by Nobody, Joe
As he progressed upwards, Bishop experienced that odd feeling of being watched. His mind conjured up images of Dean monitoring his progress with a pair of binoculars or riflescope. If he were in the other man’s shoes, he would probably do the same.
At one point, Bishop thought to raise his arm and flip a middle finger back toward the camp, but held the gesture. It wouldn’t help his plan if the other side knew of his suspicions. Why would a hunter do that? Be the hunter, he mused. Play the part… act the role.
With that in mind, Bishop began studying the landscape ahead with an eye toward game. Wild animals, he knew, typically traveled the easiest path. It wasn’t laziness per se, but more an instinct to conserve energy for escaping predators or surviving lean times. Given the weight of his kit and the thinner air, Bishop was just fine with the path of least resistance.
His other focus was on the camp itself. For his plan to work, he needed to put as much foliage between his location and the prying eyes he assumed were tracking him from below. It would be easy to disappear into the landscape, but that wasn’t his purported goal. He took his time scouting the lay of the land, figuring angles and noting especially thick clusters of foliage and protruding formations of rock.
With the ultimate objective of investigating the north side of the camp, he settled on a horseshoe-shaped route with Camp Pinion being in the center. Using the camper’s location as the starting point, he would traverse a wide semi-loop that would result in a descent on the far side of the community, passing right through the area he really wanted to see.
With his general course plotted, Bishop began to alter his speed. Other than the dense greenery, hiking here was little different than his native West Texas. He felt at home. Rockslides occurred, wind and rain eroded, and vegetation grew in the same patterns. Moving through such terrain was second nature.
Bishop was a fellow who had clambered over his fair share of rocks and mountains in his day. His familiarity with the task at hand allowed him to vary his pace. Rapid, then cautious… fast, then slow, Bishop moved with a grace and strength that would make avoiding detection nearly impossible for anyone trying to follow him. A tracker would either lose him, or bumble too close and give away his presence.
Gradually, his elevation increased, the path always uphill, but manageable. At one point, a gap provided a remarkable vista of the camp below. Bishop estimated he was just over 1,000 feet above the valley, half a mile to the north. He could see the dollhouse-like rooflines of the cabins, the lake in the distance shimmering with the reflection of the morning sun. A quick glance through his optic confirmed the camper and pickup were right where he’d left them, but there was no sign of Terri or his son. They’re probably sleeping, he decided.
People were moving about down there, barely discernable with the naked eye. If I can see them, they can see me, Bishop thought. Anyone with good glass can probably tell I didn’t shave this morning.
Pausing a moment to enjoy the vantage, he had to admit the place initiated an almost primal reaction of wellbeing. For someone worried about long-term survival, the valley offered all anyone could want. Water, multiple food sources, a hidden location… it was all there, wrapped up in one nice little bundle that was easy on the eye. It was worth the risk he was taking if Terri and he could raise Hunter here.
Diverting his gaze away from the nature-porn below, Bishop began studying his immediate surroundings in detail. His perch was at the summit of the highest point in the vicinity, a sub-peak still over a quarter mile away from the serious heights offered by the closest mountain. If he were hunting from a stationary spot, this would be it.
Bubbling streams, swollen by last night’s storm, crisscrossed the area. Animals liked water. There was also a good mixture of open boulder fields and tall pines. Animals liked cover. He had practically a 360-degree view of his surroundings and a clear field of fire in most directions. Most importantly, he was visible from below.
His next concern was blending into the background. His primary area of activity had been West Texas, an arid area dominated by browns and yellows in the landscape. Green wasn’t a common occurrence in his native land. For this reason, Bishop had always chosen coyote brown or flat dark earth-colored equipment and kit. Even his weapons carried the same hues.
He had learned long ago that color and texture were the two most important considerations when it came to camouflage. Instructors at HBR had taken their classes to a variety of locations, demonstrating to the eager students how to configure their bodies and kit to blend into their surroundings.
As he scanned his environment, he breathed a sigh of relief. While green would have been a better match, his tan and browns still occurred often enough in the valley’s pallet.
With a prime spot selected, Bishop set about gathering materials. He really didn’t need much – a few sticks and some local weeds. He located a pile of deadwood, pinned between two boulders when the water from a nearby stream had overflowed its banks.
Double-checking that he wasn’t visible from below, he selected two wrist-sized lengths, picking up limbs that were less than four feet in length.
He then found a patch of waist-high weeds, selecting several vine-like examples. He wasn’t familiar with the local vegetation and was sure to wear his gloves to avoid any sort of poison or rash.
He carried the bounty back to the summit, always vigilant to keep out of sight. It was easy work making a “t” out of the limbs, securing the cross member using the vines. He didn’t make it perfect or sturdy, just enough shape to hold Dean’s fluorescent safety vest.
Staying low and back, he pushed the brightly adorned scarecrow out into the open, trying to show enough of the vest to satisfy curious eyes that might be tracking him from below. If things went badly wrong, he would simply claim forgetfulness, accidently leaving the vest behind on his makeshift shooting platform. The stick-man was just as easy to justify. It wasn’t uncommon for hunters to use or make “shooting sticks,” an aid to stabilize their aim for long distance shots.
Satisfied with his scarecrow, Bishop then began the difficult leg of his mission. Traversing terrain while hunting was one thing, stalking across the landscape was completely another. The physical exertion required was exponentially greater, the progress notably slower. His casual walk in the woods had been pleasant, now it was time to get to work.
It was more than just physical stamina. The mental energy and discipline required could drain a man quickly. Tired brains make mistakes, and those errors can lead to a quick death.
The stalker had to pre-plot his next move. He was required to examine his surroundings with mind-numbing attention to the smallest detail, looking for any telltale sign that something was out of place. In the span of 20 meters, he might visually dissect a single bush five times, all the while crawling, scampering, and running in crouched, bent positions that wore on ligaments, muscles, and tendons.
Stress played a major role as well. While Bishop didn’t expect snipers or enemy infantry to be hunting him, discovery might draw violence. Worse yet, if they caught onto his game, retribution might be taken out on Terri and Hunter. That would be a mistake, Pastor, he thought. I would burn your pretty, little camp to the ground. You would greet your maker charred black and riddled with bullet holes.
The revenge fantasy made Bishop pause. He hadn’t considered that before. Did being an accused murderer mean he had to watch his step? If, and it was a big if, he were to ever stand trial, would his actions since the massacre be scrutinized? No doubt events prior to that night in Chambers Canyon would be dissected in minute detail.
Despite being isolated in the deep woods, he grimaced and cursed himself for even contemplating an assault on the camp. That’s the kind of thinking the US government is accusing me of. That’s the kind of act that drove me from my friends and home. Stop that shit.
He shook if off, sure of his innocence and confident in his friends’ abilities to clear his name. There won’t be any trial, he mused. Whoever k
illed all those soldiers won’t let the truth come to light. They will kill me before there’s any chance of exposure.
Bishop continued to work his way down the mountain, his speed over ground agonizingly slow. More than two hours had passed when he finally managed a clear view of the place the mysterious activity had occurred the night before.
The first detail he noted was the road. Resembling a logging trail zigzagging through rocks and foothills, Bishop had to smile at its presence. According to the preacher, there was only one way in and out of the valley. Clearly, he was either mistaken or a liar.
He followed the lane with his eyes, evidence of recent use clearly marked by trampled weeds along several narrower sections. It was while he was trying to gauge exactly where he had seen the men moving back and forth that he found the second surprise of his trip.
Between his perch and the road was a series of ropes strung between random trees. All along the barrier were signs, each proclaiming, “Danger! Restricted Area – Do not Enter.”
So the camp management did know of the activities going on up here. No mistaking that – the preacher was a liar.
But, why would he want to hide the road from the camp’s citizens? Bishop pondered the question for a bit, trying to solve the puzzle. He couldn’t come up with any answers that made sense.
“Fuck your restricted area, Dean. I didn’t see the signs,” he whispered, moving toward the closest tree supporting the rope. A quick slash with his fighting knife dropped the picket.
He considered his next move, a binary choice of going up or down the road. He chose up, or toward the camp, after noticing a cliff in that direction - a 150-foot high vertical wall of stone that would dead end the lane.
Bishop scanned ahead, frowning at the open spaces he’d have to pass in order to see what was at the end of Pearson’s yellow brick road. There wasn’t enough foliage or natural cover, so he would have to make his own.
Again, the knife left the sheath across his chest, making quick work of several small branches and handfuls of the knee- high grass that covered the area. He pulled his survival net out of its pouch and began threading the local vegetation through the mesh.
It required over 30 minutes, but Bishop believed the results well worth the effort. He pulled the rifle over his shoulder and then draped the net over his head like a rain poncho. It was a makeshift ghillie suit, perfectly textured and colored to match the surroundings.
Slowly he moved, mostly crawling at a snail’s pace, taking advantage of every mound, small tree, and cluster of brush. It wasn’t a task for the impatient.
It was a relief when the road meandered into thicker vegetation. Realizing he would have to make the return trip, he stashed the net and increased his pace. Fifty meters later, the mine came into view.
It wasn’t a big opening, perhaps four feet high and three feet wide. It was also evident that the mouth was manmade, straight lines on three sides. Weeds, grasses, and even a few thigh-sized trees framed the opening, nature slowly reclaiming the mounds of spoil dumped outside the entrance long ago.
A length of chain crossed the entrance, another of the red and white signs advertising a restricted area. There was a second placard as well, this one hand lettered with the words, “Danger – Unstable – Cave-in possible.”
Is that why they don’t want anyone up here? Why not just seal the tunnel? Bishop pondered the possibility, trying hard to give the preacher the benefit of the doubt. What were all those men doing up here last night then?
There was no clue as to what the miners had been after. It could have been gold, silver or even something as mundane as salt.
His instinct was to go explore the excavation, curiosity over the ever-growing mystery drawing him in. He fought the urge, hanging back and trying to catalog every possible detail from a distance. That caution paid a huge dividend. A well-concealed sentry moved, an innocent scratching motion drawing Bishop’s eye. The man was armed.
His hide was twenty feet above the mine’s entrance, occupying a narrow shelf along the otherwise vertical wall. Upon closer examination, Bishop could see ladder-like steps had been chiseled into the stone.
He found the second guard after another ten minutes of searching, the thermal imager detecting the glow of body heat suspended in a treehouse platform another 80 yards downhill. You really don’t want anyone wandering into this area, do you, Preacher?
But they were facing in, he quickly realized. Both guard posts had been purposely constructed to observe the camp, not any threat approaching from the outside. Bishop remembered their drive into the valley, that lookout positioned in the same manner.
Why? He kept thinking, why go to all this trouble to hide the presence of a road and an old mine from your loyal flock? You don’t post two sentries over simple safety concerns.
The pastor’s vigilance in keeping secrets from his own people was an advantage for Bishop. There was a blind spot, an approach that he could use to get closer to the mine. Unless he made some noise or had failed to detect another sentry, the vector would be out of the lookout’s line of sight.
He invested another 20 minutes, searching every rock, tree, and bush for a third guard. None was found.
Confident and growing impatient, Bishop stirred through the undergrowth, slowly snaking his way using a route he hoped would hide the approach. Before long, he found himself at the base of the cliff, only a few feet from the entrance. He paused, listening intently for any activity within. The old mine seemed unoccupied.
Taking a deep breath, Bishop moved in a flash, covering the open distance in a few large steps, ducking into the opening. Again he stopped, his ears scanning for any alert raised by the sentries.
After determining he was still undetected, Bishop turned to study his new surroundings.
The first thing he noticed was how quickly the tunnel became a pit of darkness. There were no lights inside, the sun’s rays managing to illuminate only a few feet through the small opening. Bishop pulled the thermal imager off his vest and scanned ahead. At first, he thought the device wasn’t working, but then soon realized that everything inside the cave was probably the same ambient temperature. He switched to the night vision.
The green and black images depicted by the light amplification technology fared a little better, but not much. Bishop could see some distance into the tunnel, but not nearly as far as he expected or needed. That problem was solved by an infrared lense and his flashlight.
A subterranean world appeared through the night scope, at least enough for Bishop to feel comfortable with continuing his expedition inside the mountain.
Even with the flashlight’s help, he could only make out 30-40 feet of detail through the NVD. Booby traps and other anti-personnel devices on his mind, he stepped gingerly, scanning the same area over and over again.
Fifty feet inside the entrance, the tunnel widened into a room. Bishop was surprised to find the walls lined with stacks of burlap bags. Each was labeled, “Crawford Church of God – Missionary Services,” and then in large blue letters, “Rice, brown, long stem. 50 lbs.”
He did a quick inventory, counting the bags in a column and then the number of stacks. He finally gave up – there were over 10 tons of rice. Weird, he mused. Nobody mines rice.
The tunnel meandered along, the floor gradually sloping downward into the depths of the mountain. After another 100 feet, he entered a second room, this time full of 5-gallon buckets, each containing dehydrated food. There were hundreds, perhaps over a thousand containers. Wait until FEMA finds out about this stash, he grinned.
He hiked deeper, wondering how many rooms the tunnel system contained. A steel gate appeared in the wall, and Bishop almost ignored the opening, believing it was a side-shaft that had been closed off for safety reasons. He casually flashed the infrared beam through the bars, inhaling sharply at what lay before him.
Row after row of wooden racks contained AR15 rifles, at least 300 weapons visible from his angle. The walls were stacked with p
ine crates, each stenciled with “5.56 M855 BALL.”
The Texan’s blood ran cold at the sight. Excuses and explanations could be made for the cache of food, but what possible motivation could a church have for such an armory? He’d seen enough. He had to get back to Terri and his son. This wasn’t a church retreat in the mountains – this was a cult.
He reversed course, both head and heart racing over the discovery. For the first time, he realized the seriousness of his hosts and the danger they represented. He had completely underestimated the potential peril his wife and he had stumbled upon.
The mouth of the man-made cavern was a small white square in the distance, each footstep bringing sunshine and fresh air closer. Without warning, a silhouette appeared in the opening, the night vision quickly detecting a flashlight beam bouncing off the walls.
Bishop flattened himself against the wall. Had he been seen? Had they discovered the scarecrow? The second storeroom was close by and the only place to hide. If they were looking for him, he’d make them pay a high price before he went down. If they were here on other business, perhaps they would pass him by.
A few moments later, he was wedged between two stacks of buckets, the best position he could determine in a rush.
It seemed like an eternity was passing by, Bishop waiting for any sign that the men were in the tunnel. His mind paraded the possibilities while he waited. They were stalking him. They had left. They were busy on some project at the opening. They were bringing up reinforcements.
Eventually, his NVD detected their flashlight beam a few seconds before he heard voices. They were coming.
Bishop braced the big rifle between two buckets, hoping the lack of lighting and densely packed space would keep the barrel from being detected. There wasn’t any need to worry about aim or maneuver, the range was too close. He did have the wherewithal to insert his hunter’s earpiece, realizing that a gunfight inside of the rock walls would burst eardrums like popping a balloon with a needle. It was going to be ugly - ricochets, blinding muzzle flashes and stone chips turned into shrapnel.
