Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (8 page)

Terri managed a stretch and balanced on the edge of the bed, watching Bishop get ready for his shower. “I can’t believe you would attack a pregnant girl, Bishop. I thought you were an honorable man.”

“All’s fair in love and war, my sweets. Never forget that. As I recall, however, you started it.”

Terri winked, and in her most sultry
Mae West voice commanded, “Hurry up and get out of that shower big boy, and I’ll start something else.”

Chapter 3

Fort Meade, Maryland

December 22, 2015

Sophia pushed her chair back from the green metal desk, glanced at the computer screen one last time, and then placed her hands in her lap.
That’s it
, she thought,
he’s the guy.
Since she had been rescued from her Washington, DC apartment a few days ago, she had worked almost nonstop, trying to ascertain who was next in line of succession for the presidency. The databases available at Fort Meade weren’t as detailed as the ones she normally accessed, but they contained enough information to perform the assignment.

Her finger moved to the keyboard, hovering over the button labeled “Print Screen.” There wasn’t any doubt about the results—Sophia was absolutely certain of her analysis. The cause of her delay was more selfish in nature. She felt safe here. The availability of food and running water was nice too. She hadn’t seen the FBI agents who brought her to Fort Meade and wondered if she would be taken back into the city now that her task was complete. She didn’t want to go back, and for the first time in her life
, she pondered cheating the government she had served loyally for over 20 years. She could stretch this out—pad the payroll—take her time.

Sophia’s hands returned to her lap, her
distant gaze focused on nothing. She could ask to stay. There didn’t seem to be a shortage of space or food, and she could help out around the base. The thought of returning to her apartment made her shiver. What was once a warm, safe place to spend her non-working hours, now seemed so distant and threatening. The drive from Washington had provided Sophia something she specialized in processing—information. Her analysis of that data didn’t require a degree in mathematics to postulate; it was going to be months, if not years before life returned to normal in Washington.

Some of the
capital’s streets had been packed tightly with abandoned cars while others were completely barren. The once proud dome of the capitol building, an icon of freedom for decades, was now scarred and blackened from smoke—the aftermath of a fire that had damaged the building. Fire had definitely been a major issue. When the riots broke out, the firefighters who had remained on the job often couldn’t get to the blaze. The streets were either blocked off by abandoned vehicles or occupied by violent throngs numbering in the thousands. Sophia shuddered at the thought—fire frightened her.

Her
escorts had carefully selected side streets for the exodus from Washington. The interstates were blocked by tens of thousands of motorists who tried to escape the inferno. When the electrical grid went down, there was no gas, food, or traffic signals. The FBI agents had told her that most of the stalled cars had simply idled for hours until they ran out of fuel. The frustrated commuters had swelled the ranks of the disenchanted and desperate citizens filling the streets.

According to her escorts, the city had actually been ravaged by three separate waves of violence. The first occurred when the labor riots sacked the White House and other government buildings. The
second was initiated by the District of Columbia police trying to restore order. The third rape of the city was by desperate, starving masses—people who were out of food and looting to survive. As they had driven along, Sophia had grown bored with counting the number of smoldering buildings. Without any fire department to fight the blazes, anything could start a fire, and little could control it.

Her escorts had talked extensively about human behavior on the ride to Meade. The men ha
d discussed in great detail that while gang rivalries were to be expected, racial violence, vigilantes and even neighborhood disputes were not. And yet the latter had exploded throughout the area.

Pointing here and there, the FBI
agents seemed to have grown numb, unmoved by the rampant destruction passing by the car’s windows. Yet, Sophia would never forget the scenes.

Staring again at her computer, the analyst decided that such an important decision would require one more pass. She had to be sure, right?

Her little deception manifested itself in a troubled stomach. She would return to her quarters and rest for a bit before beginning the verification of her findings. Sophia sought her supervisor; her guilt required that she at least let someone know she wasn’t feeling well.

Two cubicles away, a man stood and scanned the area. Casually strolling to Sophia’s computer, he again checked to verify he wasn’t being watched. Three clicks on the keyboard later, the small laser printer hummed a signal that it was warming up.

The man stepped to the exit door, carrying the still-warm printout from Sophia’s computer. Carefully studying the black and white characters once and then again, he strolled to a nearby dumpster and tore the paper into several small pieces before depositing them into the huge, metal receptacle.

Stealthily, he followed a seldom-used maintenance walkway behind the HVAC equipment servicing the building. The modified cell phone in his pocket would attract unwanted attention if anyone noticed it. Cell towers weren’t functional anymore.

Glancing nervously around one last time, the man hit the send button and waited for the connection.

The call was answered with a question
. “Do you have a name?”

“Yes.”

The hospital smelled, well, like a hospital. Bishop hated the scent. Despite knowing better, he couldn’t help but associate the place with turmoil, pain, and death.
People are healed here too
, he forced himself to admit.
My child might be born in a place like this.

Each room was marked by a small black placard, advertising its assigned number. Bishop’s attention was divided between watching for
the colonel’s doorway and staying out of the way of the bustling workers who were rushing around to provide care.
Maybe I should come back later when things aren’t so busy
, he thought. He quickly dismissed the urge, deciding instead to suck it up and get it over.

The nurses and staff no longer dressed in primary white, despite the place being a military institution, and that seemed to help override the building’s sterile, cold personality. Still, to Bishop’s eye, it wasn’t a place he would describe as warm, bright, or cheerful.

The little black sign beside him indicated the colonel’s room was the next threshold. Bishop paused.  Like a patrolling soldier who entered a narrow pass, Bishop’s eyes scanned forward, wary of the ambush. He listened and watched, secretly hoping some important medical procedure was in progress that would forbid visitors. The area was quiet, no presence of hostiles was detected.

Taking a deep breath, Bishop moved forward and glanced through the door. He could see the foot of a hospital bed and the outline of two legs underneath the covers. No doctor, nurse, or aide was present—
the colonel had no other visitors.
Maybe he’s sleeping
, thought Bishop.
I wouldn’t want to disturb his rest. That’s an important part of healing.

Approaching like a
warrior ready to spring on an enemy sentry from behind, Bishop slipped quietly into the room. He found the colonel lying with his head elevated, a magazine unfolded and resting on his chest. His eyes were closed.
I’ll come back later after he’s rested
, thought Bishop.

Relieved, Bishop exercised extreme stealth while pivoting to exit the room. A voice shredded the calm, “Hi
, Bishop! Grandpa will be so glad you came to visit him!”

Behind him in the doorway, Samantha and David
carried several books and a tray of food. Grinning ear to ear, Samantha rushed forward, embracing Bishop in a hug. The colonel’s sleepy voice sounded out, “Bishop? Is Bishop here?”

Busted.

“Yes, sir, I’m here,” a
dmitted Bishop. Straightening his spine and pushing back his shoulders, he gathered himself and entered the room.

The colonel
’s genuine smile eased Bishop’s apprehension—somewhat. As the two men shook hands, Bishop observed the patient’s grip was strong. “You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you, sir.”

The older man waved off the words. “Thanks in no small part to your efforts, Bishop. I would’ve surely died in Meraton if you hadn’t sent David back with that equipment. The sawbones there said it saved my life.”

Samantha regarded her older brother with wide, almost admiring eyes. “Don’t forget. David was a hero too, Grandpa. He flew the plane back while people were shooting at him.”

The colonel
nodded his agreement, focusing his intense stare on the blushing, teenage boy. Bishop decided to bail the kid out. “Everyone did their part, sir. It was a team effort. David and Samantha can work with me anytime.”

The colonel
was clearly proud of his grandchildren, his gaze approving and sincere. The warm moment didn’t last long, however. After a few pleasantries, a quick inquiry about how Terri was doing, and a brief conversation about the weather, the colonel sent the kids away on another errand.

When they were finally alone, Bishop could feel his old boss’ eyes boring in. “Did he die well?” The question aired in a low, serious tone.

As simple as the inquiry sounded, the effect on the two men was extraordinarily deep and complex. It was as if a new dimension of time and space appeared, both of them being pulled into a zone of memories and experiences from days past. It was uncomfortable, filled with the faces of colleagues who had died violently and always, always too young. Neither man spoke of the mutual experience, neither having the words to describe memories packed by the sound, smell and fear of death. It was a wet existence—a location soaked in toil, sweat, copper-scented blood, mortal fear, and ultimate desperation. Both of them understood. Both had visited this place far too many times before.      

It took Bishop a second to leave that domain behind. The torrent of emotions and recollections created a vortex that was hard to escape. He had to concentrate, forcing t
he merry-go-round of misery to slow down. Finally, the words came, “The president passed on thinking about someone other than himself, sir. I guess that’s as good as it gets. I, for one, am sure glad he did, or I’d still be locked up in the stockade and facing charges.”

Bishop couldn’t say why, but that last gift by the dying man seemed important now. It felt honorable. It seemed like a worthy legacy. It pulled both men out of the abyss of reminiscence.

The colonel responded, “Yes, I’ve heard about the pardon. General Westfield stopped by and relayed the story. He even allowed me to read your deposition.”

A long pause signaled that
the colonel didn’t know quite where to go next. “I’ve been lying here rolling over what I know of the entire episode. I’m not fit to judge—I wasn’t there. At least a hundred times I’ve asked, ‘What the hell was he thinking,’ as various parts of the story unfolded. I have to go with my trust in you, son. I have to believe you put forth your best.”

“If it helps to hear it, sir, I did. We both know how easy it is to second-guess any operation after it’s over. I’ve replayed the entire affair numerous times. I’ve asked myself a thousand questions. To be blunt, sir, during most of it, there simply wasn’t time to think things through. I reacted with pure instinct.”

The colonel nodded his understanding. The man’s expression seemed to indicate he still had questions, but they never came out. Instead, the colonel met Bishop’s gaze square on and said, “I’m not smart enough to play the parallel universe game of ‘what if,’ Bishop. I’ve never met anyone who is. I asked you to perform what I thought was a nearly impossible job at the time. Given the president had already made up his mind before you ever left my side, it was all for naught. Still, I hope you realize we had to try.”

“It wasn’t
all
for naught, sir. We know that the president was killed by a common criminal, probably not the Independents. That little piece of information is critical. If the assassination attempt had been launched as a coup, it might have carved a wound in the nation that would never heal. At least this way the anger can be focused on someone who is already dead.”