Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  “Diana, where’s that engineer guy? You know, the one who retired from the electric company.”

  “What? You mean Chancy? Why do you want to talk to him? What’s going on, Nick?”

  Nick unrolled the magazine and shoved the cover in Diana’s sleepy face. “This could be the answer to our problems, Diana. This could be what we’ve been looking for. It could change everything.”

  Her vision still groggy and unable to focus quickly, Diana gave Nick an annoyed look and took the pages from his hand. She rubbed her eyes and then scanned the cover. It took her only a moment to connect the dots. She glanced up, now wide awake, and responded, “You don’t think . . . it couldn’t be that easy?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it won’t be easy, but it’s the best solution I’ve seen or heard so far.”

  Nick idled by, pacing only a little, as Diana read the article. Now and then she paused and commented, making statements like, “So, this windmill farm went live in 2013,” and “It can produce enough electricity to power 5,000 average homes.”

  Finishing the article, Diana was excited, but more reserved than Nick. “Nick, nothing is that easy. Having electrical power would make such a difference, but I can’t get my hopes up just yet.”

  “I know, I know. I probably shouldn’t get so excited either, but it gives us hope. We need to talk to Chancy.”

  “Let me get cleaned up and sip some of that coffee. We’ll go talk to Chancy first thing.”

  An hour later, Nick and Diana walked up the front steps at 204 Elm Street, the long-time residence of Mr. and Mrs. Chancy Morse. No one seemed to refer to Mr. Morse by his last name, and Diana had always followed the lead and referred to him as Mr. Chancy. The two-story clapboard home resembled dozens of others that lined Elm. A brick porch, complete with swing, fronted the dwelling. Other than an off-shade of pale yellow paint, there were few other defining features.

  Diana rapped loudly on the screen door’s garden-green frame.

  Alpha still wasn’t a completely docile community, and a challenge sounded from inside. “Who is it?”

  Nick could envision the older gentleman standing away from the door, shotgun in hand.

  “Chancy, it’s Diana and Nick. We need to speak with you.”

  The door opened a crack, and the visiting couple could see a swath of gray hair behind the opening. After confirming their identities, the noisy rattle of a chain sounded inside, and then Mr. Morse appeared in the threshold. “Well, good morning, Miss Brown, Nick. What brings you two over to Elm Street so early in the morning?”

  “We want to talk to you about electrical power, Chancy. I hope we’ve not come at a bad time.”

  Opening the screen door and waving the visitors inside, the old man didn’t wait to hear his guests out. “Now, Miss Brown, we’ve already been over this a dozen times. I’m sorry, but there’s just no way we can fire up that power plant over at Fort Stockdale by ourselves. Please believe me, ma’am, I would if I could.”

  Diana smiled at Chancy’s legendary grumpiness. “We’re not here to talk about that gas-fired plant, Chancy. We’re here to talk about this,” and she handed over the magazine.

  Glancing around the living room until he found his reading glasses, Mr. Morse began analyzing Diana’s offering.

  “I remember reading about this. They started building these generators after I retired, but I was still very interested in them. Very complex engineering involved.”

  Chancy continued reading, at last finishing the article and looking up. “So you’re wondering if these windmills can power our town?”

  “Yes,” both Nick and Diana said at the same time.

  “Technically, yes. According to this article, there’s more than enough power being generated to run Alpha, as well as three or four more cities of equal size. The problem would be routing the electricity to our regional grid. Most of the output from these wind farms was directed to the big metropolitan areas in East Texas, like Houston, Austin, and San Antonio.”

  “Can we hijack the juice?” Nick asked.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Clancy while shaking his head. “These were installed after I was out of the business. This article says this Sandy Hill facility was integrated into the West Texas regional distribution system, but I’ve no idea how that entire complex worked.”

  “What would you need to know or see? Is there a control station or something that you could look at to determine how it’s all wired?”

  The retired engineer thought about the question for a few moments before answering. “Yes, I suppose there would be . . . would have to be. I can’t tell you where it’s located though. With all of the terrorist threats against our infrastructure in those days, the power companies didn’t make a lot of things known to the public.”

  Nick thought about that answer for a bit. “If I were to take you to those windmills, could you tell from there?”

  “Oh, no, no. The only thing at that location would be rectifying and control equipment. They would need to control the current before it went to the transmission lines.”

  “Where would the transmission lines lead?”

  “To a controlling substation, in all likelihood. That’s what I would need to see in order to answer your questions.”

  Nick looked at Diana, both of them a little disappointed. Still, Nick was determined to see his idea through. “If I were to take you to the wind farm, could we trace the lines to the control station?”

  The retired engineer answered almost immediately. “Yes, these pictures show above ground high tension lines. They would be easy to trace, but those lines could run for a considerable distance. There’s no way to tell how far—could be over a hundred miles or more.”

  “So you’re saying at the end of those high tension lines will be a control station? If I find the control station and take you there, what do you think the chances are that we can divert the energy to Alpha?”

  “Oh, Nick, there’s no way I can hazard a guess. The technology was changing so rapidly when I left the industry. If you get me to that control station, I’ll be able to tell you pretty quickly though.”

  Nick and Diana paced back to the church compound in silence, each trying to determine whether to be disappointed or not. As they reached the building’s steps, Nick was the first to speak. “Diana, we’ve got to try. I know the effort will use valuable resources, but we’ve got to try.”

  Diana sighed. “Nick, it’s not the resources I’m worried about. It’s you off on some wild goose chase, traveling through a very dangerous countryside. Who knows where those lines will lead and what condition the territory will be in? I’ve listened closely to what you told me about your experiences along I-10. We both know what was going on here in Alpha. It’s a crazy world out there, and I can’t stand to lose anyone else I care about right now.”

  Her statement caused Nick to think of his son. Still, electrical power could save a lot of lives.

  Nick finally decided he needed more information. “I need to talk to someone who knows that area. I need someone with local knowledge.”

  Diana smiled, “How about Bishop? Didn’t he grow up around here?”

  “Now that’s a good idea. I wonder if his lazy butt is up yet.”

  “Terri said he’s been running a lot lately. They’re sleeping at the Higgins place. Go find out.”

  “You want me to do what?” Bishop asked, not quite understanding Nick’s request.

  “I want you to help me trace some power lines. We have to find this power control station thing . . . and the only way is to track these lines from their source.”

  Bishop scratched his head, “My friend, I’ll help you with anything you need, but I still don’t get it.”

  Nick showed Bishop the magazine containing the information on the windmills. Bishop read the article without comment, eventually handing back the journal. “That’s some rough territory down that way. I used to hunt around Sandy Hill as a teenager. I find it a little difficult to believe they did a m
ajor construction project in that area.”

  “Can you drive your truck around there?”

  “No way,” Bishop answered, shaking his head. “That whole region is full of cliffs, steep-sided gullies, and hills. There’s not much vegetation. You couldn’t even get around with a dirt bike or a horse. Unless they’ve built roads, that’s some serious hiking, climbing and humping.”

  Nick sighed. “They had to have gotten heavy equipment in there somehow. They didn’t airlift in those huge blades—some of them are over 100 feet long.”

  “Access to Sandy Hill proper wouldn’t be that difficult with some large earth movers and plenty of money. They probably built a road to the top of the mesa and hauled the blades and generators up via trucks. It’s the area all around the actual mesa that is so nasty. I don’t know how they would have set up towers or laid the cables to carry the electricity.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out. You up for a field trip?”

  “Sure enough, Nick. You want to leave in the morning?”

  “What about Terri? You think she’ll be okay staying here in town?”

  Bishop rubbed his chin for a minute, and then responded, “I don’t think anyone knows we’re here. She and Diana can take care of themselves pretty well. Kevin is pretty tough, too.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Let’s do what?” sounded Terri’s voice from down the hall. She approached the two men with her arms crossed and a look of skepticism covering her face. “I get really, really nervous when I see you two plotting quietly in the shadows. This can’t be good.”

  “Nick wants to see me do my world famous Don Quixote imitation, honey. He wants to see me chase windmills.”

  West Texas

  December 28, 2015

  The drive from Alpha was uneventful, but Bishop hadn’t really expected any trouble. After leaving the confines of the small town, he and Nick had journeyed through one of the least populated regions in North America, a constant eye-diet of desolate West Texas desert passing by the truck’s windows.

  The route passed by Bishop’s ranch, and the duo decided it best if they upgraded their firepower in the unlikely event there was any trouble. “We’re going to be in some pretty wide open spaces,” Bishop had informed his friend. “I’d like to change out to the .308 so I can do some long distance dialing, if need be.”

  Nick grunted, recalling the old television commercial. “Reach out and touch someone, eh?”

  Bishop pulled off the two-lane highway into what appeared to be random, open desert and stopped. “Hang on a sec; I’ve got to tie on the drag.”

  Nick watched fascinated as Bishop walked over to what appeared to be a random pile of dead branches and vegetation. Pulling a short rope from the bed of the truck, Bishop attached the brush heap to the trailer hitch and then drove slowly across the hardpan desert floor.

  After a few hundred yards, well out of sight from the road behind, Bishop stopped again and unhooked the load. Nick got out and investigated their trail, amazed to find no evidence of their passing.

  “I had to play with the weight for a while to get it right. It doesn’t work if it has rained and the soil is moist, but as you can see, we don’t have a lot of wet days around here.”

  Scanning the surrounding terrain, Nick had to agree.

  Smiling at his friend, Bishop reiterated, “Always cover your tracks.”

  Nick just shook his head, “Always.”

  They continued driving through a seemingly featureless landscape of short ridges, erosion-walled valleys, and massive rock fields accented with the occasional small boulder. There was very little vegetation; a few variety of cactus and patches of chest-high scrub oak dotted the earth. Mostly it was barren, hard-packed sand.

  “How often do you have to mow the grass out here?” Nick asked.

  “Oh, I don’t worry about that—I hired a yard crew for the landscaping duties.”

  Bishop maneuvered the truck into what appeared to be a slot canyon, the floor of its valley littered with larger random rock formations. There didn’t look to be any path wide enough for the truck to pass through. Bishop stopped and said, “I’ve got to get out and disable the tripwires. Given I’ve had visitors lately, I think it wise to scout ahead—just in case someone is waiting for me to come home.”

  “Home?” Nick questioned, looking from one side of the canyon to the other. “This is home? Do you live under a rock?”

  Bishop laughed, “In a way, yes. Why don’t you drive while I scout ahead on foot? Just follow me, and you’ll be fine.”

  Bishop climbed out of the cab and proceeded to make safe the multiple tripwires lining the canyon. Nick followed, nervous as he crept through gaps of sharp granite that missed the truck’s side mirrors by inches.

  After a hundred yards of weaving between slabs of sandstone and bus-sized boulders, the obstacles began to thin out, and driving became easier in the open floor of the canyon. Nick looked up the gradual incline and noticed the camper for the first time.

  Walking in front, Bishop indicated Nick should park and join him. The two men worked together in an effort to verify no one was lurking in ambush around Bishop’s place. After clearing the area, Bishop motioned Nick to the Bat Cave and unlocked the heavy steel door.

  Nick stood in the entrance of the rock room, scanning both the natural formations and Bishop’s collection of hardware. “Well, the name is appropriate, Caped Crusader. Can I be Robin?”

  Bishop laughed and moved to his rifle rack. It took a few minutes to switch weapons, ammo pouches and magazines. Nick walked around the room, taking it all in and displaying just a tinge of envy.

  “How did you come across this place, Bishop?”

  “My father worked on this ranch when I was growing up. There wasn’t a lot to do around here as a kid, so I hunted this entire area. I came across the spring when I was about 11 years old and found this room the same day. This little canyon became my favorite place when I was growing up, mainly because the room was always so much cooler than the open air outside.”

  “So you bought the ranch?”

  “No. The original owner died, and his kids didn’t like the West Texas lifestyle. They decided to split up large tracts of the land and sell them off. My father had been a foreman, and it’s kind of tradition to pass along a little land to key employees. Basically, I inherited the place. Over the years, I would come out here a few weeks at a time and make improvements. I had visions of a nice hunting lodge, not a home.”

  Bishop handed Nick a 2-way radio. The big man looked at the device and asked, “You don’t have cell service out here?”

  Bishop laughed, “No, I couldn’t afford Terri’s extra minutes.”

  Bishop locked up the Bat Cave, and the duo reversed their earlier procedure, resetting the tripwires as they exited the ranch. On the open road again, Bishop commented, “Sandy Hill is neither sandy, nor a hill. It’s a gray rock mesa about eight miles off this highway. You can barely see it from the road on a clear day.”

  Nick looked out the window at the desolate Chihuahuan desert scrolling by. “We’ve got to walk eight miles through this stuff?”

  “I hope not. I’m counting on someone having built a road during the construction. I can’t imagine machinery like those windmills being maintenance free, so the power company would need a service road too.”

  A few minutes later, Bishop slowed as they approached the crumpled wreckage of the small Cessna that had delivered the colonel and his grandchildren a few weeks ago. “I need to stop here for a minute.”

  Leaving the truck idling in the road, the two men exited and examined the wreckage. To Bishop’s eye, the scene appeared undisturbed. He walked a few yards away and found what he was looking for—a small mound of rocks covering the shallow grave of Mrs. Porter.

  Bishop lowered his head for a few moments, a show respect for the dead.

  Looking back up at Nick, he explained, “Here lies Mrs. Porter. She was the colonel’s friend, and t
hose druggies executed her right in front of the colonel and his grandkids.” Bishop then pointed to a high ridge in the distance. “I was up there watching the whole thing, but I couldn’t stop them.”

  Nick, returning his gaze to his friend, could see the pain on Bishop’s face. “I’m sorry, Bishop. It’s always worse when you’re watching and can’t do anything. I’ve emptied many a bottle after losing friends. I was always trying to convince myself I wasn’t the one who fucked up.”

  Bishop nodded, taking a few steps across the road and checking the remains of the two executioners. The desert scavengers had picked the corpses clean of any flesh, leaving the scattered bones of the two Colombian enforcers to bleach in the sun. Nick noticed a large bullet hole in the skull of one of the bodies, but didn’t comment.

  After a moment, Bishop turned away, his voice low. “Those hombres paid for their crimes. I didn’t bury the bodies . . . there was little time and a lot of spite.”

  It was a few seconds before Bishop’s mind returned to the present. “We had best get moving. The days are short this time of year. I really just wanted to make sure Mrs. Porter’s grave was still intact. It was a hasty effort.”

  After the two men returned to the cab and began navigating toward Sandy Hill, Nick could sense his partner was in a funk. He decided to try and distract his comrade. “I noticed your CD collection. I was kind of surprised to see so much stadium rock from the 80s. I figured you for a ‘second British wave’ type of guy.”

  Bishop took the bait, “Hard to beat Page as a musician; he broke a lot of ground. I still think that overall, the quality was about the same—foreign or domestic.”

  And so, it was on. Nick pretended shock at Bishop’s position on the subject and quickly countered. As the miles sped by, the cab of Bishop’s truck raged with friendly debate. Topics ranged from the greatest rock guitarist of all time, to who was the best tank general in history.

  They sped south for another 15 miles before Bishop slowed. Pointing to the southeast, he handed Nick the binoculars and announced, “Sandy Hill is over that direction. You might be able to see the windmills from here.”