Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (11 page)

And then the Camp David operator came on and simply said, “Transmission terminated.”

They left Fort Bliss shortly after ending the call with the president, their mood somber and silent.

During the ride back to Alpha, Diana remained stoic, watching the arid landscape pass by with few words. Nick knew his passenger well enough to give her time to think it all through.

Fully understanding the dilemma, and not sure what he would do personally was one of those situations where the big ex-operator was glad he wasn’t in charge.

On one hand, the Alliance commanded more than enough military capability to waltz right over and kick New Mexico’s ass. Given the low population density, it wouldn’t have taken much before the collapse, let alone after.

But there were always unintended consequences, even if such an action resulted in an overwhelming military victory. Just ask Presidents Bush and Obama. The words of Colin Powell echoed through the big man’s mind. “If you break it, you own it.”

The Alliance was stretched as it was, barely hanging on by the thinnest of threads. Restarting the economy was proving more complex than anyone had anticipated. It seemed like there was always some spare part, knowledge or expertise, or basic necessity that was missing or unavailable.

Yes, they were feeding the people – but just barely.

One of the most troubling aspects of the recovery was the mental condition of the population. Nick didn’t know the numbers from pre-collapse society, but he’d heard several presentations in the council’s chambers from medical experts who were concerned about the overall health of the people.

Depression, schizophrenia, bi-polar disorders, and substance abuse were being encountered in epic proportions. Just recently, Sheriff Watts had informed the council that bathtub booze was now one of his department’s single largest issues. The lawman recounted issues of alcohol poisoning and drunken driving, while critical rations of potatoes, corn, and sugar were being hijacked by bootleggers.

And then there was the physical health of the population at large. Tuberculosis, pneumonia, and a host of other diseases pummeled the citizens of the Alliance. The bill for months of malnutrition, lack of medical care, and living in what essentially amounted to a war zone, was coming due. Lack of sewage treatment and insect control contributed to the problem as they were practically non-existent in many parts of the territory.

It all added up to frustratingly slow progress, and in some cases, regression.

Lugging the military away from its already overwhelming responsibilities and transferring soldiers to New Mexico would have so many negative consequences. No matter how well the council handled the public relations of such a campaign, the people would worry. Critics would decry the move, some sure to point out not only the questionable application of limited resources, but also the potential of war with the U.S. 

Which led to a SAINT team… or some other semi-diplomatic outreach. Something small scale and reasonably quiet. The thought prompted Nick to grunt.

“What’s funny?” Diana asked from the passenger seat. “Tell me. I need some comic relief about now.”

“I was just thinking about sending Grim into New Mexico. With that guy along, you could hardly call it a
diplomatic
mission.”

Diana laughed, but her levity was short. “I know what you mean, but then again, the president is right. We don’t know what is going on. If we are going to commit military resources over there, they need to be our absolute best.”

“Too bad Bishop is retired. Terri and he would be the perfect solution.”

“That’s out of the question. I’m sure Grim and you, or some of the other men, could accomplish the same. They’ve got Hunter and are trying to start a new life. Both of them have done enough already.”

The toymaker hadn’t slept well, dreams of black helicopters and fast-roping assault troops ascending onto his roof keeping him awake.

As with most mornings, he would gladly trade his best toy for a jar of coffee. Even though it had been well over a year ago since he had used that last spoonful of instant, he still craved java. He fantasized for a moment about life after the project was completed, and the crops were being harvested. Maybe they could barter for some coffee. Perhaps there would be enough that someone would open a coffee shop. That was about the only thing he missed from his previous life in L.A.

Still, the locals had provided him with a strong tea. He couldn’t pronounce the name but had heard it was one of the few things the Navajo had done better than the traditional American community.

He opened the microwave and extracted the steaming cup, taking a quick sip. “God bless solar panels and inverters,” he whispered, anticipating the caffeine rush.

The drink was bitter enough, and obviously contained chicory along with who knew what else. He’d been drinking it for months, and so far it hadn’t killed him.

He padded barefoot to the front porch, intending to honor tradition and offer his Apache friends something hot to drink. He knew they wouldn’t accept, but it made him feel better to extend the courtesy.

Opening the door, he was surprised to find his security detail had grown significantly in size. Rather than the typical two or three individuals outside, he counted a least a dozen armed men. He could smell the smoke from their cooking fire.

“Hey, am I missing the barbecue? What’s the special occasion?” he asked no one in particular.

Apache Jack strolled over, his only greeting a curt nod.

“Why so many new faces?” Hack asked, his gaze sweeping the property.

“The Jicarilla fear the whites will send more soldiers, Grandfather. They always do.”

Hack grimaced, “Yes, you’re right. I didn’t sleep well last night, worried about the exact same thing. I have to go to White Sands today. There’s something there I need.”

“There is a big powwow today. The elders were hoping you would attend. Word is already spreading around the reservations. The meeting will be this evening at the Santa Domingo pueblo, and all of the tribes will be present.”

The toymaker was surprised by the news, such meetings being rare. “What’s going on?”

“It is a council of war,” the tall warrior continued. “The largest anyone can remember. Even the Ute are sending a chief.”

Hack was taken aback by the words his friend was using, and the reaction had nothing to do with the Ute. “We can’t go to war against the U.S. military. That would be suicide. We don’t have armor, or aircraft, or even large stockpiles of ammunition. They would crush us in a matter of days.”

It was obvious the Apache didn’t agree with Hack’s perspective. “From the drifters I’ve spoken to, the U.S. Army isn’t what it used to be. We’ve all heard tales of riots and strife back east. There have been stories of civil war and great battles among brothers. And now you have the radioactive metal from Los Alamos to deter their aggression. Many feel like we can win this time… with your help.”

“My help?” Hack barked. “How on earth would the tribes expect me to help them in a war? My toys can improve the hunting and help spot intruders, but they aren’t going to do much against an organized military force. As far as the fission materials, they won’t do much against an army. They’re only a deterrent, not an offensive weapon.”

“You are a man educated in the world of science. You can generate fuel from wood, Grandfather. You create electricity from steam. You showed us how to make ammunition and explosives. With your knowledge and wisdom, we are confident.”

Hack could see where all of this was going, and he didn’t like it. But this was neither the time nor the place for a debate. “I appreciate your confidence, my friend. I truly do. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that. Right now, my highest priority is to get to White Sands, and I believe it’s important enough to use fuel and the dump truck. We need to take along a few extra men to lift something heavy.”

Hack proceeded back inside, his mind digesting the Apache’s words and hoping the same sentiment wasn’t widespread.

Yes, he’d helped with technology and trinkets. Extracting methane gas from wood wasn’t rocket science. Steam turbines had been around for a long, long time. The drones had started off as a hobby – nothing more.

Hack had designed warplanes for a living and knew enough about military capabilities to understand that his toys weren’t going to win any wars. The sensors on his drones were primitive compared to the pentagon’s models, the explosives he mixed from pool chemicals and other household items were nothing compared to what the military would bring to the battlefield.

The toymaker had no doubt the local tribesmen were brave. Many were exceptionally skilled hunters and woodsmen. More than a few had served in the Armed Forces.

But fighting off the occasional rogue band of marauders was an entirely different world than combat with the regular Army and Air Force. It would be asymmetric warfare at an extreme level.

“The North Vietnamese did it with some success,” he mumbled to himself as he looked for his sandals. “There have been countless guerrilla campaigns throughout history,” he continued, finally finding his shoes. “But if the U.S. isn’t happy about our little irrigation project, they won’t send in an occupational force, they’ll just come in and return the rivers to their original course.”

But why?

Hack had heard the stories, too. With the exception of a few large cities under the military’s control, the United States of America didn’t exist anymore. So why would Washington, or anybody else for that matter, care?

There had been rumors of a few regional governments being formed. There was the Alliance down in Texas, the Co-op in the Midwest, and the Mountaineers up in Wyoming and Idaho. Hack had his doubts about any of them actually being as organized or well-run as what some of the nomads had claimed.

So why would Washington send in military assets to check on his project? It didn’t make any sense.

What did resonate with the ex-engineer was negotiating from a position of strength. All of the old sayings rotated through Hack’s mind, such as, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

His brother’s favorite had been, “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

But the adage that really best described his thinking was, “Possession is 9/10s of the law.”

Hack knew their best defense was to finish the project. After that, as soon as possible, they needed to start raising crops. That’s when they’d be in the strongest posture to ward off any potential outside influences.

He mentally checked off the options such progress would allow. They could barter with food and water. The local tribes would gain confidence and swagger. The nearly worthless desert would become the new breadbasket of the region. People would flock to the territory. They would attract professional, hardworking people with the skills necessary to improve their society and raise the standard of living. People who could help them build a new country… and do it right this time.

“Maybe Washington realizes this,” he considered. “Maybe they don’t want any competition. Maybe they have some vision of keeping the Union whole?”

Hack was finally ready, walking outside to see his Apache friend waiting next to an idling dump truck, six men with rifles climbing into the bed.

Looking at the sky, the Native observed, “Looks like an excellent day for a road trip, Grandfather.”

Bishop torqued on the bolt, his arms knotted from strain and slick with sweat.

It didn’t move.

“You scum-sucking, bag of ass dander, I’m going to fix you, once and for all,” he growled at the rusted connector.

The wannabe repairman climbed down the windmill’s tower, pausing at the bottom rung, using his shirt to wipe the perspiration from his brow.

Grumbling all the way to the pickup, he ignored Terri and Hunter, his family resting on the tailgate, legs swinging in the air.

First, he swallowed a quick drink of water, the cold liquid doing little to improve his mood.

“What’s wrong, Bishop?” Terri asked, already knowing the answer, but hopeful that giving her husband a chance to talk about it would make him feel better.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, distracted as he dug in the truck’s bed, looking for a particular tool.

Producing a 5-foot length of steel pipe, the Texan snarled, “This will fix your sorry ass,” and proceeded back toward the malfunctioning water pump.

He ascended again, the fourth such trip just this morning, Terri and Hunter watching from the “box seats” below.

Bishop first connected the end wrench to the offending bolt and then gingerly slid the pipe over the tool’s handle for leverage.

Again, the sinew and cords rose across his back as the Texan tried to break loose the stubborn bolt using the leverage provided by the extension.

Without warning, the pipe surrendered all its resistance, and Bishop lost his balance. He started to fall, his right hand making a desperate grab for the tower’s cross member. He caught it, swaying in the air while the pipe banged and pinged its way down the steel rungs and then thudded onto the desert sand below.

Using the momentum of the fall to his advantage, Bishop grabbed hold with both hands and performed a chin-up, swinging his leg over the ladder’s rung while scrambling to a safe perch.

“Are you okay?” Terri yelled from the truck, already moving toward the windmill with Hunter in the crook of her arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” sounded Bishop, his tone indicating a barely contained rage.

Retreating down the steps again, Bishop recovered the pipe and took a few, deep breaths. Back up he climbed, a look of determination dominating the rancher’s face.

An inspection of the stubborn bolt elicited another grimace.

Without a word, Bishop descended the ladder yet again. He skipped the bottom two rungs, his boots kicking up a small puff of sand as he landed hard on the surface.

Then without warning, he raised the pipe and swung it at the tower’s support like a baseball slugger trying to knock one out of the park.

Terri began retreating with her child, backing away as Bishop began a tirade of low, menacing curses and strikes.

“You oozing sack of whore pus!”

Whack!

“You worthless, maggot-sucking dickwhistle!”

Thwack!

So animated was Bishop’s attack, the third strike actually missed the tower, the pipe flying from his hands and soaring across the desert floor.

Terri had never seen such fury in her husband’s eyes when he pivoted and began marching back toward the truck. Definitely wanting to stay out of his way, she and a concerned-looking Hunter backed off to give him space.

A moment later, he was pulling the “big rifle” from the cab and glaring at the windmill with murder in his eye.

“What are you doing?” she yelled, pulling Hunter close and covering the child’s ears.

“I’m going to put that son of a bitch out of its misery, that’s what!”

“Bishop! Stop! It’s just a machine. You can’t kill it.”

“Oh yeah? Watch me.”

Terri, mumbling something about Don Quixote, scurried toward the far side of the truck as Bishop raised the .308 to his shoulder and took aim at the doomed pump. But then he hesitated.

Maintaining his icy stare at the offending device, he lowered the rifle. “You’re not worth the ammo,” he spat. “I’ll have to think of some nice, slow, painful way to bleed you.”

Bishop spun, returning the firearm to the truck. Terri stayed back until she was positive the storm was over. She waited while he’d downed another guzzle of water, and then approached cautiously.

“What just happened, Bishop?”

“The bolt holding the sucker rod was rusted through. I sheared off the nut, clean as a whistle,” he answered calmly.

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I meant what happened after you came down the ladder… and began whipping and thrashing an inanimate object.”

He smiled, a wee touch of guilt evident around his eyes. “I was just relieving a little frustration is all. Why?”