by Joe Nobody
Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song
By
Joe Nobody
Copyright © 2013-2014
Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC
All rights reserved.
Edited by:
E. T. Ivester
Contributors:
D. A. L. H.
D. Allen
www.holdingyourground.com
www.prepperpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.
Other Books by Joe Nobody:
-Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart
- The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire
- Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive
- Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival
- Holding Their Own II: The Independents
- Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash
- Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent
- Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles
- The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine
- Apocalypse Drift
- The Olympus Device: Book One
Prologue
Nick lowered the binoculars and sighed. Glancing over at Bishop, he announced, “I guess that’s our answer. Doesn’t look like Fort Bliss intends to capitulate.”
Bishop snorted, lowering his optic and staring at his friend. “When the council decided to ask for Bliss’s surrender, you didn’t really think they would just give up, did you?”
“No, I guess not. It sent a strong message though.”
Adjusting the rifle hanging across his chest, Bishop was optimistic. “Like you said, we have our answer. But I’m not giving up hope just yet. We still might be able to avoid a war. If we can keep this convoy from reaching Bliss, they might change their tune.”
“Oh, it’s not getting past us today, and I’m sure they’ll change their tune. The next song they play, the one that accompanies the next convoy, will include a rhythm section complete with air support and heavy armor. We run out of dance moves when that music starts playing.”
Nick raised his glass, returning to study the distant line of military trucks, tankers and escort Humvees. Turning to Sheriff Watts, he asked, “Are you ready?”
The lifelong Texas lawman nodded, looking resplendent in his best dress uniform, complete with Stetson hat and shined boots. “We’re good to go.”
The acknowledgement sent Bishop and Nick scrambling for the rocks, climbing quickly to reach their pre-assigned position.
It was all up to the commanding officer in charge of the approaching procession now. The men from the Alliance of West Texas were prepared.
While they waited on the lead unit of the convoy to appear, Nick recounted how they had arrived at the current situation.
The ex-Green Beret understood the military mind, especially when it came to command. His years in Special Forces had provided a unique education into how his country’s leaders dealt with the problems associated with guerrilla forces and irregular opposition. Now, he was on the other side.
Supply was the lowest common denominator, the need for beans, bullets and diesel fuel drummed into the mind of every regular officer. West Point, the assorted war colleges, and day-to-day training hammered home the importance of logistical assets. If a unit didn’t have food or ammo, the soldiers couldn’t fight.
This foundational strategy was two-fold. On the one side, the American military machine was built to deny the enemy these critical assets. US troops spent years scouring the Iraqi countryside, seeking caches of weapons and ammunition - a strategy designed to eliminate the foe’s access to these all-important tools of violence.
The same overlying objectives shaped the war efforts in Afghanistan, the mission there focused on enemy supply routes coming across the border with Pakistan.
On the other side, US forces didn’t deploy without proper supply. Significant investment was made to ensure what was bad for the goose didn’t happen to the gander. Every major combat unit was equipped with extensive refueling capabilities, as well as a fleet of supply trucks.
Nick understood this basic premise of his foe, and thus concentrated his forces to the east – the direction from which the supplies must originate in order to reach the units stationed at Fort Bliss.
While Bliss, to his west, might have the armor and infantry, they were growing desperate for lack of resupply. Nick didn’t believe General Westfield would initiate any sort of offensive action without his coffers being fully stocked with those prerequisite beans, bullets, and diesel fuel.
California was a mess according to all available sources. Phoenix had been abandoned, and the funeral pyres of Denver were said to be visible for miles. Resupply from the west or the north was unlikely. That left only the south, Mexico, and the east – right where he was standing.
Nick also knew the closest major point of resupply was Fort Hood, residing on the eastern border of his territory. He had stationed his scouts around the huge base’s perimeter, hoping for an early warning if shipments were being prepared.
He had received just such a warning, early yesterday.
The Alliance’s council had been stern and concise in its orders – the forces of West Texas could not initiate offensive action. That handicap had made his job all that more difficult, but he had to agree with the policy. The mouse is so overmatched, it never starts a fight with a cat. His people’s odds probably weren’t as optimistic as the rodent’s.
They had worked quickly to prepare, throwing together a battle plan in record time. Diana and the council finally issued their approval.
Bishop seemed to be reading his friend’s mind. “Good call on the pre-deployment of men. Maybe we can pull this off without loss of life.”
“We’ll see. They’re getting close; you better head off to your squads.”
“Stay safe, brother,” Bishop replied, and then hustled off, zigzagging through the scattered rocks and boulders bordering the interstate, remaining hidden from the pavement below.
The convoy rolled out of the east, over 20 vehicles in length. The army had learned its lessons during the Second Gulf War, that conflict resulting in a change in how security was intermixed with the units carrying the precious cargo. Early in the war, the US had lost vital supplies to enemy action and had revamped procedures. Nick knew this… knew exactly where the armed escorts would be positioned. He had arranged his forces appropriately.
To the men in the lead Humvee, the scene they approached must have appeared surreal. There, blocking the westbound lanes of I-10 waited two police cars, each occupying a lane with flashing blue strobes for full effect. The toned figure that was Sheriff Watts appeared statuesque between the two cruisers and at his side a trusted deputy. Both men projected the epitome of authority - their crisp uniforms, hats and mirrored sunglasses adding to the effect.
The lead Humvee stopped over 100 yards short of the blockade, the driver and crew suspicious of an ambush. The belt-fed, 50-caliber machine gun mounted on the roof swiveled right and left, the barrel of the deadly weapon sweeping what appeared to be a completely empty desert and hillside.
The good sheriff bided his time, waiting with his shoulders squared and spine stiff. While the rest of the column hung back, the Humvee bravely inched forward. At 50 meters, it stopped again, the passenger door opening to discharge a frustrated master sergeant.
The man donned his cap and then proceeded to stride purposefully toward the pesky police officers. He stopped just shy of the two patrol cars.
“Move these cars out of the way, or I’ll
move them myself,” the sergeant began, an air of obvious disdain for local law enforcement in his voice.
“I’ll be happy to open this road, soldier… as soon as you present me with your hazardous materials permit,” replied Watts.
“My what?”
“You heard me, son. It is my understanding those trucks behind you are hauling hazardous substances, and you are required to obtain a permit before transporting such items on a public road.”
“Are you fucking crazy, old man?”
Watts looked the soldier up and down, shaking his head. “Sir, I don’t know about where you’re from, but around here I am addressed as ‘Sheriff,’ or ‘Mr. Watts.’ I’ll ignore that lack of respect – once. The next time, I’ll take it personally.”
It was clear from Nick’s perch that the sergeant didn’t know what to do. After glancing back and forth between the deputy and Watts, the man spun on his heels and returned to his ride, mumbling all the way. There was little doubt he was radioing for his superior officer.
A minute later, another Humvee broke out of the middle of the truck pack, racing toward the front of the line. This time, an older man exited the passenger seat, Nick’s binoculars indicating a rank of captain displayed on the man’s lapel.
The officer was more cordial, approaching the local lawman with a smile and extending his hand. “Captain Harrison,” he introduced.
Again, Watts repeated his demand for the required permits.
“Sheriff, I don’t know what type of game you’re playing, but I don’t have any such permit, nor am I going to obtain one. We are federal troops operating under direct orders of the president of the United States. The federal government of a country, I might add, that is currently under martial law. Unless I wandered into Mexico by accident, you don’t have any standing as far as my convoy is concerned.”
Watts didn’t hesitate, well coached by DA Gibson on how to act out his side of the debate. “Captain, this country, the land you see around you, is not under martial law. I am operating as a law enforcement officer, dutifully sworn by the elected officials of this territory.”
Diplomacy quickly deserted the captain, his manner changing abruptly. “Sir, remove these two cars, or I’ll push them aside and continue. I recognize neither your locally elected government, nor your need for any permits.”
Watts took a step closer to the man, his 6’5” frame towering over the military officer. “If you want to start a war, son, go ahead. Touch either one of those cars and you’ll be doing just that. We take our laws seriously out here.”
For a brief moment, Nick thought Watts had actually pulled it off. For just a second, it looked like the captain was going to turn the convoy around. It was an unrealistic bout of optimism.
“Fine by me,” Harrison replied, pivoting sharply and returning to his transport.
Nick watched as words were exchanged in the front seat of the command vehicle, and then the diesel engine revved as the driver guided the heavy military unit forward.
Watts had been instructed not to risk his person. As the front bumper of the Humvee advanced, the sheriff and his man moved aside, stepping to the shoulder as the captain’s driver pushed one, and then the other patrol car out of the way.
Nick sighed, disappointed he was required to execute the next act of the drama. Turning to Kevin who was waiting next to him, he whispered, “Blow it.”
A red wire was connected to the car battery between Kevin’s feet, the connection sending electrical current to the several pounds of detonation cord and explosives positioned around the overpass’s support columns.
Despite being almost half a mile away, the explosion was tremendous. A wall of gray-colored debris burst forth from under the doomed structure, the blast wave sending boulder-sized chunks of the former bridge hundreds of feet into the air.
Time seemed to slow down, all eyes drawn as the crossing roadway wobbled, shuddered, and then collapsed onto the pavement below. Interstate 10 was now officially closed.
“Your move,” whispered Nick, peering down at the command vehicle.
Captain Harrison’s Humvee stopped, idling less that 100 yards past Sheriff Watt’s now damaged patrol cars. Nick could only imagine the conversation inside, the machine gun’s turret sweeping right and left. The officer’s transport was quickly joined by two general-purpose trucks pulling out of the line, racing up to support their commander. Each disgorged a rifle squad, the infantry fanning out as if expecting an an assault.
Once comfortable with his reinforcements, the captain again appeared, walking ahead to study the rubble blocking his path.
Bishop had been expecting this action. Raising a whistle to his lips, he inhaled deeply and then sounded a screeching signal.
Along both sides of the convoy, 400 men uncovered their spider holes. Each pit was just over a foot deep, strategically placed to address the entire length of the military column. Plywood, cardboard and burlap feed bags had been used to cover the fighting positions, the makeshift roofs then coated with a layer of sand. Each had been personally inspected by an experienced operator to ensure proper concealment.
There had been no shortage of nervous humor as the Alliance’s men had taken to their hides, the exchange fueled by the fact that each dugout resembled a shallow grave.
Rifle barrels appeared from the exposed pits, all pointed toward the now wide-eyed troops piloting the convoy’s assortment of trucks.
Sheriff Watts calmly trekked to his still tenable car, slowly turning the cruiser around and pulling even with a now very pissed convoy commander.
The old lawman’s voice was firm, but reasonable. “Give it up, son. You’re outnumbered, out-gunned, and we hold the high ground. Don’t go down as another General Custer. Don’t lead your command into a slaughterhouse.”
Nick was on the balls of his feet. While he couldn’t hear Sheriff Watt’s words, he knew what the older lawman was saying. He prayed Harrison would have the common sense to surrender.
He didn’t.
Mumbling “Fuck off,” the officer walked back to his Humvee and began radioing orders for the convoy to turn around.
This too had been anticipated. Unbeknownst to the army commander, the Alliance had a convoy of its own - ten 18-wheeler tractor trailers now blocking the road behind the hemmed-in army column. The trucks had been used to transport the 500 men now surrounding the military units.
News of the trap reached the captain’s ear before his driver could reverse course.
Nick watched as the officer exited his ride for the third time that afternoon. Approaching Sheriff Watts, the soldier asked, “Do I have your word my men will be well treated?”
“I can do better than that,” the sheriff responded. “You have my word that your men are free to go. Use your troop haulers and return to Fort Hood with your men, Captain. I’m impounding the hazardous materials.”
“Agreed,” the commander replied, and turned to issue the appropriate orders.
“Oh, and Captain Harrison, please leave behind all of your small arms and ammunition. I don’t want you changing your mind a few miles down the road.”
Twenty minutes later, the remote countryside bordering I-10 erupted again. This time cheers of celebration rolled across the desert. The Alliance had prevailed in its first showdown with the government of the United States of America.
Bishop and Nick exchanged glances, neither man joining in the merriment. Both knew it would only become more difficult after today… both well aware that if war came to West Texas, there would be little to cheer about.
Chapter 1
The Davis Mountains
West Texas
June 7, 2016
Bishop watched the clear drop of perspiration fall from his nose, the bead landing on the side of his weapon. Accelerated by gravity, the small bubble trickled down the trigger guard, past the grip, and then hesitated at the cliff-edge of the carbine. Don’t do it, he mentally warned the droplet, it’s suicide.
Ignoring hi
s plea, it fell to the sandy earth between his boots, joining several of its brethren already gathered there, a small circle of damp soil evidence of their collaborative journey.
Better sweat than blood, he thought, studying the miniature battle taking place between his feet. The liquid generated to cool his body was in a desperate struggle down there – a campaign to hold a tiny beachhead of discolored West Texas desert. The fluid was losing, evaporation overwhelming the invader, absorption mopping up the wounded.
There was just no way the sweat can win, he observed. The sun was too hot, the soil too vast and dry. Ever fighting for the underdog, he adjusted his exhausted body, covering the damp spot with his shadow, probably providing false hope for the soon to be routed forces below. It wouldn’t make any difference in the long run.
Bored with the one-sided conflict, Bishop raised his gaze and studied the ragtag group of men scattered around him. He couldn’t help but draw the analogy, likening his comrades to the perspiration, about to face an enormously superior force. Don’t do it, he wanted to warn his friends, it’s suicide.
War drums were sounding on the horizon, his tribe preparing for a conflict that they had little hope of winning. It’s suicide, he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Thousands are going to die on both sides, and in the end, we can’t win.
Knowing they wouldn’t listen, Bishop held his consul.
The thirty men surrounding him had been hiking all morning, gradually gaining altitude as they progressed through the Davis Mountains of West Texas. The combination of thin air, a hot day, and the heavy, backbreaking loads carried in their packs was taking a toll.
Nick’s booming voice interrupted Bishop’s thoughts. “Two minutes, ladies,” the big ex-operator warned. “We’ll do another three miles and then break for chow. Wine will not be served.”
Bishop watched as his dear friend, their instructor for the day, sauntered over and took a knee. “You doing okay, buddy?” Nick asked.