by Joe Nobody
As he verified the contents of his blow-out bag, the faces of his friends began rotating through his mind. He wondered how many times Nick had experienced these same thoughts and fears. Pete and Betty were so dedicated and caring. They would help Terri recover and rebuild her life.
Deacon Diana Brown – her leadership skills natural and honest. The Alliance wouldn’t be nearly as strong without her hand at the helm.
He pulled one last mouthful of water from the Camelbak, the cool liquid helping fight the dryness that persisted in his mouth.
It was time.
He didn’t move far before encountering the first problem. He couldn’t find the sentries. Scanning with both light amplification and thermal imaging proved fruitless. Either these are the stealthiest guards I’ve ever seen, or someone is way, way overconfident, he thought.
His descent into the valley was slowed by the lack of security. Bishop was positive they had to have posted sentries… any competent officer would. He kept searching and scanning, eventually giving up the quest.
Flashlights, two campfires, and a few battery-powered tent bulbs illuminated the outpost. It was an easy approach given the number of rock formations providing cover.
While observing the activity from above, he had noted most of the supplies were being stored in a large tent on the north side of the compound. Bishop wanted to get rid of the gasoline and its anchor-like weight, so he made for that area first. If possible, he’d love to get his hands on a case of hand grenades before the shooting started.
He found the tent unguarded, moving to within 20 feet of the shelter without being challenged or noticed. He was amazed at the ease, always looking behind him to see if operators were closing in. None were; his egress remained clear.
As he scouted the crates, boxes and pallets full cardboard wrapped storage, Bishop noticed most of the materials were denoted with a red cross – the universal sign of medical equipment and supplies. Now that’s strange, he considered. I would have expected ammo, hand grenades, and claymore mines.
Was it a ruse? Were the teams of assassins and saboteurs disguising their tools of destruction as medical supplies? Checking all around, Bishop didn’t see anyone close by. He decided to enter the tent, and see for himself.
He found a pallet of supposed “pharmaceuticals,” each container marked with the category of drug it claimed to contain. Bishop unlatched the container’s hinges and opened the top. Again his head pivoted; again he found no one approaching his position.
Using the red lenses of his flashlight, Bishop tried to hide the torch with his body while checking the contents. He found rows of small boxes stacked inside, each of the two samples he pulled containing bottles of pills.
Replacing the lid, he moved on to another pallet two rows over, a container of bandages and medical wraps filled with exactly what its stenciled exterior claimed. The discovery was troubling.
Bishop was puzzled, his determination to deliver mayhem to the camp beginning to waiver - ever so slightly. Why would combat teams need such huge quantities of medical supplies? Why would a mission calling for quick insertion and extraction need a full case of diarrhea tablets? Maybe Nick’s defenses have them scared shitless, he mused.
He needed to learn more.
His pre-dusk observations had identified the primary personnel tent located on the south side of the canyon. Withdrawing carefully from the supply depot, he worked his way around slowly, always watching for the expected sentries.
Again, he was stunned at how close he could approach the temporary structure. Voices carried through the canvas walls, the normal sounds of men in the field. Bishop listened for a few moments, learning nothing useful for his effort. There were too many conversations and secondary noises for him to make out anything.
He skirted around to the tent’s primary opening, a space about eight feet wide covered with mosquito netting. The interior was brightly lit, a series of cots along one wall, the normal assortment of duffle bags, olive drab chairs and even a small desk with its own lamp. What he could see looked normal, like any military unit setting up a forward base in the field.
It was what he didn’t see that caused him to pause.
There wasn’t a single weapon in sight. Ignoring the fact that combat units rarely set up shelters unless they intended to be in the field for a significant amount of time, he fully expected to see M4 rifles, belt-fed weapons and other lethal tools of the trade. There were none, and it didn’t make any sense.
He directed his attention to the men themselves. A few of the troopers were preparing to hit the rack, wandering around shirtless in the desert heat of July. Bishop studied these examples of humanity. These were not combat troops, let alone elite Special Forces.
Stomachs overhung belt lines. He didn’t see a single man who had defined muscles. One guy had gray hair and looked to be almost 60 years old. Bishop backed away, retreating to the boulder field to gather his thoughts.
Something wasn’t right, the whole setup not what he would have expected from hunter-killer teams. It just smelled bad. It was possible that what he had seen was all a ruse – a tactic to hide in plain sight or integrate the killers in with a benign unit, like a Trojan horse.
Before he started chopping people to pieces, he needed to investigate further.
On the opposite side of the valley, elevated at the crest of the canyon wall, Alastair and Eris sat behind a well-constructed blind. Similar to a portable deer hide commonly used by hunters, the two men had arrived a day before Bishop, using the time to build their den of observation and set up what amounted to a high-tech, field-mobile bank of cameras and communications equipment.
“It’s a good thing you thought to bring along the thermal liner,” Alastair whispered. “Who would have thought some cowboy from Texas would have an infrared device?”
Eris didn’t respond, his eye glued to a complex camera, the large unit mounted to a stout tripod. The sturdy stand was required due to the length of the lenses extending off the main body of the digital recorder. It was capable both of extreme magnification, and recording thermal video.
“He’s not going to do it,” Eris finally spoke, watching Bishop as he moved around the camp. “He’s down there poking around and is going to figure it out… if he hasn’t already.”
Alastair shrugged, “No matter. If he doesn’t, we will. Does the Mark III still have a good angle?”
Eris moved his eye away from the camera for a moment, glancing down at a computer unit lying on a nearby rock ledge. The small, shielded monitor was accompanied by a keyboard and joystick. In order to lower the amount of light generated, the operative couldn’t see the display unless he was directly aligned with the surface of the flat screen. He adjusted his position in order to get a good look of what was clearly an aerial view of the valley below.
Human shapes glowed white against the black background of tents, rocks and other objects. One of the man-images showed the dark gray outline of a battle rifle and had a green, flashing box surrounding the image – the designated target, Bishop.
The software controlling the orbiting drone was much more sophisticated than the early models used in Afghanistan and Iraq. Eris had initially piloted the drone’s flight path and camera with the joy stick until the unit had Bishop clearly in focus. A few strokes on the keyboard then ordered the flying spy to keep its bank of instruments trained on that heat source - no matter where the target moved.
“Yes, the drone is doing fine,” Eris reported, then added, “I think our man down there is about to reach a conclusion, and I don’t think he’s going to do the dirty deed. You had better get into your rig. With any luck, we’ll be out of here before the sun rises.”
Alastair shrugged, turning to the back of the tent-like structure and pulling on a load vest. The kit was similar to Bishop’s, complete with a row of magazines extending from its carriers. He then pulled a baklava over his head and topped off the disguise with a floppy bush hat. He could pass for Bishop, the resem
blance by design.
“The rifle isn’t the same. I thought for sure this guy would use an M4. Besides, I didn’t have an ACR at the house,” he noted.
“There aren’t going to be any defense lawyers or experts studying this video. I’ll zoom out the camera to prevent picking up so much detail. It’ll be fine.”
Bishop was checking the last tent, his mind reeling from what he had found so far. If this were an elite combat team, it was the most pitiful excuse for one he’d ever seen. So far, he’d found nothing but a collection of poorly conditioned men who, without their uniforms, would barely pass as soldiers – at least from Bishop’s perspective.
It wasn’t just their physical conditioning. Most of the men he studied were older, more than one sporting gray hair, and a few near the end of having any hair at all. They didn’t move or talk like fighting men, especially ones who were about to embark on a mission.
He didn’t spot one rifle, Kevlar helmet, or chest-rig in the entire complex. The only thing that could fire bullets in the camp was a single sidearm worn by an officer. The man seemed uncomfortable with the pistol on his belt, constantly fidgeting and adjusting the holster.
One more tent, he told himself. Maybe the real warriors are huddled there. What’s behind door number three?
It was empty… unoccupied… nada.
“Shit, shit, shit. Brimstone and damnation,” Bishop muttered. “What the hell do I do now?”
He decided to pull back and think. Forcing the adrenaline drain made his stomach hurt. After all the preparation, the hair-raising scramble across half the southern United States… the risk… the danger, the dead men in his wake.
His internal rant was disturbed by the sound of footsteps. A quick scan with the night vision identified a soldier, making for the edge of camp and eventually fumbling with his fly.
While the trooper finished his business, Bishop was moving. After completing his task, the soldier turned to see a shadow directly behind him. He started to greet what he thought was one of his comrades, but instead found himself on the ground, Bishop’s knife held against his throat.
“Make a sound and die,” hissed Bishop, increasing the pressure of the cold steel.
His prisoner was just a kid – maybe 19 years old, tops. Wide-eyed and clearly terrified, the private remained silent, not even chancing a breath.
“Real quiet now… what is your unit?”
“The 410th Mobile Surgical – New York National Guard,” was the hushed response.
Bishop pretended anger, his eyes bulging in the kid’s face, the knife pressing down just a little more. “Bullshit! You’ve got one more chance – what is your unit?”
“I… I told you, sir,” the kid stammered, “I’m from Albany, and we just got here.”
Bishop felt for the private’s shoulder patch, ripping off the Velcro backed designation. With his knee in the kid’s chest, he held it up to the light from the camp behind him. Sure as shit, it matched the soldier’s story.
Returning to his prisoner, Bishop asked, “Why are you here?”
“We were ordered here to set up a supply depot. Tomorrow, the doctors are being shuttled into the towns… to start seeing patients while the nurses do inoculations. That’s all I know, mister…. I swear.”
It all matched what Bishop had discovered. Either the government’s plan had changed, or he had been misled. There was no one here that he needed to kill.
Bishop moved his weight off the frightened private. “Get up,” he commanded.
As the kid stood, Bishop withdrew a nylon tie from his vest. “I’m going to tie you up and leave you over there. After pushing the kid behind a nearby boulder, Bishop bound the private’s hands and feet with the stout stripes and then wrapped duct tape around his mouth twice. “Sorry,” Bishop whispered, “That’s going to hurt like hell coming off.”
Bishop knew every minute the kid was gone increased the chances someone would come looking for him. He hustled away from the camp, climbing rapidly to retrieve his pack and other equipment.
While he strapped on the heavy load, Bishop actually felt relief for the first time in days. Yes, it could be the Special Ops teams had used a different camp. There was still the possibility that he was too late… that his family and friends were still in danger, maybe already dead.
But he didn’t think so. Maybe surviving the night changed his perspective. Perhaps he was optimistic that he was not having to take additional life. Whatever the reason, Bishop began hiking out of Chamber’s Canyon with a smile on his face. The walk to Alpha was going to suck, but he’d survived worse. He was going home.
Alastair waited, giving Bishop plenty head start. As soon as he was convinced the Texan was far enough away, he began snaking down the incline until he reached the valley floor.
He didn’t like killing Americans, but orders were orders. He’d done it before.
While waiting, he had decided to inherit Bishop’s original plan. He found the two jugs of gasoline, right where the Texan had left them. He began dousing the flammable liquid throughout the supply tent. A flick of a disposable lighter caused a loud whoosh, and then the area was illuminated by towering flames.
The operative withdrew to the shadows, ducking down in a predetermined spot where he knew Eris’s cameras had a clear view. Taking a knee and waiting on the guardsmen to respond to the blaze, he flicked the safety off his M4 and inhaled.
Bishop was almost a mile away when a sound resembling distant gunfire bounced through the rock crevices and gorges of the area. He paused, holding his breath and tilting his head in order to listen more closely.
He waited several minutes, trying to decide if the noise had really been gunfire or just a figment of his exhausted mind.
The momentary pause in his pilgrimage caused him to realize just how drained his mind and body were. He was emotionally, physically, and mentally done. There’s no great rush to get home, he thought. I’m going to find a good place to curl up and sleep for a bit. Maybe the nightmares won’t come tonight.
Chapter 17
Alpha, Texas
July 15, 2016
Terri’s morning routine with Hunter went off without a hitch. After both had finished breakfast, the new mom strapped on her constant companion and began trekking toward the courthouse.
She was looking forward to finishing her estimations for some of their local projects, the effort having been delayed by the series of negotiations being conducted with the team out of Fort Hood. It was two days before the next calendared meeting, and she was behind schedule.
Rounding the corner onto Main Street, she was surprised to see a military Humvee parked in front of the courthouse. Odd, she thought. They’re not supposed to be here today.
Concern replaced curiosity as she walked closer. Rather than the assortment of officials from Washington, she could see General Owens, as well as three armed men. The guards noticed her approach and moved to intercept – their weapons in a ready position.
“Are you going to shoot me or the baby first?” she asked the nearest soldier.
“Sergeant, it’s okay. Let her pass.”
“What’s this all about, General?”
“I was getting ready to ask you the same thing, Terri. Why on earth did you people murder all those men?”
“What? What men? We didn’t murder anyone. What are you talking about?”
Clearly angry, Owens pulled a folder from under his arm, his actions curt and short. Inside were a series of 8x10 photographs, each depicting what looked like the aftermath of gory battle.
Terri managed to look at the first three before having to turn away. “Why are you showing me these pictures?”
“Yesterday, shortly after midnight, someone attacked one of our units. An unarmed medical platoon - men who were preparing a supply depot about 110 miles north of here. We informed you we were staging there over a week ago. Why, Terri? Why kill them all?”
“We didn’t kill anyone! And I don’t appreciate your tone of
voice or the accusation of wrongdoing.”
The general shook his head in disgust, reaching into the folder and producing a fistful of photos. “Are you saying you don’t know this man?”
He held up a picture of Bishop, the image slightly grainy, but clear. Before Terri could answer, he produced several more photographs, including a few that showed her husband shooting a rifle. “Our security system took these pictures at the site of the massacre. This man killed over 20 of our soldiers and destroyed tons of medical supplies. Isn’t this your husband?”
Terri was stunned and speechless. She suddenly felt light-headed, her legs weak. Nick appeared behind her, Diana at her side. “What’s wrong, Terri? You don’t look so good.”
The emergency council meeting, like all such functions of the Alliance, was open to the public. Word of the massacre had spread quickly throughout the territory, rumors compounded by exaggerations. By the time the news had reached the far corners of the union, the story had grown to the point where war was being declared.
It was standing room only in the courthouse chambers, the walls lined with idling men, most of whom had left the seating to the women in a gentlemanly show of manners.
General Owens, accompanied by his three nervous bodyguards, sat at a table facing the gathering council members, his face stoic, body language reserved. Medals covered the breast of the commander’s green jacket, many of them earned in combat. He seemed to sense every eye in the room was focused on him.
Here was the face of the enemy, a contradiction to what most of the audience thought they would see. He was a calm, professional-looking solider, not the fire-breathing demon many had expected. Honor sat in his chair – a life of service and sacrifice waiting to address a hostile entity. There was almost a sadness about the fellow – a projected regret.
When Diana’s gavel finally called the meeting to order, a hush fell across the crowded room, the remnants of a few final whispers fading quickly.
