Bishop's Song (37 page)

Turning back to walk outside, Bishop stepped
carefully through the gore between him and the exit, the floor already slick with the blood, urine and gristle of the dead.

T
he rescuer and rescued appeared in the sunlight, Bishop’s stride identical to his approach as he crossed the lawn and made for the intersection.

He carried the young woman directly to
her father, lifting her effortlessly from his shoulder and depositing her on the ground.

“Now move your wagon… before I move it for you.”

The man’s eyes darted between Bishop and the returned child at his feet. Ignoring the seemingly harsh request, he bent to check on his child, “Baby… baby… are you okay?”

An animal-like growl came from Bishop’s chest. He reached down
and grabbed Marty by the hair, lifting the poor fellow back to his feet. “I said move the fucking wagon… and I’m not going to ask again.”

“Yes… yes… sir.”

Two women rushed up, intent on attending to the victim at Bishop’s feet. Marty staggered back toward his rig, glancing in fear over his shoulder at the crazy man who just delivered his daughter. Bishop stepped over the prone, sobbing girl and began walking to the middle of the gathered throng. He fired the ACR into the air and then began shouting, “I want every able-bodied man on this overturned wagon. Right now.”

With fear plastered on their faces, the males eventually stepped forward, each taking his place in line and bracing against the up-facing side. “One, two, three… push! Push!” Bishop yelled
, his own back protesting the effort as he flexed against the heavy object.

With groans of
human straining, the wagon began rising, eventually falling upright onto all four wheels. “Now somebody get this piece of shit out of the road,” Bishop commanded, scanning the group, making sure his request was understood.

H
e began walking back toward the truck, without saying another word.

A minute later he passed through the intersection,
speeding off to the west and never looking back. 

The trip across north
central Texas passed with Bishop in a daze. A warning light on the dash broke the trance. The annoying icon indicated he needed fuel, so he begrudgingly pulled over and began pumping.

Taking the now dog-eared map with him, Bishop
flattened the folds on top of the fuel barrel and studied his future route while moving the pump handle up and down. Using his thumb to measure, he realized it was almost an equal distance to either Midland Station or the canyon.

While the gasoline flowed from drum to tank, he pondered changing his plans and heading for the
distant city. Midland Station was part of the Alliance, and he could contact Nick – give his friend warning of the impending attack.

It occurred to him that the US forces might be monitoring the unsecure
d transmissions of the Alliance. His mind was too tired to think up a clever cipher or code that Nick was sure to understand. It was something they should have thought of long ago.

There was also the time involved in finding someone who knew him, rousing the
ham operator and then repeating the same process back in Alpha. If Nick were in the mountains with a training class, he would be wasting precious time.

A squirt flew from the tank,
signaling the truck was again full. Bishop secured the all but empty drum and hose, pausing to think before climbing back behind the wheel.

The entire situation was maddening. The trip was taking far longer than he’d ever anticipated, each passing minute decreasing his chances of saving his family.

Even the brief pause, standing on the empty roadway made him feel guilty. What if he arrived at Chamber’s Canyon five minutes after the army unit had left? What if just a few minutes made the difference between the life and death of his family?

No
, he decided,
I have to go with the known – can’t risk the unknown. I’m going to drive straight there and take care of business
.

Any concern
Bishop experienced over being able to locate Chamber’s Canyon was wasted worry. All he had to do was follow the helicopters.

Once in the general area, he saw no less than three of the military birds, all following the exact same route. It was a stroke of luck
, as the truck didn’t have enough gas for an extended search.

He found a good spot to conceal his chariot about two miles from the canyon. While it had been over 20 years since he’d visited the area, some familiar images reassured him he was on the right track.

It was with a sigh of sadness that he drove the screwdriver through the bottom of the gas tank, essentially driving a stake through the heart of the beast that had loyally carried him so far. He’d extracted a little petrol via the siphon hose, but not enough for his needs. The resulting hole in his beast’s skin produced another half-gallon, not as much as he’d hoped, but it would have to do.

Despite his sense of urgency, covering the distance to his objective was extremely difficult. Bishop had his full pack, an extra rifle and two gallons of gasoline to carry. He had filled every nook and cranny of his gear with as many supplies as possible, doubting he’d be able to return to the truck any time soon.

The terrain proved to be more of a challenge than the extra weight. Rugged, sharp and hilly, Bishop had to climb, descend, and bypass an obstacle course of rock formations. More than once he had to backtrack, arriving at a dead end and having to retrace his steps. He was exhausted, scraped, and bruised by the time he reached Chamber’s Canyon.

He’d found an overlook, nestled in a crevice between two car-sized boulders. Just over the crest of the cliffs surrounding the valley floor, it
provided a full view of the activities below. As Bishop swept the area with his optic, he found a small military unit setting up camp.

The rocky crags and steep
-sided cliffs surrounded a small patch of sandy soil – the only reasonable place to bivouac. The valley floor was crawling with activity, the sounds of hammering and shouted orders rising from below.

He didn’t know how much time he had left, or exactly what he was about to face. It was a safe assumption
, given what he was witnessing, that he was vastly outnumbered and outgunned, but he did have a few advantages.

The element of s
urprise was on his side, and he would have to utilize that factor to the best of his ability. The goal wasn’t to kill every man down there, but merely to disrupt their mission. He had determined this could best be accomplished by making sure they knew their plot had been discovered, and by inflicting significant casualties.

He also had the advantage of terrain.

Studying the area, he was reassured that his memory of the place was accurate. Basically a dead-ended canyon formed over thousands of years as wind and rain had eroded the softer rock away, leaving the granite and dense pumice.

The
narrow gorge snaked along for over a quarter mile, never any wider than a football field. That ravine ended in a vertical wall of smooth stone that reached over 200 feet into the air, a draw for those who wanted a challenge scaling rock.

The valley floor was split down the middle by a small creek that was fed by a spring originating somewhere under the granite cliffs. It was the water that separated this location from the dozens of similar formations in the area.

The water enabled vegetation, both banks of the narrow stream lined with mature trees, including cypress and pine. Old man Chambers had originally thought to make his park-like property into a campground, but the endeavor had failed financially. After his passing, one of his children had taken up the hobby of rock climbing, and thus a new business was eventually formed. Now the military was using it as a place to launch an attack – a vicious strike aimed at those he loved.

In years past, p
eople came from far away to camp and climb. Whoever managed the operation had seen fit to leave the area as pristine as possible, with only a block-walled bathhouse/restroom and a small, out of the way storage shed constructed on the premises. Now, large tents were being erected, bundles of supplies distributed throughout.

Whoever had selected the property as a staging area had made an excellent decision. Having a local water source would save a lot of weight as the teams were transported in. The valley was secluded, easily defendable and geographically close to the primary targets. Bishop visualized some officer in the Pentagon having attended the
climbing school at some point in his youth. “I know a great place we can use to go assassinate new mothers!”

It was the perfect jump-off point
- if the mission remained undiscovered. Bishop intended to turn the placid valley into a death trap, and he didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse over the carnage he hoped to deliver. These men were assassins and soldiers – this was war.

He
pushed down the rage that was building in his chest, knowing now wasn’t the time to let emotion guide his actions. He had to be calm, cool and professional. He had to be an operator.

Time to get to work.

Given he was outnumbered, Bishop had to overcome a huge obstacle – firepower. He considered sniping from the rocks, but quickly dismissed the option. The men below would rapidly figure out he was a lone assailant and eventually would hunt him down for the kill. He had his long range rifle, but not a lot of ammo for that specific weapon.

He had flirted with creating a series of booby
traps, but doubted their effectiveness. He might manage one or two victims, but the targets would catch on and eventually dismantle the devices.

A dozen pounds of military C4, or other high quality explosive would have made the job easier, but he had no such resource.

The one substance available was gasoline. He glanced down at the two plastic milk jugs, each almost full of the flammable liquid.

Combatants had been using gas-bombs for over 100 years. Often called Molotov Cocktail
s, petrol bombs had a long list of attractive features. They were cheap, readily available, and could be extremely effective against soft targets. Bishop hankered for a case of small glass bottles, but would have to do without.

Gasoline,
by its very nature, was a powerful substance. One pound of vaporized fuel contained the equivalent of energy of five pounds of TNT, given containment and proper mixture of oxygen.

There were two way gas could be fatal – either by the heat produced by burning, or the pressure generated by a blast wave. The valley below was too open… too well ventilated
to inflict harm by burning the substance.

Exploding the petrol was easy, given some sort of container.
Containment was the key word. If a mixture of fuel and air was restricted inside of a pressurized vessel and then ignited, the gas would burn rapidly and cause an explosion, similar to what occurred inside of a car engine’s piston. Again, given enough time and resources, he could have manufactured anti-personnel bombs. The frantic activities below eliminated that option.

Still, burning the gas might have a place in the evening’s activities. If something important was burning, those men would try and fight the fire. They would be preoccupied – their attention drawn to the flames.