by Joe Nobody
As the two men loaded up their gear into the truck, Nick mused, “You know, we haven’t been in the field together for a long time.”
“I’m actually glad you’re tagging along,” Bishop teased. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to keep your old, crotchety self out of harm’s way.”
“Hell,” Nick poked back, “You’ve probably forgotten everything I taught you. This will be a good refresher for you…. get your skills up to a minimal standard. Maybe with some hard work and my expert guidance we can eliminate a few of your bad habits.” Before Bishop could counter, Nick added, “I am touched, though. It’s good to know you still care about me,” and then he blew the Texan a kiss.
Grunting, Bishop couldn’t let it go. “I hate to bust up your man-crush, but honestly I don’t give a shit about you. If I let something happen to you, Diana would cut off my baby-maker, and that scares the shit out of me.”
The banter continued as the two men loaded equipment into the bed of Nick’s truck. Boxes of ammo, medical kits, jugs of water, body armor, and several weapons.
Nick assisted Bishop as he arranged the trip’s necessities. “This ain’t no after church on Sunday picnic, ya know. You packed my favorite .308, didn’t you?” Nick asked, taking a moment to wipe the perspiration from his brow.
“Sure did.”
“Good. I love that rifle. It seems kind of ironic that the last time I used it was against the same ass-clown we’re going after now. Maybe I’ll get a chance to finish the job this time.”
“I was going to speak to you about that,” Bishop smirked. “Speaking of skills, how is it you let that guy go the first time around? I can’t keep cleaning up your messes forever, ya know.”
“My bad. Won’t happen again, boss. I swear it.”
Bishop became serious for a moment, “We’re going up there for a snatch and grab, right? I mean, I’d love to shoot Chase and this Cameron Lewis dude, but that’s not in the cards, is it?”
“No. I want to bring them back here, have a formal, very public trial. I want everyone in the Alliance to know what these two tried to pull off. Then, I’ll shoot them. They tried to kill my future wife, and Texas has dozens of new graves now because of their treachery. We’ll make them pay, but do it the right way.”
“And if they resist?”
“Kill them like the dogs that they are. No regrets. No hesitation. Think about all those people killed in the riot. Think about the ranch hands Kathy Baxter lost. Remember how close they came to killing Grim and your team. If they want to play hardball, then put them down… hard.”
“No problem.”
Chapter 15
The drive across Texas passed mostly in silence, the two men spending the miles alone with their thoughts.
Bishop, for his part, fell into the typical routine of questioning his abilities and desperately hoping he didn’t let anybody down. Nick, as a former Green Beret, was a card-carrying member of an elite tier of fighting men – one of the most highly skilled purveyors of violence in the world. His large boots were difficult to walk beside.
Nick was experiencing a different set of insecurities. Had his body mended to the point of performing in combat? Was he too old to be effective? Would he get Bishop killed, leaving a widow and orphan behind?
Both men shared one specific worry; what would happen to the Alliance if they failed? Nick had left Diana a letter in his safe that he hoped would send her down the right path if they didn’t return. He had also expressed his unending, unconditional love for the woman of his dreams.
Another thought they shared was absolute confidence in each other.
Nick’s capabilities were proven and obvious to Bishop, the Texan having no reservations about Nick’s health or wherewithal to accomplish their goals. If the big man said he was good to go, then he was, and that was that.
For Nick’s part, Bishop was an established entity as well. Sure, the Texan hadn’t been through the world’s finest combat schools, nor had he ever served on a Special Forces team. The retired sergeant was worldly enough to know none of that really mattered after a point.
He knew Bishop’s rare combination of heart, motivation, physical prowess, and intelligence was unbeatable. The military courses Nick had both attended and taught were designed to instill the skills and attitude that his friend had achieved from experience and natural gifts.
The appearance of the old state line didn’t draw a comment from either man. It was a line on a map and the boundary of authority, neither of which meant diddly at the moment.
An hour later, their attitude had migrated from loose and cool to professional and cold.
The location where they expected to find one Cameron James Lewis and Chase Matthew McQuire wasn’t near any city or town.
Originally a regional supply depot and low-level administration site, the cluster of metal structures, house trailers, and dominating three-story office building was hardly worthy of note before the collapse. While the two travelers had no way of knowing, Cam had never visited the unimportant facility while CEO of Lewis Oil.
The location’s centralized placement in the massive gas fields of western Oklahoma did offer some advantages as a bug-out destination.
First, and most obvious, it was isolated. The nearest town was almost 20 miles away. The nearest city four times that distance.
Because of the remoteness, Lewis Oil had been forced to provide their site with some unusual assets. It even offered a reasonably well equipped emergency room, designed to accept injured roughnecks and other personnel requiring medical attention.
There was also quite the warehouse, the larger than normal structure stockpiled with food, fuel, and other critical supplies. Freight costs, supply-chain logistics, and availability had been the primary justifications for its existence – no one had even considered a post-apocalypse stash.
There were other accidental advantages.
The helipad, including a large underground fuel tank, facilitated mobility. The on-site security, complete with its own pistol range, ammunition storage, security fence, and even a barracks for the guards were all of benefit when the world had gone to hell.
Still, it wasn’t a locale that emitted a positive first impression, no matter how desperate the visitor. On that fateful day when the barbarians had stormed his gate, Cam Lewis had looked down from his corporate helicopter with the same mindset as a prisoner condemned to Alcatraz. His was an exile onto an island of desolation.
Now, years later, he understood how fate had actually smiled upon him. Compared to the vast majority, he had survived the anarchy and suffering in relative luxury.
Bishop and Nick discovered yet another advantage to the facility as they drove north – the terrain sucked for anyone trying to accomplish a clandestine approach.
When they were within 20 miles, Nick switched places with Bishop, the big man wanting to study a map as they drew closer. It was an old habit that had paid dividends more than once.
Three miles away, Bishop pulled the truck behind an abandoned shed that had at one time been used to store farm equipment. The Texan wasn’t liking the local scenery one bit.
Their surroundings, like most of the panhandle, were tabletop flat. There was little ground cover and only a smattering of trees. “This is going to suck,” Bishop grumbled as the duo began pulling on packs, vests, armor, and weapons. “I know that no terrain is ever as level as it looks. There are always low spots and hidden recesses, but that looks like the carpenter’s daughter – flat as a board.”
“This reminds me of Iraq,” Nick replied, grunting at his comrade’s description. “The first thing we said when faced with miles of flat, featureless sand was, ‘How in the hell does anybody hide here?’ But they did.”
Other than the outbuilding concealing their truck, the two men didn’t see a single feature, ridge, undulation, or bush to use as cover. Nick, however, didn’t seem to be concerned.
“So?” Bishop inquired, strapping on his armor. “How do you intend to
infiltrate? Morph into a ghost?”
“Nope, c’mere.”
Nick spread his map out on the tailgate, an oversized finger tracing a line. “This railroad track comes within half a kilometer of that facility. Engineers, whether they’re building a road, rail, or outhouse always worry about drainage. If somebody built something to last for the long haul, you can bet it is elevated or has some method of taking care of precipitation. We’ll just follow the tracks and stay low.”
The thought of crawling for miles along a rail bed didn’t tickle the Texan’s fancy, yet there didn’t appear to be much choice. Reaching in his duffle, he extracted both kneepads and an extra pair of gloves.
Before departing, each man double-checked the other. Loose straps, rattling buckles, and dropped equipment could alert a sentry. Plus it would suck to stalk across a long, rugged trail only to arrive and find out a critical piece of kit had fallen off a vest.
Then they were ready.
Daylight was fading quickly as the duo began hiking toward the objective. “Do you remember when we started that war between the two gangs?” Nick asked, a smile of reminiscence crossing his lips.
“How could I forget?” Bishop replied with a similar expression.
“That was when my dad got killed,” Nick continued. “At least that old Marine went out fighting.”
“That was also the night Terri had to shoot to kill for the first time. I think she handled it better than I did. How on earth did we survive that shit? I look back on that now and wonder what the hell I was thinking.”
The two continued to exchange bits and pieces of shared memories. It was a way to burn off the stress of pending danger, a method to build confidence and prepare for a fight.
It was completely dark by the time they approached the tracks. Bishop was in the lead, using his infrared to scout their intended route. They had no idea how serious Cam Lewis would take his security, and running into a random patrol could ruin the evening. Nick was using light amplification, an NVD (night vision device) monocle hanging around his neck via a length of paracord.
“Do you think they have any sort of night vision?” Bishop inquired, taking a minute to study the rails.
“Let’s assume they do,” Nick responded.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Bishop complained. “Bending to stay low means my back is going to be sore for a month.”
“What are you complaining about?” Nick chuckled. “I’m five inches taller than you are. Quit whining like a little girl and go scout those tracks.”
Bishop had good news when he returned, “The grade is much higher than it looks. We’re not even going to have to crawl.”
Keeping the railroad between themselves and the facility, the two Alliance men continued their approach. Cam’s hideout wasn’t difficult to find, the bright lights of several pole-mounted security lights illuminating the entire complex.
When they were as close as was prudent, Nick found a comfortable spot and began scouting their objective with the 24x magnification scope mounted on his rifle. Less than 500 meters from the barbed wire perimeter, he could discern an amazing level of detail.
Bishop watched their flanks and rear, his carbine’s optic not nearly as powerful.
“A lot of activity over there,” Nick announced after a few moments. “Looks like they’re loading up a rifle platoon into a school bus. Looks like a U.S. Army unit. Why the hell would soldiers be involved with these assholes?”
“Those guys that hit my team by Fort Davidson were definitely ex-military. Maybe our friend, Mr. Lewis has a connection with a local base?”
“They’re loading a semi-truck with boxes of supplies. Looks like they’re preparing to invade or some shit.”
“Any sign of my buddy Chase?” Bishop asked, hoping to find the ambassador onsite and red handed.
“Negative. I don’t recognize any of these clowns.”
After a time, Nick offered to change places and let Bishop study the layout. “While we can’t go barging in there with all that activity going on, you still need to know the layout,” the big man stated.
After Bishop was behind the powerful scope, he could see why Nick was puzzled. From a man acting as the observing officer to the gents playing the role of the sergeants, the men preparing to board the old school bus looked and acted like a military unit. Their uniforms, down to the patches, appeared authentic.
Patches?
“Hey… wait a minute… that’s not a U.S. Army unit…. That’s one of ours.”
“What?”
“I just got a clear view of their stitches, and it’s a Lone Star, not Old Glory. Now I know they’re imposters. None of our guys would be involved with these creeps, and if General Owens had that many guys AWOL, he’d be screaming to high heaven.”
“Seriously?” Nick said, now wanting the scope back to see for himself.
After five minutes, Nick sighed. “You’re right. One of them just wandered under a light, and I got a clear view. They’re wearing Texas uniforms.”
A moment later, Nick added, “There’s your buddy, Chase…. He’s walking with another fellow… Mr. Cameron James Lewis in the flesh.”
“What are they doing?” Bishop hissed, the confirmation that their target was indeed present and accounted for making the Texan eager to get on with it.
“It appears that the honchos are inspecting the troops,” Nick replied. “Here, take a look.”
Ambassador McQuire’s image came into view, Bishop’s heartrate increasing as he watched the man responsible for so much damage and death promenading along the line of fake soldiers. They were all smiles and nods, conducting themselves as if they were feeling a high level of confidence.
“They’re excited about something,” Bishop noted, studying body language and gestures.
The Texan moved the scope back to Chase, the crosshairs now resting directly on the bridge of the man’s nose. For a fleeting moment, he considered doing the son of a bitch right here and now. It was an easy shot, well within the range of the blaster pushing against his shoulder. He could probably dispatch Mr. Lewis as well.
“I don’t even want to hear that safety click off,” Nick whispered, obviously reading Bishop’s mind.
“Now do you really think I’d do that?” an innocent voice replied.
“Yes, I do. That’s because I was thinking about it myself just a minute ago. Don’t. We need to parade the ambassador all over Alpha, Texas. We need him chirping like a morning bird, telling the world of his past evil deeds and misconduct. Then you can shoot him... after I hang him… after Diana cuts off his balls.”
Bishop didn’t reply for several minutes. When he finally backed his eye away from the optic, he said, “Well I hope we don’t regret that decision. They’re loading up. Looks like to me that the party is moving elsewhere.”
“Fuck!” Nick replied, exchanging rifles and again focusing on the compound.
A few minutes later, things went from bad to worse. “Oh shit, Chase is going with them. He’s riding in the lead escort vehicle. What the hell is going on?”
Bishop knew the question was rhetorical and didn’t bother to speculate.
“What now, boss?”
“We follow them. I don’t know where they’re going, but I want to be there.”
The rumbling engines now reached them across the prairie, the small convoy pulling out of the Lewis Oil facility in single file. Nick’s sense of urgency spiked.
“Let’s hump it back to the truck,” Nick quickly decided. “If they head south or east, we’ll follow them.”
“If Chase is leading that parade, I’ll follow them to hell,” Bishop quipped.
The Alliance duo moved with far greater speed on the way back, no longer worried about sentries or patrols. They found the truck undisturbed and were soon hustling to strip off most of the bulky equipment and get on the road. “They’ve got almost an hour’s head start, but I’m thinking that old school bus isn’t a speed demon on the road. We’ll be ab
le to catch up… I hope.”
After a quick exchange, it was decided Bishop would drive and Nick would navigate. “There are not that many roads in this neck of the woods, and they seem hell bent on creating trouble for us, so I’m guessing south. Turn back the way we came.”
“They must be heading toward an objective that’s pretty far away,” Bishop commented as he turned onto the blacktop. “Why else leave at this time of night?”
“Let’s see…. If I wanted to arrive at my target at dawn… and give myself an extra hour in case something went wrong, that gives me roughly six hours of driving time. Say the old bus can do 50 miles per hour… that gives them a 300-mile range. Hell, that’s a big hunk of Texas, including Alpha.”
It then dawned on Nick what Chase’s objective might be. Diana.
Throwing a worried look at his partner, Nick’s voice was full of dread. “You don’t think they’re taking another try at Diana, do you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Chase knows our security procedures and already has people in place. On the other hand, if I were going to try and take her out, I’d bring a hell of a lot more men than what boarded that bus.”
Nick’s foreboding grew. “They don’t have to kill her. Even the appearance of a military coup would push the Alliance over the edge.”
Bishop pulled out his NVD and switched off the truck’s headlights. He could actually see further down the road with the light amplification technology than with the illumination generated by the high beams. When they did catch up with the convoy, without any headlights behind them, there would be little chance that Chase’s men would detect the tail.
The driving technique reminded the Texan of the bug-out from Houston so long ago. Like now, Terri and he had navigated the post-crash landscape at night, using the technology to guide them. There was a difference, though. His wife and he had been the prey on that journey. Tonight, he was the predator.
They spotted the semi’s high-mounted trailer lights just over 90 minutes later, aided by the flat terrain and Nick’s running stream of “Turn right here,” and “Head south here,” guidance.
