Bishop's Song (35 page)

He shook it off, realizing he was working his mind into a funk over misery and problems that had happened over a year ago. There was nothing he could do to help those that were here, suffering badly on a
lonely road with few options.

He returned the bag to its original spot, having no interest or need for the memories it contained. It belonged here, a memorial of sorts for the people who had lost their lives at this place.

Bishop
returned to the cab and started driving.

After leaving the interstate, his progress slo
wed. Despite following the same route they had traveled east, it was impossible to maintain the same speed.

Tree limbs had fallen here and there, probably the victims of thunderstorms or high winds. Without county clean-up crews, the debris remained exactly where it had
landed, natural impediments to Bishop’s urgency.

He didn’t stop at the bridges anymore,
settling on the opposite tactic and pushing down on the gas pedal where the roadway allowed.

There were other speed-robbing distractions as well. Scanning for smoke was a constant requirement. Campfires,
wood-burning stoves and outdoor ovens all meant one thing – people. Alone and in a strange world, Bishop wanted nothing more than to avoid humankind.

Just like the t
rip east, returning home didn’t produce much of a cultural exchange with the residents of the Razorback State. Eating up the miles on secondary roads, bypassing towns depicted on the map and keeping up as much speed as possible, Bishop managed to avoid trouble and make excellent time.

The light was fading when the map indicated he was approaching the Arkansas River, the incident at Toad Suck Dam
still fresh in his mind.

He decided to use a regular bridge, the decision bolstered by
the fact that there just weren’t that many folks around. Darkness would thin their ranks even more.

He pulled over two miles short of the big river, stretching his legs and nibbling at a light meal. Indecision over abandoning the truck and scouting the chokepoint nagged at Bishop while he chewed. If someone found his supplies in the
unguarded truck while he was checking out the bridge, he was screwed. If he bumbled into a bad situation while crossing, he was screwed.

He conclude
d Toad Suck had been the exception, not the rule, and settled on driving directly to the crossing with his fingers crossed. It ended up being the right decision as he managed the span right before total darkness fell, not a soul in sight.

Using the night vision while driving was becoming second nature.
His route was gradually increasing in elevation as he climbed through the foothills that would eventually become small mountains. Petit Jean was the destination.

He hoped Frank had been a man of his word. Hugh’s final shuttle flight had delivered two last 50
-gallon drums of fuel, the plan calling for the rescuers to drive back into Texas with Grim’s family along for the ride. That trip across the Lone Star State would take 100 gallons of fuel, so the stash had been hidden inside the airport’s sole structure.

Bishop recalled his conversation with the head ranger before they had departed. “If we’re not back in four weeks, you should go forage around
in the airstrip’s building. You’ll find a little treasure trove of goodies there. It would be a sin for them to go to waste.”

He was counting on Frank, and everyone else, to have left that cache of fuel alone. If it wasn’t there, again, he was screwed. It would take months to walk the
1000 miles to home – if he survived the journey.

Bishop’s anxiety built when he saw the first sign indicating the park’s distance was 31 miles ahead. He was fidgeting when another pointed to a Petit Jean with an arrow. His nerves were raw as a third informed him he had officially entered the facility.

It was after 2 a.m. when the green and black outline of the airstrip’s building came into view through his monocle. He switched to Deke’s thermal, scanning the surrounding forest and finding nothing suspicious.

With great trepidation, he entered the building
. There in the corner, right where he’d left it just a few days before, was the stash of fuel and food. Undisturbed.

Bishop sighed audibility with relief.

Sleep became the next priority.

Hunter’s crank
y cry rousted Terri from her slumber, the new mother slow to respond due to a dream that left her believing she was already feeding the lad.

“How can he be fussing and
nursing at the same time,” she asked herself in a state of half-sleep, quickly realizing she hadn’t moved from her bed.

The vision of his primary provider
appearing over the crib’s rail settled the infant down. His rapidly developing mind happily recognized the routine and sensed food was soon to follow.

As she nursed, Terri
gently rocked in a corner chair, humming a soothing melody to the child. She had no idea where the song came from or what it was called. For a brief moment, she longed to ask her mother if it were a family tradition.

While swaying back and forth, Terri couldn’t help but consider the new day’s calendar. The highest priority was a meeting with the council, an important discussion covering the negotiations with
Washington. The tone of the meetings had changed significantly during the last session, and it was troubling.

Until yesterday, things had been progressing at a
n incredibly slow pace, the team from the nation’s capital hammering on every little detail. Diana had commented that she felt like they were haggling over a nuclear arms treaty, not a trade deal. Every little detail had to be argued, pinched, poked and mutilated before agreement could be reached. It was maddening, time consuming, and she had to admit, necessary.

Then
yesterday, something changed. The delegation representing the feds began acting as though they had been instructed to accelerate the process. Terri didn’t know what was motivating that tactic, but the change was so abrupt, it made her suspicious. At one point, the men across the table had even approved one clause without reading it. That made her feel like they weren’t taking the agreement seriously, like they didn’t care.

Terri shook her head, the act causing Hunter
to pull off her breast, thinking she wanted to play. It took her a bit to convince him otherwise, and soon he returned to filling his belly.

Like a dozen times before, Terri inventoried the events leading up to the drastic change by the other side. She couldn’t think of anything that had been
said or done to justify their newfound enthusiasm.
It must be something internal
, she concluded.
We’ve been consistent.

Hunter finished topping off his tank, his eyes so droopy she hesitated to disturb him with a burp. As she adjusted to return her son to
the crib, a robust belch escaped the lad’s tiny mouth and eliminated any parental concerns over gas pains later in the night.

She kissed his forehead and inhaled, enjoying the aroma
that was unique to newborns. Hunter was breathing rhythmically as she laid him down and pulled the tiny blanket over his chest.

Terri returned to her bed, hoping to catch another two hours of sleep before addressing the new morning. She tried to figure out what possible event could have changed in Washington, quickly
realizing it was a question without an answer.

Maybe we should
just take the money and run
, she thought as sleep tugged at her mind.
Maybe they have finally realized we don’t need them, they need us.

Alexandria, Virginia

July
13, 2016

Most Americans were aware of the Special Forces serving as members of the US military. Countless movies, books, and songs had depicted the ultra-skilled, elite warriors in numerous roles. Green Berets, Navy Seals, Marine Recon and other selective units were commonly known military components representing the best fighting men in the world.

But there
existed another tier in the hierarchy of lethality, only known to only a select few individuals and rarely addressed in film or word.

In reality, they didn’t have a name or unit designation.
This was by design. Many weren’t even assigned to a specific government organization or agency. Those that did know of their existence commonly used phrases like Intelligence Field Operators, or Clandestine Assets.

Possessing skills
of part warrior, part spy, these field operators didn’t master firearms to the level of a Delta Force commando, and wouldn’t survive as long in the field as a Green Beret. They had no hope of matching the stamina of a Navy Seal.

But in some situations, they were just as deadly to the enemies of the United States – often doing more damage with a camera or small amount of explosives than an entire division of armor.
They represented a select tool of violence – a scalpel of mayhem and disarray.

They didn’t practice the espionage tradecraft so often credited to CIA spooks, but they often infiltrated hostile territory and delivered devastating results.
Spies preferred to remain anonymous and gather intelligence, rarely resorting to overt violence or direct force.

The Clandestine Assets had no problem with confrontation.
These operatives were trained in explosives and booby traps, often applying their expertise in creative fashion. Bishop had heard how a rogue country’s nuclear scientist was killed by a small, sticky-bomb placed against his car window by a passing motorcyclist. In another case, a cartel leader was engulfed in flames after his, and only his cell phone came within range of a detonator.

While physical stamina and mental discipline were the hallmarks of military operators, intellect and creativity separated these men from the masses.
They didn’t seek military schools or formal training – they studied, visited labs and designed their own devices. The spent as much time learning a language as practicing with a firearm, could be found reading a book as often as running an obstacle course.

It was two of the
se men that Mr. White approached. A package containing their instructions, required authorizations for travel, and other important items was tucked under his arm. One of the men he knew only as Alastair, the other as Eris.

There
were no greetings or introductions, no secret code exchanged. It was pure business for everyone involved.

“Use the normal procedure to contact me
, if necessary,” Mr. White instructed as he handed over the two envelopes. “Otherwise, I hope not to see you again.”

And that was
that. Mr. White continued on his way, brushing by the two operatives without another word.

No offense was taken by Mr. White’s seemingly rude behavior
. In fact, both men would have considered anything else as inappropriate.

Eris watched Mr. White for a few moments and then turned to his companion who was already opening his package. “Where
to this time?”

After scanning the documents, Alastair looked up with a grin. “West Texas. Do you like rock climbing?”

Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas

July 14, 2016

Bishop grunted, inhaled sharply, and then kicked the barrel, a gong-like reverberation spreading across the airfield. He’d been rolling the 350-pound drum of fuel to the back of the truck by himself, and managed to run over his own toe after slipping in the gravel.

The kick, born of frustration, now left him with two hurting feet.
It’s going to be one of those days
, he decided.

The
now-throbbing foot elicited a string of inventive cursing, most of the foul dialect directed at his own clumsiness. The barrel, however, received part of the blame.

Taking a seat on the offending drum, he removed his boot and checked for broken bones. The diagnosis was uncertain, but he knew it hurt like hell.

“You all right?” Frank’s voice sounded from the woods as the ranger appeared at the edge of the growth. “That looked like a painful experience.”

“That’s no shit. I don’t think it’s broken though.”

Frank looked around, “Where are your helpers?”

“Grim stayed in
Memphis with his family,” Bishop began, and then let his eyes fall to the ground. “Deke didn’t make it.”

“Oh
, no. I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed like such a competent man.”

The Texan shrugged, “It was a risky deal from the get-go. We all knew that. Now I’m trying to get home as fast as possible.
While we were out there, word came that the US Army is sending someone to try and kill my wife.”

“What! That’s crazy. Why would someone want to kill your spouse?”

“She’s kind of the leader of our little alliance of towns. I guess they think removing her would cause our union to crack and allow the government to come in and take everything we’ve built up. I know it’s not that simple, but in a nutshell, that sums it up.”

“So you’re trying to get back to Texas and warn her? Stop the assassins?”

“Yes, sir. I sure am.”

Frank thought it over for a moment. “Let me go get some clothes and my rifle. I’ll go with you. I’m not as good
in a fight as your friends, but I can shoot.”

Bishop was stunned by the man’s offer. “No, sir
. I can’t let you do that. While I appreciate the willingness to go, and respect the guts it took to make the offer, you can’t leave the people back at the lodge. They need you, Frank. You’ve got a wife and extended family here. Thanks, but no thanks.”

The ranger scuffed some soil with his boot, finally looking up and
responding, “Okay, I won’t argue. But if you change your mind, I’m willing. At least let me help you get the truck loaded.”

“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Bishop answered,
pulling his boot back on and tightening the laces.

The two men worked for 30 minutes lifting and arranging the contents. After finishing, Bishop wiped his brow and retrieved a map from one of the boxes.

He spread the gas station fold-out map, flattening the creases on the tailgate. “Now the real challenge begins,” he commented.

“What’s that?”

“Texas… more specifically getting to West Texas. I can’t chance the urban areas like Dallas or Houston. Even the smaller cities might spell trouble… Texarkana… Nacogdoche
s
… they’re all a no-go. I’ve got to plot a route that will bypass any town big enough to be listed on the map.”

Frank glanced over Bishop’s shoulder, studying the chart. After a bit
, he whistled, indicating he understood the problem.

Pulling a marker from his load vest, Bishop began tracing a route, occasionally writing alternatives in a small notebook.

“Do you have to take back roads the entire way?”

“No… at least I hope not. Once I’m past the Hill Country… Austin… I think I-10 will be okay. Where I’m headed isn’t far off the big interstate.”

“When is the attack supposed to take place?”

“I’m not sure about that. I was told two or three days, but I don’t know when the clock started ticking. It seems our trusted federal officials are going to sneak in some teams and hit several different targets at once. I heard where their jump off point is supposed to be located, and I’m going to try like hell to disrupt there little foray.”

“Alone?”

Bishop looked up from the map, staring into the distance for a moment. When he turned to face the ranger, Frank
inhaled sharply.

It was
if a mask had been pulled from Bishop’s face, revealing a fierce, beast-like predator beneath. Bishop’s pupils were dilated - dark pools, void of humanity or mercy, exposing an interior of ice. The operator’s voice matched his expression – a robotic response from a killing machine that neither boasted nor experienced fear. “I can be very disruptive.”

Frank didn’t know what to say… how to respond. He watched carefully as Bishop seemed to relax and then turn his attention back to the map. When the Texa
n looked up again, it was the same man who he’d first encountered a few days ago.

“Frank, I left a few boxes of supplies inside. I’m sorry, but I need all the fuel. There’s some food and ammo in there… not much… but some.”

“Thank you. Every little bit helps.”

“I’m going to be heading out
of here in a bit,” Bishop said, extending his hand to the ranger. “Our paths probably won’t cross again. I wish you the best of luck.”

There was just a hint of hesitation befor
e Frank accepted the handshake.

The ranger watched Bishop
climb behind the wheel, remaining in his spot until the truck had faded from sight. “I actually think he’ll pull it off,” he whispered.

Texas
was going to require a lot of zigzagging, back tracking, and rechecking of the map. Three hours after leaving the park, Bishop crossed into the Lone Star State, experiencing a small sense of relief over entering his home turf.

Reality soon set in however, the
comprehension occurring during one of his many roadside references to the chart. Since leaving Memphis, he was less than halfway home. It was frustrating.

His anxiety was further bolstered by the fact that he was driving through territory he’d never traveled. He’d already driven most of the route from Memphis to the park and
felt reasonably secure that the path was unoccupied.

Now he was traveling virgin territory
, and it wore on his nerves.

Bishop was somewhere west of I-45, having dipped below Dallas but staying well north of Houston. He was angling back to the northwest in order to avoid Austin and the cluster of villages, bergs and almost-cities that surrounded the state capital.

He found a lane, a thin line of trees offering some protection from prying eyes. Bishop needed the stop, partly because his vision was blurring, partly because he was getting stupid and impatient. His bladder’s unrelenting protest was the clincher.

After poking around a little, he
stretched and relieved himself. The thought of sleeping in the driver’s seat was unpalatable, so he climbed into the bed and rearranged the tarp and boxes of supplies so he could get reasonably comfortable.

Setting his watch alarm was next, hoping an hour of rest would improve his judgment. With his hand resting on his rifle, Bishop was out before
the truck’s exhaust cooled enough to stop its gentle pinging and popping.

Terri and Hunter
met him there, a red and white tablecloth spread across the greenest grass imaginable. There were ham and cheese sandwiches on paper plates, each accompanied by a towering stack of potato chips. Large Styrofoam cups were brimming with ice tea, the air full of happy laughter.