by Joe Nobody
The rifle was swung to his back, the .45 caliber pistol filling his hand. If someone is in here, it’s going to get close and very personal, he thought.
When his vision had finally adjusted enough to move, Bishop encountered a problem. A path through the machinery appeared in front of him, but it was still too dark to see clearly. He considered his night vision, but it was difficult to hold the device and fire a pistol at the same time. The thought of tripwires stretched along the walkway froze his feet in place.
Again reaching into a pouch, he dug out a spool of ultra-thin fishing line. Tied to one end was a medium-sized lead weight. Digging in his maintenance kit, he pulled out the plastic cleaning brush and inserted the handle through the spool’s center hole.
Bishop threw the lead weight like he was aiming a dart in a pub. As it flew through the air, the line unwound from the reel until the weight thumped onto the concrete floor. Bishop’s thumb stopped the release of the line, the weight pulled it tight.
He then set the spool on the floor beside his boot and watched the line. If there were any angle at all, that could mean his cast had crossed a tripwire. If the line went flush against the floor, the coast was clear. There were no trip lines, and he exhaled.
Fifteen minutes later, he’d cleared the entire building evidently used for storage of the park department’s lawnmowers. Two tractors, each with attached bush hogs, plus an assortment of riding mowers, string trimmers, and other landscaping equipment filled the storage section. He noticed all of the gasoline cans were, unfortunately, empty.
On the way out the door, he found what the vandals had been after. A candy and soda vending machine lurked along the dark wall, partially hidden by a shelf of spare parts. The glass was broken out of the snack unit, every last morsel of potato chips, mints and peanuts cleaned out long ago.
The hinges had been pried on the drink machine, its interior as barren as its neighbor’s.
Bishop moved back to the office, one last thing on his mind. Sitting on the desk was a telephone, and just as he expected, there was a plastic covered sheet nearby, listing phone numbers and extensions. Blowing the dust from the list, he counted twelve numbers, each corresponding to names like “Lodge Kitchen” and “Maintenance Shed.”
There were also the home phone numbers for the rangers. He counted six in all. Not good odds, he thought. I hope Smokey the Bear isn’t on their side, too.
Sleeping on the ground was never an attractive prospect to Bishop. Yes, there were times when that was the only option. But if it were at all possible to go horizontal above the earth’s surface, he felt it was worth the effort.
It wasn’t just the creepy-crawlers, slithering reptiles, or discomfort of temperature. There was a security aspect involved.
Tents restricted sensory input, added weight to a bug-out kit, and couldn’t be repacked in a rush. They were great for camping or when bivouacking in large numbers, but not so good for a solo man trying to keep a low profile.
Years ago, an old Special Forces trooper had demonstrated how to use a survival net as a hammock, and Bishop had rarely slept on anything else since. Given his current desire to remain undiscovered, it only made sense to use the device and construct a nest.
After clearing the building at the airfield, he drove the truck to the edge of the woods bordering the facility. He had thoughts of camouflaging the vehicle with branches and foliage, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He was running out of daylight and judged it a better use of his time to set up camp before darkness fell.
He wanted to be able to observe both the truck and the airfield beyond if at all possible, but those were not the only criteria. It took a bit of searching to find the right tree. Fifteen minutes of walking around in concentric circles led to the discovery of a stout oak with a suitable structure of branches. The appropriate placement and size of the limbs was critical. Long ago, he’d learned that picking the proper tree meant the difference between a good night’s rest and the constant fear of falling out of the nest. I’m a hatchling, he mused. I can’t fly just yet.
He stood looking up at two limbs protruding at just over a ninety-degree angle from the truck. Each was the size of his thigh, easily holding the weight of his body and kit. They were 12 feet above the forest floor, and there were no lower branches to climb. Perfect, he judged. Not so high that I’ll kill myself if I fall, but not so low that someone will walk right into me during a good REM cycle.
He dropped his pack and scouted the area again, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Digging around in the heavy ruck, he finally withdrew a large, triple-pronged fish hook that most folks called a treble hook. This specific one was rated at 600 pounds. Attached were several feet of paracord, rated to hold 550 pounds.
The parachute cord was too thin to climb, even when knotted. Smaller in diameter than a normal lead pencil, there just wasn’t enough girth to get a strong grip.
A youth spent hunting in the steep canyons of West Texas had resulted in Bishop’s developing several different methods for ascending to high places. He’d used the traditional knotted rope, but that kit required a lot of space.
During jump school at Fort Benning, he’d been introduced to paracord, the line attaching the canopy to the chute’s harness. It was amazingly strong for its size and was purposely designed to withstand shock.
He’d knotted zip-ties into the cord, spaced at useful intervals in order to provide foot and handholds. That method worked quite well, but it was difficult to untie the plastic strips once the weight of a man had pulled the cord tight.
A friend at HBR had introduced Bishop to a device called an “ascender,” used by professional climbers. A molded hunk of aluminum slightly smaller than a man’s fist, it would hold in place once the cord had been woven through. The ascenders provided excellent “steps” for his rope ladder.
Bishop estimated how many ascenders he would need and quickly configured his rig. Swinging the thin rope like a cowboy about to lasso a calf, he tossed the line over the branch. The fishhook looped over and snagged the line on the second try. He then tied his pack onto the end of the line so he could pull it up after ascending to the perch.
Using the insoles of his boots and both gloved hands, Bishop pulled and pushed himself up the ultra-lightweight climbing rope, using the well-spaced ascenders for foot and handholds. He wouldn’t trust it for great heights, but for single-story buildings and low tree limbs, it worked well.
In a few moments, he was pulling himself over the branch, careful to avoid the sharp hook. Shortly after achieving a solid roost, he pulled up his pack.
Stringing the net between the two limbs required patience and diligence. He wrapped the net completely around each branch, securing it with several stainless steel “S” hooks. Keeping his weight on solid wood, he tested the rigging with his pack.
As expected, the center of the net sagged under the ruck’s weight. Tightening each side resulted in a taunt surface long enough for a man to lie comfortably and sleep. If you’re having one of those dreams where you’re falling, you probably are, he mused.
In reality, it would be almost impossible to roll off the net. Even with the strands of netting as tight as guitar strings, there was still some sag when he tested it with his full weight. The limb on each side of his body would act as a bedrail of sorts.
He finished a cold meal of beef jerky, pine nuts, and a muskmelon half he’d packed that morning. The tepid water from his Camelbak satisfied his thirst.
He decided to sleep without his vest and body armor, pulling off the uncomfortable units but keeping them close by. His rifle and night vision monocle stayed right at his side. He decided to keep his boots on, but loosened the laces for circulation.
Complete darkness filled the forest, the overhead canopy blocking any illumination by the stars or moon. The final birdcalls of dusk had faded by the time Bishop arranged his gear and body. An orchestra of insects serenaded his pre-sleep thoughts, raising their nocturnal choir with robust v
oices that actually helped calm his nerves. As long as the bugs were chirping, no one was around.
Tomorrow, around noon, Hugh would bring in another man and additional supplies. One more trip after that would be required, and then they would begin the journey across the country and hopefully retrieve Grim’s wife and daughter. It was a deed well worth the risk, he reiterated for the hundredth time.
His final thoughts before sleep were of Terri and Hunter. He wondered if he’d be able to see any change in his son after being absent for a few days. I love both of you, he whispered, as he began to rest.
After a healthy dinner, Hunter let go with a robust burp that caused Terri to grin. “You’ll fit right in at Pete’s bar,” she whispered, pulling the infant close in a loving embrace.
Terri laid the child next to her on the bed, leaning over to study the drowsy face peeking through its wrapper of soft blankets. He was eating well, and everyone seemed pleased with his overall development, but she couldn’t help but worry. I suppose that’s the price of motherhood, she reasoned. I’ll probably be studying this little guy until he’s 40 years old, waiting and watching for something that needs fixing.
Hunter, despite not seeing well just yet, seemed enthralled by his mother’s face. Remembering Betty’s advice, she turned off the light and hummed softly. “Adults are boring at night,” the older woman had suggested. “If there’s nothing exciting for Hunter to see, his internal clock can start matching yours. As much as you might want to, don’t play with him after hours.”
Lying in the dark next to her son, Terri’s thoughts turned to Bishop. She’d received a report from the pilot a few hours ago, but didn’t completely trust that people were telling her everything. She expected filtered reports from Deke’s contractors. To those men, anything but a full-fledged war was boring.
Hugh’s narrative outlining Bishop’s little adventure into rural Arkansas had seemed a little too sterilized… a wee bit trite. They’re just trying to protect me, she realized. I wish there wasn’t a need, but in a way I’m glad they show the courtesy. There’s nothing I could do to help Bishop anyway.
Bishop is the most capable man I’ve ever seen, she admitted. He’ll be fine. What we’re doing is the right thing morally, both for Grim as an individual and the community as a whole. People are upbeat about the mission because it shows we take care of our own. Every citizen needs to know that we are all in this together, especially with trouble looming on the horizon.
Making sure Hunter was asleep, she placed a ring of pillows around the baby, just in case he developed the capability to roll over during his nap. Unlikely, but the new mother wasn’t taking any chances. She quietly left the room, heading back to the seemingly endless mounds of paperwork that accompanied her job. Thank goodness Betty had driven up from Meraton to stay with her for a while.
Two kitchen tables had been set up, their surface almost completely covered with accumulated reports, inventory sheets, requests and updates. She was keeping a promise to her husband – a pledge not to go into her office at the courthouse. She simply had the work delivered to her home.
“Can I get you something?” Betty asked, looking up from her book.
“No thank you, I’m just fine. Hunter is asleep after eating pretty well. I think he’s starting to gain weight.”
“That’s good, Terri. Just watch what you eat because you’re passing it through to him. Caffeine is definitely out. The sooner he sleeps through the night, the better you will feel.”
Terri grimaced, “I hear ya… what I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee some mornings.”
“You’ll be weaning him before you know it. Then you can go on a coffee splurge until you’re wired tight. Speaking of wired, you’re not going to work, are you?”
Looking over at the stacks, Terri shrugged. “I was thinking of reading a little bit before turning in.”
“Not too much, sweetie. You just gave birth a few weeks ago, and you’re still supporting two people, one of which is growing like a weed. You still need to take it easy and get lots of rest, hun.”
Terri glanced again at the piles of her nemesis, finally waving them off. “You’re right. Besides, I’m not in the mood to read.”
Betty set her book aside, patting the couch cushion. “Have a seat and take a load off. I’d love some good old fashioned conversation, if you’re of a mind for a chit chat.”
Terri accepted the offer, plopping down with a sigh.
“You seem to have so much on your mind lately. You’re worried about the potential of a war, aren’t you?” Betty began. “It’s all anyone seems to want to talk about these days.”
“I don’t know why I had this naïve image of our people being able to rebuild without outside interference, but I did. It’s hard enough making things work internally, without constantly looking over our shoulders because of a looming, external threat. What makes it worse is the justification for a war isn’t crystal clear; it isn’t black and white.”
Nodding, Betty replied, “Is it ever?”
“I think it was with Pearl Harbor; that was pretty black and white. Going into Afghanistan after 9-11 seemed obvious enough. But right now, we’re not even clear about our sovereignty even if someone did attack us. What bothers me the most is that if I’m this confused, I have to assume the typical person walking the streets of Alpha is just as troubled. My job is to make things better for people, not worse.”
Betty nodded toward the bedroom where Hunter was sleeping. “You’ve added another responsibility as well. You have to make the world as safe and secure as possible for that child.”
Grunting, Terri looked down. “I ask myself every day how much Hunter impacts my decision making. You know he tipped the scale that changed my mind with this rescue business. I sent my husband off on some dangerous adventure, and the emotions I felt over the birth of my son influenced my thinking.”
“It’s like anything else, Terri,” the older woman responded, “becoming a parent is a life altering event. It changes you so much. In some ways, you will be stronger, in others, perhaps more cautious. Each individual adapts to parenthood differently. I have a feeling you and Bishop will be stronger, more rounded people for the experience.”
An hour passed, the two woman unwinding with pleasant conversation and shared experiences. When Terri began to yawn, Betty said her goodnights, stretching and then making for the spare bedroom.
Terri did the same, thankful Hunter appeared to be resting comfortably. Sleep came with Betty’s words still echoing in her mind.
His still-groggy brain told him something was wrong. Was that a dream? he wondered. Or was there actually a sound?
Bishop opened his eyes to darkness, his first physical move an intentionally slow, slight reach of his hand to the rifle lying beside him. There! There was the noise again – a voice.
Someone was close. Bishop was reminded of the primary issue with using a treehouse as a bunk. You can’t get down quickly. If anyone finds you up in this tree, you are basically fucked.
Again, the voice… a mere whisper… drifting across the otherwise silent forest. Was it closer that time?
Prudence advised his now adrenaline-charged body to remain absolutely still. As dark as it was, he didn’t think the man owning the voice could see him. His imitation of a statue didn’t last long. He couldn’t stand the inaction, couldn’t lie still. He gradually raised his head to peer over the edge of his bedrail-branches. Nothing… can’t see a damn thing.
A parade of scenarios zipped through his mind, a mental kaleidoscope covering every possibility, from a bullet slamming into his back from below, to staying put and hoping whoever was out there passed by. It was maddening.
“Go left or go right, just get the hell out of the way!” He remembered the words. The instructor was one of the feared “Black Hats,” the cadre of elite men teaching Jump School at Fort Benning – educating mostly at the top of their lungs. In other words, make up your mind.
Bishop reached for the n
ight vision. He justified the action by telling himself that it was too dark for his movement to draw the human eye. He powered up the unit and inched it to his face, bringing an alien world of greens and blacks into focus. A red light was blinking at the edge of the monocle’s display. And then the picture went dark – a dead battery.
The anger at his carelessness barely overrode his fear of the threat. His inner voice spouted long strings of foul dialog, most of the tirade of vile vocabulary directed at his own stupidity. He had spare batteries in his pack, but there was no way he could swap to a fresh cell. In a tree. In the dark. With potential hostiles nearby.
Concern over discovery soon outweighed his self-directed anger. The sound of rustling leaves drew his attention. Then the murmurs… faint… the words almost intelligible.
Two men. Walking as quietly as possible. An occasional whisper between them.
Had he been discovered? Had they found the truck? Or its tire tracks?
Then the footfalls were close. Very close. A few steps and then a pause… more steps.
A twig snapped, no doubt from the weight of a footfall. The noise was so loud, it startled Bishop. They had to be practically underneath him. His grip on the rifle tightened, his muscles ready to spring.
“Why don’t you try and make more noise?” a hushed voice hissed. “Why don’t you just advertise to every deer in the county that we’re here?”
“Oh great white hunter,” came a sarcastic tone. “Please forgive me.”
“Fuck you.”
“If those rangers find us hunting on park property, they’ll be some fucking going on, but it won’t be you doing me.”
“Fuck them, too.”
Poachers. Bishop exhaled, relaxing his coiled frame. While discovery by the two hunters wouldn’t be a good thing, it was a positive that they weren’t looking for him. He remained quiet, waiting as their occasional footsteps and whispers faded into the distance.
