Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  “Good… we need rain,” the Texan observed.

  Scanning his small patch of West Texas dirt one last time before entering the RV, he noticed flashes of lightning to the west, their strobes illuminating the majestic outline of the Chisos Mountains in the distance. “A storm at that. I wonder if the thunder will frighten Hunter?” he worried.

  Terri was in Alpha with their son, visiting Diana and finalizing wedding plans. No doubt there was a hefty dose of girl stuff involved as well. She’d begged him to come along and be around people for a change, but there were too many chores on his list. Always too many. Besides, Terri was more akin to the city life, and he’d just dampen the mood worrying about this, that, or the other back at the ranch.

  The harsh Chihuahuan Desert had been contrary as of late, the land making it difficult to feed his family and make an honest living. That, and a streak of bad luck weighed on Bishop’s mind every night and day.

  Mr. Beltran had advanced him six head of seed stock, the small herd of cattle comprised of an aging bull and five serviceable cows. One had fallen to her death, the victim of a rockslide and grazing too close to the steep ridge. Another had contracted disease and expired. Veterinarians were a luxury since the collapse. Even when an animal doc could be contacted in time, medications to treat sick stock were seldom available.

  One calf was on the way, but even if she delivered without incident, the headcount was in decline. At this rate, it would be years before he could butcher for table beef. Initially disappointed in just the one pregnancy, an old-time rancher at the Meraton market had set Bishop straight. “Bovine are skittish creatures. You’ve introduced them to a new environment. You’re lucky to have one seed take root. Patience, my friend, patience.”

  And then there was hunting, or more appropriately, the lack thereof.

  The Texan had grown up in the area, scouted the surrounding mountains and valleys throughout his youth. Even after moving to Houston as a younger man, he’d returned to the ranch periodically, spending a week roaming the hills and harvesting the occasional deer. In all those years, he’d never seen such a lack of game.

  He supposed it was due to people having to hunt for food. He’d read somewhere that during the Great Depression, a few species of White-tail deer had been hunted to extinction. Folks had to eat.

  Then there was the competition introduced by his herd. He’d observed both species grazing on the same plants. Even the local jackrabbits dined at the same green-counter. Perhaps his cattle were driving the other animals away to lusher pasture.

  Bishop entered the RV, opening the fridge and pouring a cup of cold water. The drink reminded him of the need to repair the shaft on the windmill pump in the south canyon. He’d get on that in the morning.

  A quick shower and scrub with homemade soap left him feeling a little better. He did have air conditioning. He didn’t have to carry a rifle with him every moment of the day. He wasn’t worried about Terri and Hunter’s safety. Things could be worse… things had been worse.

  “After I fix the well pump, I’ll go higher into the mountains tomorrow afternoon. I bet the rain will bring the deer down, and maybe I’ll have some venison when Terri gets back,” he whispered to the empty camper.

  He stretched out on the bed, forcing the worries of the day from his mind. Terri would be back in two days, and he’d welcome her home with fresh meat and a garden that was beginning to produce. It would all be okay.

  Before sleep came, his mind drifted back to his childhood on the ranch. At the time, he’d thought his father had been a gruff, old worrier, never able to relax or enjoy life. The man had possessed little sense of humor, and even less tolerance for the “wasteful activities,” of recreation or fun. Bishop couldn’t remember his dad ever reading a book or going to see a movie at the Alpha Bijou. The demands of ranch life did not allow for vacations or frivolous trips out of town.

  For years, Bishop had written off his father’s outlook as a product of scars from the Vietnam War, but now, older and wiser, the Texan had his doubts about that conclusion.

  It seemed like every day his thoughts would drift back to old memories of the lessons that the father had tried to instill in the son. Work ethic, honesty, ability to get along with other men, how to fight, and knowing when it was better to run.

  It seemed like there was always a conflict between the two of them. Bishop was adventurous, curious, and easily distracted. His father made every attempt to hammer home the skills and knowledge that could be used in the real world, often frustrated by his son’s interest in places and people far away from the desolate, West Texas ranch.

  “You need to learn about livestock, the economics of ranching, and how the cost of feed makes the difference between beans for supper or steak,” his dad would preach. “You can’t call a vet for every sick animal – the bills would eat up a year’s profit in a month. Knowing how to run a fence can save a man hundreds in the cost of wire and posts. Learning when to sell and when to hold your stock means money in your pocket and food on the table. Get your head out of the clouds, boy. The only thing we know will be here tomorrow is the land. Learn to live off of it, and you’ll be a better man for the effort.”

  It had all seemed so harsh to young Bishop. He saw magazines and pictures at school, images of cities and landscapes that seemed so different than his native Texas. Didn’t his father know there were other ways to make a living? Didn’t the old man realize there was another world out there?

  Now, older and with experience under his belt, Bishop understood his father’s perspective. Given the responsibilities of trying to feed his own family, his father’s approach didn’t seem so harsh or outdated.

  “I’d give my best rifle to spend a day with my dad,” Bishop whispered. “I wish I’d paid more attention. Those lessons would help me now. I could pass them onto Hunter. He might need them later.”

  Despite the soft pillow and clean sheets, sleep proved difficult. Bishop’s mind eventually slowed, it’s whirling cycle surrendering to a body feeling the effects of a hard day’s toil.

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Chief Master Sergeant Grissom announced, throwing the remainder of his coffee into the fire and watching the sparks and steam sizzle into the night. “I’ll wake you in three hours.”

  “Be careful,” teased Sergeant Jones. “We’re in Indian country.”

  “I like my scalp just the way it is,” added the lieutenant, unrolling his sleeping bag. “The women back at Fort Bragg would never forgive you if a savage’s tomahawk fucks up my rugged, but handsome profile. Now, Jones over there,” he continued, nodding toward the third man, “he could use a little cosmetic surgery. Boyish good looks have gone out of style.”

  “Whatever,” Grissom grunted. “I guess I should consider it a privilege to stand guard over your beauty sleep, eh LT?”

  “All of you ‘Chair Force’ studs should be proud to serve with us Army men,” Jones countered. “It’ll enlarge your nut sack and grow chest hair. Make a man out of you.”

  Rolling his eyes, Sergeant Grissom ignored the twin insults to his service and manhood. He’d long ago grown used to the bravado of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces operators. The banter was predictable.

  Grissom grunted, still shaking his head over the exchange. Bending to heft his rifle and night vision, he moved away from the fire and began thinking about the pattern he would follow during his stint on watch.

  Being in the U.S. Air Force had been a deliberate choice. Signing up to be a Pararescue Specialist or PJ (abbreviated from the original Para Jumper) had been his ultimate goal. After almost two years of the most arduous training in the military, Grissom had graduated and joined the teams.

  For those in the know, PJs commanded the same respect as Navy SEALS, Green Berets, and the CAG. In fact, most of Grissom’s deployments had been with integrated teams from those same units.

  Grissom had wanted to serve with the PJs because their core objective was to save lives. Their primary mission was to
rescue downed pilots from the most hostile territories and fight their way back to friendly lines if necessary.

  He’d attended all of the elite schools, from Army Airborne training at Fort Benning to the combat diver course in Panama City, Florida.

  After receiving the same level of combat instruction as any Special Forces operator, the PJs were only halfway through their curriculum. Next came nearly a year of specialized medical training, multiple survival courses, and a constant diet of refresher exercises. To be a PJ required heart and brains.

  The sergeant meandered his way up the ridge from the bivouac, wanting to access the higher ground so he could gain a better perspective of their surroundings. In reality, he was still curious about their secondary objective, motivated to study the earth-moving activities in detail.

  Despite the good-natured banter from the soldiers below, Grissom wasn’t really worried about being discovered. They were only going to be in the area for a short period of time – a quick insertion, reconnaissance, and then orderly egress.

  Their primary objective, Los Alamos, had been a mixed bag. They had found the massive, steel vaults at the labs still intact, their Geiger counter detecting no evidence of any radiation leaks. Grissom had radioed in the report, including video images via the satellite phone’s datalink. The brass back at the base seemed pleased with the results. They could now safely send in another team of specialists for the preparation and transport of the nuclear materials.

  But there was bad news as well. Large sections of the laboratory and its sophisticated array of equipment had been destroyed by fire. The undamaged parts had been thoroughly looted. Another national asset lost to the apocalypse.

  The town surrounding the massive research facility was entirely abandoned, the team discovering only a few clean-picked skeletons and random piles of sun-bleached bones to account for the thousands of engineers and scientists that had once occupied the area. They had found most of the garages void of automobiles, a sure sign that the brain trust had bugged out when things had started getting bad.

  Grissom hoped most of them had made it.

  It was the secondary objective that now troubled the sergeant. He’d never seen anything like the activity they’d found in the valley below.

  Vast sections of earth had been disturbed, evidence of excavation, movement, and grading throughout the valley. Massive berms had been raised, accompanying a complex system of what appeared to be locks and canals. It had all puzzled the analysts studying the aerial photographs, and now, despite his team’s close-up inspection, he still didn’t have a clue.

  Grissom was nothing if not curious. This was normally a positive attribute, but occasionally could get him into hot water. He loved to solve mysteries, and that sometimes led to quandaries.

  He reached the pinnacle of the rise, staying low for a moment as he scanned the horizon with his night vision. As expected, there wasn’t any movement or unusual shapes displayed in the green and black world created by the device’s light amplification tube.

  Satisfied that his team was still undetected, Grissom stepped higher and began studying the valley below. He had to admit, it was all just plain weird.

  In a way, the scene reminded the sergeant of old pictures he’d once seen, a series of photographs taken during the construction of the Panama Canal.

  While the activity below was on a smaller scale, it was still a substantial undertaking, collapse of society or not. And it didn’t make one bit of sense. The nearest city was Santa Fe, but everyone knew that town had been mostly destroyed by fire and looting. Albuquerque was almost as bad, both metropolitan areas practically void of inhabitants.

  The surrounding territory was desolate, sparsely populated, and mostly comprised of Native American reservations, tribal lands, and National Forests. Who was moving all that dirt down there… and why?

  The project below would have represented a massive undertaking even before the loss of fuel, heavy equipment, and computer aided drafting. Now, without those capabilities, the scale and complexity of the operation just didn’t make any sense.

  One of the analysts back at the Pentagon had even gone so far as to speculate that the scientists and engineers at Los Alamos were responsible. One theory had it that someone was digging a massive burial ground for the nuclear materials known to be at the lab.

  But that concept had quickly been shot down. There were less than 100 pounds of fissionable material in all of the laboratory’s sprawling infrastructure, and that wouldn’t require such a big hole.

  Grissom didn’t know who was running the show down in the valley, but he was reasonably sure it had nothing to do with nukes. The involvement of Los Alamos scientists was still a possibility, but the PJ had his doubts.

  Forcing his mind to refocus on the job at hand, the operator began quietly circling the camp, eyes and ears prying the darkness, searching for any sign of trouble. “Don’t let curiosity kill the PJ-cat,” he whispered.

  Hack wanted to keep the drone above the intruders and observe the encounter in real time, but that was impossible. The terrain between the pueblo and the valley was too difficult for the hunting party to make good time, especially in low light conditions, and his batteries were limited.

  Sighing at the flying machine’s power indicator, he punched a series of buttons and ordered the drone home.

  “I know you all want to watch, but my machine is out of juice,” he explained to the gathered onlookers. “The hunting party will bring the girl back, I’m sure.”

  “You’ve helped beyond measure,” replied the uncle, placing a reassuring hand on the inventor’s shoulder. “Would you like any food or drink while we wait?”

  “No thank you, I’m fine.”

  The crowd milled around for several minutes, Hack catching bits and pieces of the low conversations while he waited. Everyone was clearly keyed up, the family members of the hunting party both proud of their kin’s participation in the rescue, and worried at the same time about their wellbeing.

  At no time did the toymaker detect any hesitation or second-guessing of the project. Hack was unsure if the locals just hadn’t put two and two together… or if he was just paranoid.

  This is all related, he thought. There’s no other reason for military men to be in that area. Somehow, they’re on to us.

  Someone pointed skyward, and then the drone was hovering overhead. Without Hack touching the tablet, the flying robot began its descent into the middle of the square.

  After his toy had landed, Hack performed a quick check-over of his device and then returned it to his car. All along, his Apache shadow loomed close by.

  “There’s nothing more for us to do now but wait,” he informed his bodyguard. “I want to stay here and talk to the hunting party when they return. If they capture any of the strangers alive, I want to speak with them as well.”

  Apache Jack grunted, “They won’t take anyone alive, Grandfather. You know that. Still, it will be good to see the girl reunited with her family.”

  Hack nodded, knowing his companion’s words were accurate. The local tribes had stopped taking any prisoners long ago. They would, however, bring back the equipment and personal effects from the bodies, and that might help explain the purpose of the strangers’ trip. The guard sensed his apprehension. “You are troubled, Grandfather. Is there something else?”

  “I don’t like military men spying on the project,” Hack replied. “If there is any government presence remaining in Washington, they’re not going to like what we’re doing. I’ve long hoped our joint venture would be completed before anyone discovered our handiwork.”

  “More than any white man since your kind came to our lands, you have helped the people, Grandfather. From my brothers the Mescalero in the south to the Navajo in the west, the nations are uniting behind the project. Our time has come. It’s our turn, and nothing is going to stop us.”

  Hack didn’t respond at first, moving to lean against the hood of his cart. He’d heard similar wor
ds from several of the local leaders, and in a way, they were right.

  It had all started innocently enough.

  Given the success of his drones assisting with security and the hunts, he’d been experimenting with equipping the metal hawks with ground-contouring radar.

  He’d earned the handle “Hack” back in the early days at the Skunk Works, quickly developing a reputation for “hacking” together solutions using existing hardware and software. The name had stuck, and besides, he thought it sounded far better than “Ruben,” the name given by his mother.

  Using scavenged components from a police radar gun and old cell phones, he’d been “hacking” together a device that would provide detailed mapping of the surrounding territory. If they were to survive long term, the tribes were going to be forced into large-scale farming.

  That plan required tillable land, water for irrigation, and manageable overland routes to plant and distribute the harvest.

  His hack had worked, downloading detailed terrain and elevation data into one of the inventor’s more powerful computers.

  Hack could still remember the day it had dawned on him that the valley was ripe for irrigation. He’d been studying the high output, agricultural regions, such as those in California and Texas, and discovered the surrounding desert was geographically predisposed for just such a project. But where to find that much water?

  The answer was obvious – the Rio Grande River.

  Flowing from north of them in Colorado, the Rio Grande wasn’t much more than a broad stream as it passed through Santa Fe and flowed south where it eventually formed the border between Texas and Mexico.

  Hack quickly discovered that the limited water supply was partly due to the waterway’s split just north of the valley. There, the Pecos River branched off, taking a separate route toward central Texas. The two rivers eventually met again along the Mexican border before flowing into the Gulf of Mexico at Brownsville, Texas.