Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (4 page)

Bishop shook his head and whispered, “Who knows? But they aren’t searching the bodies. It looks like they just want the cash and don’t want to leave any witnesses. You would be a witness.”

“No shit.”

After verifying they hadn’t left any survivors, one of the assault team reached inside his vest and pulled out a stack of papers. While his comrades hauled bundles of money back to their bird, Bishop watched as the man pulled the knife from each corpse and used it to pin a single sheet of paper onto each body’s chest.  

Ten minutes later, it was all over. The five men humped the remaining bundles of currency back to their craft and were gone. Bishop
watched, as the aircraft became a tiny black speck in the sky and then disappeared.

He and the Marine finally rose from their hiding spot,
approaching the scene of the crime. They were quickly joined by two other members of their team—the only survivors. Mike and the others had been killed in the initial exchange with the convoy’s security force. Everyone milled around, stunned by the surreal chain of events that had just unfolded.

Bishop reached down and picked up one of the papers left by the assaulters. It contained neat, blocked type, both in English and what appeared to be Arabic characters. It read:

TO: General Khumri, Regional Governor, Balkh Province 

FROM: Erik King, CEO, Darkwater, Incorporated

General Khumri,

Nine days
ago at Firebase Pensive, your men assassinated two of my contractors. Consider this as an act of retribution. The funds confiscated by my team will be used to compensate the families of the men who were murdered in cold blood as a result of your direct orders.

Let me make my position clear, General. Any further acts of aggression against my men, my company, or our associates will be answered with exponentially greater violence.

Erik King   

Bishop replaced the paper on the corpse at his feet, minus the dagger-pin. He had read the headlines about the attack at the firebase a few days before. The civilian contractors had been training Afghan policemen when someone tossed a bomb into their barracks. Such atrocities were becoming common.

Darkwater was also a well-known entity. Famous for their security and contract operations in Iraq, the press often referred to Mr. King’s contractors as everything from “mercenaries” to “the president’s private army.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent carrying their fallen teammates back to the SUVs.

Two days of flight time home provided Bishop with opportunity to reflect on the events of the past few months. The colonel was right; Tri-Borders and the loss of life experienced there had eroded a foundational value that he had built his life upon. Perhaps it was being raised in West Texas – maybe all Americans felt the same way. Regardless, some life-experience had instilled the concept that good eventually triumphed over evil.

Bishop wasn’t naïve. He didn’t view life
as if it was a super-hero comic book where all villains eventually met a harsh demise at the hands of those fighting for truth, justice and the American way. Bishop’s outlook was rooted in the fact that the species had survived…no, thrived. Evil was destructive, good was constructive. Since society had continued to advance, the constructive side had to be winning – right?

For a while during
the flight, Bishop thought time was the component of the equation he was missing. Maybe the destructive energies flowing through mankind won a few battles here and there, but lost the war. Maybe Tri-Borders had simply been the rare example of victory for the dark-side. Even that logic didn’t seem to comfort him.

Glancing down at the newspaper sitting on his lap, he re-read the article detailing the attack on the Darkwater person
nel. The reporter provided some details about the contractors killed in the incident that had led to Mr. King’s revenge. The commentary wasn’t in-depth but did include a brief obituary of both employees. They were both family men – decorated veterans with good military records.

Bishop
kept circling back to the ambush by the Darkwater team. He had been so furious with the summary execution of the wounded. Watching the act had sickened him, and he had immediately condemned the contractors as war criminals. Reading the names of the deceased changed those feelings. The newspaper’s account of the incident somehow managed to inject a human element into Bishop’s thought process.
It wasn’t what it appeared to be
, thought Bishop.
It wasn’t a robbery or act of greed, it was a message intended to stop an escalation of death.

Folding the
paper on his lap, Bishop sighed and looked out the plane’s tiny window.
Was anything on this earth what it appeared to be? Was there any way for a man to know?
Bishop leaned his seat back, deciding on a half-hearted attempt at sleep. His racing mind slowed its pace, and exhaustion finally took over.

Six days later, Bishop was back in the States, standing in front of
the colonel’s desk. “I feel 100% fit as a fiddle, sir. I wish to officially report for duty.”

The colonel
was skeptical, “So you feel like you’re squared away, Bishop? No more unresolved issues floating around inside that thick skull of yours?”

“That statement, sir, would be an exaggeration. What I did resolve was that there’s no clear line separating good and evil. It’s not black and white, it never has been, and it probably never will be. I believe that’s about the best I’m going to do with the issue, sir.”

The colonel digested Bishop’s words, his intense gaze never leaving Bishop’s face. Finally, he responded. “Okay, son. So be it. Let’s get you back in the saddle and see if your little vacation to the Far East did the trick.”

Chapter 1

Fort Bliss, Texas

December 22, 2015

The three men were dressed in ninja black, looking more like choreographed warrior demons than human flesh. Thick body armor, vests bulging with pouches, and skull-like helmets added to the sinister effect. Mechanical-looking cylinders with glowing green pulses provided their vision. They moved with power and grace, electric pupils scanning right and left, looking for work.

Down the hallway they
progressed, silent, synchronized performers, executing a deadly ballet. Move . . . bound . . . cover . . . slide— precise motions, accented by sweeping weapons, ready to destroy any threat. The intent was unquestionable—they were hunting.

Black boots stepped heel to toe, rolling the predators forward in a well-rehearsed march of coiled violence. Their advance boiled down the corridor, engulfing the passageway as dark clouds fill the sky before the
thunderstorm unleashes its fury upon the prairie.   

Finally, they arrived at a plain, simple-looking door and stopped. Caution replaced aggression as they were close to their prey, and the quarry was dangerous. Slowly the leader raised his hand to the
entrance, and then it was open. 

In a single motion, Bishop pushed back the covers and rolled his legs over the edge of the bed. A second set of neural commands left him standing upright, the pistol from the nightstand in his hands. Extended arms moved in blurs as they followed his eyes, sweeping the room for intruders. If the pistol could speak, it would protest the pressure exerted b
y his grip. Thumb on the safety and index finger on the trigger—both were ready to engage at the same instant. Bishop’s lungs started to object to their lack of air, the desire for oxygen competing with the heartbeat pounding in his ears. The impulse to breathe was pushed back, every fiber of being focused on finding the invaders. He
had
to protect Terri and the baby. His mind raced with the taunt,
Where are you—come on out and play
. 

Terri rolled over, the movement from the other side of the bed rousing her from a not-so-deep slumber.
Bishop had been kicking and churning restlessly all night, keeping her on the edge of a deeper sleep. She blinked the fog from her eyes and looked up to see her husband standing with his gun pointing around the room. The light leaking through the window blinds was just enough to make out the detail of the tightened muscles and straining cords of his body. Had the situation been different, she might have let out a wolf-whistle at the sight. Bishop standing shirtless, glistening with sweat and flexing every muscle on his frame was an image a girl could appreciate. This big pistol in his hand ruined the image though, and her mind immediately shifted to concern for her mate. Her senses expanded for a moment, trying to feel out the room. Her female intuition straightaway determined they were alone.
He’s been dreaming again
, she instinctively knew. 

Terri waited a few moments and then quietly whispered, “Bishop. Bishop, are you okay?”

Her voice instantly calmed him. The pistol slowly lowered as he relaxed. He turned and faced her, his expression a combination of embarrassment and helplessness. Terri propped up on one elbow and observed as Bishop’s shoulders slumped and his head fell forward. The gun was returned to the nightstand, and then he perched on the edge of the bed. His voice was unsteady, “I’m sorry . . . I thought . . . I was sure . . . I just don’t know.”

Terri scooted across the bed, reaching up to rub the back of her husband’s neck. His skin was cold and damp, the sinew around his shoulders taunt. Ter
ri maneuvered beside her mate and simply held his hand. The couple sat motionless for several minutes, Bishop staring down at the floor, and Terri maintaining her warm and reassuring grip. Bishop finally broke the silence. “I hate this world. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all the killing. I’ve had enough of all these head cases running around with an attitude of ‘every man for himself.’” Bishop rotated his head, trying in vain to release the stress from his shoulders.

Terri leaned
up and gently kissed his cheek. “It’s okay, my love; you’ve been through a lot the last few days. I think it’s only natural to be a little stressed. Besides, I know you’re dreading seeing the colonel today after how things worked out.”

Bishop nodded and
flashed momentary eye contact. “I did my best, Terri. I don’t think I let the colonel down at all. He’s going to try and talk me into re-upping with the Army, and I don’t want to. I just want us to head back to the ranch and get on with it. I’ve done my part, and it didn’t work out so well.”

Terri smiled
at the thought of revisiting the now familiar topic. “Like I said, Bishop, I’m good with that. As long as we’re together, I’m a happy girl.”

Bishop
stared deeply into her eyes and pulled her close in a hug, as if offering her one last chance at the security that life on the military base afforded. The strong return of her embrace reassured Bishop of her resolve to stand with him on this decision. The final choice having been made, a moment of inner peace enveloped the young couple. Bishop pushed his wife’s hair over her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “The sun will be coming up soon. I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep. I think I’ll go for a run. Why don’t you try and crash again, and I promise I’ll be quiet when I get back.”

Terri’s yawn was timed perfectly. “Now that sounds like a good idea. The run will work some of that tension out of you. Just don’t overdo it—I’ve got some plans for you a little later on, and I wouldn’t want you to be too tired or anything.”

Bishop smiled at his wife, raising his eyebrows up and down, “You’ve got a date, pretty girl. For you . . . I’ll even take a shower first.”

Terri brought both of her hands to her cheeks in mock surprise. Faking an excited voice, she said, “I get a clean Bishop? Oh-my-goodness! Is it my birthday or something? Christmas isn’t for another couple of days.”

Bishop moved so quickly Terri didn’t have time to protest. He effortlessly lifted, flipped, and gently laid her on her back, his weight coming to rest on top of her, their faces just inches apart. The two lovers stared at each other in the dim light. “I love you,” they both declared at the same time.

A young man from Iowa, with the rank of specialist, had shown Bishop and Terri to their room soon after delivering a bundle of extra clothing. While the second-hand running shoes weren’t a perfect fit, Bishop welcomed the chance to exercise. Life at the ranch since the collapse had been filled with hunting, gathering, and trying to raise a garden. There simply wasn’t the time or the calories to run for exercise, and it wasn’t
as if they were gaining any weight. Thinking about it, Bishop was sure the newly sprouting vegetables in their fledgling garden were all dead now. They had been away for six days, and new growth wouldn’t survive long in the West Texas desert without water.
There’s another reason to get home as soon as possible
, he thought.

The east was just beginning to glow with the potential for a new sun when Bishop quietly closed the door and exited the visiting officer
s’ quarters building. Terri, from the looks of her, was already off in dreamland, and he hoped she would remain undisturbed for a few hours.
She is sleeping for two
, he mused.

It was a cool, clear morning at Fort Bliss, and for a moment, Bishop forgot about the chaos that existed beyond the base’s secured perimeter.
Six short months ago, he and Terri had been living in suburban Houston, suffering through the Second Great Depression like everyone else. Then it had all gone to hell, and they banded together with neighbors to hold back a growing wave of anarchy. When martial law was declared and Uncle Sam’s Army rolled in, the young couple had made the most difficult decision of their lives—time to bug out and head west.

Bishop had inherited land when his father passed away. It wasn’t a big spread, more like a lowly strip of desert, a leftover from when the ranch had been cut up and sold off years ago. He had spent many years on that ranch as a bo
y and knew the land well. Over time, he had slowly turned the worthless tract into a weekend hunting retreat with an old camper parked next to the only year-round water supply within 10 miles.

Bishop began stretching his muscles before his jog. He wanted to be careful not to pull or strain anything. While he had been doing plenty of running lately, that had been because people were shooting at him. He wanted a good, long, relaxing run that resulted in that feeling of muscles well used and freely flowing blood. As he was limbering, a white pickup pulled to the nearby curb. The doors, adorn
ed with the military police logo, opened promptly, and two soldiers approached.

Bishop tensed, wishing he had brought his pistol along. There just wasn’t any place to carry the heavy piece in sweatpants and
t-shirt.

The older one, a sergeant, said, “Good morning, sir. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, sergeant, everything is fine. I was getting ready to take in the air.”

The man looked at his watch and commented, “It’s still pretty early yet for a run.”

Bishop didn’t like his tone of voice. Normally, he would have taken the man for what he was—a cop. With the government and the military being divided, and a civil war on, he couldn’t help but be wary. “Is this an Army base, sergeant, or did I wake up in the wrong place? I thought pre-dawn runs were the norm for all you warfighters.”

The man laughed, defusing the situation, “Sir, nothing is normal these days. We have people trying to sneak in here from El Paso all the time. They’re mostly trying to steal food, but after the incidents of the last couple of days, everyone is a little on edge.”

Bishop had to hand it to the guy on that point. The president of the United States had been here at the base when several soldiers loyal to the Independents had made an assassination attempt. The base had been in complete turmoil while the rebels had been hunted down.

Bishop replied, “I appreciate your stopping by to check on me, Sergeant. I just want to burn off some stress. Any advice on a good route to jog this morning?”

The MP nodded and asked his partner to retrieve a clipboard from the truck. Bishop continued to stretch while the man returned with the paper. The sergeant flipped a couple of pages, tilting the paper toward the truck’s headlights so he could read. After a moment, he looked up and announced, “There’s no training scheduled on any of the firing ranges today. I can guide you out that way if you want to run in open country. It’ll be about 8K out and back.”

Bishop nodded, “Can’t hurt to head that way at least. Eight sounds about right this morning, but it’s been a while.”

The two MPs gave Bishop some general directions and then watched as he began sprinting off into the distance. After the runner was out of earshot, the young private looked at his sergeant and asked, “Did anyone ever figure out for sure whose side that guy is on? I’ve heard lots of rumors, ya know.”

The sergeant turned to his
subordinate and smiled. “I know he’s been rubbing elbows with the brass since those traitors tried to kill the president. I heard he is the guy who saved the prez and then turned around and got him killed. I also know a lot of guys are pissed off over what he did. That’s all above my pay grade and definitely above yours. Let’s finish our rounds and get some breakfast.”

The ground felt odd at first. It had been so long since he had run for pleasure—strange shoes—new turf, hell, a new world. Bishop took it slow at first, letting his legs get used to the rhythm and his feet get acclimated to the sneakers. Even with
the medical facilities at the Army base, blowing a ligament or popping a tendon wouldn’t be the highlight of his day. His side ached from the bullet scrape suffered two days ago, but he didn’t think his stride would re-open the wound.