Holding Their Own XV: Bloodlust

by Nobody, Joe

  Two boys appeared next to Bishop’s truck, their eyes wide with excitement. “Let’s get all this gear out of the bed,” the driver said, his thumb indicating the pile of confiscated rifles in the back. “We need to get rid of this truck before Blackjack can mount a search.”

  Nodding eagerly, the two lads began hauling armloads of weapons and magazines into the station. Charlie and Nick appeared just then, both men taking a mental inventory of the newly acquired firepower that the locals had promised to put to good use.

  “You’re not going to be able to wage a war with what we captured,” Bishop noted. “Ammunition is going to be your biggest problem. Still, it’s a two-for-one transaction. We’ve added to your side of the ledger while taking away from Ketchum’s capabilities.”

  “If our plan works, we’re not going to need a lot of ammo, right?” Charlie asked, just a hint of doubt in his throat.

  “That’s the idea… but just in case something goes wrong, you might need this firepower to defend yourselves. Sister Rose’s objections aside, that is,” Nick responded.

  Chapter 15

  It took the rest of the afternoon for Charlie’s men to haul the diesel fuel to the pump station’s tanks. The task, using five-gallon cans being carried two at a time, was only initiated after Mr. Rutledge had thoroughly inspected the generators and fired up the powerful motors in a controlled test.

  “These babies will consume hundreds of gallons per hour,” he’d informed Nick and Charlie. “It will take almost two hours before the water is visible in the streets, so we must have plenty of fuel on hand to perpetrate the scam.”

  While the diesel was being transported by Charlie’s fire brigade, Nick and Bishop prepared themselves for what the ex-operator labeled “a shopping expedition for party favors.”

  “Didn’t you tell me about a beauty supply store you’d come across?” Nick had inquired while they were reviewing Operation Noah’s next steps.

  “Yeah. The building looked pretty intact. Why? Are you going to get your nails done?” Bishop had teased.

  “Yes… in a way. I need acetone and a few other ingredients to construct some improvised devices,” the big man responded.

  An hour later, the two colleagues were stacking boxes by the beauty supply company’s back door. “While I was scouting for Ketchum’s warehouse, I noticed another shop we need to visit. Let’s head over to Paul’s Discount Pool Supplies.”

  “Let me guess…. We are going to take a dip after we get our nails buffed?” Bishop teased.

  “No. I need chlorine. What better place to find it than at a swimming pool supply store?”

  By now, the duo was becoming very adept at their homeless routine. As they made their way across urban New Orleans, Bishop had to admire his friend’s seemingly endless knowledge and skills. “I assume you learned about explosives in the military, but where did you pick up on chlorine and acetone?”

  With a sigh, Nick explained, “Everything I ever needed to know about IEDs I learned in Iraq during the insurgency. Those guys could make mother’s milk go boom.”

  “I thought they mainly used leftover ordnance from Saddam’s Army? I saw a lot of pictures of artillery shells wired together and buried next to the road.”

  “They did that, but we countered with metal detectors and diligence. If any of the drones caught a dissident strolling around with a couple of 155 artillery shells, they’d toast their asses with a Hellfire missile. After a while, the black hats got smart and started using household chemicals and fuel. We learned the hard way what to look for as we hunted for the bombmakers.”

  “I bet you never thought you’d be using that knowledge in New Orleans,” Bishop replied, a hint of sadness exposed by his own question.

  “Hell, I never thought I’d be a homeless guy carrying around an M4 on Bourbon Street with you! Who knew?”

  “You’re also the top of the military food chain for the Alliance, big guy. That’s quite a leap, even for a Green Beret sergeant.”

  Shrugging, Nick replied, “Even a blind squirrel gets a nut now and then.”

  “You earned it, my friend. Don’t ever let anyone ever tell you anything different,” Bishop said.

  “Are you trying to get in my pants?” Nick teased. “I haven’t had anyone blow this much smoke up my skirt since the Alliance Council was considering a pay raise for the military!”

  “There’s no sign of Lefty or Crow, boss. It’s like they disappeared into thin air,” Grinder reported. “And before he died, Butch told me he counted two shooters. They both were wearing masks. He said he’d never seen anybody move like the guys who shot them up.”

  Ketchum digested his lieutenant’s words without any comment, his eyes moving to the growing line of bodies being laid out in the warehouse’s garage. “I see wounds that could have been caused by fragmentation grenades and gunshots. Somebody is trying to take over our territory.”

  “It was probably those homeless fuckers at the church,” Grinder suggested. “They’ve been getting more and more desperate as time goes by.”

  Moving to the open bay, Blackjack’s eyes ventured to the horizon. “Maybe. Maybe not. This isn’t their style. This hit was done with military precision, and I don’t think Sister Rose has the personnel qualified for this kind of work. Nor would she sanction this much bloodshed. If Voodoo wasn’t dead, I’d say this smelled of his type of op. We’re up against somebody new… somebody who wants New Orleans for themselves.”

  “I’m thinking the first failure of those generators wasn’t an accident,” Grinder added.

  “And the meth lab,” Ketchum agreed. “I think somebody’s been nibbling away at the edges of my domain for a couple of days now. Pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place, little by little.”

  For another fifteen minutes, Grinder and Blackjack discussed the possibilities. One by one, the two men eliminated the obvious threats that included everything from a biker gang in Shreveport with an old score to settle, to the suburbanites organizing and using more aggressive campaigns to get what they want. “We’ll find out who is behind this mayhem soon enough,” Jones finally declared. “As of right now, everybody is at DEFCON 4. Spread the word and find that damned tanker.”

  Stifling a yawn, Bishop scanned the last 50-gallon drum and frowned. He was dead tired, both mentally and physically.

  They had been moving the heavy containers since before dawn, each of the drums filled with Nick’s special recipe of chemicals and diesel fuel. “They’ll make a hell of a noise and generate enough black smoke to block out the sun,” assured the former Green Beret. “Unless Ketchum is dead, he’s bound to know somebody set off a mighty big firecracker in his backyard.”

  The drums were stacked along the back side of the London Avenue Canal, not far from where the old levee had been breached by Hurricane Katrina’s deadly storm surge. Between each of the round containers, Nick was busy connecting a series of electrical wires.

  Mr. Rutledge walked up just then, his face glowing with a smile. “We’ve transferred enough diesel to run the generators for six hours. Unless my math is completely off, that should put at least a foot of water in the streets, maybe a bit more.”

  “Have you reversed the pumps?” Nick asked, setting down a pair of pliers after twisting another connection.

  “Yes, I have managed to complete a partial test, and that is another worry. No one has ever even tried to do this before. This station was designed to pump water out, not in. In theory, this plan should work, but there’s no way to be absolutely positive without a large-scale test,” the retired engineer stated.

  Joining the conversation, Charlie’s expression betrayed his strong concern. “We’ve gathered every able-bodied man, but there’s not much military or law enforcement experience among them. We have issued them what weapons and ammunition we’ve been able to scrounge. They’re not going to topple any third-world government, but they’ll fight… at least most of them will.”

  “Sounds like some of y
our troops aren’t exactly gung-ho?” Nick questioned.

  Shrugging, the local leader replied, “I’ll be honest. There are doubters among our ranks. I can’t tell if it’s just fear or something deeper like a moral objection to combat. Like I said, most of them will give better than they receive.”

  Turning to Bishop, Nick suggested, “Why don’t you go and put our brave allies into the best possible mental and defensive positions while I finish wiring up this mega noise-maker? We’ll get the party started at 6:00 a.m. with the pumps. At 0900, well set off these party favors and make a loud announcement. Hopefully, most of Ketchum’s crew will be awake by then.”

  “If not, that’s going to be one hell of an alarm clock,” Bishop replied, nodding at the row of barrels.

  With Charlie leading the way, Bishop was taken to the rear lot of a nearby building. There, milling about while sharing edgy words, was about the most ragtag force of defenders the former military man had ever seen.

  They were all thin and hollow-eyed, symptoms of years of malnutrition and stress having taken their toll. Yet, despite their poor, physical condition, Bishop detected purpose and will in their body language.

  “Blackjack’s men will want to see the breach,” Bishop began as the throng began to gather. “They will hear the explosion and be curious. When the water starts to rise, they’ll want to put eyes on the damage.”

  Scanning the front row of eager faces to make sure his words were penetrating past their jitters, Bishop continued, “Of course, we all know that there isn’t any real breach. If you want to rid your city of this scum, they can’t discover the truth. That’s where we come in. That’s why we’re all going to lay it on the line. Any questions so far?”

  “They are younger, better fed, and are better armed,” one man commented from the back. “There are hundreds of them. What makes you think we can keep them away long enough for this deception to work?”

  “They won’t send everybody at once,” Bishop replied with as much confidence as he could muster. “If this all goes as planned, they’ll send a few scouts at first. We’ll take care of them easily. As the water rises, they’ll get more and more desperate. With any luck, the flooding will cut off some of their reinforcements. Anybody who remembers Katrina will feel the need to flee the city right away. Hopefully, they’ll give up and abandon the city after a half-hearted attempt.”

  “But you don’t know that, do you?” the naysayer from the rear heckled.

  “No,” Bishop answered honestly. “I don’t. In fact, there are a hundred things that could go wrong with Operation Noah. But, on the other hand, I’ve been shot at in at least a dozen different countries. Back in Texas, we’ve pulled off crazier stunts than this to save our necks. So, with a little luck and everybody’s best efforts, you’ll have the Big Easy back by tomorrow morning. If not, are any of you really going to be worse off than you are now, spending most of your lives underground?”

  “Being dead is worse, if you ask me,” another voice responded.

  Before Bishop could answer, another man countered, arguing, “I’ve been dead since the collapse, and so have all of you! When Charlie asked me to take up arms yesterday, it was the first time I’ve felt alive since we tumbled into this hell hole. This rifle feels good in my hands. For the first time in years, I feel like I’ve got some control over my destiny. If you don’t want to fight for your freedom, then get the hell out!”

  Several voices chimed in, the vast majority in support of going on the offensive.

  Bishop let the group’s internal debate continue for several minutes before raising his hands high in the air to restore order. “There are no guarantees,” he shouted to regain the floor. “I’ve seen enough brave men fall to last five lifetimes, and the odds are that some of you aren’t going to come out of this alive. Still, there comes a time when you have no choice but to stand up and fight for what is right. Our forefathers, when facing the British Empire, probably had the same concerns at Concord and Lexington. The men approaching Fortress Europe on D-Day no doubt had the same fears. Like them, we can do this. We must do this. Working together as a team and watching out for each other is the way to victory. I can also promise you that if we win the day, you’ll feel an accomplishment unlike any other you have known in your lifetime. New Orleans belongs to her good people, not a bunch of bullies and thieves. Now you have the chance to take your city back and improve your families’ lives. Is there any better reason to put it all on the line?”

  For a moment, Bishop wondered if his words were resonating with the gaggle of petrified men. After what seemed like an uncomfortably long pause, someone in the crowd shouted, “Damn right! We can do this!”

  An inspiring round of cheers erupted, Bishop concerned the bedlam would give away their position to anybody within fifteen city blocks. After the backslapping and celebration had died down, the leader of the rebellion began dividing the men into two teams.

  Nick would lead fifteen men to the northwest side of the pumping station, Bishop controlling a similar number to the southwest. With the canal to their backs, their numbers were barely enough to establish a perimeter. The Texan opined for a reserve force, but they had no choice but to play the hand that was dealt to them.

  It was almost 6:00 a.m., zero hour, before Bishop had placed his squad and given them their last-minute instructions. The wreckage and destruction of the collapse was finally going to be an asset to the honorable citizens of the Big Easy. The debris allowed excellent, concealed, fighting positions with acceptable fields of fire. “Blackjack’s going to have hell to pay in order to get to the levee,” Bishop whispered as he walked back toward the pumping station. “Maybe he’ll get desperate and show his ugly puss,” then, as an afterthought, he spoke a short prayer. “Please, Lord. I don’t often ask for much. To help Terri… to save my family, please give me one shot at Ketchum Jones. Just one, God. I won’t miss.”

  Nick and Mr. Rutledge were standing next to a jumbo-size control panel as Bishop returned to the pump station. The console was littered with gauges and meters, as well as several rows of indicator lights. The senior engineer was trying to explain all the mechanics to his guest from the west.

  Happy that Bishop was rescuing him from the technical lecture, Nick secretly rolled his eyes at his friend. “Ready?” the big man asked.

  “As we’ll ever be,” Bishop shrugged.

  Nodding to the older engineer, Nick said, “Let’s do it.”

  After waving a signal to an assistant, Mr. Rutledge faced the control panel and began manipulating a series of buttons, switches and levers. As he continued, Nick and Bishop stepped closer to admire his work. Once the plan was set in motion, the three men listened as the electric starter whined. A moment later, the deep, throaty roar of a diesel engine rumbled in the distance. The motor, now awakened after its long slumber, was soon joined by another, and then another.

  After a few minutes of checking various gauges and indicators, Mr. Rutledge announced, “We’re ready to start the pumps.”

  “Okay,” Nick nodded. “Let the show begin.”

  Flipping a series of switches, Mr. Rutledge seemed to be holding his breath with each move. One by one, Bishop noted the needles moving across a row of meters. “We’re pumping water,” the engineer said at one point, soon adding, “actually, a lot of water, if these indicators are accurate.”

  Glancing around at the complex maze of pipes, valves, and electrical conduits, Nick asked, “That’s it? No big rush of water? No alarm bells or klaxons?”

  “This facility was one of the last to be upgraded after Katrina. It has been fully furnished with state-of-the-art equipment, digitally controlled. Good ol’ Uncle Sam sank a lot of money into making sure the city never flooded again.”

  “How can we be sure it’s pumping?” Bishop asked.

  “I have a man eight blocks away. He’s been charged with listening to the sewer lines. When he hears rushing water, he is to sprint back here and report,” Mr. Rutledge responded
. “Until then, we just have to trust all of this fancy technology.”

  Bishop’s confirmation that the theory would work came 20 minutes later, a breathless man entering the complex. “There’s water flowing through the sewers. A ton of water!”

  Glancing at his watch, Nick asked, “How long before it’s visible in the streets?”

  Rutledge’s initial response was a shrug. Seconds later, he delivered a more complete answer, “I would guess an hour, maybe ninety minutes, but there’s no way to be sure.”

  “Shit!” the big man cursed. “We may have to move up our timetable. If Ketchum’s people report water in the streets before we set off the explosions, he’ll smell a rat for sure. If we detonate too soon, he’ll have time to rally his people and overrun our positions before the flood occurs.”

  “Wait an hour and detonate,” Bishop offered. “He’s not going to have any better information than we have. By the time he gets his people up and organized, the water should be pouring out of the manholes and drains. He’ll figure out what’s going on. Maybe he’ll get his boys to build an ark.”

  Rubbing his chin, Nick made the decision quickly. “One hour. Spread the word that we’re altering our timetables. Go!”

  Sixty minutes passed quickly, Bishop taking up a position with his team while keeping a close eye on his watch. With one minute left, he cautioned the recruits to cover their ears and get low. “My friend is damn good, but he’s never done this before. There’s no telling what will happen.”

  Right on time, a tremendous explosion ripped through the New Orleans morning, the ground shaking beneath the men gathered to defend the levee. Clouds of dust billowed up from nearby buildings, the sound of broken glass tinkling in the distance.

  Birds erupted from the trees, revealing sequestered nests, flocks of crows and pigeons disturbed by the noise and shockwave. Echoes of the blast seemed to resonate across the southern Louisiana landscape for several seconds.