by Joe Nobody
Stoke looked at the floor and pretended disgust. “Ditto, you know that’s not going to work. Even if I believed you, I can just pull back my men and wait you out. You’re bound to run out of food sometime. You’ve got to leave eventually. We’ll just surround this place and wait out the siege.”
It was Ditto’s turn to laugh. “You take me for a fool. I have hundreds of men on their way here. They will kill you on sight. You should be running right now before they get here and skin you alive.”
“They will die, Ditto. Just like all the men you sent before. Why don’t you be a smart lad and just tell me where our machinery is? That’s the only way out, Ditto.”
“It seems we are at an impasse,” was the response from behind the console. “Perhaps I can offer an alternative that would be agreeable to all parties.”
“Always the businessman,” Bishop thought.
“Go ahead. I’m listening, Ditto.”
“While I have sold the recovered equipment to my Russian colleagues, I have not delivered the merchandise as of yet. It is possible that I could cancel their order and accept equal payment from your firm. A sum of 50 million dollars US, wired into one of my accounts, would ensure I provided an address where the equipment could be found.”
The offer actually relaxed Bishop. Aiming a weapon at a man whose finger hovered over a trigger of mass destruction was wearing his nerves thin. The hope of a non-catastrophic solution lessened the tension in his shoulders.
Strokes’ response eased Bishop’s frayed nerves a bit more. “Ditto, $50,000,000 seems like quite a lot for a ‘finder’s fee.’ An arrangement like that is above my level of authority. I’ll have to contact my people before I can agree to anything.”
“Take your time…. I’m not going anywhere… but not too much time. My soldiers will be arriving soon.”
Stoke whispered to his men, “Watch him. Don’t do anything unless he tries to leave this room. I’m going to contact Houston on the satellite phone and see what they want us to do.”
Without waiting on a response, Stoke left the room.
Twenty minutes later, the team leader reappeared in the machinery chamber. Without any word to his two men, Stoke began speaking. “Ditto, I have agreement from Houston for your proposal. I’ll need the routing information and account number for the bank where you want the funds transferred.”
Stoke then shocked Bishop. The team leader half turned and whispered, “Take him out. Do your best and try and knock him down.”
Bishop was stunned, his lips trying to mouth words of protest, but his tongue unable to form any sounds. Stoke grabbed Bishop’s shoulder and said, “Do your best, lad. Don’t forget to get out of the way of the grenade.”
Ditto began rattling off numbers, but Stoke interrupted him. “Ditto! Ditto! Wait. I’m not going to send 50 million dollars racing off into cyberspace based on my memory. Write the damn numbers down so there’s no mistake.”
Conflicting thoughts were racing through Bishop’s head a mile a minute, his logic reeling from the implications of Houston’s decision. Somehow, he focused enough to return his cheek to the stock of the shotgun and his finger to the trigger.
Ditto paused and then responded, “Pardon my lack of preparation Mr. HBR man, but I seem to have left my paper and pencil in my other office.”
“I’ll get you what you need. Hold on one second.”
Returning quickly, Stoke leaned his weapon against the doorframe and slowly stepped towards Ditto with his hands held high. He held a scrap of paper and a pen in one hand. When he was within reach of the bureau, Stoke carefully set the items on the surface and then began backing up.
Ditto’s eyes never left the team leader, a bare shadow of the man nervously watching from his cover.
Bishop was ready. Despite his shaking hands and churning stomach, the red dot of the shotgun’s optic never moved from the bridge of Ditto’s nose. When Ditto reached for the pen and paper, Bishop squeezed the trigger.
The single ounce of plastic-encased sand exited the muzzle traveling at over 1300 feet per second. After leaving the tight confines of the shotgun’s barrel, the un-aerodynamic projectile wobbled slightly but held its course, striking Ditto directly in the mouth.
Only small snapshots of time entered Bishop’s mind after his shot. Ditto’s head snapping backwards… blood and bits of flesh showering into the air… the hand holding the grenade instinctively moving to the pain tearing through his face… the explosive device coming loose and drifting through the air.
Spider had already lifted his boot to step when the metal case of the grenade pinged with impact on the concrete floor. Bishop watched his friend casually take two more, big steps and scoop up the ticking bomb. With a single motion, the contractor flung the volatile, incendiary device toward the far corner of the room.
It dawned on Bishop that he was still on one knee, and he twisted to dive for cover. There was just enough time to sense the cold surface of the concrete against his cheek before the room was filled with the violent shock wave of the grenade. Shrapnel whizzed through the air, the screaming slices of metal mimicking the sound of giant, angry bees. Pipes, walls, and machinery sounded with the impact of the deadly hunks of steel… pings, thuds, and rattles all around.
Stoke was up first, immediately moving for Ditto and the control panel. Bishop followed next, rising to his feet before Spider could recover from his less than acrobatic dive.
Bishop didn’t care anymore about the machinery, HBR’s investment, or Ditto. As he half stumbled through the fog of cordite smoke, his eyes were fixed on the handle that controlled the floodgates. It took a moment to figure out the controls. There were meters, slide levers, and several warning lights. Bishop finally found the gauge that was labeled “Gate 1 Capacity,” and then its twin, “Gate 2.”
Both indicators read 30%.
Bishop exhaled, closing his eyes and tilting his head skyward. The respite was short-lived as Spider began pumping him for information. “Did this fucker open them? Is the dam going to hold?”
“They’re fine,” replied Bishop. “No flood. He didn’t even touch the controls.”
Stoke spoke up from behind the control panel where he was bent over a groaning Ditto. “Come help me with our new friend, lads. He’s a little too unstable to walk on his own. Does anyone know a good local dentist?”
The hotel balcony was on the third floor and provided an excellent view of the pedestrian traffic plying the sidewalks below. Bishop sat with his bare feet soaking up the sunshine while he sipped a glass of real lemonade – the casual tourist, people-watching from his roost.
He was seriously considering another nap when three knocks sounded at the door. Cursing the interruption, he rose slowly and gingerly strode to the entry. Peering through the peephole, he immediately recognized Spider’s face behind the middle finger flipping an obscene gesture.
Bishop couldn’t resist. “Who is it?” he sang.
“You know damn well who it is, let me in.”
“I’m busy.”
“Bullshit… quit fucking around and open up.”
“I’ve got two young ladies visiting right now, and they’re very modest around strangers.”
Spider paused as if he were actually considering the truth of Bishop’s claim. After some minor deliberation, he presumed the story was a stunt and began cursing at his friend.
Bishop let his buddy generate a small head of steam before undoing the deadbolt and opening the door. He grunted when Spider stuck just his head inside, looking around to insure there weren’t any women.
“You fucker… always a clown… one of these days that shit is going to come back and bite your ass.”
“Did you stop by to tutor me on the finer arts of social interaction?”
“No, asshole, I stopped by to tell you to pack up. The Colonel and his crew recovered the equipment and we’re flying out of this shithole in four hours. The truck is going to pick us up out front. Be there or be square.”
Bishop nodded, a deep grimace crossing his face.
Spider detected his friend’s mood and probed. “What’s wrong, Bishop? You’ve got that look in your eye.”
“I don’t know, Spider. I’m considering resigning. I’m not sure I want to work for someone who puts money ahead of human life.”
Spider’s head sunk, his chin resting on his chest. “I know, I’ve been thinking the same thing. Management’s decision to take that chance up at the dam versus paying some money has been bothering me, too. That whole thing could have ended in a huge cluster fuck.”
Stoke appeared in the doorway, his hand raised to knock on the still open door. “Oh hello, Spider. I was just coming by to give Bishop the word. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, sir. Everything is fine. Spider and I were just discussing our future.”
Stoke entered the room, closing the door behind him. He looked to each man, a fatherly expression on his face. “Now let me guess, lads. You’re both feeling blue about the gamble we took up at the lake. You’re both wondering if you want to work for such greedy bastards that would make a decision like that. Am I right?”
Spider nodded without making eye contact with the older man. Bishop remained silent.
“I’m not going to lecture either of you. You’re both grown men and in control of your own destiny. I do, however, want to ask you both a simple question. Can either of you name me one potential employer who doesn’t do the same thing? When a bank repossesses a farm, aren’t they in effect putting money ahead of people? When a factory furloughs workers, isn’t that the same commercial sin of placing the corporate bottom line ahead of the needs of individual workers? What corporation would you go to work for with completely noble intentions? I know, you can go find a job for a tobacco company – there’s an employer who doesn’t put money ahead of life.”
Stoke looked at both men, making sure his point was making it through. His tone softening, he continued. “I don’t know of any employer who doesn’t give money a high priority in any risk assessment. The problem might not be that of a weapon killing someone. The issue may involve closing a plant or reducing redundant staff and sending them off to the unemployment line. It’s all part of life, gentlemen. If HBR had paid our friend Ditto those funds, who knows how many of your American mates they would’ve had to let go? Who can tell how many families would have suffered because of paying a criminal huge sums of money? Besides that, an “entrepreneur” who is willing to fuck the Russians after they paid for our merchandise might not be the most reputable business partner either.”
Bishop and Spider looked up at the older, wiser man, both of their faces indicating they were absorbing his message.
Stoke placed one hand on each contractor’s shoulder and continued, “Just think about it, lads. Give it few good mental cycles before you do anything rash. HBR is as good a master as it gets. They’re not perfect, but they get it right most times.”
Bands of color brought my eyes
From desert floor ‘cross cobalt skies.
Ahead stood stark, against the blue
A tree, smit by nature, grew.
Still green in spots from life persistent
Lightening had split the wood dehiscent.
Strong it stood as it long would
By God’s great hand,
Held straight to stand.
My eyes moved on and found their rest
Upon a wondrous eagle’s nest.
What else could this great land present,
To such a soul that must lament?
Looking deeply, inward most,
My view came upon The Host;
The Holy Spirit dwelled within
This heart, this land, this gracious wind.
And in my heart there came a peace
That only rests within the beasts.
To see the feathered eagle’s wings
Unfurl against the cobalt sky
And with it draw my eye once more
‘Cross bands of color to the desert floor-
Lament no more.
DALH 2013
Chapter 1
January 8, 2016
Alpha, Texas
Diana blinked her eyes, wondering if she had been dreaming or had really heard the noise. Confused by her rapid transition from REM sleep, she wasn’t entirely sure where she was or why she was there. Something about a whistle. Something about that was important.
Her neck was stiff, one arm was asleep, and she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Commanding her body to shift for relief, the stack of papers on her chest fell to the floor and scattered. It all instantly came back - she had been reviewing the endless volume of paperwork when exhaustion had overcome her determination to clean out her inbox.
Sitting up on the office couch, she rubbed her eyes and threw a disgusted look at the chaotic mass of forms, requests, and status reports strewn about the floor. No rest for the wicked, she thought.
As she bent to rearrange the clutter, the distant whistle sounded again. The signal caused her head to snap up, energy suddenly surging through her veins. The whistle was a call for help… an emergency… a rudimentary alarm system for a community that didn’t possess working telephones.
Half-stumbling toward the office door, she was relieved to discover Nick snoring away on the reception area’s couch. With only a minor pang of guilt about waking someone who needed rest as much as she, Diana gently called out, “Nick…. Nick…. Someone’s blowing a whistle.”
Being a professional military man instills many small, hardly noticeable habits in a person. Long-time soldiers learn to eat quickly, sleep anywhere, and store their personal items in a regimented, efficient way. One such attribute developed over many campaigns in hostile lands is the capability to awaken quickly – to transform from a deep slumber to alert and ready faster than most.
While the question of “Whistle?” was rolling off his tongue, Nick’s legs were already sweeping off the sofa, heading for the carpeted floor. Before Diana could react, his right hand had touched the rifle leaning nearby while his left was reaching for socks and boots.
“I heard a whistle, twice I think. I’m sure of the second signal.”
Nick was tying off his boot when the third screech of alarm reached the couple’s ears.
“Something’s very wrong,” Diana announced as she pulled on her flats.
Two minutes later, the couple bounded down the church steps, unsure of what they were facing. While Nick and some of the men carried handheld radios for communication, the vast majority of Alpha’s citizens did not. No telephone service meant no calling 9-1-1. It had become common practice for the townsfolk to use whistles when an emergency required quick response.
The handy, little noisemakers provided a first-rate solution. The flat desert terrain, coupled by the still Texas air, provided an excellent environment for their effective use. Plentiful, cheap, and easy to use, anyone of any age could call for help with a single, strong exhalation - the only shortcoming being that the responders didn’t have any idea about the nature of the crisis. An elderly person may have fallen. Looters might be trying to break into a home. A child may have gone missing, or someone could be too sick to get out of bed.
The cause of tonight’s alarm became obvious moments after the couple pushed through the church’s front doors. A red glow on the horizon announced something was on fire, and it wasn’t a trash barrel. A telltale whiff of smoke, scorching plastic, and toxic fumes provided a confirmation that whatever was burning, it wasn’t inconsequential.
Nick glanced down at his rifle and chest rig, sure he wouldn’t be needing the firepower, but not wanting to take the time to return the equipment to the church. He and Diana ran to the nearby golf cart and were soon speeding toward the firestorm.
On the way to the blaze, Nick pondered the cause of these random fires. Without the expertise and training of a professional investigator, there was really no way to be sure. Alpha’s entire fire department had succu
mbed to the toxic cloud of gas released that fateful Sunday morning when the chemical plant exploded.
There had been a rash of small blazes after the power was restored. Appliances having electricity for the first time in months were no doubt the cause of some fires. Any electrical connection could short out. HVAC systems overheating and general wiring faults were probably as much to blame – but there was no way to be sure.
It was clear from several blocks away that they were approaching a full-fledged inferno. The red and yellow flames flashing skyward outlined the dark shadows of numerous onlookers. There were a half dozen men with garden hoses trying to spray water on the blaze, but they were completely outmatched. The heat was so intense the would-be firefighters couldn’t get close enough for their weak streams of water to arch onto the flames.
Nick hopped out of the cart before it came to a complete stop, sprinting as close as possible to the firestorm to assess the situation. The clapboard-clad bungalow where the flames had begun was a total loss, already consumed by the roaring blaze. He prayed there wasn’t anyone inside. The neighboring, downwind Victorian would reach the same state in a matter of minutes. A dense cloud of dark, black smoke already enveloped the structure, intermittent wisps of flame visible through the windows.
“Forget about that house!” Nick yelled at the hose-men. “Move next door. That one’s gone, but we might keep the flames from spreading.”
Diana was now behind him, quizzing several onlookers. “Where’s our fire truck?”
“It’s still inoperable. We haven’t gotten around to having it repaired,” replied one man.
Nick hustled to Diana’s side and shouted over the noise, “Send someone to the fire station, and at least bring back some serious hose.” He pointed to the fire hydrant in the middle of the block and continued. “Make sure and retrieve the tools to break that hydrant loose. If we can hook up the big hose there, we might be able to keep the blaze from spreading.”
