by Joe Nobody
Drinking the excellent brew reminded Bishop of something a co-worker had once said. “Drinking a good cup of java is like making love to a beautiful woman. It starts off hot and sharp. The middle is smooth, warm, and rhythmical. The end leaves a glow of satiation.” Bishop smiled at the memory and had to agree with the man.
He was on his third cup when a quiet knock disturbed the experience. Before he could even move his legs off the bed, the door opened, and a small Asian man entered, carrying Bishop’s freshly laundered clothes. His boots had even been cleaned. Bishop started to ask if they had applied the proper amount of starch, but before he could speak the man left, closing the door behind him.
Five minutes later, Bishop stood, admiring his new image in the mirror. Another knock, followed by an immediate entrance of Agents Powell and What’s-his-name, signaled it was time to meet the most powerful man in the world. Bishop was surprised that he actually felt a twitter of nerves in his stomach.
The three men crossed the base’s parade grounds and up the steps of the clearly marked headquarters building. As they approached, Bishop noticed the outline of two snipers on the building’s roof. There was another agent at the front door, and the military police, by sheer number, indicated a strong, secure presence all around the general vicinity. Bishop started to make a snide remark about feeling like a rock star with an entourage, but thought better of it. Mr. Microdick wouldn’t think it was funny anyway.
Agent Jabber-Mouth stood and held open the beautiful doors, which were trimmed in thick brass and polished to a mirror-like luster. The ornate entrance reminded Bishop that he wasn’t out in the field anymore, and the thought occurred to him that he should probably clean up his act.
The escorts guided them to a door marked as the Commanding General’s Conference Room A. Mr. No-neck knocked precisely three times, and then his hands immediately returned to his sides. Now I know the secret knock, thought Bishop. A moment later the door opened, and Bishop was ushered inside.
The carpeting on the other side of the threshold was the first thing he noticed. His boots seemed to sink deeply into the plush flooring, and the effect almost caused him to lose his balance. The dim room contained a conference table about the size of a tennis court and several flat panel displays were mounted flush into the walls. I wonder if they have any popcorn, thought Bishop. Sitting at the far end was a single man. The light from the various wall displays was enough to make out his outline, and Bishop recognized that it was the President of the United States.
Slowly, the Commander in Chief stood and walked around the table toward Bishop. When he was a few steps away, he held out his hand, and for the first time, Bishop could clearly see his face. Bishop almost betrayed his shock at how “old” the nation’s leader had become. While it had only been a few months since he had last seen this man on television, the change was drastic. His hair was almost completely silver, and his facial features betrayed exhaustion. The eyes were sunken deeply behind his taunt cheekbones, and his skin looked stretched and veiny. Normally, the tall, thin politician stood ramrod straight with squared shoulders for the television cameras. Today, he was slightly bent at the waist, and his shoulders slumped as if he was carrying a heavy pack.
Bishop managed his reaction and shook the president’s hand. The leader’s grip was weak, and his hands were cold. After the handshake, the older gentleman gestured toward a chair, and said, “Please, please have a seat.” Bishop waited until the president had returned to his chair, before sitting down himself. At least the man will know I wasn’t born in a barn, he thought. After settling in, the man looked at Bishop and said, “I understand you have some information for me from the Colonel.”
Bishop nodded and handed across the papers he had been carrying. The president cleared his throat before pulling out a pair of eyeglasses. The specs were another revelation, but not surprising after he thought about it for a minute. The statesman pushed the glasses further up his nose, and then looked up at the ceiling. To his right, several buttons were installed in the surface of the table. After a few moments of indecision, the chief executive looked at Agent Powell with a helpless expression on his face. The bodyguard immediately moved to his boss’s side and hit a button that turned on a small, directed overhead light toward the president’s seating area.
For almost 30 minutes, Bishop sat in silence as the politician read the reports. Ever curious, he studied the displays around the room. The Colonel had described his mission as involving the mid-section of the country – specifically the Mississippi Delta. It was clear from the various computer graphics that something important was going on around Shreveport, Louisiana. The largest monitor, mounted at the end of the room, was constantly being refreshed. Bishop suddenly realized something had gone terribly wrong. At one corner of the huge map a counter was ticking. The label read “KIA,” or killed in action. The number was in the thousands.
The chief executive looked up from his reading and noticed where Bishop’s attention was focused. He made no sound and showed no expression. Bishop waited for the man to say something, but after blinking a few times, his head lowered, and the older man returned to his reading.
The president flipped to the last page and came to the final paragraph. It read:
Mr. President, since you are reading this, I believe it is a safe assumption that it was delivered by a very rare breed of young man. My advice, sir, is that you embrace his counsel. He has no agenda except that of the common citizen. He is, however, anything but common. I have seen him repeatedly wade through the deepest, most vile cesspools of evil that men have to offer, and yet still give freely of himself to others. My old friend, you would be wise to keep him close and use his ear.
The leader of the free world looked up at Bishop. He was a master at the game of international politics and knew how to deadpan his expression. Bishop didn’t want to be rude and stare, but he also didn’t want to appear uninterested. After a few minutes of scrutiny, the older man finally spoke. “The Colonel speaks highly of you, son. That is quite a compliment, given the source. Unfortunately, his report comes too late. We are painfully aware of the Independents. They caught us flatfooted in Louisiana, but now the genie is out of the bottle and won’t be easily corralled.”
Bishop nodded and replied, “Sir, I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. It’s not easy to travel these days.”
The president waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it young man. I wouldn’t have reacted, nor done anything differently, even if I had known the details in this report a week ago. I wouldn’t have believed it possible then, and quite frankly I’m still struggling to believe it now.”
Bishop’s brows knotted, his speech slow and deliberate, “Believe what, sir?”
“I can’t believe my fellow countrymen would stoop to such traitorous acts. I can’t believe so many military officers would violate their oaths. I can’t believe so many of the people support these…these…Benedict Arnolds.”
Bishop didn’t know what to say. He found it easy to believe people had flocked to an alternative. The population had been suffering for years during the depression. The government wasn’t functional and had completely lost any perspective of its purpose. He decided what the man across from him needed was a big dose of reality. “Mr. President, I lived in Houston with my wife. When everything went to hell, we tried to stay in our home, but there wasn’t enough food. We took off on a desperate journey across Texas. During this trip, I saw people eating bugs to survive. We witnessed dogs being butchered for meat. I saw entire forests completely destroyed just so people could build fires. A kind, wonderful man died in my arms because he couldn’t get prescription medications. I watched women exchanging their bodies for food. I can understand why so many decide to go with the Independents – they are different and have a message. Why wouldn’t people at least hear them out? Why would you expect any reaction other than, ‘What do we have to lose?’”
Bishop’s words didn’t have any visual effect, bu
t his instincts told him they had hit a nerve. The chief executive finally pushed back his chair and slowly stood. He walked around the table and pointed at the KIA number in the corner. “It’s too late you know. It’s already started. There were battles yesterday, and thousands are dead. Right now, both sides are licking their wounds and regrouping, but blood has been spilled - a lot of blood.”
Bishop wanted to see the man’s eyes, so he joined his host at the map. When a glance acknowledged his presence, he spoke. “Sir, it’s too late for what?”
The older man’s reaction startled Bishop. The president took a deep breath and exploded in anger. “They are traitors! Subversive conspirators, hiding in the shadows! Turncoats! They weren’t elected by the people! No one in authority appointed them! They, whoever they are, crawl through the sewers and stink of the very worst humans can offer. I will hang each and every one of the backstabbing scum. I owe it to the good people who abide by the rule of law. I swore an oath to do so.”
Bishop recovered quickly from the outburst and remained silent, waiting on the man to continue. After assuring himself no more was to follow, Bishop spoke in a calm, metered monotone. “Sir, you don’t know what it’s like out there. The good people of this land are living one rung above being animals and barely hanging on to that. No one gives a shit about elections, transfer of power, or who should be in charge.”
The president’s head snapped in Bishop’s direction, and he spoke with passion. “We’ve done everything we can do. I’ve sent in the military, we have sent in food and what medical supplies we have. Every effort has been made to restore electricity and other basic services. I don’t think anyone else could do more. What do people expect? What more can we possibly do?”
Bishop shook his head in disgust and responded harshly. “I’m not qualified to debate the role of government with you, sir. I’m by no means an expert. What I do know is what men are made of on the inside. Your actions took away people’s freedom. The military killed initiative when it moved into the cities. That’s why we left Houston rather than trying to stay and help rebuild. The only thing a lot of us had left was our freedom. The federal government didn’t come in to help – they rolled in and took control. The message was clear – we are in charge, even though we don’t have the ways or means to fix the problem. It was unrealistic to believe Americans would exchange their freedom for a life of depending on a government that couldn’t deliver before the problem, let alone even the basics after it had all fallen apart. I didn’t hear or see one single piece of advice from the army.”
Bishop’s statements changed the Commander- in-Chief’s attitude. His response was more scholarly than political. “What were we supposed to do? Let the people who couldn’t care for themselves starve? Let the wolves run rampant among the sheep? You are a big, strong young man and can no doubt fend for yourself. What about the people who can’t? One reason why the government exists is to help those in need. Your point-of-view is too narrow and ego-centric to be practical.”
Bishop wasn’t going to debate social sciences with anyone. “Sir, why didn’t the military use its resources to educate the people? Why didn’t someone round up farmers and have them show folks how to grow a garden? The local governments would know best how to care for those needing a hand. The federal government has no choice but to implement a one size fits all solution.” Bishop pointed to a map on the opposite wall where the growing territory controlled by the Independents was depicted. “They are doing something right. While you and I sit here and rehash old debates about centralized versus local authority, those so-called sewer rats are winning. I suggest you work with them, instead of fighting them.”
The statesman started to respond, but Bishop interrupted him. “Sir, I can take you to a town nearby here that will prove what I’m saying. Since the collapse, it has become self-reliant. There is an economy, security, government and most importantly – free people improving their lives daily. Rather than you and I pretending we are the framers and arguing the extent of federal powers, why don’t you go have a look and see for yourself?”
The president started to respond when there was a sharp rap on the door, and General Wilson entered the room. “Sir, our forces are in place around Shreveport. I need your confirmation to commence the operation.”
Bishop looked at the exhausted man standing next to him. Clearly, the burdens of his office had taken their toll, but he hoped his message had gotten through. The Commander in Chief’s response made it clear Bishop’s message had fallen on deaf ears. “General, I need to review the final stages of the order, and then you’ll have my approval to proceed.” Before Bishop could say anything, the president continued, “Oh, and general, please get this young man anything he needs, and let him be on his way back to his family.” The president’s expression made it clear that their meeting was concluded. He stuck out his hand and said, “God help us all, son…. God help us all.”
Bishop was perceptive enough to know when a conversation was over. He started to protest, but shrugged his shoulders, and shook the man’s hand. After he followed the general from the room, Bishop was escorted to a staging area where all of his gear was laid out on a large table. General Wilson tasked a nearby major with securing anything Bishop needed before escorting him off the base. Bishop asked to refill his water and inquired if any spare ammunition might be available. He asked for a few gallons of gas to refill his hidden ATV, and at the last minute, decided to fill his pack with as many MREs as he could carry. I wonder if they would loan me a tank? That would be cool. Or, I know…I know…a helicopter! Could they give me a lift home in an Apache gunship? That would impress the hell out of everyone in Meraton.
While the major left to retrieve Bishop’s wish list, Agent Powell entered the room and offered his hand. Bishop and Powell made small talk for a few minutes until the major returned with two enlisted men in tow. Each had an armful of MREs, ammunition and water bottles. The major was carrying a five-gallon plastic gas can. Powell exited the space, as did everyone else, leaving Bishop alone to finish his packing.
When he was organizing his kit, Bishop felt a sense of failure. The Colonel had trusted him to deliver the message and to try and convince the man to work with the Independents, not fight them. Of course, the Colonel had no way of knowing that a war had already started. No, he wasn’t going to feel bad at all. He had done his best and didn’t think anyone could have convinced the man to back away. The POTUS clearly felt betrayed and was spoiling for a fight.
While Bishop was filling his camelback from the bottled water, his kept replaying the meeting in his head. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. That guy is all worried about everyone in the country kissing his high and mighty ass than helping the folks. He is so wrapped up in destroying the other side, he’s not even thinking about the suffering going on out there. I should go back and try again. Surely, that Secret Service dude understands what’s at stake; maybe he can get me a second time at bat.
He was just about finished, when he thought to ask permission to see a doctor. He was curious if there might be anything he could carry back with him to help Terri’s pregnancy, like vitamins or something. It was also a great excuse to delay leaving the base and perhaps get a second meeting with the president.
Bishop started to open the door and stopped cold. He heard the unmistakable sound of weapons being charged – a lot of weapons. As quietly as possible, he twisted the doorknob and cracked it open ever so slightly. There were several, heavily armed men lined up along the hallway wall, and someone was issuing orders. “There are only two Secret Service agents with the president right now. There are four more that will react within seconds. We need to get in there, kill the president, and get this over. I just saw the orders to attack at Shreveport, and this needs to be stopped right here and now. Remember – we are doing this for the people. We are doing this for the Independents.”
Bishop could see the man issuing the orders was dressed like a Secret Service agent. T
he few men in his field of view wore a mixture of military and civilian clothing. He closed the door and leaned back against the wall taking a few deep breaths. How fucking primitive are we? How stupid is this all going to get? Bishop was torn between just walking out and letting the cards fall where they may, or taking action and trying to warn someone. He decided there was little he could do, and perhaps these assassins were right. Perhaps their actions would shorten the whole ordeal. He walked back to the table, lifted his pack onto his back and had started to sling his weapon, when the lights went out. Before he could even turn on the NVD, the door to his conference room burst open, and two men came charging through with weapons at the ready.
Bishop was lucky. He was slightly behind the doorway, picking up the can of gas, when the intruders entered. It took them a second or so to acquire him in the darkness, and that instant gave Bishop time to raise his weapon, while ducking low behind the table. The two men opened fire, and the shots went high, the muzzle flashes blinding everyone in the small room. Bishop, more from memory than aim, raised and fired back with four rounds, and then moved hard to his right. He felt bullets tearing through the air past his head, and again fired four more quick rounds. There was no return fire. Turning on his night vision, he moved cautiously around the edge of the table until he could see the two men lying on the floor. He recognized one of them as the captain who hadn’t wanted him to enter the base. The man was still breathing and looked at Bishop with hatred in his eyes. Bishop kicked away the wounded officer’s weapon, closed the door, and then bent over. “Why dude? What the fuck do you have against me?”