by Joe Nobody
The top sergeant clicked off the M4’s safety while shouting, “Going hot!”
Bishop moved his hands to protect his ears, watching as the non-commissioned officer (NCO) took aim.
The sergeant’s rifle spit and barked, carefully aimed rounds whacking and pinging into the old truck’s sheet metal. The Texan grinned, thinking the man was having way too much fun.
The ancient Ford had been acquired in El Paso. Sporting a faded paint job, rusting fenders, and miss-matched rims, the workhorse had definitely seen better days. In reality, the holes being punched into the bed and hood didn’t degrade the rattletrap’s appearance all that much. Even the two holes in the front windshield were hardly noticeable.
“Safe!” called the sergeant, removing the magazine while admiring his handiwork. “Sure looks like the owner of this old beast has seen his fair share of trouble, sir.”
“Yup,” Bishop replied. “Now, what about the radiator?”
“My guys in the motor pool will use a file to wear down one of the cooling hoses. You’ll be leaking the entire drive across the border. While we can’t execute with great precision, I can get pretty close in predicting when the engine will overheat. We’ll throw an extra milk jug of water in the back, just in case she steams up before you get to the departure point. Just pour in a little coolant, and she’ll hobble along another few miles.”
Bishop understood, his college girlfriend’s old Chevy suffering from the same affliction.
One of the base’s pickups arrived, Terri hopping from the passenger door, brightening Bishop’s mood instantly. His wife darted to the vehicle’s bed, lifting two black trash bags of some unknown content and ambling toward their new ride.
“Whatcha got there?” he asked, nodding toward the bags.
“Our luggage,” she said with a sweet smile. “This being a hobo couple on the run is kind of fun. There’s an old, worn-out car seat still in the back of that truck. Can you get it for me?”
Bishop did as instructed, retrieving Hunter’s new car-throne. Shaking his head at the stained cloth and worn plastic, he had to wonder about the device’s safety rating.
“Are you sure this is okay for him to ride in?” he asked, eyeing the relic with suspicion. “Better not try driving through Alpha with that contraption. Lord knows Officer Dudley Do-Right would write us a ticket for that thing.”
Laughing, Terri said, “Hunter’s not going to be in it very long. Even at that, we’re going to be driving across the desert, not through Manhattan or Alpha. Unless you’re worried about a collision with an armadillo, I think he’ll be just fine.”
“Good point.”
“Hey, look what I found,” Terri said, holding out a worn-looking sheet of paper.
He unfolded the yellowish parchment, shaking his head at the old wanted poster showing his face. For a brief second, it brought back memories of a bad time.
“The Army printed up thousands of those,” Terri said. “They posted them on telephone poles and bulletin boards all over West Texas. I don’t know where they got that picture of you, but I have to say you were a cute outlaw.”
“Dashing,” Bishop countered, refolding the poster with a smirk. “Outlaws are dashing.”
“Seriously, read the bottom line. It will help sell our cover.”
“Last seen heading west toward New Mexico,” the Texan read aloud.
“I read one time that a lot of the crooks in the Old West considered it a badge of honor to be immortalized on a wanted poster. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have it along. Just another little piece of evidence to back up our story.”
His wife’s comment brought Bishop’s thoughts back to what had been troubling him most since the decision to implement Operation Sacawagea.
In all of their jouneys and adventures since the collapse, he’d been able to bring along the tools of his trade. He’d always had night vision, plenty of ammo, body armor, and other kit-based assets that gave him peace of mind, and had often bailed their asses out of a bad spot.
But not this time.
Terri’s plan had them as refugees, one of the many wandering families that crisscrossed the badlands in search of a better place. Bishop, being a wanted man, would help dispell any natural suspicions in New Mexico.
Such people didn’t pack three rifles or fancy thermal imagers. They didn’t sleep in a camper or bring along five days worth of MREs. Their child didn’t ride in the lastest model car seat, and they most likely weren’t pulling along Gucci luggage through the mountains of New Mexico.
The deception was critical. For the plan to work, the couple had to sell anyone they encountered on the fact that they weren’t a threat. That initial impression, including Hunter’s presence, would hopefully avoid their being shot on sight. They had to look and act the part, down to the minor details.
Terri sensed her husband’s thoughts as he buckled in the well-worn car seat. She leaned close and sniffed his body. “Not too bad yet,” she pronounced. “Another day or two, and you’ll be nice and… errr… outdoorsey... nice and….”
“Ripe,” he finished for her.
With a grin, Bishop reached up and twirled a tress of her unwashed hair around his finger. “And you’ll be just as fresh as a daisy.”
“Look, I don’t like ignoring my hygiene any more than the next person, but Bonnie and Clyde wouldn’t have the time or resources to bathe. They would be on the run and low on assets. This is a small price to pay.”
Then a cloud formed behind the Texan’s eyes. “Are you sure this is the right move? This whole ordeal doesn’t seem to be going the Alliance’s way.”
“No one’s come up with a better option,” she replied, noticing her husband was staring at Hunter’s car seat. “You’re worried about our boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I was just thinking this operation should be nicknamed ‘Fathers and Sons.’ New Mexico seems to have an appetite for both lately.”
Terri had to think about it for a second, realizing the Colonel’s son, Nick’s son, and the two fathers were all embroiled in the conflict. With a smile, she said, “That’s why I’m going along. We need a mother involved to provide much needed balance… set things straight.”
Grinning at Terri’s bravado, he said, “And a damn fine looking mother at that.”
She leaned close, pretending to approach for a kiss, but then stopped at the last second, sniffing about his person with a teasing frown.
Bishop rubbed his unshaven stubble and then wrapped his arms around her waist, yanking her tight against his chest. “How about a little ‘savage catches wench’ role playing, slave girl?”
Laughing, Terri stared him down. “Not in your wildest dreams, cowboy. You ain’t getting near me until this mission is over, when you don’t smell like a goat.”
Even poor Hunter looked like a rag-muffin. Terri, shopping at a secondhand market in El Paso, had found a pair of grass-stained, threadbare overalls and scuffed up shoes. Bishop had immediately taken to calling his son, “the little sod farmer.”
After one last round of double-checking the contents of their getaway truck, it was time to initiate Operation Sacagewra.
Diana was there for the send off, as was General Owens. Nick, still bedridden, sent his best.
“I forgot to ask,” Terri said, getting into the truck, “Does this thing have air conditioning?”
“Well, it does, but it uses a little different ‘technology’ than what we’re used to.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s called 60-2 AC.”
“What’s that?”
“You go 60 miles per hour and roll down 2 windows.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Terri smirked, and then turned to Hunter sitting between them. “Your dad’s humor stinks.”
And then they were off.
Bishop turned north, heading off into the vast, empty expanses of Fort Bliss, which consisted mostly of desert criss-crossed by tank trails and small berms.
“How did all these paths get here?” Terri asked, curiou
s as usual.
“This is where they train and exercise those big battle tanks back at the base. This area, combined with White Sands, is the largest range in North America.”
They continued bouncing and jolting across the desert, sometimes finding trails and paths, other times crossing open ground. It had been determined that outlaws wouldn’t be using paved roads, but instead would try and avoid law enforcement at all costs. Bishop kept hoping the old junker had a spare tire, or two, the rough terrain sure to overwhelm their rubber before they had reached their destination.
“I’m not going to have any fillings left in my teeth,” Terri complained after one particularly nasty stretch.
“You don’t have any fillings in your teeth,” Bishop responded, his arms covered in sweat from fighting the wheel. “You’ve never even had a cavity that I know of.”
“See, I told you so,” she teased.
After four hours of rock’n’roll desert touring, Terri demanded a break. After changing Hunter and doing her best to wash out his cloth diaper, Terri needed a visit to the facilities. Digging around in their meager belongings, she began growling over not finding what she was after. Bishop tossed her an old copy of The Army Times and dropped the proverbial bomb. “Here you go, my love. This is our toilet paper. Save the gun porn if you can,” he teased.
“Seriously?”
“Yup. Desperados wouldn’t have Charmin’ or wetwipes,” he reminded her. “But where are my manners? Can I dig the shovel out of the back of the truck for you, sweetie?”
“No,” she snapped, turning to stomp into the desert.
“Watch out for the rattlesnakes,” he added, half expecting a missile to come flying his way.
Bishop turned to a now happier Hunter and said, “And your mother thinks she is that Saca-whoever. Let me tell you, son, those women in the old days had no complaints about using a catalog for TP.”
Terri returned a short time later, unbitten and undeterred. “Ready?”
“And able.”
“Are we there yet?”
Bishop judged they were close to the area where the truck was supposed to “break down.” He’d been watching the dashboard temperature gauge for the last hour, the red needle inching slowly toward the danger zone. As far as he could tell, that was about the only functioning piece of equipment in the entire cab.
A few bumpy miles later, the couple detected steam rising from the hood. “Damn that radiator,” Bishop complained, going into character.
They stopped in the late afternoon shadows of some unknown mountain range, Bishop instinctively scanning to see if the hills had eyes. It seemed strange to want someone aware of their presence.
Bishop opened the hood, pretending to be upset, cursing the engine, his luck, and the Ford Motor Company in a loud voice.
Terri, on the other hand, made a show of playing with Hunter while daddy fixed the truck.
“We’re not going anywhere in this piece of junk,” Bishop yelled back to Terri. “It looks like we’ll be spending the night here. I’ll set up the tent.”
An hour later, they had shelter and a fire, Terri unwrapping some salted beef she’d procured in El Paso, Bishop finding a patch of purslane and using his knife to harvest a handful of the tasty green leaves. Hunter would be dining on rice and small bits of beef.
Throughout it all, the family tried to fulfill their theatrical roles, just in case they were being observed.
“Will we be able to see the drones?” Terri whispered, worried someone might even be close enough to hear normal conversation.
“I doubt it, although Nick did claim to have shot one of them down.”
The campfire proved therapeutic, it’s licking flames and crackling embers helping settle the couple’s nerves. They even relaxed enough to sing Hunter a few songs.
Terri announced she was turning in, the youngster’s yawning reaffirming the notion.
“I’m going to lower the fire and then circle the camp once. I’ll be in the hammock.”
“Is that a good idea? To patrol?” Terri inquired.
Bishop shrugged, “If I was on the dodge and trying to avoid the authorities, I’d remain pretty diligent. I don’t think it’s out of character.”
Terri nodded, “If you say so. Being a desert thespian is harder than I thought.”
Twenty minutes later, Bishop returned, scanning the campsite one last time before turning in. He’d rigged his survival net with paracord, stretching the mesh tight between the truck and a nearby boulder. It wasn’t as high off the ground as he preferred, but it was better than crowding his wife and son inside the 2-man tent. Body odor and snoring aside, it was tight in there.
Another length of cord was stretched taut above his hammock, a black, plastic leaf bag draped over the higher line. While the Texan didn’t figure on any rain in the forecast, dew wasn’t unheard of in the desert. Waking up with damp clothes in the middle of the night wasn’t a recipe for a well-rested bandit.
He’d also taken the precaution of heating a pile of baseball-sized rocks near the fire. If it became too cold, he could stack them under his suspended bunk and keep nice and toasty warm.
He rolled into the net, resting his rifle across his chest. He did his best to sleep, but every sound of the night had the Texan gripping that weapon.
Dawn found Bishop already up, rekindling the fire and heating water for coffee.
Terri’s head appeared from the tent’s flap, rubbing her eyes and sniffing the air. “Where did you get the coffee, Mr. Bandito?”
“I stole it in the last town we passed through.”
“Did you happen to pocket any eggs while on that crime spree?”
“As a matter of fact,” Bishop smiled, producing a handful of white ovals.
“And that’s why I love you,” she grinned.
Mother and son soon joined dad for breakfast. While they ate eggs and home-fried bread, Terri questioned their meal. “Should we be splurging like this? I mean, would crooks have coffee and eggs?”
“Those of us on the wrong side of the law have to eat, too,” Bishop replied. “Maybe that’s why were on the run – we robbed a grocery store.”
“Well, Mr. Gangster, the next time you knock off a market, would you please remember to get some toilet paper?” she teased, eyeing the nearest berm.
“Don’t pay any attention to the drones,” Bishop said as she went over the rise.
Terri paused, her eyes going to the sky. “Pervert drones… that’s all a girl needs,” she mumbled, continuing on.
As Terri picked up around the camp, Bishop went for the academy award fussing over the truck. He did everything typical of a stranded motorist, starting the engine, kicking a fender, and issuing a string of creative cursing.
“Well, the truck’s shot, my love. I guess we better start walking before the sun gets too high.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Terri winked.
An hour later, they had everything packed, Hunter not sure what to make of the makeshift papoose Terri crafted out of apparent scrap cloth gathered from their luggage.
In reality, the couple had spent a significant amount of time carefully preparing their hiking equipment.
“Ounces equal pounds, and pounds equal pain,” Bishop reminded his soon-to-be walking partner. “Since you will have Hunter most of the time, I’ll have to carry the majority of our water and sleeping gear. We’ll eat off the land as much as possible. The only special food we’ll need is for the baby.”
Terri glanced at the nearby mountains, the road ahead daunting. “How far?” she asked as if having second thoughts.
Bishop followed her gaze, “Actually, right on the other side of that rise we’ll be in pine forest. According to Nick, it’s quite the beautiful place if you’re not dodging drones and war parties.”
“We’ve got someone out in the desert,” the young Cochiti reported, his eyes studying the laptop computer’s display. “Looks like two adults and a child,” he added, puzzle
d by the family’s arrival.
An older man appeared over his shoulder, the announcement unwelcome given the turmoil of the last few days. “Rewind the recording. I want to see it all.”
Ten minutes later, the two Natives had studied the video thoroughly. “It looks like their truck broke down,” observed the senior man.
“Could be some sort of trick?”
“Maybe, but who brings along a baby if it’s a military probe?”
“I still think we should let Grandfather know. I can ride up to the cabin with the drone’s video card. Grandfather will know what to do.”
“Launch another flyer before you go. Let’s keep an eye on them… just in case.”
An hour later, Hack pushed back from the table and turned to the Apache. “In the video, it looks like a nomadic family to me. The man’s got a long gun, but their equipment is anything but military issue. What do you think?”
Apache Jack was skeptical. “Even if you’re right, we should send out some men and chase them away. We’ve seen our share of thieves, beggars, and other scum. Or we could just kill him and turn the woman and child over to one of the tribes. Better safe than sorry.”
Hack considered his friend’s words. He was probably right, the logical course of action being to dispatch the intruders and get on with the hundreds of checklist items that consumed his day. But there was more to it than that.
At one point in time, he’d had high hopes of the project attracting people from far and wide. He’d envisioned engineers, doctors, scientists, and other skilled professionals joining the tribes, lured by an abundance of food and water.
Part of that dream was still alive, but now, with the Alliance in the picture and Washington no doubt sore over the loss of the radioactive metal, it was going to be difficult to separate the refugee-wheat from the contributor-chaff.
Hack believed human talent was the key to not only rebuilding, but creating a better place to live – an environment where the residents of New Mexico could thrive and instill the positive values of Native American society. They could build a new country, and do it right this time.
When he’d first arrived, Hack had been appalled at the region’s poverty. Like most visitors, his vision of Native Americans had been warped and distorted by a lack of knowledge and Hollywood’s inaccurate depiction. He’d expected to encounter the noble red man, steeped in tradition, one with nature, and unconcerned with many of the traditional values that were so important to the euro-whites.