Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (38 page)

Bishop agreed and took the first shift.

It took a while to find a position that was both comfortable and concealed. Nature’s random compilation of the dead refuse didn’t naturally provide a good spot for a man with a rifle. Taking his time with slow, deliberate movements, Bishop eventually managed a good line and proper brace for the weapon.

The moon was about half full
, and the sky above was absolutely clear. It was one of those crisp winter nights where there was plenty of light to see the surrounding terrain without using night vision.
We caught a break there
, Bishop thought. Getting the night vision monocle to cooperate with a high-powered scope was always a difficult task of focusing two different devices while obtaining the perfect eye relief. 

The building was less than 200 meters away, to
o close for the optic to be used at full power. Scaling down the magnification to 8-x provided the best all-around view of detail and width of field. A quick scan revealed what one would expect from a deserted business on the outskirts of civilization. The windows appeared to be completely dark, either covered to hide internal lights or displaying the natural blackness of an unoccupied space. There was no way to be sure.

The parking lot of the former garage was pea gravel and mixed stone, tough desert plants having taken root in several spots. The paint on what would have been the public door was faded and chipped, the visible windowsills matching in both color and disrepair. The raw wood exposed by the lack of protective pigment
sported a bleached color of gray; evidence that the sun had ruthlessly attacked the surface for some time.

Nick was correct. There was a trash barrel some distance south of the building. The
50-gallon drum was a common receptacle in this part of the world where many people still burned their household refuse. Bishop could make out the random assortment of lumpy looking contents, but even the highest zoom couldn’t discern enough detail to identify specific items. Still, the barrel was over three-quarters full.

Unlike grass lawns back east, the hard packed gravel and sand surrounding the place didn’t leave any evidence of foot traffic. Bishop studied each individual patch of weeds between the building and the trash barrel, looking for a sign of a beaten path. He just couldn’t be sure.

Bishop had been scouting the building for almost 20 minutes when he pulled his eye away from the optic and checked his watch. It was just after 3 a.m., and the desert was completely at rest. Many people referred to midnight as the witching hour, but men who spend significant time in the field know it’s 3 o’clock in the morning when the world begins turning at a slower speed. The rhythms of life’s activity seem to be at their low tide during those wee hours. Tonight, his wife in peril, Bishop didn’t have any problem concentrating or staying awake.

Wh
at did begin to trouble him was concern for his wife and child. Waiting on the trackers at The Manor had given him plenty of time to worry, sort, and fret over what was happening to Terri. His emotions had ebbed and flowed, ranging from boiling, sulfuric rage to debilitating sorrow. Throughout the process, one thought kept forcing itself into his mind - old advice given long ago by the colonel during one of the countless hours of training conducted at HBR.

“When you’re the only salvation
… when you’re the only option, the difference between winners and losers is focus. Athletes call it ‘closing out the victory,’ boxers call it ‘killer instinct,’ and warriors call it ‘becoming cold-blooded.’ You have to develop the mental discipline to push fear, anger, stress, and insecurity aside and perform. In this line of work, lives will depend on it. Success or failure is at stake.”

Bishop fully realized he’d never been tested like this. Visions of Terri being tortured and abused tried to assault his thinking. Images of
a dead newborn and a murdered wife made desperate attempts to dominate his mind. It was mentally exhausting to push them aside—to deny access to his consciousness by those debilitating images.

“She needs me now more than ever,”
he thought.
“She’s probably down there, cold, lonely, and frightened. She’s wondering if help will come. I’m here, Terri. I love you more than anything, and I’m here. Hang in there, baby. I’m coming.”

More than once during his shift, Bishop thought about charging into the building below, guns blazing.
The colonel’s advice from so long ago helped to push the urge aside. He knew the men who held Terri were professionals, and in a way, that helped ease his apprehension. While it wasn’t a certainty, Bishop believed these men had some logical reason for taking his wife. They weren’t a random bunch of criminals who happened upon a pretty, helpless woman. They weren’t extortionists, wanting something in exchange for her return. It wasn’t a vendetta, a cruel attempt at extracting revenge on Bishop for some past deed.

T
hey wanted something from Terri—something that they considered important enough to waste extremely valuable resources and lives to obtain. Just because Bishop didn’t know what they sought didn’t mean it wasn’t important to whoever was driving their operation.

Bishop’s analysis was interrupted when movement from below caught his eye. There it was again! It wasn’t the building itself, but a strand of vegetation some 50 meters away. His first thought was a jackrabbit. The movement had been low to the ground at the edge of the brush. The second occurrence made it clear
—that wasn’t any rabbit. 

Now focused on the spot, Bishop zoomed in the optic and studied the area carefully. He detected movement again at the edge of his scope. Looking at every weed, branch
, and rock, Bishop couldn’t quite make it out, but something was out of place.

Three minutes later, it all became clear. A man rose from the brush and walked to the edge of the building
, where he was met by another. Bishop could make out body armor, load vests, and assault rifles. These were no random interstate-refugees. The new man made for the brush pile and Bishop watched, fascinated as he cut behind the foliage and then just disappeared. The men below had done an expert job of constructing a camouflaged hide, not dissimilar from what an experienced deer hunter would build at the start of a new season.

Bishop had gotten lucky catching the shift change. The hide also made
sense, as it would afford an all-around view of their hideout without exposing any sentries to an observer. Slowly, Bishop pulled away from the riflescope and returned where Nick was sitting on a rock.

“It’s them. I caught the sentries during a shift change. I’m sure it’s them.”

In the yellow light of the moon, Nick’s expression took Bishop aback for a moment. The big man’s eyes flashed cold, his mouth forming what could only be described as an evil grimace.

“Good. I’ll leave the planning up to you
—just make sure I get my payback. Nobody shoots my son and walks away if I can help it.”

Bishop realized Nick, like himself, had been analyzing recent events in the cold solitude of the early morning hour. Bishop’s news had clearly arrived during a bout of internalized anger.

“Nick, I’ll be blunt, that’s not my highest priority right now. If it comes to that, you’ll get your chance, my friend. I wouldn’t even think of denying you that. As far as the planning goes, let’s work it out together.”

“I’m cool with that, brother. I figured if it
were my wife down there, I’d want to control the op. What do you have in mind?”

Bishop paused for a moment, picking his words carefully. “I think it’s quite simple really. I’ll stay here and make sure they don’t go anywhere. You head back to Meraton and gather up every man you can. If we have enough forces to surround the place, I think we can force their hand.”

Nick thought about Bishop’s concept. “You really think that will make them release Terri?”

“I can’t imagine these guys are on a suicide mission. I don’t believe they’re military or even mainstream government. I think if we give them the option of giving up their hostage or dying, I believe they’ll release her.”

Nick grunted. “If you negotiate a deal that swaps Terri for their freedom, then I don’t get my payback.”

Bishop nodded, “I suppose that’s right. Do you have an alternative?”

It was Nick’s turn to do some rationalization, his response reaffirming Bishop’s trust in the man. “My revenge isn’t worth risking Terri’s life. We’ll do it your way. Can I have the truck keys, Dad? Please?”

Bishop tossed his friend the keys. “I expect you home by 11
, young man, and fill up the tank before you bring it home.”

Nick laughed, adding, “I’m going to take the route back through Alpha. I only counted about 15 volunteers in Meraton
, and I bet we’ll need double that.”

Bishop watched his friend trot down the hill and disappear around the bend before returning to watch Robinson’s garage.

Fort Bliss

January 6, 2016

Senator Moreland was slightly embarrassed at the reception that awaited his arrival at Fort Bliss. The honor guard, reception line of officers in full dress uniforms, impressive row of armored vehicles
, and hustling Secret Service detail all seemed a bit overwhelming.

One of his primary concerns had been the transfer of security, a fear that Wayne wouldn’t trust the government specialist
s lead by Special Agent Powell. Moreland had been a little surprised by how effortlessly the private security had faded to the background and been replaced by the men in dark suits.

Moreland’s other fears were quickly dissolved by the reception. His reservations about landing square in the middle of what Wayne had termed “the enemy camp,” weighing on his mind. Being the leader of
the Independents one minute and the Commander in Chief of the opposing force the next was an unusual situation to say the least. His aide’s reassurances seemed to be spot-on, as always.

The five
-hour flight from West Virginia had passed quickly, but after the festivities on the tarmac and a tour of Air Force One, Moreland was exhausted. After informing Wayne that he’d like to rest for a bit before proceeding with any other activities, Agent Powell had pointed toward the huge aircraft and said, “You’ll be staying aboard your plane, sir. I feel it’s the safest place while we’re here at Bliss.” Given the attempt on his predecessor’s life, it made sense.

There were a million things to do, including the swearing in ceremony, burial of the former
president, and countless affairs of state.

Agent Powell arose early, unable to sleep with all of the anticipated
activities planned for the new president. As usual, his first thought was to inspect the area around Air Force One where the president-to-be was sleeping.

Making the rounds and chatting with the various agents on duty went smoothly
—all of the Secret Service and military personnel were alert and at their posts.

Powell craved a cup of coffee and was sure the Air Force steward would have the galley in full operation by now. As he made for the ladder to board the giant aircraft, activity at the nearby hang
ar drew his attention. Powell could see his man talking with someone at the opening to the enormous building. In addition to the oddity of such an early morning visitor, the location was where the service stored its equipment. Oddities couldn’t be ignored in Powell’s line of work. After all, Bishop and Terri’s attackers were still at large, and many unanswered questions about the assassination of the previous president still remained.

The service always brought
its own vehicles wherever the president traveled. On this specific trip, the two armored limousines had been left at Andrews, the transport aircraft delivering only the four up-armored SUVs and two additional escort vehicles.

Delivering an armored motorcade to every location visited by the
Commander in Chief was an expensive, time-consuming endeavor. It was also the only way the service could guarantee someone didn’t plant explosives or electronic devices in the various transports required for a presidential road show.

As Powell made his wa
y closer to the hangar, he noticed Wayne talking with the agent guarding the facility. The president’s future chief of staff was holding a piece of paper and appeared agitated.

“Good
morning, sir,” Powell said as he approached Moreland’s aide.

Wayne looked over, nodding with a curt, “Agent Powell.”

“How can we help you this morning, sir?”

“I need transportation. My sister lives in this area and is very ill. I would like to see her before the end, and it appears as though today is going to be the best opportunity given
the president’s schedule.”

Wayne handed Powell the paperwork, a quick glance verifying it was a note from
the president, authorizing Wayne to requisition government transportation for himself and a modest security force.

After giving Powell a moment to read the documentation, Wayne continued. “I’m not sure who to ask or where to go. I need two large SUVs, or trucks, or Hummers, or something. I’ll have myself and seven security men.”

“Seven?” Powell was skeptical.

“Yes, s
ince the Secret Service is now officially responsible for the president’s well-being, I’m going to utilize the private security for this trip. After I return, their contact will be terminated. The world is a dangerous place, I hear.”

Powell was in a bit of a quandary.
Officially, the man standing next to him wasn’t a member of the executive branch, at least not yet. Unofficially, Powell knew that he would be working with the man for many years. The new boss had made it clear that Wayne was to be his next Chief of Staff.

The agent’s initial thought was to call General Westfield and try to arrange military Humvees, but the base commander was a stickler for going by the book. Wayne’s civilian status would cause the general a mild coronary, delay the trip
, and probably not endear Powell with his future co-worker.

“We can take care of your needs, sir. Would two of our units provide sufficient space for your
team?”

Powell pointed into the hang
ar at two large, black SUVs.

Wayne smiled and replied, “Why, yes. Those would do nicely. Thank you, Agent Powell.”

Robinson’s Garage

January 6, 2016

Bishop watched the false dawn illuminate the eastern sky and checked his watch again. Nick had been gone a little over an hour, and he estimated it would take at least four, maybe five before
his friend returned with the cavalry.

Being alone on the hillside didn’t help Bishop’s outlook on the near future. To
guard his thoughts from wandering to the melancholy, he attempted to keep his mind occupied with pre-planning the next steps once help arrived.

The noise of an engine interrupted his plotting, the sound causing a
double take at his watch. There was no way Nick could be back already, and Bishop began to fret that something had gone wrong with his friend’s mission. Crawling back from his observation point, Bishop moved quickly to a position where he could see the lanes of the interstate below. The first indication that it wasn’t Nick was the small white dot of headlights in the distance. The single point of light quickly showed a twin, and soon there were four individual headlamps approaching from the west.

Less than
a minute later, the two vehicles passed by Bishop’s observation point, and he hustled back to watch in complete puzzlement as the two large SUVs pulled into Robinson’s Garage. Before the first unit had come to a complete stop, three men jumped out, immediately forming a perimeter around the second. Were it not for the load vests, visible assault rifles, and military style fatigues, Bishop would have thought the security detail was from the Secret Service.

One of the bodyguards opened a door on the rear SUV
, and a single man stepped out into the light. Bishop zoomed his optic as the fellow looked around and then apparently cut a joke with the members of his entourage. The closest guards laughed while the VIP stretched his arms and then began walking toward the entrance of the garage.

Terri was experiencing a
whirling carousel of emotions that alternated between fear and rage. As if the isolation hadn’t been bad enough, her cell was cold and completely lacked anywhere to sit other than the toilet bucket. It was impossible to sleep sitting on the uncomfortable device, and she was sure that was by design. The single meal she had been served wasn’t nearly enough to replace the calories her body was burning trying to keep her and the fetus warm. Her shivering was soon accompanied by leg cramps, numb fingers, and sniffles. The cramping interrupted her pacing, the only way she could generate body heat.

When the sun
peeked over the horizon, her room instantly began to warm, but it wasn’t nearly enough. She had toured the small room with her arms wrapped tightly around her torso numerous times. But after an hour, the effort had become exhausting, and the muscle cramps returned shortly after discontinuing her trek.

The lack of sleep played into her state as well. She was growing another person inside of her
, and that required a lot of rest. Several times during the long night, she had secretly wished her kidnappers would torture or beat her instead of letting her freeze to death.

The sound of the vehicles outside had multiple effects. The interruption of the silence was welcome, as was the distraction of new activity. For a moment
, she thought of rescue, but that idea passed quickly. Instead, a feeling of dread welled up, fueled by the realization that something was likely to happen soon, and she couldn’t imagine any scenario that had a happy ending.

Terri couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since the sound of the engines outside. It seemed to her like it was over an hour, but time was playing tricks on her mind. She even began to wonder if her captors had forgotten about her. The sun’s slight warming of the air helped eliminate some of
her discomfort, but she still was suffering badly. Her renewed pacing was interrupted by the guard’s voice sounding from behind the door, the sound making Terri jump in surprise. The identical command was issued, “Move to the far side of the room away from the door.”

Well
, she thought,
as least they’re going to feed me again
.

The grinding noise of the bolt was immediately followed by the opening of the door. Rather than throwing in a meal, three large men stepped inside of the room. “Come with me,” one of them
commanded.

The expression of hatred on Terri’s face was ignored by the trio, the talkative one stepping out into the hall ahead of her while the others followed behind. She was led to another empty room that contained two plastic chairs and a small table. Two clear bottles of water sat on the table. “Take a seat right there,” commanded her
jailer.

Terri sat where ordered while the three guards
stood by different walls, their positions forming a triangle around the prisoner. A few minutes later, the door opened again and an unarmed, older looking man strode into the room, his intense scrutiny focused on Terri.

Circling the captive once, the man settled, choosing to stand behind the opposite chair. “I’m very short on time young lady, so I’ll be direct.”

The man pulled back the chair and sat down. Reaching for the bottle of water, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip. “Let’s begin. When did you first meet the former president?”

Terri tilted her head, surprised at the query. “Is that what this is all about? Is that why you risked the life of my child?”

The man’s voice became cold and low. “I’ll repeat this first question only once. When did you first meet the president?”

“I don’t know the date. I found him hiding in the bushes next to a home in Alpha a few days ago.”

The interrogator smiled, “Very good. Who was with you when you discovered him?”

“Some men from Alpha and
our friend Nick. He was the one who recognized the man we found hiding as the president.”

His eyes never leaving Terri’s face, the man across from her paused for a moment. With a completely different tone of voice, he asked, “Are you cold?”