by Joe Nobody
July 13, 2016
Most Americans were aware of the Special Forces serving as members of the US military. Countless movies, books, and songs had depicted the ultra-skilled, elite warriors in numerous roles. Green Berets, Navy Seals, Marine Recon and other selective units were commonly known military components representing the best fighting men in the world.
But there existed another tier in the hierarchy of lethality, only known to only a select few individuals and rarely addressed in film or word.
In reality, they didn’t have a name or unit designation. This was by design. Many weren’t even assigned to a specific government organization or agency. Those that did know of their existence commonly used phrases like Intelligence Field Operators, or Clandestine Assets.
Possessing skills of part warrior, part spy, these field operators didn’t master firearms to the level of a Delta Force commando, and wouldn’t survive as long in the field as a Green Beret. They had no hope of matching the stamina of a Navy Seal.
But in some situations, they were just as deadly to the enemies of the United States – often doing more damage with a camera or small amount of explosives than an entire division of armor. They represented a select tool of violence – a scalpel of mayhem and disarray.
They didn’t practice the espionage tradecraft so often credited to CIA spooks, but they often infiltrated hostile territory and delivered devastating results. Spies preferred to remain anonymous and gather intelligence, rarely resorting to overt violence or direct force.
The Clandestine Assets had no problem with confrontation. These operatives were trained in explosives and booby traps, often applying their expertise in creative fashion. Bishop had heard how a rogue country’s nuclear scientist was killed by a small, sticky-bomb placed against his car window by a passing motorcyclist. In another case, a cartel leader was engulfed in flames after his, and only his cell phone came within range of a detonator.
While physical stamina and mental discipline were the hallmarks of military operators, intellect and creativity separated these men from the masses. They didn’t seek military schools or formal training – they studied, visited labs and designed their own devices. The spent as much time learning a language as practicing with a firearm, could be found reading a book as often as running an obstacle course.
It was two of these men that Mr. White approached. A package containing their instructions, required authorizations for travel, and other important items was tucked under his arm. One of the men he knew only as Alastair, the other as Eris.
There were no greetings or introductions, no secret code exchanged. It was pure business for everyone involved.
“Use the normal procedure to contact me, if necessary,” Mr. White instructed as he handed over the two envelopes. “Otherwise, I hope not to see you again.”
And that was that. Mr. White continued on his way, brushing by the two operatives without another word.
No offense was taken by Mr. White’s seemingly rude behavior. In fact, both men would have considered anything else as inappropriate.
Eris watched Mr. White for a few moments and then turned to his companion who was already opening his package. “Where to this time?”
After scanning the documents, Alastair looked up with a grin. “West Texas. Do you like rock climbing?”
Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas
July 14, 2016
Bishop grunted, inhaled sharply, and then kicked the barrel, a gong-like reverberation spreading across the airfield. He’d been rolling the 350-pound drum of fuel to the back of the truck by himself, and managed to run over his own toe after slipping in the gravel.
The kick, born of frustration, now left him with two hurting feet. It’s going to be one of those days, he decided.
The now-throbbing foot elicited a string of inventive cursing, most of the foul dialect directed at his own clumsiness. The barrel, however, received part of the blame.
Taking a seat on the offending drum, he removed his boot and checked for broken bones. The diagnosis was uncertain, but he knew it hurt like hell.
“You all right?” Frank’s voice sounded from the woods as the ranger appeared at the edge of the growth. “That looked like a painful experience.”
“That’s no shit. I don’t think it’s broken though.”
Frank looked around, “Where are your helpers?”
“Grim stayed in Memphis with his family,” Bishop began, and then let his eyes fall to the ground. “Deke didn’t make it.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed like such a competent man.”
The Texan shrugged, “It was a risky deal from the get-go. We all knew that. Now I’m trying to get home as fast as possible. While we were out there, word came that the US Army is sending someone to try and kill my wife.”
“What! That’s crazy. Why would someone want to kill your spouse?”
“She’s kind of the leader of our little alliance of towns. I guess they think removing her would cause our union to crack and allow the government to come in and take everything we’ve built up. I know it’s not that simple, but in a nutshell, that sums it up.”
“So you’re trying to get back to Texas and warn her? Stop the assassins?”
“Yes, sir. I sure am.”
Frank thought it over for a moment. “Let me go get some clothes and my rifle. I’ll go with you. I’m not as good in a fight as your friends, but I can shoot.”
Bishop was stunned by the man’s offer. “No, sir. I can’t let you do that. While I appreciate the willingness to go, and respect the guts it took to make the offer, you can’t leave the people back at the lodge. They need you, Frank. You’ve got a wife and extended family here. Thanks, but no thanks.”
The ranger scuffed some soil with his boot, finally looking up and responding, “Okay, I won’t argue. But if you change your mind, I’m willing. At least let me help you get the truck loaded.”
“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Bishop answered, pulling his boot back on and tightening the laces.
The two men worked for 30 minutes lifting and arranging the contents. After finishing, Bishop wiped his brow and retrieved a map from one of the boxes.
He spread the gas station fold-out map, flattening the creases on the tailgate. “Now the real challenge begins,” he commented.
“What’s that?”
“Texas… more specifically getting to West Texas. I can’t chance the urban areas like Dallas or Houston. Even the smaller cities might spell trouble… Texarkana… Nacogdoches … they’re all a no-go. I’ve got to plot a route that will bypass any town big enough to be listed on the map.”
Frank glanced over Bishop’s shoulder, studying the chart. After a bit, he whistled, indicating he understood the problem.
Pulling a marker from his load vest, Bishop began tracing a route, occasionally writing alternatives in a small notebook.
“Do you have to take back roads the entire way?”
“No… at least I hope not. Once I’m past the Hill Country… Austin… I think I-10 will be okay. Where I’m headed isn’t far off the big interstate.”
“When is the attack supposed to take place?”
“I’m not sure about that. I was told two or three days, but I don’t know when the clock started ticking. It seems our trusted federal officials are going to sneak in some teams and hit several different targets at once. I heard where their jump off point is supposed to be located, and I’m going to try like hell to disrupt there little foray.”
“Alone?”
Bishop looked up from the map, staring into the distance for a moment. When he turned to face the ranger, Frank inhaled sharply.
It was if a mask had been pulled from Bishop’s face, revealing a fierce, beast-like predator beneath. Bishop’s pupils were dilated - dark pools, void of humanity or mercy, exposing an interior of ice. The operator’s voice matched his expression – a robotic response from a killing machine that neither boasted nor experienced fear
. “I can be very disruptive.”
Frank didn’t know what to say… how to respond. He watched carefully as Bishop seemed to relax and then turn his attention back to the map. When the Texan looked up again, it was the same man who he’d first encountered a few days ago.
“Frank, I left a few boxes of supplies inside. I’m sorry, but I need all the fuel. There’s some food and ammo in there… not much… but some.”
“Thank you. Every little bit helps.”
“I’m going to be heading out of here in a bit,” Bishop said, extending his hand to the ranger. “Our paths probably won’t cross again. I wish you the best of luck.”
There was just a hint of hesitation before Frank accepted the handshake.
The ranger watched Bishop climb behind the wheel, remaining in his spot until the truck had faded from sight. “I actually think he’ll pull it off,” he whispered.
Texas was going to require a lot of zigzagging, back tracking, and rechecking of the map. Three hours after leaving the park, Bishop crossed into the Lone Star State, experiencing a small sense of relief over entering his home turf.
Reality soon set in however, the comprehension occurring during one of his many roadside references to the chart. Since leaving Memphis, he was less than halfway home. It was frustrating.
His anxiety was further bolstered by the fact that he was driving through territory he’d never traveled. He’d already driven most of the route from Memphis to the park and felt reasonably secure that the path was unoccupied.
Now he was traveling virgin territory, and it wore on his nerves.
Bishop was somewhere west of I-45, having dipped below Dallas but staying well north of Houston. He was angling back to the northwest in order to avoid Austin and the cluster of villages, bergs and almost-cities that surrounded the state capital.
He found a lane, a thin line of trees offering some protection from prying eyes. Bishop needed the stop, partly because his vision was blurring, partly because he was getting stupid and impatient. His bladder’s unrelenting protest was the clincher.
After poking around a little, he stretched and relieved himself. The thought of sleeping in the driver’s seat was unpalatable, so he climbed into the bed and rearranged the tarp and boxes of supplies so he could get reasonably comfortable.
Setting his watch alarm was next, hoping an hour of rest would improve his judgment. With his hand resting on his rifle, Bishop was out before the truck’s exhaust cooled enough to stop its gentle pinging and popping.
Terri and Hunter met him there, a red and white tablecloth spread across the greenest grass imaginable. There were ham and cheese sandwiches on paper plates, each accompanied by a towering stack of potato chips. Large Styrofoam cups were brimming with ice tea, the air full of happy laughter.
Terri was holding Hunter by the armpits, supporting the infant as he pumped chubby legs trying to walk across the cloth. The expression on the cherubic face said, “Look at me, dad! See how amazing I am?”
Dad had to agree, his cheeks hurting from the girth of his smile.
Over Terri’s shoulder, something glinted in the sunlight – a flash of brightness that Bishop had seen before. Someone was up there on the hill… someone with glass… a rifle scope.
He knew exactly what it was, but his throat wouldn’t form a warning, his body wouldn’t answer the desperate commands being screamed by his brain.
A small puff of gray smoke replaced the reflection on the hill. Bishop knew what it was, a sniper’s gunshot, but he couldn’t move. Everything was so slow, a horror movie watched frame by single, painful frame.
Terri’s sternum exploded, a shower of gristle, tissue and bone erupting in a fountain of gore that suspended in mid-air. An identical wound appeared on Hunter’s tiny body, the bullet passing straight through both of his loved ones. Both his wife and child showed bewilderment, unsure of what had just happened, unclear of the source of their pain.
Their eyes clouded dark as Terri fell over, pulling Hunter’s lifeless body down with her.
The dream-chains released Bishop, allowing him to finally move while time accelerated to its normal pace. He crawled to his wife’s side but knew it was too late. Hunter fared no better.
He looked to the sky as if to ask his Maker why, but only a prolonged cry of agony escaped his throat. “Nooooooo!”
The Texan bolted upright in the bed of the truck, fury and rage painted on his face, the scream stuck in his mouth. It took a few moments to realize he’d been dreaming. He was soaking wet, heart pounding in his ears. The images of the nightmare proved stubborn - difficult to shake.
He was just reaching to climb out of the bed when two gunshots rolled across the open field. Pausing for a moment, he decided they weren’t a concern. The reports were very far off, so distant he wasn’t sure of the direction.
“Probably somebody out hunting for a Sunday meal,” he said to the truck, his voice croaking and hoarse. There just wasn’t enough volume of gunfire for it to be anything else. Then it occurred to him that his dream might have been feeding off of previous shots. His level of anxiety increased.
Without giving himself much time to clear the fog of sleep, Bishop climbed back in the cab, urgency fueled by frustration dominating his mood. He ramrodded the stolen vehicle out of the lane, screeching to a halt and then jamming the shifter into a forward gear. The rate of gasoline consumption was the last thing on his mind as he jammed the accelerator to the floor.
He couldn’t remember the town’s name and actually didn’t care. It was just another detour in what had become a journey filled with such bypasses.
The town’s label was something like Birch… or Birchwood… or Birchville. He couldn’t remember and didn’t want to bother checking the map again, already frustrated with the number of references to the paper chart required by this trip. He was sure the ink coloring would be worn white before he could get home.
The two-lane highway he’d been traversing ran right into the middle of Birch-whatever, and he didn’t want to do that. With the nightmare and gunshots still occupying his mind, he cut south, down a gravel surfaced, narrow country road, hoping to avoid the fine citizens of… of Son of a Birch.
“I’ll have to remember that one,” he joked with the truck. “Terri will love it.”
Had Terri been along, she would have known Bishop’s apparent jovial mood was anything but. He always dealt with stress by using cornball humor as a safety valve. The driver’s primary frustration was due to many sources. Watching the time pass by without gaining much distance was one agitation, constantly fretting over the ever-declining supply of gas, another. The icing on Bishop’s pissy-cake was the constant, ever building worry about his wife and son. The nightmare had provided the lettering on the icing, in black, bold letters – Get the fuck home and save your family.
His physical condition wasn’t much better. The blow he’d taken to the arm still sent searing bolts of pain up and down the limb. He hadn’t managed much sleep in two days. After that last dream, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to sleep again.
So it was an exhausted, short-tempered man who crested the small rise in central Texas, instantly tapping the brakes when he realized something was blocking the road ahead.
Creeping forward, his head was on a swivel - sweeping for any sign of an ambush, almost hoping someone would try. The fields bordering the road were empty. As Bishop approached closer to the obstruction, he thought his tired eyes were seeing things. It looked like someone had built a small house right in the middle of the road.
Normally, caution would demand stopping a considerable distance away, followed by scouting the activity ahead in detail. Not today, not in his frame of mind.
He drove right up, seemingly unconcerned, almost daring anyone to fuck with him.
The house blocking the road was actually an overturned wagon, complete with harnessed team and passengers standing around gawking at the wreck. The chaotic scene was further complicated by two other horse-drawn
buggies and their occupants. One had run into a ditch, the other’s animal lying on its side in the road.
Bishop was mumbling, “What now, an Amish accident? A Mennonite mangle?” as he exited the cab, pulling his rifle sling over his neck. An older man was standing nearby, watching as several other people milled about, pointing while exchanging hushed conversations. A few of the interactions weren’t so soft, one sounding downright heated.
“What happened?” Bishop asked as he approached the gent.
“Those hoodlums took over the VFW and started shooting. We all were trying to get out of there in a panic, and these three buggies got tangled up,” he replied, pointing toward a distant building. The single-story structure looked like a ranch style home, only the flagpole and two Korean War artillery pieces sitting out front indicating it wasn’t the normal homestead.
“We’ve been having a sort of food bank once a week,” the old timer continued. “Everything was going just fine until that bunch of assholes showed up. They shot the place up, took Marty’s daughter hostage and chased us off.”
Marty, as indicated by the witnesses’ nodding heads, was the source of the angered voice, two men apparently restraining the distraught man from returning to the VFW.
Bishop shook his head, not believing his bad luck. He moved to examine the traffic jam, then over to look at the injured draft horse.
One of the wagons had evidently run over two of the animal’s legs, both fractures compound and grisly. The injured mare’s eyes were rolling in the back of her head, spasms of pain racking her body. Bishop knew the animal was finished, a boyhood spent on a working ranch leaving no doubt.
“Someone put this animal out of its misery,” he instructed, scanning the onlookers.
A nearby mother, holding a scared, teenage girl was the only person who answered. “How? No one here has any bullets.”
“Fuck,” mumbled Bishop, pulling his pistol from the holster.
“Noooo!” screamed the girl, realizing Bishop’s intent.
After he verified the mother was still in control of her child, Bishop knelt beside the suffering beast and covered its eye with his hand. He put the barrel an inch from its head and pulled the trigger.
