Holding Their Own XV: Bloodlust

by Nobody, Joe

  Rumors had been circulating, hushed innuendo about Diana and the Alliance Council having a secret conference with the Lone Star Nation’s neighbor to the north. Bishop wished now he’d paid more attention to the scuttlebutt.

  Whispers speculating about the president coming to Texas had been one of the reasons why Bishop had sent a shortwave message to the White House. He had requested a meeting or some other form of private conversation with the commander-in-chief.

  “And where might The Col… err… the president be?”

  “Undisclosed location,” Brando answered curtly. “We would be thrilled to escort you to him,” the agent added with sarcasm.

  “I’ll bet,” the Texan replied, reaching slowly for his pistol, and then offering it to the closest agent, butt first.

  Brando pulled a small radio from his jacket, and a minute later, two large, black SUVs appeared in the street. Bishop was escorted to the backseat of the first vehicle.

  “I worked with your boss for a long time,” Bishop said. “He managed to damn-near get me killed on four different continents. You’ll pardon me for being a little annoyed with all of this clandestine bullshit. I wouldn’t be surprised if this little pleasure trip came with a mandatory black hood,” he grumbled, only halfway jesting.

  “Given the late hour, that precaution is unnecessary,” the lead agent stated. Brando immediately grew silent, and after a bit, Bishop returned his attention to the desert landscape passing outside of his window. Given the darkness, he couldn’t see much, but he didn’t care. His mind was sorting through the conversation he needed to have with his old boss.

  Twenty minutes outside of Meraton, Bishop’s chauffeur turned off the highway and onto a bumpy, unpaved ranch road. Bishop had never been in this area, unsure where he was being taken.

  Their two-vehicle convoy crested a small rise, and then Bishop noticed the blinking lights of an aircraft. The plane was sitting on a private airstrip, a feature common with the larger ranches in the area.

  While he’d expected Air Force One or at least one of those fancy Air Force VIP planes, an outdated C130 transport sat on the desert landing strip. “Did the president lose Air Force One in a poker game?”

  The driver grunted but didn’t laugh. Brando tried hard to pretend he hadn’t heard the joke. Soon enough, Bishop was being escorted toward the lowered, rear ramp of the large plane.

  The Colonel met Bishop at the base of the ramp, his hand extended, a fat cigar in his mouth. “Bishop, how the hell are you, son?”

  “Good, sir. It’s nice to see you back in Texas, sir.”

  The Colonel’s initial reaction was a blunt wave of dismissal, followed by a gruff explanation. “Diana wanted to keep our summit a secret, and I can understand why. Damn politics and the free press. In a way, I think we were better off when the newspapers couldn’t print their bullshit.”

  Bishop nodded his agreement, the press on a rampage since the civil war, whipped into a higher frenzy given all the dirty deeds and skullduggery during the recent election. Anti-American sentiments were running high at the moment, and no matter how mundane Diana’s business with the president, the press was sure to spin it against her.

  “Come with me, Bishop,” the Colonel said, indicating his former employee should follow him up and into the bowels of the aircraft.

  The interior of the plane wasn’t much different than the one Bishop and Grim had just used to parachute onto the furniture factory. At the front of this specific aircraft was installed an impressive, leather lounge, the area behind it retrofitted with a couple of office chairs bolted to the floor and one of those ass-ugly green, government-issued, metal desks. The president offered Bishop a chair and a drink. “Bourbon?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Suit yourself, Bishop,” the president replied, pouring himself at least three fingers. “Before I begin, I need your word as an officer and a gentleman that what we discuss goes no further than this aircraft. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir, with one exception. I don’t keep anything from Miss Terri, sir.”

  Bishop was surprised at the Colonel’s response. “Oh, besides that lovely lady of yours, I meant to add. I expect you to fill her in on every word.”

  “Speaking of my wife, she is the reason why I requested a private meeting with you, sir.”

  “I was briefed on your latest hijinks. Nice work, I might add,” the Colonel grinned, raising his glass as if to toast his old worker. “I assume you know I personally approved sending assets into New Orleans, but they were only partially successful.”

  The president’s statement caught Bishop off-guard. POTUS didn’t know about the more recent activities he and Nick had just accomplished. That meant the United States government didn’t have very good assets in the area. Could he use that to his advantage?

  “Yes, sir, I was informed of that operation. In fact, I recently took a little vacation in the Big Easy myself, and while I didn’t have any luck bringing Ketchum Jones to justice, I can confirm that the fugitive is alive, well, and still running his criminal organization… or at least what’s left of it. That’s why I need your help, sir.”

  Anger flashed white hot in the Colonel’s eyes as he realized that it had been Bishop who had been raising hell on Uncle Sam’s territory. The sensation passed quickly, however, their friendship overriding the trespass. “You didn’t have any luck either, eh?”

  “No, sir. Oh, I hurt them… badly… and I’m ninety-nine percent positive that I chased Blackjack out of his realm. That’s why I’m here, sir. I need your help locating the man. I have to end this, and I have to do so quickly. Miss Terri’s sanity… her very life is at stake.”

  “What? What do you mean by her life is at stake?” The Colonel snapped, his bushy eyebrows raised toward the sky.

  Bishop spent the next five minutes explaining his wife’s condition and how he feared for her mental wellbeing. “While she has not admitted it to me, I’m convinced that Terri was raped during her captivity, and she’s not dealing with it well at all. That monster visits her in her dreams every night. I need Blackjack’s head on a pike, sir. She needs to know that man can’t hurt her anymore.”

  Whether it was politics, responsibility, age, or a genuine lack of resources, Bishop was disappointed in the Colonel’s reaction. “I don’t know how I can help. We only have regained rule of law in the fringe areas of Louisiana. My resources are stretched thin as it is….”

  Interrupting his former mentor, Bishop held up a hand to halt the excuses. “Just remember those days at my ranch, sir. Don’t forget who stayed by your side, nursed you night and day, and wouldn’t let you give up while you were laying there skewered by a piece your own aircraft. That was my Terri… the same woman who now needs your help more than anything else in the world.”

  When the president didn’t respond, Bishop then pointed to the sole photograph bolted to the plane’s fuselage. The image was of The Colonel and his two grandchildren. “Just remember who saved those precious kids after your plane went down in the desert, sir. I’m calling in that favor. I desperately need your help.”

  “What is it you want from me?” the president sighed after studying the framed image.

  Bishop’s face remained emotionless. “I requested this meeting to ask you to find him, sir. All that I need is his location. Ketchum Jones must be brought to justice. I am begging you, sir, to adjust your priorities and commit the resources necessary to find this criminal. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  The commander-in-chief eyed his former subordinate for several moments, then stood and paced a few steps on the metal plate of the deck. Bishop knew the man well enough to know all options were being weighed. “Ketchum Jones is a citizen of the United States of America. He hasn’t been convicted of any new crime and has served his sentence for previous acts. Do you see my dilemma? Here I am, standing on my soapbox, every minute preaching how important the rule of law is in our land. Now, more than ever. If I give you my blessing to ente
r our nation and execute this individual, it will go against everything I have worked for since the fall of this mighty land. It will taint the most valuable accomplishments of my lifetime and could destroy my legacy.”

  Bishop smiled at the misunderstanding by America’s leader and was quick to clarify exactly what he needed. “Oh, I’m not asking you to let me do anything inside Louisiana, Mr. President. I just need to know where that scoundrel is. I give you my word, sir, that I won’t step a foot inside of the United States border, nor will any Alliance personnel.”

  The president’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead, but that was the extent of his overt reaction. He let Bishop’s words marinate for a minute, slowly pacing as he considered his options. Committing to a course of action, the Colonel perched on the edge of his desk. Leaning in close as if to share a secret, he disclosed his thoughts, “I’ll be honest with you. Men like Ketchum Jones have been running roughshod over much of that territory since all good society went to hell, and I don’t like it one bit. You would be doing the world a favor if you took him out. I’ll find Ketchum Jones for you and Miss Terri, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go. Agreed?”

  Bishop nodded, unable to contain his delight, the huge smile on his face stretching from ear to ear.

  Without waiting for any further discussion, the president waved to the security types mulling around the bottom of the plane’s ramp. “We’re finished here,” he called out. “Somebody give this man a ride back to Meraton.”

  Bishop stood, the president reaching to shake his hand. “Good luck, son. I hope all of this gives you what you seem to need so badly. I have my doubts about your strategy, but I cannot deny how much I owe to you and your wife. I never forget my debts, oval office or not.”

  The chief executive released his iron grip on the Texan’s hand and then immediately headed for the cockpit without a backward glance. “Let’s get this bird in the air, gentlemen. I want to see my grandchildren.”

  Harry fingered the mysterious communication before passing it to Bishop, even holding the envelope up to the light as if he hoped to discern its contents. He couldn’t help but notice the paper’s fine finish, but the bartender seemed especially intrigued by the letter’s handwritten heading. It read, “Bishop. Eyes only. Personal and confidential.”

  The back of the envelope was cinched with a very ornate-looking seal imprinted in hot wax.

  “You can tell me, Bishop. Are you having an affair?” the barkeep joked, his voice just above a whisper, pressing the message into the vice-president of security’s palm.

  Initially bristling at the suggestion, Bishop quickly realized that any display of anger would only make things worse. He and Terri were having enough issues without some stupid rumor of infidelity going around. “Nope. I’m pretty sure this is from the president of the United States,” he replied honestly.

  Laughing, Harry just shook his head and then headed to the other end of the bar. “And I’m the new premier of China,” he grumbled. “You could have just told me it was none of my business.”

  Taking a deep breath, Bishop opened the envelope and withdrew the single sheet of paper. “The man you’re looking for is in Morganville, LA. Good Luck. Col.”

  Smiling, Bishop folded the message and stuffed it in a pocket. “Gotcha,” he whispered.

  By lunchtime, Harry had noticed the change in his co-worker’s attitude. “Are you sure you don’t have a lady on the side? Ever since you got that mysterious letter this morning, you haven’t been able to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.”

  “I’ve been trying to purchase a new rifle off a guy over in Fort Davidson,” Bishop lied. “He’s a little weird about who can buy his guns, but we’ve finally arrived at a fair price.”

  Skeptical, Harry merely nodded. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “I’m heading out to the ranch for lunch,” Bishop announced a few minutes later. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Tell her I said hello,” Harry kidded, dismissing his friend with a wave of his bar towel.

  Bishop left Pete’s, driving west toward his ranch. He had been straight up about his destination, his only deception being a stop he planned along the way.

  Two blocks off Main Street, Bishop parked in front of Phil’s house. As he exited the truck, Bishop noted the tall antennas still towering above the modest home.

  In the first months after the downfall, Phil had been one of the most important assets in all of the Alliance. Inside the modest, single-story ranch style home, was the town’s only shortwave radio.

  Now, with the recovery gaining momentum, a variety of communication options were available within the territory. Sheriff Watts had installed a police radio system that was a salvaged digital model. Nick and his people had managed to acquire satellite phones from the military. Some of the larger cities and towns even offered limited landline calling. While Phil’s service was no longer as critical in the post-apocalyptic world, he was still was an important asset to many of Meraton's residents. More than a few critical messages would have never been delivered without his assistance.

  If you wanted to tell your sister in Houston about a family emergency, you went to see Phil. Worried about your son stationed at Fort Hood? Phil could get a short message there and back. What had been a hobby for the retired gent soon became a critical component in the initial stages of the recovery. Since the collapse of America’s traditional infrastructure, folks good-naturedly called him “Western Union.”

  Strolling up to the front porch, Bishop knocked lightly to announce his presence. Sensing he was being studied through the peephole, the Texan smiled and waved.

  “Bishop!” the old gent grinned as he opened the door. “I’ve not seen you in months, young man. Please tell me everything is well with you and yours.”

  “We’re doing great,” Bishop fibbed. “I hate to bother you, but I need to get a message through to East Texas, and I don’t have another handy option.”

  “Sure, sure, come on in. Who are we contacting, and what is the message?”

  “I’m trying to get through to Allison Plummer, the acting marshal of Forest Mist, Texas,” Bishop replied, taking a seat next to the bank of radio equipment that dominated Phil’s dining room.

  Nodding his understanding, the old-timer turned to a three-ring binder residing on his desk. “Forest Mist, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. As I said, that’s in East Texas.”

  “Got it,” the HAM operator nodded, tapping a page with his index finger.

  Bishop watched as his friend manipulated a dial, flicked a switch, and then pressed the talk button of the large microphone perched on the table. He listened as Phil paged his colleague in Forest Mist.

  A few seconds later, a man’s voice responded. “I have an important message for Marshal Allison Plummer,” Phil stated into the mic. “Would she be available?”

  “Hold five minutes, please,” the voice on the other end requested. “I’ll walk downstairs and see if she’s at the jail.”

  Nodding, Bishop said, “Their shortwave operator has an office in the courthouse. Maybe we’ll get to speak with Allison first hand.”

  In reality, it was almost ten minutes before the East Texas operator returned. “I have Marshal Plummer with me,” he transmitted.

  Without interruption, a female voice declared, “This is Allison Plummer. How can I help you?”

  Phil motioned for Bishop to take over the microphone. “Hello, Allison. It’s Bishop. Can I speak to you in private?

  Her chuckle was audible through the radio’s tiny speaker. “Our voices are being broadcast all over the planet, Bishop. Not sure how you intend on having a private conversation.”

  “I’m not worried about any ears between here and there. This is regarding a police matter in your town. I want to make sure you are alone when we talk.”

  A few seconds passed before Allison responded. “Go ahead.”

  “Here’s what I’d like for you to do,” he began, taking t
he next five minutes to outline his request.

  When he had finished, she laughed again. “I understand. I think you’re crazy, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Let me know via this station,” Bishop responded. “I will reimburse the county for its expenses. I hope to hear from you soon.”

  “If this works, Bishop, I’ll reimburse your expenses.”

  Allison drove the police car toward Highland Hardwoods, a trip that just a few weeks ago would have never been made alone.

  The Smokers living near Mr. Yarborough’s mill hadn’t trusted the police at that time, most law enforcement visits due to reported theft or other complaints about criminal activity. The uneasiness before Ketchum’s attack had been mutual.

  Things had definitely changed in the weeks following Blackjack’s attempted invasion. As word of the heroic efforts by Forest Mist’s previously unwanted visitors had spread, the town's attitude had drastically improved.

  Today, Allison’s biggest fear was that the person she was seeking no longer lived in the shrinking shantytown.

  Many of the camp’s former residents had already been relocated to vacant homes in Forest Mist, now welcomed by a town that was trying hard to integrate their gypsy heroes into the community. Jobs had been offered, as well as support programs and other unified efforts. Even the local church had become involved, offering training classes for the unskilled workers trying to make a fresh start.

  Pulling off the road, Allison exited her patrol car and began walking toward the community of cardboard shacks, discarded tarps and tents, and other makeshift structures. She had just managed the middle of the camp when a man caught her attention. “Is Pearl here?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’ll go get her, Marshal. Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, yes, no problem. In fact, I have a job for her.”

  “Wonderful,” the man nodded, pivoting to reenter the woods.

  It was a few minutes before Pearl appeared, the Smokers’ leader smiling as she approached. “How can I help you, Officer?”