Pedestals of Ash

by Joe Nobody

  The dying man took several deep, raspy breaths and responded. “You are with them. You are against the Independents. I was ordered to take out any messenger who came here to see the president.”

  Bishop didn’t like being shot at any more than anyone else did. He could justify a dozen different motivations for trying to kill someone, but politics wasn’t one of them. As he thought about what the captain had said, he began to get angry. The people were going to suffer the most from this out-of-control power struggle. Just like any civil war, it was the innocent civilians who bore the blunt of the agony. As the initial shock of the whole situation began to wear off, Bishop felt a sense of helplessness. What could he do? He was one man, and this drama was being played out on a national stage.

  As the young captain took his last breath, a thought occurred to Bishop. When he was a teenager, he and his father had often played the mental game of “what ifs,” in world history. What if Hitler hadn’t been so fixated on Stalingrad? What if someone had stopped John Wilkes Booth? As a boy, Bishop had always fantasized about being able to go back in time and watch history unfold. What did General Washington really say to the troops before crossing the Delaware? What was the look on his face? What was the tone of his voice? Did he take a sip of brandy from a flask before addressing his army?

  Bishop’s boyhood daydreaming always led to his wondering what he would have done if he were at that point in history. Would he have stopped Oswald from pulling the trigger on Kennedy? What would the world have been like if Bishop had been there?

  It suddenly dawned on him that he was there – right here, right now. Should he try and stop the assassination? What was the better course for the world? Should he interfere with destiny? The sound of gunfire in the distance snapped him back to reality. As he slammed a magazine into his rifle, Bishop had one last philosophical moment. In all of the mental exercises with his father, a single thread of history prevailed – a leader or key person had died, causing pain and suffering for millions. Bishop knew he wasn’t smart enough to determine the outcome of the president being killed. What he did know was he was sick and tired of watching people die, and it all had to stop somewhere. Maybe there was something he could do. Maybe one guy could make a difference.

  Bishop cautiously opened the door and saw the hall was empty and very dim, lit only by the battery- powered emergency lights. The hit squad had no doubt killed the electricity to gain an advantage. Bishop raised his rifle and peered through the night vision in both directions before hustling down the hallway toward the gunfire in the distance.

  He came to a point where the hall intersected with a main corridor of the building. The conference room where he had last seen the nation’s leader was to the left, and so was the sound of the gunfight. The tempo of the battle was increasing, and Bishop guessed it would all be over soon.

  After pie-ing the intersection, Bishop moved quickly down the main hall toward the conference room. He was careful to not stay to close to the walls, because he knew bullets sometimes hugged flat surfaces. He came to another corner and stopped, realizing he was very close to the ongoing fight.

  Bishop thought about pie-ing this corner, but the wall behind him was full of bronze plaques and awards. He realized anyone waiting around the corner would have an advantage if they saw his reflection. He checked the building’s construction, flicked off his safety, and fired three rounds about waist high into the plaster at the corner. These walls wouldn’t stop his bullets, and if anyone was hiding around that corner, he probably had just taken them out of the fight. Sure enough, a body slumped over, falling out into the main walkway.

  Bishop sprang around the corner and encountered a spectacle unlike anything he had ever seen. Somewhere off in the distance, battery-powered emergency lights provided just enough illumination to outline vague, dark shapes. A rolling cloud of smoke obscured the strobe of muzzle flashes, and the roar of so many weapons in such an enclosed space sounded like thunder. It was like Bishop had stepped into the very soul of hell’s own thunderstorm.

  The first man he came across was on a knee, spraying the conference room door with automatic fire. Bishop didn’t hesitate and plugged the assassin from behind. His shots attracted the attention of others, and random rounds began to come his way. He was committed, and charged headlong into the fray. It all became a blur at that point. The doorway leading to the president had been hastily barricaded with chairs and a small table. Two Secret Service agents were barely holding off the assault. The attackers were advancing when Bishop’s arrival changed the odds. The element of surprise was on his side as he tore into the midst of the gathered assassins, delivering pandemonium.

  The fog of muzzle flashes, smoke, and debris littering the air didn’t slow Bishop down. He could simply fire at any shape or outline he saw. The other side had to make sure they weren’t shooting one of their own, which was working against them. The shooters on both sides were wearing body armor, and that proved to be a two-edged sword. The small space, combined with a large number of men equipped with high capacity weapons, meant everyone just kept pulling the trigger until the target went down. The resulting blizzard of lead eventually found a soft spot and did its work. Before the hit squad managed to pull back in the opposite direction, Bishop took out four of them and leaned against the doorway, panting for breath. He yelled into the conference room, “Hey inside! This is Bishop, and I’ve bought you some time. I suggest you get the president out of that coffin before these guys come back.”

  Before anyone could answer, the wall beside Bishop’s head exploded with the impact of lead. Plaster and bits of wood stung his face, sending Bishop diving for cover. Unrelenting fire snapped through the air all around him, forcing Bishop to dig and squirm underneath two dead men lying on the floor. He managed to get his rifle up and began firing blindly as fast as he could pull the trigger. The attackers had evidently regrouped quickly and were pushing to regain their position. Unfortunately for them, the hallway wasn’t that wide, and Bishop kept walking his rounds from one wall to the other, spraying fire into anything that entered the narrow space. The weight of the bodies Bishop was using as a shield limited his aim to knee high, but those bullets found legs. The first two men leading the charge fell not 15 feet from Bishop’s face. Another man crashed to the floor in the next volley, narrowing the already-constricted fatal funnel by adding to the casualties lying everywhere. Despite the barricade of their dead comrades, they kept coming.

  Bishop’s rifle locked back empty, and he realized there was no way to reload - he was prone and covered in a blanket of inert flesh and heavy Kevlar. His hands were slick with other men’s blood, and there was no way he could reach a magazine before they would kill him. Adrenaline does a lot of things to a man about to die. On this day, it gave Bishop physical strength. The surge of fear and certain death pulsated through his sinew and allowed him to rise up on all fours, lifting the two dead men still draped over his back and shoulders. He managed to crawl backward across the ice-slick floor while the body armor-equipped corpses took round after round of incoming fire.

  Bishop could feel the thump and tug of bullets slamming into his shield, and it motivated him even more. Despite the floor being coated with urine, blood, sweat and dozens of spent cartridges, he made it to the corner and out of the line of fire. He shook off the dead men and regained his feet, while digging for a fresh magazine. His plan had been to buy enough time for the president’s guards to get their boss out of that deathtrap conference room. It hadn’t worked too well.

  That fucking hallway is hell itself, and I’m not going back. One visit was enough for me – that was bullshit, he thought. Bishop’s hands were shaking, and his skin was covered with drying sweat and blood. His shirt, pants and boots were covered with small flecks of flesh and who knew what else. A few seconds went by, and Bishop began to recover a bit, when another salvo of shots erupted. He knew the assassins were back, reengaging at the barricaded doorway. The cries of men and the roar of battle filled
the halls for several seconds. Bishop was having trouble, commanding his legs to move back toward that meat grinder. What the fuck am I doing here, he kept thinking, I’ve got no dog in this fight.

  He was standing there, gulping air and trying to muster enough courage to go back in, when suddenly, it all stopped. Bishop, thinking the assailants had finally overwhelmed the defending agents, moved back to the corner. No one shot at him. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself forward and began stepping around the causalities that were strewn everywhere. Small rivers of blood flowed, and the air was thick with cordite smoke and the stench of urine, feces and copper. Bishop quietly looked into the conference room and saw two men standing at the far end. One was the president with his hands in the air, and the other man held a pistol at arm’s length. Bishop raised his rifle and shot the man with the pistol.

  There were still sounds of gunfire in the distance, and Bishop could hear commands being screamed from several different directions. He turned to the president and yelled, “Come on sir, we have to get out of here. Everyone in the hall is dead or dying, and we have to move now!”

  The older man seemed in shock at the entire episode and wouldn’t move. Bishop grabbed his arm and commandeered him toward the door. The stunned executive followed without protest, as if in a trance. After kicking some of the blockage out of the way, Bishop cleared the hallway, and began guiding the president through the gruesome maze. They made it to the first corner when Bishop heard sporadic gunfire and the sound of boots running in their direction. More to avoid the converging men than any knowledge of the building’s layout, Bishop pulled the president with him in the opposite direction, and the two wound their way toward the back of the building.

  A minute later, Bishop quietly pressed the fire escape bar on a heavy steel door and poked his head outside. They had navigated to a small loading dock area, serviced by an alleyway that ran along the rear of the building. The alley was empty. The president was recovering from the shock of it all and becoming more lucent. Bishop pointed to the building on the opposite side of the lane and said, “Give me just a second to see if it’s clear.” Bishop bounded across the alley and up three concrete steps, landing a well-timed kick against a wooden door. The door exploded inward, and Bishop encountered what appeared to be an empty office of some kind. The inner door to the room was locked, and the layer of dust covering the floor made it appear as if no one had occupied the space in years.

  Bishop waved for the chief executive to join him and covered the path as the slower man crossed. Both of them leaned against the wall, catching their breath, as the sound of voices, gunshots and racing engines grew louder in the distance. “We can’t stay here, sir. The first problem is not knowing who is on your side and who is trying to kill you. The bigger problem is that I might be mistaken for either side if we try and find some help. No offense sir, but I don’t work for the Secret Service, and I’m not taking a bullet for you.”

  The president nodded. “No offense taken.”

  Bishop wanted to see what was through the door leading to the interior of the building, but before he could look, something motorized came roaring down the alleyway they had just crossed. The vehicle sounded as though it stopped right outside their door, and Bishop raised his rifle preparing for a breach. Despite his previous declaration, he placed himself between the doorway and the president. The two men could hear voices outside, and when it became apparent that no one was going to kick in the door and shoot at them, Bishop took a chance and peeked at the alley. There was a military police Humvee parked outside, complete with flashing lights on the roof and the MP logo on the door. Bishop could see a single soldier standing in close proximity. The army cop was scanning both ends of the alley. After closing the door, Bishop leaned back and pondered what to do. He had to get clear of this base and bring his guest along. He really couldn’t think of any other option, since it was impossible to tell who was friend and who was foe. From the sound of the gunfire around the base, other people were having the same problem of identification.

  Bishop pulled a bundle of para-cord out of his pack and cut off about a four-foot length. He cracked the door open again and observed the young soldier pacing back and forth outside. The Humvee was still there, motor idling. When the patrolling private had his back turned, Bishop opened the door a little wider to get a better look up and down the alley. There wasn’t anyone else around. He scanned the rooftops, remembering the men positioned up there, but couldn’t see anyone.

  He drew his pistol and when the sentry was in the right position, Bishop quietly passed through the door and approached the unsuspecting MP. The cold barrel against the man’s skull, right behind the ear, had the desired reaction. Bishop said, “Don’t give me any trouble, and you’ll be fine. Turn around and walk back with me.”

  After the frightened man had been securely tied with para-cord and relieved of his helmet and weapons, Bishop again verified no one was in the alley. The two men quickly exited their hiding spot and jumped in the running vehicle. Bishop looked over at his passenger and said, “Fasten your seatbelt please, sir – you can never be too careful these days, and I don’t want a ticket.” The president didn’t get the joke and just stared for a brief moment. Bishop put their new ride in gear and sped off down the alley, telling the stunned statesman to put on the helmet, duck low and keep out of sight.

  Bishop didn’t head for the front gate, but guided the Humvee to the north and away from the primary complex of buildings. Thirty minutes later, they were going cross-country over rough desert terrain and officially crossed the base’s boundary shortly after that.

  Bishop looked over at his traveling partner and asked if he should officially change the designation of their ride to Humvee One. The president rolled his eyes, seemingly finding no humor in the remark. Finally, the passenger spoke, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Well, sir,” Bishop started, “I’m not sure. First of all, I will take you anywhere you want to go. I’m not kidnapping you. Is there someplace you’d like to go?”

  The Commander in Chief thought about the question for a moment and then replied, “No, no I can’t think of anywhere safe. On the other hand, I do have a country to run.”

  Bishop, without thinking, added, “At least half a country anyway,” and then immediately regretted the remark. Trying to recover, he quickly added, “I don’t know of anywhere safe either. If we have enough gas, I can get us back to some friends, but I would hardly call that safe. Maybe we’ll think of something along the way.”

  As they drove through the desert, Bishop couldn’t help but keep an eye skyward. He was worried about helicopters being used to search for them. He looked over at his passenger and said, “Mr. President, please keep a lookout for aircraft of any kind. The people back at the base will find the MP I restrained and realize we are mobile. If I were them, I would spin up a helicopter and search for us from the air.”

  There was no way of knowing how deeply the Independents had penetrated the units at Fort Bliss, or how well organized they were. Someone looking for them from the air could be from either side. He decided that there was one sure way to tell – the Independents would automatically fire without question, while the Loyalists would seek to rescue the man beside him. Bishop was rooting for the Loyalists.

  As they drove through the barren terrain, the discussion centered on how long it would be before both sides would start searching. Bishop was gambling it would take quite a while for things to get sorted out back at the base. Bliss was an enormous facility with hundreds of buildings capable of hiding the Humvee. They would have to search there first. One side couldn’t be sure the other didn’t already have the president. The Loyalists would assume he had been kidnapped, rather than murdered. The Independents might believe their target had been stashed away for safekeeping, an attempt to bait them out into the open. The bottom line was that every minute that passed gave them distance, and that improved their odds.

  After an hour of bumping, jo
lting travel, Bishop saw a good place to take a break. The Humvee wasn’t known for its smooth ride and would never be favorably compared to a luxury-touring sedan. The lack of suspension was aggravated by Bishop’s aggressively driving a little faster than normal to maximize their head start.

  He parked under a large outcropping of rock that had separated and slid off a cliff face thousands of years ago. From the air, it would be difficult to spot their transportation since it was painted in desert camouflage and actually blended in quite well with their environment. Both men climbed out of the oversized jeep and began stretching stiff legs and sore joints. After a quick scan of their surroundings, Bishop decided to inventory the contents of Humvee One’s rear storage area. He was surprised to find quite the arsenal and cache of supplies. There were two M4 carbines, a can of 5.56 ammo, and a pump shotgun. There was a full carton of MREs and two cases of bottled water. A large, well-stocked medical kit rounded out the contents. In the backseat, Bishop found a freshly laundered set of fatigues and spare pair of boots. He held up the clothing and looked over at the politician standing nearby. “Mr. President, I’m not a fashion expert, but I think you would be more comfortable if these duds fit you. We may have to set out on foot, and you definitely don’t look dressed for cross country hiking.”

  The pants were a little too short and the boots half a size too big, but the Commander in Chief looked reasonably comfortable, dressed in the garb of a sergeant in the United States Army. In reality, Bishop thought the man looked timeworn and weary. Bishop decided to press his luck, pulling out one of the M4 rifles. “Mr. President, have you ever fired one of these?”

  Before long, the Prez was working the action of the carbine like a recruit in boot camp. Bishop wished he could video the scene, as the guy who could launch hundreds of nuclear warheads struggled to remember where the controls were on the most basic weapon in the inventory. He had to admit though, the man wasn’t stupid and caught on quickly. After a few minutes of basic instruction, Bishop believed the president could fire the rifle if he had to. Wish we had a little time on the range, Mr. President, Bishop mused.