Bishop's Song

by Joe Nobody

  The horse jerked once, twice, and then its pain was over.

  The shot drew everyone’s attention, and Bishop took advantage of it. “You men over there, come get that wagon out of the ditch so we can push this one upright. I’ll help.”

  Again, the old timer approached. “That’s Marty’s wagon, and his mule won’t move for anyone else. He refuses to do anything until those thugs set his daughter free… not that there’s going to be much left of her after they’re done.”

  Bishop glanced at the distraught father, two large fellows holding him back. “Marty! Marty! You can’t go up there,” one of the burly men said. “They’ll kill you on sight.”

  Bishop’s patience, already stretched taunt, snapped. Glancing between the VFW and the restrained father, logic was overwhelmed by rage. Turning to the old man, he mumbled, “I’ll fix that,” and then he stormed off, making a beeline toward what his brain registered as the source of his latest obstacle.

  The VFW was only one quarter of a mile down the road. Like so many small towns across the country, the small building had been constructed on the outskirts of the community it served. This was due in part to availability of cheaper land, coupled with the fact that Saturday evening dances could go late into the night without disturbing the neighbors. There might have been a hint of some customers enjoying the occasional libation without prying eyes knowing their business.

  None of this mattered to Bishop at the moment, his course unwavering, his stride evidence of grim intent.

  “Check this asshole out,” commented one of the invaders, standing on the front stoop of the VFW and chewing a mouthful of pillaged food. “What the hell does he think he’s gonna do?”

  “I got this one,” his partner responded after swallowing. He reached for the pistol tucked in the small of his back.

  Bishop kept coming, his steps almost robotic – pneumatic pistons closing the distance.

  With his pistol still pointed down, the brave fellow stepped forward, holding up his empty hand, signaling for Bishop to stop. “Just what do you think you’re doing … ”

  He never finished the statement. Without saying a word or breaking stride, the ACR appeared from behind Bishop’s back, the motion smooth… and very fast. He didn’t even bother shouldering the weapon, firing four shots so quickly they were difficult to count. Each target took two in the torso, staggering backwards in shock, surprised looks of pain and torment on their faces.

  Bishop charged. He covered the remaining 20 yards in five steps, his boot splintering the front door at the same moment as the first two men hit the ground.

  There were four of them in there, surrounding a corner pool table with a struggling girl held down on the green felt surface. All of the men looked up in surprise, the violence of Bishop’s entry causing their mouths to open in protest.

  The first two fell instantly, grasping their chests where Bishop’s rounds tore flesh and crushed bone. The third man managed to reach for a revolver lying on a nearby table, but his grip never closed. The 68 grain hollow-point, flying at 2900 feet per second, struck the man’s temple. The bullet expanded to twice its original diameter before exiting the skull in a fountain of crimson and white. The results were immediate.

  Number four managed to dive behind the bar, but it didn’t do him any good. Bishop began firing into the wooden structure, spacing shot after shot only six inches above the floor, walking the rounds up and down the length.

  Shards of splintered timber filled the air, mixing with dust from the pulverized concrete floor and the boiling cordite exhaust from the ACR’s barrel. The empty cartridges, bouncing across the floor with a musical jingle, contrasted the stream of relentless thunder produced by the weapon, an unyielding hammer driving high velocity lead nails.

  While his bullets tore through the thin wooden veneer, Bishop was sidestepping to the opposite end of the long structure. The cadence of his trigger finger never stopped until he rounded the corner. He found the target lying face down, unmoving with an expanding pool of red beneath. Bishop kept his rifle trained on the man, walking forward, wary the guy might be playing possum. After a couple of steps, he reconsidered, firing two more rounds from where he stood – just to be sure.

  He then moved to the pool table, each body on the floor receiving an extra bullet or two as he passed. Without uttering a word, he scooped up the terrified, shivering girl, throwing her roughly over his shoulder.

  Turning back to walk outside, Bishop stepped carefully through the gore between him and the exit, the floor already slick with the blood, urine and gristle of the dead.

  The rescuer and rescued appeared in the sunlight, Bishop’s stride identical to his approach as he crossed the lawn and made for the intersection.

  He carried the young woman directly to her father, lifting her effortlessly from his shoulder and depositing her on the ground.

  “Now move your wagon… before I move it for you.”

  The man’s eyes darted between Bishop and the returned child at his feet. Ignoring the seemingly harsh request, he bent to check on his child, “Baby… baby… are you okay?”

  An animal-like growl came from Bishop’s chest. He reached down and grabbed Marty by the hair, lifting the poor fellow back to his feet. “I said move the fucking wagon… and I’m not going to ask again.”

  “Yes… yes… sir.”

  Two women rushed up, intent on attending to the victim at Bishop’s feet. Marty staggered back toward his rig, glancing in fear over his shoulder at the crazy man who just delivered his daughter. Bishop stepped over the prone, sobbing girl and began walking to the middle of the gathered throng. He fired the ACR into the air and then began shouting, “I want every able-bodied man on this overturned wagon. Right now.”

  With fear plastered on their faces, the males eventually stepped forward, each taking his place in line and bracing against the up-facing side. “One, two, three… push! Push!” Bishop yelled, his own back protesting the effort as he flexed against the heavy object.

  With groans of human straining, the wagon began rising, eventually falling upright onto all four wheels. “Now somebody get this piece of shit out of the road,” Bishop commanded, scanning the group, making sure his request was understood.

  He began walking back toward the truck, without saying another word.

  A minute later he passed through the intersection, speeding off to the west and never looking back.

  The trip across north central Texas passed with Bishop in a daze. A warning light on the dash broke the trance. The annoying icon indicated he needed fuel, so he begrudgingly pulled over and began pumping.

  Taking the now dog-eared map with him, Bishop flattened the folds on top of the fuel barrel and studied his future route while moving the pump handle up and down. Using his thumb to measure, he realized it was almost an equal distance to either Midland Station or the canyon.

  While the gasoline flowed from drum to tank, he pondered changing his plans and heading for the distant city. Midland Station was part of the Alliance, and he could contact Nick – give his friend warning of the impending attack.

  It occurred to him that the US forces might be monitoring the unsecured transmissions of the Alliance. His mind was too tired to think up a clever cipher or code that Nick was sure to understand. It was something they should have thought of long ago.

  There was also the time involved in finding someone who knew him, rousing the ham operator and then repeating the same process back in Alpha. If Nick were in the mountains with a training class, he would be wasting precious time.

  A squirt flew from the tank, signaling the truck was again full. Bishop secured the all but empty drum and hose, pausing to think before climbing back behind the wheel.

  The entire situation was maddening. The trip was taking far longer than he’d ever anticipated, each passing minute decreasing his chances of saving his family.

  Even the brief pause, standing on the empty roadway made him feel guilty. What if he arrived at
Chamber’s Canyon five minutes after the army unit had left? What if just a few minutes made the difference between the life and death of his family?

  No, he decided, I have to go with the known – can’t risk the unknown. I’m going to drive straight there and take care of business.

  Any concern Bishop experienced over being able to locate Chamber’s Canyon was wasted worry. All he had to do was follow the helicopters.

  Once in the general area, he saw no less than three of the military birds, all following the exact same route. It was a stroke of luck, as the truck didn’t have enough gas for an extended search.

  He found a good spot to conceal his chariot about two miles from the canyon. While it had been over 20 years since he’d visited the area, some familiar images reassured him he was on the right track.

  It was with a sigh of sadness that he drove the screwdriver through the bottom of the gas tank, essentially driving a stake through the heart of the beast that had loyally carried him so far. He’d extracted a little petrol via the siphon hose, but not enough for his needs. The resulting hole in his beast’s skin produced another half-gallon, not as much as he’d hoped, but it would have to do.

  Despite his sense of urgency, covering the distance to his objective was extremely difficult. Bishop had his full pack, an extra rifle and two gallons of gasoline to carry. He had filled every nook and cranny of his gear with as many supplies as possible, doubting he’d be able to return to the truck any time soon.

  The terrain proved to be more of a challenge than the extra weight. Rugged, sharp and hilly, Bishop had to climb, descend, and bypass an obstacle course of rock formations. More than once he had to backtrack, arriving at a dead end and having to retrace his steps. He was exhausted, scraped, and bruised by the time he reached Chamber’s Canyon.

  He’d found an overlook, nestled in a crevice between two car-sized boulders. Just over the crest of the cliffs surrounding the valley floor, it provided a full view of the activities below. As Bishop swept the area with his optic, he found a small military unit setting up camp.

  The rocky crags and steep-sided cliffs surrounded a small patch of sandy soil – the only reasonable place to bivouac. The valley floor was crawling with activity, the sounds of hammering and shouted orders rising from below.

  He didn’t know how much time he had left, or exactly what he was about to face. It was a safe assumption, given what he was witnessing, that he was vastly outnumbered and outgunned, but he did have a few advantages.

  The element of surprise was on his side, and he would have to utilize that factor to the best of his ability. The goal wasn’t to kill every man down there, but merely to disrupt their mission. He had determined this could best be accomplished by making sure they knew their plot had been discovered, and by inflicting significant casualties.

  He also had the advantage of terrain.

  Studying the area, he was reassured that his memory of the place was accurate. Basically a dead-ended canyon formed over thousands of years as wind and rain had eroded the softer rock away, leaving the granite and dense pumice.

  The narrow gorge snaked along for over a quarter mile, never any wider than a football field. That ravine ended in a vertical wall of smooth stone that reached over 200 feet into the air, a draw for those who wanted a challenge scaling rock.

  The valley floor was split down the middle by a small creek that was fed by a spring originating somewhere under the granite cliffs. It was the water that separated this location from the dozens of similar formations in the area.

  The water enabled vegetation, both banks of the narrow stream lined with mature trees, including cypress and pine. Old man Chambers had originally thought to make his park-like property into a campground, but the endeavor had failed financially. After his passing, one of his children had taken up the hobby of rock climbing, and thus a new business was eventually formed. Now the military was using it as a place to launch an attack – a vicious strike aimed at those he loved.

  In years past, people came from far away to camp and climb. Whoever managed the operation had seen fit to leave the area as pristine as possible, with only a block-walled bathhouse/restroom and a small, out of the way storage shed constructed on the premises. Now, large tents were being erected, bundles of supplies distributed throughout.

  Whoever had selected the property as a staging area had made an excellent decision. Having a local water source would save a lot of weight as the teams were transported in. The valley was secluded, easily defendable and geographically close to the primary targets. Bishop visualized some officer in the Pentagon having attended the climbing school at some point in his youth. “I know a great place we can use to go assassinate new mothers!”

  It was the perfect jump-off point - if the mission remained undiscovered. Bishop intended to turn the placid valley into a death trap, and he didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse over the carnage he hoped to deliver. These men were assassins and soldiers – this was war.

  He pushed down the rage that was building in his chest, knowing now wasn’t the time to let emotion guide his actions. He had to be calm, cool and professional. He had to be an operator.

  Time to get to work.

  Given he was outnumbered, Bishop had to overcome a huge obstacle – firepower. He considered sniping from the rocks, but quickly dismissed the option. The men below would rapidly figure out he was a lone assailant and eventually would hunt him down for the kill. He had his long range rifle, but not a lot of ammo for that specific weapon.

  He had flirted with creating a series of booby traps, but doubted their effectiveness. He might manage one or two victims, but the targets would catch on and eventually dismantle the devices.

  A dozen pounds of military C4, or other high quality explosive would have made the job easier, but he had no such resource.

  The one substance available was gasoline. He glanced down at the two plastic milk jugs, each almost full of the flammable liquid.

  Combatants had been using gas-bombs for over 100 years. Often called Molotov Cocktails, petrol bombs had a long list of attractive features. They were cheap, readily available, and could be extremely effective against soft targets. Bishop hankered for a case of small glass bottles, but would have to do without.

  Gasoline, by its very nature, was a powerful substance. One pound of vaporized fuel contained the equivalent of energy of five pounds of TNT, given containment and proper mixture of oxygen.

  There were two way gas could be fatal – either by the heat produced by burning, or the pressure generated by a blast wave. The valley below was too open… too well ventilated to inflict harm by burning the substance.

  Exploding the petrol was easy, given some sort of container. Containment was the key word. If a mixture of fuel and air was restricted inside of a pressurized vessel and then ignited, the gas would burn rapidly and cause an explosion, similar to what occurred inside of a car engine’s piston. Again, given enough time and resources, he could have manufactured anti-personnel bombs. The frantic activities below eliminated that option.

  Still, burning the gas might have a place in the evening’s activities. If something important was burning, those men would try and fight the fire. They would be preoccupied – their attention drawn to the flames.

  So it was down to the plan with the highest risk of his death. He would sneak down there, a single rifle against so many. He would pour the gasoline on their supplies, try and trap them in their tents, unaware. His weapon would spray death until their numbers eventually overwhelmed and brought him down.

  It would be worth it, he determined. Terri would raise his son to be strong and independent. She would provide for the child, cherish him both as her offspring and in memory of their love. He hoped Terri would someday learn of his sacrifice… why he had charged into certain death. He prayed she would understand.

  He began preparing his equipment. Hiding the backpack, exchanging as much weight as possible for magazines of ammunition. He hoped he w
ould use most of it before they took him down.

  It would be dark soon, and then he would descend into the valley – the valley of death.

  Chapter 16

  Chamber’s Valley, Texas

  July 15, 2016

  He waiting patiently, taking comfort in double-checking his equipment. His weapon was clean, well lubed, and as ready as he could make it. The pouches of magazines covering his mid-section and chest were full, ready to feed deadly lead as fast as he could manipulate the trigger.

  His optic, night vision, and thermal imager were all supplied with fresh batteries. His Camelbak was full.

  Every buckle and strap was secured and pulled tight. The slightest noise might mean the difference between a short life, and a short, wasted life, he thought. The reasoning elicited a low grunt. The end of his time on earth wasn’t in question, the only unresolved issue being how long he could last and how effective that time would be. He prayed he could stand long enough to save his wife and child and the Alliance he cared so deeply about. Anything less would be a squandered sacrifice.

  The feeling of his body armor, chest-rig and ACR bolstered his confidence, a soothing, known entity offsetting the fear and uncertainty of looming combat. He wondered if it had always been so.

  Did the knights of old gain a sense of wellbeing, a boost as their squires hustled to strap on their armor? Did the men of Caesar’s legions realize a calming effect after donning their breastplates and sharpening their broadswords? He thought about the paratroopers, flying across the English Channel on D-Day. Had they found faith in their kit to suppress the nagging fear that filled their chests before dropping into France?

  Bishop supposed so, assumed it had always been that way. Men facing death needed both spiritual and physical reassurance. Many, including himself, had only their gear as a pacifier.