by Joe Nobody
Nick had no way of knowing if he had hit anything or not. He did speculate that top floor was where the headman would reside and decided it wouldn’t hurt to deliver a strong message to the enemy leader. After splattering 20 rounds into the top floor, he ducked down into the interior and began his descent to the waiting contractors below.
“It’s time to fire the signal,” he shouted to Deke over the sporadic gunfire. “We just broke their back.”
Reaching into the pack at his feet, Deke pulled out a plastic, large barreled pistol and hustled for a door. Pointing the odd gun skyward, he pulled the trigger. The flare popped out of the muzzle and rose several hundred feet into the air before a small parachute opened, slowing the pulsating red light’s descent. It was time for Teams A and B to begin their assault.
Bishop watched the signal rocketing skyward and exhaled with relief. Nick wouldn’t have sent the flare if things weren’t going their way. He was also a little surprised at how soon the contractors had determined it was time to begin the final phase. Things must be going well, indeed.
Like the pinchers of a giant vise, the two main teams rose from their positions and began moving for the objective - the headquarters of Lewis Brothers Oil. After waiting for both groups to advance, Bishop waved his small force forward to keep the reserves in a prime position to react if their help was needed.
While Nick’s team had inflicted significant damage to the defenders, the advancing teams began to meet resistance. The defense wasn’t spirited. Random pockets of desperate men fired at the approaching Alpha teams, their efforts answered with overwhelming fire. Many died, most surrendering quickly.
One group of LBO men managed to hole up inside of a limestone bank building, the thick, stone walls providing better cover than most structures. The Alpha teams bypassed the barricaded men, making their position irrelevant.
Block after block fell, the defenders pushing back at a steady pace. One group of Midland personnel, retreating in a near panic, made the mistake of exposing themselves to the contractors positioned in the warehouse. They paid dearly for the blunder.
Disarmed men with their hands on the back of their heads began arriving at Bishop’s location. At first, it was a trickle, but as the teams advanced, more and more of the defenders decided they were done fighting. Unhappy with the drain of manpower required to keep an eye on the prisoners, Bishop decided it was a better job than his people entering the fray.
Terri appeared at his side. “Bishop, why don’t you let them go home?”
“Huh?”
“Just use that real stern grumble of yours, and tell them to go home. Look at all of them - they’re beaten… whipped and disarmed. I don’t think they’ll rejoin the battle.”
Bishop began studying the group of men sitting nearby. She was right. He walked over and shouted, “Listen up! Every man who gives his word he won’t reenter the fight can go home. Go home and hug your wife and kids… go home and keep your ass out of sight until this is all over.”
At first, the prisoners didn’t know how to react. Several of the disheveled men just looked at one another with blank stares and shrugging shoulders. Finally, one man stood and approached Bishop. “I’m done. I won’t shoot at anybody. Can I go home?”
Bishop nodded and the man hurried away. The example motivated several others, and soon all the prisoners were shuffling toward their homes.
Cameron, at Lou’s insistence, had been sheltering in an interior office on the top floor. The sounds of Nick’s raking the windows had stopped some time ago, the ongoing silence following the attack raising the boss’ confidence and curiosity. Crawling to his office’s entrance, the destruction caused him to inhale sharply and pause.
Summoning all of his courage, the businessman crawled toward the open air that had once been a wall of windows. The remains of the glass panes were scattered throughout the workplace, the razor-like shards forcing Cameron to hug the wall, carefully plotting a path to avoid being sliced. He ignored his security chief’s lifeless body.
Peering over the edge, his attention was drawn to crackling gunfire. It took a bit to decipher what was going on, but after a few moments, it became painfully obvious that his security forces were falling back.
After watching the ensuing gunfights below, Cameron reached the conclusion that the barbarians would soon be at the door. His heart raced at the prospect of capture, morbid visions of being at the mercy of unknown assailants filling his mind with terror.
Crawling backwards through the glass, he made it to the threshold and them rose and ran for Linda’s desk. There was a special radio there, the device sitting in a recharging mount so it would always be ready. Picking it up, he quickly turned it on and selected the predetermined channel.
“This is Cameron Lewis,” he broadcasted. “I am ordering Plan-B implemented immediately.”
His hands shaking, Cameron listened intently to the static, a prayer forming on his lips. Just as he decided to reissue the command, a voice sounded through the static. “Yes, sir, Mr. Lewis. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
Exhaling from relief, Cameron dropped the radio and made for the stairwell.
Bishop watched the teams closing in on the office building, their final objective in clear view. The remaining defenders were being pushed into an ever-tightening space, those choosing to continue the fight becoming more desperate.
Causalities were now flowing back to the medics in Bishop’s group, the wounded being carried or limping in on their own. Terri had taken to helping with the treatment, some of the gunshot wounds extremely serious.
“We need to get some of these people out of here, Bishop,” his wife announced. “We need to get them back to the doctors, or they’re not going to make it.”
Bishop agreed. Raising his radio, he read the street signs into the microphone and called for the ambulance to come forward.
A short time later, the sound of an engine drew Bishop’s attention, the pickup truck designated as the ambulance racing up to haul off the wounded. As men were being triaged for transport, Terri pointed to an injured man and asked the medic, “Why isn’t this man in the first load? He seems to be in the worse shape.”
The medic grunted, answering with a low, “He’s one of theirs.”
Bishop heard the exchange and nudged the care provider. “That doesn’t make any difference here. The worse go first, no matter which side they’re on.”
“If you say so,” grumbled the man as he moved on to help with a bandage.
Bishop was about to pull the guy aside and give him a good lecture when the loud whirr of a helicopter reached his ears. His first instinct was to grab Terri and head for cover, but he quickly determined that the craft wasn’t headed in their direction.
Scanning the horizon, he found the approaching bird, watching fascinated as it flared its nose and hovered slowly over the LBO office’s rooftop. Gradually the chopper descended, eventually landing on top of their primary objective. Only the top of the spinning blades was visible from below, but after only a minute, it became clear they were increasing their revolutions.
The helo lifted off and banked sharply toward the north. It took a moment before Bishop realized everyone had stopped shooting. That was it, he thought. The king is routed and running from the field - his army will collapse.
It began as a murmur in the distance, slowly building volume until it became a loud roar. Terri appeared at Bishop’s side, her eyes staring toward downtown with wonder. “Bishop, what’s going on? What’s that noise?”
“They are all shouting at the top of their lungs, babe. They’re shouting because we’ve won.”
Looking down at his wife, Bishop smiled and then pulled her tight in an embrace. After enjoying the moment, he said, “Oh, shit. I almost forgot Hugh.”
Reaching for his radio, Bishop transmitted, “Mr. Mills, Mr. Mills – time for the drop.”
The reply came quickly, “On my way.”
As the celebration began to lose ste
am, a small airplane appeared on the horizon. The craft began making slow, low circles over the Midland Station area, the buzzing engine causing everyone to look up. A trail of white snow appeared behind the plane as two passengers began empting bags of papers out the side door.
Eventually, the sheets drifted to the ground, curious residents all over the city venturing out to see what was going on. Some of the papers fell close to Bishop and Terri, one of the men gathering a handful from the ground and bringing them over.
Terri held up the sheet. At the top was a picture of Dr. Daniel Prescott. The boldface type below the photograph declaring:
My fellow citizens of Midland Station. Today is a great day for our city. The unelected leadership of Mr. Cameron Lewis has ended, the result of your fellow citizens and our neighbors from surrounding towns banding together to force a change. For a short period, I have agreed to lead our community, my selection voted upon by residents of Midland who left our city seeking a better life, but who could not abandon those of you left behind. We have organized and returned to make a change – a change for the better.
I will make one promise to every citizen of Midland Station: We will hold elections within 30 days. Democracy will return to our great city.
For those of you in the employ of Lewis Brothers Oil, fear not. Petty retribution will not be tolerated. Drop your weapons. Prepare to return to your jobs, prepare for a better life as free men. My heart is full of amnesty, and my head excited about the future. Work with us for a better future. Participate in the rebuilding of Midland Station.
Bishop looked up to see Nick and the contractors walking his way. He exhaled as a headcount proved no casualties. While the group looked tired, the random laughter made it clear their spirits were high. As Nick came within earshot, he yelled to Bishop, “I need to talk to you about this rifle, brother. I think it considers me its new master and wants to follow me home.”
Camp David, Maryland
May 1, 2016
President Moreland looked across the conference table at the Colonel, his eyes tired and bloodshot. He gently positioned the report on the polished surface, neatly aligning the edges of the paper to create a neat stack. It was a nervous habit everyone in the room had grown accustomed to.
“Our progress is painfully slow, gentlemen,” the chief executive began, “while other regions of the nation appear to be making headway on their own.”
Pushing back his chair, the Commander in Chief nodded at the report and continued. “Every week, I read reports of our failures, setbacks and schedule delays while at the same time I see small, regional groups making great strides. I am frustrated to say the least – almost embarrassed at our apparent ineptitude.”
The president stood and began pacing around the table. “I’ve heard all of the excuses. I’ve been a patient, understanding man. But this,” he said, pointing at the report, “This is unacceptable. How is it that the finest minds in the nation, with all of the resources of our federal government, can’t pull ourselves out of the mud – while a bunch of small towns in West Texas have managed to accomplish… no, exceed every goal we’ve set for ourselves?”
Moreland glanced around the room, not really expecting any answer to his rhetorical question. “How is it that a few clusters of people, without any appreciable resources, have accomplished what our entire array of military, government, and civilian assets appear to be incapable of? How can this be?”
Again, no answer to the executive’s question was offered, and he hadn’t expected one. Moreland moved back to the report, picked up the stack and thumbed through the pages. A look of disgust crossed his face as he held the paper for everyone to see. “These people are in the desert, for heaven’s sake! They don’t have water or nuclear power – they live on some of the worst scrub land I’ve ever seen. I know some of the key players – I’ve met them personally. They are not Harvard graduates! They are not MIT scientists! How is it they can accomplish what seems to elude us?”
Pointing to the Colonel, the president prodded, “Colonel, you’ve had more recent experience in the region than any of us. What’s their secret? What are they doing that we are not?”
“Sir, comparing the progress of that isolated region to the rest of the country defies logic. The population density, resources and infrastructure pre-collapse was on a much smaller scale than the eastern corridor or other major population centers we are dealing with on a daily basis. They didn’t suffer nearly the percentage of population losses that the rest of the nation incurred.”
“That may be true, Colonel, but the fact remains that they have electricity, agricultural production, basic health care, and rule of law. The vast majority of the rest of the nation does not.”
The president moved again to the assessment and flipped through several pages until he found what he was looking for. Holding the sheet high in the air, he continued. “This is a report from the commanding officer of the Houston garrison. He is now processing requests for key individuals to leave his jurisdiction and relocate to West Texas. According to this report, doctors, engineers, and nurses… all wanting to leave... all wanting to pack up and head off to a better place. This commander even refers to the situation as a ‘brain drain.’”
Moreland paced the room for a few moments until his posture indicated he had reached a decision. “We can’t tolerate this, ladies and gentlemen. We can’t have individual kingdoms sprouting up all over our nation. In addition to West Texas, we know of several other examples. We have independent groups in North and South Dakota, Utah, Wyoming and parts of Idaho, Northeast Georgia… all have staked out their own little domains while we are struggling to jumpstart the entire country. They are all Americans, and they all need to contribute toward the greater cause, not create their own little city-states. This is not an acceptable model for governing all the people. We’re not living in the Middle Ages for heaven’s sake.”
The president stared at an older man at the end of the table. “Dr. Harris has warned me that if this trend continues, the United States will look like continental Europe during medieval times – trifling, independent organizations that preclude the amalgamation of the population into a broader, regional government. We can’t let this happen – recovery is proving difficult enough without our focus being divided by competing governments.”
“In addition,” the chief executive continued, “Dr. Harris recommends that these area organizations be compelled to contribute their excess in order to enhance the greater good of the country as a whole. His view is that allowing the people of West Texas to eat well while their neighbors in Eastern Texas are starving will eventually lead to a series of conflicts, or small civil wars. These regional disputes, according to Dr. Harris’ analysis, will slow down the recovery - even more so than what we’ve experienced to date.”
“Sir,” the Colonel spoke up, “I don’t believe that is a wise strategy. I think that these regional governments have formed solely to fill a void, and for no other reason. If anyone tries to ‘take’ what they’re producing, it will increase tensions, not eliminate them.”
“You may be right, Colonel. That’s why I’m going to send you on a little fact finding mission. I want you to travel to West Texas and see what’s going on firsthand. I’ve arranged transport and expect to see you back here at Camp David within ten days.”
The meeting adjourned with the Colonel in a foul mood. Taking his time while gathering the documents and papers spread out on the table, he sensed a presence over his shoulder. Turning, he saw the smiling face of General Marcus.
“General.”
“I want you to know I’m on your side with this one. I think it’s not only morally wrong, but also bad policy to even consider what Dr. Harris is proposing. I’m not sure my voice is enough to persuade the president, but I’m with you.”
“Thank you, General. That means a lot.”
“Let’s wait and see what your trip uncovers. I’ll volunteer to be a sounding board for whatever you want to talk ab
out. I’ll see you when you get back.”
Alpha Texas
May 3, 2016
Bishop strained with pushup number 47, sweat running into his eyes while his arms were screaming for mercy. He lowered his weight, determined to make it to 50. Sucking in another lung full of air, he opened his eyes and discovered two pairs of boots standing directly in front of him.
He looked up to see Kevin was the owner of the smaller pair, his ex-boss, the Colonel occupying the larger.
“Life is obviously too easy here, son. You’re getting soft,” the older man hailed.
Standing, wiping the sweat on his pants, Bishop extended his hand for a vigorous greeting with the man who had been his mentor for years. “It’s good to see you, sir. What a pleasant surprise.”
The Colonel got right down to business, “Sorry to drop in unannounced, Bishop. I was ordered by our new Commander in Chief to come and see what was going on out here. Your little social experiment has drawn the attention of the higher-ups in Washington.”
Turning to Kevin, the Colonel said, “Thank you young man,” a clear message that Kevin’s services were no longer needed. As Kevin left, Bishop wiped his face with a towel, trying to gather his wits after the surprise.
“Colonel,” Bishop said, “I’m not the person you need to see regarding our success. Terri, Diana, Pete, and a host of others are primarily responsible for the gains we’ve made. I’ve been convalescing mostly, since I saw you last.”
“I know, son. The feds have been watching what’s going on around the country more than what you’re aware of, I’m sure. I wanted to stop by and speak with you first because we know each other – we worked together for years. We speak the same language.”
“Go on, sir.”