Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  His two partners looked at each other and shrugged, really more interested in the MRE (meal ready to eat) they were consuming than the activities of the target below.

  “He’s come out of hiding now. For sure, he’s onto something. He’s worming his way back to the camper like he’s scared to death. One of you two clowns must have dropped something.”

  “Bullshit,” responded Moses. “He probably heard the wind whistle through the canyon and freaked out. Nobody dropped anything.”

  “He’s an amateur,” announced Grim. “Those tripwires were so-so, but anybody with any sense wouldn’t hole up in a dead-end box canyon.”

  “He sure as shit wasn’t an amateur the other night, was he? Made a fool out of those two at the VOQ.”

  Grim chuckled, “Even a blind squirrel gets a nut every now and then, bro. He got lucky. We’ll snatch the woman in a bit and head back.”

  “Happy fucking New Year.”

  Rushing to the camper, Bishop was relieved to find Terri deep in la-la land and undisturbed. Her reaction to being rousted so early in the morning wasn’t positive.

  “Bishop,” she yawned, “Why are you waking me up at the crack of dawn on New Year’s Day? Don’t you know by now people have hangovers? There’s no football on today either. Go back to sleep, anxious boy.”

  “I found a footprint up on the canyon wall, and I don’t think it was Kris Kringle. I also don’t believe it’s one of ours. I need you to wake up, be alert, and carry your pistol. I’m going to check it out.”

  “What? You found a footprint? How is there a footprint on the canyon wall? Isn’t that solid rock?” Terri, convinced her slumber-logic had solved the mystery, rolled over, and pulled the covers over her head.

  “Terri, I’m serious.”

  “Bishop, you’re paranoid,” sounded the muffled voice from under the bedroll.

  “I seem to recall your saying that exact same thing a few nights ago at Fort Bliss. You remember, the night someone broke into our room and shot at our bed?”

  He had a point. Terri sighed loudly, throwing back the warm blankets and rubbing her eyes. She grumbled, “My pistol is over there in the top drawer. I have to visit the powder room.”

  Bishop retrieved her 9mm as Terri padded by. While he waited on his wife, Bishop checked the weapon’s condition. There was a round in the chamber, and the weapon was well oiled and spotless.

  Upon returning, Terri stretched and conceded, “Okay, Bishop. What do you want me to do, and more importantly, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to load up and go search for other signs. Maybe I’ll run into our new stalker . . . maybe I’ll figure out it was me after all. Until I get back, I need you to be vigilant and armed.”

  “Okay, Bishop. Be careful. I’ll stay in here or in the cave. Signal me when you’re coming back in.”

  Bishop strode to the Bat Cave casually—just in case there was a stalker nearby. The stone walled room wasn’t really a cave at all, merely a deep recession in the canyon face created by years of erosion. Before society had taken a nosedive off the edge, he’d mounted a heavy steel door into the bedrock to create a secured space about the size of a two-car garage.

  The Bat Cave was their storage room and Fort Knox. Heavy locks and thick, stone walls made the perfect place for Bishop to store his weapons, ammunition, and other equipment carried with them on the bug out from Houston. When the ranch had been used merely for a hunting retreat, he’d still kept spare tools and other assorted items locked away inside the rock room. Those supplies had been a godsend now that the ranch was their full-time residence.

  Along one wall rested several metal lockboxes full of gold, property of the town of Meraton. After the harrowing journey across a Texas landscape ruled by anarchy, Bishop and Terri had arrived in the tiny West Texas town to find it occupied by a gang of bank robbers. Eventually, the couple had helped the townsfolk overcome the thieves. Now the gold was hidden here in the cave so as not to draw every desperado for 100 miles into Meraton.

  Entering the cavity, Bishop closed the door behind him and secured the heavy latch. This wasn’t his usual routine. Normally, he appreciated the airflow allowed by the open entrance. Today was different—today, he didn’t want anyone sneaking up on him. He immediately set about putting together his gear. Load vest, ammunition pouches, magazines, night vision, body armor, and an assortment of other equipment were assembled on the smooth, stone floor.

  As he worked, Bishop glanced over at the gold, its presence reopening a quandary that had been bothering him since he’d seen the footprint. How did anyone find the ranch?

  Only five people knew where his spread was located, and he doubted two of those could find it again. The colonel had been here, along with his grandson, but that had been after a dramatic plane crash, and he doubted that they had noted landmarks on the way in.

  Pete, the sort-of mayor of Meraton, had a map in his safe, emergency instructions in case the town needed help. Bishop grunted, sure his friend would die before giving up the location. In reality, he could say the same for the colonel.

  So how had anyone found my ranch?

  Bishop resigned to having to wait for an answer, so he pushed the mystery to the back of his mind and finished loading for the scouting expedition. With 40 pounds of ammo, weapons, body armor, and gear on his back, Bishop exited the Bat Cave on the sly. Instead of walking out into the open area of the canyon as usual, he skulked off the opposite direction.

  The steep, igneous walls rose over 20 feet vertically at this end of the canyon. The floor narrowed here, almost at the dead end of the box. Bishop hugged the rock face, knowing this route would obscure all but a few points where anyone hiding above could observe his movements. It wasn’t foolproof, as anyone on the east rim could detect him, but the path did reduce some risk. The footprint, however, had been on the west rim, and he hoped if any stalker was out there, he had stayed on that side.

  Behind a sheet of reddish-gray granite, Bishop moved into what was essentially a deluxe-sized crack in the wall. It wasn’t easy, but he knew from his boyhood days it was just wide enough to climb to the plateau above. This had always been part of the plan for an emergency escape route.

  With the heavy load, climbing through the narrow gap proved to be more difficult than he remembered. Foot and handholds were sharp cuts in the stone or the edge of fallen rock. If the ascent had been any more than 20 feet, he wouldn’t have attempted it with the weight and bulk of all of this gear.

  After 15 minutes of grunting and cursing, Bishop’s head appeared at the top, slowly peeking out like a prairie dog popping out of his burrow. The exit point wasn’t visible from most angles, large boulders and mounds of sandstone blocking it from observation.

  Staying low as he crawled out of the crevice, Bishop slinked to a nearby outcropping and peered over the top. If I had the ranch under surveillance, where would I hide?

  The terrain to the west rose into a staircase of rolling, barren foothills, eventually cresting at Crosby’s Peak some five miles away. The vista from Bishop’s position was misleading, the land appearing gradual in its climb, almost featureless. Bishop knew that wasn’t the case. Sheer drops, boulder fields, sharply defined valleys, and finger canyons existed between his position and the 6,000-foot high mountain in the distance. Practically void of vegetation or discernible feature, the great distances involved were deceiving, painting a picture of calm, gently undulating landscape. In truth, it concealed some of the harshest hiking trials in the state.

  If I were trying to scout the ranch, where would I be?

  There was one foothill, higher than the rest and slightly south, that Bishop thought would provide the best angle. He had brought along his big rifle, an AR10 with a 24-x scope. The .308 was heavy, longer, and more cumbersome than his M4, but in the desert, he felt like the extra range it provided was well worth it. He slowly raised the weapon and braced it on the rock he was hiding behind. Focusing the optic, he began a slow, detailed searc
h of the area.

  While it was nearly impossible to judge the angle, Bishop believed anyone spying on the ranch would have to mount the crest of the distant hill to obtain the best vantage. He concentrated his visual along the very top of the knoll, slowly moving from rock to cactus to mound, looking for anything out of the ordinary. It was a slow process examining every detail, trying desperately to keep his imagination from seeing things that weren’t there.

  The three men finished up the last of their box-feast and began readying equipment. The plan was simple enough, they would surprise and overwhelm Bishop and take Terri back with them. If she resisted, each man carried a Taser in his kit that would subdue even the most voracious wildcat.

  While reports of Bishop’s escapades during the coup attempt hadn’t escaped their attention, there was little concern among the team. After the crew had reviewed Bishop’s military records, they were all convinced he was hardly at their level of combat skill or training. The rancher below was deserving of caution perhaps, but no more of an obstacle than what they routinely overcame. Their prey was also well beyond his prime - a serious consideration by men who believed peak physical conditioning was a critical element in this sort of operation. Confidence was high that their superior numbers, training, and conditioning would crush any resistance in short order.

  Deke whipped his hand in a tight, circular revving motion, a signal it was time to mount up and get moving.

  Grim was ready. “’Bout time we got out of this shithole landscape. I like trees and water. This place is as bad as Iraq, maybe worse.”

  Moses concurred, “Yeah, let’s go get this over with. I’ve got better things to do.”

  Moving out at an aggressive pace, the team proceeded down the slope toward Bishop’s ranch.

  Bishop was thinking the search was a waste of time. There was too much territory to cover, and what he was looking for might not even exist. He persuaded himself that checking out the footprint was the smart thing to do. There was a chance it was his, maybe even Terri’s.

  He was picking up the rifle when movement on the downslope of the hill caught his eye. He immediately returned to the scope’s eyepiece, scanning for a moment until he found them.

  Three men came into view, all dressed in neutral browns and tan. They wore bush hats, load vests, and packs, and carried what appeared to be three different models of battle rifles. Bishop watched with keen interest as the men progressed, their confidence and economy of movement were obvious even through the tiny glass portal of the riflescope. These weren’t drifters or random hunters—the men in his sights were professionals, and they were headed directly toward Terri and the ranch.

  A million questions flooded Bishop’s thoughts. The approaching team was well over 1,000 yards away, out of range. Should he move to intercept them? Who and why would anyone dedicate such a highly trained resource to his ranch? Should he beat it back to the camper and warn Terri, or should he engage them as far away as possible? Should he and Terri just hide in the hills?

  The rifle he carried was a tool for long-range engagement, not “close in” fighting. Its magazines didn’t hold as many rounds, and the optics weren’t right for close-in battle. He monitored their progress for a little longer, trying to judge how long he had before they reached his property. He determined he didn’t have time to change equipment; he’d have to “run with what he brung.”

  The predators were on a track that was practically a straight west to east line. Bishop’s position was slightly to their north. Determined to keep them away from Terri, he moved to engage them before they reached the vicinity of the camper. Maybe I can scare them off or delay their approach, he thought. Maybe I can buy some time to think of a way out of this mess.

  Bishop began scrambling from the outcropping to the mound, heading south on an intercept vector. The weapon he carried had an effective killing range of 1,000 yards in the right hands. Bishop thought his skills with the current calm conditions were more in the range of 700-800 yards. Another factor that crossed his mind was the body armor being worn by the intruders—the further away he engaged, the less likely he would be able to penetrate that layer of protection.

  Trying to calm the fear building inside of his gut, Bishop began assessing the promised encounter. The advantages in his column included knowing the terrain, having the element of surprise, and having a longer-range weapon. His foe possessed greater numbers, more combat power, and the ability to maneuver. The analysis didn’t prove promising.

  Taking the best cover he could find on the run, Bishop went prone behind a steep ledge of rock a little over a foot high. He could fight from here, and there was a reasonable path of egress if he couldn’t hold the position. It was over 400 yards back to the camper, with good cover along the way. This is where he’d make a stand.

  He steadied the rifle, lowering the magnification to expand his field of view. It took almost a minute to find the approaching threat, but there they were, maintaining the same course as predicted.

  Using the hash marks on the scope’s crosshairs, Bishop estimated the distance to the men. They were just over 900 yards and closing in. He proceeded through the mental checklist required for a long-range shot. Achieving a natural point-of-aim was first, which required him to shift his body just slightly while arranging two small stones under the rifle’s fulcrum. The goal was to avoid having any part of his body touch the weapon, to let it rest naturally while on target. Human frames breathe, shake, and move, the effect of which would result in missed shots.

  Next was the calculation of the bullet drop. Bishop carried a small notepad containing all of his DOPE, or data on previous engagements, in his kit. He knew from practice and experience that at 800 yards, his bullet would drop over 80 inches. There wasn’t any wind, but at that range, the twist imparted by the grooves inside the barrel would cause the round to fly a few inches to the right. Bishop removed his hat and rolled it into a tube. Inserting the wad of material between his shoulder and the rifle butt provided an extra cushion to isolate the weapon from his pulse or other movement.

  Finally, he forced himself to relax. Starting at his toes, he mentally commanded every muscle to go limp. This was extremely difficult to do when facing a potential gunfight.

  His breathing under control and timed, Bishop nudged the rifle ever so slightly to bring the crosshairs onto the guy walking point. He nudged the rocks under the pistol grip to allow for the drop and disengaged the safety. No part of his body was touching the rifle except his cheek welded to the stock, and a finger barely touching the trigger. The aim was perfect.

  Bishop stopped, pulling his head back from the weapon’s stock. What if these guys are just passing through? What if they’re just here to deliver a message from Fort Bliss? What if they’re just three guys from Meraton, trying to find the ranch from the hand-drawn map he’d left with Pete?

  Bishop couldn’t do it. Despite the state of society, regardless of the attempt on their lives just a few short days ago, he couldn’t send death screaming out of his rifle barrel. It didn’t matter what the odds were, the suspicions and circumstantial evidence didn’t mean a hill of beans. He didn’t know for certain these men were a threat; there was no proof. He just couldn’t do it. Not everything is as it appears, he thought.

  By the time Bishop gathered himself, the approaching team was within 800 yards. Bishop held the crosshairs off aim and squeezed the trigger, the roar of the powerful rifle split the desert calm like a clap of thunder rolling across the plains.

  The bullet landed slightly right and 10 feet in front of the lead man. As expected, Bishop watched his adversaries scatter to cover. Their movements revealed excellent discipline and quick reactions.

  Most people, when shot at, stayed put. Even experienced infantrymen would show respect for a sniper, no matter how far off the first shot had been. Bishop’s mouth fell open as he watched the three men through his optic. After an all too brief, momentary pause, the team in front of him resumed their approach—thi
s time moving with haste and caution.

  His warning shot had backfired, the justification now clearly flawed. The element of surprise evaporated—his single most important advantage no longer playing a role. Now the approaching gunmen knew he was alert. Dodging, ducking, and rushing from cover-to-cover, Bishop watched, horrified at the efficiency of their movements. These guys are pros—these guys have skills.

  Now convinced of their objective, Bishop had no reservations about shooting anyone. The problem was he couldn’t get a clear shot. No two of the men exposed themselves at any one time. There wasn’t a single instance where any of them were out in the open long enough to take aim. They alternated movements, going in random order, and always hustling from one spot of cover to the next.

  Bishop tried to focus on one assaulter, waiting for the man to raise his head. They were just too fast and too disciplined. At 700 yards, Bishop was becoming worried. At 600 yards, the sweat was pouring down his brow and into his eyes.

  Think, damnit! screamed inside his head. You’ve got to hold this ground, and your advantages are disappearing quickly. In another few minutes, they would be so close his longer-range weapon wouldn’t matter. Another advantage would vanish.

  Instead of trying to fix on the moving men, Bishop forced himself to study the terrain in their path. At about 450 yards was an open area with little or no cover. Scanning their general path, Bishop desperately tried to put himself in the foe’s position. I’d gather up at the edge of that open area, and I’d rush my team across all at once. The first guy to raise his head will be to draw my fire; he’ll be a feint. He won’t expose himself until the others are moving.

  Bishop calculated the drop of his rounds while he waited. Sure enough, the team went to cover at the edge of the open ground.

  It took them longer than he expected to initiate their next move. Time was no longer flowing at normal speeds, perhaps it was just his imagination. He knew exactly where all three had hit the ground, and he watched, promising to ignore the first man who showed himself.