Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (33 page)

Bi
shop looked at his wife smiling. “Now
that’s
funny.”

“I think Mike Tyson was before my time,” she
needled. “Perhaps you
old
timers could explain it to me?”

Nick, hearing the voices from across the hall, decided he would take a break from his be
dside vigil and joined the group. 

Pete poured a small shot of the beverage
, pulled a homemade tortilla out of the bag and handed it to Bishop. “I don’t know if you’ve had anything to eat, but you don’t want to drink this stuff on an empty stomach.”

Bishop nodded his thanks and chewed a mouthful of the wonderful, fresh flatbread. Nick sauntered over and picked up Bishop’s rifle.
Stopping at the bed, Nick snapped his fingers and demanded, “Hand it over, buddy.”

“What?”

“Your pistol,” he demanded. “No mixing firearms and alcohol in polite company.”

Bishop unsnapped his holster and handed the weapon to hi
s friend, who then asked for the patient’s knife. Bishop, after a long hesitation, surrendered that as well.

Nick disappeared from the room, returning a short time later. “Betty put them in a safe place. I’ll get them back for you later.”

Bishop nodded and raised the glass to his lips. Pete warned, “Go easy now—that stuff has aged a grand total of about two hours. It can hardly be called mellow.”

Bishop took a small sip and grimaced. “Hell’s demons and rabid bats, Pete. What
is
this stuff? Napalm and phosphorus mixed with kerosene?”

Pete snorted, “Pretty good stuff
, wouldn’t you say? That’s a five dollar bottle of my best right there.”

Bishop smiled at his friend. “If you were an undertaker, I’d say that stuff is a great marketing tool for drumming up business. And w
hat do you mean ‘five dollars?’”

Pete replied, “Since we’re using real money now in the market, I had to put a price on my goods.”

Bishop grunted, “Someone would actually buy a whole bottle of that stuff?”

“Well, no one has yet, but there’s always hope,” the bartender said laughing.

Terri chimed in. “I don’t think we brought any cash, Pete. We took off in such a hurry.”

Pete pointed at the bottle, “Well, your credit’s good today.”

Nick’s thoughts drifted across the hall to Kevin and his condition.
Nothing is going to happen soon
, he thought.
One will be okay.
Nick reached for the liquor, deciding to join in. “I’ll have a sample myself. Besides, it would be rude to let a wounded friend drink alone.” Nick took a healthy mouthful of the liquor and swallowed. “Oh. . . . Wow. . . .”

Pete pulled a third glass from the table, not wanting to be left out. As he proceeded to pour a few fingers in the glass, he said, “I’d better sample this, make sure it’s a quality product. Either you two are pantywa
ists, or this batch didn’t turn out so well.”

Pete threw back the entire pour, smacking his lips and look
ing into the empty glass. “Oh, that’s good. Can you guys taste the apple?”

“Apple?” both men replied.

“Since I can’t age it properly, I’m trying some flavors to make it interesting. I can taste the apple I used in this batch.”

Bishop held up his glass for a toast, “Salu
d.”

The room was filled with clinks. Bishop downed a little more, refusing to admit it didn’t burn as much as the first gulp. “Pete, if you ever decided to get out of
the bartending business, you could always use this stuff to clean fuel injectors.”

Nick laughed and nodded in agreement. “Diesel fuel injectors.” Holding up his glass for
another toast, the big man announced, “To clean injectors!”

Pete, loving the attention, poured himself another.

It didn’t take long before Bishop was feeling in a lighter mood. Nick, true to his word, refrained after one. Pete, obviously with a higher tolerance, kept up with Bishop but showed no sign of consumption. Terri sat in her chair, watching the proceedings, interested in how three of the men she adored most in the world would interact when inebriated—or at least, with a good buzz on.

Nick, politely ignoring Bishop’s slurred words, wanted to talk. “Bishop, who did this? Who’s after you and Terri?”

“I don’t know, Nick. I’ve been asking that very question since this whole thing got started. It could be the group that tried to kill the president. They might be pissed because I thwarted their efforts. But that’s not logical either—the president ended up dead anyway.”

Pete offered, “Do you think it’s the gold?”

“No, these guys made a try for us at the base. Unless they thought we would tell them where it was, I don’t think the gold has anything to do with it.”

Terri added, “None of this makes any sense. Who has resources like that? Why would anyone waste the time to come after us?”

Nick thought about Terri’s comment for a bit. He sighed and said, “There are lots of non-military teams with that level of training. ATF, FBI, State . . . all of them have specialized teams for various purposes.”

Bishop took another sip. “The Secret Service has something to do with this. Powel
l wouldn’t have wanted to use Terri for bait if he didn’t know something was going on. I think our answers are only going to come from Agent Powell.”

Nick’s gaze
traveled across the hall where his son was fighting for his life. His voice became very low, almost a growl. “I’d like to have a few moments alone with this Agent Powell. Do you think he’s still at Bliss?”

Bishop shook his head, “No way to tell. When we left, there was talk of burying
the president at Bliss and building a monument there. I would guess they won’t do that until the new guy is sworn in. I would like to be in on any conversation you have with Agent Powell—I have a few questions for him myself.”

Pete glanced from Nick to Bishop, feeling the fury resonating from both men. “I don’t think I would like to be this Agent Powell when you two catch up with him.”

The doctor interrupted the discussion, sticking his head inside of the room. “Bishop, you ready?”

Throwing back the last of his glass, Bishop thumped his sternum with his fist
. “Let’s get this over with.”

Deke closed the door, assured his man was receiving proper medical attention. Bishop’s .308 bullet had destroyed quite a bit of thigh flesh, but the wounded man was expected to recover. It was a shame, really. After all of the years of training, hard work
, and hundreds of missions, Grim’s career was over. It was doubtful anyone could meet the team’s strenuous physical qualifications after such an injury.

The gentle vibration
of Deke’s cell phone broke his concentration. Out of habit, he looked at the screen before answering, but it was a wasted effort. The caller-ID feature didn’t work with the satellite modifications installed in the device. Besides, there was only one person it could be.

“Happy New Year.”

“Will he keep the leg?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure that’s much solace right now. What does a man like that do with the rest of his life?”
Deke prompted.

“That risk is part of the job.”

Deke leaned against the wall and sighed. “I’m not so sure about that anymore. I think the scope of our agreement is expanding, and I don’t like where it’s headed.”

“Is there a problem?”

“When I start losing men, I always have a problem.”

There was a pause of static on the line. Th
e eventual response had an edge. “If your firm can’t handle the contract, I can make other arrangements. Should I contact your supervisor?”

“That is up to you. This has gone well beyond mere asset protection.”

A grunt sounded through the tiny speaker. “We have an agreement, and nothing has changed. We purchased services that, according to our contract, are proactive and preventative.”

“I could justify our actions a few weeks ago. It all made sense
—I could reconcile things then. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Slightly distorted by the earth-space-earth connection
of the satellite phone, the chuckle sounded almost cartoonish. “I can’t imagine someone in your line of work having a conscience. I thought men such as you followed orders as long as you were paid. We’re still the highest bidder, aren’t we? The only bidder, I’m sure.”

The team l
eader didn’t hesitate. “Doing a snatch and grab on some terrorist financier is easy to justify. Blackmailing the occasional arms dealer was morally rewarding in a way. Hell, I’ve even enjoyed a kidnapping game we played with a cartel down in Bogota. But this . . . it all seems . . . seems so macabre.”

The caller’s voice became
soft. “Those missions served a dual purpose. You put money in your pockets and delivered a strong message—‘Don’t fuck with America.’ Now, it’s all about power, not drugs or weapons. There’s a vacuum, and someone is going to fill it. It’s going to be a mad, desperate scramble to get to the top of the heap. That’s why your firm was employed, to protect our man until things settle down and enable a smoother transition to the top. It serves a dual purpose, just like your previous engagements.”

Deke had expected that response. “I hope you’re right about that.”

The voice on the other end spoke again. “I need to talk to that woman. I don’t care if you can comprehend all of the moving pieces or not, do your job. It boggles the mind how your firm can boast of taking out some of the biggest, most well protected men in the world, and yet you can’t deliver some cowboy’s wife. I wonder if I’m not a victim of false advertising.”

“We’ll get the woman. You can rest assured
of that.”

The phone’s tiny speaker didn’t do justice to the grunt issued by the caller. “Both rest
and
assurances are in short supply these days. I’ll expect a call soon. Very soon.”

Meraton, Texas

January 2, 2016

Bishop slept most of the next day, a combination of pain, exhaustion from the firefight
, and the aftermath of Pete’s product. It was mid-afternoon before he managed to rise, his scalp sore and head throbbing. After a quick check-over by the doctor, Bishop was given permission to take a dip in The Manor’s pool. The water was cold, but the shock of submersion took his mind off of the pain being generated by his injury.

The quick
swim refreshed his spirits somewhat, and he decided to dry off and warm in the sun. A squeak from the pool’s gate announced his wife had joined him. Terri pulled up a deckchair and handed Bishop a plate of food. “You’d better eat something. It will help.”

Nibbling on a ham sandwich made
with pita bread, Bishop asked Terri how Kevin was doing.

“The surgery to repair the lung went well. He’s out of immediate danger. The doc is still worried about the shoulder though
. . . that and the risk of infection.”

“How
are Nick and Diana handling it?”

“
They’re doing as well as can be expected. Just losing her own son not long ago makes it a little tough for Diana to cope. Nick just sits beside Kevin’s bed all day. I don’t think he’s moved.”

B
ishop continued eating his meal, the food energy making him feel slightly better. “Terri, I’m worried about going back to the ranch. The location being a secret was our best security, and now that’s no longer the case. We got very, very lucky holding out against that last attempt. The next time they will come back with more men and maybe even belt-fed, automatic weapons and hand grenades. We wouldn’t last three minutes.”

Terri nodded, the situation being on her mind as well. “We could run
. . . find someplace else to hide, but I don’t know where that would be.”

Bishop shook his head, the pulling of his sti
tches causing him to wince. “I don’t want to be a refugee. Seeing those crucifixions at Fort Stockdale deters my wanderlust. Besides, we barely get by now, even with all of the supplies and amenities at the ranch. Going on the dodge with only what we can carry in the truck . . . no known supply of gasoline . . . I don’t think it’s a wise path.”

“I know, Bishop. I thought about moving to Alpha or Meraton until this all blew over, but if those men find us here, a lot of people could get hurt. They didn’t strike me as the types that would hesitate to shoot up an entire town.”

Bishop grunted, “You’re absolutely right about that.”

Finishing the last bit of food, Bishop continued. “So we can’t run
, and we can’t move to town. That leaves us only one option that I can think of—we need to fortify the ranch.”

Terri looked at he
r husband with questioning eyes. “How would you do that, Bishop? The place already makes me nervous with all of the tripwires and traps. Would we live inside the Bat Cave and never come out?”

Bishop
stared into the distance. “I’ve got some ideas. Part of the supplies we picked up at Home Mart in Alpha could serve that purpose. Still, I’m not sure it will be enough. If we only knew what they would come after us with, it would help me devise a defense.”

“Don’t you always tell me to never underestimate the violence that people are capable of?

“Yes, but there are limits. If the Army is after us, then nothing I can do will keep them at bay. We can’t stop tanks, attack helicopters, or airborne assault teams dropping in on ropes. If this is some isolated group that is hunting us, then I can definitely discourage them.”

Terri pondered Bishop’s statement for a bit and then stood, preparing to take his empty plate back to the kitchen. “Bishop, you know a million times more about all this security stuff than I do. It’s your call, babe. If you think the ranch is the best, then I’m in. If you think hiding is best, I’m with you. As long as we’re together, I’m good.”

Two days later the doctor delivered good news to both Bishop and Nick. Kevin was showing no signs of infection and was out of the woods. Bishop was healing nicely as well, and the sawbones released Bishop from his care.

During his recovery, Bishop had tried to think up every possible defensive modification for the ranch. The exercise had been frustrating because there simply wasn’t the equipment or raw materials available to enhance the security of the place.

Most of his existing precautions had relied on early warning devices. Bishop’s mindset had been focused on the rogue criminal or wanderer happening upon the place and felt confident in his ability to overcome any such accidental discovery, if he had warning. The tripwires had satisfied that need, until just a few days ago.

Other than the geography and small arms, there really weren’t any other defensive measures in place. He also was faced with a manpower issue. Terri was a good fighter, but she was becoming less and less mobile. That left a single man to defend the property
, and the task would be impossible against a determined assault. That fact had just been substantiated.

One man with enough ammo and firepower could withstand a considerable force if he could channel the opposition into a small enough area. This was often called a fatal funnel. The problem with the ranch
was the open terrain surrounding the homestead. The box canyon provided some measure of protection, but even that could be overcome by an attacker with the proper skills and equipment. There was simply no way to corral any attacking force into a specific avenue of approach, let alone a funnel.

Bishop struggled to keep emotion out of the equation. It was easy to become angry or to let ego influe
nce his thinking. In order to stay grounded, he forced himself to relive the firefight of just a few, short days ago. If Terri hadn’t taken the chance to come help him, both of them would have surely perished.
No
, he kept telling himself,
this is pure, simple mathematics. Keep it there.

All of this analysis led Bishop to a single conclusion
—he needed what the military guys referred to as “area denial,” a term used to describe methods or equipment implemented to deny access to a specific avenue of approach. Minefields were one of the most common examples of area denial. Barbwire was another. Throughout history, military forces had spent considerable sums developing such technologies because there was often a legitimate need.

It wasn’t always a matter of money or resources. The Viet Cong were famous for their punji stakes, tension
-powered booby traps, and other clever devices. Most of these area denial systems were extremely effective and required little more than a shovel and bamboo. Ingenuity was still an effective weapon on the modern battlefield.

In Iraq, improvised explosive devices were another form of homemade area denial systems. Often used more for harassment of US troops, some gorilla encampments were known to have been ringed with such deterrents. They were effective.

Bishop eventually came around to the main element that limited his defensive capabilities—BTUs.

British Thermal Units, or BTUs, are a generally accepted measurement of how much energy a substance contains. A gallon of regular gasoline, for example, contained
112,000 BTUs. Explosives were also measured in BTUs, everything from dynamite to TNT having a specific rating.

Bishop didn’t have any TNT. The IEDs in Iraq had been powered mostly by the explosives found in artillery shells, or plastic explosives available to military units. Bishop didn’t have any of these either. About the only items available to him were gasoline and his
gunpowder used for reloading.

In addition to BTUs, there was one other important
factor involved in explosives - the burn rate, sometimes called the rate of expansion. Military grade explosives contained a very low ratio of BTU per pound, but they released their energy at an extreme speed. This was why hand grenades “pushed” their shrapnel at several thousand feet per second.

Bishop’s smokeless reloading powder didn’t burn all that fast, and thus
, wouldn’t make an effective bomb or mine. Besides, he didn’t have all that much.

On the other hand, gasoline had both an exceptional burn rate as well as a good BTU per pound energy density. Its major drawback was
that oxygen was required for the burn.

Gasoline had a
mixed reputation from past conflicts where anti-armor munitions were in short supply. While it had proven effective against early tanks, as an anti-personnel weapon, it wasn’t overly useful. During the Spanish Civil War, the use of the petrol bomb was well documented. Even Britain, anticipating invasion by hordes of German armor during WWII, had manufactured millions of “Molotov Cocktails.” Throwing a Molotov Cocktail wasn’t effective against foot soldiers. The puddle of burning gas could easily be jumped or run through without injury. Bishop didn’t expect battle tanks to attack his ranch. Nor did he anticipate artillery or air strikes. What he did feel was a reasonable threat was a good-sized assault by infantry, military or non-military.

One idea that he kept rolling around in his head involved “misting” a thin spray of gasoline over a broad area of terrain and then igniting it when needed. A fuel-air mixture of the right proportions would generate a powerful explosion and hea
t wave. Over a broad enough region, it could serve as an area denial system against infantry.

Performing a mental inventory of his supplies and equipment back at the ranch, the only thing Bishop had
on hand that might work was the hose and fixtures he had recently scavenged from the Home Mart in Alpha. Sitting with a pencil and paper, Bishop began to sketch out a diagram of a series of nozzles and hoses that just might work. It wouldn’t be easy to build, but in theory, it would add another defensive layer to his property.

The sun was beginning to set
, and Bishop wanted a cup of coffee. As he meandered into The Manor’s kitchen, he found Betty preparing the evening meal for her guests.

“How are you feeling, Bishop?”

“My head’s doing better. I think a good cup of your world famous coffee would set things right.”

“There’s a fresh pot
sitting right over there. I’m peeling potatoes, so it’s self-serve right now.”

“Anything new on Kevin?”

“No. Last I heard, he’s going to be fine. I’m more worried about his father right now than the wounded boy. I don’t think he’s been out of that room at all today.”

Betty’s comment gave Bishop an idea. Nick was ex-
Special Forces, and those guys had a reputation regarding improvised weapons. Maybe Nick could help Bishop with his defensive plans.

Pouring a second cup of java, Bishop headed up the stairs.

When he arrived at Kevin’s room, Bishop didn’t knock or announce himself. The door was already slightly ajar, and Bishop gently nudged it just wide enough to fit the cup of steaming joe through the opening. He held the cup there for about 15 seconds and then withdrew the bait.

A few moments
later, the door swung wide open, and a stiff, tired looking Nick appeared in the doorway, smiling when Bishop handed him the coffee.

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s a lot better, and the doc is pretty sure he’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you let Diana or Terri have a turn sitting with him
? I need your help, and you need some fresh air.”

Nick stretched his large frame and nodded, “
Getting out of this room does sound like a good idea. What do you need my help with?”

“Improvised defenses and area denial systems.”

Nick grinned, “For your ranch?”

Bishop nodded.

Nick looked back in on Kevin and found the lad sleeping soundly. “I’ve got time for a walk. Let’s go drink this down in the garden and chat. This sounds like fun.”

The two men exited the hotel and found a quiet spot to
discuss their ideas. Nick began, “I’m especially interested in your little project because I think there’s a good chance the guy who shot my son might encounter some of my toys the next time the bastard visits your place.”

“The problem is my lack of resources. I don’t have any explosives
, and the desert isn’t like the jungle where you have all kinds of vegetation to conceal booby traps.”