by Joe Nobody
Almost overnight, El Paso had turned into a nightmare rivaling those old post-Apocalypse movies. There had been dozens of stories describing atrocities and sub-human behavior. Who knew what was true and what was bullshit? What Peterson did know was that lots of very angry and very hungry people saw the soldiers from Bliss moving their families onto the base, and that seemed to set off a chain reaction. Those same increasingly desperate folks tried to enter the base, and it had taken hundreds of soldiers to stop them.
Peterson had been at his barracks when the first protest outside the main entrance started getting out of hand. An unknown MP had rushed through the building screaming for every available man to report to the front gate, with weapon, as soon as possible. The crowd of about 1,000 people hadn’t even flinched while facing the line of a hundred or so soldiers with their carbines. It had taken two Abrams tanks rolling up to disperse the mob.
Over the next week or so, larger and larger crowds could be seen milling around the entrance to the base. Peterson remembered some asshole had a bullhorn. The guy seemed to be intent on inciting the throng. When the wind was just right, the guards at the front gate could make out the words. “Why should the army get all the food when we paid for it? Why should the military get to sit back in comfort while we, the people, are starving? Why don’t they use their guns on the predators roaming our streets and killing our families instead of us? There must be thousands of tons of food on that base and a huge hospital as well. The military has to share. Our children are starving, and our elderly are dying. We have to demand justice! We demand what is ours!”
For a few days, it was all talk. The corporal wasn’t sure if it was the eleventh or the twelfth day when two police cars approached the gate. Inside was the head of the city council of El Paso and a ranking police officer. The other car was driven by two heavily armed SWAT officers. The two civilians asked to speak to the base commander and were passed through the gate.
Corporals aren’t privy to high-level meetings such as the one that took place that day. What eventually filters down to the lower ranks is a mixture of fact, rumor, and speculation. All over Fort Bliss, gossip spread that the city of El Paso was in a war with gangs of civilians and drug cartel soldiers from Juarez, and the city police were losing. The word was that the city officials had come to ask for help with the invasion from the south.
Peterson was at the gate when the guests left. The look on their faces said it all – no help would be forthcoming from Bliss. The reaction among the troops was mixed. Some people thought Mother Green should mount up and go kick some ass. America was what everyone had taken an oath to defend. Others agreed with the decision, reasoning that “The army can’t help everyone all at once.” It was three days later when two separate events occurred.
The first involved a firefight between several city police officers and a bunch of heavily armed men in black SUVs. The police were losing and retreating back toward the guardhouse of the base. No one knew if it was intentional or merely coincidence that the fight ended up at the front of Bliss.
Several members of the 1st Armored Division looked on as the cops fought like cornered animals. The vicious gun battle raged for several minutes as more and more soldiers came to the front gate to watch the fight. The cops had no chance. Whoever the attackers were, they had the advantage in numbers and weapons. Two of the police cars were even destroyed by RPG rockets. The last few remaining police officers retreated back to the guardhouse and begged for help or sanctuary.
By that time, one of the brigade commanders, a full colonel, arrived at the gate and took command. He was on the radio pleading for permission to help the police officers. The reply was always the same – any action is authorized to protect and secure Fort Bliss. No other action is authorized.
Two police officers were dragging a wounded comrade back toward the colonel’s position while a fourth was covering their retreat. It was at that point that one of the attackers rose up and threw a hand grenade. Everything got a little confused after that. One story had it that the shrapnel from the grenade hit a private from A-Company. Someone else claimed that a piece of hot steel flew right over the colonel’s head. Whatever the motivation, the reaction was swift and overwhelming. Within seconds of the blast, orders were being screamed up and down the line – HIT THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS, AND HIT THEM HARD!
It was one thing to take on 11 lightly armed law enforcement officers. It was another to fight an armored brigade of the United States Army. The two M1A2 Abrams tanks were the first to open fire with their heavy M2 and coaxial machine guns. They were quickly joined by over a hundred M4 and M16 rifles creating a firestorm of lead. The hostile SUVs were instantly shredded to scrap metal, with one of them exploding and burning. There was no cover for the attackers that could withstand the blistering fire leveled in their direction. It was over in less than fifteen seconds with zero survivors. Unfortunately, all of the police officers died that day as well.
That evening, just as the bodies were being bagged for cremation, the second event occurred. The normal gathering of protestors was joined by a large crowd of onlookers gawking at the results of the “battle.” As usual, agitators began working everyone into a frenzy. Before long, the soldiers at the gate started seeing the occasional rock or glass bottle being thrown their way. Just before dusk, someone shot at the post. The shot was low and slammed into the concrete roadway well short of any sentries, but the message was clear – this was turning into a riot.
Fortunately, the colonel was still present, supervising the cleanup. It only took a single, short .50 caliber burst, intentionally fired high, to make the approaching crowd break and run. Even though no one was hurt, the message was clear to both sides – the army is not your friend and will shoot at you. The soldiers understood that the population they had sworn to protect hated them. Neither side was pleased with the outcome.
It was a few days later that someone in high command finally grasped the situation at hand. Suddenly, orders were issued for several thousand troops to form up. The 1st Armored Division was going to establish law and order in El Paso.
Peterson remembered watching column after column of vehicles full of troopers move out into the city. It took less than three days to establish rule of law. Those invading from the south were pushed back or killed. While tens of thousands were starving and thousands more were already dead, El Paso was firmly back in American control – for whatever that was worth. The army couldn’t feed, house or treat the population, but order had been established.
Ever since that time, the front gate had been peaceful. Occasionally, civilians came to the guards, begging for food or medicine. Now and then, someone would walk up to report a problem. For the most part, the base was on a quiet state of alert.
Corporal Peterson was bent over, re-lacing his boot, when he heard a nearby sentry’s voice. “Corporal, we have a visitor.” Peterson finished his re-tie, and then looked up to see a single man approaching on foot. The guy was armed, but his rifle was on his back and the barrel pointed down. He carried a small white cloth in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other.
Peterson let the man approach to within 50 feet and yelled, “Halt! State your business at Fort Bliss.” The stranger yelled back, “I have a letter for the base commander. I am here under orders of the President of the United States and have urgent information for his eyes only.”
Peterson heard the private whisper “Bullshit” under his breath, and had to admit this guy’s answer didn’t make any sense. Still, a decision like this was above his pay grade. He yelled back, “Stand where you are and wait – don’t move, sir.”
Peterson turned to the radio and eventually was connected to the duty watch captain. The man seemed annoyed that he was being bothered, but informed the corporal to take no action until he got to the gate. It was almost five minutes later when a Humvee pulled up, discharging the captain and brisk, square-shouldered sergeant.
The Captain immediately walked to the sandbags surrounding the gate to sum u
p the stranger. He motioned a quick “beats the hell out of me” gesture to the sergeant, and then returned his attention to the man standing patiently on the roadway.
“State your business.”
The man paused for just a moment and then calmly replied. “Captain, I have traveled through 200 miles of hell to get here. I’m tired, sore, and low on food, water, and patience. I was ordered to report here and brief the President of the United States. I have a letter of introduction to the base commander. I suggest you read it, and let the general know I’m here.”
Something about the man’s tone rubbed the Captain the wrong way. Still, he didn’t want his ass in a sling. “Please place your weapon on the ground, walk forward 10 steps, and go to both knees with your hands behind your head.”
“Fuck you.”
The Captain wasn’t pleased with Bishop’s answer. “Look hotshot, I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here. I wasn’t told to expect anyone, so as far as I’m concerned, you are nothing but a target. Now do as I ask, or be on your way.”
The harsh response drew a sharp look from the sergeant, but the officer ignored it. He started to say something when the stranger answered the challenge.
“No, you look captain, we can stand here all day and play ‘who’s got the biggest swinging dick,’ but I’m not in the mood. Why don’t you send someone out and retrieve the letter. If it’s bullshit, then shoot me or whatever. If it’s not, I promise not to tell the general that your fucking IQ is less than your boot size.”
Bishop’s remark generated a couple of muffled chuckles among the men, and the captain threw a harsh look in their general direction. He started to respond when the sergeant interrupted. “Sir, what would it hurt to take a look? He doesn’t look like the typical troublemaker we see here at the gate.”
“Fine, Sergeant. If you want to see the man’s paperwork, feel free to go get it. I’m telling you this is some sort of con.”
“You’re probably right sir, but it will only take a minute.” And with that, the NCO climbed over the sandbag and strode toward Bishop.
After Bishop handed over the letter, the sergeant stood and quickly read the first page of handwriting. When he finished the note, he flipped to the second page and quickly checked the document. He concluded by looking Bishop in the eye, and then nodded. He did a nimble about face and double-timed back to the gate, holding the papers in his hand. Without saying a word, he walked up to the captain and handed over the documents. The first page read:
Dear General Westfield,
The man carrying this letter has information critical to the President of the United States. He is delivering this under executive order 15-23442, issued directly to me personally. I, in execution of my duties, have suffered severe injury and am incapacitated. This man is my surrogate.
The information being delivered should be considered G15CS-Eyes-Only.
The letter was signed by a colonel. Attached to the note was an official looking order, complete with the president’s signature and the official seal of the White House. Everything appeared to be in order and official. The captain looked up from the papers and squinted at Bishop through narrow eyes. After a moment, he looked back at the sergeant and asked, “What do you think I should do with this, Sergeant?”
“I would inform the base commander, sir. The order should be easy enough to verify. In the meantime, I would ask that gentleman to unload and safe his weapon, and then offer him some shade and a drink of water.”
The officer considered the recommendation for a moment and nodded. “Go ahead, but keep a close watch on him. I still think this is some sort of game. I’ll call the CO.”
Bishop was sitting on a sandbag wall with his weapon unloaded and drinking a cup of water, when a second Humvee joined the first. This time, it was a full bird colonel that jumped out and walked directly toward the captain. Again, after a quick review of the paperwork, another radio transmission was made. The two officers stood, ignoring Bishop.
Five minutes later, a civilian SUV screeched to a halt, and this time two men in suits hopped out. They joined the two army officers and began yet another review of Bishop’s papers. The older one eventually walked over to Bishop and offered his hand. “Agent Powell, United States Secret Service.”
Bishop shook the man’s hand, expecting bravado via a crushing grip. There was none of that, just a firm, businesslike handshake. Agent Powell looked at Bishop with a trained eye and inquired, “So, how’s the Colonel doing?”
Bishop was a little surprised by the question. “He wasn’t in good shape when I last saw him. I don’t know if he’s still alive or not. I’ve been traveling for three days, trying to get here and deliver his report.”
Agent Powell thought about Bishop’s remark for a second. “Did the Colonel’s wife make it out of Houston with him?”
Bishop smirked at the weak attempt to verify his story. “Agent Powell, the Colonel’s wife died over eight years ago from colon cancer. As far as I know, he didn’t dig up her body and bring it with him. Now, sir, while I appreciate your diligence, I would like to deliver my report and be on my way. I have a pregnant wife who is alone at the moment, and in case you haven’t noticed, the world isn’t such a safe place these days.”
Agent Powell smiled at Bishop. “Sorry, you just never know. I can’t let you meet the president while you are armed. You’ll have to check in all of your weapons and gear, and we’ll have to search you before the meeting. I might be able to arrange a hot shower beforehand though.”
Bishop smiled at the agent’s offer, “How hot?”
Both men laughed, and then Powell motioned for Bishop to follow him to their SUV. The president’s bodyguard stopped at the back of the vehicle and opened the rear hatch. “You can store your gear in here.”
Bishop paused and then shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose if I had your job, I’d be paranoid too. No problem.” After unloading all of his kit, Bishop sat in the backseat and was driven to a building with a sign on the well-manicured lawn indicating they had arrived at the “Visiting Officers’ Quarters.”
After the SUV was parked, Bishop walked to the back and stood waiting. Agent Powell commented, “I’ll have someone bring your gear inside for you. Let’s get you some food and a shower. I have some influence around here and might even be able to drum up some of our famous White House coffee – it’s considered the best in the world by many.”
Bishop’s face brightened, “Coffee? Oh my god…I haven’t had a good cup of joe in….” Agent Powell patted Bishop on the back, and the three men started walking to the entrance. Bishop stopped and turned back toward the SUV. “I need to get the Colonel’s report out of my pack. He asked me to deliver it to the president personally.”
Closely supervised by both agents, Bishop retrieved the packet of papers. After they verified the package contained nothing more dangerous than a paper cut, the party again proceeded to the building.
Bishop and the agents walked through a small, featureless lobby and then down a long hallway painted in government standard, light green. The mystery agent opened the door marked #11, and all three men entered. Bishop found himself standing in what amounted to a very small hotel room. As he looked around, Agent Powell returned to the hallway and could be heard talking on his radio. Bishop took the opportunity to size up his other escort. The agent was about 6’2” and probably tipped the scales at around 240. God had forgotten his neck while issuing the gentleman shoulders that were almost twice as wide as his mid-section. The dark suit and sunglasses did little to disguise the fact that the fellow was obviously in very good shape. No doubt an ex-football player, thought Bishop, probably a linebacker for a Division I school. Bishop couldn’t help himself and said, “I bet you’ve never been accused of talking anyone’s ear off.” The comment met with zero reaction, and after an uncomfortable moment, Bishop decided to busy himself by inventorying the shampoo and soap in the bathroom. There was even shaving crème and a disposable razor. Deciding he had no
thing to lose, Bishop looked back at the stone-faced bodyguard and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not the type of guy to steal towels, and the shampoo isn’t my brand.” As expected, he received no reaction. I’ve always heard building all those muscles makes your dick shrink Bishop smirked to himself.
About then Agent Powell returned and informed Bishop that it would be awhile before the president could see him. It was suggested Bishop “freshen up,” while he waited. Eyeing the shampoo and razor, Bishop agreed.
The two agents left the room, and Bishop had no doubt one of them remained in the hallway. He turned on the shower and undressed while the water warmed. Standing under the hot spray, the world suddenly became a better place. While he and Terri had their solar shower at the camper, being able to control the temperature with the simple twist of a knob was an extravagance he hadn’t experienced in months. He embraced the shampoo to the extreme, lathering and rinsing his entire body no less than three times.
When he had soaked to the point where the skin on his fingers was wrinkled, Bishop turned off the water and grabbed a fresh, clean smelling towel. While the linen would have been insulting at a five star establishment, to Bishop it was as if he was drying his skin with soft clouds of luxury. The shave bordered on orgasmic.
Wrapping the towel around his waist, he exited the foggy bathroom to find his clothes were missing. A tray of food accompanied by a large pot of steaming coffee was sitting in their place on the bed along with a note that read, “You clothes will be returned to you shortly - Powell.” Next to the food was a robe, which Bishop used to replace the damp towel.
His lunch consisted of sandwiches and a cup of clam chowder that obviously had never seen the inside of a can. Bishop consumed every last crumb with the gusto of a man who hadn’t eaten anything but what he had killed or gathered in some time. It was the coffee, however, that was just shy of a miracle.
To the select few who had ever experienced it, the White House’s coffee was known all around the world as unquestionably the finest anywhere. Grown in the Kona rainforest and shipped fresh from Hawaii, only a small percentage of the beans were chosen for the nation’s first family. While everyday citizens could purchase a similar mix, the absolute best was saved for the Commander in Chief. Bishop had never tasted anything so smooth and delicious in his life.