Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  They arrived at the guest quarters, Powell idled with the vehicle in park, a clear sign the conversation wasn’t over. “Assuming you’re correct, that means there is someone else involved that we don’t know about. Someone with internal access . . . hell, it could be another member of my own team.”

  “I suppose, but wasn’t there a lot of fighting going on after I got out with the president? I heard it took the army hours to round up everyone they thought was on the other side. As I understand it, a lot of them decided to shoot it out rather than be arrested. Maybe your missing man was one of those killed in the fighting?”

  “Bishop, I can’t assume that. You wouldn’t if you had my job. My instincts tell me there’s more to this than just a bunch of rebel soldiers trying to knock off the chief executive.”

  The two men sat in silence for a few moments. Bishop understood Agent Powell’s dilemma and couldn’t blame the man for going with his gut. Such intuition had pulled his butt out of the fire more times than he could remember.

  Powell broke the silence, “Could you come over to the HQ building today? We still have the area roped off. I’m hoping it will refresh something in your memory.”

  Bishop grimaced, not wanting to return. The scene still burning in his mind, the visions extremely unpleasant … memories of blood and smoke . . . the sounds of dying men . . . it all made Bishop’s gut hurt. The carnage had been off the scale horrific. Teams of highly trained professionals going at each other in such close quarters had resulted in a bloody, desperate battle.

  I don’t need to go back and relive that … not again, thought Bishop. Looking up at Powell, his tone remained firm. “Man, I’ve been back there twice already. I think if anything were going to pop into my head, it would’ve done so by now. Besides, I’ve got to go see the colonel, deliver an answer to General Westfield’s offer, and spend a little one-on-one time with my wife. I’d say I’ve already got all kinds of opportunity for failure lined up for today, I don’t need another task to increase my odds.”

  Agent Powell grunted, “I’ve seen your wife pissed. I know where I’d concentrate my energies.” Powell cleared his throat, “Speaking of Terri, I’ve been rolling around an idea and wanted to bounce it off you.”

  The mention of his wife caused Bishop to stiffen in his seat. “Go on.”

  “You and Terri were the last two people to be with the president before his death. If the president recognized any of the conspirators, he might have said something to you or your wife.”

  Bishop shook his head, “How many times are you going to ask me this question, Agent Powell? He didn’t say anything to me, and I think Terri would’ve mentioned something before now. Why don’t you stop by and ask her? During the depositions you guys took, I testified to everything I could remember. I’m pretty sure Terri did as well.”

  Powell chuckled and gave Bishop a mischievous look. “Oh, I believe you. I don’t think the prez said a word to either of you. Given what we found at the scene of the assassination attempt, I believe his only thought was about his next breath. The chances of his figuring out one of his protection detail was on the wrong side are slim. No, what I’m thinking is to spread a rumor that Terri saw something. Get the word around, and then see who shows interest in the subject.”

  “No fucking way!” Bishop tensed, his voice dropping to a steely whisper. “You want to tether a pregnant woman to a stake, out in the open, and see what kind of carnivore comes along to eat her? Are you sick? Over my dead body, Agent Powell.”

  Powell had anticipated a reaction, but was still amazed. The animalistic ferocity of the man sitting beside him was impressive. The agent had been around his share of well-trained men, professionals who were high-speed couriers of violence. But Bishop was different, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

  “Now, Bishop. Don’t go getting your panties in a testosterone-induced wad. I wouldn’t want to put you or your lovely wife in danger. We’d protect you. You know, we’re pretty good at that.”

  Bishop glared, “How’s that all-mighty protection been working out lately?”

  The remark stung. Powell had lost his President and had been struggling with the emotional ramifications ever since. It was his only professional failure, and it troubled him deeply. The only possible cure was to discover the turncoat on the inside. He could live with himself if that were determined. He could sleep a little better if he caught and punished the traitor.

  “Bishop, we have to know if someone on the inside played a role in all this. We can’t have a rogue individual threatening our next president. He’s going to be busy enough without having to look over his shoulder all the time. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Besides, I would think you, of all people, would grab at the opportunity to clear your name, if not your conscience.”

  “Look, I understand that your job is to protect the new guy coming in. Believe me, I do. But you’re going to have to figure out another way. Terri and I did our part—or at least we tried. It didn’t work out so well, did it? Find another way, sir. Leave us out of it. Besides, if Terri found out I agreed to something like that, I’d be the one needing your protection.”

  Both men laughed and then fell silent. The Secret Service agent pulled the shifter into drive, indicating the conversation was over. “See ya later, Bishop.”

  “Later.”

  After exiting the SUV, Bishop strolled through the bleak lobby and down the hall toward room #11. He was a few feet away when the sounds of a commotion coming from the room reached his ears. Someone is hurting Terri, rushed through his mind.

  On the balls of his feet, Bishop opened the door and moved inside, crouching in a full combat stance and ready to fight. He was greeted by the sight of Samantha, David and Terri bouncing on the bed, hammering each other with government-issued pillows. Bishop exhaled and relaxed his shoulders, almost laughing at his overreaction. The relief was short-lived as Terri squealed and rocketed a pillow toward his head. Bishop ducked the projectile and dove at the three sets of unsteady legs hopping on the mattress. With arms spread wide, he managed to entangle at least one leg each, and the entire heap of pillow fighters collapsed onto each other, laughing.

  Samantha landed almost squarely on Bishop’s back and immediately protested, “Ewwwwww … you’re all sweaty, Bishop,” while madly scrambling to get away.

  Bishop rolled over and pinned Terri, privately whispering in her ear, “This wasn’t the type of bed action I had in mind.” His statement resulted in a sharp elbow to his ribs, quickly followed with a high velocity feather bomb to the ear. It was on!

  Twenty minutes and two busted pillows later, the warriors had retired, panting to their respective corners, exhausted smiles all around. Bishop was trying to figure out how he was going to explain the damaged room to Mother Green. By his inventory, one lamp had been busted and two large sections of paint were missing from one wall. It had been one heck of a battle.

  Samantha, being the smallest, had sided with either Bishop or David, resorting to sneak attacks while one of the bigger combatants was otherwise engaged. She was also the first to recover. “Bishop, are you going to visit Grandpa today?”

  Bishop nodded, trying to gather the energy to head for the shower. “Yup, I sure am, Sam. How’s the colonel doing this morning anyway?”

  David answered for his sister, “He’s doing okay, but still can’t walk. He was teasing me about my flying skills, which I think is a good sign.”

  Bishop had to agree. “You’ll never live that down, David. For the rest of your life, the colonel is going to repeat stories about how you almost killed him by crashing an airplane.” Bishop noticed the boy’s serious look, and added, “What you should also know is that as soon as you leave the room, he’ll tell the listener what a spectacular job you did landing that aircraft without any fuel on a makeshift landing strip. You don’t get to hear that part.”

  David seemed to get it and smiled at Bishop. “I did okay, ya think?”

  His sister
joined in, “David, you did great! An airplane that you had never flown before, and we all survived the crash . . . errrrrr . . . I mean landing. If Grandpa gets too mean, you tell him to come talk to Samantha. I’ll set the record straight.”

  To Bishop, that day seemed like a lifetime ago, even though it had been less than two weeks. So much had happened so fast. He glanced at his watch and announced it was time to get going, he had a busy day ahead of him. Samantha and David said their goodbyes and left arguing over who won “The Great Feather War of 2015.”

  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 had 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 extr
eme 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,” admitted 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.