Bishop's Song (2 page)

Once comfortable with his
reinforcements, the captain again appeared, walking ahead to study the rubble blocking his path.

Bishop had been expecting
this action. Raising a whistle to his lips, he inhaled deeply and then sounded a screeching signal.

Along both sides of the convoy, 400 men uncovered their spider holes. Each pit
was just over a foot deep, strategically placed to address the entire length of the military column. Plywood, cardboard and burlap feed bags had been used to cover the fighting positions, the makeshift roofs then coated with a layer of sand. Each had been personally inspected by an experienced operator to ensure proper concealment.

There had been no shortage of nervous humor as the
Alliance’s men had taken to their hides, the exchange fueled by the fact that each dugout resembled a shallow grave.

Rifle barrels appeared from the exposed pits, all pointed toward the now
wide-eyed troops piloting the convoy’s assortment of trucks.  

Sheriff Watts calmly
trekked to his still tenable car, slowly turning the cruiser around and pulling even with a now very pissed convoy commander.

The old lawman’s voice was firm, but reasonable.
“Give it up, son. You’re outnumbered, out-gunned, and we hold the high ground. Don’t go down as another General Custer. Don’t lead your command into a slaughterhouse.”

Nick was on the balls of his feet. While he couldn’t hear Sheriff Watt’s words, he knew what the older lawman was saying. He prayed
Harrison would have the common sense to surrender.

He didn’t.

Mumbling “Fuck off,” the officer walked back to his Humvee and began radioing orders for the convoy to turn around.

This too had been anticipated. Unbeknownst to the army commander, the Alliance had a convoy of its own - ten 18-wheeler tractor trailers now blocking the road behind the hemmed-in army column.
The trucks had been used to transport the 500 men now surrounding the military units.

News of the trap reached the
captain’s ear before his driver could reverse course.

Nick watched as the officer exited his ride for the third time that afternoon.
Approaching Sheriff Watts, the soldier asked, “Do I have your word my men will be well treated?”

“I can do better than that,” the
sheriff responded. “You have my word that your men are free to go. Use your troop haulers and return to Fort Hood with your men, Captain. I’m impounding the hazardous materials.”

“Agreed,” the commander replied, and turned to issue the appropriate orders.

“Oh, and Captain Harrison, please leave behind all of your small arms and ammunition. I don’t want you changing your mind a few miles down the road.”

Twenty minutes later, the remote countryside bordering I-10 erupted again
. This time cheers of celebration rolled across the desert. The Alliance had prevailed in its first showdown with the government of the United States of America.

Bishop and Nick exchanged glances, neither man joining in the merriment. Both knew it would only become more difficult after
today… both well aware that if war came to West Texas, there would be little to cheer about.

Chapter 1

The Davis Mountains

West Texas

June 7, 2016

Bishop watched the clear drop of perspiration fall from his nose, the bead landing on the side of his weapon. Accelerated by gravity, the small bubble trickled down the trigger guard, past the grip, and then hesitated at the cliff-edge of the carbine.
Don’t do it
, he mentally warned the droplet,
it’s suicide
.

Ignoring his plea, it fell to the sandy earth between his boots, joining several of its brethren already gathered there,
a small circle of damp soil evidence of their collaborative journey.

Better sweat than blood
, he thought, studying the miniature battle taking place between his feet. The liquid generated to cool his body was in a desperate struggle down there – a campaign to hold a tiny beachhead of discolored West Texas desert. The fluid was losing, evaporation overwhelming the invader, absorption mopping up the wounded.

There was just no way the sweat can win
, he observed. The sun was too hot, the soil too vast and dry. Ever fighting for the underdog, he adjusted his exhausted body, covering the damp spot with his shadow, probably providing false hope for the soon to be routed forces below. It wouldn’t make any difference in the long run.

Bored with the one-sided conflict, Bishop raised his gaze and studied the ragtag group of men scattered around him. He couldn’t help but draw the analogy, likening his comrades to the perspiration, about to face an enormously superior force.
Don’t do it
, he wanted to warn his friends,
it’s suicide
.

War drums were sounding on the horizon, his tribe preparing for a conflict that they had little hope of winning.
It’s suicide
, he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs.
Thousands are going to die on both sides, and in the end, we can’t win.

Knowing they wouldn’t listen, Bishop held his consul.

The thirty men surrounding him had been hiking all morning, gradually gaining altitude as they progressed through the Davis Mountains of West Texas. The combination of thin air, a hot day, and the heavy, backbreaking loads carried in their packs was taking a toll.

Nick’s booming voice interrupted Bishop’s thoughts. “Two minutes, ladies,” the big ex-operator warned. “We’ll do another three miles and then break for chow. Wine
will not
be served.”

Bishop watched as
his dear friend, their instructor for the day, sauntered over and took a knee. “You doing okay, buddy?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. I’m holding my own,” Bishop replied.

“It’s only been five months since you died on the operating table, brother. That was one nasty-ass wound you took, and I don’t want to see you overdo it. Besides, Terri will kick my butt if I carry you off this mountain suffering from a relapse.”

Bishop ignored the reference to his overprotective wife, instead motioning to the other men with his head. “They’re not soldiers, Nick. They’re shopkeepers and farmers.
They barely exercise proper muzzle discipline, much less realize the importance of things like noise control or bounding in an advance. I’m worried they will come out of this class thinking they can actually engage the military, and we both know that overconfidence can be deadly. In a way, that little episode with the convoy may come back and bite us.”

Nodding his head and then lowering his voice, Nick replied, “I know, but what choice do we have? I ask myself every
day if the Minutemen had the same doubts when they were facing the British during the Revolutionary War.”

“If the US Army comes rolling out of Fort Bliss with 300 Abrams battle tanks, we’ll be in a lot worse shape than those guys ever were. The British didn’t have helicopter gunships and thermal imaging.”

“No, but the Afghans held out against the Russians and us, despite all of our advanced weapons. It can be done,” Nick countered.

“I know it can… but at what cost? The Mujahidin had 1600 years of warfare under their belts and were tough as iron spikes. They still fell by the tens of thousands, but their society was immune to the carnage and motivated by religion. I’m not sure our fledgling little community can or will pay such a price.”

Nick nodded, familiar with the debate. Looking at his watch, he announced, “Let’s continue this conversation later. Right now, I’ve got a class to finish up.”

After patting Bishop on the shoulder, Nick rose and began motivating the troops. “All right, girls! Time to mount up. Straighten out your skirts, and let’s get moving!”

The grumbling of tired, sore men rose from the group, sounds Bishop had heard a hundred times before. It didn’t matter if it were the pine woods of Fort Bragg or the oil fields of Iraq, it was always the same. Men with sore feet and aching backs would bitch and gnash, creative curses forming in their throats. Just like always, they finally began moving, eventually forming up, and standing ready to accept more pain.

Bishop took his place at the rear of the column, watching as the single-file line of citizen-militia began to stretch out along the trail. Where it not for the task at hand, the vista would have been glorious. A sea of pinion pines covered the valley below, their dark green foliage in abstract to the blue sky and white, billowing clouds beyond.
Had it been winter, they might have seen snow from this vantage. In the spring, fog would have blanketed the valley, the gray soup so thick that the single road traversing the area would have been impassable in the early morning. Not today, though. Today, the air was crisp and the sun hot. Today was the perfect day to train for an impending conflict that everyone prayed could be avoided.

As his gaze
traveled up the mountainside, the scenery transformed drastically. Fields of limestone boulders competed with the pines, scattered gray outcroppings of rock and small strands of Navajo grass replacing the thinning trees as the altitude increased. Plant life finally gave up just above his position, replaced with towering, ominous walls of bare rock guarding the crest of the mountain.

Slowly the column snaked its way up… always up. Time seemed to creep slower than distance gained, a fog of mind-numbing fatigue and monotony falling over the men.

Bishop watched Nick, patiently moving up and down the line, coaching, encouraging and pushing with an energy no one else possessed.
He’s done this so many times
, thought Bishop.
He knows what they absorb today might mean the difference between a battlefield grave and going home… if war comes.
   

Nick’s voice seemed to always be in the air. “Don’t bunch up... Always scan for the likely avenue of approach! Where would you hide if you were on the other side and getting ready to hit us? Think people… damn it, think!”

Up ahead, Bishop saw the lead element approaching a narrow gap. Large rocks lurked above the trail, a scattering of foliage strewn below. Instinct slowed his footfalls, a warning forming in his throat. Nick saw it too, but for some reason didn’t move to slow the column. Instead, he stood beside the trail and crossed his arms in annoyance.

A small, white paper bag arched through the air, a whiff of smoke trailing in its wake. Before it landed, two other similar objects joined it in flight. The three devices landed in the middle of the column, the closest man staring blankly, unsure of what to do.

A second later, the bags exploded.

Cries of battle rang down from the rocks, blood curdling screams of savage volume
paralyzing the startled trainees. Clouds of choking, white smoke filled the air, burning already starved lungs and reducing visibility to a few feet.

The homemade flash-ba
ng grenades were immediately followed by a hailstorm of paintballs raining down from the rocks above. At the same time, human figures rose from the vegetation below the trail, ghostly images appearing through the fog of battle smoke, shooting pointblank at the stumbling trainees.

Ambush
, Bishop knew immediately,
and a damned good one
. 

With instincts and reactions based on years of
conflict, Bishop was moving before the detonations had finished echoing down the mountain. Screaming above the din, he rallied three of his closest comrades – issuing orders for the bewildered men to follow.

Up the side of the mountain he scrambled, loose gravel and
a lack of handholds slowing his pace. Wide eyed with shock, his three trainees followed. Higher Bishop climbed, using piles of rocks, displaced boulders and natural undulations for cover. After they had managed to ascend 30 feet above the trail, he turned to his panting followers and instructed, “Form a line, and hit the enemy from the side. We are going to flank that ambush. Hit those sons of bitches hard and fast. Let’s move!”

Without waiting to see if his small squad understood, Bishop starting moving toward the narrow gap, watching intently as the ambushing enemy maintained a steady rate of fire on the hapless trainees below.

It didn’t take long to close the distance, silhouettes of the attackers popping up and firing from the hidden positions in front of Bishop’s advancing line. He watched as one guy ignited a string of firecrackers, throwing noisemakers into the fray. Another man rose, spraying several shots into the stunned column and then disappearing behind a tree. There wasn’t much return fire coming from his classmates.

Pausing to check the spacing of his men, he turned and hissed, “Let’s go
now
! Your brothers are dying down there – roll into these bastards, and don’t stop until they’re all down!” And then he was moving.

The paintball guns didn’t kick or
simulate the noise of a real rifle, but it didn’t matter. No one cared that blood wasn’t really being spilled. Adrenaline and pride were providing plenty of motivation. Yelling at the top of his lungs, Bishop charged into the attackers, catching them completely by surprise. His men mimicked his actions and joined the counterattack, screaming bloody murder and firing their weapons at any target presented. It was all over in a matter of seconds.

Deke rolled over, grinning up at Bishop after an Academy Award-winning death fall. Glancing down at the two red splotches of paint staining his body armor, the operator flashed a thumbs up.

Offering his hand, Bishop helped the contractor to his feet and smiled. “That was one hell of an ambush, Deke. Nice spread on the kill zone. You would’ve had… what… half of us in the first barrage?”

Nodding while brushing the dirt off his pants, Deke replied, “Yeah. I saw you break off. I figured you’d try and flank us
, but you got here quicker than I expected. Nice counter.”

Their conversation was interrupted with shouting from below, Nick’s voice booming up the mountainside. “Do you see now? Did this little skirmish make the picture crystal
fucking clear? If I told you guys once, I told you a dozen times. Don’t bunch up! Over half of you are dead or rolling around on the ground in agony and bleeding out right now. There wouldn’t be enough of us left to carry off the wounded. You have to pay attention, damn it. The next time it won’t be paintballs and firecrackers. It will be hot shrapnel and high velocity lead shredding your bunched up fucking bodies!”

On and on, the tyrant from below continued, the savvy teacher using a combination of embarrassment, military logic, and genuine concern with the shocked students
to implant the message in their minds.

While Nick drilled home the lesson, Bishop and the ambushers meandered to the main gathering. Staying to the side,
Deke’s seven Darkwater contractors watched Nick’s classroom antics, keeping their expressions stoic so as not to rub salt in any trainee wounds. Veterans of many campaigns, each of the professional warriors understood the purpose of the exercise. It wasn’t ego, pride, or one-upmanship – it was survival. The ambush hadn’t been a contest or game, but a tool used to teach a skill… an example hopefully taught with sham weapons now, rather than driven home with dead bodies later.

Besides, they had all been in the students’ shoes. They all remembered what the men around them were feeling. It was necessary pain.

The troopers gathered in front of Nick looked sullen and beat. Many were covered with welts and splotches of color, the direct result of stinging paintballs. Others were coated in white, dusty powder – the residue of improvised flash-bang bombs constructed with extra chalk dust for effect. None of the victims looked very happy, a few were downright pissed.

Bishop
lingered at the back of the group, showing Nick the respect of listening intently to instructions he had learned so many years ago. He had joined the class to get back in shape after the months-long convalescence required when he encountered a 9mm bullet and spent several hours on the operating table. Still, he worried about the trainees… worried that today’s experience would pale to what they might face in the future.

While he listened to Nick reiterate the importance of awareness in the field, Bishop took a quick mental inventory of his performance and how his body was reacting. His legs seemed to ache more than normal, but other than that, he felt like his old self, at least physically. It was a good thing,
with the storm clouds of war gathering on the horizon, and every man might be drawn into the looming conflict.