Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (12 page)

Introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. After everyone was settled, Moreland probed, “You’ll forgive my skipping the pleasantries, but I must ask. What could possibly bring all of you on such a long journey to my remote homestead?”

It was the woman from the Supreme Court who responded. “Senator, I’m sure you are aware that
the president has fallen. You are no doubt also aware, that several senior members of the executive branch as well as the vice president were killed in the rioting. Others simply resigned their posts. The purpose of our visit is to inform you, sir, that you are next in the line of succession.”

Despite his decades of service in the most exclusive governing body in the world, Senator Moreland couldn’t keep the look of surprise from crossing his face. Glancing up at Wayne, he managed to muster the words, “Imagine that.”

It took over an hour of discussion for the shock to wear off. The West Virginia
senator initially thought a mistake had been made, but the visitors were certain of the legal precedents involved. After discussing the constitutional ramifications, the conversation moved on to the process of swearing in a new president.

The
visiting congressman said, “Senator … err … Mr. President elect, your predecessor’s remains are still at Fort Bliss. There are no surviving family members and very few of the executive staff. A decision needs to be made as to the former chief executive’s formal resting place and the necessary arrangements made. Furthermore, there needs to be a proper swearing in by a justice of the Supreme Court. We can arrange to have one flown to wherever the ceremony is to be held.”

The Secret Service
agent continued, “In addition, sir, I need to provide executive level protection normally afforded to the president of the United States. I will need to deploy my teams as soon as possible.”

Moreland held up his hands, a gesture designed to stop the conversation. “Please, everyone, please. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful or hesitant, but this is all such an unanticipated surprise. I need some time to digest all of this—to organize my thoughts.
Truth be told, Wayne runs the place here, and can easily arrange accommodations. Can we continue this first thing in the morning after I’ve had some time?”

The three visitors agreed, and after some shuffling of personnel, were shown to rooms in the guesthouse.

Wayne found his employer in the study, sipping a half-full crystal of brandy.

Moreland
peered over the edge of the glass and remarked, “Well, this is just a fine how-do-you-do. We accidently start a civil war, thousands of good men die, and all for naught? In the end, I was going to be the next Commander in Chief anyway.”

Wayne smiled at his boss’ analysis. “I wish it w
ere that simple, sir. It’s regrettable that everyone blames the Independents for the attempt on the president’s life. That act has spoiled any possibility of your accepting the presidency.”

The senator
nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that. Time has a way of peeling away the layers of deceit from the onion of truth. I didn’t order the assassination of the president, and I think time will clear my name.”

“Eventually, sir, the truth may come to light. Until then, I can foresee an endless string of legal and political battles raging for years. Even if the culprit who initiated the attempt on
the president’s life were exposed, your presidency would still be poisoned. Your political opponents would constantly be snapping at your heels and asking difficult questions. Questions like, ‘Since you were actively involved in a direct action against the government, did you automatically sacrifice your office as a US senator, and thus, your place in the line of succession?’ You must have considered how nagging debates over such formalities could cripple your ability to effectively govern. And in this social and political environment such scrutiny and impending investigations would seriously hamper the recovery of our great nation.”

Moreland responded, “You’re probably right. There’s another issue as well. What about
the Independents? Will they view this turn of events as my defecting to the other side? Will the council choose to support my presidency, or would they choose another leader and continue to fight the established government?”

Wayne sighed, “This is a can of worms, sir.”

“A barrel full of monkeys, more like.”

The assistant retorted, “A minefield, perhaps?”

The senator smiled at his old friend’s game of cliché one-upmanship. “All of the above,” he closed.

“You’re being paranoid, Bishop,” was Terri’s initial reaction. “We’re right here in the middle of an army base. I can’t think of anywhere safer.”

“Terri, you’re probably right, but what will it hurt? I’m sure the general won’t notice having to clean another room. We’ll spend the night across the hall and leave in the morning. I’ll sleep better this way.”

Terri shook her head. “Just because some people looked at you funny and the colonel has his conspiracy theories?”

Bishop looked at his wife with a pained expression. “I’ve got to go with my gut on this one. Again, what will it hurt? It’s not like the base has a shortage of rooms right now.”

Reluctantly, Terri agreed.

While Terri was preparing for bed, Bishop pulled the multi-tool out of his pack and began working. His first task was to study the door
stop. The spring-like device was screwed into the baseboard, extending just far enough to keep the knob from punching a hole in the wall’s plaster.

Terri sauntered out of the bathroom to
discover her husband on his hands and knees, grunting and straining. “What are you doing, Bishop?”

“I’m setting up a little alarm system. I’ll deactivate it tomorrow before we leave.”

Bishop used the pliers on the multi-tool to snip off the end of the doorstop. This provided a tube-like opening where the door would strike when opened. Next, Bishop took a single round from one of his rifle magazines and inserted it in the tube. The snug fit provided would hold the cartridge in place.

Bishop removed a medium-sized wood screw from the back of the nightstand. After
verifying the hallway was empty, he carefully marked where the door would meet the base of the cartridge.

The wood screw was torqued into the door precisely on the mark. Finally, using the saw blade, the head of the screw was removed. Bishop filed the metal to a sharp point. 

He motioned Terri over to see his handiwork. “If someone busts in through that door, the point of the screw will strike the primer on the cartridge. It will be like a firing pin striking a normally loaded round in any firearm. The entire building will hear the boom.”

“What if they don’t open the door all the way or gently push it open?”

Bishop shook his head, “The locks on this door will require a fast breach, and that translates into a violent entry. Even if they had a master key for the main lock, there’s still the deadbolt and chain to deal with. Defeating those takes time and creates noise – both can be deadly for the intruders. If they’re coming in, it will be hard and fast. Besides, if they’re breaking in, standard procedure dictates that the door is always pushed open all the way to make sure no one is standing behind it.”

Terri, standing with her hands on her hips, still wasn’t convinced. “If they’re going to be so loud coming in, why do you need the bullet then? Won’t we hear them anyway?”

Bishop nodded. “Yes, if we were staying in this room, we’d definitely hear them coming. Since we’re going to be across the hall, there’s no guarantee. If they have the right equipment, their entry might not be that loud. Besides, the shell exploding will cause them to pause. Not for long, but they will hesitate, thinking someone is shooting at them. That might buy us a little more time.”

The couple went about their normal routine for the rest of the evening, finally getting ready for bed around 10 p.m. Terri turned out the lights while Bishop quietly gathered their belongings. After
confirming the hall was still clear, they snuck into room #12.

As Bishop secured the door to their new room, Terri started giggling. “What’s so funny, Terri?”

“I’m sorry Bishop, but I feel like I’m involved in some sort of college prank here. Switching rooms in the middle of the night, setting up booby traps, and scurrying around like someone is chasing us. It all just seems funny.”

A
fter pondering his wife’s words for a moment, Bishop had to agree. “Yeah . . . I guess you’re right. It probably does seem like getting ready for a snipe hunt or a panty raid.”

Terri did her best to sound indignant and whisper at the same time, “And how would you know anything about panty raids, mister?”

Bishop whispered back, “I don’t know a damn thing, other than what I’ve read in books. I was far too studious in college to partake in any such nefarious activities.”

“Bullshit.”

Terri eventually settled down and went to sleep on the bed. Bishop pulled a chair close to the door and waited, pistol in his hand and rifle leaning against the wall.

Fort Bliss, Texas

December 23, 2015

It wasn’t the booby trap that woke him—something else had disturbed the night. Bishop moved slowly at first, his body complaining about falling asleep in the
barely-stuffed, upholstered chair. After cracking a few joints and a good, cat-like stretch, he gingerly shifted toward the peephole and viewed the entrance to their old room. The hallway was empty.

Next, he
checked the room’s sole window, which provided a wonderful postcard view of the parking lot. Bishop’s quick scan through the curtain slit revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

You didn’t hear anything
. Go back to sleep
, he thought.

Bishop stood,
vacillating between the torture chair and the inviting soft space next to Terri on the bed. He was scheming about how to get under the covers without waking his wife, when the background hum of the building’s furnace suddenly went quiet. Glancing at the alarm clock next to Terri’s head, he confirmed the worst case. The big red digital numbers were dark. The building’s power was out.

Bishop
moved to Terri’s side and gently placed his hand on her arm. The drowsy woman jumped just a little and tried to blink the fog out of her eyes. When he was sure she could comprehend, Bishop whispered, “Terri, call the MPs. The electricity just went out—something’s going on.”

A yawn, followed by a sleepy, “Okay,” was her only response.

Bishop whispered, “It could be nothing. Maybe I heard a transformer blow . . . maybe that’s what woke me up. I don’t like it though.” He returned to the peephole, peering out into the hall. The battery-powered emergency lights illuminated the passageway almost as brightly as the normal lighting. The corridor was vacant.

Behind him, Terri set the phone back into its cradle. She whispered, “Bishop, the phone’s dead.”

“Shit. Not good.”

Keeping an eye at the peephole, Bishop could hear Terri rustling around, no doubt getting dressed. He sensed her beside him a few moments later. “What do you see?”

“Nothing—just an empty hall and the door to our old room.”

“Can I see?”

Bishop started to snap a harsh “No” at his wife, but realized she couldn’t help but be curious. He moved away, motioning for her to have a look, knowing it would help them communicate if she could visualize what he was seeing.

Terri let Bishop have his spot back, but remained at his side.

A few moments later, they both heard the sounds of someone sneaking down the corridor. Bishop’s eye, glued to the viewer, perceived a dark shadow first, and then two men clearly came into view. He chanced a glance at Terri, held his finger to his lips and then flashed two fingers, pointing at the hallway.
There are two of them outside the door to our old room.

Both of the men in the hall were dressed in dark clothing and wore masks.
I guess that confirms they’re not the cleaning crew
, Bishop thought. One of them kept a vigil, glancing up and down the hall, his pistol pointed in the air. Bishop noted the weapon was equipped with a tube-like device extending from the barrel—a CAN, or noise cancelation device, which would make the small handgun practically silent.

The second man produced a ring of keys and began looking for just the right one.

Clearing the question from his mind, Bishop signaled Terri with two fingers and then pointed to his own pistol.
They both are armed.

Bishop moved his head to the side for a moment, motioning Terri to have a quick look. When she pulled away from the tiny porthole, her expression flashed a mixture of fear and anger. Quickly returning to watch the men in the hall, Bishop
could see a key being inserted into the lock, and then a test of the doorknob—it turned.

The man working on the door shifted to the side, and tapped his partner on the shoulder. Signaling one finger, then two, and finally three, both men
bolted into the entrance, flinging the door into Bishop’s booby trap. The sharpened screw struck the primer as planned, causing a louder than anticipated discharge. Both attackers froze for just a moment, stared at each other, and then continued their rush into #11.

These guys are pros
, thought Bishop.
No one goes into a room like that after hearing a gunshot. That takes balls.

When the “phfzzt phfzzt phfzzt” sound of gunshots reached Bishop’s ears, he reached to open #12’s door, and at the same time, he clicked off his pistol’s safety.
Those bastards had shot the two lumps of pillows he had left covered in their old bed. Murderers! Cold blooded killers!

Before he could turn the lock, he felt Terri’s grip on his arm. Looking down into his wife’s face, he clearly could see her mouth the word, “No.”

Bishop ignored her tug, dismissing the protest. Terri held on. She felt his weight shift and sensed the muscles tighten in his arm. She knew Bishop could flick her off without effort, but she held on, determined to stop him from charging into a battle. 

Hot, molten rage surged through Bishop’s body, his imagination conjuring up images of Terri lying dead in a pool of blood. Those men were trying to kill his wife and unborn child, and he would deal with them. He would put them down—put them down hard.

Terri shifted slightly, trying to wedge herself between Bishop and the door. The move caused Bishop to glance down, and for a moment, Terri didn’t recognize the man standing beside her. His eyes were reptilian-like, unblinking, and full of a terrible, cold violence. Bishop wasn’t in there anymore—he’d been replaced by something else, something full of fury and death, straining to unleash its wrath.

She tried again, her voice in a hushed, but stern tone, “No, Bishop. Don’t go. Stay here with me.”

Something about Terri’s words cut through the fog of vengeance clouding Bishop’s mind. Something about the pleading expression on her face pulled him back, restraining the desire to engage and destroy the evil lurking across the corridor.

Noise from the hallway snapped Bishop’s attention back to the peephole. The two assassins were exiting the room now. They paused at the threshold, their body language indicating frustration. One of the men put his hand on his partner’s shoulder and pointed at #12.

Terri felt Bishop tense, and then the shadows of the room blurred. Terri sensed weightlessness—her feet dangling in the air—and then the carpet against her cheek. She rolled over, looking up to see Bishop on the balls of his feet, pistol aimed at the door.

They’re coming in
, thought Bishop. He inhaled, waiting on the sound of a key in the lock, anticipating the door crashing inward. His vision narrowed, finger tightening on the trigger.   

The assault never came. After waiting
for the breech for what seemed like a lifetime, Bishop cautiously peeked back into the corridor, and found it empty. The partially opened door to #11 was the only visual evidence of the attack.

The flashes from the digital camera reminded Bishop of a thunderstorm’s lightning as the photographer snapped pictures of the scene in #11. The hallway was filled with military police, nightclothes-clad residents
, and soldiers, all milling around and chattering with excitement. Bishop watched absentmindedly as a confused MP struggled to take a statement from a visiting Polish officer, who was staying a few doors down. The detective’s frustration with the foreigner’s broken English manifested itself when the cop’s notepad flipped closed without so much as a single sentence being recorded.

The MP
hadn’t had much more luck taking Bishop’s statement a few minutes prior.

A disturbance appeared at the end of the hall, the sea of onlookers and
police officers parting for General Westfield as he barreled his way through. The base commander threw Bishop an annoyed glance and curt nod as he stepped directly into #11 and inquired who was in charge. Bishop couldn’t make out any specifics, but the voices drifting across the hall clearly indicated the general was receiving an update.

A few minutes later, Westfield appeared at Bishop’s side. “How’s your wife, Bishop?”

“She’s a little shaken up, but doing fine, sir.” Bishop nodded toward the bed in #12, where Terri sat talking in hushed tones to a female MP.

“Bishop, I have a thousand questions for you.” The general tilted his head toward the exit, indicating Bishop should follow. The general grunted, when instead of moving
immediately, Bishop glanced back at Terri with a concerned look on his face.

“Bishop,” the general said softly, “I understand your desire to protect your wife, but I’ve known that officer sitting with Terri for over two years. Your wife is safe.”

Bishop’s head snapped toward the general, his voice low and harsh. “You’ll pardon me for being a little skeptical of that,
sir
. You’ll forgive me for not being 100% convinced that anyone can guarantee her safety right now.”

Fire flashed behind the general’s eyes, unused to anyone speaking to him with that tone. The anger quickly passed, and the military man’s response sounded more fatherly than commanding. “I understand, Bishop, but this will only take a few moments.”

With a hesitant shrug of his shoulders, Bishop pivoted to follow the base commander. 

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the crowd in the hallway
split for the base commander as he made his way to the front exit. Once outside, he turned to Bishop and questioned, “Why didn’t you tell me you were worried about your safety?”

Bishop
stared at his feet. “I don’t know, General. I wasn’t sure there was anything to investigate, and I didn’t want to bother anyone in case my suspicions were unfounded. Even Terri thought I was just being paranoid.”

General Westfield didn’t buy it. “You weren’t sure enough to mention it, yet you steal a key and set up a dangerous
booby trap. That doesn’t make sense, Bishop.”

Bishop began explaining the sequence of events that led to his actions. General Westfield listened intently, interrupting only a few times for clarification. Bishop summed it all up, “So, you see, General, I really didn’t have anything to report. I took the precautions mainly because of intuition … a warning going off inside my head.”

Westfield’s response surprised Bishop. “I understand. Some of the best men I’ve ever served with paid attention to that voice inside of their heads. Still, I wish you had come to me. Word of this incident will spread like wildfire across the base. We don’t need another distraction right now.”

Bishop agreed with the general’s assessment.

The sound of more vehicles joining the already crowded parking area drew both men’s attention. Out of the sea of headlights and police strobes, Bishop made out two men stepping quickly toward the scene of the crime. It was Agent Powell and one of his men.

The Secret S
ervice man made for Bishop and the general. “What’s going on, General? I heard on the radio that there was an attempted …”

Bishop charged, growling, “You piece of shit! You set us up!”

The attack took Powell by surprise. As Bishop’s shoulder slammed into the agent’s chest, the angry civilian’s palm shot upwards into the shocked man’s chin. Powell landed hard and rolled away. Before he could manage to stand, Bishop took one step forward and kicked like a football punter, his boot landing squarely into Powell’s midsection. Bishop started circling the panting man like a wolf about to finish the elk.

The other agent drew his pistol
, but the action was curtailed by General Westfield. “This isn’t a gunfight, young man. I think these two need to work things out.”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” hissed Bishop. “You don’t give a fuck about anything but your precious legacy. You set us up.”

“I did no such thing,” panted Powell. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I’ll show ya crazy, federal boy,” and Bishop took a step toward his victim.

Powell’s leg shot out, catching Bishop above the knee. Before he could recover, the agent swept his leg into Bishop’s ankles, causing him to flop and land squarely on his butt.

In less than a second both men were
poised in half-bent crouches, slowly circling each other, guardedly watching for an opening. Powell took the offensive, stepping forward and launching three quick rabbit punches at Bishop’s face. The blows grazed harmlessly off Bishop’s raised forearms, but the action had been a feint. A sweeping roundhouse kick landed squarely in Bishop’s stomach, causing the air to whoosh from his lungs and sending him staggering back.