by Nobody, Joe
“So, you didn’t hear either of us shout out your name? We followed you for two blocks. I heard Nick yell out, ‘Terri? So glad we found you,’ before he entered the alley.”
“No, I didn’t hear either of you. The blood was rushing through my ears. I was absolutely terrified.”
Something in her expression told Bishop not to press. His wife had been through hell while being held captive in Forest Mist. He supposed it was normal for her to have a little PTSD. He decided to change the subject, take her mind off things, perhaps help her mend.
“We were communicating with Washington… that’s what this meeting was all about. Some bigwig at the Pentagon wanted me to debrief him personally. They are going to send in the US Army after Ketchum and capture the gasoline he threated to use against the Alliance.”
She immediately brightened, “Really? They’re really going to send soldiers?”
Nodding, Bishop replied, “Yes, ma’am. However, no one even knows for sure he survived. He has not been seen in New Orleans since the battle at Forest Mist, or at least none of Washington’s sources have any information regarding his current whereabouts. Personally, I think it’s likely he bled out trying to get back to the Big Easy. They’ll probably find his bones alongside some country road a few years from now.”
“I wish I could be so sure,” she frowned. Then adding, “Will the Pentagon let us know if they find him?”
“Yes,” Bishop smiled. “That was a prerequisite for my debriefing the Army. Nick is supposed to receive a full report after their operation is completed.”
Her reply was simple and unexpected. “Good. I hope they capture that bastard and put him on trial. I want to see him dangling at the end of a rope. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m exhausted. I want to go to bed.”
Chapter 2
The four Black Hawk helicopters rose as one, lifting only a few feet into the air before performing a synchronized “right face.” With their blinking navigation lights strobing shadows across the predawn landscape surrounding Fort Polk, the formation began gaining altitude and turning toward New Orleans to the south. Each was carrying eleven, fully equipped infantrymen and officers of the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division.
To the senior men assigned to the unit, their mission was a throwback to the time before the collapse. Not since the downfall had any of them heard the words “terrorist threat” included in their operational orders. According to the unit’s leader, this assignment had come directly from the commander-in-chief himself.
A criminal organization in the Big Easy had reportedly acquired an enormous stockpile of petroleum and was toying with ways to use this powerful resource for nefarious purposes. One Mr. Ketchum Jones, a.k.a. Blackjack Jones, had been officially labeled a terrorist by Washington. The 3/10’s mission was to capture this traitor as well as any of his associates, and of course, the primary objective was to seize that precious fuel. Lethal force had been authorized.
The newly reformed American government as well what remained of the state hierarchy considered the city of New Orleans abandoned territory, a sort of no-man’s land. Only a small section of the deep-water port was still in use. Since the fall of society, the constant silting and shifting of the area made the lower Mississippi channel impassable. That once-vital artery of floating commerce was now all but closed due to a lack of maintenance dredging.
Still, the US Coast Guard kept a skeleton force in the area, mainly to thwart looting of their equipment, but also to keep an eye on the occasional freighter or tug that managed to dock. A plethora of recovery plans were always being bandied about in D.C., and a deep-water port seemed to be an essential lynchpin in almost all of those futuristic campaigns. New Orleans would return to prominence one day, at least in terms of cargo tonnage. After all, the mighty Mississippi bisected the continental United States, and she alone could spark trade and growth in America’s breadbasket. Everyone expected the “Great Muddy” to spur economic recovery in the future, and therefore she could not be ignored.
As he watched the lush, green landscape of central Louisiana rush beneath his bird, Captain P. J. Holt wondered for the Nth time why the bureaucrats in Washington had their collective panties in a wad about some thug down in the Big Easy sitting on a few tons of refined petroleum.
Sure, the gasoline was important. Any consumable fuel in these post-apocalyptic times was considered extremely valuable. From what little intelligence his team had received, there was at least one barge full of the liquid gold. That asset, however, didn’t warrant the level of force now assembled against Mr. Jones. “Hell, these Black Hawks are probably drinking almost as much fuel as what we’ll recover,” he whispered under his breath.
Captain Holt had no idea about the conditions in New Orleans, nor had the Pentagon provided many details. It was a safe guess that law enforcement didn’t exist. In the years since the collapse, the career Army officer had heard of numerous municipalities that had essentially been abandoned by the federal government. When referring to a wild and lawless metropolitan area, the captain and his men used a term from the Old West where anarchy ruled the day, “Dodge City.”
This operation held one important aspect for Holt and his command, and that was the alleviation of monotony and boredom in their everyday lives. This was the first “real” mission worthy of a fighting man since the civil war with the Independents had loomed on the horizon.
The captain had joined Mother Green’s Army to eradicate terrorism, right a few global wrongs, tour the world, rally around the stars and stripes, and prove himself in the most hostile environments on the planet. What he hadn’t anticipated was being stationed at a remote base after the downfall of his beloved America. Instead of fighting jihadist hordes or protecting his country’s interests abroad, Holt spent his days guarding food shipments, escorting parades of refugees, and keeping looters away from government assets.
Today, however, he and his men might get the chance to fulfill their potential. Patting the carbine strapped tightly to his chest, the captain refocused on the mission ahead. With any luck, they would help the recovery as soldiers. He was sick of being a cop, a nanny, and a night watchman.
As the outskirts of New Orleans appeared below, Holt couldn’t help but stare down at what had once been a bustling, thriving center of commerce. Gone were the street performers who sang for their supper…. Absent were the soulful melodies of the trumpet and saxophone. Today, the birthplace and stronghold for American Jazz sat eerily silent. Entire blocks of the town had burned to the ground, blackened timbers protruding from mounds of charred debris, reaching skyward at peculiar angles. The engines in the fire stations had not been started for years. Storms from the Gulf ferried in widespread lightning. Pockets of gas leaking from abandoned structures created a volatile environment leading to fiery explosions. More than a few unchecked arsonists had left their inky mark on the landscape. Any city was a tinderbox, and the skyline below the Black Hawk was definitely not an exception. Looks like Mrs. O’Leary’s cow made a visit to the Big Easy , Holt mused.
As his bird flew low into the city proper, the other word that circled round and round the captain’s mind was “rust.”
In the early light, the reddish color of corrosion seemed to dominate the landscape below. Any metal, appliance, or vehicle exposed to a fire, would quickly corrode afterward. That was to be expected.
What amazed the captain was the number of lamp posts, street signs, mailboxes, and other items common to a cityscape that were also covered with oxidation. “Nothing but rust and weeds,” he whispered to no one.
Indeed, nature seemed to be the only thing working in the Big Easy. Chickweed, dandelion and crabgrass prospered everywhere, some side streets nearly covered in overgrowth, while sidewalks and driveways looked more like plant nurseries than pathways. No one had mowed yards or cleaned ditches for years, and for a few moments, Holt wondered how many decades it would take before the entire city was reclaimed into a humid and lush jungle.
After making sure his subordinates were spreading the pilot’s message, Holt’s attention returned to the Black Hawk’s open bay. The choppers were flying lower now, vectoring in on a large, open concrete apron next to one of the port’s terminals.
As they passed over an industrial section of the Big Easy, Holt noticed that practically every building was a shell, the structures void of glass.
Peering at the assortment of warehouses, offices, storefronts, and homes, he could not spot a single intact pane of glass among them. There was nothing there but jagged shards, if anything at all. Why, he wondered? Why break windows for no apparent reason?
He felt the helicopter flare, the bird’s nose rising slightly as it slowed and descended to the pavement. A swirling cloud of trash, leaves, and debris rose into the air, the craft’s powerful downdraft sweeping the area clear.
Holt always relished this moment, the security of that initial contact between solid ground and the sole of his boot.
The first man off the chopper, the captain moved immediately to a point several meters away from his airborne chariot before taking a knee while bringing his weapon up to sweep the area.
The men of the 10th Mountain dismounted quickly, years of training allowing each trooper to know his exact position and assignment. Within seconds, the air was filled with the whine of turbine engines powering up to lift off. Around each stood a circle of infantrymen, weapons sweeping right and left, ready to engage anyone who was stupid enough to fire on their landing zone.
Holt watched his lifeline rise into the sky, but he wasn’t worried. In his mind, there was zero possibility that any gang of criminals could pose a serious threat to the element under his command. After the last Black Hawk was soaring skyward, he motioned to one of his lieutenants, Let’s get moving.
The intelligence briefing had identified three potential deep-water barges in the Nashville Avenue Terminal. The Pentagon colonel ramrodding the meeting was sure that such a large cache of fuel wouldn’t be left unguarded. “We know that they are equipped with rocket-propelled grenades, belt-fed weapons, and are reportedly quite skilled in small unit maneuver. Don’t take these people for granted. Their leader, Mr. Jones, is an ex-Army Ranger who served time in Leavenworth,” the officer had warned. “This rogue is highly skilled and has no honor.”
Approaching the corner of an immense warehouse, Holt used his weapon’s optic to scan berths alongside the Mississippi River. Sure enough, he easily spotted activity around one of the hefty vessels. Just as his superiors had predicted, the security element guarding the gasoline had been alerted by the arrival of four military helicopters.
For several seconds, he watched men scurry up and down a gangplank, all of them armed with long guns and moving with great haste. He counted at least five defenders.
After issuing a series of orders to his men, the captain watched with pride as his rifle squads began deploying across the wide expanse of the concrete jetty. It didn’t matter if the bad guys knew they were coming. If they wanted to fight, so be it. Holt doubted they would choose suicide over surrender or retreat.
Less than a mile from the Nashville Avenue Terminal, Blackjack Jones was pulling on his pants. He had heard the Army’s Black Hawks three minutes before one of his panicked men had knocked on the door to warn of the military’s arrival.
From his penthouse balcony, atop the city’s most prestigious apartment building, Ketchum had watched the four assault helicopters descend onto the wharf.
“How did they find out about the barge?” he had grumbled. “Who talked?”
Other than Voodoo, who was now dead, and his father, there were only a handful of people in his organization that knew of the secret cache of valuable fuel. Most of them were on guard duty at that very moment. Ketchum breathed deeply with the sigh of a man betrayed. How had the government found out? Who had knifed him in the back?
Quickly dismissing all but his inner circle, the question set his mind in a whir. Blackjack took one last sip of his coffee, taking his time to get dressed. His deliberate and metered movements were in part due to the image he needed to project. He knew that he needed to display calm, cool, collected leadership to the gaggle of anxious men now huddled in his suite. They were awaiting his orders. They were concerned, if not frightened.
He had taken an ass-kicking in Forest Mist, losing over 130 men, a small arsenal of valuable firearms, and a convoy of vehicles that could have stretched across the Big Easy. Voodoo, his second in command, hadn’t survived. Nor had his father.
Blackjack’s position at the top of the New Orleans food chain was now being questioned. His reputation was at risk. His organization was in a state of flux. There were hushed conversations up and down the chain of command, many speculating that the boss was now weak and vulnerable.
Now was the time for him to show calm and deliberate leadership, but there was yet another reason for Ketchum moving a little slower this morning. The man was still nursing his wounds. It had taken the local sawbones nearly an hour to remove all of the shrapnel from his back. That flesh was still tender, the staples at risk of being pulled loose with every movement. Yet, he couldn’t show pain. He understood as well as anybody that his rank as the apex predator atop the local crime syndicate was more precarious now than ever.
Sporting a deadpan expression, he buttoned his shirt while he mentally revisited the nightmare of Forest Mist for the Nth time. The firetrucks blocking the road had been a solid tactic by Bishop and his cohorts. Turning the surrounding fields into mud pits to snare his men had been inspired.
Even the professional placement of the ambush wasn’t what bothered Blackjack the most, however. No, what stuck in the huge man’s craw was the leadership shown by the West Texan and his wife. That was where Ketchum had made his mistake. He had failed to account for his opponents’ skills.
If he forced himself to review the clash without the emotional turmoil surrounding his defeat, Ketchum would have to admit admiration for what Bishop had accomplished that night. To organize a ragtag, irregular force on short notice and have them execute a plan with such proficiency was nothing less than amazing. Lesson learned , he mused. I won’t underestimate any adversary ever again.
Wounded, dazed, and bleeding, Ketchum had forsaken his command that night. Self-preservation had inundated him, his mind filled with little more than saving his own skin while his men continued to die around him. He had pulled a dead rider from his bike, kicked the powerful engine to life, and ridden off without a second thought.
It never occurred to Blackjack that his act was cowardly. The concept of heroically leading his men to the bitter end never entered his mind. According to Ketchum’s thinking, he was only doing the right thing – living to fight another day. Any savvy leader in a similar situation would do the same thing, given such a setback. Great generals didn’t sacrifice themselves when the day was lost. They understood that their skills and cunning were needed to regroup. It was historically common for battles to be lost and yet wars to still be won. That was what occurred outside Forest Mist , Blackjack Jones rationalized.
Regardless of his internal justifications and excuses, the sour taste of defeat still fouled Ketchum’s thoughts. Now, the military was invading his turf, and deep inside, Blackjack was far from ready for another engagement. Bishop’s victory had secretly shaken Ketchum’s confidence, replacing ruthless aggression with foreboding, uncertainty, and hesitation.
Finally clothed, Ketchum turned to his men and announced his orders. “Let them take the barge,” he instructed in a monotone voice. “We can’t defeat the US Army… this is a fight we can’t win. I don’t know who is ratting us out to the man, but that gasoline doesn’t matter all that much. Tell your people to lay low and stay out of sight. Radio the crew at the boat and tell them to escape or surrender and keep their mouths shut. Even if they’re caught, if they deny they know
anything, I am confident they will be released in short order. But they have to make our attackers believe they know nothing.”
“They’ll come looking for you, Blackjack,” one of his lieutenants offered.
“Let them look. This is my city. I’ve been hiding from cops and prosecutors and competitors for years. They won’t find us. I’ll bet a fifth of bourbon that they’ll give up and head back to Washington within seventy-two hours. We can get back to business then… back to the way things used to be.”
There was a quick exchange of embraces and handshakes, and then Ketchum’s men rushed to fulfill his orders. As he watched them leave, Blackjack wondered which one of them would be the first to try and take over his organization. He could see it in their eyes. They smelled weakness, sensed blood in the water, and that always made the sharks hungry.
Monitoring the barge with his binoculars, Captain Holt wasn’t especially surprised when the sentries guarding the vessel turned and darted away. “Just like I thought,” he whispered, “thugs and criminals like to prey on the weak and defenseless, but when faced with a real challenge, they tuck their tails and run for the hills. Cowards.”
Turning to his radio operator, the infantry commander said, “Tell the lead squad to take the gangplank and hold it. No one is to step on that barge until the ordnance disposal team has a chance to check it for boobytraps. Everybody else should pursue those security people. I want to interrogate them as soon as possible.”
Nodding his understanding while adding a snappy, “Yes, sir,” the specialist began relaying the captain’s orders. After listening for a bit to make sure his wishes were being communicated, Holt turned his attention back to the fleeing ruffians. “So much for being real terrorists. These guys are just street criminals, not dedicated jihadists. Their only cause is self-improvement and ill-gotten gains. We’ll be finished here in a few hours. Might even be home for supper.”
