Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (20 page)

“Pride is a dangerous sin, young man
,” the pastor began. “Yet, I detect more in your need than simple ego,” he continued, clearly believing Bishop’s request came from a deeper place than what appeared on the surface. “Normally, we control the harvesting of wildlife very, very tightly. This is because we believe it will have to last us for years to come and must be carefully managed. But, I also respect your desire to prove yourself and to make a contribution. In fact, I wish more of my flock possessed such a need. I’ll grant you permission to take one animal, if the good Lord permits you steady aim.”

“The Lord has never had any issue with my aim,” Bishop replied, still off balance and trying to make a joke. It fell flat.

Terri came to the rescue, despite being surprised by Bishop’s unexpected need to go hunting and the pastor’s over-the-top response. “Sounds like a plan to me. I’ll catch up on my sleep while you’re out gallivanting around the mountains.”

“Wonderful,” the camp’s leader pronounced. “I’ll stop back late this afternoon
so we can talk and perhaps see a trophy from the hunt.”

After Pearson wandered
off, Terri turned to her husband and said, “Okay, now you’re in serious trouble, lying to a man of the cloth. What’s up with this bullshit about going hunting?”

“Did you
just say ‘bullshit?’” he asked, a grin on his lips.

“Yes, I just said bullshit, and that’s because you’re full of it. What’s going on inside of that sin-filled head of yours,
young man
?”

“This place is shrouded in a cloud of weird. The longer I’m here, the more the oddities pile up. Why does he give a rat’s posterior if we stay here or not? It’s like he’s fixated on converting us or something.
We would be nothing but three more mouths to feed. Then you’ve got him playing good cop while his henchman plays the opposite role. Why? Throw in their Marxist rules, excessively retributive punishments, the crazy stuff going on last night, and it all adds up to a king-sized hill of bizarre.”

“And so… this has what to do with you
r going hunting?”

Bishop shook his head, “Sorry about that. I should have warned you, but the idea just occurred to me all of a sudden. I have zero interest in going hunting. I do want to explore a little bit. I’m planning on working my way over to where those guys were last night, and I want to have a rifle with me while I’m poking around
. Hunting was the only excuse I could come up with.”

“Why should we care? Let’s just get out of here in one piece and be done with the whole thing.”

“Because if we’re wrong about all this… if it’s just an unfortunate combination of circumstance and unwarranted paranoia, then we’ve bypassed what might be our best opportunity to make a new home.” He swept the surrounding valley with his hand and continued, “This place has everything we need in case Nick can’t clear my name. I know
this
self-sustaining society exists; I can only guess at what we’ll find once we’re on the road again. The known versus the unknown makes it worth investigating.”

Terri pondered his words for a moment, looking around at the drop-dead gorgeous scenery. It wasn’t the beauty
, she realized, but the bounty of food, water, and shelter it could provide. Finally glancing back at her mate, she relented, “You’re right. This reminds me of my visit to Fort Stockdale. I was absolutely convinced that D.A. Gibson was the worst monster this earth had seen since Adolf Hitler. Every little fact pointed toward that conclusion, and yet, when I went there and uncovered the truth, it had all been a big misunderstanding.”

Bishop agreed. “We could say the same about T-Bone or any number of examples. Life has always been like that
when you are on the outside looking in, but somehow I think the collapse of society has made things worse. I don’t want to throw this away without hard facts and evidence. For all we know, that lady telling me about the punishment was a natural born liar. Pearson might be on the verge of lifting the camp’s pseudo-communist rules now that things have leveled out. Hell, Dean might be a really nice guy who is just overprotective.”

Terri nodded, already having thought that might be wh
ere her hubby was going. Being honest with herself, she admitted that last night’s storm had frightened her enough to feel uncomfortable about living in the camper for any length of time. She recalled their reaction when they had first seen the valley and how it had provided hope. Bishop was right, they should be absolutely sure before they abandoned this opportunity. “You think Hunter and I will be okay here while you’re gone?”

Bishop shrugged, “There’s certainly no guarantee, but my read is that they won’t bother you. I’d keep a weapon handy, and if there is any trouble, fire off a shot. I won’t be far.
”

“A nap does sound good. Okay, you’ve got my permission… go frolic around in the woods if you want,” she teased. Then, with a serious tone, “You come back to me, my love. You come back in one piece.”

Bishop made sure no one was in the vicinity before opening the truck’s camper shell. Dean’s attitude was bad enough without fueling the fire by his knowing what was stored inside the enclosure.
The man’s head would explode if he saw all of my weapons
, Bishop chuckled.

While he had no intent of shooting any animal, he had to make good on th
e perception. Choosing the long-range AR10 with its big scope and powerful caliber made sense. If he had truly been after game, that would be the rifle of choice.

The next decision involved how much ammo to pack. The typical foray for meat wouldn’t require a lot of rounds. He grinned, recalling the old infantry wisdom of ounces equal pounds, and pounds equal pain. A hunter would take
only 10 to 15 rounds to minimize the weight of the ammo. The same logic could be applied to his body armor – an unnecessary burden for hunting.

If anyone asked, he could justify the Kevlar vest – a reasonable protection against hunting accidents.
After all, he was a visitor and would not be expected to be found traipsing in the woods. He would have to hide his spare magazines in his pack, a problem only if a firefight broke out.
Unlikely
, he determined.
You’re not going into battle; you’re scouting.

He was just about to kiss Terri goodbye when footfalls sou
nded behind him. Turning, he noticed Dean approaching, the same two fellas in tow from this morning.
They’re a cute threesome
, he mused.

“Against my better advice, Pastor Pearson informs me he’s given you permission for a hunt. Where are you going?”

“Well hello there back at ya,” Bishop replied. “My day is going just fine, thanks for asking.”

Dean ignored the sarcasm. “I asked where you were going.”

Bishop pointed to the north side of the valley, “I thought I would head up that way. I’m getting a late start, so my chances are slim, but it will be interesting to get a feel for the local game population.”

Nodding toward the rifle slung across Bishop’s chest, he said, “That doesn’t look like any hunting rifle I’ve ever seen.”

Smirking, Bishop replied, “Depends on what you’re hunting. It’s accurate and has enough stopping power to do the job. It’s not like I’m carrying around a full arsenal in the truck, ya know.”

“Whate
ver,” was the response from the head elder. Dean pointed to the east with one arm, to the northwest with the other. “Stay between these two lines. We have lookouts in the mountains, and I’d hate for there to be an accident.”

“Do your lookouts shoot anyone they see on sight?”

Grunting, Dean shook his head, “No. I’m more worried about your shooting them and then making up some hunting accident excuse. Don’t go into any areas that are marked. And…” he turned to one of his helpers, motioning with his hand. A bright, florescent-orange vest was produced, one of Dean’s men handing the safety device to Bishop. “Wear this at all times,” Dean continued. “It’s the smart thing to do.”

It’s the smart thing for me to do if I want you to be able to ambush me
, thought Bishop. He shrugged, accepting the colorful item but not pulling it on. “Anything else I need to know? Any booby-traps, punji pits, or minefields?”

“No, not outside of the marked areas.”

“And what, if I may ask, are these restricted areas?”

“You may not ask. Please check in at the HQ when you return.”

Dean abruptly turned and walked away, a sure sign the conversation was over.

“I’ll say one thing,” Ter
ri snorted, “He’s not a chatty Cathy by any sense of the imagination. Why do you invoke this reaction from people?”

“I guess it’s my
friendly personality and inherent charm,” Bishop replied while examining the safety vest. It was an extra small size, intended for a child. Holding it up for his wife to see, he added, “He never intended for me to be able to wear this. It might fit my arm.”

“You’re at a camp built for boys. It might be the only size they have.”

“Maybe… or he’s hoping I won’t wear it so there
can be
a hunting accident.”

Terri stepped closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I’m beginning to think your little hike in the countryside isn’t such a hot idea.”

Bishop shrugged, “I’ll stay here if you don’t want me to go. We can just wait it out until they clear the road.”

Terri considered the point, her mind running through a list of pluses and minuses. “No, I’ll be okay. I’m with you – we need to be sure.
Besides, I’ve not been to a wedding in a long time.”

Bishop grinned, “Give my condolences to the groom,” which earned him a punch on the arm.

The couple decided a few more “just in case” steps might be in order. Bishop unhooked the trailer, thinking Terri might need to bug out, even if her progress were limited by the partially blocked road. Bishop doubled-checked her weapon, storing a few extra magazines in both the camper and the cab. He then dug out the radios, verified their battery levels and handed one to his wife.

“Let’s keep in touch,” he said, leaning down to kiss her goodbye.
“But not too much. These are public frequencies, and you never know who might be listening.”

“
Ahhh, I get it. You want to keep my lust for you a secret,” Terri teased, hoping to break the tension created by the possibility of danger lurking in the woods.

After
exchanging a hug and “I love you,” Bishop headed north toward the mountain.

Camp Pinion, New Mexico

August 1

The ascent proved to be less difficult than he anticipated. From the distant parking lot, it appeared as if the relatively flat valley floor ended abruptly at sheer walls of vertical rock, but that wasn’t reality. Undulations, small mounds
, and ever-larger formations of rock provided a transition as his direction increased altitude. The pine forest was thick in this area, enjoying the benefit of drainage from the cliffs and precipices dominating the side of the valley.

As he progressed upwards, Bishop experienced that odd feeling of being watched. His mind conjured up images of Dean monitoring his progress with a pair of binoculars or
riflescope. If he were in the other man’s shoes, he would probably do the same.

At one point, Bishop thought to raise his arm and flip a middle finger back toward the camp, but held the gesture. It wouldn’t help his plan if the other side knew of his suspicions.
Why would a hunter do that?
Be the hunter
, he mused.
Play the part… act the role
.

With that in mind, Bishop began studying the landscape ahead with an eye toward game. Wild animals, he knew, typically traveled the easiest
path. It wasn’t laziness per se, but more an instinct to conserve energy for escaping predators or surviving lean times. Given the weight of his kit and the thinner air, Bishop was just fine with the path of least resistance.

His other focus was on the camp itself. For his plan to work, he needed to put as much foliage between his location and the prying eyes he assumed were tracking him from below. It would be easy to disappear into the landscape, but that wasn’t his purported goal. He took his time scouting the lay of the land, figuring angles and noting especially thick clusters of foliage and protruding formations of rock.

With the ultimate objective of investigating the north side of the camp, he settled on a horseshoe-shaped route with Camp Pinion being in the center. Using the camper’s location as the starting point, he would traverse a wide semi-loop that would result in a descent on the far side of the community, passing right through the area he really wanted to see.

With his general course plotted, Bishop began to alter his speed. Other than the dense greenery, hiking here was little different than his native West Texas. He felt at home. Rockslides occurred, wind and rain eroded
, and vegetation grew in the same patterns. Moving through such terrain was second nature.

Bishop was a fellow who had clambered over his fair share of rocks and mountains in his day. His familiarity with the task at hand
allowed him to vary his pace. Rapid, then cautious… fast, then slow, Bishop moved with a grace and strength that would make avoiding detection nearly impossible for anyone trying to follow him. A tracker would either lose him, or bumble too close and give away his presence.

Gradually, his elevation increase
d, the path always uphill, but manageable. At one point, a gap provided a remarkable vista of the camp below. Bishop estimated he was just over 1,000 feet above the valley, half a mile to the north. He could see the dollhouse-like rooflines of the cabins, the lake in the distance shimmering with the reflection of the morning sun. A quick glance through his optic confirmed the camper and pickup were right where he’d left them, but there was no sign of Terri or his son.
They’re probably sleeping
, he decided.

People were moving about down there, barely discernable with the naked eye.
If I can see them, they can see me,
Bishop thought.
Anyone with good glass can probably tell I didn’t shave this morning.
 

Pausing a moment to enjoy
the vantage, he had to admit the place initiated an almost primal reaction of wellbeing. For someone worried about long-term survival, the valley offered all anyone could want. Water, multiple food sources, a hidden location… it was all there, wrapped up in one nice little bundle that was easy on the eye. It was worth the risk he was taking if Terri and he could raise Hunter here.

Divert
ing his gaze away from the nature-porn below, Bishop began studying his immediate surroundings in detail. His perch was at the summit of the highest point in the vicinity, a sub-peak still over a quarter mile away from the serious heights offered by the closest mountain. If he were hunting from a stationary spot, this would be it.

Bubbling streams, swollen by last night’s storm, crisscrossed the area. Animals liked water. There was also a good mixture of open boulder fields and tall pines. Animals liked
cover. He had practically a 360-degree view of his surroundings and a clear field of fire in most directions. Most importantly, he was visible from below.

His next concern was blending into the
background. His primary area of activity had been West Texas, an arid area dominated by browns and yellows in the landscape. Green wasn’t a common occurrence in his native land. For this reason, Bishop had always chosen coyote brown or flat dark earth-colored equipment and kit. Even his weapons carried the same hues.

He had learned long ago that color and texture w
ere the two most important considerations when it came to camouflage. Instructors at HBR had taken their classes to a variety of locations, demonstrating to the eager students how to configure their bodies and kit to blend into their surroundings.

As he scanned his
environment, he breathed a sigh of relief. While green would have been a better match, his tan and browns still occurred often enough in the valley’s pallet.

With a prime spot selected, Bishop set about gathering materials. He really didn’t need much – a few sticks and some local w
eeds. He located a pile of deadwood, pinned between two boulders when the water from a nearby stream had overflowed its banks.

Double-
checking that he wasn’t visible from below, he selected two wrist-sized lengths, picking up limbs that were less than four feet in length.

He then found a patch of waist-
high weeds, selecting several vine-like examples. He wasn’t familiar with the local vegetation and was sure to wear his gloves to avoid any sort of poison or rash.

He carried
the bounty back to the summit, always vigilant to keep out of sight. It was easy work making a “t” out of the limbs, securing the cross member using the vines. He didn’t make it perfect or sturdy, just enough shape to hold Dean’s fluorescent safety vest.

Staying low and back, he pushed the brightly adorned scarecrow out into the open, trying to show enough of the vest to satisfy curious eyes that might be tracking him from below. If things went badly wrong, he would simply claim forgetfulness, accidently leaving the vest behind on his makeshift
shooting platform. The stick-man was just as easy to justify. It wasn’t uncommon for hunters to use or make “shooting sticks,” an aid to stabilize their aim for long distance shots.

Satisfied with his scarecrow, Bishop then began the difficult leg of his mission. Traversing terrain while hunting was one thing, stalking across the landscape was completely another. The physical exertion required was exponentially
greater, the progress notably slower. His casual walk in the woods had been pleasant, now it was time to get to work.

It was more than just physical stamina. The mental energy and discipline
required could drain a man quickly. Tired brains make mistakes, and those errors can lead to a quick death.

The stalker had to pre-plot his next move. He was required to examine
his surroundings with mind-numbing attention to the smallest detail, looking for any telltale sign that something was out of place. In the span of 20 meters, he might visually dissect a single bush five times, all the while crawling, scampering, and running in crouched, bent positions that wore on ligaments, muscles, and tendons.

Stress played a major role as well. While Bishop didn’t expect snipers or enemy infantry to be hunting him, discovery might draw violence. Worse yet, if they ca
ught onto his game, retribution might be taken out on Terri and Hunter.
That would be a mistake, Pastor,
he thought.
I would burn your pretty, little camp to the ground. You would greet your maker charred black and riddled with bullet holes.

The revenge fantasy made Bishop pause.
He hadn’t considered that before. Did being an accused murderer mean he had to watch his step? If, and it was a big if, he were to ever stand trial, would his actions since the massacre be scrutinized? No doubt events prior to that night in Chambers Canyon would be dissected in minute detail.

Despite being isolated in the deep woods, he grimaced and cursed himself for
even contemplating an assault on the camp.
That’s the kind of thinking the US government is accusing me of. That’s the kind of act that drove me from my friends and home. Stop that shit.

He sh
ook if off, sure of his innocence and confident in his friends’ abilities to clear his name.
There won’t be any trial
, he mused.
Whoever killed all those soldiers won’t let the truth come to light. They will kill me before there’s any chance of exposure.

Bishop continued to work his way down the mountain, his speed ov
er ground agonizingly slow. More than two hours had passed when he finally managed a clear view of the place the mysterious activity had occurred the night before.

The first detail he noted was the road. Resembling a logging trail zigzagging through rocks and foothills, Bishop had to smile at
its presence. According to the preacher, there was only one way in and out of the valley. Clearly, he was either mistaken or a liar.

He followed the lane with his eyes, evidence of recent use clearly marked by trampled weeds along several narrower sections. It was while he was trying to gauge exactly where he had seen the men moving back and forth that he found the second surprise of his trip.

Between his perch and the road was a series of ropes strung between random trees. All along the barrier were signs, each proclaiming, “Danger! Restricted Area – Do not Enter.”

So the camp management did know of the activities going on up here.
No mistaking that – the preacher
was
a liar.

But, w
hy would he want to hide the road from the camp’s citizens? Bishop pondered the question for a bit, trying to solve the puzzle. He couldn’t come up with any answers that made sense.

“Fuck your restricted area, Dean. I didn’t see the signs,” he whispered, moving toward the closest tree supporting the rope. A quick slash with his fighting knife dropped the picket.

He considered his next move, a binary choice of going up or down the road. He chose up, or toward the camp, after noticing a cliff in that direction - a 150-foot high vertical wall of stone that would dead end the lane.

Bishop scanned ahead, frowning at the open spaces he’d have to pass in order to see what was at the end of Pearson’s yellow brick road.
There wasn’t enough foliage or natural cover, so he would have to make his own.

Again
, the knife left the sheath across his chest, making quick work of several small branches and handfuls of the knee- high grass that covered the area. He pulled his survival net out of its pouch and began threading the local vegetation through the mesh.

It required over 30 minutes, but Bishop
believed the results well worth the effort. He pulled the rifle over his shoulder and then draped the net over his head like a rain poncho. It was a makeshift ghillie suit, perfectly textured and colored to match the surroundings.

Slowly he moved, mostly crawling at a snail’s pace, taking advantage of every mound, small tree
, and cluster of brush. It wasn’t a task for the impatient.

It was a relief when the road meandered into thicker vegetation. Realizing he would have to make the return trip, he stashed the net and increased his pace. Fifty meters later, the mine came into view.

It wasn’t a big opening, perhaps four feet high and three feet wide. It was also evident that the mouth was manmade, straight lines on three sides. Weeds, grasses, and even a few thigh-sized trees framed the opening, nature slowly reclaiming the mounds of spoil dumped outside the entrance long ago.

A length of chain crossed the entrance, another of the red and white signs advertising a restricted area. There was a second placard as well, this one hand lettered with the words, “Danger – Unstable – Cave-in possible.”

Is that why they don’t want anyone up here? Why not just seal the tunnel?
Bishop pondered the possibility, trying hard to give the preacher the benefit of the doubt.
What were all those men doing up here last night then?

There was
no clue as to what the miners had been after. It could have been gold, silver or even something as mundane as salt.

His instinct was to go explore the
excavation, curiosity over the ever-growing mystery drawing him in. He fought the urge, hanging back and trying to catalog every possible detail from a distance. That caution paid a huge dividend. A well-concealed sentry moved, an innocent scratching motion drawing Bishop’s eye. The man was armed.