Pedestals of Ash

by Joe Nobody

  After he returned, Bishop wanted to clean his rifle while he waited on the hare to cook. He opened a small pouch on his load vest and reached in to pull out a cleaning rod, patches, and small bottle of CLP. He thought something felt different and soon realized the pouch had taken a bullet during the last firefight. His cleaning rod had evidently taken the worst of it because the brass rod was completely sheered. The small bottle of CLP was empty, having taken part of the bullet as well. Bishop perched on the bumper, leaned back and sighed. They weren’t making cleaning kits anymore, and he had only one left back at the ranch. Running down to his favorite gun store for another bottle of cleaning fluid wasn’t exactly an option either.

  Bishop thought about just letting the rifle go. He had fired less than 60 rounds, and his rifle should function fine without a scrub at 10 times that number of shots. Most guys wouldn’t have bothered, but Bishop wasn’t most guys. The weapon slung across his chest had saved his life more times than he could count. He was operating in a dusty, desert environment; and besides, he didn’t know when he would have the chance to clean it again. Admit it Bishop, he thought, you can justify it all you want, but the truth is you’re just anal about a clean gun.

  After checking on dinner, he went to the driver’s side of the Humvee and popped the hood. He found the stick to check the engine’s oil and pulled it from the tube. He rubbed a small pinch between his forefinger and thumb and found the engine’s oil was reasonably clean.

  He then bent over and unlaced one of his boots. Once he had the long lace clear, he tied a very small knot at one end and proceeded to use the dipstick enough times to get his shoelace nice and oily. He broke down the M4, and then ran the unknotted end of the lace down the barrel. When that end appeared at the breech, he pinched it, pulling the knotted end through. After repeating this process a few times, he untied the knot on the dirty, oily end and retied a similar knot on the clean, dry end. One pass through the barrel removed the oil residue.

  Bishop used the engine oil to clean and lubricate his bolt as well. After he reassembled his weapon and boot, he worked the action several times to spread the lubrication around, and felt better. About then, the cook-in-chief announced the rabbit looked done.

  The fresh rabbit was accompanied by the best portions of two MREs, and the men devoured what turned out to be a pretty good meal - at least by Bishop’s standards. While they were eating, Bishop explained to the president where they were headed, and gave him some background of what to expect.

  The politician took it all in without comment as he chewed on his meal. When Bishop got to the part about the ghoulish and the skinnies, the president interrupted him. “What happened to the local law enforcement? How did those men escape their incarceration? “

  “I’m not sure, sir. I would guess a lot of the police officers didn’t report to work. Perhaps they had to protect their own families or homes. I’m sure others were killed in the poison gas cloud.”

  The chief executive digested Bishop’s explanation for a moment and then responded. “Well, that’s the problem all over the country, isn’t it? We wouldn’t be having near as many issues if more people had honored their oaths and not been so self-centered.”

  Bishop didn’t agree with the man’s position, but decided not to press the point just yet. If, after seeing Alpha, he still had the same point of view, then Bishop would consider him a fool. Any words Bishop could use right now would pale in comparison to what the leader of the country was about to see.

  There was something else hanging in the air, and Bishop decided to broach the subject. “Sir, I hope you aren’t counting on me for some sort of game plan here. Short of keeping you alive, I don’t have any long-term solution for getting you back to friendly forces.”

  The fire crackled and hissed softly, while the president thought about Bishop’s statement. Without moving his gaze from the flames, he rested his chin in his hand and absent-mindedly stirred the embers with a long stick. “I still can’t believe all of this has happened. That soldier had a gun in my face just a few hours ago. I thought he was going to blow my head off. I’m not so sure I want to go back. Even if I do, I’ll be looking over my shoulder until all of this is over – maybe forever.”

  “Sir, I believe you’ll be safe at the church in Alpha. If they have transportation there, I’ll take you to my ranch or Meraton. But I think that’s only a short-term solution. We need to come up with some way to hook you back up with the people who are loyal to your office so you can fix this mess.”

  The president nodded his understanding, but offered no response. He stirred the coals around, his expression troubled. Bishop waited a bit and then added, “I suppose once I have you stashed somewhere safe, I could go back to Bliss. I don’t think either side would shoot me on sight. They would want to torture your location out of me before putting a bullet in my head.”

  The Commander-in-Chief grimaced at the thought, but couldn’t disagree. Bishop was hoping for the man to say something like, “You’ve sacrificed enough,” or “Noooo, they wouldn’t do that.”

  When he received no such reprieve, Bishop inhaled and continued. “My problem is I don’t know how to separate who’s on which side. I could be handing you over to the assassins and never know it until it was too late. The way I look at it, we’ve had a lot of fun out here driving around shock absorber hell. My spinal column and hip joints will never be the same. I’d hate to let all that sacrifice go to waste.”

  So often a campfire is therapeutic, warming the soul. The combination of Bishop’s humor and the smoldering wood seemed to snap the older man out of his melancholy state. The chief executive looked up from his trance and smiled at Bishop, “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll put you in for a medal when I get back. I’ll even write up a nice little ceremonial speech.”

  The president stood at attention, and in an official voice spoke to the surrounding desert, gesturing to command its attention. “Today my fellow Americans, we gather here to honor a man who has paid a dear price for his country. The man on whom I bestow this honor was wounded in the execution of his duties while serving the United States of America. He experienced indescribable pain and suffering in his lower extremities due to a case of cathedral-sized hemorrhoids, and for this sacrifice I hereby award him the Distinguished Sphincter Medal.”

  Bishop busted out laughing, and soon both men were holding their ribs. The comic-in-chief seemed to relax a little after his theatrical display, and then became serious. “Bishop, I don’t have an answer right now. I wouldn’t blame you if you dropped me off right here and drove away. If you can buy me a little time to get my wits back, I’m sure we’ll come up with something. Besides, I’m getting a lot of thinking done. It’s refreshing to be outside of that bubble I’ve been living in.”

  Bishop decided to get a little payback. “You sure you don’t mind if I leave you here, sir?”

  Again, both men laughed.

  The president decided to change the subject and scanned the horizon in all directions. “I’m surprised they haven’t come looking for me yet. Do you think there were that many traitors at the base?”

  Bishop shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe, but there is no way of telling. I know that is one helluva big base, and they would have to search all of it before looking elsewhere. I’m sure they’ll come looking for you, sir.”

  They finished their meal and cleared the campsite. Energized from their desert cuisine, coupled with the break from the road, both men’s attitudes seemed to brighten. Bishop even noticed the older man had more purpose in his gait, as he strode to their vehicle. The president paused after opening the door and looked all around. Bishop watched as he got in the Humvee. The man almost seems disappointed they haven’t sent the entire U.S. Army looking for him.

  The pool table in the basement of Senator Moreland’s West Virginia home was the center of attention. Both the military and civilian managers were gathered around, examining the status of Operation Delta. A one-star general had just finished brie
fing the movement’s brain trust and stood waiting for questions. There were none.

  Senator Moreland broke the silence, addressing no one in particular. “What is the president doing? Why wait now? Is he stalling for a reason? Some sort of trap?”

  A senior admiral, recently a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, responded. “Sir, from a military perspective there is no reason for them to delay. As a matter of fact, there is every reason for them to proceed with offensive operations against us.”

  Another man spoke up, “Senator, perhaps our operation at Fort Bliss is the cause. We still aren’t one hundred percent sure we failed. Nearly losing his life may have incapacitated the president.”

  Senator Moreland digested that last suggestion. More death and skullduggery, he thought, I regret agreeing with that move. The justification that killing the opposing leadership would save thousands of lives had probably been used to justify who knew how many assignation attempts. I wonder if I would feel differently if we had succeeded.

  The honorable gentleman from West Virginia was through with the low road. There was a line, and in desperation, he had crossed it. It wasn’t so much the attempted coup that concerned him, but the other recent briefing he had received.

  The Independents now controlled a dozen small nuclear weapons and the capability to deliver them. His military advisors had briefed him that these devices could be used for both tactical and political advantage. A potential target list had even been compiled.

  Moreland had practically become unglued at the suggestion. The use of such weapons against an enemy nation was horrific enough, let alone deploying them on the soil of the United States of America. He had dismissed the concept immediately and left the briefing. The officers in the room were a little surprised by his reaction, but noted he had not ordered the weapons returned or disabled.

  Humvee One drove for another hour before Bishop pulled over and stopped. He knew the ammunition in the back would be welcomed at the compound, but he didn’t want to carry the extra weight through a hostile Alpha. Bishop decided to stash their ride in one of the airport hangars and proceeded to drive into the same structure where David had found the functional plane a few days before.

  The shot-up trucks were still sitting on the airport grounds, but the bodies had been removed. Bishop got a funny feeling in his gut as he approached Bones for a closer look. The bullet-riddled dune buggy was still sitting where he and David left it just a few days ago. He could tell someone had rummaged through the interior, and the battery was gone from the engine compartment. Bishop noticed lots of empty brass, scattered on the floor from the firefight David and he survived against the pursuing ghoulish, and that made him smile.

  The president exited the Humvee and advanced to inspect one of the abandoned ghoulish relics. As Bishop joined him, the statesman met his gaze, saying, “Looks like somebody shot the hell out of this truck. I see bloodstains all over the place. Why would someone do that?”

  Bishop replied, “I have no idea, sir. We have another few miles to hike, and I suggest we get going.”

  “After you, my good fellow.”

  Bishop paused, “Oh, sir, I almost forgot. It’s going to get cool as soon as the sun goes down. Do you need your jacket from the Humvee?”

  A strange look crossed over the president’s face. “My Jack….my jacket…Oh, my god! My jacket! I forgot all about it. There is some sort of transmitter in there. They told me about it a long time ago. Some type of GPS type transmitter. I was told to always keep it on because it’s bulletproof, and they can find me with that jacket on.”

  Bishop immediately scanned the sky all around, half-expecting fighter jets, attack helicopters, or even stealth bombers to be vectoring in on his head. After verifying no threat was in sight, he launched into one of his prolonged sessions of foul language. He was so mad he started splitting words in order to insert profanities. Finally, after the harangue began to falter, he looked at the stunned chief executive and simply uttered, “Let’s get the fuck out of here…SIR!” The president had to hurry to catch up.

  Chapter 15 – The Bad Tailor

  General Westfield held out the phone to Agent Powell and mouthed the words, “It’s for you.”

  “This is Agent Powell, United States Department of Treasury, Secret Service, whom am I speaking to?”

  A thin, weak voice on the other end of the call nervously stammered, “Th…th…this is Airman Moore.” Agent Powell looked at the general sitting behind his desk and rolled his eyes. After covering the phone with his hand, he said, “Is this kid, what? Twelve years old?”

  “It’s the fucking Air Force…what do you expect?”

  Agent Powell went back to the phone. “Airman Moore, do you have access to the president’s GPS locator, designated POTUS 1.6?”

  “I do, sir, but I need authorization to provide those coordinates.”

  The stress bled through in Agent Powell’s response, “And who the hell can authorize that, Airman Moore?”

  “Sir, General Wilson or any of the joint chiefs have authority. I can also accept the authority of the Secretary of Homeland Security, the Director of the FBI, or the Vice President of the United States…sir.”

  Agent Powell took a deep breath to calm down. The volcano of anger that was about to erupt wasn’t going to do him any good with a scared shitless young man several hundred miles away. Calmly, he asked, “Airman, who is the base commander at Peterson?”

  “Sir, that would be General Coleman.”

  “And is General Coleman available, young man?”

  “Sir, I wouldn’t know, but I can transfer you to his office, if you wish.”

  Agent Powell’s voice changed to the most sickeningly, sweet tone he could muster, “Please, if you will, Airman. I wish to speak to the base commander.”

  After a few moments, Airman Moore announced that the general’s aide was on the line. An older voice said, “General Coleman’s office, Major Hollingsworth speaking.”

  “Major, this is Senor Agent Powell, United States Treasury Department, Secret Service division. I am in charge of the president’s security detail and need access to his GPS locator unit designated POTUS 1.6.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for several moments. Powell started to relax just a little bit, thinking he was finally getting somewhere.

  The USAF Major responded, “Ummm…sure you do, buddy. We give out the president’s location to just any old Tom, Dick, or Harry that calls in. I suppose you’ll want the launch codes as well. Richards, is that you? If this is another one of your goddamn pranks, I’ll have you busted down to recruit, you sick bastard. This ain’t funny.”

  It took all of Agent Powell’s restraint to keep from exploding. He could feel the veins were popping out on his forehead, and the blood rushing through his ears sounded like a freight train. After several deep breaths and a super human effort at self-control, the agent’s calm voice answered. “No, Major, this is not a joke. The president is at Fort Bliss, and there has been a coup attempt. We believe he is still alive, perhaps in hiding. Now, how do I go about getting access to his location?”

  Again, there was a long period of silence on the other end. When he finally answered, at least the major’s tone was serious. “Sir, my apologies if this is legit. You have to admit – this is a very unusual request. Just to make sure I understand, you claim to be in charge of the president’s security detail, and you have lost the president? Do I have that right?”

  The major started to reiterate the persons with access to the system, but Powell interrupted him. “Major, the vice president is dead. He was killed in the Washington riots. General Wilson is dead as well – he died in the attempted coup. I don’t have any idea how to contact any of the JCS or the Secretaries. There has to be another way, Major; and time is critical.”

  “Hold on,” was the response.

  Powell looked up to see General Westfield smirking at him with an “I told you so” grin. Ignoring the inter-service rivalr
y, the agent asked, “Do you know this General Coleman?”

  “Negative.”

  The phone clicked twice in Powell’s ear, and another voice came online. “This is General Coleman. Sir, I cannot provide access to that system without some verification of who you are. That system has a security requirement as high as it gets.”

  Something clicked in Powell’s mind, something that the major had said. Powell turned to the general and asked if he could summon the football to the office. The general’s eyebrows arched, and he mouthed the words “Good idea.”

  The “football” was slang for the nuclear missile launch system, or more accurately, the device used to communicate with the National Command Authority. Since the world-destroying weapons could only be launched by the president, the briefcase-like device followed the man wherever he went. The football was carried around, secured to an officer of O-4 rank or higher. The current man assigned to the duty happened to be an Air Force officer. Powell thought he might get lucky, and the two men might know each other. In a few minutes, one of the general’s aides knocked on the door, and Air Force Lt. Colonel Prichard was shown in.

  Powell wasted no time, “Colonel, do you happen to know General Coleman, the base commander at Peterson?”

  The puzzled officer thought for a moment and then answered, “Yes sir, I do.”

  Powell handed the colonel the phone and said, “The good general is on the line. Would you please verify for him who I am, where we are, and what the situation is?”

  The man took the phone and spoke, “General Coleman? This is Mark Prichard. How’s Carol and the kids?...Great!...Have you fixed that hook yet?...Oh, yes, sir, last time I spoke with her, Mindy was doing well, thank you for asking, sir.”

  Agent Powell looked at General Westfield and whispered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” General Westfield responded with his usual “It’s the fucking Air Force – what do you expect?”