Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (10 page)

Bishop could relate to the problem.
I’ve been in a funk myself, and I know what went down. It’s no wonder the average, uniformed soldier is having issues.

Bishop
responded, “Sir, I’m no doubt a distraction here. With your leave, General, I’d like to return home as soon as possible and get on with life.”

Westfield smiled, “Of course, son. You’re not a prisoner here. I’ll arrange transport in the next few days. Have you been by to see
the colonel yet?”

“Yes
, sir. It was uplifting to see him doing so well.”

“I’ve known that man for over 30 years. He’s too stubborn to die because of something as mundane as a plane crash. I believe he’ll be joining my command as soon as his health permits. I’m looking forward to his contribution.”

Bishop had to agree. “I’m sure he’ll make an excellent addition to your staff, sir.”

The general stood and offered Bishop his hand. The grasp was genuine and friendly.

Bishop stopped as he reached for the door. He turned and announced, “Sir, if you ever need me . . . I mean
really
need me . . . you know I couldn’t deny my country.”

The base commander nodded
. “I know that, Bishop. Go and take care of your family. I’ll keep your offer in mind. Hell, if things keep sliding downhill, I might show up at
your
door asking for shelter.”

“You’re always welcome, sir.”

With that, Bishop opened the office door, only to hear the major say, “He should be leaving here shortly,” to someone on the phone. Before Bishop could make it through the threshold, he heard the phone land in the cradle.
That certainly was a noticeably abrupt end to a phone call
, Bishop thought.

Without glancing at his nemesis in the reception area, Bishop made a beeline for the door. Behind him, the general’s voice rang out, “Major, a moment please.”

Bishop continued moving toward the door, noticing the junior officer jump up from his desk and rush into the general’s office. Glancing around, Bishop looked at a pegboard on the wall behind the major’s desk. The initials “VOQ,” or visiting officers’ quarters, were printed across the top of the panel. Below the label were neat rows of small hooks, each numbered, and many with keys.

He and Terri had been assigned #11, and Bishop quickly inventoried the room numbers that were unoccupied. The room across the hall, #12, still had keys dangling on the hook. Without thinking, Bishop threw a fast glance at the general’s door, took three quick steps, and dropped those keys in his pocket.

Bishop was feeling a little guilty about taking the keys as he maneuvered through the passages of the HQ building. Powell’s voice sounding from a darkened doorway made him jump.

“Hey, Bishop, I wanted a quick word.”

Bishop threw a puzzled look at the Secret Service agent, exclaiming, “You scared the crap out of me!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Powell said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Bishop didn’t buy it for a second, but wanted to get back to Terri. “Go on.”

Powell looked down, suddenly finding his feet interesting. He extended his hand and said, “Bishop, I’m sorry about this morning. I wanted to apologize. I wish you and Terri the very best. After the world gets back to normal,
send me a picture of the kid. Would ya? I sure as hell hope that baby looks like its mother.”

Bishop shook the man’s hand, “Thank you and
good luck to you, sir. I’ve got a feeling you’re going to have your hands full for a while.”

Powell watched Bishop walk away.
Thinking out loud, he whispered under his breath, “You have no idea how busy I’m going to be, Bishop. No idea whatsoever.”

As he
strode back to the VOQ, Bishop noticed a pickup truck parked nearby. The vehicle was one of the small models used all over the base, not uncommon at all. As he walked down the steps of the base’s headquarters, he heard a motor start.

Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he sensed something was different.
The truck had moved - hadn’t it?
A vivid imagination might conclude the vehicle was following him.

What is wrong with you
, he thought.
You’re really getting spooked by all of this.

Bishop became determined to disprove his suspicions and detoured to a different route. The truck seemed to follow. A burning curiosity began dominating his thoughts.
Who’s in the truck? Why are they following me? 

Now determined to confront the situation
head on, Bishop executed a couple of quick turns and then hid behind a dumpster. The truck pulled to the curb and idled, still too far away for him to see who was inside.

“To hell with this,” Bishop mumbled to himself. He rose up from behind the metal trash container and
stepped purposefully toward the pickup.

Whoever was inside evidently didn’t want to speak with Bishop.
The truck sped away before he had traveled 15 steps, before he could make out any of the occupants’ features.

Shreveport, Louisiana

December 22, 2015

Colonel Marcus stood at attention, his shoulders squared and spine taunt. Two lines of soldiers mimicked the colonel’s stance while the American flag was raised, the assembly surrounded by scores of well-wishers, friends and the curious. Everyone relaxed a bit as soon as Old Glory reached her home atop the flagpole.

There was a pause while the honor guard marched off, their important function now fulfilled. While he waited, Marcus’ gaze scanned the area, a swelling sense of irony filling his thoughts. The flagpole resided in front of a rural Louisiana middle school that had been converted to an armed camp and headquarters for his military operations. The exhausted officer couldn’t help but think about the building’s original intent.
This place was once used to educate young minds
, he thought.
That was a higher purpose. We need to return it to that function.

The throng’s attention diverted to a makeshift stage adorned with the podium borrowed from the school. Today, his command’s new flag would be officially unfurled, and several men who participated in the Battle of
Scott’s Hill would be awarded honors.

The colonel’s overall command had a new designation, bestowed upon it by the ruling council of the Independents. The organizational change was necessitated due to the hodgepodge of assorted units being woven into an entirely new army. Every conceivable size of element imaginable had joined the cause over time. Platoons, rifle squads and even a few full brigades had sworn their allegiance and now needed to be integrated into a functional fighting force. Restructuring and deploying these assets had been a monumental task that had resulted in endless hours of staff meetings, written orders and overall confusion. Marcus hadn’t slept more than a few hours per day in over two weeks.

The newly designated ICOMS, or “Independents Command – South,” was comprised of over 60,000 men and hundreds of war machines. The original intent had been to occupy the southern section of the Mississippi River Delta and use the region’s resources as a base to rebuild society.

A funny thing happened on the way to the recovery
, thought Marcus. Both the federal government and the Independents had the same idea. Both had sent sizable military forces to implement said plan, and those armies had collided at a place named Scott’s Hill. The carnage had been atrocious, with two full brigade combat teams - over 10,000 men - mauling each other over a worthless piece of rural Louisiana real estate. The butchery had resulted in over 8,000 dead and wounded as well as a tactical stalemate.

A small cluster of VIPs from the Independent’s leadership council began their introductions
, and a few brief speeches continued the ceremony. With only one exception, Marcus cared for none of it.
The only worthwhile part of this entire shindig is awarding my men their medals
, he thought.
Medals they earned in battle. The rest of this shit is just pomp and circumstance, and we’ve got more important things to accomplish.

The commander was impatient for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that 70,000 hostile soldiers, still loyal to the old regime, were less than 20 miles from the spot where he stood. Both sides continued to build combat power in the region – both sides expected to receive orders at any moment to reengage.

Slaughter
, thought Marcus,
such a defining word
. All up and down the mighty river, similar lines were being drawn between the old government and the new. If another clash ever occurred again, slaughter was the term that would be used to describe the results for the next 200 years.

The combat power of the United States Army had been refined and improved since the beginning of the Cold War with the old Soviet Union. American military planners always assumed that US units would be severely outnumbered in any major conflict. The political environment didn’t allow for anything but a volunteer force after Vietnam, so the generals couldn’t count on raising an army of equal manpower in a short amount of time. That left one workable alternative – fewer troops capable of projecting more violence per man than any other army on the planet. Technology was the key, and that was a nice fit since America was the global leader in electronics, engineering and software. Defense contractors and politicians were more than happy to get on the bandwagon.

Even the common foot soldier benefited from the resulting investments. A modern infantryman projected more combat power for longer periods of time than his predecessors. A current-day rifle squad, on paper, could easily overwhelm a unit twice its size from WWII. The weapons, gear, body armor, ammunition and optics had all been enhanced. The same could be said of the heavy weapons, such as tanks and artillery.

The pentagon had never imagined that any force, equal
in both size and capability, would tangle with a US unit. The skirmish at Scott’s Hill had involved just that scenario, and when it was over, the devastation was shocking.
Now we’re getting ready to do it again
, thought Marcus,
only on a scale 50 times larger.

Marcus heard his name from the podium and
refocused his mind back on the speaker. Everyone was looking at him, and he cursed his lack of attention, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught daydreaming at his desk. Given the expressions of those around him, Marcus realized he’d been called to the front of the formation.

Stepping briskly to the stage, Marcus stopped and saluted the speaker, showing respect to the
retired four-star general. The senior officer returned the salute and then offered his hand while whispering, “Sorry to surprise you like this Owen, but the word just came down from the leadership a short time ago.”

Colonel Marcus flashed a look of puzzlement at the general and then stood by as the older man returned to speak to the crowd.

“Attention to orders! From Headquarters, the Leadership Council of the Independents has reposed special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity and abilities of Colonel Owen Marcus. In view of these qualities and his demonstrated potential for increased responsibility, Colonel Owen Marcus is hereby promoted to Brigadier General of the Army with a date of rank of December 22, 2015."