Bishop's War (Bishop Series Book 1) (5 page)

With the language barrier, and the foot and a half height differential, Christina and Michael may have seemed like an unlikely couple, but for them it was love at first sight.

Gonzalo liked the young man a lot, and after warning Michael not to break his little sister’s heart, he gave the happy couple his blessing. John Michael Bishop was born soon after they were married and Christina, who named him for her father Juan, only called him Juanito.

Madly in love and inseparable, they doted on their baby boy and only child. Those early years with his parents were happy times for John even though his cousins used to tease and torture him for his light skin and his gringo name. He used to come home in tears of rage and his mother would comfort him by pulling him to her breast and sing softly to him in Spanish. His father, being more practical, taught him how to fight and the teasing stopped soon after.

On a warm summer morning when John was nine, Christina asked Gonzalo if they could borrow his new car for a family outing. He sent the Cadillac over with his driver and they piled in the back, excited to take a trip out of the city. Heading south on Avenue D, the Bishop family was laughing and looking out of the dark tinted windows when the world exploded all around them.

Christina screamed as machine gun fire ripped through the doors and windows. Michael pushed John down to the floor a second before the tires were blown out and the car crashed into a bodega on the corner. The attackers didn’t let up. Bullets twanged into the car’s metal frame and thumped into the seats. Then Michael was thrown back by a shot to the chest. Husband and wife stared sadly into each other’s eyes. Badly wounded, Michael coughed up blood, then dove onto Christina to shield her body with his. “Mi amor,” she whispered just as the next fusillade of steel jacketed shells came in through all sides, killing them both along with the driver.

When the shooting stopped John was the only survivor. Blood poured down his face where a sharp piece of metal from the crumpled door frame had viciously slashed him from his forehead deep down into his cheek. He sat up trembling in fear, covered in gore, staring in horror at the bodies of his parents. From above the shoulders it looked like they were sleeping peacefully with their arms wrapped around each other in what John would always remember as a warm and loving embrace, but below there was only carnage where they had both been struck multiple times by the high velocity rounds.

The hit was aimed at Gonzalo. The killers thought he was the one sitting behind the tinted back windows. His street name, “El Gato Negro,” The Black Cat, was given for his luck at surviving the many attempts on his life as much as for his dark complexion and yellow cat-like eyes.

Gonzalo was wracked with guilt for being so careless. He blamed himself for the death of his beloved little sister and even vengeance did nothing to cleanse him of his grief. The shooters themselves were quickly tracked down and slaughtered, although it took him another year to capture the two men who ordered the hit: the Davis brothers.

After the funeral Gonzalo brought the heavily bandaged Juanito home with him. His wife Grasiella could not have children of her own and Juanito became the center of their lives. Gonzalo reduced his workload in order to care for his nephew full time and together he and Grasiella were tireless in their efforts to bring the little boy back to life. They tried everything, but months after the attack he had retreated into his own world. Frantically rocking back and forth, he would constantly touch his own face like a blind man following the contours of the jagged scar. He refused to speak, rarely ate, and would wake up screaming from the nightmares that tortured his sleep. Each night Grasiella and Gonzalo lay on either side of him trying to make him feel safe and loved while he sobbed for hours in their arms.

Fearing that Juanito was at the point of no return, Gonzalo finally approached his younger brother Carlos who was Felix’s father. Felix was two months older than John and they had been playmates since birth.

“Carlos, I have something very serious to ask of you. To ask of you both,” Gonzalo said to Carlos and his wife Marci.

“You’re the head of this family, mi hermano. There is nothing you can ask of us that we can deny.”

“I’m not asking as the head of the family. I’m asking only as your brother and you or Marci can say no. Her answer is just as important as yours in this.”

“What is it?”

“Will you give Felix to me?”

“
What?!”
screamed Marci.

“I am asking you to let Felix come live with me and Grasiella to save Juanito.”

Carlos closed his eyes. “You ask too much,” he said.

“Yes, I know. I knew it was too much before I came. Still, I’m here. I had to come, and I have to ask. If we don’t act now Juanito will be gone forever. Also, know this. Grasiella and I will never,
ever
try to replace you. You are his mother and father and always will be.”

Marci and Christina had been best friends. She loved Christina and Michael and their beautiful boy so much that after many tears she too agreed that it was their last hope. The next day they delivered their son.

For John it was a blessing. Felix had always been a terror and his energy was infectious. Soon after he moved in John was up and out, playing, eating, and being a kid again. Even the nightmares gradually faded, but his face and heart were scarred for life. A shadow remained over him, a darkness and a deep pool of anger. It was something he would use to his advantage in the military many years later.

John, Felix and Gonzalo went everywhere together and because they were the only ones in the Valdez clan with the “yellow eyes” they were soon known as “los tres gatos,” the three cats.

As the years went by the bond between the three grew stronger and stronger, and although they always called him Tio, both boys truly loved Gonzalo like a father. He taught them all he knew about life, the family’s long history going back almost two-hundred years and the journey from slavery in Panama to riches in America. He taught them about the streets, about leading men, and being the head of a family. He also taught them to play chess. In return he demanded that they would not be fools.

“You’ll make choices every day for the rest of your lives. Some are small, but many, many will be big life-changing decisions. Think before you make them. Think before you act.” He repeated this over and over again to them until they could hear him saying it even when he wasn’t there.

Chapter 5

Sweet Dreams

BACK IN CENTRAL
Booking Bishop sat on the bench brooding, reflecting on his life, and thinking about how he wound up in jail on his first night back home. In the end he knew it wasn’t Felix’s fault that they’d been arrested. If anything he was just angry at himself. He shouldn’t have been sipping on Henny and driving no matter what the occasion. Most important of all he didn’t want his uncle to think he was a fool after all he had taught him and after all these years.

“Hey Fletch,” John said.

“Yeah Johnny, what’s up?” Fletcher said eagerly.

“My bad for jumping down your throat like that. Been a long day and I’m missing my welcome home party.”

“Don’t sweat it, man. It’s great to see you back, but sorry it’s in here. Listen papa, there’s a Muslim dude against the bars over there who’s been scoping you.”

“Yeah, I saw him. Thanks for the heads up. How much time you looking at?”

“Probably eleven months.”

“I’m gonna get someone to look into your case, but you know if you don’t wanna do the time, you’d have to go to rehab. You down with that?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, thanks Johnny. Really, papa, thank you.”

“You’re getting too old to run these streets, Fletch. You get yourself clean, there’s a job waiting for you when you get out.”

“For real?”

John nodded his head.

“I don’t know what to say, man. Getting busted today turned out to be the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” They both laughed and shook hands.

While John was in his reverie he’d sensed someone watching him and the man Fletcher had just warned him about was standing with his back to the bars across the room, still staring intently. He looked Middle Eastern with dark curly hair, a close beard, deep set eyes under a heavy brow, and a freakishly long hooked nose that gave him an almost hawk-like appearance.

Clearly enraged, he was scowling at John and started clenching and unclenching his fists. John didn’t want any trouble. For a moment he stared back impassively, but looked away just as the guy screamed out, “Allahu Akbar!” (God is Great) then reared back and spit at him. The thick gob landed just short of his polished boots. John sat there looking down at it for a moment, then exhaled deeply.

Damn it
, he thought.

Okay pal, you asked for it. Nobody spits at this
uniform.

Make it quick, but whatever you do… don’t kill
him.

I’ll try my
best.

John ended his private conversation and eased up off the bench. His cellmates quickly formed a wide circle so they could all see the action. The spitter edged forward with fists cocked, eager to fight. John stood casually, waiting for his opponent to come in range when Felix jumped in front of him. He should have known that his cousin wouldn’t be waiting around for some nut to throw the first punch.

Felix closed the gap in two short steps then fanned his left hand in front of the spitter’s face. The quick simple hand feint created an involuntary blink reflex and in the split second the eyes were closed Felix followed through with a devastating straight right that echoed like a gunshot in the cell. His rock hard knuckles flattened the big beak nose and sent blood spraying from both nostrils. The spitter’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went down and out.

“Damn!”

“Yo, you see that shit?”

“Sweet dreams mothafucka!”

Felix barely heard his shouting cellmates. Looking down on the unconscious man he stepped back to get more leverage in his kick and was about to inflict some permanent damage when John wrapped his arms around him and pulled him away.

Felix struggled to get free. “This bitch-ass punk spit at you, cuz! I ain’t even close to done!”

“Easy Cat, easy. We wanna get outta here tonight. You already put his ass to sleep. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”

Felix was losing it and fought to get free. His eyes blazing and muscles popping as John held him close.

“Cat, Cat. Be cool, be cool. You did your work, and we’re never going to see this Jihad motherfucker again,” John said into his ear.

Felix eased off and then turned to the group of youngsters standing close by.

“Pick up that piece of shit and throw his ass under the toilet.”

Eager to please, they picked him up and roughly threw him in the corner with his bloody face pressed up against the steel bowl.

Felix turned to address the room. Taking his time, he looked every man sharing the cell directly in the eye.

“Anyone asks, he slipped and fell when he was trying to take a drink. He ain’t from this country and thought the toilet was a water fountain. We clear?”

Every head nodded in full agreement. When his eyes met the Investment Banker’s, Tucker’s bladder involuntarily let loose. Felix shook his head as he watched urine drip out of the man’s six thousand dollar suit and onto the floor.

Fletcher walked over to the unconscious body.

“Leave him be Fletch,” Felix said.

Ignoring him, Fletcher took a tiny pin out of the waist band of his shiny green shorts. Pulling up the spitter’s right pant leg, he carefully inserted the pin into his Achilles tendon and walked back to John and Felix.

“He won’t even notice it when he wakes up, but within a week that tendon’s gonna pop. Fuckin’ asshole,” Fletcher said.

Felix was laughing now. He put him in a head lock and then gave him a big bear hug.

“Nice job Fletch. Wish I could be there to see that thing bust,” said Felix.

“Me too, but like I said, we’ll never see that piece a shit again,” John replied.

Chapter 6

Team Razor

Khost Province, Eastern Afghanistan

Special Forces sergeants
Bobby Floyd and Able Diaz were that typical size and shape of American front line combat soldiers. Bobby at five-ten, a hundred-eighty-five pounds and Able at five-nine, one-seventy. Tough strong and lean, they were guys that never quit, guys that can take on anything and get the job done.

Bobby came from western Kentucky. He grew up hunting in the mountains and was considered by most to be the best tracker in Special Forces. People called him Tick, short for Bluetick Coonhound, some of the finest hunting dogs ever bred. Modern technology had nothing on Bobby “Tick” Floyd. He could read the land and find the enemy. Bobby was a man hunter.

Able “The Mexican” Diaz was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. His parents were from El Salvador and got factory jobs in the auto industry after becoming U.S. citizens. He grew up in a poor all-black neighborhood where fighting was a way of life. Always small and lightweight, he learned early on that he had to fight or be victimized by the bigger guys. Then he had to fight because he was different. After a while he just fought because he liked it. Able was street smart and street tough. That, combined with Special Ops training, made “Mex” one bad-ass soldier.

Able and Bobby had been fighting side by side for five years, and they moved as one, each a mirror of the other. Best friends, they considered themselves true brothers and went everywhere together both on and off the battlefield.

The two Special Forces sergeants were standing in the central square of the tiny Afghan village. The rough road was made of dirt and tiny rocks. The houses were all mud and stone. There was no electricity, and the only well was a quarter mile away along a treacherous footpath farther up the mountain. The village had been there for a thousand years, sitting high on a plateau to help defend itself against neighboring tribes.

“No wonder these people are hard as nails. Man, there’s nothing soft in this land,” Bobby said, looking around at the harsh lunar landscape.

“Roger that. Even the goats look ready to throw down,” Able said.

“And the women.”

“Shit, they look meaner than the men.”

“Uglier too.”

“We need to thank Allah they cover themselves up.”

“They really want to win this war, all they’ve gotta do is take the veils off.”

“Game over,” Able said.

“I know I’d surrender,” added Bobby.

“Okay, you two, knock it off,” said Chief Warrant Officer Bear Bernstein as he ambled over with Sergeant Mace Hendricks.

Each twelve-man Special Forces A team was made up of ten sergeants, one captain who was the commanding officer, and a chief warrant officer (CWO), who was the second in command. Bear was aptly named at six-four, two-thirty. He grew up outside of Chicago, his parents both surgeons. Bear was following in their footsteps when he quit school to join the Army twenty years ago. They never forgave him for “throwing his life away,” but Bear had never looked back or second-guessed his decision. He was a happy man and loved Special Forces.

“We’re just getting warmed up, Chief,” Able said.

“Warm? I’m not even moist,” said Bobby.

“What comes before foreplay?” Able asked.

“Enough. You comedians start mingling and winning some hearts and minds,” Bear said while looking around the square at the cold faces and hard stares they were getting from the men of the village.

“Those guys appear very progressive. ‘Animal House’ probably just opened here,” Bobby said.

“Can we dance with yo dates? is my opener,” Able said.

Bear and Mace were trying their best not to laugh, but Tick and Mex were good. After serving together for five years they had their routine down pat, and they prided themselves on always having fresh material.

“C’mon guys,” said Bear.

“Chief, you know handing out Snickers bars to these dudes ain’t gonna help our cause here. We need to help these people get a new water supply so they can grow bigger rocks,” Bobby said as he reached down and picked up some pebbles from the road.

Mace smacked his pants leg, raising a cloud of moon dust. “We’ll need to fly in a few million metric tons of top soil before we can even discuss farming,” he said.

Sergeant Maceo “Mace” Hendricks was a musical prodigy. He was born in Washington DC, and by age three he could play any instrument placed in front of him. An accomplished Jazz composer and performer by his early teens, everyone expected him to have a long and successful career. It all ended at nineteen. He never told anyone the reason why, but he stopped playing and stopped writing. A few months later he joined the Army, six-one, chubby and out of shape. He quickly worked off the fat and excelled at everything the Army threw at him. Within a year he was offered a shot at Special Forces and had excelled there, too. His new instruments were weapons of war and once again he had mastered them all.

“Seriously guys, we’re Green Berets. The fuckin’ A Team. We’re not called Team Razor for your sharp wit. You know the four of us standing here have more knowledge of these people and a better understanding of their culture than the entire Army, Navy, and Marine Corp combined,” Bear said.

“Agreed,” said Able. “But with all our knowledge these guys are still looking at us like we just came from outer space.”

“Suggestions, Chief?” Bobby asked.

“Let’s mosey over and get some conversations going. Maybe we can gain some intel. Find out if they’re really pissed off at us or someone else. Major Burke’s meeting with their head honcho, and when he’s done we can give him some feedback from the man in the street. Worst case we’ll get some close ups and maybe recognize some of these guys next time they shoot at us,” Bear said.

“That’s why you’re in charge, Bear,” Bobby said.

“Just don’t stand too close to me, Chief. If they pick up on your Zionist roots we’re gonna have to fight our way out of here,” Able said.

“I’ll gladly keep my distance, Sergeant Diaz. You skip the personal hygiene class back in basic? Man, you stink.”

“His last bath was when he swam the Rio Grande, sneaking into America,” Bobby said.

“Fuck all a’ you. My people are from El Salvador.”

“So you’re southern Mexican?” Mace asked.

“I was born in the States, dipshit, and I don’t stink.” Able lifted his arm up over his head and sniffed his armpit. “Do I?”

Mace, Bobby, and Bear looked at each other and smiled and then they all turned towards Able shaking their heads in pity.

“Let’s go,” Bear said.

“Lead on,” said Bobby, always wanting the last word as they walked toward a group of men who were smoking and drinking strong coffee in the dusty afternoon sun.

All four Green Berets wore tee shirts and flak jackets with khaki cargo pants over their mountain boots. Each carried an M-4 semi-automatic rifle in his hands and had a pistol strapped across his chest. With their thick beards and sun glasses they looked like bikers, but their confident strides, headsets, and fire power identified them as elite fighting men.

They were, in fact the best of the best. Along with the rest of Team Razor they were trained in hand-to-hand combat, explosives, weaponry, communications, counter-insurgency tactics, and intelligence gathering. Between them they knew several local languages, and they had all studied the history and culture of the region, which is mandatory for Special Forces Operatives.

What really made these guys, like all Green Berets, so unique was that they worked in autonomous twelve-man Operational Detachment Alpha Teams (ODA’s) or A Teams. Acting independently, with little or no oversight, they lived among the locals on the front lines.

Mace, Bobby, Able, and Bear were part of ODA 851, also known as Team Razor. They worked closely with ODA 834, Team Saber, and together had won the trust and respect of the Afghanis within their Area of Operation (AO). The team had traveled from its Combat Outpost (COP) twenty miles away to this small village near the border with Pakistan to try and win their trust as well.

Afghanistan is a tough country, but Khost is an especially brutal region made up of high barren mountains and shallow valleys that isolate the area from government control. For years it’s been a safe haven and training ground for terrorist fighters who launch attacks from across the border in the frontier region of Pakistan.

While trying to increase local support on the Afghan side, U.S. forces were also trying to coordinate their actions with the Pakistani military. Together they shared information and targeted enemy bases, but even with this new joint effort the insurgent forces continued to gain strength.

Afghanistan’s border with Pakistan, three miles east of the village

The five Afghans sat on rugs laid over the dirt floor of a tiny one-story rock-and-mortar hut that had been at the base of the treeless mountain for over two hundred years. All were heavily armed, with AK-47’s across their laps and pistols stuck in their gun belts. Several Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers (RPG’s) leaned against the wall. The road had been heavily mined above and below the meeting place, and there were over fifty fighters spread out nearby to protect these men against a surprise attack.

Usually communicating by encrypted messages delivered by courier or through coded websites they rarely saw each other face-to-face. Today was different. They were being hurt by the joint U.S.-Pakistani efforts in the region, and over the last two months had suffered heavy losses with more than three hundred men killed, wounded, or captured.

Aziz Khan had dark deep-set eyes that drilled into a man with an intensity that made even the bravest falter and turn away. Dressed in black from his turban to his boots while casually stroking his long full beard, he was the undisputed leader and the others waited for him to begin. He took his time.

Aziz had been at war his entire life and one of the many lessons of war was patience. Another was never to show mercy to his enemies. Aziz never did. He had a heart of stone, hardened when he began fighting the Russians as a young man, and hardened further when he watched his entire family slaughtered by the Soviet invaders. After sending them home in defeat he fought other warlords for power and control of his country. Then came the Americans. Now there were also the Pakistanis.

Aziz believed in war. Whether from outside his country or from within, there was always an enemy that needed killing. He didn’t hope for peace as peace only made his people weak and unfocused, while war kept his men strong and determined.

“This new push by the Americans… it is a coincidence? They cannot know of our plans?” he asked.

The question was posed to the group, but it was Salman Hamidi, his Oxford-educated senior intelligence officer who answered.

“No Aziz, mission security is intact. Your nephew in New York has personally seen to everything, and he’s done an excellent job. If there were any leaks or a breach by U.S. Intelligence our friends would have alerted us by now. We are ready to begin operations, praise be to God,” he said.

“Salman, you speak kindly of my nephew, but he wears his anger on his face for all to see. He devised the plan, and I gave him command. It remains to be seen if he can control his temper. This mission requires discipline and patience for it to succeed, and he is not known to possess either of these virtues,” Aziz said.

The next to speak was Tariq Hassan. His family home was hit by an aerial bomb when he was a baby and he was badly burned. A scar covered most of his face and only allowed his beard to grow in irregular patches. The youngest of Aziz’s commanders, Tariq was in charge of military operations in Khost and in the neighboring Peshawar Valley of Pakistan.

“The Americans are attacking us in our country, in our homes. We will continue the fight here, but we
must
bring the war back to American soil! Their women and children will know suffering as ours do. They have not bled since 9/11. Now they will bleed again. Allahu Akbar!”

“Allahu Akbar!” was repeated by all.

“Yes Tariq, they will bleed. The Americans are fighting here and against our brothers in Iraq and Syria while the U.S. economy is weak. This mission can be the fatal blow, praise be to Allah,” Aziz said.

Aziz then spread out a large map of the region. “Now let us turn our attention to operations here and discuss this new threat from the Pakistanis.”

As they surveyed the map and discussed strategies they had no idea that they were being monitored. Two weeks prior to this meeting a Special Forces Operator had placed a voice activated digital recorder in the ceiling when the shack had been identified as a potential location where high value intel could be gathered. In addition to the recorder inside, there was also a camera with a live satellite uplink positioned on the front door. The audio from the recorder would have to be retrieved manually at a later date, but the camera shots were available immediately.

Still photos of all five terrorists were downloaded from the satellite and sent to the NSA, CIA, Homeland Security, FBI, and Special Operations Command (SOCOM). The pictures were then entered into databases with facial recognition software. Members of the Most Wanted List of international terrorists produced a red flashing light when one was identified by the system and it was a senior analyst at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia who was the first to see the “hit” on his computer screen.

“Bingo,” he said when he saw Aziz Khan’s name flashing. The “bingo” was soon followed by “holy shit” when Tariq Hassan and Salman Hamidi’s names also blinked bright red. He quickly sent an urgent e-mail to all the department heads and the Director of Middle East Operations just as two more names from the world’s top one hundred bad guy’s list popped up. He ran down the hall shouting, “High Value Targets! High Value Targets!”

The news quickly moved up the chain of command and finally reached Colonel Paul Edwards, the local U.S. commander with “boots on the ground.” All five names were already on his High Priority Kill or Capture List and as soon as he determined that they were together in a fixed location within his AO he immediately sent three Black Hawk helicopter gunships and twin A-10 Thunderbolt ground-attack jet fighters streaking towards the target. Surveying the map he saw that Team Razor was only three miles away.