Bishop's Song (38 page)

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 would 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.

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.

As he verified the contents of his blow-out bag, the faces of his friends
began rotating through his mind. He wondered how many times Nick had experienced these same thoughts and fears. Pete and Betty were so dedicated and caring. They would help Terri recover and rebuild her life.

Deacon Diana Brown – her leadership
skills natural and honest. The Alliance wouldn’t be nearly as strong without her hand at the helm.

He pulled one last mouthful of water from the
Camelbak, the cool liquid helping fight the dryness that persisted in his mouth.

It was time.

He didn’t move far before encountering the first problem. He couldn’t find the sentries. Scanning with both light amplification and thermal imaging proved fruitless.
Either these are the stealthiest guards I’ve ever seen, or someone is way, way overconfident
, he thought.

His descent into the valley was slowed by the lack of security. Bishop was positive they had to have posted sentries… any competent officer would. He kept searching and scanning, eventually giving up the quest.

Flashlights, two campfires, and a few battery-powered tent bulbs illuminated the outpost. It was an easy approach given the number of rock formations providing cover.

While observing the activity from above, he had noted most of the supplies were being stored in a large tent on the north side of the compound. Bishop wanted to get rid of the gasoline and its anchor-like weight, so he made for that area first. If possible, he’d love to get his hands on a case of hand grenades before the shooting started.

He found the tent unguarded, moving to within 20 feet of the shelter without being challenged or noticed. He was amazed at the ease, always looking behind him to see if operators were closing in. None were; his egress remained clear.

As he scouted the crates, boxes and pallets full cardboard wrapped storage, Bishop noticed
most of the materials were denoted with a red cross – the universal sign of medical equipment and supplies.
Now that’s strange
, he considered.
I would have expected ammo, hand grenades, and claymore mines.
  

Was it a ruse? Were the teams of assassins and saboteurs disguising their tools of destruction as medical supplies? Checking all around, Bishop didn’t see anyone close by. He decided to enter the tent, and see for himself.

He found a pallet of supposed “pharmaceuticals,” each container marked with the category of drug it claimed to contain. Bishop unlatched the container’s hinges and opened the top. Again his head pivoted; again he found no one approaching his position.

Using the red lenses of his flashlight, Bishop tried to hide the torch with his body while checking the contents. He found rows of small boxes stacked inside, each of the two samples he pulled containing bottles of pills.

Replacing the lid, he moved on to another pallet two rows over, a container of bandages and medical wraps filled with exactly what its stenciled exterior claimed. The discovery was troubling.

Bishop was puzzled, his determination to deliver mayhem to the camp
beginning to waiver - ever so slightly. Why would combat teams need such huge quantities of medical supplies? Why would a mission calling for quick insertion and extraction need a full case of diarrhea tablets?
Maybe Nick’s defenses have them scared shitless
, he mused.

He needed to learn more.

His pre-dusk observations had identified the primary personnel tent located on the south side of the canyon. Withdrawing carefully from the supply depot, he worked his way around slowly, always watching for the expected sentries.

Again, he was stunned at how close he could approach the temporary structure. Voices carried through the canvas walls, the normal sounds of men in the field.
Bishop listened for a few moments, learning nothing useful for his effort. There were too many conversations and secondary noises for him to make out anything.

He skirted around to the tent’s primary opening, a space about eight feet wide covered with mosquito netting. The interior was brightly
lit, a series of cots along one wall, the normal assortment of duffle bags, olive drab chairs and even a small desk with its own lamp. What he could see looked normal, like any military unit setting up a forward base in the field.

It was what he didn’t see that caused him to pause.

There wasn’t a single weapon in sight. Ignoring the fact that combat units rarely set up shelters unless they intended to be in the field for a significant amount of time, he fully expected to see M4 rifles, belt-fed weapons and other lethal tools of the trade. There were none, and it didn’t make any sense.

He directed his
attention to the men themselves. A few of the troopers were preparing to hit the rack, wandering around shirtless in the desert heat of July. Bishop studied these examples of humanity. These were not combat troops, let alone elite Special Forces.

Stomachs overhung belt lines. He didn’t see a single man who had defined muscles. One guy had gray hair and looked to be almost 60 years old.
Bishop backed away, retreating to the boulder field to gather his thoughts.

Something wasn’t right, the whole setup
not what he would have expected from hunter-killer teams. It just smelled bad. It was possible that what he had seen was all a ruse – a tactic to hide in plain sight or integrate the killers in with a benign unit, like a Trojan horse.

Before he started chopping people to pieces, he needed to investigate further.

On the opposite side of the valley, elevated at the crest of the canyon wall,
Alastair and Eris sat behind a well-constructed blind. Similar to a portable deer hide commonly used by hunters, the two men had arrived a day before Bishop, using the time to build their den of observation and set up what amounted to a high-tech, field-mobile bank of cameras and communications equipment.

“It’s a good thing you thought to bring along the thermal liner,” Alastair whispered. “Who would have thought some cowboy from Texas would have an infrared device
?”

Eris didn’t respond, his eye glued to a complex camera, the large unit mounted to a stout tripod. The sturdy stand was required due to the length of the lenses extending off the main body of the digital recorder. It was capable both
of extreme magnification, and recording thermal video.

“He’s not going to do it,” Eris finally spoke
, watching Bishop as he moved around the camp. “He’s down there poking around and is going to figure it out… if he hasn’t already.”

Alastair shrugged, “No matter. If he doesn’t, we will. Does the Mark III still have a good angle?”

Eris moved his eye away from the camera for a moment, glancing down at a computer unit lying on a nearby rock ledge. The small, shielded monitor was accompanied by a keyboard and joystick. In order to lower the amount of light generated, the operative couldn’t see the display unless he was directly aligned with the surface of the flat screen. He adjusted his position in order to get a good look of what was clearly an aerial view of the valley below.

Human shapes
glowed white against the black background of tents, rocks and other objects. One of the man-images showed the dark gray outline of a battle rifle and had a green, flashing box surrounding the image – the designated target, Bishop.

The software controlling the orbiting drone was much more sophisticated than the early models used in Afghanistan and Iraq. Eris had
initially piloted the drone’s flight path and camera with the joy stick until the unit had Bishop clearly in focus. A few strokes on the keyboard then ordered the flying spy to keep its bank of instruments trained on
that
heat source - no matter where the target moved.

“Yes, the drone is doing fine,” Eris reported, then added, “I think our man down there is about to reach a conclusion
, and I don’t think he’s going to do the dirty deed. You had better get into your rig. With any luck, we’ll be out of here before the sun rises.”

Alastair shrugged, turning to the back of
the tent-like structure and pulling on a load vest. The kit was similar to Bishop’s, complete with a row of magazines extending from its carriers. He then pulled a baklava over his head and topped off the disguise with a floppy bush hat. He could pass for Bishop, the resemblance by design.

“The rifle isn’t the same. I thought for sure this guy would use an M4. Besides, I didn’t have an
ACR at the house,” he noted.

“There aren’t going to be any defense lawyers or experts studying this video. I’ll zoom out the camera to
prevent picking up so much detail. It’ll be fine.”

Bishop was checking the last tent, his mind reeling from what he had found so far. If this
were an elite combat team, it was the most pitiful excuse for one he’d ever seen. So far, he’d found nothing but a collection of poorly conditioned men who, without their uniforms, would barely pass as soldiers – at least from Bishop’s perspective.

It wasn’t just their physical conditioning. Most of the men he studied were older, more than one sporting gray hair, and a few near the end of having any hair at all. They didn’t move or talk like fighting men, especially ones who were about to embark on a mission.

He didn’t spot one rifle, Kevlar helmet, or chest-rig in the entire complex. The only thing that could fire bullets in the camp was a single sidearm worn by an officer. The man seemed uncomfortable with the pistol on his belt, constantly fidgeting and adjusting the holster.