by Joe Nobody
Mr. Sleepy-guard jerked his head up, and for a moment, Bishop thought the guy had heard something. Ready to pounce if the sentry made any move to wake his comrades, Bishop relaxed when the watchman rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He dozed off, Bishop realized. He’s trying to stay awake and finish his shift. I’ve been there a hundred times.
One click, and then nothing. Scout number one was ready.
Finally, Bishop arrived – less than 20 feet away from the nearest truck. So close, he could hear the crackle of the fire. So close, he could smell the porta-potty. He took a knee and raised his weapon.
Three clicks.
Major Baxter didn’t respond at first, his eyes scanning the long row of trucks and men parked alongside the road. There were 21 vehicles in all, each packed to the brim with food, medical supplies, a gasoline generator, and fuel. The Army had even contributed a mobile water filtration system. It was an impressive collection, assembled specifically for the town of Brighton, Texas.
“Make ready to approach the objective, Sergeant Riggs,” the officer ordered.
“Yes, sir,” responded the NCO, pivoting quickly to rush and execute the order.
For a brief moment, Baxter felt the nag of fear cross his gut. This mission was important, the first of its kind. If it went well, it would become a textbook example for others. If it didn’t, the blame would follow him throughout the rest of his military career.
Not that his boyhood dreams of lifelong service to his country were going that well anyway. The United States had dissipated. His unit, division, and base now pledged to an unknown, unproven entity that called itself the Alliance.
He understood the logic of the decision. Food rationing at Fort Hood was depleting morale. Medical supplies were running low. Communications were practically nonexistent. The battalions that did venture out from the central Texas base returned with reports that made even the bravest soldier shiver. Houston and Dallas had hundreds of thousands of dead, and the number was increasing every day.
The great, proud nation, the most powerful country on earth, was starving to death. The leadership was tearing itself apart. The most potent military ever assembled was divided, reunited, and then divided again. It was more than troubling – it was debilitating.
Morale had already registered an all-time low. When the average trooper realized there wasn’t enough food to feed his children living at the base, tempers began to rise. Desertions, already an issue, threatened to become epidemic.
And now, this “Alliance.” How long would this last? Baxter pondered, watching his men hustle to their vehicles. Was this really the answer?
To make matters worse, his superiors had insisted… no, forced these civilians down his throat. Twenty of them had arrived at Hood, their pickup trucks filled with food and supplies from West Texas. All of that would have been understandable were it not for their leader - a clown named Bishop.
Undisciplined, brimming with ill-timed humor, and brandishing an unacceptable level of familiarity, Bishop had tried to be casual and friendly. The memory of those first few days made Baxter snort in disgust. Why would such a man think an officer in the United States Army would accept him as a comrade, let alone listen to his bumpkin-like strategic advice?
Sure, Baxter had heard a few stories about the man’s antics. These tales, the major was convinced, were obvious exaggerations of secondhand information and most likely self-promoted lore.
The sound of truck engines pulled Baxter out of his analysis, the sergeant’s voice booming up and down the line as he ordered the mulling men. “Mount up, ladies! Teatime is over. We’ve got work to do.”
By the time they were ready to depart on the mission, Baxter had filed his second request to leave Bishop behind or have the West Texan replaced. It was then that he finally discerned the true cause for his being burdened with such a clod.
Bishop’s wife was important, a key figure in the civilian leadership. The man was politically connected, and that explained it all.
Baxter’s thoughts were interrupted by the sergeant’s return. “The convoy is ready, sir.”
The major nodded and motioned toward the lead Humvee. As he stepped up to enter the passenger side, he scanned back along the long line of waiting transports.
The sight reinvigorated his determination and confidence.
At significant cost and enormous sacrifice, the convoy had been pledged to this mission. Such a gathering of goods was worth its weight in gold, so desperate was the need for the supplies and materials now under his command. Division had determined that here and now, in Brighton, Texas was where the precious cargo would be distributed. They had chosen him to lead the mission. They were committed. It was his duty. He would succeed despite the handicap imposed by his superiors.
Bishop waited alongside the roadway, his ears straining to hear what he knew would be the next phase – the approaching engines of the convoy.
During the wait, doubt grew in his mind. I’m still not convinced this is the right way to accomplish this initiative. I wish I had raised more of a stink.
Back at Hood, the military commanders had been unquestionably confident with their plan. “Arrive with overwhelming force and assert our authority,” they had proposed. “Leave no room for doubt among the civilian population. Be clear in defining the objective and our intent. The local people will welcome order and control and will respect the show of force demonstrating our capability to implement it.”
But Bishop’s experience didn’t exactly mesh with that line of thinking. He’d toured more post-collapse villages and metropolitan areas than anyone else at the table, and his gut told him the Army’s ideas were risky. In the end, the council had voted to accept the military’s recommendations. Despite his reservations, Bishop had to support what the Alliance’s ruling body ordered. It was the rule of law, part of living in an orderly society.
I need to stop bitching and worrying, he thought. We’re the white hats… the good guys. It’ll be fine.
He then refocused on the pavement beyond the barricade, straining to hear the announcement of the convoy’s arrival. Behind him, the two-lane Texas highway stretched into the darkness toward Brighton. He hoped they would be welcomed there. He prayed that the townspeople had fared better than others he’d seen since the economic collapse of the country.
According to the scavenged Texas Visitor’s Guide, Brighton was a berg of just over 5,000 people. Like most small communities, many of the locals owed their livelihoods to a single, dominant employer. Condor Pipe and Valve, the town’s economic anchor, bumped the tiny municipality to the top of the Alliance’s priority list.
Terri and the council were desperately trying to reestablish electricity to the area’s major cities. It was the first directive. In the case of Dallas and Houston, that meant reviving the two huge nuclear power facilities that serviced those vast urban areas.
When the collapse had occurred, both of the energy plants had implemented emergency shutdowns. While the residents counted their blessings that those procedures had been executed, both facilities had remained idle and unmaintained since. Complex machinery and electronics, left untouched for over two years, hadn’t weathered inactivity well.
When the military had rolled into the metropolitan centers and established martial law, one of their first priorities had been to resume energy generation at the power plants. While much work had been done, the personnel, spare parts, and materials required for such an effort had simply been beyond reach. Not having the resources, authority, or wherewithal to kick-start the supply chain, both of the enormous facilities had remained inactive.
Condor Pipe and Valve had been one of the dozens of manufacturers identified as a critical-path supplier. According to the few surviving engineers, the remote factory could provide the essential cooling conduits and other equipment necessary to repair the rusting, corroded plumbing at both facilities.
Despite the cost and resources required, no one could argue against keeping those nucl
ear rods nice and cool. Nor was there any doubt that electricity had provided the fledgling West Texas towns at the core of the Alliance a much-needed shot in the arm. Many believed the Alliance would have never succeeded without the windmill-generated energy powering those populations.
Of the five directives, energy was the most critical. With an active grid providing electricity, communication with the masses was achievable. People could find work, locate missing relatives, and exchange ideas. With fuel, transportation was a no-brainer. Voltage meant produce and meat could be preserved, processed, and accounted for. Bishop soon found he had a new assignment.
All of the other directives, it seemed, were easily obtainable if energy were plentiful.
All of this meant reestablishing society, rule of law and a government in the town of Brighton. Isolated from the major metropolitan areas, no one from the military or the Alliance had visited the community since the collapse. No one knew what to expect. Everyone hoped there were still enough survivors to restart Condor and begin generating product.
Bishop’s thoughts were pulled back by the low rumble of the convoy. Let the games begin, he mused.
Alerted by the sound of 21 engines rolling toward their positions, the guards manning the roadblock were initially stunned. Voices, ripe with both surprise and confusion, soon filled the air. One man had trouble navigating his exit from his sleeping bag, almost falling out of the back of the pickup’s bed. The other recently roused watchman originally pulled his boots on the wrong feet. Bishop was reminded of the Keystone Cops, witnessing one guy stumble while the other seemed to have forgotten where he’d left his rifle.
Bishop watched as they fluttered about, scrambling to take up positions. Given the bedlam, he guessed they didn’t get much business these days, probably spending their shifts bored to tears and playing poker.
By the time the lead truck stopped 800 meters short of the barricade, the noble defenders of Brighton had attained their assigned positions. Two rifle barrels pointed at the approaching procession while a third man stood in the center of the highway brandishing an AR15. The garrison’s effort had been slow and unpracticed.
“I’m not impressed,” Bishop mumbled as he prepared to move.
With the sentries’ attention focused on the idling convoy, Bishop stood and removed his net-camouflage. In the faint, but growing light, he detected two other nearby outlines performing the same act. On cue, the three scouts moved as one, silently slipping in from behind the unaware watchmen.
The two soldiers with Bishop made for the sandbagged fighting positions, their assignment to neutralize the guards stationed there. The Texan had to admire their skills as he hung back a few steps, watching to make sure the takedown went smoothly.
A few moments later, both Brighton men were slowly lowering their weapons, and then their hands were raised in the air. Before Bishop had passed by their positions, the two wide-eyed watchmen were lying flat on the ground.
Bishop’s task was to subdue the man a few steps in front of the roadblock. Cutting smoothly around the tow truck, rifle high and ready, he quietly closed on the oblivious guard. Covered by the low din of the convoy’s motors, he stepped to within a few feet of the sentry’s back.
“Good morning,” Bishop announced, trying to keep a friendly tone.
The man jumped, his instincts ordering his body to pivot and seek the source of the voice behind him. He found the muzzle of Bishop’s weapon two inches from his nose and inhaled sharply.
“Drop the rifle, my friend, and you’ll get to eat breakfast. Test my trigger finger, and these hollow-points will split your head in half. I know that for a fact.”
As Bishop anticipated, the sentry’s panicked mind couldn’t arrive at a decision. The Texan knew he’d have to ease the process along. “Drop the fucking rifle! Now!” he growled.
The sentry, staring into the coldest pair of human eyes he’d ever seen, didn’t hesitate again. A plastic and metal clatter sounded over the background noise of the convoy’s engines as the AR15 connected with the pavement.
“I want the prisoners secured, Sergeant Riggs,” Major Baxter’s voice rang out. “Use the zip ties to bind their hands, and prepare them for interrogation.”
Bishop tried to keep the frown off his face, but failed. “Major, a word please.”
“What now?” the officer blustered, clearly annoyed at Bishop’s interruption.
“Sir, I would recommend treating the locals with respect. They aren’t insurgents or criminals – they’re just a few guys who were protecting their neighbors and families.”
The young officer stepped in close to Bishop, his voice going low and mean. “They were manning an illegal barricade and showed clear intent to engage us. I’m not going to pour them a drink and shake their hands. We need to establish authority and control. Those are my orders.”
Bishop’s temper swelled in his chest, every cell in his being screaming to punch the overzealous man’s face. But he suppressed it, checking his urge, allowing only a low snarl and simmering defiance. “Illegal to whom, Major? How were they to know who they were engaging? As far as these men knew, we were a roving gang of zombies intent on murdering everyone in Brighton. Take a moment and put yourself in their shoes.”
Shaking his head in disgust, Baxter pivoted and faced the still-waiting sergeant. “Do as I ordered, Riggs. Now.”
Sighing, Bishop moved to the side, watching as the three sentries were bound and then forced to their knees. The major moved to stand in front of the frightened men, his voice thick with a condescending tone. “Who is in charge of Brighton?”
Two of the prisoners glanced at the third comrade, clearly indicating which of them was in charge of the blockade. Bishop had to hand it to the captain of the guard; the man had a little grit. “Who wants to know?”
“I am Major Baxter, commanding a detachment from the 1st Combat Team, 7th Cavalry, United St…,” the officer hesitated, unsure of how to continue. After an uncomfortable pause, he finished with, “The Army.”
“Well, Major, I don’t believe you,” the now-recovering sentry responded. “The Army I know wouldn’t act like sneaky thieves, stalking freeborn Americans in the night.”
Bishop barely managed to subdue the snort of laughter that formed in his throat. He was beginning to like the head sentry. Baxter, on the other hand, saw no humor in the response.
There was now enough light to see the major tremble with anger, the officer’s weight shifting forward while his hands balled into tight fists. “I asked you a question! Who commands Brighton?”
Bishop, thinking Baxter was about to strike the captive, was at his limit. Inhaling deeply, his foot lifted to take a step toward the aggressive officer, physical confrontation written all over his face. Before Bishop’s boot managed the first step, the sergeant stepped in.
“Major!” the older, seasoned veteran barked. “Sir!”
Somehow, the NCO’s voice managed to penetrate Baxter’s ire. Almost as if the subordinate had slapped his superior’s face, the major turned and glared at his second in command. “What? What is it, Sergeant?”
“Sir, we can’t locate the keys to this tow truck. With your permission, I need to attach a towline and pull it to the side. It’s the only way to open the road.”
“Smooth,” Bishop whispered under his breath, knowing the real reason why the sergeant had interrupted. “That was some very quick thinking.”
Baxter, however, didn’t appreciate it. His voice thick with indignation, he replied, “So? What’s your point, Sergeant?”
“Sir, the captives are kneeling directly in front of the wrecker’s tow hitch. I can’t attach a tow rope while they’re there.”
Baxter’s head snapped toward the locals, then back to his man. For a moment, Bishop thought the officer in charge was going to rip the sergeant a new one, but he didn’t. “Very well. See to it,” and then the major was off, storming toward the command Humvee as if he had important matters that required his immediate att
ention.
Bishop watched as a couple of troopers helped the prisoners to their feet and then herded them to the side of the road. As soon as the bound men were settled, he sauntered over and took a knee beside them.
“I’m not with the Army, fellas,” he began. “Our illustrious commander is a little on edge this morning. Give me something to work with, and I’ll make this right.”
The head guard eyed Bishop with a hint of suspicion, but still probed, “What do you want?”
“Does the tow truck still run? And if so, where are the keys?”
The man snorted, nodding his head. “We start it every now and then to let someone pass. The keys are over the sun visor. Where else would they be?”
Bishop chuckled and then smiled at the sentry. “Give me a minute to get this all straightened out. Please don’t hold it against Baxter. The major’s under a lot of pressure these days.”
“Good luck pulling that two by four out of the guy’s ass,” the man replied.
Bishop hustled over just as one of the soldiers was arriving with a Humvee. “Sergeant,” he shouted over the engine noise. “One second, please.”
“Yes, sir?”
Bishop pointed to the tow truck’s cab, motioning for the NCO to follow him over. Climbing up, Bishop opened the door and pulled down the eyeshade. He caught the falling keys in mid-air.
Smiling, the sergeant took the ring. “Thank you, sir. I wasn’t real sure our little Humvee could move this behemoth anyway.”
Satisfied with the progress on clearing the roadblock, Bishop took a deep breath and moved off to find Major Baxter. It was time for a serious discussion.
He found the man addressing some of his troops, the group clustered behind the command Humvee. Standing to the side, Bishop just stared at the major until he was noticed.
“Yes?” Baxter barked, looking annoyed.
“We need to talk, Major. We need to have a little chitchat before we enter town.”
Bishop was surprised at the officer’s reaction. Instead of acting as if he were being pestered, the man actually reared up – almost as if he wanted to get a few things off his chest as well.
