Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  By the time the cookout was over, Bishop was exhausted, sad, and discouraged. “I feel like one of us has died,” he explained to Terri. “In reality, my whole team is dead. I wonder if any of them will remain with the Alliance for long. What a horrible ending to what should be one of the greatest chapters of our times.”

  “They’ll come around,” she predicted. “In so many ways, they’re all a lot like you. They don’t like the unknown – it freaks them out. Give this some time. Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring.”

  Chapter 5

  Bishop’s shirt was stiff with the salt of dried perspiration. He was dog tired, every little movement causing the Texan to scowl as he trekked down the trail. “Nick is trying to kill me,” he grumbled. “What happened to taking it easy and slacking off the last few days on the job? Hell, I’m going to be in too much pain to accept my gold watch. Nick is no longer putting me out to pasture, he’s trying to bury me under it.”

  Grim had accepted command of SAINT One, temporarily. Bailey, the new guy, had been assigned the day after. It was never easy to train, integrate, and accept anyone into a small unit, especially a tight-knit squad with years of experience working as a team.

  A former Marine and police officer with the Austin department, Bailey had all the credentials. Bishop thought the newest member of the unit was an excellent choice. Grim, however, did not agree.

  “He thinks and acts too much like a Marine,” the new commander of SAINT One had complained. “He’s too aggressive … takes too many risks. He’s going to get us all killed.”

  “Tell him, not me, Grim,” Bishop had coached. “It’s your team, Old Buddy. You are in command. Mold them the way you think is best, and if they don’t toe the line, kick their sorry asses.”

  Not only was there a new personality in the mix, but the team's internal dynamics were also changing as well.

  No longer was Butter the primary focus of Grim’s ire. Practically overnight it seemed, the team’s largest member had somehow managed to get his shit in one, neat, bag. At least from his new commander’s perspective.

  Now, there was a new guy to pick on, and Grim was relentless.

  For over a week, SAINT One had been playing a series of mini war games with SAINT Six. The exercises, conducted in the mountains outside of Alpha, were brutal.

  First, there was the altitude. At over 5,000 feet, the thin air caused headaches, shortness of breath, and induced an overall lack of endurance. Tempers flared. Harsh words flew. Bodies suffered. Bishop thought it was the perfect environment.

  Then there was the terrain, which always seemed to be fighting against them. “There’s not a fucking, flat patch of earth in this entire county,” Grim had bitched. “Everything is either straight up, straight down, too steep to climb, or so thick with pine trees and undergrowth that a man can’t walk. I can’t even take a proper shit. Every place I try to squat, I damn near fall off a cliff.”

  Worse yet, the Texan didn’t care for their adversary, the opposing force one of the newer SAINT teams to be constituted and dispatched into the field. Their leader, a man they called Captain K, wouldn’t be receiving any Christmas cards from Bishop.

  Captain Kilmer was trigger happy, at least from Bishop’s perspective. SAINT teams were supposed to Scout, Assess, INtegrate, and Transition. Captain K seemed far more inclined to just annihilate everyone in his path and be done with it.

  Oh, SAINT Six was skilled, no doubt about that. They moved well, executed with precision, and were more than lethal in the arts of combat. Bishop had little doubt that the sullen, untalkative bunch would whoop serious quantities of ass when they got into a fight.

  That, however, wasn’t the organization’s primary mission. SAINT teams weren’t infantry or Special Forces. Their job wasn’t to take ground and hold it at any cost. They were to go on the offensive only to protect themselves or citizens of the Alliance. Diplomacy, negotiations, and flexibility were supposed to be their primary tools.

  “They’re just playing hardball because of our reputation,” Grim had explained. “Nick probably told them to give us hell just to make sure the new guy and I are mission ready.”

  Bishop didn’t agree, but the lame duck’s opinion carried limited weight.

  It was Butter, walking point, that first noticed something was wrong as SAINT One approached their camp. Motioning for the line of men behind him to hold, the stalwart kid took his time scouting the area where they had set up their tents.

  After verifying they weren’t walking into an ambush, Butter motioned everyone forward. “Our sleeping bags and all of our food is gone,” he announced with wide eyes. “We’ve been robbed.”

  “Or raided,” Kevin added.

  Bishop was instantly pissed. Not only was the team exhausted, but they also were hungry, thirsty, and needed to plan tomorrow’s operation. “Those asshats have gone too far this time. Campsites are off limits. Captain K knows that.”

  “They also know the outcome of this training event depends on who wins tomorrow’s exercise. Team Six is trying to stack the deck in their favor,” Grim mumbled.

  Technically, Bishop was supposed to be an advisor during the transfer of command. For the most part, he’d kept his mouth shut, letting Grim do his own thing. So far, the old goat had done well, holding his own against the more aggressive Six.

  Pacing back and forth, the Texan’s temper began to boil over. This wasn’t the first transgression.

  SAINT Six had already pushed the limits of the training site’s rules, twice poking a toe across the line to win at all costs. While Bishop could appreciate creativity and motivation, Nick’s command had carefully structured these exercises with both development and safety in mind. If one team member on either side was injured, the entire SAINT program, and thus the Alliance, would suffer.

  Finally, after four laps around the ransacked camp, the Texan arrived at a conclusion. “Grim, have your people mount up,” he ordered.

  Grim was instantly suspicious. Bishop’s temper was famous, and it was obvious the man was in a foul mood. “What do you have in mind, boss?”

  “Payback,” Bishop answered without hesitation.

  “I’m all for that, but a few more details might help. Do you have a plan, or are we just going to roll into their camp and beg for the neighborhood bully to give our lunch money back?”

  “If we even knew where their camp was,” Bailey added.

  “I know where they’re bivouacked,” Bishop grinned. “I caught a glimpse of Captain K’s map the other day. They’re up in Panther Cave.”

  Frowning, Grim said, “So?”

  “So, I know that spot pretty well. I think we can utilize our local knowledge as an advantage. Let’s have the team mount up. This will be fun.”

  “Normally, I might question an order like that,” Grim grumbled. “But with no chow and no 4-Star accommodations, what’s a team supposed to do until sunrise?” The grizzled, old soldier grinned at the possibilities now becoming apparent to him.

  There was a renewed energy in the unit’s step as they slinked up the trail in the darkness. After a mile of tough climbing, Bishop called a halt and waved for the men to gather around.

  Whispering as he drew a simple map in the dirt, Bishop began. “When I was a young man, Panther Cave was a local hangout for the high school kids to sneak away and drink beer, smoke cigarettes, and rebel against all those nasty adults and their rules. While I never partook of any of those activities, I know the spot well.”

  Rolling his eyes at Bishop’s claim of innocence, Grim grunted, “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  “One night, years and years ago, a couple of my hunting buddies consumed a bit too much Pabst Blue Ribbon while hanging out in the cave. Naturally, they decided to camp for the night. The temperature dropped outside, so we built a fire. That proved to be a huge mistake.”

  Shaking his head, Butter said, “I don’t get it, sir?”

  “There is a natural chimney at the top of the formation,” Bishop replied wi
th a wicked grin. “There is a thin gap in the rocks that allows campfire smoke to escape. That vent, however, will occasionally become clogged with downed limbs, pine needles, and other forest debris. The night my friends and I built the fire, we were forced out coughing and hacking in less than five minutes. The whole cavern filled with thick fumes before we knew it.”

  Grim was on board now. “You want to use an old Indian trick and smoke them out.”

  “Yup,” Bishop nodded. “It took four hours for the blaze to die down and the air to clear enough for us to go back in. Now, according to the rules of training engagement, campsites are off limits, but technically, they won’t be in their camp. While you guys ambush the hell out of them, Butter and I will sneak in and take back our gear and as much of theirs as we can carry. Not only will we displace them for the night, but score some extra points for the bushwhacking.”

  “Just make sure you get our food,” Kevin added. “I don’t care about sleeping on the ground, but I gotta eat.”

  “Amen to that,” Butter agreed, rubbing his midsection. “My stomach is about to eat my backbone. I need some grub.”

  “Kids,” Grim grumbled, shaking his head. “Eat, eat, eat … that’s all they ever think about.”

  “Let’s do it,” Bishop barked. “Butter, you’re with me. Grim, they’re going to be rolling out of that fissure in about 30 minutes. I suggest you get your people ready to ruin their evening.”

  As the team prepared, Bishop pulled Butter aside. “You’re going to need a face mask. Wet down a spare shirt to cover your nose and mouth. Leave all of your kit here. We’re going to be carrying a lot of weight out of that cave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When everyone was ready, Bishop and Butter split from the rest of the team, the two stalkers sneaking toward the high side of the ridge. As they approached closer, the glow of Six’s fire shined in the distance. “Good,” the Texan whispered to his comrade. “Looks like they’ve got a rip-roaring blaze burning in there.”

  Climbing higher and circumventing any possible sentries, the duo made good time, despite the darkness. Occasionally, the air carried the sound of human voices and laughter past their ears. “Yuk it up, boys. Enjoy your victory while you can,” Bishop hissed.

  The intense smell of smoldering wood told Bishop they were close. Rounding a large outcropping of limestone, the interloper spied a grey column of smoke rising into the Texas night.

  They worked quickly, unfolding the tent that Bishop had carried up from their own camp. In a matter of minutes, they had plugged the chimney. A sly smirk crossed Bishop’s lips as he watched the canvas-like material billow up when it captured the hot air from below. The chimney was now closed, and Elvis was about to leave the building.

  “Let’s work our way down a little, so we can rush in behind them as they evacuate. This won’t take long.”

  Just as the Texan predicted, a bout of coughing sounded from the entrance, followed by, “What the hell?”

  “What’s going on?” another excited voice protested, following by several strings of cursing and choking.

  A moment later, four shadows boiled out of the opening, bent low at the waist and scrambling for fresh air. Grim and the team were waiting.

  A blizzard of paintballs slammed into SAINT Six, Grim having positioned his people perfectly in the rocks that surrounded the cave’s entrance. Cries of surprise and anger echoed off the mountainside as the painful pellets slammed into the unprotected bodies of the surprised rivals.

  “Now!” Bishop ordered, watching as Captain K’s men darted into the night, trying to escape the ambush’s kill zone and it’s stinging barrage of paintballs.

  Bent low, with their faces covered by damp cloth, Bishop and Butter rushed into Panther Cave while Grim’s men pursued the fleeing members of Six.

  SAINT One’s missing gear was stacked against one wall near the opening, a lucky break that Bishop appreciated as the thick smoke was already burning his eyes. Pulling up one of K’s tents, he and Butter began throwing their stolen kit onto the makeshift tarp.

  In less than a minute, Butter was pulling up the corners of the pilfered tent, making a bundle and then hefting it over his shoulder like a giant Santa Claus. “Go!” Bishop ordered, barely able to draw air. “I’ll get what I can of their junk.”

  As he glanced around the enemy’s camp through watering eyes, Bishop determined quickly that no larceny was required. Captain K’s boys had evidently been right in the middle of cooking their nightly meal. There, lying on the ground close to the raging campfire, was a large ruck full of food. With a swipe of his boot, Bishop kicked the precious supplies into the flames, adding more fuel that would surely keep the cave uninhabitable for an additional hour or two.

  SAINT Six’s sleeping bags soon joined the toxic mix.

  In a flash, Bishop darted out of the cave. He found Butter nearby, the muscle-bound young man drawing fresh air into his lungs with a frenzy. The Texan joined him.

  “We have to get out of here,” Bishop huffed. “They’ll be coming back soon, and I don’t want to get caught red-handed.”

  Nodding, Butter hefted the recovered goods onto his shoulder as the duo faded silently into the night.

  Flush with adrenaline from their victory, it had taken SAINT One over an hour to settle down. Grim, now officially in command, had let the boys celebrate and burn off a little steam before getting back down to the business at hand. Determining the evening’s rotation of guard duty brought everyone back to earth.

  “Which shift of the watch do you want, boss?” the new commander asked Bishop.

  “Watch? Sentry duty? Me? Did you get thumped in the head during that last action, Grim? I’m retired,” Bishop teased.

  Breaking out in a rare guffaw, Grim agreed, “Given the brilliance of this evening’s payback, I’m going to go along with that. You can sleep in, Old Man.”

  “Damn straight,” Bishop grinned, stringing his hammock-net between two pines. “And you should tell the men to be quiet … we old timers need our rest.”

  It seemed like Bishop had just closed his weary eyes when Butter’s voice rang through the camp. “Op force approaching, waving a white flag. I have four individuals. Armed. It’s SAINT Six.”

  Bishop rolled out of his net, grumbling a sleepy, “What now?”

  The Texan was surprised to see the sun had already cleared the eastern horizon, momentarily stunned that Grim had indeed been good to his word. Filing that charity for use later, Bishop pulled on his boots and wondered if he had time to gulp some coffee before Six arrived.

  “Captain K is breaking off, approaching our camp solo,” Butter continued to narrate from his elevated perch in the rocks above the camp. “He doesn’t look happy.”

  “No shit,” Bishop croaked.

  Grim appeared just then, returning from the woods while zipping up his pants. “I was just taking a big, burly shit, and look who shows up. My favorite turd.”

  Glaring at his friend with a grimace that said, “Too much information,” Bishop croaked, “Let me handle this asshole.”

  “I thought you were retired?”

  Waving off the smartass remark, Bishop poured a cup of java from the pot. Taking a quick sip of the barely-tolerable brew, the Texan began the hike toward the approaching team leader.

  The two men met about 30 meters from SAINT One’s camp, Bishop opening the meeting with a friendly salutation, “Good morning, Captain.”

  Kilmer evidently wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. Walking directly to stand nose-to-nose with the Texan, he spat, “What was that bullshit last night?”

  Bishop sniffed the opposing man, wrinkling his face in mock disgust. “Have you taken up smoking, Captain? You smell like an ashtray. You know I’ve heard that habit that is bad for your health.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha. Very fucking funny, asshole. I’m protesting an assault on our camp and the destruction of Alliance-issued equipment. We’re on our way down the mountain right now. These exercises are ov
er!”

  Bishop laughed in Kilmer’s face. “Ah. Poor babies. You can dish it out, but can’t take it? Go ahead, ass worm, protest all you want. Nick doesn’t appreciate quitters.”

  “You took one hell of a risk, Old School,” Captain K countered. “If one of my guys had gotten burned or injured during that little stunt last night, I wouldn’t be standing here having a discussion. I’d be whooping your over-the-hill ass, right in front of your men.”

  “I’m easy to find, Boy. Take your best shot – any time you want,” Bishop hissed, moving even closer to the mouthy officer.

  Kilmer retreated one step, waving his hand through the air as if to dismiss the challenge. “I don’t beat up on old fucks. You ain’t worth my time.”