Holding Their Own: The Salt War

by Joe Nobody

  The big man took the courthouse steps two at a time, nodding to the security guard stationed at the front door as he passed. The light was on in Diana’s office. He increased his pace, not wanting to lose the ball of courage he’d summed up.

  “I thought I would find you here,” he announced, causing her to look up from the report in her hands.

  Her smile was bright and sincere, joy filling her face as she stood up and rushed into his arms.

  After a lengthy embrace, Nick held her at arm’s length and looked directly into her eyes. “I have something very important I need to talk to you about,” he stated with a trembling voice.

  “You’ve heard already?” Diana asked, concern crossing her brow.

  “Heard what?”

  “Bishop and Terri never showed up at Fort Bliss. I received a radio transmission a few hours ago and was trying to organize search parties.”

  Nick frowned, then walked over to the calendar hanging nearby on the wall. A quick count of the days made him even more concerned. “They should have made it to Bliss two days ago even if Bishop did decide to take an extra day camping. Something must have gone wrong.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she started. “But how did you know already?”

  Nick ignored the question, not sure how to answer. Instead, he stepped to the map of Texas residing on the opposite wall and poked it with his finger. “We need to get a couple of Blackhawks over here from Fort Hood on the double. Searching from the air is the only way we have any chance of finding them down in that wasteland.”

  “Already done,” Diana replied. “There will be four here just after dawn. General Owens is also sending two rifle squads as well.”

  He should have known Diana would take control of the situation, her professional response reminding him of her strength… one of the many reasons why he loved her. The realization snapped his mind back to the real purpose of his charging into her office.

  Still facing the wall, he rested his hand the map while sorting his thoughts. In a moment he continued, determined to ask the provocative question while his resolve was high. “You know,” he began, clearing his throat, “in this post-collapse world, we just never have any idea what is going to happen, Diana. I mean the world can… and does… turn on a dime.”

  “Oh, I know, Nick. I am worried about them, too. There is just no telling what has happened to Bishop and Terri,” she rattled on for a minute, glad to have him back to share her apprehension.

  The big man looked deeply into her eyes and sighed deeply. This conversation is not going the way I planned, he thought.

  Diana, sensing his somewhat over the top, elevated apprehension, sought to reassure him of her plan, adding, “But we are dedicating the proper resources right away to mount a rescue, if necessary. Then again, we will probably find them out at some 4-star oasis, taking things easy, working on their tans and enjoying their second honeymoon.”

  Their second honeymoon? Nick thought, swallowing hard. Even that skinny-ass Bishop managed to close the deal with his lady love, and now he’s on his second honeymoon. Nick slipped his top button from its hole and fanned himself with a file from the mayor’s desk.

  Diana noticed the glistening of Nick’s skin as he broke out in a slight sweat. When he reached for the manila folder, she began replaying their disjointed conversation in her head and speculating over the cause of Nick’s mildly erratic behavior. What in the heck happened out there to turn my competent operative into a contemplative philosopher? she wondered.

  “Are you feeling okay, Nick?” the mayor asked, her level of concern rising as she began to visually assess his person for evidence of a serious injury. Nope, she thought. No visible wounds.

  Someday, when the grandkids come to visit, we will remember this dialogue and laugh, he thought. Oh, well, clearly it’s now or never, he determined. Diana appeared completely puzzled when he took a knee in front of her. “Now, back to my important discussion,” he began. The true nature of the conversation finally dawned when he gently grasped her hand and looked up with the most sincere expression she’d ever seen. “Will you marry me, Miss Diana Brown?”

  Tears rolled down her cheek as she stared back, almost not believing that the words she had waited so long to hear had finally been spoken.

  “I will,” she said, bending forward to kiss him passionately.

  After they had finished, she held his face with both hands and looked lovingly into his eyes. “You just made me the happiest woman in the whole, wide world.”

  Terri was nodding off in the saddle when the camper finally came into view.

  Seeing the familiar sight provided her with a second wind, the smile she flashed at her husband saying, “Thank you,” and “I love you,” in a single expression.

  “I can’t help you with Hunter,” he explained. “I can’t say why, but I think those guys behind us are close. It’s just a gut feeling.”

  “No problem,” she answered instantly. “You do what you have to do. I’m going to put Hunter down in the bat cave. If there’s going to be shooting going on, he’ll be the safest in there.”

  Bishop went to work, unloading the horses and moving the packs into the cave with his wife and son. He made a point of making sure Terri’s AR15 was ready to rumble.

  He staked out the horses next to the spring, the thirsty animals wasting no time dipping into the cool pool of water.

  It had been a few weeks since they had visited the ranch, the lonely stretch of property having been relegated to a second home of last resort. Terri’s work kept her mostly in Alpha or traveling on the road. The same could be said of her mate’s recent responsibilities.

  On his last visit, Bishop had noticed several of his trip lines and early warning devices had succumbed to wind, weather, and wild animals. He’d been slacking off.

  But there wasn’t time to repair them now, he determined. If the men on their tail arrived while he was bumbling around in the desert, he might be caught unaware, and that wouldn’t be good.

  Terri appeared, carrying a wrapped sandwich. “It’s not much, but the best I could do in a rush.”

  The Texan kissed her cheek, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  “What can I do to help? Hunter’s asleep. I built a wall of ammo boxes as an extra precaution to keep him safe.”

  “I want you to get some rest,” Bishop ordered. “I don’t know if we’ll have to move, or when, but for right now you need to get some sleep. I’m going to stay out here and make sure nobody sneaks up on us. You stay with Hunter and keep your rifle handy. They may pass us by or might not be able to find our trail.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you think is best,” she answered. “And hey, don’t forget that I love you. And more importantly, you still owe me a vacation,” she winked.

  “I love you too, babe. Now go catch some shut-eye. I’ll yell before I come in. If they don’t show up before dawn, then I’ll assume they’ve lost us or given up. We’ll ride on into Meraton tomorrow, and I’ll splurge for a room at the Manor.”

  She hugged him tight, spinning away without another word and heading off to the bat cave. Bishop watched her go, wishing the world were a different place, or at least that they were some place safer.

  Deciding to set up his vigil at the mouth of the valley, he selected a large, truck-sized boulder as cover. Arranging the extra magazines from the bat cave, he settled with his back against the cold rock and waited.

  “Those are my horses,” Mr. Culpepper declared, lowering the binoculars and handing the optic to Whitey. “They’ve got some sort of camper back in that valley. We’ve got them pinned.”

  “So what do you intend, sir,” the foreman asked, studying the layout in the pre-dawn glow from the east.

  “I want to take the woman and child alive. The husband, I couldn't care less about,” came the steely response.

  Whitey was at the end of his rope, frustrated and confused by the entire affair. With a tone bordering on insubordination, he asked, “W
hy, Mr. Culpepper? I need to know why. I know you better than to believe this confrontation is all over a couple of horses… or somebody sneaking out on you. So before I order our men into a very dangerous situation, I think I deserve an explanation.”

  A harsh rebuttal filled the old man’s throat, but he checked the reaction. After a few deep breaths, he said, “Because that woman down there can win the war for us. While I was visiting the triple-8, I found out she’s the head honcho of a very, very powerful group, and she controls more resources than we’d ever need to defeat the Tejanos.”

  “We’re so desperate that we have to resort to kidnapping?”

  The look on Culpepper’s face made the man look old and sad. “We’re losing, Whitey. We can hold out a month more, maybe two. I’m not going just to let my ranch – and everything I’ve dedicated my whole life to – go without a fight. Think about it. You know damn well I’m telling the truth.”

  Something in his boss’s voice touched Whitey. He’d been in Mr. Culpepper’s employ since he’d left high school, the man beside him the only person who’d ever given him a chance.

  “If you think it’s the right move, then I’m with you all the way, sir. I ride for the Culpepper ranch, and so do the men with us.”

  The statement of unwavering loyalty moved the old man, but he had never expected anything less. No matter how troubling the circumstances, it was a time-honored tradition in the West for a man to pledge his gun and his life to the outfit.

  “Take them all alive if you can, but for sure, bring me that woman. It will be the end of our war, and the only chance I can see for the future.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll hit them at dawn,” came the reply, and then Whitey was gone, moving off to rally the men and set up the assault.

  The sunlight hitting Bishop’s face made him sneeze, that involuntary reaction followed immediately by a yawn.

  He glanced up at the cloudless sky, trying to decide if the remaining miles to Meraton would be bearable in the heat, comparing that option to traveling at night. He gave up, accepting that he really didn’t have any choice in the matter. They had to get back to civilization sooner rather than later.

  Standing gingerly, he stretched wide and hard, spreading his arms and flexing every muscle still under his command. He’d give it one more hour, and if the men behind them didn’t show their faces, he’d saddle up the horses and head into town before it got too hot.

  It was the slightest color out of place that snapped him alert, a shadow just a hair too long, a rock that hadn’t been there before. Bishop bent low, carefully studying the canyon he knew so well, trying to decipher what had drawn his eye.

  The first rifle shot pinged high off the boulder to his front. Before he could react, a full volley of incoming fire drove him to the ground.

  They’re here. There are a lot of them.

  The rain of lead stopped immediately after he had disappeared from sight, giving Bishop time to replay the last few seconds. His mind worked hard, attempting to calculate angles of fire, distance, sound, and the likely position of the shooters. But it was too much, too quick; his then-groggy mind unable to reconcile all the input.

  One thing was for certain; he wasn’t in a good position, and when outnumbered, fighting was like real estate - location, location, location.

  Bishop reached into his bag of goodies, extracting two long canisters. It took only a few moments to extract the pin and toss the smoke grenades.

  Confined by the canyon walls and lack of moving air, the mouth of the valley soon filled with a thick fog. Hefting his bag and bent low, Bishop launched from behind his cover, sprinting for all he was worth in retreat.

  He leaped behind a smaller rock, his new shelter one of the last boulders before the flat, open area in front of the camper. Beyond the temporary, aluminum-skinned home was the dead end of the steep canyon walls, an unscalable barrier while taking fire.

  “It’s now or never,” he hissed, bracing his rifle over the top of the rock and waiting for the smoke to clear.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  Culpepper’s men thought he was still behind the big rock, one of them exposing his head in an attempt to gain a better vantage. Bishop’s optic centered, his first shot of the battle drawing blood.

  But now they knew where he was hiding, dozens of bullets chewing into his rock cover… shards, sand, and lead filling the air.

  Bishop was more alert now, ready for the return fire, his mind snapping detailed mental images of muzzle flashes and movement. He waited low, letting them blast away at his granite shield.

  It was obvious he was in trouble. The enemy held a strong list asymmetrical advantages, including firepower, maneuverability, longevity, and tactical position. I’m essentially stuck with a shit sandwich, Bishop realized. It was 20 rifles to 1; he was pinned inside of a dead end kill zone. They could pick the angle of attack, take more losses, and they held the high ground.

  His only hope was to inflict as many casualties as possible and pray they would rethink continuing the assault. Unlikely, but desperate men had held on with less.

  When their fire subsided, the Texan popped up, spraying three quick shots where his memory indicated a target would be. There wasn’t time to see if he did any damage, a hailstorm of whizzing bullets splitting the air just as he crouched low.

  They were everywhere, at least 20 men. Some were up high, firing down into the valley from the canyon walls, others were spread out across the entrance and using the same field of boulders as cover.

  It occurred to Bishop that the shooters on the walls weren’t the primary concern. The sheer faces of rock prohibited those men from doing anything but covering for their comrades down on the floor. That’s where the assault had to come from, up the mouth of the formation, and into the teeth of Bishop’s defense.

  He started focusing on the people at his own level, hoping the loss of a few of their own would make the survivors pause. Ignoring the men up high, Bishop’s next series of rounds concentrated on the force working its way toward his position.

  The M4 sang its deadly song, Bishop staying exposed longer than was prudent, but it paid off. He heard a howl of pain and then saw another man fall.

  That pissed them off, the duration and amount of returning lead far more intense than previous exchanges.

  Bishop knew he was fucked. He could get lucky, picking a man off here and there, but the outcome wasn’t in doubt. He was simply outnumbered and would eventually fall under the weight of their attack.

  A turmoil of self-doubt rampaged through his head. He cursed himself for every bad decision, starting with the horrible idea of taking a vacation, and ending with his placid attitude that very morning. It’s no wonder you’re going to die, he thought. You’ve messed up every step of the way.

  The two sides exchanged salvos several more times, Bishop rising up to spray half-aimed shots, the Culpepper riders responding, pushing him back behind the rock.

  But then they finally wised up. A constant stream of suppressive fire started striking his boulder, keeping Bishop pinned low while granite shrapnel stung his skin, and zips of lead passed overhead. They were taking away any chance he had to raise up and hold them back.

  Bishop chanced it anyway, moving to the other end of his hide before exposing himself, but only managing two shots before they adjusted their aim. During that brief glimpse down the valley, he recognized two teams of men moving toward him on both sides. Smart, he hated to admit, finally a professional move.

  With his face pressed into the dirt, praying none of the bullets found his body, Bishop wasn’t surprised the cowboys had figured it out so quickly. While they may not have the benefit of first-rate military training, they had been involved in a shooting war for several months. Men learn in combat, reflexes are honed; the smart ones survive.

  Anger began to well up inside the Texan’s core, a fury aimed at Culpepper and his self-centered, single-purposed campaign to win his little war, no matter who he hurt or
what price in human life was paid. He rose up again, almost uncaring as he stayed and sprayed.

  The bullet that grazed his forearm sent a wave of pain, and reality, back into his rage-driven head. Injured and scared, Bishop dropped back down. Another session of internal criticism followed. What are you trying to do? Make it easy for them?

  Movement to his right caused Bishop to look, Terri’s pale face peeking out from the heavy metal door of the bat cave. She appeared there only for a second, but it was enough to re-energize Bishop and fuel his need to survive.

  Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the only two hand grenades in his possession. The small, military issued explosives were leftovers from the skirmish in Brighton, stored in the bat cave out of concern for their safety.

  He waited, trying to judge how bold the men moving up the valley would be. After what seemed like an eternity, Bishop pulled both pins, rising to throw one left, the other right.

  He waited low, the loud crack and rumble of the detonations launching a cloud of rising debris into the air. Bishop was up and running, making for the camper’s wheels and his last line of defense.

  The screams of wounded men came through his heavy breathing as soon as he slid behind the metal rims, desperate cries for help drifting through the still-settling clouds of sand raised by the grenades.

  Bishop actually managed a smile, pleased that at least one of his tosses had found flesh.

  He raised the M4, waiting for a clear target. A form appeared, rushing forward as if to help a downed comrade. Bishop practically cut the man in half.

  It was a short-lived victory. After being surprised by the grenades, the cowboys regrouped quickly, if nothing else, doubling the ferocity of their advance.

  From Bishop’s perspective, a solid wall of lead slammed into the camper, shredding the thin metal skin like a freight train cutting through fog. He tried to return fire, but the air was filled with fragments of the trailer, erupting fountains of dense smoke and geysers of sand and dirt. The Texan’s eyes burned, and his lungs suffered for air.