Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  While it was good to know the street names and intersections, what really mattered was the buildings and activity surrounding the substation. There was also a strong curiosity regarding the accuracy of the rumors about the brutality of the people who controlled the West Texas berg.

  Lying on the top of a 20-foot high desert knoll, Bishop was trying to find a route into the southwest section of the city. They needed a path that would avoid people - their intent being to sneak in, route the wind farm’s power west, and sneak back out undetected. Behind him and out of sight sat Nick, Diana, and Mr. Chancy on the open tailgate of Bishop’s truck.

  The tales concerning the harsh rulers of Fort Stockdale had been substantiated. One of the first images through the riflescope had been of human skeletons nailed to telephone poles along the main highway into town. Cross members had been added to the utility poles to support the weight of the bleached bones, each of the remains adorned with a hand-painted sign indicating the offense of the deceased. Single word declarations such as “looter,” and “thief” hung above the skulls of the crucified bodies, their public positioning clearly intended to send a message to anyone approaching the town via the main road.

  It had required all of Bishop’s concentration to complete his task, his mind forging images of men with torches and pitchforks nailing the pleading victim to raw lumber and hoisting the accused to the delight of gathered onlookers. I wonder if they had witch trials too, he thought.

  There was also a homemade sign sitting right in the middle of the highway. The faded lettering was difficult to read at first, but eventually Bishop obtained a focus tight enough to make out the general meaning of the notice—visitors were not welcome in Fort Stockdale. Some lines of text were still quite readable, phrases such as “No water, No food and NOT WELCOME HERE” could be plainly identified from his vantage.

  Continuing to study the town, Bishop concluded that Fort Stockdale wasn’t suffering from an overpopulation problem. The homes and businesses within his view appeared to be abandoned and other than two scrawny dogs and one man on a bicycle, he hadn’t seen a single living entity.

  Backing slowly off the ridge, Bishop made his way to the truck and the anxious faces of the team. “So, here’s the good news, it’s not like Times Square around the town. I saw one guy riding a bike and two sick-looking dogs. Other than that, there’s no obvious movement.”

  Diana said, “So we can just drive in and get this over with? Sounds easy to me.”

  Bishop shook his head, “I wouldn’t advise that.” He then went on to recount the crucifixions and signage. “I think if they caught us, we would face a similar fate. The whole place has this macabre feel to it. No children laughing or playing, no engine noise—nothing.”

  Nick wanted to take a peek, and Bishop welcomed the second opinion. The two men scooted up the slope and slowly breached the crest so as not to profile themselves to anyone looking just the right direction from below. After ten minutes of observation through the scope, Nick nodded, and the two men cautiously returned to the truck.

  “He’s right,” started Nick. “Even though we can’t see a lot of activity down there, I think it wise to sneak in and out. Doing this right won’t take much more effort anyway.”

  “The substation is on the outskirts of town. I could see the high tension wires sloping downward, but the actual building was blocked from my view,” Bishop added.

  Mr. Chancy was clearly keyed up. “Oh, this is exciting. At my age, not many adventures come along. Do I need a rifle?”

  After reassuring Mr. Chancy that he didn’t need a weapon, the group studied the street map and Bishop’s notes. They quickly determined that Bishop should go in alone and set up an over watch position with his longer-range rifle. After he was in position, he would radio Nick to bring Mr. Chancy up to the substation.

  Diana had one final question, “Should we wait and do this at night?”

  Bishop nodded, “I thought about that, but I’m the only one with night vision, and the moon’s not full tonight. Besides, fumbling around inside of that building with flashlights would probably draw attention. Let me get in closer and gather some Intel.”

  After pulling on his pack and checking his gear, Bishop saluted and made off along the edge of the rise. He knew it likely that any elevated section of desert would have a low spot where the seasonal rains would run off. If the higher ground covered enough area, dry creek beds would be nearby. His luck was good today, as he quickly found a wash running through the desert floor that was about waist deep and wide enough to drive a car through. The small gully ran directly toward the edge of Fort Stockdale.

  Keeping bent low and moving quickly, Bishop made his way to the edge of town. When he could finally recognize the rooflines of buildings over the bank of the wash, he slowed his progress and moved with more caution.

  Rounding a small bend in the creek, Bishop spied the first bridge spanning one of the town’s streets. He scurried to hide under the structure, taking a moment to catch his breath and adjust his load. His hiding spot was one street over from where the substation was located and about four blocks west. While he still couldn’t see the building, the thick electrical wires were like a beacon to their target’s location.

  The closest building to Bishop’s bridge was a mobile home. The beige and white metal-skinned house sat in a weed-filled lot along with two abandoned vehicles whose layers of rust indicated they had been parked at the residence for years. The window nearest Bishop was broken out, shreds of screen wire flopping loosely in the slight breeze. The metal skirting that had once surrounded the bottom of the trailer was torn loose here and there, its sharp edges poking out at odd angles. There weren’t any signs of occupation.

  Bishop judged the mobile home as a good spot to oversee the entire area. While he couldn’t be 100% positive it was unoccupied, the roof of the structure should provide enough height and angle to observe the substation and its surroundings. If trouble did come along, Bishop was only 200 feet from the gully and the cover it provided.

  Crawling from one patch of weeds to the next, Bishop slowly approached his destination. It took several minutes before he reached the edge of the lot, a boundary marked only by a slightly lower height of weeds and other native flora.

  Close enough now to make out more detail, Bishop could see the remains of a clothesline strung between two posts in the backyard, the drooping wire still containing the remnants of two wooden clothespins and their rusty hinges. The high vegetation also had concealed a faded blue kiddie pool, complete with garden hose leading back to a faucet rising from the ground next to the back door. Several broken children’s toys littered the area along with a chain stake next to a small doghouse adjacent to the driveway. So depressing, thought Bishop. Looks like even the dog moved on.

  Bishop scurried through the backyard and scampered next to the skin of the home. He put his ear to the metal siding and listened for over a minute. No noise came from within the building’s shell. Moving to the back door, Bishop reached up and slowly twisted the knob, the bolt opening without any resistance.

  The back door led into a small area that had once been the laundry room. Shattered wood paneling and pink insulation laid everywhere, the residence smelling of mold and stale air. It took Bishop only a few seconds to determine the structure was unoccupied and decaying. Whoever had lived here must have intentionally moved away because the home was completely void of any personal effects. No pictures, clothing, or appliances were present, the only life being a nest of sparrows who didn’t welcome Bishop’s visitation and the droppings of what appeared to be a large colony of field mice.

  Returning to the backyard, Bishop stepped to a loose section of skirting and pulled an eight-foot length of it free. His knife made short work of the clothesline. He used the plastic coated wire to secure one end of the skirting while tying the other to his belt.

  The railing bordering the back stoop made a perfect stepladder to the broken window, which gave Bishop enou
gh height to pull himself up on the flat roof of the structure. Before climbing to the top, Bishop pulled the color-matched skirting up, hoisting it to the roof with one hand. One good pull-up later, and Bishop was lying on the trailer’s roof underneath the sheet of metal, observing his surroundings.

  Anyone who looked closely would wonder how the sheet of metal had ended up on the mobile home’s roof, but Bishop knew the color match and the breakup of his outline would fool all but the most careful observer. The camouflage also allowed him to use his riflescope without fear of reflecting the sun’s rays.

  Using a slow belly crawl and pulling along his cover like a stiff blanket, Bishop made his way to the end of the roof, closest to the substation. As he neared the end of his approach, the sound of singing drifted by, causing him to freeze. The musical voices passed quickly, and for a moment, he wondered if he had really heard anything at all.

  Once in position, he began to study the area beneath his perch. There were a few other homes on the street, one building that appeared to be a business and a church steeple several blocks away. Not a single human appeared to be in the area.

  The substation was finally in clear view, and Bishop recognized immediately they had a problem. Surrounding the small, brick building was a sturdy looking, chain-link fence, no doubt intended to keep people away from the massive green and black transformers, isolators, and other heavy duty electrical equipment installed next to the control house.

  Using his scope, Bishop could clearly make out a heavy-duty padlock and chain securing the gate. Defeating the lock would take time and create noise, neither of which was going to be a valid option. Scouting the fence line, Bishop looked for a tear or breach in the wire but didn’t see any such easy option. He did detect a low area where it appeared some animal had dug out a small portion of earth trying to enter the property. Bishop judged it wasn’t nearly a large enough opening for a man to crawl through, but it could be widened.

  One last visual tour around the target made up Bishop’s mind—his co-conspirators would be required to excavate their way into the compound.

  The front door to the control station appeared to be rather sturdy as well. Painted a government-green color of metal, the threshold was windowless, and two large bolts appeared to secure the entrance. The words, “Danger – High Voltage Electricity” were stenciled right above the knob.

  Bishop pulled the radio from his vest and made sure the volume was low. He keyed the device and asked, “Nick, you there?”

  “You’re clear.”

  “You’re going to need a shovel, my friend. There’s a good fence surrounding the place, so you’ll have to dig under it. Go to the northwest corner. It looks like some groundhog started your work for you.”

  “Great. I just love to dig. One problem though, I don’t have a shovel.”

  Shit, thought Bishop. I’ve got the entrenching tool in my pack. Reaching the damn thing is going to be next to impossible under this metal blanket.

  “Let me think about that for a bit. The door is pretty heavy duty, but there’s a window along the west side of the building. It’s out of sight from the town, so that might be your best bet.”

  “Gotcha. What about a shovel?”

  “Did you see me climb on top of the trailer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Approach the same way I did. By the time you get here, I’ll figure it out.”

  “On the way.”

  Bishop had attached his pack to his ankle to drag it across the roof, the technique useful in keeping a stalker’s profile low. Trying desperately not to move his covering of skirting, he hooked his boot on the pack strap and lifted his leg. It was a struggle, but eventually the pack was accessible.

  The entrenching tool was at the bottom of his rucksack. Cursing Murphy’s timing, Bishop slowly dug through the contents while trying to remain as motionless as possible. By the time his hand reached the tool’s handle, he heard Nick key the radio and whisper, “Coming into the yard.”

  Bishop took a big risk and moved his arm from under the cover. After warning Nick with a quick “heads up,” over the radio, Bishop flung the small shovel over the edge of the trailer.

  “Got it,” sounded the radio a few moments later.

  Shoving everything back in his pack, Bishop anxiously returned to his scouting, worried that their unwise movements had alerted some passerby. It seemed like no one had noticed their comical hijinks. While he watched his partners scamper across the road and move toward the substation, the hum of music and singing drifted past Bishop’s position again. Like before, it passed quickly, but Bishop was certain he had heard it this time.

  From his vantage, Bishop spied his three comrades approach the substation. Like any good over watch, he tried to focus on potential threats in or approaching their path. Nick began digging under the fence, the short handled entrenching tool making the excavation difficult at best. Bishop chuckled out loud when his friend took a short breather and flipped a middle finger in Bishop’s direction.

  “I saw that,” Bishop whispered in the radio.

  Nick’s response was to raise both hands and flash a double obscene gesture.

  Five long minutes later, the raiding party was crawling under the fence, the excited look on Mr. Chancy’s face betraying the man’s obvious lack of a criminal background. Nick moved immediately to the western-facing window and using the butt of his knife, smashed through the glass panes.

  Bishop grunted when Nick turned and picked up Diana as if she was a small child and effortlessly lifted her through the opening. A protesting Mr. Chancy quickly followed.

  Diana watched Chancy as he examined one panel and then moved to a different piece of equipment. Nick patrolled the exterior of the small building, ready to give the alarm if anyone approached.

  After 20 minutes of notes, diagrams, and fiddling with various pieces of hardware, Mr. Chancy finally signaled he was through.

  “Okay,” sounded the retired engineer. “I understand how this substation functions, and I believe we have a solution.”

  Diana’s voice was eager. “You can send the windmill power to Alpha?”

  “Not specifically, but I can re-route the output west. Right now, it’s going nowhere. When the grid failed, safety systems kicked in and disconnected the generators from everything. I believe this control here will channel the electricity in our direction.”

  “Well, sir, what are you waiting on?”

  Mr. Chancy shrugged his shoulders and ambled over to a bank of large handles. Looking more like a man about to execute a convict sitting in a nearby electric chair than someone about to improve the quality of thousands of lives, he threw the switch.

  Nothing happened.

  “That’s it,” replied the engineer. “It won’t be steady electricity unless the wind is moving the blades. I would guess Alpha, Meraton, and several of the local ranches will have power 70% of the time. More, if people conserve.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Bishop heard the music again, and this time it was steady and louder. The volume was such that he quickly zeroed in on the source—the small church directly up the road. He sucked in his breath when the front doors swung open, and six men carried out a plain looking, pine box . . . clearly a casket. Bishop’s heart began to race when a horse-drawn wagon pulled up in front of the church and received its cargo from the pallbearers. Bishop scanned the terrain from the church to the cemetery just south of the substation and realized they had a big, big problem.

  Keying the mic, Bishop declared, “Nick, we’ve got trouble. There’s a funeral going on right down the street from your locale. Dozens of people are about ready to start walking your direction. I don’t think you’ve got time to get out of there.”

  Bishop watched as Nick rushed to the corner of the building and peered up the street at the church. “Shit,” was his only reply.

  The big man moved to the busted window and said something to the pair inside. His voiced sounded in Bishop’s
ear, “Do you think we can just hide here until the funeral is over?”

  Bishop scanned the fresh, dark pile of dirt left behind by Nick’s digging and thought it would be obvious to anyone who passed by. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, buddy. I think the broken window and the fresh dirt are noticeable.”

  “Any other suggestions?”

  Bishop scanned the procession already forming in back of the hearse, and the image appearing in his riflescope wasn’t reassuring. Each of the pallbearers wore a gold badge on his belt, and each was armed. Behind the formation of lawmen stood another five men with long guns and cowboy hats marked with a star on the front of each. “Nick, this just keeps getting worse. The deceased was evidently a police officer, and his mourners are all cops. It looks like they’re going to even give a 21-gun salute; there are so many firearms around.”

  “Shit.”

  Bishop judged the distance, angle, and options. While the procession might pass by the substation without noticing anything amiss, it wasn’t an acceptable risk. Nick and his party would be trapped like rats in a cage behind the fence.

  Exhaling loudly, Bishop made his decision. “Nick, I’m going to distract them and pull them to the south. You guys get the hell out of there and pick me up on the highway around five miles outside of town. I don’t know how long it will take me to get there, but Terri will kick your ass if you leave me stranded out in the desert.”

  “You sure, man? That’s a tall order even for you, Bishop.”

  “It’s the only way. Now get your asses out of there and pick me up later.”

  “You got it, buddy. We’ll be there.”

  Bishop reached into his vest and pulled out an extra magazine and his earplugs. He used the scope’s rangefinder to gauge the distance. The horses were a mere 250 meters away, so close the .308 bullets he was about to unleash wouldn’t even drop more than an inch or so. Lifting his metal cover just slightly, Bishop plotted his escape route. He wasn’t sure how fast or intense the pursuit would be, but he figured on a hot and heavy chase.