Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (29 page)

The predators were on a track that was practically a straight west to east line. Bishop’s position was slightly to their north. Determined to keep them away from Terri, he moved to engage them before they reached the vicinity of the camper.
Maybe I can scare them off or delay their approach
, he thought.
Maybe I can buy some time to think of a way out of this mess.

Bishop began scrambling from the outcropping to the mound, heading south on an intercept vector. The weapon he carried had an effective killing range of 1,000 yards in the right hands. Bishop thought his skills with the current calm conditions were more in the range of 700-800 yards. Another factor that crossed his mind was the body armor being worn by the intruders—the further away he engaged, the less likely he
would be able to penetrate that layer of protection.

Trying to calm the fear building inside of his gut, Bishop began assessing the promised encounter. The ad
vantages in his column included knowing the terrain, having the element of surprise, and having a longer-range weapon.  His foe possessed greater numbers, more combat power, and the ability to maneuver. The analysis didn’t prove promising.

Taking the best
cover he could find on the run, Bishop went prone behind a steep ledge of rock a little over a foot high. He could fight from here, and there was a reasonable path of egress if he couldn’t hold the position. It was over 400 yards back to the camper, with good cover along the way. This is where he’d make a stand.

He steadied the rifle, lowering the magnification to expand his field of view. It took almost a minute to find the approaching threat, but there they were, maintaining the same course as predicted.

Using the hash marks on the scope’s crosshairs, Bishop estimated the distance to the men. They were just over 900 yards and closing in. He proceeded through the mental checklist required for a long-range shot. Achieving a natural point-of-aim was first, which required him to shift his body just slightly while arranging two small stones under the rifle’s fulcrum. The goal was to avoid having any part of his body touch the weapon, to let it rest naturally while on target. Human frames breathe, shake, and move, the effect of which would result in missed shots.

Next was the calculation of
the bullet drop. Bishop carried a small notepad containing all of his DOPE, or data on previous engagements, in his kit. He knew from practice and experience that at 800 yards, his bullet would drop over 80 inches. There wasn’t any wind, but at that range, the twist imparted by the grooves inside the barrel would cause the round to fly a few inches to the right. Bishop removed his hat and rolled it into a tube. Inserting the wad of material between his shoulder and the rifle butt provided an extra cushion to isolate the weapon from his pulse or other movement. 

Finally, he forced himself to relax. Starting at his toes, he mentally commanded every muscle
to go limp. This was extremely difficult to do when facing a potential gunfight.

His breathing under control and timed, Bishop nudged the rifle ever so slightly to bring the crosshairs onto the guy walking point. He nudged the rocks under the pistol grip to allow for the drop and disengaged the safety. No part of his body was touching the rifle except his cheek welded to the stock
, and a finger barely touching the trigger. The aim was perfect.

Bishop stopped, pulling his head back from the weapon’s stock. What if these guys are just passing through? What if they’re just here to deliver a message from Fort Bliss? What if they’re just three guys from Meraton, trying
to find the ranch from the hand-drawn map he’d left with Pete?

Bishop couldn’t do it. Despite the state of society, regardles
s of the attempt on their lives just a few short days ago, he couldn’t send death screaming out of his rifle barrel. It didn’t matter what the odds were, the suspicions and circumstantial evidence didn’t mean a hill of beans. He didn’t
know
for certain these men were a threat; there was no proof. He just couldn’t do it.
Not everything is as it appears
, he thought.

By the time Bishop gathered himself, the approaching team was within 800 yards. Bishop held the crosshairs off
aim and squeezed the trigger, the roar of the powerful rifle split the desert calm like a clap of thunder rolling across the plains.

The bullet landed slightly right and 10 feet in front of the lead man. As expected, Bishop watched his adversaries scatter to cover. Their movements revealed excellent discipline and quick reactions.

Most people, when shot at, stayed put. Even experienced infantrymen would show respect for a sniper, no matter how far off the first shot had been. Bishop’s mouth fell open as he watched the three men through his optic. After an all too brief, momentary pause, the team in front of him resumed their approach—this time moving with haste and caution.

His warning shot had backfired, the justification now clearly flawed. The element of surprise evaporated
—his single most important advantage no longer playing a role. Now the approaching gunmen knew he was alert. Dodging, ducking, and rushing from cover-to-cover, Bishop watched, horrified at the efficiency of their movements.
These guys are pros—these guys have skills
.

Now convinced of their objective, Bishop had no reservations about shooting anyone. The problem was he couldn’t get a clear shot. No two of the men exposed themselves at any one time. There wasn’t a single instance where any of them were out in the open long enough to take aim. They alternated movements, going in random order
, and always hustling from one spot of cover to the next.

Bishop tried to focus on one assaulter, waiting for the man to raise his head. They were just too fast and too disciplined. At 700 yards, Bishop was becoming worried. At 600 yards, the sweat was pouring down his brow and into his eyes.

Think, damnit!
screamed inside his head.
You’ve got to hold this ground, and your advantages are disappearing quickly.
In another few minutes, they would be so close his longer-range weapon wouldn’t matter. Another advantage would vanish.

Instead of trying to fix on the moving men, Bishop forced himself to study the terrain in their path. At about 450 yards was an open area with little or no cover. Scanning their general path, Bishop desperately tried to put himself in the foe’s position. I’d gather up at the edge of that open area, and I’d rush my team across all at once. The first guy to raise h
is head will be to draw my fire; he’ll be a feint. He won’t expose himself until the others are moving.

Bishop calculated the drop of his rounds while he waited. Sure enough, the team went to cover at the edge of the open ground.

It took them longer than he expected to initiate their next move. Time was no longer flowing at normal speeds, perhaps it was just his imagination. He knew exactly where all three had hit the ground, and he watched, promising to ignore the first man who showed himself.

There he was, the one in the center
—the diversion. Bishop watched as he rose from behind a mound, moving slower than normal. Adjusting the crosshairs away from the bait, Bishop spotted the body of a second man rise from behind a boulder. He whispered, “Send it,” and pulled the trigger.

Not waiting to see the results, Bishop managed a second shot as another intruder ran bent at the waist across the opening. That fast, the three men had cleared the open ground and were again advancing with good cover. Or were they?

Bishop twisted the rifle back to the first target and saw a man rolling on the ground. A hit! He couldn’t believe it when the guy rolled twice, and then suddenly rose up and ran back to the rocks.
Damn it! I must have hit his armor.

Before he could ponder a next step, bullets started impacting around Bishop’s position. It took him a second to realize his shots must have given away the hiding spot
—probably the dust kicked up from the muzzle blast. Staying low, Bishop retreated to a spot he’d identified before, disgusted and worried by the results of the first encounter.

Deke was hurting. That fucking shot had entered one of the spare magazines strapped across his abdomen, goring through to the Kevlar vest beneath. While the bullet hadn’t penetrated his body, the kinetic energy had knocked the air from his lungs, and he was sure at least two ribs were broken.

Pushing back the pain, he gritted his teeth and used hand signals to let his teammates know he was okay.

The ambush was a minor annoyance. Their target had shown his inferior tactics with the warning shot, an important indicator of his mindset. It was unlikely they would receive another warning, but that was acceptable. They knew where he was.

The round that found its mark on his chest was probably luck. There was no foolproof way to cross an open area, and the shooter had just been aiming at the right place at the right time. They would have this operation wrapped up by lunch. Deke hoped the kill shot would come from his weapon, payback for the sore ribs.

When the first shot had echoed down the canyon, Terri had been folding laundry while wondering if Bishop
were using the Christmas gift she had made for him.

“He was right about the footprint,” she said out loud. Her hand drifted to the pistol on the counter as she peered
warily outside. She couldn’t see anything from the tiny camper window, its view restricted to a small portion of the canyon’s opening.  “God, please keep my husband safe.”

When the next volley of gunfire bounced along the rock walls, Terri made up her mind to move. Bishop had always warned her that the camper was a bad place to be if anyone ever attacked the ranch. As she put on her
shoes, she remembered his words. “Terri, if someone starts shooting, the skin of the camper is like cardboard. The bullets will go through like a hot knife through butter. Don’t stay in here—go to the Bat Cave if you can make it safely.”

Terri intended to do just that.

Wishing she’d paid more attention when Bishop had tried to teach her about self-defense, Terri pushed open the camper’s door and paused. After hundreds of bullets didn’t come screaming through the opening, she popped her head around the corner once, twice, and then sprang from the doorway.

Running
as if she was being chased by wild demons, Terri made for the Bat Cave. Breathless, she pulled the heavy steel door closed behind her and dropped the latch. Terri leaned against the cool, stone walls, drinking in the air and plotting her next action. She looked down at the small pistol in her hand, and then at the rack of rifles hanging along the opposite wall. “I need a bigger gun,” she announced.