Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  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 the 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.”

  The colonel thought about Bishop’s logic for a moment. “What you’re saying is true son, but I’m still concerned. So is General Westfield. He’s already been asked why you aren’t under arrest. Just because you were pardoned, doesn’t mean people are going to assume you were innocent. I’d watch my back if I were you.”

  The statement caught Bishop by surprise. “Are you saying that people here at the base believe I’m responsible for the president’s death?”

  “Bishop, listen carefully to me. Most of the officers and enlisted personnel walking around this compound don’t have access to the real facts. We both know how quickly rumors and misinformation can spread around an army base. Scuttlebutt seems to have a life of its own. A lot of good men died when the subversives tried to kill the Commander in Chief. A lot more good men died in those battles down in Louisiana. While there’s a ceasefire right now, this base is preparing for war. You have an army without a clear chain of command that is getting ready to fight its own countrymen. Emotions are going to run high. I’ll repeat, watch your back.”

  Bishop rolled the colonel’s words around for a while, gazing out the window at nothing. Eventually, he came back around to point. “I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me any. Hell, there are people who still think the mafia killed Kennedy. I guess there’ll always be those that think of me as a modern day Lee Harvey Oswald.”

  The colonel smiled at Bishop and then became serious again. “By the way, the mafia did kill Kennedy.”

  Bishop’s head snapped up, staring into the stone-like expression of the man lying next to him for several seconds. The colonel couldn’t manage a straight face any longer and broke out in a broad grin. The two men were laughing so hard, the nurse came rushing into the room, thinking something was wrong.

  After leaving the hospital, Bishop headed directly to his quarters, the colonel’s warning in the forefront of his mind. Bishop couldn’t help but correlate small, hardly noticeable events that had occurred since their return to Fort Bliss. He kept remembering a soldier’s odd expression here, an officer’s stare there —little things that he normally would’ve written off as nothing. The MPs’ body language this morning, before the run, was another example of odd behavior.

  “I’m getting paranoid,” he said out loud. “I’m creating bogeymen where there aren’t any.”

  Entering their room, Bishop expected to find Terri inside. Checking the bathroom, looking under the bed, and opening the small closet, he started to panic. Something has happened to my wife, he thought.

  Bishop was gathering his rifle and gear when Terri opened the door and entered the room carrying a bag of sandwiches.

  “Hi sweeties,” she chimed. “How did it go with the colonel?”

  Relief delayed his response. Before Bishop could answer, his wife looked at the combat gear heaped on the bed and reached her own conclusion. “Not so well, I take it.”

  Bishop shook his head, “No, my talk with the colonel was fine. It was easier than I expected—until he got to the part about warning me.”

  “Warning you?”

  “Yeah … he told me I need to watch my back. He told me some people might blame me for the president’s demise.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous! Why would anyone put that on you, Bishop?”

  When Bishop didn’t respond immediately, Terri answered her own question. “They think the president pardoned you because you did do something wrong. Why else would you need a pardon?”

  Bishop nodded.

  Terri was distracted by the concept and absentmindedly went about unwrapping their lunch. After spreading some napkins across the bedspread, she looked up and commented, “When you came back, I wasn’t here.” She pointed to the pile of gear. “You were coming to look for me.”

  Again, Bishop nodded.

  “Bishop, he scared you that badly? Seriously? What did he say?”

  “Really, it was what he didn’t say. He didn’t even bring up the subject of my rejoining the Army. He just repeated the warning twice—watch my back.” Bishop’s far off look betrayed his mind’s trek. “I mean, think about it, Terri. Fifth graders will hear some version of this story when they study US history. I never was one of those guys who wanted to make a name for myself, and this surely was not how I thought I would make my mark on the world.”

  Terri gently nibbled at her tuna salad on wheat and changed the subject. “You’d better eat something, Bishop.”

  “I’m not hungry, but thanks anyway.”

  Terri set down the sandwich, now upset. “You’re not hungry? Really? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you pass up food, Bishop. What else is going on?”

  Bishop pondered his response, seemingly wanting to carefully choose his words. “I can’t be sure, Terri, but since the colonel said all that, I keep replaying little encounters with base personnel in my head. I think we should take the warning seriously.”

  Terri returned to her meal. After a few bites, she responded. “Given our conversation of this morning, I assume you’re 100% set on not joining Uncle Sam’s Army? I also am guessing that means we need to get out of here?”

  “I think that’s probably a wise choice. The sooner, the better.”

  Eyeing the impromptu picnic spread out on the bed, Terri asked, “Can we take one of these cooks with us? The food from the mess hall here is pretty tasty—at least compared to pine nuts and deer jerky.”

  “Sure, I’ll kidnap one of the cooks. We’ll hold a hostage until they allow us to leave.”

  Terri laughed, feeling a sense of stress relief from the gallows humor. It was how they both coped with pressure.

  “Can you make sure and snatch that tall blonde with the blue eyes and biceps that just
won’t quit? I never know when someone’s going to beat you to the draw, and I’ll need the help around the ranch.”

  Bishop grinned. “Your wish is my command, my love. Now let me make sure I have this right. Was that particular bicep decorated with an inked rose?”

  The first projectile launched at Bishop’s head consisted of an empty, wadded-up sandwich wrapper. The missile didn’t have enough mass to overcome the air resistance, and Bishop easily ducked the throw. Terri, not to be denied, snatched up a fully wrapped turkey and cheese for her second salvo. She scored a direct hit right below Bishop’s ear, despite eyes that were watering from laughter.

  Chapter 4

  Meraton, Texas

  December 22, 2015

  Attendance at the town meetings had outgrown Pete’s Place, so the venue was moved to The Manor’s garden. As the Meraton market had grown in popularity, the town’s informal assemblies had attracted more residents and visitors from the outlying areas. When the change in location had been announced, someone had questioned where the gatherings would be held once the sun became too hot. An optimistic reply had been “In someplace with air conditioning, I hope.” Pete appreciated the positive attitude, but had his doubts about ever feeling electrically cooled air again.

  The townsfolk drifted into the grounds in pairs and small clusters. Betty had set up three long, folding tables off to one side, ready to accept covered dishes and desserts. Pete noticed there weren’t any tablecloths and immediately understood why. Laundry soap was always in short supply.

  Still, the air was mostly festive, and the tables gradually began to fill with various delights. Small children fed off the excitement of the social event, running to and fro, playing hide and seek and adding cheer to the chorus of voices filling the air.

  The area chosen for the get-together was dominated by a large, circular limestone structure residing in the center. Ten feet in diameter, the fire pit could hold several large logs and had been a popular spot for the hotel guests to enjoy a crackling blaze on cool, desert nights. Surrounded by a limestone retaining wall, the open area was perfect for weddings, class reunions, and now, town meetings.

  Stacks of folded chairs leaned against a nearby wall - first come, first serve. Pete had arrived early, only to find Betty unfolding the heavy chairs in an effort to be the polite host. Pete had chided her, “Betty, let these folks set up their own chairs. This is a town meeting, not a shindig being thrown by the hotel.”

  “I always want everyone to feel welcome here. I think stability is important during these times.”

  Pete nodded his understanding and gently removed the folded seat from her grasp. “I get it Betty, but it won’t help anyone if you wear yourself out or get sick. Everyone can grab a chair, you’ve done enough already.”

  Betty reluctantly agreed, choosing instead to greet everyone at the door with a warm welcome and apologizing about not setting up the chairs.

  As Pete watched the citizens of Meraton amble into the meeting, the cop inside of him couldn’t help but notice most of them carried firearms. It was now such a common sight, he doubted anyone else noticed. I wonder if the settlers carried their weapons to early town meetings, he mused.

  After a period, Pete determined it was time to start the meeting. He stepped to the center of the group and raised his voice enough to overcome the din. “Everyone! Everyone! I believe we should get started – we have a lot to cover this evening.”

  The townsfolk eventually settled down and Pete began. “I’m sure most of you have noticed the issues that have cropped up concerning the market and bartering. By any measure, the Meraton market is a success, something we should all be proud of. If we want it to continue as a significant factor in our recovery and raise everyone’s standard of living, then we need to make some changes.”

  Pete’s gaze shifted around the gathering, making eye contact with several different citizens before continuing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we need a currency. Beyond simple trading in the marketplace, the town needs a currency that we can all accept and use as tender. We’ve all expressed the desire for services. We’ve all commented on how nice it would be to reopen the school or have dedicated law enforcement. The only way I can figure out how to accomplish all of those things and allow the market to continue to grow is with the implementation of some sort of currency.”

  Pete noted several heads nodding in agreement. A low murmur coming from the audience carried an approving tone.

  “I’m open to suggestions about how we go about doing this. There’s probably more than one way. Anyone have any ideas?”

  One man from the back spoke up immediately. “Now that the federal government is a bust, we should use gold. It’s been used for thousands of years, and the town has all of that loot from those bank robbers stored at Bishop’s place. We can ask him to bring it back and divide it up among the townspeople.”

  Someone else spoke up, “We could print our own. Meraton greenbacks!”

  Several people laughed at the comment, and then multiple conversations broke out at once. Pete let the discussions continue for a while, eventually holding up his hands to draw everyone’s attention back.

  “I think both of those ideas are worthy of consideration. I also have questions about both methods. I don’t know of a printing press here in town, and we would need electricity to run it. That might be problematic. As for using the gold, how would we distribute it fairly? And, what would strangers do for currency once they came to town?”

  Pete’s questions ignited even more breakout conversations among the people. Pete smiled and let the folks go. He drifted over to Betty and whispered in her ear, “This is democracy at work. I love it.”

  Betty nodded. “It’s a difficult problem. I’ve got an idea though. If I explain it, would you mind telling everyone?”

  Pete looked at her and thought for a moment. “Help yourself, Betty. No one appointed me king. I didn’t even run for election.”

  Shyly pressing her skirt to her legs, Betty hesitated. “Oh, I know. But Pete, I’m not a public speaker. Besides, I think you might do a better job presenting my idea.”

  Pete rolled his eyes and stepped back to the front. “Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen!” Pete commanded in a raised voice. “Betty would like the floor.”

  Giving Pete a hard look of “I can’t believe you just did that,” Betty took a few, tenuous steps to the open area in front of the crowd. Her move was so out of character, the group became silent. Betty smiled as she looked around and cleared her throat. “Why don’t we just use US currency?” The hotel’s manager spread her arms and continued making eye contact with friends and neighbors. Her confidence grew as she continued. “It’s already printed and coined. There’s enough around town to meet our needs. It would be difficult to counterfeit. I think if everyone agreed to honor the money, it would work just fine.”

  Pete stepped to her side and spoke, “Now that’s a great idea! Anyone have a good reason why we couldn’t use the old US tender?”

  Someone from the back of the gathering shouted out, “How would we figure out how much stuff was worth? If I bring in a bag of potatoes to sell, how will I know how much to charge?”

  The question caused several people to nod their heads, indicating they were curious of how it would all function. Someone else answered, “Same as always, you charge what the market will bear. It may take a bit, but eventually things will establish their own value. For example, I would imagine Pete’s liquid goods will fetch quite a price!”

  Laughter broke out all around the meeting, causing Pete to look down in embarrassment at the attention. He recovered quickly, raising his hands to settle everyone down. “Even if we decide to go with US currency, we still have the issue of funding projects for the whole town, like the school or a marshal. I hate to use the word, but it seems like we’ll need some sort of ‘tax.’”

  The T-word seemed to generate more side conversations than any other topic so far. Pete had to
smile at the reaction, overhearing one man who stated, “Not having to pay taxes was one of the few good things about the breakdown. Guess the party’s over.”

  Another man answered, “Death and taxes buddy … death and taxes.”

  Several suggestions came forth from the din, Pete hearing phrases like sales tax, booth fee and monthly dues. It was the foreman from the Beltron ranch that ambled forward and produced a sage piece of cowboy-logic. “It’s too much at once, Pete. Decide on some sort of currency first, and then tackle how to fund the town’s projects next month. Give everyone a chance to get comfortable with using money again.”

  Pete nodded at the man. “That’s wise advice.”

  Pete again called for order, and proceeded to float the idea of addressing the issues one at a time. There seemed to be mutual agreement from the folks at the meeting, so he called for a vote on using US currency as the legal tender.

  Betty retrieved a piece of paper and made two simple columns: one to vote for the motion, the other against it. The ranch boss monitored the voting as people formed a line to cast their ballots.

  The measure passed by unanimous vote.

  The significance of the event wasn’t lost on the townspeople. They had just held an election of sorts—democracy had been reinstituted in a humble way. Spirits ran high as the group converged around the covered dishes and snacks. Pete couldn’t remember the last time everyone was so happy and positive about the future. They had worked as a community on something other than defense. They had pulled together to make things better and taken a step forward.