by Joe Nobody
“Well I’ll be damned,” Bishop grunted, glancing at his watch to find it was already 4AM.
Deciding he couldn’t sleep given what he’d uncovered, Bishop settled on a cup of coffee, a quick shower, and then a high-speed trip back to Alpha.
He was just exiting the RV when a sheriff’s deputy pulled up. “Oh, it’s you,” the lawman said after shining a flashlight in Bishop’s face. “I thought maybe someone had broken into the motorhome.”
Bishop thanked the officer for his diligence, and then had a second thought. “Is your radio working?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I need you to get a message to Alpha, and it’s urgent. Diana should not concede the election until I arrive. Can you get that through?”
“Absolutely,” the deputy replied. “The relay system is working well tonight.”
Terri was surprised to hear Bishop’s truck in the driveway, yet thrilled that he was home. Quickly wiping the oatmeal from Hunter’s chin, she announced, “Daddy’s here, Sweet Pea, and am I glad.”
They met in the living room, the emotion of the campaign and loss bleeding out of Terri as she fell into his arms. “I’m so happy you’re here. I need you so much,” she gushed.
“Maybe I can cheer up your day a little,” he began. “The election was rigged, and I can prove it.”
“What?” she started, escaping his hug and scanning his face for any sign of details. “What are you talking about? This isn’t the time for a bad joke, Bishop.”
“Seriously, I can prove it. I sent word early this morning to Diana, telling her not to concede. I’ve been driving like a wild man all night to get here.”
It took Bishop 10 minutes to show Terri the images, his wife watching with a keen eye. “Show me again,” she said calmly. “We have to be absolutely 100% certain.”
After the second viewing, the family was out the door, rushing toward Diana’s home, Hunter and game cameras in tow. “I knew we had won Wichita Falls!” Terri kept repeating. “I just knew it!”
Nick answered following the ever-present security check, the big man obviously having had a bad night. “We hardly slept,” he admitted.
“Did Watts’s people get you the message?” Bishop asked.
“Yes. I wish you hadn’t done that. Diana is already having a hard enough time dealing with this, and your little mystery didn’t help.”
Bishop waved away Nick’s apprehension. “Believe me, my old friend, when you see what I have, it will be worth the wait.”
Diana padded in from the kitchen just then, two steaming cups in her hands. She looked terrible – red, swollen eyes, fussy hair, and the expression of someone who’d just lost the biggest fight of her life. Terri headed to her immediately, trying to reassure her friend that Bishop was about to change her whole outlook on the election.
Bishop explained the game cameras, his forgetfulness the day of the Wichita Falls engagement, and his retrieval the night before. He then began showing Nick and Diana the pictures.
The “first couple” watched the images three times, Nick growing angrier and angrier with each pass. Diana’s hope could be seen blossoming like a rose in the spring light.
Without a word, Nick marched to the entrance and waved one of his security guys up to the stoop. “Go and get Sergeant Capela, please. Tell him to bring his best laptop. Pronto.”
“Yes, sir,” the bodyguard acknowledged.
It was another quarter of an hour before Capela knocked on the door, “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
Once again, Bishop’s cameras displayed their images for the new arrival, the old warhorse watching each one with zero emotion. “You want me to transfer these images to my laptop so they can be studied more carefully?”
“Yes, Sergeant, but I do not want you to enhance or modify them in any way,” Nick confirmed.
A short time later, everyone was gathered around the sergeant’s computer, finally able to view a larger version of the pictures. The enhanced size made it even more apparent that the ballot boxes for at least three precincts of Wichita Falls had been switched.”
“Please get Sheriff Watts over here, pronto,” Nick ordered, before turning to a still-stunned Diana. “You should get the press involved in this as soon as possible. I will take care of letting the election commission people known what we’ve uncovered.”
As he turned to walk away, Diana surprised everyone in the room by saying, “Wait. Hold on a minute, Nick. Are we sure this is a good idea?”
Terri, her face morphing instantly into a frown, said, “Huh? What are you talking about?”
Standing with her cup, the Alliance leader ambled toward the window, deep in thought. “If we go public with this claim, half of the people will think it’s sour grapes; the other half will think the election was stolen. We’ll have a deeper divide and more strife. Are we sure we want to do that?”
Bishop thought back to the spontaneous celebration that had broken out last night at Pete’s Pizzeria as the vote tally had been written on the blackboard. “She’s right,” he muttered. “We’re all thrilled to know that Diana actually won, but how will the people react? This is pretty intense stuff.”
Nick walked purposely toward the Alliance honcho, “What are you thinking? I can see the wheels turning inside that pretty head of yours.”
“The election has already done a lot of damage to the Alliance,” she began, turning to address the room. “We’ve had kidnappings, attempted hangings, and enough negative press for any three contests. Cyrus has managed to get the cities to think they are being abused. I’ve unintentionally ginned up the countryside to the point where they believe their urban neighbors are trying to suck down every resource at our disposal. We’re already so divided. I’m afraid of what this new information will do to the recovery and the millions of people we’re trying to help.”
It was Terri, however, who ended Diana’s doubt. “It’s up to you, girlfriend, but I have to ask. Do you really want Cyrus P. Young, a man who tried to have Hunter and me kidnapped … a man who supported an illegal lynching … a man who would stuff ballot boxes…. Do you really want him running the Alliance?”
For almost a minute, the living room was dead silent as Diana stared hard into Terri’s eyes. Finally, she inhaled deeply and smiled. “No. Let’s fight this. Because it is the right thing to do.”
Chapter 17
Every newspaper in the country published the images from Bishop’s game cameras. Numerous interviews accompanied the photos, speakers included Alliance election officials and the mayor of Wichita Falls. “No doubt my city solidly supported Miss Brown,” the local politician was quoted. “On election night, when the votes were being counted, I knew something just wasn’t right.”
Cyrus, on the other hand, cried foul of a different nature. “Those pictures have been altered!” he screamed to the high press-heavens. “Diana has access to all the military’s computer power and software. She could have created propaganda showing zombies casting votes if she wanted to.”
For two days after the exposure, the debate raged across the territory, half of the people thinking Diana was trying to pull the victory rabbit out of defeat’s hat. Sheriff Watts’s department, as well as every city police force, reported numerous fights, protests, and a couple of near-riot events. In Waco, a group supporting Diana clashed with another mob that backed Young. A fight ensued, four people taken to the hospital, several storefronts damaged, and one police car lying on its side engulfed in flames.
Diana’s camp tried to tread lightly, merely calling into question the actual precincts shown in the photographs, and asking for nothing more than a limited recount. “We’re not making any claims that Cyrus or his campaign were behind this act. For all we know, it was merely an isolated group of overzealous supporters. We do, however, have the right to call for a recount, and I believe this photographic evidence and the unusual skew of results from those areas justify our request.”
The council was preparing to meet on the su
bject when Cyrus surprised everyone. Holding a press conference in front of his Dallas Governor’s office, he announced, “I also support a recount. While I stand by my accusation that Miss Brown’s photographs were doctored, my assistants have now uncovered evidence of voter fraud in other precincts. We will agree to, and totally support an Alliance-wide recount.”
“What is he up to?” Terri asked Diana as the two studied a video of Cyrus’s announcement.
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Yet again, what choice do we have? A total recount isn’t a bad thing – is it?”
Bishop was summoned by Pete that same day.
Pete’s urgently delivered message confirmed Bishop’s worst fears. “Our restaurants and bars are under siege in the bigger cities. My contribution to Diana’s campaign has put me on the wrong side of the argument where Cyrus won. I need all hands on deck. We have to protect our properties.”
“Sheriff Watts has his hands full,” Nick added after Bishop shared his boss’s note. “I wouldn’t count on any help from his deputies or the local police forces.”
Bishop rushed to San Antonio, Pete’s message requesting that he shore up the security team at the pizzeria. He arrived to find a large group of protesters on the sidewalk outside.
The burgeoning, churning crowd made sense. San Antonio was to be the site of the second full tally of votes. All of the Texas ballots were being transported to the Alamo City. Political unrest was sure to rear its ugly head nearby.
There were at least 40 protestors in the mob, many of them holding up signs with discouraging messages regarding Diana. “Down with Brown,” demanded one of the hand-painted posters. “No Dictators in Texas,” read a large banner.
Bishop entered the pizza joint to find the dining room completely empty. “It’s been a ghost town since all the bullshit about the recount started,” complained the manager. “Yesterday, somebody threw a rock through the front window with a note attached.”
Taking the crumpled paper from the obviously shaken manager, Bishop read the words out loud. “You, and all Brown shirts will burn!” stated the boldly printed message.
“Huh,” Bishop snorted, trying to be a calming influence. “Some people get way too wrapped up in politics for their own good. Comparing Diana’s supporters to Nazi Germany’s brown shirt Nazis is a little over the top.”
“I’ve sent all but a few employees home,” the manager continued. “Your security guys and a skeleton crew are all that remain.”
Nodding, Bishop headed back to the kitchen where his team was huddled. Pug was there, looking almost healed after the events in Wichita Falls. The other three men he didn’t know.
After a quick round of introductions, Bishop started issuing instructions. “We can’t let a hostile crowd inside. That is job one. We have to establish a perimeter that won’t allow anyone within throwing distance. Rocks and Molotov Cocktails are our worst nightmares. Finally, we have the right to protect private property and our own lives.”
The Texan paused, scanning the nervous faces to make sure his words were registering. “That being said, a massacre at the front door wouldn’t bode well for Pete’s ongoing business. What this means, gentlemen, is that we have to find some way of keeping an angry mob away from our place of business without mowing everyone down with shotguns and rifles.”
“And just how do we do that?” asked one perplexed team member.
“First of all, we look mean as hell. I want two of you on the roof with shotguns at all times. Patrol around the edge, scowl at any protestors, act like you mean business,” Bishop explained.
“Okay … but what if they still march toward the building?”
“Next, we use a hose. Spray water on them. People don’t like to get wet,” Bishop added. “I want two garden hoses with spray nozzles strung up to the roof. In addition to helping keep protestors at bay, we can use them to fight any fires that might get started.”
“And, if that doesn’t work?”
“Then I have a few other little tricks up my sleeve. First, we’re going to make some custom shotgun shells. Anybody ever heard of rock salt?”
Everyone had, but no one knew exactly what was involved. Stepping quickly to a nearby storage closet, the Texan brought out a large bag of salt typically used for the restaurant’s water softening system. “Start prying open those shotgun shells, boys. Pull out the buckshot, and stuff them full of this. Believe me, it stings like hell, but won’t kill anybody. Old man Johnson introduced me to rock salt when I was just 17 years old. It seems that the old coot didn’t like me trying to woo his daughter out of her bedroom window.”
The story brought a much-needed round of laughter to the crew, the men eagerly forcing open 12-gauge shells and dumping the pellets into the wastebasket. Bishop supervised the operation for a few minutes, then satisfied, motioned for Pug to follow him up top.
“Do they have a saying in Korea about the best way to fight fire is with fire?”
Nodding, the stoic Asian answered, “Yes, I understand the concept.”
“I believe firmly in that logic,” Bishop continued, scanning the restaurant’s grounds. “I want the entire parking lot roped off. I want signs hanging from the barrier, announcing that Pete’s Pizzeria is closed until further notice. If the protesters don’t think anyone is home, they may not bother.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with fire?”
“I want us to have our own petrol bombs. I want them pre-staged around the roof. If people start to cross the line, and the throng looks threatening enough, then we ignite a moat of fire to keep them at bay.”
Pug followed his boss’s gaze, stopping for a moment to assess the crowd milling on the sidewalk. “They’re no threat,” he noted. “They’re just scared.”
“Good,” Bishop replied, his respect for Pug’s judgement elevated a notch higher. “We’ll be able to tell the difference if the time comes. The violent ones always stand out.”
For the next hour, the men under Bishop’s command hustled about, setting up the restaurant’s defensive perimeters. Windows were covered with cardboard, tape, and anything else the security team could find. “A petrol bomb won’t do much damage to the outside of its building. It’s only if they penetrate to the interior that the place will burn down. Every available bucket was filled with water, ready to fight fires. The Texan knew nightfall was an enabler to those with violence on their minds.
After a few hundred rounds of shotgun shells had been converted, Bishop told his men to take turns catching some shuteye. “We need to rotate out sentry duty with sleeping in the booths. We all need to be rested and alert.
The rest of the afternoon, Bishop watched the horde outside swell. The growth was minor, a few people trickling in here and there, others apparently getting tired and heading off for home. “At least we’re not the target of any organized protest,” he thought. “That’s when things get bad.”
As darkness fell, all of that changed. A sedan appeared in the street, carrying three very fit, aggressive-looking, young men. Bishop noted they all bore carefully crafted signs and heavy backpacks. The Texan couldn’t tell what was stored inside but was sure it wasn’t doughnuts for the hungry protesters.
After waking everyone and dispatching them to battle stations, Bishop turned to Pug and said, “You’re in charge. I’m going to go change clothes.”
“You’ll be back … won’t you?” the Korean asked with hesitation.
“No. I’m going to work the crowd. I’ll be close by.”
Bishop hustled to the men’s room, emerging a few minutes later in a stocking cap, blue jeans, and his favorite running shoes. “How’s this for protestor vogue?” he asked his men.
He then grabbed a cardboard box and quickly set about making his own sign. “BROWN IS A CLOWN.”
Working his way out the back door, Bishop took the long way around the block, skulking up to the back of the growing throng and unfolding his sign.
As anticipated, the recently arriv
ed youth were the troublemakers. Bishop remembered his training on crowd control and disbursement, a mandatory class at HBR’s security services. “Look for the leaders trying to incite violence,” the instructors had preached. “Most demonstrators just want to get their message across. There are only a few in every crowd that try and enflame their cohorts into committing violent acts. Take out those instigators, and the rest of the mob will disburse.”
In San Antonio, Bishop couldn’t shoot or arrest any agitators. He could, however, make achieving their initiative more difficult.
Ten minutes after he’d joined the mob, Bishop heard a loud voice from the far end of the mass. Sure enough, a young man in his 20s had a bullhorn and was encouraging others to join his chant. “Down with Brown! Down with Brown!” he kept repeating in a catchy cadence.