Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  Bishop had inherited land when his father passed away. It wasn’t a big spread, more like a lowly strip of desert, a leftover from when the ranch had been cut up and sold off years ago. He had spent many years on that ranch as a boy and knew the land well. Over time, he had slowly turned the worthless tract into a weekend hunting retreat with an old camper parked next to the only year-round water supply within 10 miles.

  Bishop began stretching his muscles before his jog. He wanted to be careful not to pull or strain anything. While he had been doing plenty of running lately, that had been because people were shooting at him. He wanted a good, long, relaxing run that resulted in that feeling of muscles well used and freely flowing blood. As he was limbering, a white pickup pulled to the nearby curb. The doors, adorned with the military police logo, opened promptly, and two soldiers approached.

  Bishop tensed, wishing he had brought his pistol along. There just wasn’t any place to carry the heavy piece in sweatpants and t-shirt.

  The older one, a sergeant, said, “Good morning, sir. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, sergeant, everything is fine. I was getting ready to take in the air.”

  The man looked at his watch and commented, “It’s still pretty early yet for a run.”

  Bishop didn’t like his tone of voice. Normally, he would have taken the man for what he was—a cop. With the government and the military being divided, and a civil war on, he couldn’t help but be wary. “Is this an Army base, sergeant, or did I wake up in the wrong place? I thought pre-dawn runs were the norm for all you warfighters.”

  The man laughed, defusing the situation, “Sir, nothing is normal these days. We have people trying to sneak in here from El Paso all the time. They’re mostly trying to steal food, but after the incidents of the last couple of days, everyone is a little on edge.”

  Bishop had to hand it to the guy on that point. The president of the United States had been here at the base when several soldiers loyal to the Independents had made an assassination attempt. The base had been in complete turmoil while the rebels had been hunted down.

  Bishop replied, “I appreciate your stopping by to check on me, Sergeant. I just want to burn off some stress. Any advice on a good route to jog this morning?”

  The MP nodded and asked his partner to retrieve a clipboard from the truck. Bishop continued to stretch while the man returned with the paper. The sergeant flipped a couple of pages, tilting the paper toward the truck’s headlights so he could read. After a moment, he looked up and announced, “There’s no training scheduled on any of the firing ranges today. I can guide you out that way if you want to run in open country. It’ll be about 8K out and back.”

  Bishop nodded, “Can’t hurt to head that way at least. Eight sounds about right this morning, but it’s been a while.”

  The two MPs gave Bishop some general directions and then watched as he began sprinting off into the distance. After the runner was out of earshot, the young private looked at his sergeant and asked, “Did anyone ever figure out for sure whose side that guy is on? I’ve heard lots of rumors, ya know.”

  The sergeant turned to his subordinate and smiled. “I know he’s been rubbing elbows with the brass since those traitors tried to kill the president. I heard he is the guy who saved the prez and then turned around and got him killed. I also know a lot of guys are pissed off over what he did. That’s all above my pay grade and definitely above yours. Let’s finish our rounds and get some breakfast.”

  The ground felt odd at first. It had been so long since he had run for pleasure—strange shoes—new turf, hell, a new world. Bishop took it slow at first, letting his legs get used to the rhythm and his feet get acclimated to the sneakers. Even with the medical facilities at the Army base, blowing a ligament or popping a tendon wouldn’t be the highlight of his day. His side ached from the bullet scrape suffered two days ago, but he didn’t think his stride would re-open the wound.

  After I finish this run, I’m going to go visit the colonel, he thought. Bishop was unsure of how his ex-boss would react to everything that had happened the last few days. As he came to an intersection, his current train of thought was interrupted long enough to recall the directions the MPs had given him. He took a left and accelerated his pace just slightly.

  Thinking of the colonel brought on mixed emotions. Bishop respected the man immensely, more so than anyone—other than his father. The colonel had been his boss for almost 10 years while working for HBR. The job involved a lot of travel to remote, dangerous locales, and the man always had Bishop’s back.

  Bishop’s job was to protect HBR assets wherever the international firm decided to explore for gas or oil. Remote jungles, the deserts of Iraq, Pacific Islands, and South American mountains were all on the travel itinerary. If there were someplace dangerous in the world where there might be energy below the earth’s crust or ocean’s surface, HBR was the company to call. When HBR answered, they protected their people and equipment by hiring guys like Bishop, training the hell out of them, and then sending them along to keep the peace.

  Even though he was beginning to breathe hard, Bishop had to laugh at the phrase “keep the peace.” He once told Terri his job was like playing outfield on a baseball team. “You go through hour after hour of absolute boredom until some guy gets lucky and hits a screamer your way. For a few short moments, life becomes far too exciting,” he had explained.

  The tiny picture generated by the thermal imager depicted Bishop as a red and yellow blob. The blurred image wasn’t due to a lack of capability, but rather the device being a victim of its own advanced technology. As Bishop ran, the passing of his arms and legs heated the surrounding air for just long enough to be detected by the sensitive instrument. The resulting outline was blurred, creating an effect more closely resembling a 70s lava lamp than a state-of-the-art observation scope. The machine was so accurate, even Bishop’s footprints showed yellow, the result of his running shoes creating minute amounts of friction-heat on the pavement.

  The man holding the FLIR, or Forward Looking Infrared, lowered the monocle from his eye and turned to his partner. “Deke, Bishop is going for a run. He just had a quick discussion with two patrolling MPs and then headed into the desert. Make a note in the log for me, would ya?”

  Deke pulled a tablet computer from his bag, and soon, the vacant third-story office was filled with the pecking taps of a keyboard. “Done.”

  The observer stretched high, the sleeves of the Army uniform pulled below his wrists. While the insignia on his shoulders was that of a major, he hadn’t been an officer in the United States Army in a long, long time. The rank had been carefully selected. Majors were a dime a dozen on a base of this size and wouldn’t be noticed. Yet, they held enough privilege for most activities to go unchallenged.

  The man raised the FLIR again, tracking Bishop as he faded into the distance. “I’m off my shift in ten. Anything good for breakfast down at the officers’ mess?”

  “Same ol’, same ol’, Moses. You can tell what day it is by the menu, just like when we served Mother Green.”

  Moses laughed, his eyes never wavering from his vigil. “It’s got to be better than that garbage down in Columbia. My gawd—I had the shits for a month of Sundays.”

  “Nothing was worse than Chechnya. Did anyone ever figure out what that meat really was?”

  The observer grunted, “No one wanted to know. That was a good haul though. I’ll never forget that Russian’s face. You would think a big-time international arms dealer would have a larger pair of nads. I thought he was going to cry like a little girl.”

  “People tend to react oddly when they realize they’ve just been had for 1.2 million cash.”

  “Naw, I think it was your .45 up against his temple, Deke. That’s what upset him.”

  The two men chuckled briefly, enjoying the type of humor shared by long-time comrades who had witnessed much together—sometimes too much. It was an air of confidence with each other, an atmosphere of uns
poken respect for the other’s capabilities.

  As Bishop’s image faded smaller and smaller, Moses pulled his eye from the monocle and sighed. “I’m ready to get out of here. If our employer had left any tracks, we would know by now. I think we’re wasting someone’s money here . . . being a little over-cautious.”

  Deke chuckled, “I bet no one ever described you as ‘subtle’ in your status reports, did they? The client says we need to make sure our previous mission goes undiscovered, so that’s what we’ll do. It’s only another day or two, and then we’ll be out of here.”

  The man holding the FLIR set it down, Bishop now out of his line of sight. The lookout glanced over at his relief and flatly stated, “I’m still not for sure why we’re here in the first place. We did our job and protected the client. Now we’re acting like a bunch of high school kids trying to clean up after a party before mom and dad get home.”

  Deke smiled. “Money, power, weapons, favors … it’s just a job, dude. It beats the pay grade of an E7 and the eventual half-pay after 20 long, hard years. I don’t know about you, but waiting three weeks before landing an appointment with a VA dentist isn’t why I humped all those courses and busted my ass through all those schools. I didn’t deploy over a hundred times to live out my old age bored to tears and barely able to feed myself.”

  “Why did you do it then? It’s not like the Army promised us anything special.”

  “I did it for God and country, partner—just like you and all the rest of us stupid bastards.”

  “And when did God and country stop being enough?”

  Looking at his watch, the man waiting for his shift sighed. “I don’t know. It wasn’t like somebody threw a switch, and I suddenly stopped giving a rat’s ass. I think it was Mexico that was the final straw. You remember that op—the one where we went in with the DEA teams and snatched Julio Mendez-whatever-his-name-was?”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember that one. Gawd, what a palace that guy had. Too bad he didn’t spend more on improving his security forces.”

  “I remember walking around that guy’s crib and thinking about my little one-bedroom shithole outside Bragg. I remember all those women and cars and that pool table that cost more than what I made in a year. We found over three million in cash downstairs in the counting room. It took five of us two trips to haul all that money to the trucks. Who would’ve noticed if a couple hundred grand went missing? I mean, after all, I was the guy who put my ass on the line taking out Mr. Drug Lord’s little private army.”

  Moses shifted his considerable frame, staring away into the distance. “For me, it was when the Secret Service dudes got busted with the hookers down in Colombia. I had just finished 13 months in Kandahar, and my wife’s lawyer hit me between the eyes with divorce papers the day after I got back. Those agents and rear echelon pussies were down in Colombia partying their asses off while I was eating dirt and dodging Taliban lead. When the chance came to move on, I didn’t even hesitate.”

  “Maybe when there’s a change in leadership, somebody will fix all that. Your shift is up. Why don’t you head down and get a bite to eat? Hunger makes you a cynical fuck.”

  Handing over the FLIR scope, Moses replied, “Look … dude … this is just a job. Guys like us, we always do the dirty work and then get thrown under the bus. Bush did it after Iraq; Obama did the same when he came into office. Visions of grandeur are only going to lead to disappointment. My only expectation of this job is to get paid.”

  “You left out living long enough to take the next job.”

  “Oh, yeah. That, too.”

  Bishop began to notice more of his surroundings as he progressed further from any sort of man-made structure. He was now running through the open New Mexico desert … or maybe the Texas desert. The base resided partially in both states. The road he was traveling started to weave around low mounds of hard-packed, yellow sandstone streaked with a burnt tint of red. Small bunches of scrub cactus dotted the landscape here and there, accented by varieties of pincushion and ladyfinger.

  Every now and then the pavement was crossed by dirt trails, most of which were announced via road signs warning of a “Tank Crossing Ahead.” Gawd that would be fun, he thought, busting around in one of those tanks, shooting at targets with that huge gun. What a job.

  It occurred to Bishop that perhaps the tank drivers would think his job was the cat’s ass. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side, he mused. In truth, Bishop had liked his work for the most part. Like everyone else, he would bitch and grumble about this, that or the other, but he had known a lot of people out of work and suffering badly. The depression had been vicious and long, with the country barely hanging on. This fact wasn’t lost on the nation’s old enemies, who used sleeper cells and wreaked havoc with strategically planned attacks. The results were horrific, and the country slid over the edge of a deep void. At least I had a job, he thought. So what if people shot at me every now and then—I was getting paid.

  I’ll run and then bring Terri breakfast in bed, he thought. I’ve been such a pain in the ass lately; it’ll be a good make-up gesture.

  Today’s visit with the colonel was going to be the first act of what promised to be a very stressful day. After paying his respects to his old boss, there was a second necessary evil—a visit to the general. A few days ago, he and Terri had sat through depositions, recounting their time with the now-deceased leader of the free world. After the legal interviews were over, General Westfield had offered Bishop a commission in the United States Army. The offer was tempting.

  He and Terri would be afforded quarters at Bliss. The base had electrical power, running water, and a goodly supply of food. While no specific duties had been discussed with the general, Bishop imagined he’d still be involved with some sort of security or base operations.

  Comparing life on the ranch to the amenities available at Bliss made the decision difficult. Terri’s due date in five months compounded the assessment even more. To practically anyone still alive in North America, the base would be an oasis of luxury.

  Bishop tried to imagine their lives here. Any duties the general could throw his way weren’t the concern. Life after the downfall was a never-ending cycle of hardship that included gathering enough food and providing security. Anything the Army could dream up would probably be like a vacation compared to his workload at the ranch.

  Security. Bishop grunted when he thought of the connection between the rule of law and the moral conscious of the human animal—both had evaporated faster than anyone had ever anticipated. Society now required a man to carry a weapon to protect his family and property. It wasn’t easy. The necessity of maintaining a constant vigil, of always being on alert, was a distracting, unproductive use of time. Any noise in the middle of the night required effort. Mundane activities, such as walking, gardening, hunting, or gathering were all polluted by a constant shadow of fear—fear of other people. But not here at Fort Bliss.

  Observing the awakening base as he ran, Bishop considered the well-manicured streets, immaculate grounds, and general image of an orderly existence that surrounded him. Passing a platoon of soldiers, young men hustling into formation and preparing to exercise, the organization of the place seemed to fill a void inside of Bishop. No, he thought, it wasn’t a need—it was a craving, a desire for structure, a hunger for the way things once were.

  Despite breathing hard now, the concept brought a smile to Bishop’s lips. You’re homesick, he said to himself. You’re dreaming of a life that will never be again.

  Or would it? It was hard to imagine chaos on the streets he was running through. It was difficult to picture anything but calm here. Maybe he needed to reconsider the general’s offer. Maybe this was the closest he could get to what once was.

  Stop it! The realization almost caused Bishop to pull up from his stride. You’re fooling yourself—this place isn’t any of that. It dawned on Bishop that he’d experienced more violence in the middle of these supposedly disciplined surrou
ndings than anywhere else. He’d encountered far more treachery, discrimination, and hostility here than out in the world. This place was a façade—a Hollywood movie set with false storefronts and actors parading around in costume. This island of organized society held more danger than the sea of anarchy that existed outside of the base’s gates. You’ve made the right decision, he consoled himself. Go with your gut, and stop second-guessing everything.

  West Virginia, Appalachian Mountains

  December 22, 2015

  Senator Moreland yawned and stretched, the morning routine seemingly more difficult during the winter months. Finding his eyeglasses on the bedside table, he checked the time and was satisfied with his five hours of sleep. Anything over four was a good night’s rest these days.

  Leading the council that controlled the Independents was a time-consuming task, often requiring the sacrifice of sleep. The workload had peaked during the military battles that once raged along the Mississippi delta. The resulting clash mauled both sides of the conflict, and a ceasefire had been in effect since the death of the president. No war equaled more sleep.

  Moreland rubbed his eyes, thankful for the need to do so. This stalemate isn’t going to last long, he thought. Soon you’ll need every precious minute of rest to stay sharp and lead our nation out of this mess.

  Slowly meandering to the master suite’s bathroom, the West Virginian ran a mental list of his goals for the day while absentmindedly executing the required tasks of hygiene. Teeth, hair, and underarms taken care of, Moreland dressed in casual slacks, a pullover sweater, real wool socks, and penny loafers.

  With his assistant out of town, it was going to be a challenge to conjure up a good breakfast. Coffee wouldn’t be so difficult, but finding suitable fresh fruit was impossible. It would be canned oranges and oatmeal, he decided while descending the stairs.

  Approaching the kitchen, he noticed the security man checking the patio doors from the great room. Moreland tossed a cheery, “Good Morning,” to the large fellow, only receiving a curt, “Sir,” back. These security types, thought Moreland, always so serious. They should learn to relax a little and enjoy the view.