Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (21 page)

His hide was twenty feet above the mine’s entrance, occupying a narrow shelf along the otherwise vertical wall. Upon closer examination, Bishop could see ladder-like steps had been
chiseled into the stone. 

He found the second guard after another ten minutes of searching,
the thermal imager detecting the glow of body heat suspended in a treehouse platform another 80 yards downhill.
You really don’t want anyone wandering into this area, do you, Preacher?

But they were facing in, he quickly realized. Both guard posts had been purposely constructed to observe the camp, not any threat approaching from the outside. Bishop remembered their drive into the valley, that loo
kout positioned in the same manner.

Why?
He kept thinking,
why go to all this trouble to hide the presence of a road and an old mine from your loyal flock? You don’t post two sentries over simple safety concerns.

The pastor’s vigilance in keeping secrets from his own people was an advantage for Bishop. There was a blind spot, an approach that he could use to get closer to the mine. Unless he made some noise or had failed to detect another sentry, the vector would be o
ut of the lookout’s line of sight.

He invested another 20 minutes, searching
every rock, tree, and bush for a third guard. None was found.

Confident and
growing impatient, Bishop stirred through the undergrowth, slowly snaking his way using a route he hoped would hide the approach. Before long, he found himself at the base of the cliff, only a few feet from the entrance. He paused, listening intently for any activity within. The old mine seemed unoccupied.

Taking a deep breath, Bishop moved in a flash, covering the open distance in a few
large steps, ducking into the opening. Again he stopped, his ears scanning for any alert raised by the sentries.

After determining he was still undetected, Bishop turned to study his new surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was how quickly the tunnel became a pit of darkness. There were no lights inside, the sun’s rays managing to illuminate only a few feet through the small opening. Bishop pulled the thermal imager off his vest and scanned ahead. At first, he thought the device wasn’t working, but then soon realized that everything inside the cave was probably the same ambient temperature. He switched to the night vision.

The green and black images depicted by the light amplification technology fared a little better, but not much. Bishop could see some distance into the tunnel, but n
ot nearly as far as he expected or needed. That problem was solved by an infrared lense and his flashlight.

A subterranean world appeared through the nigh
t scope, at least enough for Bishop to feel comfortable with continuing his expedition inside the mountain.

Even with the flashlight’s help, he could only make out 30-40 feet of detail through the NVD. Booby traps and other anti-personnel devices on his mind, he stepped gingerly, scanning the same area over and over again.

Fifty feet inside the entrance, the tunnel widened into a room. Bishop was surprised to find the walls lined with stacks of burlap bags. Each was labeled, “Crawford Church of God – Missionary Services,” and then in large blue letters, “Rice, brown, long stem. 50 lbs.”

He did a quick inventory, counting the bags in a column and then the number of stacks
. He finally gave up – there were over 10 tons of rice.
Weird,
he mused.
Nobody mines rice.

The tunnel meandered along
, the floor gradually sloping downward into the depths of the mountain. After another 100 feet, he entered a second room, this time full of 5-gallon buckets, each containing dehydrated food. There were hundreds, perhaps over a thousand containers.
Wait until FEMA finds out about this stash
, he grinned.

He hiked
deeper, wondering how many rooms the tunnel system contained. A steel gate appeared in the wall, and Bishop almost ignored the opening, believing it was a side-shaft that had been closed off for safety reasons. He casually flashed the infrared beam through the bars, inhaling sharply at what lay before him.

Row after row of wooden racks contained AR15 rifles, at least 300 weapons visible from his angle. The walls
were stacked with pine crates, each stenciled with “5.56 M855 BALL.”

The Texan’s blood ran cold at the sight. Excuses and explanations could be made for the cache of food, but what possible motivation could a church have for such an armory? He’d seen enough. He had to get back to Terri and his son.
This wasn’t a church retreat in the mountains – this was a cult.

He reversed course, both
head and heart racing over the discovery. For the first time, he realized the seriousness of his hosts and the danger they represented. He had completely underestimated the potential peril his wife and he had stumbled upon.

The mouth
of the man-made cavern was a small white square in the distance, each footstep bringing sunshine and fresh air closer. Without warning, a silhouette appeared in the opening, the night vision quickly detecting a flashlight beam bouncing off the walls.

Bishop flattened himself against the wall. Had he been seen? Had they discovered the scarecrow? The second storeroom was close by and the only place to hide. If they were looking for him, he’d make the
m pay a high price before he went down. If they were here on other business, perhaps they would pass him by.

A few moments later
, he was wedged between two stacks of buckets, the best position he could determine in a rush.

It seemed like
an eternity was passing by, Bishop waiting for any sign that the men were in the tunnel. His mind paraded the possibilities while he waited. They were stalking him. They had left. They were busy on some project at the opening. They were bringing up reinforcements.

Eventually, his NVD detected their flashlight beam a few
seconds before he heard voices. They were coming.

Bishop braced the big rifle between two buckets, hoping the lack of lighting and densely packed space would keep the barrel from being detected. There wasn’t any need to worry about aim or maneuver, the range was too close. He did have the wherewithal to insert his hunter’s earpiece, realizing that a gunfight inside of the rock walls would bu
rst eardrums like popping a balloon with a needle. It was going to be ugly - ricochets, blinding muzzle flashes and stone chips turned into shrapnel.

And then they were there. Bishop could clearly
view two men, their flashlight beams playing on the walls and ceiling. He exhaled, realizing they weren’t looking for him. Neither was armed.

“I can see building a door for the entrance,” one man began, “but these storage areas… I don’t have any idea how to secure these. What about you?”

His partner held up a measuring tape, stretching the tool across the width of the area. “We’ll just have to build a wall. We’ll prefabricate sections, carry them in, and do the final assembly here.”

“Dean’s not going to like that. He’s all fired up to get this job done.”

“We got lucky with the weapon’s locker. Using the original mine’s powder room saved us a bunch of time. That gate you welded was a fine piece of work.”

The man with the tape noted his measurements in a small notebook. He again swept the are
a with the light and said, “Any idea what the big hurry is? I know they’ve been hauling up two truckloads every night. Did something go wrong in the church’s warehouse? A leak or something?”

“I don’t know for sure,” his co-worker replied. “Rumor has it
that those strangers almost stumbled across the stash while they were in Crawford… freaked the good pastor, so he ordered everything moved up here immediately and housed under lock and key.”

“
Yeah, I heard the same scuttlebutt. Let’s get going. I don’t like it in here, not one bit. I’ll work up an estimate for Dean. We’ll do the best we can with what the good Lord has provided.”

“Amen to that brother… amen to that.”

Bishop stayed back, watching the light fade as the two workers vacated the mine. He stayed put, not wanting to chance discovery if they forgot something or came back for another measurement.

After what he considered a safe passage of time, he again moved toward the entrance. P
ausing at the mouth, he scanned to verify no new human presence had arrived since he’d entered the mine. It took all of his mental discipline not to rush.

C
reeping along, cautiously backtracking the original route was torture. He was worried about Terri and Hunter, wishing he’d never agreed to tag along with the good reverend.

Eventually, he was clear of the most dangerous leg, increasing his pace while still trying to take every precaution. H
is target was the scarecrow. He’d retrieve the vest, wait a short time, and then return an empty-handed hunter. “No meat,” he would report, “Didn’t see a single animal worth shooting.”

It wasn’t exactly the
truth, but honesty wasn’t the best policy today.

The camp’s amphitheater was, for the most part, a naturally occurring, bowl-shaped indentation. Terri couldn’t tell if wind or water had been the primary culprit responsible for the erosion. With some help from
earthmovers, a few loads of lumber, and a handful of talented carpenters, the formation had transformed into a venue worthy of note.

On
three sides, the gradually sloping earth held row after row of wooden benches. The fourth contained a wide stage, partially covered and bookended by log structures that no doubt housed props, microphones, and other equipment used for sermons, plays, award ceremonies and a variety of productions.

After taking a seat toward the back of the gathering throng, Terri snuggled a
wide-eyed Hunter while studying the crowd.

Always a fan of
people watching, she hoped attending the ceremonies would provide insight and answers to the growing number of questions forming in her mind. Bishop was always suspicious in a new situation, a faction of his protective nature. But now, even she was experiencing a growing sense of imbalance with the camp, pastor, and local residents. As Bishop had stated, it was all just plain weird.

“I can’t think of a better way to study the local culture than to attend a wedding,” she whispered
to Hunter. “How better to evaluate the natives and their social interactions, Dr. Livingston?”

If Hunter could have spoken, he would have agreed with his mother. Even without
any reference to the famous British explorer, the infant’s attention was fixated on the swirling colors and motion generated by the surrounding humanity.

It wasn’t long before a quartet of ladies sauntered onto the stage and began singing a hymn, a clear signal that folks should start settling in. Hunter flapped his arms and legs, a
high-pitched squeal indicating he was a music fan.

Terri expected the groom and his party to appear next.
Instead, Pastor Pearson marched onto the stage, his black suit interrupted only by the high white collar so universally associated with men of God. The appearance of the church’s leader signaled any stragglers to rush to the pews and claim a seat.

“My b
rothers and sisters,” the preacher began, his voice ringing clearly from the stage. “A joyous event brings us together today… the joining of a man and a woman in holy matrimony before the eyes of God.”

Again, Terri sensed a presence in the man. His clear eyes, melodic voice
, and excellent stage presentation resonated with the ear. He was powerful, yet likeable. He seemed honest, but at the same time mysterious.

“Today, this ceremony has a deeper meaning than it would have held only a short time ago. You see
, my brothers and sisters, we have all survived the chaos. We have all weathered the fall. As a family, we suffered the pain of hunger, mourned the loss of loved ones, and bravely faced uncertainty. And yet… despite all we have endured, a man and a woman choose to unite – for the future.”

The pastor smiled, sweeping the audience with his hand. “Think about that for a moment, my friends. The future. It wasn’t so long ago that man
y of us had no hope for tomorrow. Our stomachs were empty, our throats were dry, and our neighbors were suffering. A future? Our only goal was the next morsel of food, the next swallow of water.”