Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  Bishop returned and announced his satisfaction with their location. The couple sat and consumed their dinner in silence, both enjoying the crackle of the fire and the absence of the ATV’s constantly droning motor.

  Terri took the soiled pan and utensils outside to clean while Bishop rearranged the hot rocks around their bedroll. Terri used handfuls of fine sand to scrub the food from the pan before applying a little water and rinsing off the remaining grains. In the morning, she would boil Bishop some coffee water, completing the sanitization.

  Bishop joined her outside, and they both brushed their teeth - the lack of toothpaste hardly noticed, the ritual important for both physical and mental well-being. After they were done, he pushed the ATV into the entrance of the cave and climbed over the cooling machine.

  Watching Terri brush her hair in the fading light of the fire warmed Bishop’s soul. Despite being covered in road dust and lacking any makeup or other frills, Terri had never appeared more beautiful to him than at that moment.

  “What are you staring at, young man?”

  Bishop smiled and said, “Darling, despite all we’ve been through, you could still stop a clock. It never ceases to amaze me how I ended up with such a pretty girl.”

  Terri swatted playfully at her mate, embarrassed at the attention. “You’re just hoping to get into my pants. I’m too tired and feeling grungy, so save your energy, stud.”

  Bishop pulled her close, gently kissing her forehead and caressing her hair. “Good night, beautiful lady.”

  Chapter 6

  West Virginia

  December 23, 2015

  The following morning, as Wayne consumed his breakfast, the senator joined him in the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  “Now don’t you start.”

  Wayne handed his boss a steaming cup of coffee, complete with fresh milk bartered from a farmer down the road. “I kind of like the sound of it . . . Mr. President.”

  “I’m glad you do, but I’m not so sure about the committee. We started the Independents for a lot of good reasons. A lot of people took extreme risks for our movement; some even gave their lives. I’m afraid my joining the other side might cause trouble.”

  Wayne seemed relieved. “Yes, sir. You’re probably right to be concerned. There’s only one way to know how everyone is going to react—tell them.”

  Moreland considered Wayne’s logic for a moment while sipping his java. “I need to stall our visitors for a bit. Play along, would you?”

  The longtime assistant and friend grunted, “Of course I will. Did you really feel like you had to say that?”

  The ever-present radio on Wayne’s belt squawked, “The visitors are on their way from the guesthouse.”

  “I need to finish supervising security, sir. As usual, I’ll leave the politics up to you.”

  The legislator from West Virginia, the President pro tempore of the United States Senate, sat at the head of the large dining room table. Small talk had dominated the conversation to this point—concerns about the recovery of the country, the civil war, and the future of mankind in general.

  As the group pushed their plates away, Moreland cleared his throat and announced, “I need some time to make a decision regarding accepting such an important position. I hardly slept last night, excited at the prospect of taking the reins and leading our great country out of this mess. On the other hand, I’m not a young man anymore, and the job is daunting. I may not be the best candidate. I will give my decision in 48 hours.”

  The guests began to protest, clearly confused by the senator’s words. Moreland held up his hands to restore calm. “Please, you landed on my front lawn just a few hours ago and dropped the biggest bombshell anyone could ever imagine. I need just a few hours to gather my wits and make the proper decision.”

  Moreland’s tone indicated he wasn’t going to be persuaded otherwise, so the conversation moved on to how the senator could contact Washington with his verdict. A satellite phone was left with Wayne, the only reliable form of communication known to the visitors.

  The Secret Service agent presented the next challenge. He desperately wanted to provide the president pro tem with protection. It took Wayne several minutes to convince the man that Senator Moreland couldn’t be any safer. Wayne’s radio call, summoning several heavily armed men, did the trick.

  After handshakes were exchanged, the trio boarded their aircraft and proceeded back to Washington.

  Moreland looked at the satellite phone left behind and grunted. The device was so primitive compared to the system used by the Independents. That thought quickly led to a mental comparison between the antiquated government and the goals his movement wanted to accomplish. It was the old versus the new at more levels than he wanted to comprehend at the moment. He forced himself to focus on how he could best help the American people. If he didn’t accept the presidency, the Independents would most likely carry the day. The other side would be leaderless for some period, and his cause could move quickly to assume control.

  An opposite reaction could occur as well. If he didn’t accept the position, Washington would find someone else, and who knew what their philosophy would be?

  Moreland looked at Wayne, “If I become the Commander in Chief, I have to find a way to bridge the two sides. I’ll have to do a lot of fence mending on both fronts.”

  Wayne stared at the wall, clearly trying to see several steps ahead. “Sir, I’m going to solicit that you not accept the position. I see your path as leading the Independents to victory—a second revolution of sorts. I’ve been thinking this over as well, and my humble advice is to stay the course you’ve charted and fulfill your destiny via the Independents.”

  The senator seemed surprised by his friend’s comment. “Wayne, I’m a little taken aback. It’s not like you to take such a position so quickly.”

  “Sir, many of us feel very strongly about what the Independents stand for. As you noted, many men have given their lives for the cause. While I’m sure your leadership would enable the old government to succeed in healing the nation, I also believe that eventually things would return to business as usual in Washington. That’s not why you started the movement; that’s not the goal of the council.”

  Moreland nodded his agreement. “This is far too important a decision to make quickly, Wayne. I formed the committee because they are all good, wise men. I will seek their counsel before making any final decision. I must tell you though, my gut tells me to accept and become the chief executive. I have faith that the truth will prevail, and the American people can embrace my presidency.”

  Wayne’s responded, “The committee will begin arriving tomorrow afternoon. I suggest we have a good, solid presentation ready for them.”

  Moreland’s head snapped up, “Don’t we always make a professional presentation, Wayne?”

  The other man met the senator’s gaze. “Yes, sir, we do. Do you know why? Because your heart is always aligned with your presentation. We have to get you squared away with this decision before we present to the council. If we do that, I’m sure the best decision will be reached.”

  The West Virginian smiled at his old friend. “You always seem to boil it down, don’t you?”

  “I stay with you, Senator, because you’re one of the truest, clearest thinking men I’ve ever encountered. I believe you’ll be an excellent leader for our people. While I feel a strong loyalty to you, my cause is the Independents and what they represent.

  Moreland looked down. “Why thank you for that, Wayne. Thank you most sincerely.”

  “One additional observation, sir, there are still two armies facing each other in Louisiana. Every second that goes by increases the odds something will go wrong down there. I think everyone would be wise to keep that fact in mind.”

  Moreland sipped his coffee, his gaze focusing on nothing. That’s it, he thought. I’ve got to take the job. If I don’t, those two military titans could clash, and the country would never recover intact after that.
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br />   Bishop woke just before full light, his first instinct to check on their surroundings. The desert was just how they had left it before bed, calm, quiet, and seemingly devoid of life. Pushing the ATV from the entrance disturbed Terri, who rolled over and looked up with sleepy eyes.

  The couple went about their morning routine quickly. Bishop rekindled the fire with the few remaining scraps of wood. Terri made him some coffee and mixed up some powdered eggs she had acquired from Bliss.

  Forty minutes later the couple was on the road again, Bishop using the flat terrain to avoid driving on I-10. They hadn’t traveled far when something caught his eye, and he cut north of the big road apparently heading off into nothing.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I remember something I saw as a kid, and I think it’s right up here.”

  Terri couldn’t see anything but flat, featureless sand but didn’t comment further. They rolled along for another few minutes when she noticed the soil changed color, progressing gradually from the common yellow-red to a bleached white. Bishop stopped the ATV and half-turned to Terri. “Time to stretch our legs for a bit.”

  “Cool.”

  They dismounted the 4-wheeler. Bishop immediately bent and pinched a bit of the white soil. Gingerly tasting the sample, he nodded at Terri and announced, “That’s what I thought. It’s salt … salt for as far as the eye can see.”

  Terri tasted her own sample and then gazed across the landscape. Stretching to the horizon, the desert floor was completely devoid of vegetation and colored the same bright white. “Is this a dried up salt lake or something?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I remember my dad stopping here when I was a kid on a trip to El Paso. It looks strange, doesn’t it?”

  “I thought that place where they raced cars was in California?”

  “The Bonneville Salt Flats is what you’re thinking of, and it is in California. This is a smaller example, but there’s more salt here than we’ll ever need. I’m going to mark it on the map in case Meraton or Alpha ever runs out. This could be an important resource.” Bishop bent and began scooping several handfuls of the crystalline substance, eventually filling one of the ATV’s storage bins.

  The couple continued driving across the salt flats for several more miles before the formation ended, gradually transforming back to the more common sandstone hardpan. Bishop steered them toward the southeast and home to Meraton.

  The unused third-story office had an occupant again. Deke sat on the corner of the dusty desk, his mind needing isolation to play out the next moves of their strategy. Undercover work was always exhausting. It didn’t matter if the role was of a drug runner, currency trader, arms dealer or army officer, every movement and action had to be perfect. The stage wasn’t important either. Be it Arab sand, elite tropical resort, or army base, any failure to play the part perfectly could result in a critical review delivered by high velocity death. Like the thespian before an audience, his men donned costumes, makeup, accents, and backgrounds. They rehearsed lines and stories, often portraying both the living and the dead. But that’s where the similarities ended. Unlike Broadway or Hollywood, a bad day on their stage could lead to pain, death, and bodies that were never recovered. In their world, the props were real weapons, and the filming never stopped. It fatigued the mind and body, and weary men made mistakes.

  That was really the difference, he smirked. The ability to act—immersion into the depth of a role and pulling off the character—that’s really what the managers looked for in a recruit. That was the true barrier to entry—the pinnacle that separated his firm from everyone else.

  Yes, he thought, you had to have proven yourself with special skills. You had to have achieved the status of elite in your specialty. But there were lots of those men and women walking the earth. Warriors and doctorates were a dime a dozen, as were great actors. People who achieved all of the above were asked to join the firm.

  It had been eight years since he had been recruited. His world back then had forced his mind to store memories by numerical context. It was a survival mechanism conjured up by gray matter that was being pulverized by practically constant violence. The location, date, or mission didn’t register anymore—everything was recalled by the number. Even today, so many years later, those numbers came floating back into his mind.

  The heat index in the jungle was 130.

  Two was the number of men they lost that morning.

  The cost of the lead that had killed his friends was a number as well, $1.03.

  When his unit finally caught up with the hunter-killer team it was chasing, it had ended quickly. He remembered standing over the enemy’s fallen and evaluating their equipment. State of the art holographic optics adorned weapons bristling with infrared scopes and laser range finders. Practically every rifle was new—sporting accurate barrels and quality triggers.

  A comparison to his team’s equipment was inevitable. Despite working for the richest country in the world, his men carried worn out rifles that never hit the same spot twice. They were forced to use iron sights, poor triggers, and scratched up, old binoculars that had probably first seen service in the Korean conflict. The body armor worn by the corpses at his feet weighed a third as much as the unit strapped to his chest, yet protected twice as well.

  There wasn’t any mystery why so many body bags were being shipped home to the States. They were fighting a foe that outstripped their technology by 30 years. They had lost Mark today; his three kids would never see their father again. Danny had fallen as well—his disabled mother wouldn’t be receiving any more of her son’s pay.

  The irony was persistent that day. Normally his feelings of injustice would fade quickly, overridden by the responsibilities of command and a certain satisfaction with victory. But not that day. The dead men scattered around his feet weren’t elite warriors—most probably weren’t even military. They hadn’t attended the backbreaking schools of war located at Fort Bragg, Quantico, or San Diego. The corpses littering the small patch of unnamed jungle that day weren’t even that well led or organized.

  Yet, despite the sweat, strain, and sacrifice of the world’s finest training, these ragtag bands of men were holding their own. They did so because of money, or more specifically, the advantages technology could provide on the battlefield.

  Another defining number was 52. He had tried every requisition, purchase request, and avenue possible to get his men better equipment. The responses, 52 of them, were always the same—no. No budget. No appropriation. No need.

  Looking down at the enemy gear, he felt more frustration. They weren’t even allowed to utilize captured equipment as a spoil of war. It too had to be inventoried and shipped back to the States.

  As his team searched the dead, they separated what they found into various piles. Weapons here, personal effects there, and money and valuables in the middle. All of the men they had killed that day carried wads of cash, gold watches, and bracelets—rings with jewels that cost more than his annual salary. Every piece was inventoried, photographed, and packed for shipment back to Miami.

  The four-hour hump back to their camp had mellowed his mood somewhat. Their weekly resupply had arrived via Blackhawk while they were out on the op. The always-uplifting event dulled the edge of his anger even more.

  One of the men subscribed to a hometown newspaper, the airmail delivering a three-week-old copy. As he passed out the bundles of envelopes and small packages, something on the front page caught his eye. The paper’s headline story was a piece on how welfare benefits for the people of Pennsylvania exceeded $50,000 per year.

  There was another number for his mind to index—50K. Standing there in that South American jungle - filthy, hot, and suffering from crotch-rot, foot fungus, and diarrhea, he experienced an epiphany. He could resign, move to Pittsburgh and double his standard of living without working. No one would be shooting at him, and his body would no doubt last twice as long without the abuse. Best yet, he wouldn’t be required to write letters e
xplaining to grieving family members why their son wouldn’t be coming home.

  The next morning, there were visitors. Some prick from the State Department and his entourage added to the burden by flying in and demanding attention. The man had three bodyguards who stayed with him as he toured the forward operations center. Each of them carried state of the art weapons, load gear, and optics. Better yet, they were shaven, didn’t smell to high heaven, and not a single one of them had scratched his balls during the entire visit. Nope, not a single case of jungle-sack among them.

  “How do I get a gig like yours?” he had asked one of the security men.

  “When’s your commitment up?”

  “Next month.”

  The man produced a business card. “Call this number before you re-up. The food’s better, the pay is great, and we get to play with all the new toys.”

  Five weeks later, he accepted the offer letter from Darkwater, Incorporated, and never looked back.

  A light tap on the door signaled his men had returned. The brief radio transmission had forewarned him that something important had occurred on the base. Now it was time to debrief and determine next steps.

  Moses opened the door and peered inside before maneuvering his huge frame through the opening. He was quickly followed by Grim, the team’s best shooter.

  The two men were dressed in the uniforms of military police, complete with proper insignias and name badges. Again, thought Deke, the actors on the stage were in appropriate costume, given the base was silly-thick with Army cops at the moment.

  Moses was excited. “Somebody tried to kill that dude and his wife. They weren’t in the room, and now they’ve bugged out. Nobody knows where they’re at. It was a professional hit job. The power was cut to the building. They used silenced weapons, and nobody got a good look at the shooters.”