Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  Finally arriving at Nick’s office, Bishop entered the reception area and smiled at the big man’s administrative assistant. “Morning, Sergeant Capela,” the Texan greeted.

  Capela wore the uniform of a Command Sergeant Major, the ill-fitting jacket barely containing the barrel-chested mass of the man seated behind the desk. One sleeve was neatly pinned to the breast, exactly horizontal from the fruit salad of medals pinned near the old soldier’s heart.

  It was said that Capela had lost his arm during the Battle of Scotts Hill, a meat grinder of an affair between what remained of the US government, and a rebel organization called the Independents.

  While Nick’s assistant appeared to be a gruff, no-nonsense ramrod, Bishop knew better.

  Beneath the high-and-tight regulation haircut and axe-blade face, the Texan had come to know Capela as more of an intellectual than a warrior. Many claimed that the man had a photographic memory, while others swore that old vet was really a supercomputer disguised as a human. In private, Nick would brag that Capela had the highest IQ in the entire Alliance.

  Bishop often teased his friend that Capela actually ran the show while the ex-Green Beret was nothing more than a pretty face and Diana’s boy toy.

  “Good morning, sir,” Capela responded. “The boss will be with you in just a few minutes. Can I get a cup of joe?”

  Nodding, Bishop said, “That would be great Sergeant Major. Black, please.”

  Flashing a look that asserted, “I know how you like your coffee,” Capela stepped toward a side room where the Texan knew a coffee pot was always full or brewing. Nick’s responsibilities didn’t end at 5 o’clock, the “boss” being on call 24x7.

  “I don’t know how he does it,” Nick had once shared. “There’s always fresh coffee. He’s always at his desk, looking like he just shaved, spit shined his shoes, and pressed his uniform.

  While he waited for his brew, Bishop meandered around the reception area, examining the various pictures and embellishments adorning the walls with the eyes of a man who had never studied them before.

  Of special interest was a large, framed map of Texas. Someone had neatly outlined the five regions of the Alliance and their associated capitals.

  The Dallas Region stretched from the Louisiana and Arkansas borders in the east, to the northern section of the Hill County in the west. Houston, San Antonio, Austin, and El Paso were each surrounded by similar patches of territory.

  Bishop considered the map, noting that next to each capital city the regional governor’s name was marked in blue letters. The Texan had met a few of those democratically elected honchos, many of them having held some political office before the collapse.

  During the last two years of recovery, Diana and the council had found it impossible to manage the Alliance from Alpha. Communications hadn’t been restored to pre-collapse levels, and despite their best intentions, local knowledge and face-to-face interaction were proving to be critical in solving many of the issues that demanded to be addressed.

  While the military had initially controlled the larger cities, it was clear that eventually, civilian rule was going to be essential if progress was going to continue. Thus, the five regions had been formed, each of them conducting elections to fill the necessary roles of government.

  In many ways, the system was modeled after the original U.S. of A. The individual regions paralleled states, each with its own determination of rules, laws, and regulations for its citizenry. El Paso faced the challenge of Mexico as its southern neighbor, whereas the folks in Dallas were blissfully unaffected by such an issue. And Houston battled a completely different set of post-apocalyptic problems than San Antonio. Thus, the five-region system. As the military gradually relinquished rule to civilian authorities, those elected officials could establish their own priorities and infrastructure. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best solution available.

  Alpha played the role of the old US Federal Government, charged with defense and security, borders, commerce, and a host of other responsibilities. Just like the old American system, there was ongoing friction between states’ rights and federal authority.

  Bishop’s map reading was interrupted by Capela’s return, steaming cup of brew in hand. “You can go in now, sir,” he stated, handing over the coffee.

  For a second, Bishop wondered how the sergeant knew Nick was ready, but he didn’t ask. Mumbling a confused, “Thank you,” the Texan stepped to the heavy wooden door, rapped lightly on the frame, and turned the knob.

  Nick’s digs had probably been the domain of the former bank’s president, sporting high ceilings, enough square footage to house a pool hall, and a wall of solid glass windows.

  A hefty, oak desk resided at one end, the massive piece of furniture seemingly lost in the sanctuary’s expanse. Two large, leather couches occupied the center of the space, hardly noticeable when compared to the mahogany conference table and platoon of office chairs that filled the opposite end of the room.

  Nick was already walking toward the door, his hand extended in greeting. “Good to see you, Bishop. Have a seat,” he said, pointing toward one of the sofas. “I take it you’ve made your decision?”

  Bishop knew it was a positive sign to be steered toward the leather. It was well known up and down the ranks that the couches were used during “friendly” visits, the conference table utilized during more “serious” trips to the boss’s office.

  After the two men were seated, Bishop responded, “Yes, sir, I’ve made my decision.”

  Frowning as he watched his friend reach for the letter in his pocket, Nick said, “I was afraid of this. You’re leaving us, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve accepted a position in the private sector. It’s been an honor and a privilege, Nick,” Bishop managed, holding out the single sheet of paper.

  Accepting the letter, Nick read it quickly, nodding his head in understanding. “I hate this. I absolutely hate this, but I understand. I also hope that you can accept the fact that I’ve really got no choice but to implement these changes. I’m not leading this convoy, I’m being chased by it.”

  “I do,” Bishop smiled. “My greatest hope is that all this business won’t impact our friendship. I respect you more than any other man walking this earth, and nothing will ever change that.”

  Waving off the concern, Nick said, “Of course not. In a way, it will be a nice change to no longer be the boss. I kind of look forward to being just another one of the guys, if you know what I mean. What are you going to be doing?”

  Bishop explained his new position, Nick seemingly pleased by what he heard. “Pete is a good man, and from what I hear, he’s going gangbusters with his business. You and he will make a great pair.”

  For 20 minutes, the two of them sat and talked, Bishop constantly reminded why Nick was such a valued friend and comrade and growing less apprehensive about his separation.

  Sergeant Capela appeared at the door, “Sir, your next appointment is here.”

  As they stood for Bishop to make his exit, Nick extended his hand. “No one has served the Alliance with more skill, dignity, and loyalty than you, sir. You will be missed. I also appreciate you giving me two-weeks’ notice. I’ll do my best to make the transition as smooth as possible for your team during that time.”

  “Thank you, Nick. I’ve been worried about the guys and all of this upheaval.”

  “You have my permission to fill them in. It will probably go down a bit better if it comes directly from you,” Nick suggested. “While you’re at it, go ahead and offer Grim his promotion. You’re still in charge of SAINT One for the next 14 days. Earn your pay.”

  “Yes, sir. You can count on it.”

  The smell of mesquite kindling always brought a smile to Bishop’s face. Since the days when he had been a child on a working, West Texas ranch, he’d relished the aroma. It was comforting and reassuring, normally heralding a tasty meal and colorful campfire stories. There had also been times when the fragrant embers had meant
salvation.

  He remembered being near dehydration and death in the desert, his morale and drive to survive lifted by the waffling aroma. And there was also the first time his father took him hunting in the mountains and the fire at camp. He also recalled the evening after he’d kidnapped the President of the United States and taught the man how to cook a jackrabbit in the desert outside of Fort Bliss.

  Now, it was his barbeque grill that contained the smoldering coals. He was surrounded by good friends and family. There was no threat or danger, yet Bishop appreciated the scent as much as at any other time.

  The fact that Terri had procured freshly butchered beef at the market in Alpha helped, the spitting, sizzling steaks nearing readiness. Grim and his wife were sitting in lawn chairs nearby, some of Pete’s best home brew filling their glasses.

  Butter was playing tag with Hunter out in the yard. Kevin and his girlfriend were helping Terri cut lettuce and tomatoes in the kitchen. Classic rock ballads from the 70s drifted through the open windows of the pickup, providing a soft backdrop courtesy of the Dodge’s CD player and a rare musical treasure from the Meraton Market.

  “This is perfect,” Bishop whispered, flipping the beef for the last time. “How could life be any better than this?”

  Yet, there was apprehension swelling in the Texan’s core. Grim had sensed it five minutes after arriving for the team event but had shown remarkable restraint by not broaching the subject. Butter knew something was up as well, the volunteer babysitter first asking, “Everything okay, sir?” When Bishop offered false assurances, Butter relegated himself to Hunter’s entertainment, moving himself out of the line of fire.

  Terri appeared just then, carrying a large bowl of salad. Her motherly eyes first sought her son as she stepped out the back door. Satisfied Hunter was safe and well attended, she then made visual contact with her husband, locating him and the main course squared away at the grill.

  Positioning the meal’s greens on the table and verifying no one needed a refill of their drinks, Terri then meandered to her husband’s side. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  “Yes. They deserve to know … to hear it from me … sooner rather than later.”

  Smacking him playfully on the arm, she chided, “No, not that. Are you sure you want to potentially ruin a perfect afternoon by talking shop?”

  Bishop had to admit it; his wife had a point. The air was still crisp and cool, the grass a welcoming shade of jade, the cloudless sky tinted a tranquil royal blue. It was difficult to imagine a more appealing setting. “I have to do this. You know that. Besides, my news might turn out to be the highlight of their day. They might be thrilled to get rid of me. Like you always say, we shouldn’t assume the worst.”

  Ten minutes later, everyone was seated and digging into the food with gusto. Grim’s wife was on his arm, compelling the senior man’s use of his ‘Sunday-go-to-meeting’ manners, both from a storytelling perspective as well as his choice of words. Kevin, in competition with Butter when it came to forking the largest steak, seemed enthralled with the pretty girl seated next to him.

  Even Hunter was on his best behavior, happy to be sitting next to his second favorite playmate and working hard to finish eating so he could get back to the soft grass and horseplay.

  To Bishop, it seemed like the meal didn’t last nearly long enough before the crowd was pushing their empty plates away. It is time, he determined, after exchanging knowing glances with his wife.

  At Terri’s behest, she, Mrs. Grim, and Kevin’s girl gathered up the empty plates and bowls. “Let’s let the boys talk business before we break out the dessert,” she suggested to the other non-team members. “You know how they are.”

  With Hunter on her hip, and a fist full of silverware and glasses in her free hand, Terri made eye contact with her husband as she disappeared through the door into the house. “Good luck,” she whispered with a smile.

  Finding themselves alone, it was Grim who spoke first. “Okay boss, what’s going on? I’ve been watching you and the missus exchange secret eye signals all afternoon. Something is up, and I’ve got a bad feeling I ain’t going to like it.”

  Nodding, Bishop peered down for a moment. “You’re right as usual, Grim. I invited everyone over for a little more than just a good meal and friendship. I have an announcement to make.”

  Looks of concern flashed across each team member’s face, the bunch of them trying to measure their commander’s expression. “This can’t be something I want to hear,” Kevin muttered.

  “First the really great news. Grim, I’ve been authorized by Nick to offer you a promotion. Given your excellent record, performance, and service above and beyond the call of duty, the Alliance wants you to take command of your own SAINT team. Congratulations, my friend. You have certainly earned this opportunity, and I, for one, am excessively proud.”

  Huge smiles broke out around the table, the members all rising to shake Grim’s hand and pat him on the back. While the old contractor did his best to be gracious, it was clear to Bishop that his second in command smelled a rat.

  After the initial round of accolades and kudos, it was Grim who brought the meeting slamming back to reality. “Which team would that be, sir?”

  “SAINT One,” Bishop replied with a deadpan face. “Our team.”

  Confused expressions painted every face, Butter flashing Kevin a horrified look, trying to verify he’d heard his boss’s words correctly. Grim was shaking his head with wide eyes, his lips moving without any words coming out.

  “I’ve resigned from the SAINT program,” Bishop clarified, deciding to come right out with it. “I’m taking a position with a private security outfit. I was offered a new position in the Alliance, but I’ve declined. It just wasn’t a good fit.”

  Everyone was silent for several heartbeats, then they all wanted to talk at once. Bishop, raising both hands, brought order and silence back to the table.

  “Nick approached me a few days ago, telling me that he wanted to promote Grim. He then offered me the new spot, and I made my decision yesterday. I wanted to invite all of you here as soon as possible, to deliver the news face to face.”

  Each man had a hundred questions, even the normally-shy Kevin vocalizing his concerns and doubts. “Why is my father messing with something that works? What happened to, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?’”

  Grim, from the beginning, claimed he wanted nothing to do with the responsibility of command. “Why would anyone in their right mind want to oversee these misfits?” he barked, pointing at Kevin and Butter.

  Butter seemed confused by the entire discussion.

  Bishop sat and listened to his teammates express everything from outrage to curiosity. During the banter, the Texan realized just how cohesive in its thinking his team had become. Wanting to ease their apprehension and smooth the transition, he realized now was not the time for him to wane philosophical, but to direct his men in one, last skirmish, be it a mental one.

  “Guys, when you serve, you have to recognize that nothing is forever. No matter whether you join a police force or carry a gun for Uncle Sam … are elected to government office … or are tapped for something like a SAINT team…. When you serve, one of the hardest realities is that, like everyone else, you will get older, earn promotions, and reach retirement age … if you are lucky. Sometimes, our comrades pay the ultimate price,” Bishop paused, a kaleidoscope of dead men’s faces whirling through his mind. “You never can predict how your world will evolve,” he continued, “but one thing is for sure, nothing stays the same forever. Things will change,” Bishop emphasized. “Now, you and I … all of us … have to look at this from a positive standpoint. The recovery is progressing, and we have played an important role. It is time for the Alliance to make adjustments. Change is inevitable; it’s just the nature of life.”

  His words seem to do little to comfort his friends, and eventually, the conversation began to lose steam.

  “L
et’s enjoy the rest of the day,” Grim finally suggested, sensing that nothing was going to be resolved around Bishop’s picnic table. “I think we all need time to digest what has clearly been one shocker of an afternoon.”

  The girls rejoined the fray about then, the party breaking into small groups orbiting here and there.

  By the time the event was winding down, each team member had approached Bishop and asked if he was going to be hiring. Might there be an opening? Was Pete looking for other good men?

  While he was flattered by their loyalty, Bishop knew Nick wouldn’t appreciate having some of his most highly-trained people leave for the private sector. Trying to remain professional without discouraging the men he considered some of the finest souls on earth, his answers were thin at best. “I don’t know. I’ve not even started yet. We all need to give this a chance. Let’s let wait and see how it all turns out,” Bishop repeated over and over again.