by Joe Nobody
So that left the printed word as the primary method of communications throughout the land.
Paper was already in short supply, ink nearly as expensive as gold. In the early days, the Alliance had burned through ink cartridges at an amazing rate, trying to get information out to the people.
Now, most publications were being run with old fashion mimeograph machines, many salvaged from the storage closets of schools and churches. The formulation of homemade ink was a cottage industry in many parts of the territory.
Terri had just finished sorting her assigned stack when she sensed a presence behind her. It was Chase.
“Hello, there,” he smiled. “This is an amazing thing to watch,” he continued, indicating the bustling courthouse with wide arms. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“We’re lucky to have such dedicated people who believe in the Alliance,” she replied. “Heck, most of the folks you see here today are volunteers.”
He continued into the small room, taking up a position where he could make eye contact as Terri returned to her work. “I want to thank you for accepting Diana’s offer to be my office’s liaison. While we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, I still believe we can work well together.”
Terri glanced up quickly, flashing a short smile before returning her attention to the table full of papers. “Well, of course, we can. We are both professionals, aren’t we?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Chase replied. “I just wasn’t sure how much of a problem that night had caused you at home.”
She waved off the concern. “Bishop and I are just peachy keen. We had a great week together until he got called away today. There’s no problem in my house.”
“Good. That’s so good to hear. The last thing I want to do is cause you any difficulties.”
Terri smirked, “Given what we’ve been through together… what with the collapse and all? It would take a whole lot more than a simple misunderstanding to come between us.”
“I always wonder how my wife and I would have weathered the storm. On one hand, I think it would have pulled us closer – strengthened the relationship. Other times, I don’t know if we would have survived it… how anyone does really.”
“Bishop and I learned the true meaning of trust throughout the entire ordeal. It definitely made us stronger, both as individuals and as a team. If I had told my co-workers at the bank in Houston that one day I’d been representing a new government that controlled Texas, they would have laughed me out of the building.”
Chase thought about the comparison for a moment before speaking. “I wouldn’t have laughed. I always knew you were going to be fantastically successful one day. I thought it would be international finance, corporate investment banking, or something along those lines. I knew back at A&M that there was a greatness inside of you… some inner strength or destiny that would surface one day. It’s always been there.”
“Why thank you, kind sir,” Terri fluttered. “I appreciate those words.”
A volunteer came in just then, looking around the room, desperately searching for something. “Have you seen any staples around? We can’t find any, and I’m afraid we might have just used the last batch in all of Texas.”
Terri hustled around a counter and rummaged in the contents on the marble top. She lifted a box of paper, and underneath was a box of the little connectors. The nearly panicked lady exclaimed, “Thank, God!” and rushed out the door.
Chase chuckled, “Now wouldn’t that suck. All this work, all these man-hours getting ready and preparing, and the entire project is halted due to a lack of staples.”
Shrugging, Terri replied, “We would have found a work around or another supply. What choice do we have?”
“But where is the staple factory? What condition is it in? Is anyone left alive that knows how to operate the machinery? For both the Alliance and my government, those are the challenges we face. It’s probably going to take years before the small things stop hindering the big things.”
Terri nodded, “That about sums it up. I’m sure both of our governments are battling the same issues every day. But again, what choice do we have? We have to plow through and do the best we can.”
“Do you ever consider what will happen when there are choices?”
Pausing, Terri looked up with a puzzled expression. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean?”
Chase hesitated and then changed his mind. “I was just thinking out loud, it wasn’t important or pertinent.” The deft conversationalist quickly changed the subject, leaving only the slightest of questions regarding his previous inquiry. “So, your husband is off to the north I hear, trying to settle some land dispute?”
“Yup. That’s my Bishop, always galloping off to save the day.”
Grunting, Chase responded, “And yet your big hero keeps his family in a camper. Doesn’t seem fair.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Terri fired back.
“I’m just saying it seems like the Alliance doesn’t appreciate you, that’s all. From everything I’ve heard, Bishop and you have gone well above and beyond the call of duty. If anyone had done the same for Washington, they would have been greatly rewarded.”
“Bishop and I do what we can because we believe in the Alliance and want to serve, not because we are looking for compensation or glory. We’re just trying to make life better for our friends and neighbors and help build a place where our children will have a future.”
The ambassador seemed to accept her response, at least enough to move on. “But the sacrifices you’ve made… continue to make…. Does it trouble you greatly when he’s away? Surely it must worry you sick?”
Terri chose her words carefully, not liking where the conversation was going. “Of course it causes me to lose a little sleep now and then. Who wouldn’t? This mission’s not so bad, though. There are two families threating to fight over a parcel of land. Bishop and his team are going to keep them separated until the Alliance gets this new plan in place. This trip doesn’t sound nearly as dangerous as some he’s been on. As a matter of fact, this trip sounded fascinating from a governing perspective. I would have liked to go with him.”
“You wanted to go because it fascinated you? Hmmmm…. Now, that does beg the question, doesn’t it? In what way was it so intriguing?”
Terri proceeded to tell Chase about the history of the dispute north of Fort Davidson, filling in the ambassador on not only the details but her take on the social aspects and how something so small as a tiny portion of land could lead to much bigger problems. “That’s why I wanted to go, but I just got back home after being away for weeks, and with this new program getting ready to launch, I decided to stay here and help out.”
“I heard you’ve faced your fair share of danger on some of these adventures. Diana was telling me about a few of them. You should write a book someday.”
Terri rolled her eyes, “That would certainly be a lengthy work. Heck, maybe a whole series of books.”
Bishop watched Grim’s shape move through the darkness, a spool of fishing line spinning quickly as the contractor backed from the former barn to the house.
“That’s the last one,” Grim announced, arching his back and stretching stiff muscles. “Nobody is getting close to the place without our knowing about it.”
“And the flash bombs?” Bishop asked, bending to help his man tighten the tripwire.
“All set. If anybody ventures close enough, they might get their eyebrows singed, but no one should be seriously hurt. Do you really think they’ll be coming in tonight?”
“Yup. I would if I were Mrs. Baxter. She’s smart enough to know that the longer she waits, the more we’ll dig in, and ultimately the harder we’ll be to dislodge. They’ll be here. Until then, why don’t you make sure the shotguns are loaded and ready? I’ll take the first watch.”
Grim’s sleeve wiped the perspiration from his forehead as he took one last look around. Bishop knew something was bothering his teammate.
“Smoke bombs, flash bang grenades, shotguns loaded with sandbags… I’m feeling a little exposed here, boss. If those guys do come in tonight, they’ll have real rifles and pistols expelling high-velocity lead. We might as well be throwing spitballs back.”
“We’ll have our carbines close if things get out of hand. Remember, we’re here to keep people from killing each other. It would be kind of pointless if we ended up planting more bodies than they could slay on their own.”
Grim still didn’t like it. “This reminds me of Iraq during the insurgency. We could only fire if fired upon. That was a little too late in my book. We lost some good men with that bullshit policy. Hell, even cops can draw and fire if they feel threatened.”
“Nobody said this was going to be easy, partner. Such is life for those of us incapable of making a living any other way.”
“Whatever. I’m going to go wash up and try to catch some shuteye. I may even talk the kid into taking the second watch.”
Bishop watched Grim stroll toward the house and began making one last check of his own kit. Finally satisfied, he pulled on his pack and then followed his man inside.
On the off chance that anyone was watching them and had night vision, the Texan entered the front door as would be expected. A moment later, he was out the back, darting quickly to the protection of a strand of small oaks and scrub.
Careful not to set off his own trip wire, the Texan moved, listened, and then moved again. He didn’t expect any of the local ranchers to be about, instead trying to gain a feel for the night, wildlife, and natural sounds of the area.
Finally reaching the hide they’d scouted just after nightfall, Bishop settled into a small gap between an ordinary mound and a tree that had fallen not long ago. The position gave him an excellent view of the entire homestead.
To his back were the beginnings of the black rock formation that defined the region. In high school geography, they’d taught him the name of the specific stone, including a detailed tutorial on how it had reached its current shape and state. Right now, his mental energies were otherwise engaged, and he couldn’t recall a single fact.
His night vision was on a lanyard, dangling from his neck where it wouldn’t be misplaced in the darkness. The pump shotgun he was holding didn’t have a mount for such devices, and there hadn’t been time to have Alpha’s armorer work one up.
They had almost made a critical error in the selection of non-lethal weaponry. Bishop preferred an automatic scattergun over the tried and true pump variety. Stored in the bat cave were two such blasters, combat weapons designed for military use and sporting the proper rails to mount just about any furniture the shooter desired.
By chance, Bishop loaded a few of Sheriff Watt’s seldom-used sandbag rounds into his favorite 12-gauge. The weapon had immediately jammed.
A second, and then a third attempt had produced the same stovepipe failures.
“Those beanbag shells don’t have enough powder to work that fancy shooting iron of yours,” Watts had explained. “We always used them with our pump shotguns.”
“Train like you’ll fight, fight like you train,” Bishop whispered, recalling the old infantry wisdom. It had never let him down.
The Texan pulled the small radio off his belt and clicked the talk button once. A moment later, Butter responded from inside the home, two crisp breaks in the static announcing they have clear radio communications. Bishop hadn’t expected any issue. The two devices were less than 100 meters apart.
Pulling the NVD up to his eye, the Texan began his first sweep of the surroundings. While he had little fear of the Baxter's hands being world-class stalkers, he also respected the fact that they weren’t stupid and might know the lay of the land. They wouldn’t come riding up in a cavalry charge, nor would they rumble up to the house like a gang of robbers preparing to storm the local bank.
Like always, he tried to put himself into his opponent’s mind. How would he come in? How many men would he bring? What were the primary and secondary objectives? It didn’t always work, but the exercise often exposed weaknesses in his own preparations.
He expected a dismounted approach, probably from two or three directions. They knew the squatters were heavily armed, Butter and Bishop brandishing carbines, Grim with his fake hand grenade during the rancher’s initial visit. Had Bishop had more time, he would have displayed a few more of the toys he’d borrowed from the boys over at Hood. It would have been a nice touch.
So Kathy and her men would try to sneak close to the house, maybe throw a few torches onto the roof and walls, perhaps even a Molotov cocktail if they were creative. Standard irregular tactics. He’d seen it all before.
After two hours, Bishop was beginning to think he’d overestimated his foe.
Other than a swooping barn owl, there hadn’t been any movement whatsoever. Butter would be relieving him soon, and the Texan had been hoping to get the first encounter out of the way so he could get some sleep.
Movement caused a start, but it was only a small group of whitetail deer meandering into the home’s backyard. “How did you get in there,” he whispered to the non-responsive animals. I’m going to bust Grim’s ass, he thought. There’s a gap in his wires. They should not be in the backyard.
It then occurred to Bishop that he’d get more mileage of harassing Grim if he knew where the hole in their defenses was located. They will go out the way they came in, he concluded. Still holding the NVD to his eye, Bishop found a small stone with his free hand and tossed it at the grazing herbivores.
All three deer perked instantly, scanning for a predator and then rushing directly at the cliff face behind the ranch house. Bishop watched in amazement as they disappeared into what he had thought was an impassable wall of rock, scrub, and cactus.
There is a second way out, he reasoned, his opinion of the original builders now elevated.
Slightly disappointed in having lost his leverage over Grim, the Texan made a mental note to check out the hidden game trail in the morning. If the deer could pass that way, so could people.
He returned to scanning the valley and his watch, suppressing another yawn. He wasn’t sleepy for long.
The distant sound of a truck engine was the first indication of activity. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” he whispered into the radio. “I’ve got engine noises to the west.”
A single click acknowledged the boys were awake.
Bishop grunted, visualizing Grim cussing up a storm, complaining about people being so rude as to try and burn them out in the middle of the night.
Next came the distant whinny of a horse. Finally, the night vision detected movement along the valley floor, distant, ghost-like shapes dodging among the stony mounds in the small boulder field that resided there.
“That’s where I’d come in from, Kathy. Nice plan,” he said in a hushed voice.
Movement from the house drew Bishop’s attention. Butter and Grim were now outside, using the overgrown landscaping bushes as cover. The older contractor was heading toward a pile of concrete blocks someone had conveniently left behind. Butter was hustling for a flowerbed, its railroad-tie walls and dirt filling more than an adequate bullet stop.
“Movement,” came Grim’s voice. “Three, maybe four making for the barn. They should hit the first tripwire about… now.”
Bishop closed his eyes, wanting to preserve his natural night vision.
A moment later, the valley was ripped by a huge explosion, the percussion thumping against the Texan’s chest. Bishop could detect the flash despite his clenched eyelids.
A second passed before another of the flash bombs ignited, this one on a fence post less than 80 meters from the house. There had been no warning. This time Bishop was caught by the brilliant white flash that resembled a lightning strike close by. The thunder was louder than even the most intense storm could produce.
The flash bombs were filled with a special mixture of magnesium, aluminum, and ammonium that produced millions of candela and over 170 deci
bels of sound. Anyone nearby was temporarily blind, deaf, and probably had their ear fluid scrambled to the point where balance and movement were a challenge.
With his nocturnal eyesight now completely ruined, Bishop pulled the NVD back to his eye. The green and black world illuminated through the light amplification device showed several men stumbling and rolling around from the first detonation, a similar group lying on the ground from the second.
Headlights and the sound of a rushing truck engine came next. Up the driveway careened two pickup trucks, each carrying four or five riflemen in the bed. Peppering the house with round after round, Bishop had to wonder how accurate their fire could possibly be given how badly the trucks were bouncing along the bumpy, gravel lane.
The mobile assault units stopped directly in front of the residence, no doubt an effort by the drivers to give the shooters in the back a more stable aiming platform.
Bishop was up and moving before the dust had settled.
All eyes must have been on the old homestead because none of the invaders noticed Bishop approaching. When he was twenty feet away, he tugged a flashbang from his belt, flipped off the safety and tossed it into the bed. Before the stun grenade landed, the pump shotgun was against his shoulder.
The first sandbag round struck the driver directly in the head, the man screaming in pain as he fell onto the seat grasping his temple. Working the pump, Bishop started in on the exposed men in the bed. He’d loaded the weapon with alternating rounds of rock salt and sandbags, a method often referred to as “candy striping.” If one non-lethal load didn’t take his opponent down, hopefully, the other would give him something to think about.
The first shot knocked a man completely out of the bed, Bishop racking and firing as fast as his arm could work the pump. After three blasts had impacted their ranks, the rest of the shooters decided they didn’t want to ride anymore and began bailing out, scrambling for cover.
One man, working his bolt-action deer rifle, decided to charge Bishop, growling a respectable battle cry the entire way. He met the thick wooden stock of the Texan’s shotgun, and would require extensive dental care for his trouble.
