Bishop's Song (39 page)

One more tent
, he told himself.
Maybe the real warriors are huddled there
.
What’s behind door number three?

It was empty… unoccupied… nada.

“Shit, shit, shit. Brimstone and damnation,” Bishop muttered. “What the hell do I do now?”

He decided to pull back and think.
Forcing the adrenaline drain made his stomach hurt. After all the preparation, the hair-raising scramble across half the southern United States… the risk… the danger, the dead men in his wake.

His internal rant was disturbed by the sound of footsteps.
A quick scan with the night vision identified a soldier, making for the edge of camp and eventually fumbling with his fly.

While the trooper finished his business, Bishop was moving. After
completing his task, the soldier turned to see a shadow directly behind him. He started to greet what he thought was one of his comrades, but instead found himself on the ground, Bishop’s knife held against his throat.

“Make a sound and die,” hissed Bishop, increasing the pressure of the cold steel.

His prisoner was just a kid – maybe 19 years old, tops. Wide-eyed and clearly terrified, the private remained silent, not even chancing a breath.

“Real quiet now… what is your unit?”

“The 410
th
Mobile Surgical – New York National Guard,” was the hushed response.

Bishop pretended anger, his eyes bulging in the kid’s face, the knife pressing down just a little more. “Bullshit! You’ve got one more chance – what is your unit?”

“I… I told you, sir,” the kid stammered, “I’m from Albany, and we just got here.”

Bishop felt for the private’s shoulder patch, ripping off the Velcro backed designation. With his knee in the kid’s chest, he held it up to the light from the camp behind h
im. Sure as shit, it matched the soldier’s story.

Returning to his prisoner, Bishop asked, “Why are you here?”

“We were ordered here to set up a supply depot. Tomorrow, the doctors are being shuttled into the towns… to start seeing patients while the nurses do inoculations. That’s all I know, mister…. I swear.”

It all matched what Bishop had discovered. Either the government’s plan had changed, or he had been misled. There was no one here that he needed to kill.

Bishop moved his weight off the frightened private. “Get up,” he commanded.

As the kid stood,
Bishop withdrew a nylon tie from his vest. “I’m going to tie you up and leave you over there. After pushing the kid behind a nearby boulder, Bishop bound the private’s hands and feet with the stout stripes and then wrapped duct tape around his mouth twice. “Sorry,” Bishop whispered, “That’s going to hurt like hell coming off.”

Bishop knew every minute the kid was gone increased the chances someone would come looking for him. He hustled away from the camp, climbing rapidly to retrieve his pack and other equipment.

While he strapped on the heavy load, Bishop actually felt relief for the first time in days. Yes, it could be the Special Ops teams had used a different camp. There was still the possibility that he was too late… that his family and friends were still in danger, maybe already dead.

But he didn’t think so. Maybe
surviving the night changed his perspective. Perhaps he was optimistic that he was not having to take additional life. Whatever the reason, Bishop began hiking out of Chamber’s Canyon with a smile on his face. The walk to Alpha was going to suck, but he’d survived worse. He was going home.

Alastair waited, giving Bishop plenty head start. As soon as he was convinced the Texan was far enough away, he began snaking down the incline until he reached the valley floor.

He didn’t like killing Americans, but orders were orders. He’d done it before.

While waiting, he had decided to inherit Bishop’s original plan. He found the two jugs of gasoline, right where the Texan had left them. He began
dousing the flammable liquid throughout the supply tent. A flick of a disposable lighter caused a loud whoosh, and then the area was illuminated by towering flames.

The operative withdrew to the shadows, ducking down in a predetermined spot where he knew Eris’s cameras had a clear view. Taking
a knee and waiting on the guardsmen to respond to the blaze, he flicked the safety off his M4 and inhaled.

Bishop was almost a mile away when a sound
resembling distant gunfire bounced through the rock crevices and gorges of the area. He paused, holding his breath and tilting his head in order to listen more closely.

He waited several minutes, trying to decide if the noise had really been gunfire or just a figment of his exhausted mind.

The momentary pause in his pilgrimage caused him to realize just how drained his mind and body were. He was emotionally, physically, and mentally done.
There’s no great rush to get home
, he thought.
I’m going to find a good place to curl up and sleep for a bit. Maybe the nightmares won’t come tonight.

Alpha, Texas

July 15, 2016

Terri’s morning routine with Hunter went off without a hitch. After both had finished breakfast, the new mom strapped on her constant companion and began trekking toward the courthouse.

She was looking forward to finishing her estimations
for some of their local projects, the effort having been delayed by the series of negotiations being conducted with the team out of Fort Hood. It was two days before the next calendared meeting, and she was behind schedule.

Rounding the corner onto Main Street, she was surprised to see a military
Humvee parked in front of the courthouse.
Odd
, she thought.
They’re not supposed to be here today.

Concern replaced curiosity as she walked closer. Rather than the
assortment of officials from Washington, she could see General Owens, as well as three armed men. The guards noticed her approach and moved to intercept – their weapons in a ready position.

“Are you going to shoot me or the baby first
?” she asked the nearest soldier.

“Sergeant, it’s okay. Let her pass.”

“What’s this all about, General?”

“I was getting ready to ask you the same thing, Terri. Why on earth did you
people murder all those men?”

“What? What men?
We didn’t murder anyone. What are you talking about?”

Clearly angry, Owens pulled a folder from under his arm
, his actions curt and short. Inside were a series of 8x10 photographs, each depicting what looked like the aftermath of gory battle.

Terri managed to look at the first three before having to turn away. “Why are you showing me these pictures?”

“Yesterday, shortly after midnight, someone attacked one of our units. An unarmed medical platoon - men who were preparing a supply depot about 110 miles north of here. We informed you we were staging there over a week ago. Why, Terri? Why kill them all?”

“We didn’t kill anyone! And I don’t appreciate your tone of voice or the
accusation of wrongdoing.”

The general shook his head in disgust, reaching into the folder and producing a
fistful of photos. “Are you saying you don’t know
this
man?”

He held up a picture of Bishop, the image slightly grainy, but clear. Before Terri could answer, he produced several more photographs, including a few that showed her husband shooting a rifle. “Our security system took these pictures at the site of the massacre. This man killed over 20 of our soldiers and destroyed tons of medical supplies. Isn’t this your husband?”

Terri was stunned and speechless. She suddenly felt light-headed, her legs weak. Nick appeared behind her, Diana at her side. “What’s wrong, Terri? You don’t look so good.”

The emergency council meeting, like all such functions of the Alliance, was open to the public. Word of the massacre had spread quickly throughout the territory, rumors compounded by exaggerations.
By the time the news had reached the far corners of the union, the story had grown to the point where war was being declared.

It was standing room only in the courthouse chambers, the walls lined with
idling men, most of whom had left the seating to the women in a gentlemanly show of manners.

General Owen
s, accompanied by his three nervous bodyguards, sat at a table facing the gathering council members, his face stoic, body language reserved. Medals covered the breast of the commander’s green jacket, many of them earned in combat. He seemed to sense every eye in the room was focused on him.

Here was the face of the enemy, a contradiction to what most of the audience thought they would see. He was a calm, professional
-looking solider, not the fire-breathing demon many had expected. Honor sat in his chair – a life of service and sacrifice waiting to address a hostile entity. There was almost a sadness about the fellow – a projected regret.

When Diana’s gavel finally called the meeting to order, a hush fell across the crowded room
, the remnants of a few final whispers fading quickly.

Looking around the
crowd, she began. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce General Owens? He is in charge of the delegation from Washington that has been negotiating a trade agreement with our community. This morning, he delivered terrible news. There has been a mass killing at the edge of our territory, and the general has requested a public hearing to present the evidence gathered by the army investigators. General, you have the floor.”

Owens stood, initially facing the council. “Thank you,
Madam Chairman,” he stated calmly. His next action surprised Diana. Instead of speaking to the governing members of the Alliance, he turned and faced the gathered crowd.

“My fellow Americans,” he began, and then paused, eyes sweeping the room. “I don’t use that opening lightly. It was not an accidental statement. I honestly believe all three words. All of you… are Americans.”

The speaker paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before continuing. “As most of you know, there has been a disagreement between the federal government in Washington and your locally elected officials. There have been threats exchanged, as well as a few overt actions that have served to escalate the tension.”

The general again swept the room, clasping his hands behind hi
s back. “No one wants a war. No one wants to abuse the rights and privileges of any freeborn American citizen. Our disagreement involves material assets and perceived liberties. That is the key word to this entire debacle – perceived.”

Diana watched the crowd, their attention rapt like a jury, willing to hear the man out.

Owens continued, his voice clear, his tone honest. “The president of the United States ordered me here. I’ll be blunt, I didn’t want to accept the mission. In my heart and mind, I am more closely aligned with your leaders than anyone in Washington. During countless meetings held at Camp David, I was always the voice crying out for the protection of each individual’s rights. So why did my Commander in Chief send one of the few dissenting voices on such a critical assignment? Why did he choose me to lead our delegation? Because I have seen the results of American fighting American with my own eyes. These hands… my own hands… have spilled American blood.”

After waiting for the shock of the statement to wear off, he continued. “I commanded the rebel forces at
Scott’s Hill, my friends. I ordered men to fight their brothers and cousins. Why? Because of how strongly I felt about a cause… my sense of right and wrong. So it was with this knowledge that President Moreland ordered me to lead these negotiations. He confided in me that if anyone had the motivation to avoid a civil war, it was me. I’ve been there, I heard the screaming of the wounded, watched the life fade from men’s eyes. I know what war would mean.”

Oh, he’s good
, thought Terri.
He’s very good. But where is this going?

After taking a drink of water, the general cleared his throat and resumed. Sweeping his hand toward the council table, he said, “And we were there. We had an agreement that avoided war and benefited both parties.
Not everyone on my side of the table was happy, I’m sure these fine people behind me had their issues as well. Evidently, some people within your community were seriously displeased. Evidently, there were factions among you who decided reaching agreement with Washington just wasn’t in the plan, and took it upon themselves to sabotage our proceedings… to kill the deal.”

Owens then stepped to the table occupied by his men. He reached down and picked up a single sheet of paper.

“Two nights ago, at 0100 hours, this man attacked a forward operating base that was in the process of being constructed,” he said, holding up an 8x10 photo of Bishop. “This base was outside of your alliance’s territory, the location agreed to only three days before by your own council. This base was staffed by the unarmed soldiers of the New York National Guard. Medical personnel, ladies and gentlemen – doctors and nurses who were staging there in order to treat your friends and neighbors.”

Moving back to the table, Owens then picked up a stack of photographs, walking to the edge of the crowd and holding the first up for everyone to see. “Private First Class, Mitch Benton,
Medic” he announced, displaying a gory image of a dead man lying on the ground. “Captain Henry Phillips, Internist,” he continued, showing another blood-filled image. “Major Becky Holland, Nurse,” the general announced, presenting the image of a dead woman, her uniform blouse covered in purple.

“In total, 21 of our people are dead
. Butchered.”

Again a pause for effect, giving the audience time to absorb what he was saying. “So why do we believe this was the work of the Alliance? Why am I here addressing you? Because we were monitoring the construction of the camp with an observation drone. This is common practice when forward bases are being constructed in distant local
es. We have pictures of the culprit; we have video of the man executing this crime. And that man is the husband of one of your most important leaders. That man, Bishop, has been involved in the assassination attempt of an American president. He has had multiple warrants issued for his arrest, and is still a wanted man associated with crimes committed on a federal installation. He has committed assault against a treasury employee and is known throughout the territory as a man capable of killing. Even if we hadn’t been monitoring this location with an observation drone, we would have suspected this individual. As it is, we have proof who committed this atrocity.”

Turning to one of his subordinates, Owens nodded. The sergeant reached to the table and turned on a projector, a large, illuminated square
appearing on the front wall of the chambers. Turning back to his now-captive audience, the general continued. “I know you don’t trust Washington. I know there is a long and difficult healing process ahead of us all. For this reason, I’m not here asking anyone to take my word for it. I want you to see the evidence and judge for yourself. Sergeant, play the video, please.”

The projector displayed a series of still photos, all of Bishop. The accused
was cleaning his weapon, loading magazines, and adjusting his gear. Then the display changed to motion video, taken from a thermal camera. There was Bishop stalking toward the camp, carrying two milk jugs, moving toward a tent.

The brightness of the footage suddenly changed. The clear outline of white-hot flames w
as visible in the center of the tent, the image of Bishop nearby, raising his rifle.

Other human shapes began to appear, rushing as if to look at the fire. Bishop’s rifle began firing,
the barrel glowing thermal hot in the images.

The soldiers, responding to the fire, began to fall. Some clutched their chests, other
s simply dropped to the ground in disheveled shapes. After several had fallen, the survivors began to run away. The image of Bishop chased them down.

The last ten seconds of video evidence showed the clear outline of a woman, holding up her hands in surrender. The rifleman walked up and calmly shot her in the head, a geyser of hot liquid spray graphically depicted on the wall
of the courthouse.

The women of Alpha turned their heads away, the audience filled with gasps and moans. A few of
those gathered whispered prayers.

After a nod from the general
, the projector was switched off. He gathered himself, clearly touched by the evidence. His voice was shaky, a Herculean effort required to keep the anger from dominating his next statements.

“Ladies and
gentlemen, put yourselves in our place. What would you do? The president is irate, his advisors begging that we immediately send tanks, gunships and infantry into West Texas to avenge our causalities. Wouldn’t most of you do the same?”

Several heads were nodding in the audience, many of the citizens casting hard glances at Terri, a few at Nick and Diana.

“But hope is not lost. If this man is apprehended and turned over to us, there is still a chance that war can be avoided. If the good people of West Texas see fit to accept the legitimate government in Washington, and immediately cease all of this Alliance nonsense, then death and destruction on a massive scale can still be avoided.”