by Joe Nobody
“Don’t you always tell me to never underestimate the violence that people are capable of?
“Yes, but there are limits. If the Army is after us, then nothing I can do will keep them at bay. We can’t stop tanks, attack helicopters, or airborne assault teams dropping in on ropes. If this is some isolated group that is hunting us, then I can definitely discourage them.”
Terri pondered Bishop’s statement for a bit and then stood, preparing to take his empty plate back to the kitchen. “Bishop, you know a million times more about all this security stuff than I do. It’s your call, babe. If you think the ranch is the best, then I’m in. If you think hiding is best, I’m with you. As long as we’re together, I’m good.”
Two days later the doctor delivered good news to both Bishop and Nick. Kevin was showing no signs of infection and was out of the woods. Bishop was healing nicely as well, and the sawbones released Bishop from his care.
During his recovery, Bishop had tried to think up every possible defensive modification for the ranch. The exercise had been frustrating because there simply wasn’t the equipment or raw materials available to enhance the security of the place.
Most of his existing precautions had relied on early warning devices. Bishop’s mindset had been focused on the rogue criminal or wanderer happening upon the place and felt confident in his ability to overcome any such accidental discovery, if he had warning. The tripwires had satisfied that need, until just a few days ago.
Other than the geography and small arms, there really weren’t any other defensive measures in place. He also was faced with a manpower issue. Terri was a good fighter, but she was becoming less and less mobile. That left a single man to defend the property, and the task would be impossible against a determined assault. That fact had just been substantiated.
One man with enough ammo and firepower could withstand a considerable force if he could channel the opposition into a small enough area. This was often called a fatal funnel. The problem with the ranch was the open terrain surrounding the homestead. The box canyon provided some measure of protection, but even that could be overcome by an attacker with the proper skills and equipment. There was simply no way to corral any attacking force into a specific avenue of approach, let alone a funnel.
Bishop struggled to keep emotion out of the equation. It was easy to become angry or to let ego influence his thinking. In order to stay grounded, he forced himself to relive the firefight of just a few, short days ago. If Terri hadn’t taken the chance to come help him, both of them would have surely perished. No, he kept telling himself, this is pure, simple mathematics. Keep it there.
All of this analysis led Bishop to a single conclusion—he needed what the military guys referred to as “area denial,” a term used to describe methods or equipment implemented to deny access to a specific avenue of approach. Minefields were one of the most common examples of area denial. Barbwire was another. Throughout history, military forces had spent considerable sums developing such technologies because there was often a legitimate need.
It wasn’t always a matter of money or resources. The Viet Cong were famous for their punji stakes, tension-powered booby traps, and other clever devices. Most of these area denial systems were extremely effective and required little more than a shovel and bamboo. Ingenuity was still an effective weapon on the modern battlefield.
In Iraq, improvised explosive devices were another form of homemade area denial systems. Often used more for harassment of US troops, some gorilla encampments were known to have been ringed with such deterrents. They were effective.
Bishop eventually came around to the main element that limited his defensive capabilities—BTUs.
British Thermal Units, or BTUs, are a generally accepted measurement of how much energy a substance contains. A gallon of regular gasoline, for example, contained 112,000 BTUs. Explosives were also measured in BTUs, everything from dynamite to TNT having a specific rating.
Bishop didn’t have any TNT. The IEDs in Iraq had been powered mostly by the explosives found in artillery shells, or plastic explosives available to military units. Bishop didn’t have any of these either. About the only items available to him were gasoline and his gunpowder used for reloading.
In addition to BTUs, there was one other important factor involved in explosives - the burn rate, sometimes called the rate of expansion. Military grade explosives contained a very low ratio of BTU per pound, but they released their energy at an extreme speed. This was why hand grenades “pushed” their shrapnel at several thousand feet per second.
Bishop’s smokeless reloading powder didn’t burn all that fast, and thus, wouldn’t make an effective bomb or mine. Besides, he didn’t have all that much.
On the other hand, gasoline had both an exceptional burn rate as well as a good BTU per pound energy density. Its major drawback was that oxygen was required for the burn.
Gasoline had a mixed reputation from past conflicts where anti-armor munitions were in short supply. While it had proven effective against early tanks, as an anti-personnel weapon, it wasn’t overly useful. During the Spanish Civil War, the use of the petrol bomb was well documented. Even Britain, anticipating invasion by hordes of German armor during WWII, had manufactured millions of “Molotov Cocktails.” Throwing a Molotov Cocktail wasn’t effective against foot soldiers. The puddle of burning gas could easily be jumped or run through without injury. Bishop didn’t expect battle tanks to attack his ranch. Nor did he anticipate artillery or air strikes. What he did feel was a reasonable threat was a good-sized assault by infantry, military or non-military.
One idea that he kept rolling around in his head involved “misting” a thin spray of gasoline over a broad area of terrain and then igniting it when needed. A fuel-air mixture of the right proportions would generate a powerful explosion and heat wave. Over a broad enough region, it could serve as an area denial system against infantry.
Performing a mental inventory of his supplies and equipment back at the ranch, the only thing Bishop had on hand that might work was the hose and fixtures he had recently scavenged from the Home Mart in Alpha. Sitting with a pencil and paper, Bishop began to sketch out a diagram of a series of nozzles and hoses that just might work. It wouldn’t be easy to build, but in theory, it would add another defensive layer to his property.
The sun was beginning to set, and Bishop wanted a cup of coffee. As he meandered into The Manor’s kitchen, he found Betty preparing the evening meal for her guests.
“How are you feeling, Bishop?”
“My head’s doing better. I think a good cup of your world famous coffee would set things right.”
“There’s a fresh pot sitting right over there. I’m peeling potatoes, so it’s self-serve right now.”
“Anything new on Kevin?”
“No. Last I heard, he’s going to be fine. I’m more worried about his father right now than the wounded boy. I don’t think he’s been out of that room at all today.”
Betty’s comment gave Bishop an idea. Nick was ex-Special Forces, and those guys had a reputation regarding improvised weapons. Maybe Nick could help Bishop with his defensive plans.
Pouring a second cup of java, Bishop headed up the stairs.
When he arrived at Kevin’s room, Bishop didn’t knock or announce himself. The door was already slightly ajar, and Bishop gently nudged it just wide enough to fit the cup of steaming joe through the opening. He held the cup there for about 15 seconds and then withdrew the bait.
A few moments later, the door swung wide open, and a stiff, tired looking Nick appeared in the doorway, smiling when Bishop handed him the coffee.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s a lot better, and the doc is pretty sure he’ll be fine.”
“Why don’t you let Diana or Terri have a turn sitting with him? I need your help, and you need some fresh air.”
Nick stretched his large frame and nodded, “Getting out of this room does sound like a good idea. What do you need
my help with?”
“Improvised defenses and area denial systems.”
Nick grinned, “For your ranch?”
Bishop nodded.
Nick looked back in on Kevin and found the lad sleeping soundly. “I’ve got time for a walk. Let’s go drink this down in the garden and chat. This sounds like fun.”
The two men exited the hotel and found a quiet spot to discuss their ideas. Nick began, “I’m especially interested in your little project because I think there’s a good chance the guy who shot my son might encounter some of my toys the next time the bastard visits your place.”
“The problem is my lack of resources. I don’t have any explosives, and the desert isn’t like the jungle where you have all kinds of vegetation to conceal booby traps.”
Nick reassured Bishop that he had learned some neat “tricks” in Iraq as well as other deployments. Assuming Diana and Terri could watch Kevin tomorrow, Nick agreed to ride with Bishop out to the ranch and study the problem in detail.
“Besides,” noted Nick, “the sooner you get out of this town, the less likely it is those guys are going to come here looking for you. I’ve got an earie feeling they’ll be back.”
The next morning Nick and Bishop were up early. Bishop was anxious to get back home, and Nick was suffering from cabin fever. Diana and Terri had agreed to take turns sitting with Kevin and assured his worried father that the boy would be pampered.
The drive to the ranch was uneventful. Upon their arrival, Bishop and Nick scouted the general vicinity, making sure they were alone. Both men had commented that they hoped the bad guys had returned and were waiting on them, but the duo experienced no such luck.
Bishop pulled the irrigation equipment from the Bat Cave, and they proceeded to walk the canyon to see if Bishop’s concept would be effective and logistically feasible.
“Nick, if I run that hose along this wall, about 12 feet off the ground, I think the mist will fall to the earth before anyone could get out of there.”
“Gasoline vapor is heavier than air, so I think it would work. How are you going to pump the gas?”
Bishop pointed to the garden sprayer he had picked up at the Home Mart. “You pump that can up with the handle on top. It will handle about 45 pounds per square inch. People use those to spray insecticides on their veggies.”
Nick looked at the device with skepticism, “Do you think 45 P.S.I. is enough pressure?”
“Not sure,” admitted Bishop. “The only way to tell is to test it.”
Using the reel, Bishop unwound 150 feet of high-pressure hose while Nick filled the garden sprayer with water from the spring. Walking off the first 90 feet, Bishop sliced the black tubing and spliced in a brass pressure washer nozzle. He repeated the process every 15 feet until four of the devices were installed in the last 60 feet of the hose.
Attaching the open end of the hose to the garden sprayer took a bit of plumbing work, but two pipefittings later, the men had the contraption ready for testing.
Bishop pumped the small black handle several times, watching the pressure gauge approach its maximum rated value. “Here goes,” he warned Nick and released the valve.
As the water was pumped from the pressurized container into the black hose, the tubing jerked once and then rested. Both men smiled as they approached the nozzles, each emitting a fine mist of water vapor into the air. Nick stuck his hand in the closest one and then his face. “Feels nice. You should install these around your patio like folks used to do back in the day. Terri would love you for that.”
“I should probably build a patio first, huh?”
After less than a minute, the spray lessened and then stopped. “It doesn’t last long, but I would say ten seconds would be more than enough gasoline to cause a real nice explosion and fire. At minimum, you’ll scare the hell out of anyone in the area. How are you going to light the gas vapor from a safe distance?”
Bishop shook his head, “I was hoping you could help me with that one. I don’t have any tracer rounds.”
“We need to make a spark. Do you have any iron? If you shoot iron it sparks . . . sometimes.”
“I’ve got to be a safe distance away before igniting that cloud, or I’m going to lose my eyebrows. It needs to be something I can shoot and hit under duress from a distance.”
Nick looked around the desert. “Are any of these rocks flint?”
Bishop laughed, “No, I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t have any steel-headed bullets.”
Nick’s face brightened. “Do you have a 12-gauge?”
“Yes, of course I have a couple of shotguns.”
“I’ve got some flares in the glove box of my truck. They’re left over from the boat. I bet if you fire one of those into that gas cloud, she’ll light up like the Fourth of July.” Nick announced proudly.
With that problem solved, the next step was for Nick to tour the area and help Bishop design some booby traps.
“Bishop, the booby traps don’t have to be overly effective, they just have to convince anyone who is around that they’ll work. Nobody wants to travel through an area known to be full of snares. Most guys will pick another way in.”
The two men began walking around the perimeter of the canyon, Nick pointing to this or that and occasionally drawing a diagram in the sand. Bishop was amazed at the man’s knowledge and training and started feeling better about his chances of defending the ranch once he had set everything up.
Terri was trying to figure out how to play checkers with Kevin without making the lad sit upright. She had exhausted all conversation in less than an hour and could tell the teenager was bored, neighboring on cabin fever. His eyes brightened when she proposed a contest, Betty providing the board and pieces from The Manor’s lobby below.
The boy’s wound simply didn’t allow for a good place to set up the game. Terri remembered a taller nightstand in an adjoining room, and told Kevin she’d be right back. The young man didn’t respond, and Terri glanced to see an expression of sheer terror on his face, his eyes fixated over her shoulder.
Spinning to see what had elicited such a fearful expression, Terri found herself staring into the barrel of a rifle, the doorway of Kevin’s room crowded with men in full combat gear. After inhaling sharply, Terri took a step back and reached for her pistol. The man with the rifle snapped, “Don’t!”
Before she could react, the room was filled with three men. The first barked, “What is your name?”
Terri started to answer, but Kevin’s voice interrupted with, “You’re the man who shot me.”
Terri’s hand was already on the butt of her pistol. Kevin’s warning told her she was in trouble, and her survival instincts kicked in. As fast as a striking snake, Terri pulled her 9mm and fired; the weapon’s roar filling the small room.
Her first shot struck the closest man in the chest, pushing him backwards against the wall. Her barrel was moving to cover the second man when she felt a small pinprick on her shoulder and then her legs and arms would no longer answer her commands. As the floor of the room came rushing toward her face, her last conscious thought was of the light reflecting off the two thin wires leading back to a pretty yellow plastic pistol in one of the attackers’ hands. She knew she had been tased.
Kevin tried to sit up, the boy ignoring the pain in his chest and shoulder. A rifle barrel pressed hard against his head—stopping the effort cold.
Without any words, one of the men pulled the pitchfork-shaped prong from Terri’s torso and then rolled the semi-conscious woman over. In seconds, her hands and feet were bound. Then she was hoisted over a shoulder, and the men were gone.
Betty heard the shot and was approaching the stairs with her shotgun. She saw the legs of the first attacker coming down the steps and yelled, “Who is that? Stop right there!”
A stranger’s head showed over the railing and then ducked back quickly. Betty shouldered the shotgun and flicked off the safety. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
Betty heard a fizzing soun
d and then watched as a small canister came bouncing down the steps. At first, she thought it was a can of hairspray, but the size wasn’t right. White smoke began spraying out of the device, quickly filling the room and blinding the hotel manager. The thick fog burned Betty’s eyes and throat, making her retreat toward the kitchen.
Pete was opening the bar and also heard Terri’s pistol. “Probably Anita scaring off a coyote from her hen house,” he mumbled to himself. After a moment’s thought, he pulled a rifle from behind the bar and strolled off in the general direction of the disturbance.
The smoke rolling out of the open front door of The Manor doubled Pete’s pace, with thoughts of a fire without a fire department driving his legs faster. Betty appeared out of the cloud, waving her hands in front of her face to clear the air. She saw Pete and shouted, “They took Terri! They took her out the back!”
Momentarily puzzled by Betty’s words, Pete paused for a second before the message sunk in. Another citizen was walking by, curious what all the commotion was about. Pete yelled for the man to follow him and made for the back of The Manor.
Rounding the corner, Pete saw the three men hustling away, a limp Terri draped over one of the fellow’s shoulders. Pete turned to his comrade and instructed, “Go and get help. I’m going to follow them.” The man nodded with big eyes and hurried away.
Pete’s age and knees didn’t leave him with the option of running after the kidnappers, but he did the best he could and managed to gain a little ground. Six blocks later, on the outskirts of town, the three men cut into the yard of an abandoned home, scurried behind the structure and out of sight.
Looking over his shoulder, Pete could see four men with rifles running to catch up—the reinforcements boosting his confidence. As he approached the edge of the property where the men went to ground, he heard the rumbling of motors, quickly followed by three ATVs roaring down the driveway, directly at him. Pete raised his weapon to fire when he saw Terri sitting in front of the lead vehicle’s driver, her head bobbing weakly from side-to-side with eyes closed. Pete lowered his rifle, unable to shoot for fear of hitting the hostage. He watched helplessly as the three men sped past, the last kidnapper flipping Pete a bird and laughing as he went by.