Bishop's Song

by Joe Nobody

  The problem was logistics.

  Nick threw down his pencil, the effort inducing the candle’s glow to flicker, exposing the group’s frustrated faces. Reaching for his mug, his brow wrinkled at finding it almost empty. Sighing, he grumbled, “It’s the miles, and that’s all there is to it. The math involved is simple – the supply line is too long. We can argue, debate, and discuss all we want, but until we overcome the limit of our range, nothing will work.”

  Tired heads nodded agreement, Nick’s statement of the obvious serving to refocus everyone’s attention on what seemed an unsolvable logistical situation.

  Setting the cup back down, the big man continued. “We have to come up with a way to insert a rescue team 1,000 miles away and get them back. We need to do so with enough food, ammo, weapons and kit to give them a reasonable chance of success. Since we don’t know the medical condition of Grim’s wife and daughter, we have to assume they’ll need assistance to get out and travel back here. There has to be a way.”

  “Maybe it can’t be done,” sounded Grim’s voice from the corner, his tone showing just a hint of the distraught father and husband everyone knew was inside of the man. “Maybe it’s just impossible.”

  “Stow that shit, mister,” Deke scolded. “We’ve taken on bigger problems than this before and kicked ass. I’ll not have anyone on my team throwing in the towel just yet.”

  Bishop admired Deke’s leadership. The man neither bullied nor bribed, but led his team using a foundation of respect. Still, Grim’s words weighed heavily on everyone’s mind. They had analyzed practically every available method of transport known, and nothing passed muster.

  Passenger cars and trucks couldn’t haul enough fuel and supplies to make the trip.

  The aircraft available suffered the same mathematical limitations.

  There had even been suggestions of using a train, horse-drawn wagon, and large, semi-tractor trailer rig. While all of these solutions could handle the distances involved, each was dismissed for tactical reasons. What would the rescue team do if the train tracks were blocked? Was anyone comfortable driving a semi loaded with barrels of diesel fuel through desperate towns and cities along the route? Security was going to be enough of a challenge without carrying a bright, flashing neon sign that proclaimed, “I have a truckload of what you so desperately need!”

  Phil’s role as the town’s radio operator had been to provide as much intelligence as possible, and the news from back east wasn’t good.

  The US government had basically forsaken most of the country in order to focus dwindling resources on the Mississippi River Valley. The plan, widely known as Operation Heartland, involved jump-starting the crippled nation using the resources concentrated along the great waterway.

  It made sense. The territory bordering the river had all of the essential ingredients to rebuild a nation. The multitude of navigable channels could provide transportation by barge and ship. Some of the nation’s richest farmland was in the region – crops that were desperately needed to feed tens of millions starving along the eastern seaboard.

  The southern end of the Great Muddy was populated with numerous refineries – fuel being a critical resource to move goods and power the economy.

  Purely by circumstance, the river delta contained several nuclear power plants, the generated electricity desperately needed to make everything else work.

  These days, ready availability of food, transportation, fuel and electricity within a relatively small geographic area was unique within the borders of the United States. In order to revive the crippled giant, the federal government began focusing all of its personnel and assets in the region, leaving several large cities to fend for themselves.

  When the military was diverted to the delta area, many of the major metropolitan areas began to slide into absolute anarchy. Local government had completely disintegrated months ago. Without electricity, police, fire or any other semblance of society, there was no rule of law.

  Lack of resources left the inhabitants poorly equipped to handle disease and starvation. The desperate population turned on itself. In Newark, the smell of a man cooking soup wafted out an accidently opened window. Over 150 people died in the ensuing riot, all fighting each other to steal their neighbor’s food.

  Central Park in New York was a barren field, every last bit of wood harvested by desperate residents trying to keep warm and cook any morsel of food they could find. Pigeons were practically extinct.

  According to the limited amount of information available, ghoulish behavior had become commonplace, barbaric acts such as slavery, cannibalism and summary executions being reported by more than one source.

  Boston had been practically wiped out by an epidemic of smallpox. Atlanta had survived its second burning only to endure a visit by Typhoid Mary.

  It was into this environment that the gathering of brave men contemplated entering… all for the unselfish benefit of a friend in need.

  Looking at the map for the hundredth time, Nick announced, “The miles are the elephant. A big, mean, bull pachyderm dominating the room.”

  Nick’s statement caused an idea to flash through Bishop’s mind. He stood quickly, bumping the table and almost spilling his remaining coffee. Hovering over the map, he began to measure distances using his finger as a legend.

  “What?” Nick inquired. “Tell me you’ve had an inspiration.”

  Bishop mumbled under his breath, “It might just work… maybe with a little luck…”

  Several of the men huddled closer, peering over Bishop’s shoulder in an effort to discover what he was doing. Grabbing a pencil and paper, he began jotting down numbers and scribbling. “I think…”

  “Give him some room, damn it,” Nick cautioned the others. “Let the guy think for Christ’s sake.”

  After a few minutes, Bishop looked up at his friend and said, “How do you eat an elephant?”

  “One bite at a time, of course.”

  “What I’m thinking is that we need to eat this elephant the same way – eat up the miles in little bits. We’ve all been trying to conquer the distance with a single solution, and that’s not going to work. What if we established a forward base of operations, and then conducted the rescue from there? Kind of like a stepping stone approach, if you will.”

  Nick’s expression showed puzzlement at first, and then the concept took hold. Shuffling through the myriad of assorted papers on the table, he eventually found what he was looking for.

  “We could make two or three trips with the larger plane and supply the forward camp. We could stockpile food and fuel and then disembark from that point. It just might work.”

  One of the Darkwater men sounded off, “Are you talking about getting close enough to Grim’s house to walk in?”

  “No,” responded Bishop. “We would have to find a functional vehicle in close proximity to the landing strip. Let’s say Hugh took one of us up for a scouting mission. We would fly around until we found a small, abandoned airport about halfway between here and Tennessee. Chances are there would be a maintenance truck or nearby town where we could borrow a ride. We could then use that area as a staging point. Hugh would have to make a few more trips back and forth, bringing additional fuel and supplies on each lap. It just might work.”

  Deke was skeptical. “Do you really think you could find a functional truck? Sounds awful risky to me. Most folks, no matter how desperate, aren’t going to take kindly to strangers dropping in from the sky and stealing from the locals.”

  “I know… there is risk involved. Anyone within visual range of the airport is probably going to wonder why, after months of zero activity, there is suddenly a lot of air traffic. They might gather up a few of their well-armed friends and come see what’s going on. If we’re discovered by the wrong crowd, the game is up.”

  And so it went. Point and counterpoint crossing through the air above the table. Almost everyone had questions, many offering answers as well. It was the first idea floated that evening
that couldn’t be dismissed offhand, and every single man was reinvigorated by the chance that Bishop’s concept might just work.

  Nick, busy with his calculator, announced, “The math works. Since we’re cutting the distance in half, a pickup would have enough range. Hugh could fly in barrels of fuel, and we could carry enough gas and food in the bed to make it work.”

  “Sounds like President Kennedy’s Berlin airlift to me,” commented one of the contractors.

  “Let’s hope it works more like Berlin than the French Foreign Legion’s mission at Dien Bien Phu,” snorted another.

  Despite everyone’s smiling at the remark, all of them knew the meaning ran deeper - airlifting supplies wasn’t always successful, and history was full of examples where the strategy had resulted in the deaths of brave men.

  Nick glanced at his watch and announced, “Its late guys. I’ve got another class in the morning. I’d like everyone to think about Bishop’s idea. Let’s reconvene same time, same place tomorrow.”

  No one had the energy to protest, and the meeting adjourned. On the way out, Nick touched Bishop’s arm, a clear signal for him to stay for a bit longer.

  After everyone else had left, the retired operator said, “I’m assuming you know what the real issue is going to be, don’t you?”

  Exhaling, Bishop nodded. “Picking the team.”

  “That, my friend, is going to suck.”

  “That, my friend, is why you make the big dollars.”

  Alpha, Texas

  July 3, 2016

  Ultimately, the decision was Nick’s, as he commanded the Alliance’s defense forces. Today, he didn’t like that responsibility.

  Like any commander, he tried to execute his duties without personal feelings influencing his decisions. Like most of those who regularly issue orders that can lead to a man’s death, it was extremely difficult for him to remain completely above the influence of personal relationships.

  “If I’m the right man for the job,” Bishop reassured his friend, “then I should go. I wouldn’t be the first soldier who had to leave a newborn son. Don’t worry about it.”

  Nick was still trying to sell the decision, as much to himself as Bishop. “I listed everyone’s skills and experience. I prioritized what we’ve got going on here… who we could do without. You’re the only guy who has driven significant distances in our post-collapse world. Hell, that trick with removing the fuses to stay dark was pure genius. No one else has done anything like that.”

  “Look, brother, you and I have been to hell and back together. Terri and I both trust your judgment. We have to think of the Alliance right now, not personal friendships.”

  Nick nodded, appreciating Bishop’s acceptance of a difficult situation. “I sure hope Terri is as understanding.”

  “When are you going to tell her?”

  Nick’s face went pale. “What? Me? Ohhhh, no. I’m not going to say shit. That’s your job, brother.”

  Bishop started to argue with his friend, but then reconsidered. “Let’s let Diana do it! She’s the diplomat. She can smooth it over.”

  “Now that’s one hell of an idea. After all, she’s on the council, and this is government business. Now you see why I want you on this mission? Deke and Grim are hellish fighters, but you… you’ve got brains. I have a feeling that mental firepower is going to be more important than anything else on this little sortie.”

  Bishop wasn’t paying any attention to his friend’s compliment; his mind clearly elsewhere. Finally snapping out of the trance, he grinned sheepishly and volunteered, “No. No, I’ll tell her. It should come from me.”

  Bishop entered the hacienda like he was king of the castle. A good offense is the best defense, he told himself.

  Finding Terri sitting in her favorite chair, surrounded as usual by paperwork, he bent and kissed her forehead. Hunter, lying on a blanket at her feet, received the same greeting.

  Bishop rose from kissing his son and hiked up his pants. “Anything to eat?”

  After a quick smile, Terri returned to the report in her hands. “I don’t know. I think there’s some chicken out there. Warm up some of that rice from last night if you want.”

  Bishop wasn’t really hungry and regretted the opening. He decided on a different tactic. Reaching down, he picked up Hunter and moved to sit on the couch. She won’t throw anything at me if I’m holding Hunter, he thought. She probably won’t yell much either. My son – the shield.

  Despite his courage, mostly summoned while walking home after the talk with Nick, the new father had trouble forming the words now that he faced his wife in person. You’ve taken on bank robbers, drug cartel kingpins and biker gangs, he chided himself. Get on with it. She doesn’t weight 110 pounds soaking wet with a brick in each hand, and she’s not wearing her pistol.

  “Terri, I need to talk to you about something important,” he began.

  Without looking up, she said, “Well, go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “I… uh… well, Nick needs me to do a job.”

  “So?”

  “This job, well, it means going on the rescue mission for Grim’s family. I’m really sorry, babe, but he’s sure I’m the best guy for the role. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was insistent.”

  Bishop watched his wife closely, studying every inch of her face while waiting on a reaction. For a moment, he didn’t think she was paying attention to him.

  Terri shuffled a page, scanning the contents before commenting. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Diana told me this afternoon. She said Nick was up half the night fussing over it, worried about asking the new father to leave his family on a risky trip.”

  Bishop couldn’t read his spouse. Was this the quiet before the storm? Was there a volcano building up for a massive eruption?

  He played with Hunter for a bit, unsure of any action other than waiting. Finally, he picked some words. “I don’t want to go. You know that, don’t you? I feel like my place is here with you and Hunter.”

  “I know,” she replied calmly, never taking her eye from the document in her hands.

  “So you’re not upset?”

  Terri sighed, finally making eye contact. “We went through this back when the Colonel’s plane crashed. Remember? You didn’t want to leave me then either, but we decided it was best. I had a baby, Bishop, not a paralyzing accident. I, like every other woman, am now a pioneer. A settler. My man has to go and hunt, or fight, or journey afar to buy supplies for the cabin so we can survive the winter. It’s all the same. I accepted that when you were in the hospital at Fort Bliss. It is our lot in life. So, to answer your question, I dread you having to leave, but I’m not upset. I will miss you terribly, think about you all the time, but I know it has to be done. I knew that when I recommended the council approve Grim’s request.”

  Bishop nodded, and then rose to return Hunter to his blanket. He bent and kissed Terri on the forehead again, whispering, “I love you.”

  Before he could rise, she reached up and stopped his departure, pulling him close until their foreheads touched. “I love you, too.”

  After the touching embrace, Bishop stood and lingered for just a bit. “How about you go fix me something to eat, Ms. Pioneer,” he asked in a low, manly tone of demand.

  Despite the battle-tuned reflexes of a warrior, the physical prowess of a professional athlete, Bishop couldn’t dodge the pillow. Terri’s projectile flew true, inflicting a leg-crossing, bent at the waist groan as it nailed him right in the groin.

  Hunter thought it was funny.

  Chapter 5

  Northwestern Arkansas

  July 4, 2016

  The landscape below looked peaceful, untouched by the fall of society. The vantage provided by the small plane’s altitude displayed the square patches of color and refinement, a visible sign that mankind had left his impact on the earth below. Bishop wondered how long it would take nature to reclaim its original randomness of shape.

 
Or maybe it wasn’t that bad down there. They were 145 miles northeast of Midland Station, staying well north of Fort Worth. The area below was rural, land mostly used for livestock or crops. Perhaps these country folk had fared better than their city counterparts, he supposed.

  Hugh’s steady hand kept the small craft just above 6,000 feet, high enough for the plane to achieve good gas mileage, yet low enough to make out details below. While he hadn’t said anything, the height had also relieved his concerns over some deranged individual shooting at them. He’d held his tongue when they had first taken off and stayed low, finding no need to worry the pilot. As they gradually climbed, he relaxed somewhat, feeling less and less like a target.

  “You know for once, I hope we don’t encounter any fireworks on Independence Day,” Bishop commented, thinking about the danger involved in their sortie.

  “I have to agree with you there. I used to dread retirement, worried I’d be bored out of my skin. Not so much anymore. I’m just fine with a nice quiet holiday,” replied the pilot.

  Their ultimate destination was Arkansas, more specifically the northwestern section of the Razorback State. Bishop had never visited the area, his knowledge limited to the reference guides salvaged from the university library.

  He was surprised to find images of mountain ranges and emerald green forests that reminded him more of Appalachia than the Deep South. The change of scenery would be welcome. Being away from his wife and child would not.

  Between Hugh’s guidebooks and numerous travel references, the two men had settled on exploring three regional airports. All were listed as unmanned, all a considerable distance from any major town or city.

  The plan was simple. Hugh would circle the airfield while Bishop studied the area with the best binoculars available in Alpha. If the landing strip looked clear and there weren’t any people observed in the vicinity, they would circle again, scouting for suitable transportation.