Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (6 page)

Despite breathing hard now, the concept brought a smile to Bishop’s lips.
You’re homesick
, he said to himself.
You’re dreaming of a life that will never be again.

Or would it?
It was hard to imagine chaos on the streets he was running through. It was difficult to picture anything but calm here. Maybe he needed to reconsider the general’s offer. Maybe this was the closest he could get to what once was.

Stop it!
The realization almost caused Bishop to pull up from his stride
.
You’re fooling yourself—this place isn’t any of that.
It dawned on Bishop that he’d experienced more violence in the middle of these supposedly disciplined surroundings than anywhere else. He’d encountered far more treachery, discrimination, and hostility here than out in the world. This place was a façade—a Hollywood movie set with false storefronts and actors parading around in costume. This island of organized society held more danger than the sea of anarchy that existed outside of the base’s gates.
You’ve made the right decision
, he consoled himself.
Go with your gut, and stop second-guessing everything.

West Virginia, Appalachian Mountains

December 22, 2015

Senator Moreland yawned and stretched, the morning routine seem
ingly more difficult during the winter months. Finding his eyeglasses on the bedside table, he checked the time and was satisfied with his five hours of sleep. Anything over four was a good night’s rest these days.

Leading the council that controlled
the Independents was a time-consuming task, often requiring the sacrifice of sleep. The workload had peaked during the military battles that once raged along the Mississippi delta. The resulting clash mauled both sides of the conflict, and a ceasefire had been in effect since the death of the president. No war equaled more sleep.

Moreland rubbed his eyes, thankful for the need to do so.
This stalemate isn’t going to last long
, he thought.
Soon you’ll need every precious minute of rest to stay sharp and lead our nation out of this mess.

Slowly meandering to the master suite’s bathroom, the West Virginian ran a mental list of his goals for the day while absentmindedly executing the required tasks of hygiene. Teeth, hair, and underarms taken care of, Moreland dressed in casual slacks, a pullover sweater, real wool socks, and penny loafers.

With his assistant out of town, it was going to be a challenge to conjure up a good breakfast. Coffee wouldn’t be so difficult, but finding suitable fresh fruit was impossible.
It would be canned oranges and oatmeal,
he decided while descending the stairs.

Approaching the kitchen, he noticed the security man checking the patio doors from the great room. Moreland tossed a cheery, “Good Morning,” to the large fellow, only receiving a curt, “Sir,” back.
These security types
, thought Moreland,
always so serious. They should learn to relax a little and enjoy the view.

“Do you work for Erik King?”

“Yes, sir, I’m employed by Darkwater.”

Moreland decided to engage the stoic man. “I knew Erik’s father when he was in the automotive business. I was on the committee that approved Darkwater’s budget during the Iraq war. How’s Erik doing these days?”

“I’ve never met Mr. King, sir.”

“I see,” stated a slightly embarrassed Moreland, and he retreated toward the kitchen.

As he reached to push open the kitchen’s swinging door, a wonderful aroma drifted past the senator’s nose. “What the heck is that?” he mumbled. Passing through the threshold, Moreland was shocked to find Wayne.

“Well, good morning, Senator.”

“Wayne! I am surprised to see you back so soon. When did you arrive?”

“I came in last night, Senator. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

The older man nodded his appreciation, and then his face became serious. “And how is your family handling the tragedy?”

The assistant
lowered his head. “As best as can be expected, sir. My sister’s death was unanticipated, of course. The lack of the most basic facilities made the situation even worse. We had to dig the grave ourselves, and there wasn’t a proper preparation of her body. I built the casket myself, out of scrap lumber.”

Moreland put his hand on Wayne’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m so very, very sorry, my friend. You know I wish I could have done more for your family, Wayne.”

“Thank you, sir. I do appreciate your condolences. Thank you again for the use of your aircraft. It was more than generous,” Wayne replied.

Wayne brightened and changed the subject. “Sir,
I have to review the security assignments for the week. Can I set aside some fresh waffles and canned fruit for your breakfast this morning?”

The
senator rubbed his stomach and smiled. “Much better than the oatmeal I had planned—much better indeed.”

Chapter 2

Meraton, Texas

December 22, 2015

Pete was sweeping the barroom floor while subconsciously running through a to-do list of the day’s tasks. Since the marketplace had grown and thrived, it was becoming more and more work to keep his small business up and running.

Whisking the small pile of road dust and sand into the pan, he opened the front door and proceeded to return the collection back to its original location. Pete paused in the threshold, looking at the new sun rising in the east. It was going to be another clear, cool day in Meraton, and the market should see a good number of customers with the fair weather. He smiled and strolled out onto Main Street, heading around the corner of Pete’s Place to deposit his dustpan cargo.

After the small pile of sweepings was dumped on the ground, Pete returned to inventory his receipts.
What a funny way of running a business
, he thought. Normally an entrepreneur would count the day’s take, but that method didn’t apply anymore.

Reaching behind the bar, Pete lifted a cardboard box to the counter and began looking through the miscellaneous items he had bartered in exchange for liquid refreshments.

The first items were bullets. Ammunition was small, easy to carry, and held universal value—or so one would think. Shaking his head, Pete sorted the dozen or so rounds, finding he was the proud owner of several calibers that wouldn’t fit any weapon he owned. Those would be traded for something else if he could ever find the time to set up his own table in the marketplace.

The remain
ing items in the cardboard cash register included sewing supplies, a cigar, three tomatoes, two sets of shoelaces, and a dull pocketknife. Pete thumbed through the hodge-podge, amusing himself as he hummed the seasonal ditty, “Twelve Days of Christmas,” with an emphasis on “and a partridge in a pear tree.”

It was the stack of handwritten IOUs in the bottom of the box that bothered him the most. Pete read through several
of the small notes and grunted. The extension of credit had been a difficult balancing act since mankind’s humble beginnings and the establishment of commerce. Pete had happily exchanged a drink for an IOU to help get the town trading again—to help rebuild a society.

At first, he’d had little expectation of ever collecting. Now, he was producing his own libations and had raw material costs. Pete sighed, “I have to eat
, too.”

Carrying the
veggies to the small kitchen in the back of the bar, he couldn’t help but analyze Meraton’s situation. It wasn’t just Pete’s Place that suffered from a lack of currency. Betty was managing The Manor, trying to keep the town’s centerpiece hotel up and running. Some of the remote ranchers were now coming to town to resupply and trade, and they wanted someplace to spend the night. Establishing fair value for goods and services was often difficult, if not impossible.

Pete smiled, thinking about an argument that had broken out a few days ago. It was a clear example of the problem.

He’d been walking down to visit Betty, when the sounds of a disagreement drifted between the few scattered storefronts in Meraton. Someone was clearly unhappy with someone else, and in these times, that was cause for concern. Mumbling to himself, “What now,” Pete set off to find the quarrel’s source.

Heading west down Meraton’s main drag, Pete could make out more of the angry voices and realized one of them
belonged to Betty. Pete picked up his pace, believing something was wrong with his friend. Betty was a strong woman with a frontier attitude, but he always worried about her taking care of that big place all by herself.

The Manor
had been known far and wide in West Texas for over 50 years. Famous for being a peaceful retreat with quality service, it had been the primary anchor of Meraton’s business district. Now, after the collapse, the one-time vacation destination served as the community’s hospital and defensive Alamo. Slowly, it was regaining use as a place for travelers to rest. Almost two full acres of lush gardens were contained inside the fort-like walls of the hotel’s grounds. Rare in the barren Chihuahuan Desert surrounding the town, the variety and design of plant life had been a major draw to travelers visiting Big Bend National Park. Many remarked that the stay at the hotel had been the most enjoyable portion of their trip.

Like all destinations in Meraton,
The Manor was just a few blocks away from Pete’s bar. As he hurried down the street, he soon realized that the argument wasn’t coming from the hotel. Two side streets over, he finally found the source of the disturbance in front of Maria Bustou’s home.

Betty and Maria were standing in the street, having it out, and Pete could tell neither was backing down.
Both women ignored his approach, intent on shouting at each other while fingers were wagged in faces. Pete got close and then joined the fray. “Ladies! Ladies! What is going on here? You two are about to raise the dead.”

Both women looked at Pete,
but each reacted differently to his attempt to restore balance. Maria crossed her arms over her chest, a look of determination on her face. Betty took a step toward Pete and then pointed her finger back at Maria. “Pete, this . . . this . . . woman bartered four eggs with me yesterday, and two of them are so rotten, my stray cats wouldn’t eat them. That’s the second time this has happened in the last two weeks. I want half of the beef loin that I traded for them back, but she says her family has already eaten it.”

Maria waited for a moment before pleading her case to Pete
. “This is so untrue. The eggs were fresh and even if not, senor, I offer Miss Betty replacement eggs tomorrow. My hens didn’t produce this morning.”

Before Pete could comment, Betty went right back at her, “Maria, I don’t want to wait on your hens. I have to feed the people at the hospital and the doctor when he visits. I don’t have anything else to barter with today, and the cupboard is bare. I have people I have to feed.”

The commotion was attracting other townsfolk. Pete saw three other neighbors approaching, as well as a few faces peering out of nearby windows. Given what he knew about the two women’s tempers, he was glad to have the backup in case things got out of hand.

He decided to p
lay peacemaker. “Maria, Betty . . . please . . . let’s all settle down and work this out. I’m sure we can come to a reasonable solution that works for everyone.

Pete immediately regretted stepping into the middle of the dispute. Both women were now looking at him as if to say, “Well, what’s your idea?” He didn’t have one.

After an uncomfortable pause, Betty and Maria both started talking at once, now playing to the seven people gathered around. Pete could tell sides were being drawn by the looks of sympathy and nods of agreement being shared with both women.

About then, another man spoke over the top of everyone. “
Something similar happened when I bartered with Jose three days ago. I traded a half pound of sugar for an old pistol and a used pair of boots that Jose wanted to get rid of. Problem is, he can’t find the boots now and thinks his wife might have thrown them out. That wouldn’t be a problem if he could give me part of my sugar back, but unfortunately, his wife made preserves with it already.”

Another woman spoke up, “I’ve had two oil lamps I’ve been
trying to get rid of for three weeks now. I’ve been waiting to trade them with someone who has something I need, but so far I haven’t been able to manage that. Now, I’m not sure I’ll ever get rid of them.”

On and on the conversation went, with more and more people joining the crowd from surroun
ding homes. Pete listened, completely sympathetic to the situations. He had a whole boxful of items he had traded for back at the bar, and there had never been time to set up a table at the market and exchange them for his own necessities. It was a growing problem—bartering was becoming a bottleneck.

Pete looked over his shoulder at the sun and realized everyone had been standing around complaining for a long time. “Excuse me! Excuse me! I suggest we have a town hall meeting this afternoon. Let’s call the meeting for four o’clock. Let’s get everyone together and see if we can come up with an answer to this problem.”

Several heads nodded up and down in the crowd. Begrudgingly, Betty and Maria agreed to shelve their problem until cooler heads prevailed.

As Betty and Pete walked back to
ward Main Street, Pete gently scolded his friend. “Betty, why didn’t you tell me you were running low on food? You know I’ve got plenty and would be happy to share.”

Betty didn’t hesitate, “Pete, I’m not going to find myself beholding to you or anyone else. It makes me feel good to hear you say that, but I’ve always managed on my own.”

Pete waved her off. “Oh, now, there ya go. You know I worry about you down here all by yourself. You’ve done a great job keeping the place up without being paid anything. Besides, I think you are the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

Betty blushed, not sure o
f how to take Pete’s last comment. Thankfully for her, the pair had arrived at the front steps of the hotel, and she didn’t have to continue the conversation. She replied, “Why thank you, Pete. That’s very kind of you to say so,” and rushed for the door. Pete shrugged his shoulders and slowly made his way back to the bar, wondering why he sucked so badly when it came to women.

Bishop ran a slightly different route back to his quarters. He was feeling that tingling rush to the extremities and had finally gotten into what some athletes call “the zone.” The sun was fully above the mountains to the east, and the sky was a cheery shade of Colombia blue. Movement up ahead distracted him from the natural warmness of a new day, and he realized something important was going on up ahead.

His route was taking him into Biggs Field, which was basically the base’s airport. As he rounded a slight bend in the road, he noticed a flurry of activity around Air Force One.
I wonder if they are going to fly the president’s body back to Arlington,
he pondered.

The sc
ene before him elicited a mixture of emotions. He had rescued the Commander in Chief from a certain death. A group of soldiers loyal to the Independents had made a desperate attempt to kill the man, and Bishop had disrupted their plans. Looking back now, it wasn’t so much because he was loyal to the old government. He had taken action because he didn’t want to see the country fall into a civil war. There had already been one major battle with thousands of men killed, and both sides were gathering enough forces to make that horrific event look like a panty raid at a sorority house.

No
, Bishop thought,
I rescued the president because I thought he could stop all this madness.

The effort was in vain, as the man was shot by a common criminal less than 12 hours later.

Bishop felt a tug of guilt over the incident. While the president had been traveling with him of his own free will, Bishop had made the decision to travel to the small town of Alpha, thinking they would be safe there. It hadn’t worked out.
Still
, he thought,
by some thinking, the man was in my charge
.

Another small pickup truck was parked along the road, the logo indicating it belonged to the base’s military police. As Bishop jogged past the vehicle, the two soldiers inside watched him without expression. He hadn’t run more than 20 steps when he heard the truck’s engine start. A quick glance over his shoulder verified the assumption he had already made—the truck had executed a U-turn and was following him.

What now
, he thought, just as the vehicle pulled up next to him, and the passenger side window came down. “Excuse me sir, could we have a quick word with you?”

Bishop didn’t stop running, but glanced over and replied, “Sure. What’s up?”

The specialist seemed annoyed that Bishop wasn’t stopping, but didn’t voice any protest. After a quick exchange with the driver, he yelled back over, “Sir, there’s someone who would like a word with you. I believe he’s on his way here right now.”

Bishop was confused and stopped running. The MPs braked to a stop, but didn’t exit their vehicle. Bishop looked up to see a black SUV rolling across the airport’s tarmac. It was one of the Secret Service’s escort trucks, and it was heading directly at him.

Agent Powell pulled up next to the MPs and thanked them, making it clear they were no longer needed. After they pulled away, the man in charge of the president’s security waved a greeting at Bishop, who nodded back.