Holding Their Own: The Salt War (32 page)

Bishop reached into his bag of goodies, extracting two long canisters. It took only a few moments to extract the pin and toss the smoke grenades.

Confined by the canyon walls and lack of moving air, the mouth of the valley soon filled with a thick fog. Hefting his bag and bent low, Bishop launched from behind his cover, sprinting for all he was worth in retreat.

He leaped behind a smaller rock, his new shelter one of the last boulders before the flat, open area in front of the camper. Beyond the temporary, aluminum-skinned home was the dead end of the steep canyon walls, an unscalable barrier while taking fire.

“It’s now or never,” he hissed, bracing his rifle over the top of the rock and waiting for the smoke to clear.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Culpepper’s men thought he was still behind the big rock, one of them exposing his head in an attempt to gain a better vantage. Bishop’s optic centered, his first shot of the battle drawing blood.

But now they knew where he was hiding, dozens of bullets chewing into his rock cover… shards, sand, and lead filling the air.

Bishop was more alert now, ready for the return fire, his mind snapping detailed mental images of muzzle flashes and movement. He waited low, letting them blast away at his granite shield.

It was obvious he was in trouble. The enemy held a strong list asymmetrical advantages, including firepower, maneuverability, longevity, and tactical position.
I’m essentially stuck with a shit sandwich
, Bishop realized. It was 20 rifles to 1; he was pinned inside of a dead end kill zone. They could pick the angle of attack, take more losses, and they held the high ground.

His only hope was to inflict as many casualties as possible and pray they would rethink continuing the assault. Unlikely, but desperate men had held on with less.

When their fire subsided, the Texan popped up, spraying three quick shots where his memory indicated a target would be. There wasn’t time to see if he did any damage, a hailstorm of whizzing bullets splitting the air just as he crouched low.

They were everywhere, at least 20 men. Some were up high, firing down into the valley from the canyon walls, others were spread out across the entrance and using the same field of boulders as cover.

It occurred to Bishop that the shooters on the walls weren’t the primary concern. The sheer faces of rock prohibited those men from doing anything but covering for their comrades down on the floor. That’s where the assault had to come from, up the mouth of the formation, and into the teeth of Bishop’s defense.

He started focusing on the people at his own level, hoping the loss of a few of their own would make the survivors pause. Ignoring the men up high, Bishop’s next series of rounds concentrated on the force working its way toward his position.

The M4 sang its deadly song, Bishop staying exposed longer than was prudent, but it paid off. He heard a howl of pain and then saw another man fall.

That pissed them off, the duration and amount of returning lead far more intense than previous exchanges.

Bishop knew he was fucked. He could get lucky, picking a man off here and there, but the outcome wasn’t in doubt. He was simply outnumbered and would eventually fall under the weight of their attack.

A turmoil of self-doubt rampaged through his head. He cursed himself for every bad decision, starting with the horrible idea of taking a vacation, and ending with his placid attitude that very morning.
It’s no wonder you’re going to die
, he thought.
You’ve messed up every step of the way.

The two sides exchanged salvos several more times, Bishop rising up to spray half-aimed shots, the Culpepper riders responding, pushing him back behind the rock.

But then they finally wised up. A constant stream of suppressive fire started striking his boulder, keeping Bishop pinned low while granite shrapnel stung his skin, and zips of lead passed overhead. They were taking away any chance he had to raise up and hold them back.

Bishop chanced it anyway, moving to the other end of his hide before exposing himself, but only managing two shots before they adjusted their aim. During that brief glimpse down the valley, he recognized two teams of men moving toward him on both sides.
Smart
, he hated to admit,
finally a professional move
.

With his face pressed into the dirt, praying none of the bullets found his body, Bishop wasn’t surprised the cowboys had figured it out so quickly. While they may not have the benefit of first-rate military training, they had been involved in a shooting war for several months. Men learn in combat, reflexes are honed; the smart ones survive.

Anger began to well up inside the Texan’s core, a fury aimed at Culpepper and his self-centered, single-purposed campaign to win his little war, no matter who he hurt or what price in human life was paid. He rose up again, almost uncaring as he stayed and sprayed.

The bullet that grazed his forearm sent a wave of pain, and reality, back into his rage-driven head. Injured and scared, Bishop dropped back down. Another session of internal criticism followed.
What are you trying to do? Make it easy for them?

Movement to his right caused Bishop to look, Terri’s pale face peeking out from the heavy metal door of the bat cave. She appeared there only for a second, but it was enough to re-energize Bishop and fuel his need to survive.

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the only two hand grenades in his possession. The small, military issued explosives were leftovers from the skirmish in Brighton, stored in the bat cave out of concern for their safety.

He waited, trying to judge how bold the men moving up the valley would be. After what seemed like an eternity, Bishop pulled both pins, rising to throw one left, the other right.

He waited low, the loud crack and rumble of the detonations launching a cloud of rising debris into the air. Bishop was up and running, making for the camper’s wheels and his last line of defense.

The screams of wounded men came through his heavy breathing as soon as he slid behind the metal rims, desperate cries for help drifting through the still-settling clouds of sand raised by the grenades.

Bishop actually managed a smile, pleased that at least one of his tosses had found flesh.

He raised the M4, waiting for a clear target. A form appeared, rushing forward as if to help a downed comrade. Bishop practically cut the man in half.

It was a short-lived victory. After being surprised by the grenades, the cowboys regrouped quickly, if nothing else, doubling the ferocity of their advance.

From Bishop’s perspective, a solid wall of lead slammed into the camper, shredding the thin metal skin like a freight train cutting through fog. He tried to return fire, but the air was filled with fragments of the trailer, erupting fountains of dense smoke and geysers of sand and dirt. The Texan’s eyes burned, and his lungs suffered for air.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he felt a heat pouring over his body. It took only a moment to realize that much of the smoke surrounding his position was because the camper was on fire. A quick glance confirmed the flames were spreading quickly, the inferno threatening to engulf his position. If he didn’t move, the blaze would turn him into charcoal before Culpepper’s men ever had a chance to shoot again.

But there was no place to go.

He was parallel with the bat cave, his situational awareness screaming that he’d never make it across the open ground between the camper and the rock shelter. Besides, he’d been trying to draw the assault away from Terri’s hide, not lead them to it.

The flames grew more intense, his neck feeling like someone was pouring hot oil over his head. The heat was becoming unbearable.

The constant chorus of the rancher’s gunfire suddenly changed, a new voice of violence sounding in his ear. Bishop chanced rolling away from the camper and its curtain of smoke, his heart stopping at what he saw.

Terri was against the bat cave’s exterior wall, her AR blasting away at the attackers. He watched in horror as she would fire several shots and then duck back, just as rounds would strike and splinter the surrounding stone.

He had to get her back into the cave.

Bishop managed his feet, leaving his now empty bag behind and tucking his carbine into the nook of his arm. It was the fastest he could ever remember running, sprinting across the open spaces and waiting for the bullets to knock him down. His mind conjured up a childhood nightmare, visions of snarling, snapping wolves chasing his legs as he moved in slow motion across the unprotected ground.

He was halfway there when Terri popped out, raising her rifle to give him covering fire. She no more managed to shoulder the weapon when her body twitched, shuddered, and then she went down.

“Nooooo!!!!” Bishop screamed as he slid to a stop over his wounded wife, trying to shield her body with his own.

Relentlessly and without mercy, another broadside of fire snapped at Bishop as he grabbed Terri by the shoulders and pulled her back into the safety of the bat cave. In a whirlwind of crazed movement, he slammed and barred the heavy, steel door, and then dropped to his knees at Terri’s side.

The desert surrounding the ranch suddenly became silent.

Despite having just come off an exhaustive mission, Nick couldn’t keep the other members of Bishop’s SAINT team off the Blackhawk. When Cory, Kevin, and Grim had heard their leader might be in trouble, all three had been waiting at the airfield before dawn.

It had taken far too long to get the pilots up to speed on the search grid he’d laid out the night before, even longer to convince the Army lieutenant commanding the two rifle squads that his SAINT team would be just fine on its own.

They’d finally taken off from Alpha fifteen minutes ago, the wasted time frustrating all concerned. Despite still being several minutes from the designated search area, all four of the Alliance men were scanning the desert passing beneath the airborne machine. Kevin was using his sniper optic, Grim and Cory intensely searching with binoculars.

It was Cory who noticed the smoke.

“Got something burning over here, Nick,” he shouted over the passing wind and rotor wash. “Can’t tell what it is. Sure seems awful big to be a signal fire.”

After scoping out the large column of black smoke, Nick ordered the pilot to change course.

They were over a mile out when Nick realized they were approaching Bishop’s ranch. He’d only visited there once before, but the layout had impressed the big man. The camper had been torched, ash and flame reaching to the sky, a good indicator they had found the missing couple.

The images of men carrying rifles didn’t become distinct until they were a half-mile out, their presence confusing all aboard.

The pilot spotted a flat area that was suitable for landing, only a short distance away from the fire. As they began to descend, Nick noticed the round patterns of grenade blasts in the sand. It was too late to avert the already-committed touchdown. “This place is hot!” he screamed over the engine noise. “Shoot anybody you see moving.”

Grim leaped off the platform while the helo was still five feet in the air. He was firing before his boots hit the ground. Nick was right behind the contractor, jumping out the other side and rolling away just as geysers of sand exploded next to his head.

Kevin glanced at a very frightened Cory and shrugged his shoulders, following his father into the fray. Cory, having no desire to remain alone, bailed as well.

Random shots sparked and pinged off the Blackhawk’s skin as it pulled away, the copilot wasting no time in calling the other birds to the location.

Realizing they had just dropped into the middle of a hornet’s nest, Grim and Nick unleashed a fury of violence against the yet unidentified foe.

The Culpepper men, already bloodied by the extended fight with Bishop, began to fall back.

Fighting against a lone defender was one thing, taking on a military aircraft full of very aggressive reinforcements another. It was all over in less than a minute, the SAINT team quickly finding themselves without any targets.

But where were Bishop, Terri, and Hunter?

Nick almost shot the Texan, the squeaking protest of the metal cave door prompting the big man’s rifle to take aim.