Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (32 page)

“If I do, they’ll know we’re coming. I want to get as many as I can in the first salvo. That thing’s not moving very fast. I don’t think it will escape.”

The next clue regarding the location of the launchpad was the sighting of several beams from at least a dozen flashlights moving in every imaginable direction.

“Shit… looks like there are a lot of guys down there,” Bishop noted.

They continued stalking through the woods, coming close enough that they could make out the distant sound of human voices.

Grissom motioned with his hand, indicating a nearby hill. “The high ground,” whispered the PJ.

Nodding, Bishop headed toward what he hoped would be a good position to snipe the balloons. They climbed briefly, Grissom moving as well as any man Bishop had ever worked with.
This guy knows his shit
, Bishop thought.
I’m glad Terri made me bring him along.

They advanced to an overlook, gazing down on a meadow bustling with activity. There were at least 20 people below, scrambling back and forth between the old mine and an open grassland.

Bishop counted four balloons in various stages of being inflated, one in the final preparations of being launched.  

“How many holes do I have to punch in one of those things before they plummet back to the ground?”

“No idea. Like you said back at the house, who shoots down balloons?” Grissom responded.

“So there are three in the air,” Bishop said, turning to examine the one that had just floated overhead.

“I can see two of them,” the Texan whispered, clearly excited. “One is just a speck, but the other two… I think I’ve got a shot. They sure don’t move very fast.”

“I bet all that nuclear junk is heavy. Hell, that guy back there might have it all wrong. Maybe they won’t climb so high.”

Scanning the sky with the big rifle’s optic, Bishop found the third. “I’ve got all three of them. One is way, way out of my range. But the other two… maybe.”

“Do it,” Grissom replied, readying his carbine to protect their position.

Bishop chambered a round in the .338’s massive breech and began prioritizing his targets. “When I open up on the balloons that are already aloft, you start poking holes in the ones down there.”

“Got it,” the sergeant replied, taking aim.

The Texan first examined the closer targets, bringing the nearly inflated unit into the rifle’s powerful optic. He judged the size between two of the hash marks in the scope’s glass, and then looked back to see if he could estimate an accurate range to the furthest airborne target.

Judging the significant bullet drop, Bishop centered above the floating target and squeezed the trigger.

Kevin’s blaster kicked a lot more than Bishop’s .308 or carbines, the impact against his shoulder surprising the Texan. It was a lot louder, too.

He watched eagerly, waiting to see if his bullet did any damage. After three full seconds, it dawned on Bishop that he had no idea if he was hitting the target – or not. It was frustrating, ramping up the already high levels of stress.

Sergeant Grissom soon offered a solution.

After waiting to see if Bishop’s attempt provided any results, the PJ opened up on the valley below, picking the balloon nearest departure. With one shot, the entire thing exploded in a brilliant flash of light and flame that sent shadows across the entire mountain.

Bishop pivoted, wondering what the hell had just happened.

“They’re using hydrogen to fill them. You’ll know if you hit one,” Grissom reported. “Remember the Hindenburg!” he shouted, firing another round into the next target. It too erupted in a brilliant flash of flame and thunder.

That was all Bishop needed to know.

Now he wasn’t so concerned about bullet drop, spin, and wind.

Shouldering Kevin’s mega-blaster, the Texan cut loose, rapidly working the bolt and walking his rounds into the drifting prey.

Three shots later, a micro-sized yellow and red sun appeared in the New Mexico sky, the sphere of light indicating the Texan had found the mark.

The closer balloon exploded with only two attempts.

Just when Bishop was beginning to feel better about the whole thing, bullets started whacking and thumping into their hide.

“I think they found us,” Grissom reported as he nailed the last balloon.

“I think they’re pissed that we shot their toys,” Bishop responded, bringing his rifle around.

He scanned the valley, able to pick out only vague shadows and glimpses of rushing bodies. “They’ll be coming this way soon,” warned the PJ. “I’d prefer not to be here when they get their shit together.”

And then something different came into the Texan’s optic. For less than a second, he thought there were hot water heaters down below. “I’ve got the hydrogen tanks,” he announced to Grissom. “This ought to slow them down a bit.”

Centering the cross-hairs, Bishop fired. The result was spectacular.

With an ear-splitting clap, the entire area was bathed in a white-hot flash of heat and light. Both of the snipers were temporarily blinded as the thunderous report rolled and echoed over the mountains.

The return fire from below ceased.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Bishop directed, taking a last, long look at the balloon that got away.

The two men hustled back to the cabin, finding Terri anxiously waiting by the door. “What happened? I saw and heard explosions and gunfire.”

“I got six out of seven,” Bishop answered. “The last one was out of range.”

Hack, lying on the floor, was obviously high on the morphine. With glazed eyes, he slurred, “S-s-s-o you couldn’t get them all, huh? There’s no stopping the balloons,” his words blending slightly. “Even my best drone would have trouble bringing one down.”

Hack’s statement caused Bishop to tilt his head in thought. Ambling over and taking a knee beside the prone inventor, he goaded the tipsy fellow. “Oh, now don’t be telling stories. There’s no way your drone could catch one of those balloons. That thing must be 10 miles away and four or five miles high by now.”

“My latest one could,” Hack bragged. “It has a 30,000 foot ceiling and a 30-mile range.”

“Bullshit,” Bishop challenged. “Those little pipsqueak toys? No way.”

The Texan watched Hack’s dilated eyes, trying to judge if the medicated man was going to take the bait.
And Terri didn’t think I could fish
, he thought.

Finally, Hack dismissed Bishop’s unbelieving attitude with a wave of his hand. “You know nothing of aeronautical design, young man. You’re nothing more than a hired gunman for a group of thugs. My Big Red can climb that high… maybe more, if the air is right.”

“Oh, yeah. And which one of your toys is this supposed Big Red?” Bishop asked.

“Well, that’s obvious…. It’s the biggest one in the garage. Thus the name, dunderhead.”

After exchanging looks with Terri, Bishop exited the door and scurried to the garage. Heaving up the bay door, he found a drone that was impressibly larger than all the others. It was painted fire engine red.

He retrieved the device, as well as a tablet computer lying next to the flyer on the workbench.

Hack became distraught when he spied Bishop carrying his pride and joy. “What are you doing, you… you… you Neanderthal? Put that down this instant. That is a sophisticated scientific instrument, not some toy for you to break.”

“This thing?” Bishop mocked. “I don’t even think this unit will fly, let along track down a balloon. You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’ll prove it to you,” Hack said, trying to upright himself.

Between his injured foot and the narcotic surging through his system, Hack had no chance of standing. With Grissom under one arm and Bishop under the other, they assisted the wounded man to the front porch.

“You there!” the old inventor ordered Terri, “go s-s-sit Big Red in the driveway,” Hack slurred. “Let me show you a thing or two about aerodynamic design.”

Terri, following with the drone, did as the toymaker instructed.

Taking the tablet, Hack fumbled with the unit, his unsure fingers having trouble with the controls. “My apologies,” he offered to his audience. “I seem to be having trouble controlling my hands.”

“Let me help you,” Terri offered with the sweetest of smiles.

With Hack’s instruction, Terri soon had the rotors spinning with a powerful hum. Like a grandfather boasting in front of his granddaughter, the toymaker wanted to show Terri everything. “Touch this,” he said with pride, “and watch Big Red blast off.”

Terri did exactly that, pretending to be so excited when the drone shot skyward with impressive thrust. “How do I make it go really high?” she beamed.

Again, Hack provided the necessary instructions, pointing to the tablet’s controls.

After Bishop whispered the direction in her ear, Terri continued her charade, “I want it to fly northeast. Can it do that?”

And then she wanted to turn on the camera, control the gimbal, and go higher.

Hack seemed to be enjoying it all, happy to have a pretty girl so excited with his creation.

“What’s that?” she asked, looking at the camera’s point of view on the tablet’s screen. “It looks like a really big star.”

“I don’t know,” Hack said, obviously having forgotten about the balloon. “Let’s go see what it is.”

With Bishop and Grissom looking over their shoulders, Hack instructed Terri on how to manipulate the drone’s controls and in a short time, the image of the balloon became clear.

“Ram it,” Bishop told Terri. “Kamikaze that damn thing and knock it down.”

“What? Wait… what are you talking about?” Hack began to protest. He started to reach for the tablet, but Bishop stopped him cold, gripping the toymaker’s wrist before he could interfere with Terri’s piloting.

“No… Please don’t hurt Big Red,” Hack pleaded, enough of his neural pathways functioning to grasp what the strangers around him intended.

Grissom was there to help, Bishop nodding with his head that they needed to get the ever more belligerent man back inside.

As the two men lifted Hack by the arms and legs, Terri turned and sneered, “Watch this. Nearly the entire display on the computer was filled with the silver outline of the balloon, the drone obviously closing the distance rapidly.

Then the screen flashed white, and the transmission stopped sending video.

“I think you got it,” Bishop said, relief dominating his voice.

“Is this finally over?” Terri wondered.

“Maybe,” Bishop answered. “Now we wait and see if Diana got the message and can get us out of here. We’re still trapped miles behind enemy lines.”

The tarmac at Fort Bliss was a riot of activity, men rushing in every direction, shouted orders trying to override the growing howl of two Blackhawk helicopters spinning up their turbine power plants.

Grim arrived via speeding Humvee, the contractor badgering his driver the entire trip from Alpha to hurry, worried the copters would leave without him.

Exiting the transport and retrieving his gear, Grim scanned the hustle and bustle, quickly identifying a group of armed men gathering to the side.

Trotting up to what appeared to be a rifle squad, Grim easily identified the man in charge. “Which bird do you want me in?” he asked, having to shout over the din.

“Who the fuck are you?” came a hard reply. “We’ve already got enough volunteers.”

The rebuttal took the contractor by surprise, but only for a moment. “I’m the guy ordered by the Alliance to go along and keep your ass from being shot off,” Grim snapped back. “Stand down that attitude, trooper, before you go someplace you don’t want to be.”

Grim’s counter took the leader by surprise, the man looking the contractor up and down, unsure what to make of the stranger.

No one was wearing any badges, insignias, or rank, a fact that tended to confuse military units. The men surrounding Grim were accustomed to a hierarchy and chain of command. Without a clear indication of rank, the young soldier didn’t know if the new arrival was a colonel or a private.

Finally deciding it didn’t matter at the moment, the soldier pointed a finger at Grim and countered, “I don’t give a shit if you’re General Owens, my squad was assigned to this clusterfuck, and I don’t need some outside amateur mucking things up. Is that clear?”

“He’s not General Owens. I am,” boomed a clear voice across the tarmac, the officer and Diana walking briskly toward the departure point.

“Tennnn hut!” someone shouted, realizing the big brass dog was present.

“At ease,” the senior officer commanded. “You men, carry on. Sergeant, can I have a quick word, please?”

“Of course, sir,” Grim’s antagonist answered, hustling over to speak with the general.

“That man you’re speaking to in a most disrespectful way is a former Marine Corps Recon operator… and the veteran of more deployments than anyone else on this base. In addition, he is one of only a handful of people who have actually had eyes on your objective. I suggest you welcome his experience and expertise.”

“Yes, sir! I had no idea, sir.”

“No problem, son. All of this is being thrown together at the last minute. That man’s name is Grim. I’d advise you take his counsel seriously. Carry on, and bring everybody back in one piece.”

“Yes, sir!”

The NCO stepped up to Grim and offered his hand, “Are we square? I didn’t know.”

“We’re good,” Grim answered, accepting what was in reality an apology. “Which bird do you want me in?”

“Number one,” the sergeant replied. “Up front with me. You’ve been where we’re going?”

“Yes. I know a great spot for the insertion. It’s within the ring of their trip wires and security.”

“Roger that,” came the reply, and then the sergeant was off, making sure his shooters were ready.

Diana approached Grim, something clearly on her mind. “I have a message for you,” she shouted over the ruckus. “Nick wanted to be here, but can’t. He said to tell you, ‘Bring him back.’”

“I’ll die before leaving that kid again, Miss Brown,” Grim replied. “Never again.”

Diana was about to wish Grim good luck when another Humvee came speeding up, the driver dodging through the crowd. “Now what?” she mumbled.

Butter appeared from the passenger side, the other SAINT member hefting his pack and weapon from the back seat.

“And just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Grim snarled, marching toward his teammate. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“I’m fine, sir,” Butter responded with his usual boyish smile. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not!” Grim replied. “The last thing I need is a sub-par man along on this little venture. Now get your muscle-bound ass back to the infirmary, before I have those troopers over there carry you back.”

For the first time since he’d met the big ranch hand, Grim saw Butter’s face paint mean. Ice-fucking-cold mean.

“I’m going,” Butter growled, glaring at the rifle squad with a dismissive sneer. “And there ain’t enough of them to stop me. Kevin and you are my teammates, and you’ll have to shoot me to keep me off of that whirlybird.”

Grim tilted his head, smiling inside. A replay of the conversation he’d just had with the Army NCO ran through the contractor’s mind, and then he nodded. “I understand. Just don’t get in my way. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Butter grinned, back to his normal, happy demeanor.

Grim pointed to the NCO and said, “Go tell that guy I said to find a place for your oversized carcass.”

“You got it!” Butter replied, rushing toward the NCO.

Turning back to Diana, he noticed a frown on her face. “That boy should be in the hospital,” she said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Shaking his head, Grim said, “It would take Godzilla to keep that kid off this mission. I understand what’s going through his head. He’ll be fine. He just joined a very exclusive club. I like him.”

Throughout the night, they took turns standing watch so everyone could get some sleep. No one but Hunter managed any real rest.

Bishop fully expected the locals to assault the cabin after his sniping their airborne armada, but the forest and mountains around Hack’s cabin remained quiet throughout the night.

It was Kevin who spotted the first movement, his warning rousting Bishop from his nap on the couch. “Sir… Mr. Bishop… I see people out there.”

A surge of energy shot through Bishop’s exhausted body, the Texan rolling off the couch and heading to the window with his rifle primed and ready.