Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (10 page)

“Not much, General. I need transportation and clearance for two men to visit Memphis. We believe the key to this entire mystery can be found there.”

Owens replied, “Why don’t I just send in professional investigators? I could order military experts to reopen the case.”

“Sir, I think that would be a mistake. It is my opinion that whoever ordered this operation was very high in the chain of command. If you make an official fuss, the culprit may disappear down a rabbit hole and take any evidence with him. That’s why I wanted to bring you up here alone – there might be some very powerful people behind this.”

Owens nodded, conceding Nick’s point. “And why do you trust me, Sergeant?” 

It was Nick’s turn to gaze off into the distance. “No one condones the meaningless death of Americans, especially soldiers under his command. That’s why I trusted you. I knew you had to be completely in the dark about this.”

The general pondered Nick’s statement for a moment and then said, “So you want transportation and a pass to nose around the Memphis region. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. I need you and the major to keep this under your hat for a few days. And, sir, I want your agreement to a ceasefire until I’ve finished in Memphis and report my findings back to you.”

Owens considered Nick’s words. “Deal.”

Texas – New Mexico border

July 27

The diesel pumps had suffered fire damage when the main structure had burned. Fred’s tractor and trailer had added to the inferno, only rust and a skeleton of sheet metal remaining.

He had to scrape away almost two feet of smelly debris before he found the pump’s pipeline leading to the underground tank. The hose had melted away, charred bits of rubber and plastic the only evidence that fuel had once passed through the machine.

He located the valve next, a flow-control unit that would deliver more fuel as the handle was squeezed. Diesel wasn’t nearly as flammable as gasoline, so he wasn’t worried about a spark or fire. Using a screwdriver, he began prying on the heat-weakened opening.

Bishop smiled when the stubborn piece of equipment finally succumbed to his efforts. He could smell diesel fuel. Now to get it out.

The solution was actually quite simple. The locals had a garden hose, currently repurposed as a clothesline. With Cole’s assistance, Bishop inserted the smaller yard-watering tube into the open valve and then created a seal with significant amounts of duct tape. Consolidating the last few inches of rainwater provided a barrel. Bishop inhaled, exhaled, and then sucked hard on the hose.

The first attempt produced nothing but fumes and a few deep coughs. He repeated the process and was rewarded with a mouthful of foul-tasting liquid. Quickly shoving the end of the hose into the barrel, both men stood grinning as they watched the pinkish fuel continue to fill the barrel.

And it continued to flow.

For a while, Bishop thought they were going to need additional containers. When the 50-gallon drum was half-full, Cole scrambled to find anything that would hold fuel. They didn’t want to waste a single drop of the precious resource.

At just over the half-full level, the flow slowed to a trickle and then stopped. Bishop yelled for his host to return, both men standing in awe, staring down at the 30 gallons of pure gold they had just mined.

“I can’t believe we’ve been sitting on top of all that fuel for all these months,” Cole finally said.

“We need to get one of those trucks running. How hard is that going to be?” Bishop inquired.

“My tanks have bullet holes, but other than that I know she’ll run. We will need to charge the battery and re-prime the motor, but that should be manageable.”

“We can use the battery off the camper. Can we swap a tank with one of the other tractors?”

“Yup.”

The remainder of the day was spent cursing rusty bolts and old hoses while not having the right sized wrenches. An hour before sundown they finally finished, both men filthy, sweaty and excited over the prospect of solving their problems.

Bishop stood back, watching as Cole climbed into the cab. “This will take a while,” he warned out the open window. “Diesels aren’t like
mogas motors.”

And it did.

Twenty minutes later, the engine fired, turned a few cycles, and then died. Cole waited a few moments and then tried again. The Kenworth growled like a big dog, rumbling with power and torque.

Bishop was startled when a chorus of cheers rang out behind him. Turning, he found every citizen of the overpass had gathered to watch the show. He guessed it was the first time they had all smiled in a long time.

He spied Terri walking across the lot, Hunter’s excited eyes engaged with the excitement and activity.

“There’s always hope,” she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss his filthy face.

“Always,” he replied.

Cole maneuvered the huge truck as if he was driving a moped, and soon a chain connected the Kenworth to Bishop’s pickup. Gunning the engine, Cole shifted into reverse and began slowly backing up. When the smaller truck began to move, a horrible scraping noise filled the air. Bishop inhaled deeply, gritting his teeth. It was all over in a few moments, his beloved ride sitting on all four wheels.

The camper came next, a crew of men busily securing an assortment of ropes.

“I saw a wrecker pull a camper off its side once; it was up on I-70 in Ohio,” one of the truckers warned. “He just hooked on and pulled it over. The damn thing hit the ground so hard it busted one of the camper’s axles. We need to let her down nice and gentle, or you’ll have a worthless piece of junk on your hands.”

After much debate, it was decided that a counter-balance should be used to control the camper’s descent. Cole’s tractor would pull, while Bishop’s pickup acted like an anchor on the opposite side, controlling the mobile home’s movement.

It worked like a charm, the wheels touching pavement with only the slightest “thump.”

Again, cheers of celebration broke out among the onlookers. For a moment, Bishop felt like he was an actor in a bad drama, but the only theatre in town.

The men then focused their attentions on the camper hitch, fabricating a makeshift connection. When they had finished, Bishop thought it would hold, but would require twice as much time to disconnect. Other than a few scrapes, minor dents, and disheveled contents, the camper itself was unharmed.

He took the pickup on a quick test drive, monitoring the gauges for any sign of a busted hose or torn connection. The 4x4’s skid plates had saved the oil pan and sensitive undercarriage. The truck fairly purred along.

The sun was dropping quickly by the time they had finished, the nighttime coolness already changing the air. The bridge people, for lack of anything better to do, milled around as Bishop conducted the final inspections on the day’s work. Cole was doing the same to his truck.

“I think we need to celebrate with a cookout,” Bishop declared. “If you guys can build a fire, Terri and I will make a stew – complete with fresh beef. Tomorrow evening, we’ll throw a party!”

“Beef?” some in the crowd repeated. “We’ve not tasted any beef around here in over a year.”

Chapter 6

Andrews Air Force Base

July 28

There was a constant stream of traffic from Camp David to Andrews Air Force base. Military personnel, cabinet officials and presidential advisors regularly traveled back and forth between what had become the functional capital at the remote Maryland camp and the primary government transportation hub.

The Colonel was well known at the base, his recent position as a presidential advisor requiring frequent trips. So prolific were his travels, he wasn’t even questioned at the gate, nor did anyone find his presence at the terminal unusual.

In reality, describing Hangar 2 as a terminal was a bit of a misnomer. For years, congressmen, government officials, and military brass had used the facilities at Andrews to fly on a fleet of small executive jets. In reality, a nicely appointed reception area and spotless concrete floor were the extent of the facilities. But the service, professionalism, and capabilities were second to none.

The Air Force also maintained a fleet of VIP transport aircraft, but the Colonel’s read on Mr. White pegged the spook as a man who wouldn’t choose the common option. The smaller, less obvious unit at Hangar 2 was under the Army’s direct command and not nearly as well known in Washington. Perfect for a man who had presidential authority, but didn’t want to leave any tracks.

While other parts of the military/government complex suffered, the collapse had resulted in a rash of new customers for the men flying and maintaining the aircraft at Andrews. With the communication grid still down for 90% of the country, the only way to get something done was to put boots on the ground. Commercial air travel was unavailable. Using the interstate system was next to impossible, which left flying on the government’s fleet of planes.

If the Colonel knew one thing about military operations, it was the fact that meticulous records were always kept. Logs, files, receipts, and red tape were hallmarks of the organization. Since Mr. White had only appeared at Camp David a week before the massacre, the needle he was seeking was in a relatively small haystack. Mr. White would have been forced to take an aircraft if he traveled, as men in his position rarely handled delicate situations remotely.

It would be unprofessional for the Colonel to use his authority and simply order someone to deliver the information he sought. He was performing an investigation on his own time, completely unauthorized and without presidential endorsement. The same could be said of any personal relationships – he simply wouldn’t want to involve an innocent or put any man’s career at risk.

But, the Colonel couldn’t come up with any reason not to poke around the Army’s records himself. If no one bothered to ask what he was doing, what harm could come of a little curiosity? If pressed, he might even stretch the truth regarding his presence.

He found the flight records sitting unattended at the main desk. These weren’t detailed registers, void of any information such as passenger manifests or bills of lading, but rather a simple ledger documenting every flight that left the hangar.

Glancing around to make sure he was alone, the Colonel pulled his non-functional smart phone from a pocket and began snapping pictures. There was an average of 12 flights per day departing Hangar 2. Most listed Operation Heartland command centers in Memphis, New Orleans, Minneapolis, and St. Louis as their destinations.

In less than three minutes, he was exiting the terminal, walking briskly to the waiting Humvee. He had his answer.

Working backwards, he knew Bishop was only in Memphis between the time his background check was requested, and at least 14 hours before the massacre. That was less than two calendar days. The log book indicated a steady schedule of three flights per day to Tennessee, with one exception. A fourth flight had been added during Bishop’s stay, and it was at a very unusual hour.

Was it coincidence that someone had left Washington in the middle of the night?

The Colonel didn’t know, but his little fact-finding mission had reaffirmed a nagging suspicion. Memphis was the key to peeling back the layers of the deception-onion.   

“Where to now, sir?” asked the burley driver.

“How about a drive into the Virginia countryside? Isn’t it a grand day for touring?”

The driver knew better. Of all the brass he escorted here and there, the Colonel was the most no-bullshit guy at the camp. “Do you have a specific address in Virginia you wish to tour, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” The older man responded. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced a scrap of paper containing three lines of handwritten text.

The driver immediately began entering the address into the transport’s GPS unit, and a few moments later was scanning the generated directions. “It will take us about 40 minutes to reach this destination, sir. I see that it is indeed a remote area. Should I acquire additional security personnel?”

Waving the man off, the Colonel patted the two M4 carbines secured between their seats. “I think we can handle it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rural Virginia

July 28

The axe needed sharpening, a fact that the wielder had noted the last four times he’d split wood. Wiping his brow, he glanced back at the house and cursed his wife.
It was summertime for God’s sake – how could that woman possibly be using so much wood?

Right on cue, a female voice sounded from the open window, “My fire’s getting low. How’s that chopping coming?”  

“I’ll have a cord ready in just a minute,” he responded, the scowl on his face not corresponding with the pleasantness of his voice.

“It’s not her fault,” he whispered, picking up the heavy tool and aligning for another strike. “She’s actually doing better than most…
We’re
doing better than most.”

Taking the handle with both hands, he arched the blade downward with significant force, the blow cleaving straight through, producing two pieces of wood where there had been only one before.

“Hello, Spider,” a voice sounded from the corner of the house. “Long time no see.”

Spinning in a blur, Spider dropped the axe, faced the speaker, and drew his pistol all in the same movement. The surprise quickly passed. Lowering the weapon, Spider smiled and said, “Hello, Colonel. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting complacent in your retirement, young man. The operator I remember wasn’t scared of anything.”

Spider didn’t reply, instead moving to meet his ex-boss halfway and offering his hand. “Good to see you, sir. You haven’t aged a day.”

“It’s only been… what… five years since you retired from HBR?”

“Yes, sir. I still regret that decision, but my wife was sick of the constant travel and stress. I guess it was the right call – who knows where I might have been when everything went to hell?”

The Colonel frowned, the comment bringing back bad memories of society’s final days. “We got them all back to their families,” he said. “It was difficult, but we managed.”

Spider smiled, the statement from his former employer not surprising. If anyone took care of his people, it was the Colonel. “So, sir, what brings you to my humble home? Can I offer you a drink of water? We really don’t have much else.”

The Colonel raised a hand, motioning for Spider to stop. “No need, son. I didn’t come out here for a social visit. I came to ask for your help.”

Without hesitation, Spider replied, “Whatever you need, Colonel.”

“It’s not for me, Spider. It’s for Bishop. He’s in trouble and needs our support.”

“Bishop is in trouble? Why didn’t he call me…? Oh, hell, the phones don’t work.”

The Colonel glanced up at the sun overhead, “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

An hour later, Spider set the empty glass of well water down, his gaze centered on the table. The Colonel had used the time to catch his ex-employee up on the events of the past year, and it was a lot to digest.

“I only met Terri at their wedding,” the operator began. “She was a very pretty, very sweet girl… a bank teller, if I recall correctly. Bishop was enamored, that’s for sure. You sent me off to Kazakhstan or wherever that fucking place was, and that was the last time I saw Bishop. We exchanged a few calls, but when my wife said resign or divorce, I kind of lost touch with him.”

“Happens,” the Colonel replied. “People move on; memories fade.”

“That was one hellofah bachelor party,” Spider brightened. “I wonder what the statute of limitations is in Texas?”

The Colonel grunted, “Thank heaven above we didn’t have a major op going on. I drained the discretionary fund posting bail for all you guys. I would have let your asses rot in jail, but my entire department was locked in the gulag. The bonds were nothing compared to the medical bills for Houston’s finest.”

“Did that bar ever reopen?”

A low chuckle escaped from the Colonel’s throat, “No, I don’t think so. And the Houston Police Department never let me forget about the incident either. By the way, I never did figure out who started the fight…. No one would say.”

Spider smirked, looking down in embarrassment. “I did, sir.”

With his eyebrows raised, the Colonel shot his ex-employee an inquisitive glance. “Confession time, Spider. Let’s hear it.”

“We ran out of beer at the hotel, sir,” Spider explained, his tone indicating the shortage was completely to blame. “So we all started walking, looking for a liquor store. We found that bar instead.”

“And…”

“Bishop was passing around a picture of Terri, showing off for the guys who had just gotten back from Iraq. Some of the locals ended up looking at the photo and made… umm… ungentlemanly comments about the future bride-to-be.”

The Colonel frowned, “You mean some idiot, in a bar, had the gumption to hurl an insult at 15 of my contractors? Who did this guy think he was? Superman?”

Spider’s gaze drifted to the horizon, pulling up memories from so long ago. “I didn’t appreciate their attitude either, sir. I think they were a construction crew. I politely asked their foreman to apologize.”

“Is this the same fellow who claimed someone bit off his finger during the brawl?”

Spider smirked, “It was just to the first digit of his pinky, sir. I believe it was Bull who actually performed the amputation.”

“Figures.”

Spider exhaled a lung full of air, “Yeah, but Bishop and I saw some shit together, sir. He pulled my ass out of more than one extra-deluxe suck.”

“And I’m sure he’d say the same about you, Spider. That’s why I’m here… I need people I can trust… people who won’t listen to the bullshit that is being spread like jelly on toast.”

“I’m in, Colonel. From what you’ve told me, Bishop has made some pretty powerful enemies. That guy doesn’t deserve that. My only issue is that the wife and I are barely putting enough calories on the table as it is. It might take me a few days of hunting and fishing to make sure she doesn’t starve while I’m gone.”

The Colonel smiled, “I’ve already taken care of that, Spider. I brought along three cases of MREs… just in case you were interested.”

“Three cases? Sir? That’s enough food to last us a month,” Spider replied and then turned toward the kitchen. “Honey! Honey! We’ve hit the lottery,” he yelled.     

Texas – New Mexico Border

July 28

They had to use three pots to cook the stew and rice, none of the existing utensils large enough to hold a meal meant for 20 people. Bishop and Terri had splurged, using the rest of their potatoes, and opening a bag of rice. Two steaks, packed in salt, had been sliced to thicken the broth.

Tin cups, plastic tumblers and a few glasses had been raised in toast after toast to celebrate the feast and the discovery of the diesel fuel. The partyers were drinking water, but no one would’ve ever guessed.

While the stew would have been considered thin in any pre-collapse restaurant, to the people of the overpass it was banquet fare fit for a king. Terri noted not a single morsel of the meal had been wasted.

With the large fire still burning under the center of the bridge, one of the men finally asked the question that had been burning as brightly as the flame. “What are we going to do with the diesel fuel?”

Cole looked at Bishop, indicating he should answer the question.

The Texan stood, looked around at the dirty but happy faces, and began. “Just over 200 miles southeast of here, beginning on the east side of El Paso, is an alliance of people. They have carved out a section of West Texas, established law and order and free trade. They welcome refugees, transplants, and the homeless. They have plenty of food, jobs, and even electricity most days. I think you should hook up one of those trailers, load everyone up, and drive to West Texas.”

The crowd was stunned by the news, murmurs of conversation sprouting up here and there. Terri’s voice carried over the din. “It’s not an easy life,” she announced. “The people there expect everyone to work hard and earn their keep. But they have doctors, schools and even gasoline and diesel. They need people with every different skill set. They are organized and even elect their officials.”