The Directives (11 page)

“I’ve got the same over here,” shouted another. “No! Make that several men on the rooftops. They’re all over the place!”

Bishop looked at Baxter and said, “Welcome to the Alamo, Major. I think Lew and Mr. Winfrey don’t appreciate our detaining their friend the sheriff.”

“Alamo, my ass,” the officer spat. “I’ve got enough firepower to hold this building
and
go out there and lay waste.”

Bishop grunted
, nodding toward the north. “Don’t be so sure, Major. I think we’ve got a lot of company coming.”

Baxter followed Bishop’s gaze to the spot where a yellow and red light illuminated the darkened street. A few moments later, several hundred people came rolling around the corner, dozens of torches filling the night with a menac
ing glow surrounded by black swirls of smoke.

Still, the officer wasn’t impressed. Keying his radio’s microphone, he directed, “Bring the Humvee with the 50 caliber up to the front steps of the courthouse. Do not… I repeat… do not fire on any civilians unless I specifically order it.”

Bishop nodded his agreement with the tactic. One of their military vehicles was equipped with an M2 machine gun mounted in a roof turret. The belt-fed weapon was capable of enormous firepower, able to spray deadly streams of lead at 600 rounds per minute.

They heard the Humvee’s motor start as the crowd drew closer. Bishop moved to a corner, watching the soldiers execute the major’s order. He inhaled sharply as a flickering light arched through the air, the projectile landing on the Humvee’s hood and exploding in a ball of red flame. Another Molotov cocktail soon followed, and then a third.

The men in the Humvee would have been fine if they had just driven through the flames. From inside the military transport, the two young soldiers were overwhelmed by the wall of fire surrounding their ride. The driver, an inexperienced private, panicked and slammed on the brakes. Thinking he was going to be baked alive, the terror-stricken young man opened the armored door and tried to climb out.

Rivulets of burning gasoline leaked in via the open door, the heat and smoke adding an additional element of bedlam to the interior. Both the driver and passenger tried to escape, their clothing catching fire in the surrounding pools of burning fuel. They were completely engulfed before they made it five steps away from the now-doomed vehicle.

Bishop, outraged at the attack, raised his rifle and snap-fired several shots at the window where the gas bombs had been launched.

Twinkles of light began flashing from every rooftop surrounding the courthouse. Bishop dove prone as dozens of bullets cracked over his head, solid thuds and thwacks wounding the limestone façade behind him. Rolling to his right, he fired again at a vague outline of a rooftop shooter.

Without thought, he rolled left just as the ground erupted in geysers of dirt and grass.

Scrambling for the cover of the building, Bishop zigzagged as dozens of rounds chased him across the front of the courthouse steps. Stinging limestone shrapnel whizzed through the air, bit
ing his skin and pelting his body. He dove the last few feet, hitting the marble floor hard and tumbling onto the landing.

An orchestra of return fire thundered through the courthouse halls. Soldiers and the men from West Texas responded to the attack with a deadly volley of their own. Shouts, orders, and battle cries bounced off the walls, Major Baxter’s orders booming over the din, directing his men get their asses into the fight.

After catching his breath, Bishop found an open spot near the major. “The Humvee with the Ma Duce (M2) has been destroyed, sir. Both men inside are dead.”

“Shit! Our radio was in that vehicle. We don’t have any way to call for help.” Baxter said. “Now what am I supposed to do with that mob?”

Bishop followed the officer’s gaze toward the approaching throng of civilians. There were at least three hundred of them, their surreal, collective anger illuminated by the flaming torches brandished high in the air. Bishop raised his rifle to study the crowd, quickly identifying at least two women at the front.

“Damn… there are families in that group,” he informed the major. “I hate this shit.”

Ducking as a bullet snapped through the open window, Baxter looked helpless. “What the hell do I do with this? Order my men to fire on civilians?”

Bishop shook his head, even more disgusted with the local leadership than he had been before. “Order your men to fire above their heads, sir. See if that disperses them.”

Baxter took the suggestion, turning to order the nearby soldiers to carefully fire over the advancing mass.

Again, a volley of fire roared from the courthouse, dozens of rounds flying a few feet above the horde. The oncoming wall of people hesitated for a moment, but then continued in its resolve to overrun the building.

“Shit,” Bishop said. “Fire at their feet, sir. A few rounds may bounce up and hit some legs, but that beats the alternative.”

The major issued the order, a barrage of lead punishing the earth just in front of the approaching throng. Bishop spied a couple of people go down, and
again the front of the crowd paused. The advance only halted for a minute, however, the throng ignoring the obvious warnings and continuing to march forward.

The Texan did not want to shoot civilians. He already suffered enough nightmares for any two men, and firing on misguided people wasn’t in his playbook. He was beginning to understand why the farmers had lost the first battle that had taken place on this very spot.

The ammunition stored in the burning Humvee picked that moment to start cooking off, a booming chorus of pops and bangs causing the oncoming wall of humanity to hesitate. When the stricken vehicle’s fuel tank exploded in a ball of fire, the irate citizens of Brighton actually backed away.

Bishop heard an unusual sound, for a moment thinking Baxter had his radio turned up so loud he was hearing the officer’s earpiece. But that wasn’t where the mechanical-sounding voice was coming from. Using his rifle optic, he quickly scanned the mob and identified the source. A young man wielding a bullhorn was cajoling the horde to storm the courthouse.

The Texan knew that most riots were sparked and fueled by a few key individuals. His training at HBR had covered the topic of agitators and the fact that they were almost always a critical ingredient in any uprising. Regardless of the initial cause or purpose, disturbances needed the occasional push in order to gather momentum or else they just seemed to fizzle out. Bishop had just spotted one of the motivators.

He centered the holographic red dot on the bullhorn and squeezed the trigger. The man operating the amplification device jerked his head away, an expression of shock and pain on his face. After briefly examining his damaged tool, he again raised it to his lips and began egging the crowd to storm the building and expel the intruders.

I guess that dumbshit didn’t get the message
, Bishop thought, adjusting his aim a little closer to the man’s face and pulling the trigger again. He never saw where the round connected - a storm of bullets slapping the window frame and forcing the Texan to pull back. But the mechanically enhanced voice was silent.

“Give them another volley high and low,” Bishop yelled to Baxter. “I just took out one of the ring leaders.”

Again the soldiers opened up, grass and dirt flying into the air and pushing the now-leaderless mob back.

This time Baxter let it go for almost twenty seconds before calling a cease-fire.

All eyes in the courthouse were fixated on the milling multitude, but they didn’t reform. Instead of advancing, Bishop spotted people pointing and talking, but no one moved in their direction.

“They’ve stopped the crowd,” Red observed. “I’m not sure how, but they did.”

“No matter,” replied Lew. “Let’s go ahead with the next phase.”

“I’ll see you in a bit,” the nervous man mumbled as he turned toward the stairs leading down to a basement beneath City Hall.

Taking the narrow descent two steps at a time, he reached the concrete floor quickly. Reminding himself to maintain an air of confidence and authority, he eyed the 60 men lined up against the walls and waiting for their orders, taking a moment so his voice wouldn’t squeak.

“For those of you who weren’t with us the last time we had to retake the courthouse, the plan is very simple,” Red called out.

“There is an emergency tunnel connecting this basement with the old boiler room in the target building’s lower floor. It is narrow, low, and damp, but we know it is clear. I want each of you to keep your weapon unloaded while we’re passing through. I’ll be in front with a flashlight. When you get to the stairway leading up to our target, load your weapon then, and not before. Is that clear?”

Sixty anxious faces nodded their understanding.

“They won’t be expecting us - surprise will be on our side. I’ll be the first through. We need to get as many of our people out of the tunnel as quickly as possible. The last time, we learned that lesson the hard way. So the first few of you who exit, don’t start shooting unless it’s unconditionally necessary. When you hit the top of the stairs over there, just keep going. Don’t hesitate; don’t pause. The more of us that can get out of the opening and into the fight, the faster this will end. Do you understand?”

Several voices sounded off, all of them making it clear they understood.

“The snipers we have posted around the courthouse will begin shooting in five minutes. They should keep everyone’s attention focused outside the building. We’ll hit them from behind, and then we can all go home to our families. Any questions?” Red asked, his eyes searching every face.

There were none.

“Okay, follow me.”

And with that, he purposely strolled to a rusty metal door set in the basement wall. Turning the handle quickly and hoping no one could see his shaking hand, Red reached in his pocket and pulled out a flashlight.

A whispered prayer formed on his lips as he stepped through the threshold, bending at the waist to accommodate the low ceiling of the tunnel.

Bishop and the major monitored the crowd for a few minutes, both men wanting to make sure the mass outside no longer posed a threat.

“It looks like we did it,” Baxter announced, the rare smile forming on his lips.

“Yes, sir, it sure does,” Bishop replied. “But, not to rain on the victory parade, I don’t think this is over. We still have a bunch of shooters up on those rooftops.”

“Surely they have to know they can’t push us out of here just by sniping at us. I bet they fade away into the night,” the officer replied.

“Maybe,” Bishop responded. “But I wouldn’t if I were them. I would have them open up and keep our heads down. While we were distracted, I’d hit this building with a full infantry assault. Nothing fancy… no envelopment or diversions… just one big, hardass push to get inside the building.”

Baxter threw a doubtful glance at Bishop, opening his mouth to disagree. But the words never left the major’s throat.

Dozens of rooftop rifles opened up at the same moment, every shooter surrounding the courthouse pouring round after round into the already tortured windows and doorways.

Over the background of pummeling lead slamming into walls, floors and contents, Bishop managed to get Baxter’s attention. “They’ll be coming, Major. I can’t tell you from where, but I’ll bet my left nut they're advancing on us right now.”