Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (3 page)

The collection of civilian long guns was enhanced by military ammunition. The Alliance defenders had confiscated cases of assorted cartridge types being transported by the convoy. These special bullets greatly improved the capabilities of each weapon.

Armor piercing, incendiary, and anti-personnel rounds were uncrated and distributed to the teams. Despite the improved munitions capability, Nick’s orders were stern and ominous. “Don’t mess with the gunships, no matter how tempting a target they present. Don’t fire at any moving aircraft. If they are coming for the trucks, their helicopters will have to land. Hit them when they are on the ground. Shoot the engines, cockpit, and tail rotors. Don’t worry about the individual troops they are unloading – hit and kill those birds.”

Well-hidden fighting locations had been selected for each of the Alliance’s teams. The roof of a building almost 1200 yards away had a special shelter that appeared to be an air conditioner unit from the air. A slight rise in the desert floor, almost a mile from the warehouse concealed another team, while an abandoned dump truck provided both protection and cover from overhead eyes for a third.

While the Alliance’s defenders settled into their positions, the two Apaches orbited the parking lot, ready to pounce on any sort of defensive reaction. Their job, once the warehouse had been leveled, was to make sure the landing zone (LZ) remained clear.

Four minutes after the attack had begun, the desert east of Midland Station was again disturbed by the pounding reverberations of military helicopters passing overhead.

Eight Blackhawk general-purpose helicopters flew in formation, each carrying 11 infantrymen outfitted for airmobile assault. The transports vectored toward the open desert, their destination a patch of flat sand not more than 100 meters away from the parking lot full of trucks.
Their
trucks. The trucks they intended to take back.

The empty field of scrub and loose soil had been chosen for the landing zone due to a variety of reasons. First and foremost, up to four birds could land and disgorge their troops at the same time. It wasn’t any secret that aircraft were the most vulnerable while on the ground. Everyone from the lowest private to the pilots themselves dreaded that brief amount of time they would be earth-bound.

In addition to the close proximity to their target, the other primary justification for using open desert was the curtain of dust kicked up by the rotor wash. The US Army had been fighting in desert environments for most of the past three decades, and the shroud created by the cloud of sand and soil was deemed well worth the loss of visibility suffered by the pilots. If there were any shooters out there brave enough to risk the wrath of the covering Apache gunships, the planners hoped the manmade dust storm would at least throw off their aim.

In they came, low to the ground and moving at over 100 mph. The first flight of four Blackhawks approached from the east with the rising sun behind them. Appearing as if they were controlled by a single mind, all four flared their noses and slowed dramatically at the last moment.

When the wheels were a foot off the ground, experienced sergeants and officers started screaming at the huddled troops to hit the ground. Men poured out of the wide bay doors in a seemingly endless stream.

Of the seven Alliance teams, only five had a clear view of the landing zone. Most of the nervous men manning the long rifles had military experience, some even having performed similar assaults in Iraq and Afghanistan. High-powered scopes, already zeroed in for their respective ranges, centered on their targets. Sweaty fingers began to squeeze triggers.

The first shot from the Alliance snipers shattered the bubble glass on one of the troop transports. The second hit the GE turbine engine powering the rotor. Shot after shot began to impact men and machines.

The damage suffered by the landing force probably wouldn’t have been that great were it not for one bullet that killed a pilot just as he was taking off. The warrant officer’s final convulsions caused his craft to accelerate, listing hard to starboard and flipping vertically just a few feet above the ground. One of the rotors slammed into the earth, spinning the fuselage into a missile in its own right and propelling it directly at another nearby Blackhawk.

The collision and resulting explosion generated a huge fireball and plume of black smoke, showering the surrounding area with deadly fragments of both airframes. Fourteen men lost their lives in that moment.

Chaos had erupted outside of Midland Station, Texas.

One of the Apache pilots spotted the muzzle blast of an Alliance defender. Within moments, the deadly chain gun mounted under the gunship’s nose began to spit 20mm rounds into the sniper’s hide. Slaved to the pilot’s helmet, the bird didn’t even have to change course. Wherever the pilot looked, the gun followed. Nick’s two-man crew was killed before they realized they had been spotted.

Despite Nick’s instructions to avoid engaging any gunships, one of the Alliance teams found themselves with no option. The lead Apache detected them and began moving in a slow hover toward their position. It would be only a matter of moments before they were exposed. Concluding they were dead anyway, the shooter centered his crosshairs on the front windshield of the approaching gunship and fired a 700 grain armor-piercing round at less than 100 yards.

The shell easily penetrated the cockpit glass, missing the pilot’s head by mere inches and continuing through the secondary hull into the machinery compartments. One of the sophisticated aircraft’s many computers was shattered by the huge bullet, that specific processor managing the bird’s fire control systems.

Warning lights illuminated the now-crippled copter’s dash, the shaken pilot no longer concerned with hunting the rifle team below. He managed to maintain control of his stricken aircraft, but only barely. Announcing his departure over the radio, he pointed his bird east and accelerated for Fort Hood.

Despite the destruction and mayhem, the second wave of Blackhawks vectored in on the LZ. Scarred by blackened sand and still-smoldering debris, one of the NCOs yelled, “Welcome to hell, men. Enjoy your stay!” as the bird touched down.

The second wave of infantry disembarked, undeterred by the carnage surrounding them. If anything, the death and destruction motivated the troops as they fanned out toward their objectives.

As per Nick’s orders, the long distance shooters faded away. The Alliance was willing to give up the Army’s trucks, their strategic importance unworthy of a pitched battle they knew was unwinnable.

Within minutes of the initial artillery barrage, the grind of cranking engines replaced the reports of battle. With the remaining Apache and Kiowa overhead, the line of military transports began pulling out of the parking lot and heading east toward Fort Hood.

Before the skyline of Midland Station had faded behind the last truck in the line, commanders were receiving reports. Both sides felt as if they had fared poorly in the skirmish, with the US Army reporting 14 dead and 3 wounded. Two aircraft were lost, one lightly damaged.

The Alliance lost five men, over 20 trucks, a warehouse, and a lot of confidence.   

Chapter 2

Camp David, Maryland

July 21

The gentle crackle and warm glow of the fire didn’t help the Colonel’s mood. Nor did the expansive, comfortable sitting room of his Camp David quarters. His companions for the evening, a reasonable cigar, and half-full glass of brandy managed to keep his famous temper in check – but just.

It was bad enough being physically and mentally exhausted, the result of a four-day, non-stop excursion through eastern Iowa. Returning late the previous night, his Air Force shuttle had touched down at Andrews in the wee hours of the morning. By the time he’d been driven back to Camp David, the rest of the presidential staff had turned in, and that had suited the bone-weary traveler just fine.

No, it wasn’t the travel-induced fatigue that simmered his anger. He was a man conditioned to long periods of denying his body proper rest. It was the news of recent events in West Texas that threatened to boil over his emotions. 

Rising early on just a few hours’ rest, the Colonel had headed into the presidential staff meeting expecting an agenda focused on the results of his trip. He had used the in-air time to compile a preliminary report, addressing the current conditions of several pipelines that traversed through the nation’s heartland. It was critical information, data projecting how many millions would have heat in the coming winter months. The effort was for naught.

Instead, he’d stepped into a shit-flinging tempest of infighting, primarily due to recent events in West Texas… events the Colonel found deeply troubling.

A cloud of blue fog surrounded the fireside chair as he exhaled a lungful of cigar smoke. Reaching into his back pocket, he produced a wallet and opened the worn leather to gaze at a faded photo of his grandchildren.

The smile passed from his lips as his thumb settled to flip to the second photograph. He hesitated, wondering if he should.
“What the hell
,” he thought, and turned to the next image.

A vivacious Beverly Porter grinned back at him, her cheerful eyes and winning smile causing his chest to constrict in frustration and remorse. “I couldn’t save you, Beverly,” he whispered. “I would have gladly sacrificed my life so you could live, but I think you knew that. I hope you knew that.”

The Colonel replayed the events of that fateful day. The hasty departure from Houston, bullets chasing the stolen airplane as it lifted off with far too little fuel. Once in the air, there was only one destination that would meet his desperate needs – his former employee’s ranch.

Things might have ended better, but there was the emergency landing, a controlled crash that left him skewered through the chest by a 16-inch length of aluminum airframe. Beverly and the grandkids had been traveling with him and pulled him out of the crumpled plane into the isolated landscape of the West Texas desert.

Despite the horrific experience, his injuries, and the remoteness of their surroundings, the survivors had clung to hope. Before exhausting their fuel supply, they had buzzed Bishop’s ranch twice and then attempted the ill-fated landing. They prayed someone would come looking for them. Unfortunately, their prayers were answered.

The Colonel tipped his brandy, savoring the thick liquid before swallowing. He chased the warm sensation with another draw on his stogie. “The sins of the flesh,” he mumbled to the fireplace.

There was no way his party and he could have anticipated the situation on the ground that day. After all, West Texas was well known for its large, open spans of wilderness and did not command a high population count. When those thugs had approached from the south, the Colonel had warned everyone, but it was too little, too late. Out-gunned and out-manned, Mrs. Porter had been taken hostage, and eventually was executed right before the Colonel and his grandchildren’s eyes. Despite the warmth of the fire and brandy, he shivered at the memory, a cold chill commanding his very core.

He shuddered at the vivid recollection of his lying next to the plane’s wreckage, his life force leaking from his body. Powerless to affect the situation, he had watched the murder of his soul mate.
If we had only been able to land the Cessna without injury, things would have been different.
That day, a stranger by the name of “Helplessness” had visited the Colonel. He would never, as long as he breathed the air of this earth, forget the introduction.

A lifetime of command, control, and discipline had left him unprepared for the relationship with “Helplessness.” He had always been the victor, the man left standing on countless battlefields, the survivor of the most daring encounters of insightful strategy and its resulting brutal assaults. When the stranger visited him that day, he recognized immediately that it was a far worse experience than greeting Death.

Death was a known, acknowledged presence for men in the Colonel’s line of work… men who lived by violence and combat, men who walked away intact, at least complete enough to go do it all again. Death would have been welcome that day, an old acquaintance, familiar and recognized.

It was the same with all soldiers
, he mused. All men of arms fear capture more than death. Every warrior swears he’ll never be taken alive.
We all desperately want to avoid meeting Helplessness.
The reaper of life is a given, an accepted consequence for stepping onto the field of battle. But not Helplessness. He was to be avoided at all costs.

As he had stared
at Mrs. Porter’s empty, lifeless eyes that day, the Colonel had known his grandchildren would be next. He fully expected those monsters, the men who controlled his family’s destiny, to kill David and Samantha right in front of him. And he was absolutely powerless to do anything about it. He had been completely in the stranger’s grasp.

Again the cigar, and then the warm burn of the brandy. The Colonel gazed at the fire, the flame’s reflection in his eyes a telling sign of what laid behind the windows to his soul. He was recalling the pure, sulfuric rage that gripped his body that day… that moment.

The criminals who held his family wanted information. Relentlessly, they prompted him to answer their questions… questions that he had no idea of how to answer. They didn’t believe him and were going to execute each of his loved ones until he gave them what they wanted. But he couldn’t. Helplessness… pitiful, naked, powerlessness.

The thugs jerked his precious granddaughter from her concrete perch and pressed a pistol to her temple, just as they had Beverly a few moments before. He cried, begged, and screamed his ignorance of their inquiry. He would have done anything to stop them. Time slowed as the henchman’s finger tightened on the pistol’s trigger. He could still recall the dichotomy of the image, Samantha’s golden blonde hair against the cold, blue steel of the barrel. It was all so intense, so engrained in his mind. He could, with 100% accuracy, recite the serial number engraved on the weapon’s frame. He also knew the precise number of hairs on the executioner’s knuckle.  

And then an angel interceded on his behalf. A miracle, an answered prayer chased away the unwelcome stranger named Helplessness. Just as the trigger began its movement… the motion that would kill his beloved Samantha… the thug’s head exploded.

Over a year later, in the comfort of Camp David and with the knowledge that his grandchildren were now safe and sound, that moment in time elicited a smile from his pursed lips. He recalled the red and purple mist of blood and gristle as the man’s head was nearly ripped from his torso. He remembered the pistol, that black omen of death, tumbling to the ground, unfired. He recounted Samantha drawing another breath and the relief that flooded his mind in that instant so many months ago.

“A celebration is in order,” he announced to the fire, inhaling deeply on the cigar, and then toasting the executioner’s death. “To the man who held a gun at my family’s head - may you suffer hell’s worst,” were his only words.

The Colonel peered back at the picture of his grandchildren, remembering the rest of that day, how Bishop had rescued David and him. He recounted how his ex-employee had then risked everything to pull Samantha from the clutches of the kidnappers.

Terri and Bishop had shared their precious resources to treat his own wounds. Bishop had again put it all on the line, invading a den of killers and crooks to procure medical equipment – equipment that allowed the doctor to save his life.

“I owe the life of my grandchildren to that man,” he confessed to the fire. “It’s because of him that my worthless hide still roams this earth.”

The Colonel set his wallet on the end table, exchanging it for the folder that resided there. He rested the thick file on his knee, drawing again from the smoke. He didn’t need to open it again, he’d already studied the contents three times. Bishop executing helpless people? The angel that had saved his family’s life turned demon? A butcher? He couldn’t… no… he
wouldn’t
believe it.

But there was more to it than that. Bishop’s story was far more complex than a man who had done the right thing to help the innocent and rescue an old friend.

“We flew to Bishop’s ranch because he earned a certain level of trust,” he informed the fire. “I sought him out because I knew he was the right man to save countless lives. I looked to him as the only person I knew who could deliver a message to the president and avoid a civil war.”

The Colonel laughed, the hearty chuckle a rare sound for such a serious man. “Anyone else would have told me to go fuck myself,” he whispered, stirring the logs to increase the intensity of the blaze. “Any other man would have had the common sense to see it was an impossible mission with an unlikely outcome. Of all the brave warriors I’ve known, of all the elite operators I’ve commanded, only Bishop would have left his family and attempted that initiative. And you know what? He did it. He pulled it off, and thousands, perhaps millions of lives were saved.”

Glancing down at the folder, the Colonel made a decision. “He was selfless. He risked it all for others. Not for country, or service or God… but for other human beings,” he announced to no one. “A man like that doesn’t massacre. A man with those values doesn’t become a cold-blooded killer of unarmed men. Something else happened out there, and I owe it to Bishop to uncover the facts.”

Sighing, the Colonel inhaled the last puff from his stogie and then threw back the bottom of his glass. He knew men could snap. He’d seen sane, reasonable people go off the reservation before. But not Bishop, and not under these circumstances.

Flicking the cigar butt into the flame, the Colonel resolved himself to find out the truth. He didn’t care if he lost his position of power and prominence at the president’s side. He could care less if his investigation turned his colleagues against him. He owed Bishop, and honor demanded he pay the debt.

Meraton, Texas

July 22

Business at Pete’s was still brisk, despite the windmill-generated power having cut off an hour before. Homemade beeswax candles and an oil lantern purchased at the town’s market quickly took their turn as substitute lighting, the ambiance actually warming to the establishment.

“The beer’s still cold,” the bar’s proprietor and mayor of the small town had announced from behind the counter.

Pete had anticipated the busy night, bringing in a few extra helpers to ensure the quality of service remained high as well as being able to guarantee crowd control. With the recent attack on Midland Station, people were jittery. A cool libation in a welcoming establishment was just the ticket some folks needed to settle their nerves.

There were also several important visitors in Meraton. A group of men from Odyssey were close to bringing a fertilizer plant back on-line. They were meeting with members of the farmer’s guild, the Manor’s main conference room hosting the negotiations. Rumor had it that the talks were progressing well. There was a chance those men would have reason to celebrate later that evening, and Pete wanted to be prepared.

Keeping the bar clean with his ever-present towel, he enjoyed listening to the conversations that floated past his ear. The habit was like people watching to a barkeep. He further justified the nosiness via his political position as mayor.
Didn’t he need to know what the people were thinking and talking about? Wouldn’t such interaction help his governance?

Grinning at the thought, Pete ambled to the far end of the bar, surveying the small seating area. Happy that every table was full, he watched the waitress move briskly here and there, her tray thick with empties on their way back to be refilled.

Pete’s attention spiked when his experienced ear detected a harsh tone of voice. Zeroing in on the speaker like a coyote stalking a rabbit, he located a stranger at a table with three other men he didn’t know.

“That son of a bitch should show his cowardly carcass and turn himself in,” the man stated with a conviction. “He’s putting every mother’s son in danger. I bet that’s why the feds attacked Midland Station.”

“From what I saw, they’ve got him dead to rights, stone cold guilty. I know I sure would be pissed if some rogue killed 23 of my neighbors and friends,” added another.

“With a name like Bishop, what would you expect?” added a third. “The guy probably doesn’t have the balls to face the music. He’s no doubt hiding in a cave somewhere slapping his wife around like a primitive.”