Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds

by Joe Nobody

  Cameron’s eyes darted between the two men, waiting for more. His visitors were happy to expand.

  “They’ve hit a wall,” continued the first, “They’re trying to restart the banking system, industrial production, and service based industries. But no one has paid on a mortgage since the collapse. Over half of the debtors are dead or missing, another significant portion of the population is sick or not working. Most of their economy is barter, and they just started collecting minimal taxes.”

  “They have hundreds of thousands that are homeless, many living in tent cities and working the fields by hand. Houston alone has armies of transient workers, bussed in to clean up the half of the city that burned. Yet, one estimate presented to the council claimed that 40% of the homes left standing were empty. The problem is, what do you do with them? Who owns them? Where are the owners? Which bank holds the note? It’s a huge mess.”

  One of the visitors chuckled, “I heard a story about a farm equipment dealership outside Brownsville. There were hundreds of new tractors, just sitting on the lot gathering dust. The owner and his family were all dead. The entire inventory had been there for months and months, half of the tires were flat, or so the story goes. Anyway, along came the Alliance… and they needed transportation. They were trying to organize work crews to plant fields, and they had a limited supply of gasoline. So they started taking the implements and using them. Two months ago, a woman showed up and claimed she’s the owner’s daughter… says she deserves to be compensated for all the missing vehicles. She told a great story about being trapped in New Orleans ever since the collapse. Had an ID with the same last name as the owner of record. Presented a yearbook from the local high school with her picture. The Alliance paid her off, only to find out a short time later that there never were any daughters – only three sons. They still haven’t found her or their money.”

  “That’s not even taking into account the fiasco at Ocean Towers,” added the other.

  Cameron grunted and then rubbed his chin, imagining the dilemma facing the Alliance leadership. “So they’re going to set a time limit? They’re going to give people a window to make claims. Anything that’s left over will be divided between the government and the banks. That’s not a bad idea.”

  “No,” responded one of the visitors. “There’s really no other way to go about it. Records, computer servers, files, and even entire courthouses have burned, been ransacked, or are just missing. If you’re a survivor, you’ll be able to file claims for all of the assets, property, resources, and facilities owned before it all went to hell. Of course, stocks, bonds, and other investments will be dealt with later.”

  Nodding, Cameron said, “That’s welcome news. Thank you, gentlemen, for the update. I hope your travels back to Texas are safe, and I look forward to seeing you both again soon.”

  Once alone, the shunned executive returned to the view outside his window.

  For the first time since his exile, he noted the clear horizon and expansive, flat landscape from a positive perspective. There is beauty in it, he surmised. His hard work was about to pay dividends.

  When it became apparent that para-military force wasn’t going to dislodge the Alliance, he’d settled on a different strategy. In a way, the fledgling government now in control of his homeland was a competitor, just like the dozens of corporations he’d bested before the apocalypse. Why should he treat a bunch of amateurs from West Texas any differently? It was all business.

  Inheriting control of the U.S. Army’s assets within the state made his nemesis nearly impossible to dislodge with force, but there were other ways.

  More than once Cameron and his father had beaten back a larger, more powerful enemy. Stock options, futures manipulation, greasing the pockets of regulators, and an army of the best lawyers in the oil patch had resulted in some impressive victories. As the old adage went, often it wasn’t what you knew, but whom you knew that could win the day. Cam knew a lot of people.

  Now that rule of law, banking, high finance, and a system of justice were being reestablished in Texas, why shouldn’t he use the same methods to defeat this newest foe?

  He had people on the inside providing an excellent pipeline of intelligence and perspective. He had the financial assets, legitimate claims, and a growing political clout. The Alliance was struggling, her people growing impatient for progress that always seemed to be slow in coming… and disappointing in the application.

  Just a few weeks ago, pounds of nuclear waste were floating through the air toward the Texas heartland, nearly setting off a panic. War with the United States, for the third time since the downfall, had been a realistic threat.

  There had been so many dangers, potential disasters, and setbacks for the Alliance, it was no wonder her citizens were a potential tinderbox. It would only take the right match to set it all ablaze.

  Cameron stood and exhaled a deep sigh. It was time to make his move. Confidence was high.

  Unlike all of the external threats that had served to pull the people of Texas together, his would be an internal assault, exposing the rot and decay that was the Alliance’s government. He would use their own weaknesses against them, wield their own systems and rules as a weapon.

  He would split their leadership, instill waves of doubt through the population, and prove to the people that it was all a big lie.

  “A house divided cannot stand,” he whispered, paraphrasing President Lincoln’s famous line.

  Diana entered the secure communications room, thanking the specialist for rolling over a chair. Bishop elected to stand.

  “The president is on the frequency, ma’am.”

  Pressing the microphone’s button, the Alliance leader said, “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  “Top of the day to you, Miss Brown, and thank you for coming. As usual, my day is overbooked, so I’ll get right down to brass tacks. Given the calamity that nearly occurred in New Mexico, I would like to offer an exchange of ambassadors between Alpha and Washington. It’s the tried and true method to avoid such misunderstandings, and I think both of our governments will benefit from such an arrangement. It’s not foolproof, but it’s the best idea I’ve heard so far.”

  Glancing at Bishop and receiving a reassuring nod, the Alliance’s top elected official popped the question that troubled the fledgling Texas government the most. “While I agree with the concept, Mr. President, I have to ask; does this mean that the United States is officially recognizing Texas as an independent republic?”

  There was a pause, Diana always uncertain if the gap was due to the other party considering her words, or if the computers that scrambled their conversation were having a slow day.

  Finally, a chuckle sounded, followed by an audible inhalation. “No. I’m neither prepared, nor authorized to offer such a permanent status. Like you, I’ve got my hands full just keeping this runaway train on the track. Be that as it may, I still believe we would both benefit from having a trusted advisor in both capitals. They could assist in economic discussions, trade, joint development, resource allocation, and a host of other topics. Most importantly, they might keep innocent misunderstandings from getting out of control.”

  Diana threw another quick glance toward Bishop. She wasn’t seeking permission, more akin to asking a reliable consultant, “Do you see anything wrong with this?”

  The Texan shrugged a response. The idea had face value.

  Turning back to the microphone the Alliance leader responded, “I can’t see any issue with better communications and representation, sir. Like you, I’m not a dictator. I’ll have to clear this with the council, but I don’t foresee anyone having an issue with it.”

  “Good,” the president’s voice assertively boomed through the speaker. “I have the perfect man already in mind to represent our side of the equation. He’s a native Texan from Houston, former military, and someone who has proven valuable in our own recovery. Let me know of your council’s final decision, and good day, Miss Brown.”

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nbsp; “Before you go, sir…. There’s someone here that would like to say hello.”

  Bishop stepped forward, bending to the microphone. “Good day, Colonel. I hope your current duties go well, sir.”

  “Bishop? Well, hell’s fire and brimstone, son. It’s good to hear your voice. That was some excellent work over in New Mexico. Saved a lot of lives and trouble for all concerned. Give my regards to that exceptional woman that lets you hang around. Terri’s giving my people fits out there, but they’ll be stronger for the experience. And that fine looking boy. I hear he’s charmed everyone from my representatives to the local tribes. Good thing he takes after his mother, eh?” A genuine chuckle drifted across the airwaves, Bishop smiling at the insult. It wouldn’t be a conversation with the Colonel without such banter.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass along your best wishes.”

  As they left the HQ building, Diana meandered along the sidewalk, her mind a whir of electrical impulses and a tumble of thoughts. “We need to come up with two different people if the president’s idea is to be effective,” she mused. “We need somebody we can trust to move to Washington, and we must identify a liaison for their ambassador here.”

  “I’m not moving to Washington if that’s what you’re thinking. Nope, not going to do it.”

  Grinning, Diana replied, “You are a lot of things, Bishop, but an ambassador isn’t one of them. No, that’s not what I was thinking. I do, however, believe your lovely bride would be a perfect fit to work with whomever Washington assigns to us. She could stay right here and help me plan my wedding. Might be my best chance and getting a ring on that man of mine,” Diana chuckled.

  The Texan rubbed his chin, considering the concept. “You’ll have to talk to Terri about that. I learned a long time ago not to stand between her and a career move.”

  “My gosh, Bishop. What good are you?” Diana teased. “You won’t commit to keeping my future husband out of trouble, and now you’re shying away from talking to Terri about re-entering government service. You need to pick it up a step, trooper.”

  Bishop laughed and then dropped his head in pretend shame.

  Grim’s voice rang out just then, the grizzled contractor waiting at the hospital’s entrance. “Give him hell, Miss Brown. He deserves it.”

  Butter was there as well, waiting alongside. As usual, the big kid was all tow-headed smiles.

  “We’re off to help Sheriff Watts deal with a couple of hard cases,” Bishop announced. “With Kevin being out of action for a while, we can’t operate as a SAINT team, so we’re going to earn our paychecks by helping our friends in law enforcement.”

  “I’d heard as much,” Diana responded, stopping short and turning to face Bishop with a serious expression. “Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. “I wouldn’t have made it through these last few weeks without you.”

  Bishop returned the hug, patting the most powerful figure in the Alliance gently on the back. “You’re doing grand work, Diana. Never forget that. And tell Nick I’ll see his sorry ass in a few days.”

  Despite being anxious to get Nick out of what he called, the “medical dungeon,” Diana paused to watch the trio of men walk toward the front gate. “Terri is one lucky-ass girl,” she whispered, “and I think she knows it.”

  Chapter 3

  Two squad cars and a SWAT van idled at the base’s front gate, Sheriff Watts and a pair of his men standing in a group while they waited for Bishop’s team to arrive.

  After a friendly greeting and round of handshakes and introductions, the Alliance’s top lawman got down to business.

  Ramrod straight, with every detail of his uniform polished, ironed, tucked, and proper, the lanky sheriff was the picture of authority and confidence. “We’re having some issues in the panhandle that are pressing my people to the limit. It seems that a group of aggressive individuals has taken to growing marijuana in and around Palo Dura Canyon, and we are overtaxed in that region as it is. Last week they wounded two of my deputies in a gunfight.”

  Bishop was a little surprised by the first assignment and said so. “I thought we were going to help you with some truly bad men, Sheriff. Doesn’t the Alliance have bigger issues than a bunch of kids growing some weed?”

  The officer grimaced at the comment, “Normally, I’d agree wholeheartedly. But these ‘kids,’ as you refer to them… well, I believe they’re actually a bunch of escaped federal inmates. They were using their cash crop to barter with the survivors in Amarillo, which again is way down the list of sins worth pursuing. The problem is, when they can’t trade for what they want, they take it. Mostly at the end of a barrel. They’ve taken to terrorizing the region, and their numbers are growing stronger with each passing day.”

  Bishop nodded, “I see. My apologies, Sheriff. I’ve had a little trouble adjusting to the Alliance’s new posture and authority.”

  Watts didn’t smile back. “I heard about your run-in with my men in Meraton not long ago. We’re just trying to do our job, Bishop. I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid fighting with my deputies. We’re losing enough men as it is.”

  “I’ll be fine, Sheriff. Now, about these pot growers in Palo Dura… how many of them are there?”

  “We estimate at least 30, perhaps as many as 50. They’re pretty well armed and have gotten quite familiar with the terrain. With over 70 miles of canyons, caves, gullies, and offshoots, we don’t have the manpower to search the entire area. Fort Bliss loaned us a helicopter, but the aerial search didn’t turn up any results. They’re very well hidden.”

  Grim whistled, “That’s a pretty good sized operation. And when we find them?”

  “Call us in once you know the location of their hideout. I’ll be there within ten hours with the cavalry.”

  Butter spoke up, “Ten hours? That’s an awfully long time, sir.”

  Watts didn’t look down, “It will take me that long to gather enough men and reach the area. That’s very rugged, remote terrain up there, son. But we’ll be there. You can count on it.”

  Grim still didn’t like it. “This sounds like more of a job for the military, Sheriff. Can’t you get some help out of Fort Hood or Bliss?”

  It was obvious from Watt’s expression that Grim’s question had struck a nerve. “I’m told by General Owens that every available man under his command is busy in Houston, Dallas, and some of the other big cities back east. He made it clear that a violent gang of 30 to 50 individuals didn’t rank high on his list of priorities.”

  Bishop shrugged, looking at his team. “We don’t have to engage, just track them down. We’ve faced worse problems. Let’s get moving.”

  Palo Dura Canyon was often called the “Grand Canyon of Texas.” Stretching over 70 miles end-to-end, the formation was the second largest canyon system in North America. Being number two meant that the area wasn’t nearly as well known or oft visited. Many of the tourists who did settle for second best left believing they had uncovered a little-known gem.

  With sheer walls that rose nearly 1,000 feet, Palo Dura wasn’t as deep nor as wide as its larger sibling to the west. But it’s multi-hued red rock and jagged formations were a sight to behold.

  It was also far more accessible with public roads, hiking trails, campgrounds, and climbing facilities sprinkled throughout the canyon floor and rims.

  Bishop had only visited the place once before the collapse. A college buddy had been raised in the area and boasted of the great climbing and awe-inspiring scenery. A weekend road trip had been planned for the fellows to get back to nature by sleeping under the stars, burning a little food over a campfire and honing their rock climbing techniques.

  Like that first visit so many years before, the unveiling of Palo Dura was a bit of a shock to the three trackers.

  For miles and miles across the panhandle of Texas, the travelers had seen nothing but mind-numbing, board-flat fields and prairies. No trees, no hills, no features to distract the eye.

  Then suddenly, wit
hout warning, the canyon just appeared, carved into the earth by the Red River. Splendid. Massive. Stark in contrast to its tabletop smooth surroundings and bursting with so much color and shape.

  Bishop had once read a quote by a famous painter who had lived in the area describing it as, “… a burning, seething caldron, filled with dramatic light and color.” The Texan couldn’t conjure up a better depiction.

  The small convoy of police units wound their way to the north rim, finally rolling to a stop just above a seldom-used trailhead leading down into the red rock walls below.

  Grim and Butter immediately moved to the edge, their eyes scanning what would be the two operators’ home for the next few days. The older man wasn’t inspired. “Damn… that’s some rough looking countryside.”

  Bishop didn’t have to gawk, “This op is going to be longer and harder than a bad girl’s dream,” he said. “But look at the bright side; you’ll be able to tell your grandkids about all of the famous tourist attractions you’ve visited in our great republic.”

  The only reply was a grumbled, “I’m getting to old for this shit.”

  The trio began unloading packs, weapons, and gear from the back of the old SWAT van. All were sweating profusely before they’d finished snapping buckles and checking weapons. Bishop was the second best long-range shooter, and given Kevin’s absence, was tasked as the team’s designated marksman. He was not happy about having to tote the heavy .308 adorned with a big optic. Butter and Grim rolled with their favorite carbines.

  The only positive aspect of the location was the abundance of water. Despite the surrounding terrain being nearly as dry as the Texan’s native desert, the Red River would provide an adequate supply of the life-giving substance. Each man carried a pump water filter as well as backup iodine purification tablets. It would be an extra task each day, but that was the far better option than carrying several pounds of liquid on their backs.