it. I’ve done my part, and it didn’t work out so well.”

  Terri smiled at the thought of revisiting the now familiar topic. “Like I said, Bishop, I’m good with that. As long as we’re together, I’m a happy girl.”

  Bishop stared deeply into her eyes and pulled her close in a hug, as if offering her one last chance at the security that life on the military base afforded. The strong return of her embrace reassured Bishop of her resolve to stand with him on this decision. The final choice having been made, a moment of inner peace enveloped the young couple. Bishop pushed his wife’s hair over her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “The sun will be coming up soon. I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep. I think I’ll go for a run. Why don’t you try and crash again, and I promise I’ll be quiet when I get back.”

  Terri’s yawn was timed perfectly. “Now that sounds like a good idea. The run will work some of that tension out of you. Just don’t overdo it—I’ve got some plans for you a little later on, and I wouldn’t want you to be too tired or anything.”

  Bishop smiled at his wife, raising his eyebrows up and down, “You’ve got a date, pretty girl. For you . . . I’ll even take a shower first.”

  Terri brought both of her hands to her cheeks in mock surprise. Faking an excited voice, she said, “I get a clean Bishop? Oh-my-goodness! Is it my birthday or something? Christmas isn’t for another couple of days.”

  Bishop moved so quickly Terri didn’t have time to protest. He effortlessly lifted, flipped, and gently laid her on her back, his weight coming
to rest on top of her, their faces just inches apart. The two lovers stared at each other in the dim light. “I love you,” they both declared at the same time.

  A young man from Iowa, with the rank of specialist, had shown Bishop and Terri to their room soon after delivering a bundle of extra clothing. While the second-hand running shoes weren’t a perfect fit, Bishop welcomed the chance to exercise. Life at the ranch since the collapse had been filled with hunting, gathering, and trying to raise a garden. There simply wasn’t the time or the calories to run for exercise, and it wasn’t as if they were gaining any weight. Thinking about it, Bishop was sure the newly sprouting vegetables in their fledgling garden were all dead now. They had been away for six days, and new growth wouldn’t survive long in the West Texas desert without water. There’s another reason to get home as soon as possible, he thought.

  The east was just beginning to glow with the potential for a new sun when Bishop quietly closed the door and exited the visiting officers’ quarters building. Terri, from the looks of her, was already off in dreamland, and he hoped she would remain undisturbed for a few hours. She is sleeping for two, he mused.

  It was a cool, clear morning at Fort Bliss, and for a moment, Bishop forgot about the chaos that existed beyond the base’s secured perimeter. Six short months ago, he and Terri had been living in suburban Houston, suffering through the Second Great Depression like everyone else. Then it had all gone to hell, and they banded together with neighbors to hold back a growing wave of anarchy. When martial law was declared and Uncle Sam’s Army rolled in, the young couple had made the most difficult decision of their lives—time to bug out and head west.