by Joe Nobody
Finally deciding it didn’t matter at the moment, the soldier pointed a finger at Grim and countered, “I don’t give a shit if you’re General Owens, my squad was assigned to this clusterfuck, and I don’t need some outside amateur mucking things up. Is that clear?”
“He’s not General Owens. I am,” boomed a clear voice across the tarmac, the officer and Diana walking briskly toward the departure point.
“Tennnn hut!” someone shouted, realizing the big brass dog was present.
“At ease,” the senior officer commanded. “You men, carry on. Sergeant, can I have a quick word, please?”
“Of course, sir,” Grim’s antagonist answered, hustling over to speak with the general.
“That man you’re speaking to in a most disrespectful way is a former Marine Corps Recon operator… and the veteran of more deployments than anyone else on this base. In addition, he is one of only a handful of people who have actually had eyes on your objective. I suggest you welcome his experience and expertise.”
“Yes, sir! I had no idea, sir.”
“No problem, son. All of this is being thrown together at the last minute. That man’s name is Grim. I’d advise you take his counsel seriously. Carry on, and bring everybody back in one piece.”
“Yes, sir!”
The NCO stepped up to Grim and offered his hand, “Are we square? I didn’t know.”
“We’re good,” Grim answered, accepting what was in reality an apology. “Which bird do you want me in?”
“Number one,” the sergeant replied. “Up front with me. You’ve been where we’re going?”
“Yes. I know a great spot for the insertion. It’s within the ring of their trip wires and security.”
“Roger that,” came the reply, and then the sergeant was off, making sure his shooters were ready.
Diana approached Grim, something clearly on her mind. “I have a message for you,” she shouted over the ruckus. “Nick wanted to be here, but can’t. He said to tell you, ‘Bring him back.’”
“I’ll die before leaving that kid again, Miss Brown,” Grim replied. “Never again.”
Diana was about to wish Grim good luck when another Humvee came speeding up, the driver dodging through the crowd. “Now what?” she mumbled.
Butter appeared from the passenger side, the other SAINT member hefting his pack and weapon from the back seat.
“And just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Grim snarled, marching toward his teammate. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”
“I’m fine, sir,” Butter responded with his usual boyish smile. “I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not!” Grim replied. “The last thing I need is a sub-par man along on this little venture. Now get your muscle-bound ass back to the infirmary, before I have those troopers over there carry you back.”
For the first time since he’d met the big ranch hand, Grim saw Butter’s face paint mean. Ice-fucking-cold mean.
“I’m going,” Butter growled, glaring at the rifle squad with a dismissive sneer. “And there ain’t enough of them to stop me. Kevin and you are my teammates, and you’ll have to shoot me to keep me off of that whirlybird.”
Grim tilted his head, smiling inside. A replay of the conversation he’d just had with the Army NCO ran through the contractor’s mind, and then he nodded. “I understand. Just don’t get in my way. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Butter grinned, back to his normal, happy demeanor.
Grim pointed to the NCO and said, “Go tell that guy I said to find a place for your oversized carcass.”
“You got it!” Butter replied, rushing toward the NCO.
Turning back to Diana, he noticed a frown on her face. “That boy should be in the hospital,” she said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Shaking his head, Grim said, “It would take Godzilla to keep that kid off this mission. I understand what’s going through his head. He’ll be fine. He just joined a very exclusive club. I like him.”
Throughout the night, they took turns standing watch so everyone could get some sleep. No one but Hunter managed any real rest.
Bishop fully expected the locals to assault the cabin after his sniping their airborne armada, but the forest and mountains around Hack’s cabin remained quiet throughout the night.
It was Kevin who spotted the first movement, his warning rousting Bishop from his nap on the couch. “Sir… Mr. Bishop… I see people out there.”
A surge of energy shot through Bishop’s exhausted body, the Texan rolling off the couch and heading to the window with his rifle primed and ready.
The dawn was just old enough to allow a view of the perimeter of Hack’s compound, and Bishop didn’t like what he saw.
There were at least 50 people there, all of them standing in plain sight, staring at the cabin. “What the hell are they doing?” the Texan asked, not really expecting an answer.
Moving to the back of the home, he spied a nearly identical picture. Dozens of people, all just standing still and staring back at him as if they were waiting for some sort of announcement.
The ruckus woke Terri and Grissom, both thinking something was wrong. After studying the gathered throng for a few moments, the PJ reiterated, “At least they’re not armed. I was half expecting pitchforks and torches.”
“Or a full frontal assault,” Bishop added. “Why just stand there and stare at us?”
An hour passed, more and more people gathering on the perimeter. “There must be 300 people out there,” Terri observed. “Maybe more.”
To the holdouts inside the cabin, it was unsettling.
Bishop paced front to back, his weapon never leaving his hands. “Why don’t they do whatever they’re going to do? Just get it over with.”
Terri had decided to ignore the multitude, feeding a ravished Hunter his breakfast instead of worrying about it. “Maybe this is how they handle hostage negotiations?” she answered. “It seems to be working – at least on you.”
Kevin’s voice sounded from the living room, “Mr. Bishop, something’s happening.”
“Finally,” Bishop growled, flicking the safety off his weapon and moving toward the front of the home.
Peeking around the window frame, the Texan spotted three elderly men walking toward the front porch. They were unarmed, at least as far as Bishop could tell.
They stopped 30 feet short of the stoop, staring up at the cabin, otherwise unmoving.
“An envoy?” Bishop asked Kevin.
“No white flag,” the kid responded.
“You’ve been watching too many cowboy movies,” Bishop grinned.
Terri flashed her husband a nasty look, and then stepped beside her mate, a content Hunter bouncing gently on her hip. “I’ll go see what they want,” she announced with a casual tone.
“You’re acting like it’s the paperboy wanting his money,” Bishop chided, shaking his head. “May I remind you that we’ve killed a bunch of their people in the last few days? I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to invite them in for coffee.”
“Well, then you go see what’s going on. It’s rude to just let them stand out there.”
Bishop’s head pivoted between his wife and the three men on the lawn. Shrugging his shoulders, he nodded and moved to the front door.
Having visions of some yahoo with a deer rifle zeroed in on the cabin’s threshold, Bishop opened the door and jumped back, waiting for a bullet to come flying. None did.
Exposing only a slice of his head and staying back in the shadow of the doorway, Bishop called out, “Good morning.”
Terri flashed her husband a look that said, “That’s it? That’s the best you got?”
“We would like to talk,” came the response from the yard. “And only talk.”
Bishop was suspicious, shaking his head at Terri. “I don’t like it.”
Rolling her eyes, she pushed past her husband, mother and child strolling out onto the porch. “That would be wonderful,”
she told the three men. “We would like to resolve a few things as well.”
Bishop appeared next to his wife, his eyes scanning the horizon, perusing the crowd for the flash of a weapon or any other indication of a threat.
“There is nothing to resolve,” one of the men declared. “We only wish for you to return Grandfather’s body to us. He was important to our people, what you would call a hero for our cause. We would like to bury him with honor.”
Terri was a bit taken aback by the request. Again, with a pleasant smile, she said, “I’d be happy to give you his body, but I don’t think he’d like the burial part. He’s still alive.”
The three men exchanged frowns, finally offering, “You haven’t killed him?”
“No,” Terri replied, now clearly intrigued. “Why would we do that?”
“He guided our actions and attacked you with the poison material. His metal hawks led to the death of several of your men. Valley Green was his idea. Why wouldn’t you kill him?”
Terri was sincere in her reply, “Because that’s not our way. We think this has all been a big misunderstanding. We’re not your enemy. We don’t want any more killing.”
“We are going to have funerals all around the Caldera today,” spoke another. “So many of our people have died. If you’re not our enemy, then how did this happen?”
Much to Bishop’s dismay, Terri stepped off the porch and approached the trio. When she was closer, she responded, “Because mistakes were made on both sides. That’s why I’m here – to talk, not fight. Let’s sit down and have an honest discourse so no one else has to die.”
“You’ve already won,” declared another of the three. “We assume your armies are on the way. We know we can’t stop them without Grandfather. We will not resist.”
It took Terri a minute to grasp their perspective. She shook her head, “No armies are on the way. We have people coming to take us back to our homes, but just a few. We only want to share the water and have fair, open trade with your people. That’s it, nothing else.”
Again, the three elders exchanged unreadable glances among themselves. The apparent leader spoke again, “So many things in this world have changed so quickly. If what you are saying is true, then how did this all happen? Why did so many die?”
Terri hesitated in her answer, so Bishop filled in, “Because people… all people… get things set in their heads and lose faith in other men. They stop believing the world can be a better place. The man you call Grandfather told us last night that he wanted the Nations to have respect and dignity… and to be a proud people once again. He just naturally assumed we wouldn’t let that happen, and that led to all the trouble. In reality, we all want the same thing.”
Terri continued, “I have a favorite saying that applies to all that has happened in the last few days. One of our great leaders once said, ‘Comparison is the thief of joy.’ Too many people looked at life as either win… or lose. They judged their dealings with others like some sort of sports contest that ended in either victory or defeat. We believe that outlook is part of the reason why society collapsed. We have learned our lesson. Now, we want strong neighbors and partners. Both sides can walk away from this better than we were before.”
“She quotes Teddy Roosevelt,” one of the elders commented, surprising Terri with his knowledge. “Maybe we should listen to her.”
But not all of the trio were convinced. “You’ll understand if we’re skeptical of your words. There’s a history of deceit, broken promises, and unfulfilled dreams with our people,” said another.
Bishop nodded, “We aren’t promising you anything. As far as your dreams, well, those are your own. Consider our people a mirror. How you decide to interact with us is how we will respond in kind. It’s really that simple. If you reroute the rivers, we will do the same. If you share the water, we will as well. If you are hostile towards us, then you can expect us to be violent in return. As I’m so fond of saying, it’s your call.”
The three local leaders were exchanging glances when a slight vibration broke the stillness of the morning air. Without warning, a Blackhawk zoomed over the gathering, flying low and fast with a deafening roar. Bishop looked up in time to see a row of eager faces peering down from its open bay. The rifles and helmets made it clear Fort Bliss had gotten his message.
Shocked by the helicopter’s sudden appearance, the three elders were spooked, glancing up and around nervously and then throwing a look at Bishop and Terri as if to say, “You lied again!”
Bishop let his rifle fall against the sling, holding out both hands, palms down in a calming motion. “They’re here just to take out our injured men. They’re not here to invade or fight,” he soothed.
Right when it seemed like the elders might believe Bishop’s explanation, another, more constant whine came from behind the mountain.
All eyes searched for the source, another Blackhawk rising slowly from the tree line, a six-barrel mini-gun sweeping the hundreds of milling Indians surrounding the cabin.
“Oh shit,” Bishop said, seeing the machine gunner covering the crowd with his ultra-deadly weapon. “They think the cabin’s surrounded and under attack.”
Bishop knew that mini-gun could fire over 100 rounds a second, images of a hailstorm of hot lead slicing through the throng of peaceful folks surging through his brain. They would die by the hundreds if that gunner cut loose.
Bishop glanced right and left, looking for anything to signal the distant bird. Hunter’s blanket came into his view, the bright white cloth exactly what the Texan needed.
Terri initially jumped when Bishop grabbed his son’s warmer, roughly unwrapping the bundle containing the wide-eyed boy. Then she got it, instantly helping the Texan with his task.
Bishop stepped forward, placing himself between the menacing copter and the three elders, wildly waving the white blanket in the air.
The Texan exhaled in relief when he saw Grim’s face behind the gunner, tapping the trigger man’s shoulder and pointing toward the Texan and his white flag.
A moment later, the Blackhawk tilted its nose and flew away, hurrying to join its sibling now landing to the north.
“That was close… damn close,” Bishop turned and said to Terri. “From the air, it had to look like we were under attack.”
He then faced the three elders, an apology forming on his lips. But something in their gaze stopped Bishop before he could utter a word.
“You put yourself between us and what was surely instant death,” one of the men said. “You didn’t run or think of your wife and child. Thank you.”
Bishop nodded, slightly embarrassed.
“We can talk,” offered one of the local leaders. “You obviously understand the value of our people and were willing to sacrifice yourself for our brothers and sisters.”
Turning back toward Hunter, Bishop returned his son’s blanket. “Welcome to the team, little hero. Let’s hope that’s the last time you have to bail your old man’s ass out.”
Chapter 16
Bishop stood in line, one of a dozen Alpha residents waiting his turn at the Alliance Business Office.
The building, formerly the First National Bank, had been skillfully repaired and showed few signs of the looting or vandalism that had left the former landmark a hollowed-out shell less than a year before.
As Bishop meandered his way through the queue, the roped posts guided him past the windows facing Main Street, his view of the busy thoroughfare partially blocked by one of the remaining signs of the apocalypse.
Glass was one of a long list of items still in short supply throughout the Alliance. During the violence that followed the collapse, millions of windows had been broken, and many buildings still suffered the scars.
In this particular case, some crafty individual had painted a colorful mural on the otherwise uninspiring sheet of plywood. One section was dedicated as a community bulletin board.
Bishop grunted when he noted a picture of Pete’s smiling face atop one of t
he posters. “Get Your Identification Card Today!” the cheery piece instructed the passing citizen. “ID cards and Driver’s Licenses are available at this location!”
As the line shuffled forward, Bishop came eye to eye with the Alpha Bulletin, what amounted to the fledgling first attempt at a newspaper.
Like glass, paper was also in short supply, so the publishers had taken to posting limited copies on several boards all around the town.
Bishop smiled, shaking his head at today’s headlines. Under the caption of “SAINT Team Rescues New Mexico Envoys,” was a picture of Grim and Butter carrying Kevin on a stretcher toward a distant Blackhawk.
As Bishop examined the snapshot accompanying the article, he grinned. Grim must have known someone was snapping a picture, the gruff old warhorse bent low like he was taking fire, his expression indicating the patient was critical, and he was braving numerous machine gun nests to save his friend. It was probably fortunate Butter’s mug was out of the picture, no doubt the big man’s toothy grin would have ruined the dramatic moment.
Bishop started to read the story, wondering if Grim had granted an interview with the local newshounds. Secretly, the Texan hoped the contractor had made some gaffe or foot-in-mouth remark so he could relentlessly tease his friend.
A rumbling through the marble floor paused Bishop’s review of the piece, the two ladies in front of the Texan glancing nervously toward the street through a still-intact pane of glass.
“It’s just one of those pipe trucks heading to New Mexico,” the calmer of the two informed her friend. “I read where the Alliance is shipping almost a million feet of pipe to help the Native Americans irrigate a valley.”
“I heard the same,” replied the second, fussing with her Easter-like hat. “I sure hope the vegetables they grow over there are better than the ones we’re getting from down south.”
“For a minute, I thought it might be another one of those scary wagons hauling all that radioactive material back east. I don’t know why they routed those dangerous things through Alpha,” continued the first, having to fan her face at the mere thought.
