Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (6 page)

Gusting wind was driving the marble-sized chunks of ice nearly horizontal, pelting both the RV’s top and sides. Relieved that he wasn’t facing armed vagabonds with some sort of heavy weapon, Bishop exhaled and studied the storm through the door’s narrow opening. So rare was the weather phenomena, he stuck a bare arm out the narrow opening without thinking.

Pulling back the stinging limb, Bishop set the rifle down and rubbed his skin. His first thought was of the cattle, but he quickly dismissed any worry there. Their thick hide would withstand the assaulting ice.

The camper would be okay as long as the hail didn’t break a window. His beloved pickup was with Terri in Alpha. The bat cave was a fortress.

The garden!

“Shit!” he snapped, rushing back to the bedroom for his boots. He emerged a few moments later, leather slicker pulled over his head, flashlight in hand.

The ground was already covered with an inch of white, the Texan’s boots making crunching noises as he rushed toward the garden. The canyon looked surreal, the snow-like layer reflecting the beam of his torch as he fought to protect his face from the biting balls of pain.

Before the garden plot came into view, he had suspected what he would find. For a moment, he considered turning back for shelter. “There’s nothing you can do about it anyway,” he chided himself. But he had to know… had to see.

Bare stalks appeared in the flashlight’s pool of illumination, soon followed by stripped vines, shredded leaves, and green debris scattered on the ground.

“No,” Bishop whispered, his agony bleeding through in that one word. His chin dropped low to his chest, the raging storm distant and forgotten. He had to take his eyes away from the disaster. “I worked so hard… all that time… babied every single seed, celebrated every sprout,” he mumbled.

Dejected, the Texan merely turned and headed back for the camper. There wasn’t anything he could do.          

Sergeant Grissom’s face brightened as he scanned the valley with his night vision. The dark world of greens and blacks displayed through the device were showing him a different pattern of shape and contour. It came to him in a rush - he knew the purpose of the activities in the valley.

Someone was building irrigation channels… and a bunch of them at that.

It was so obvious through the NVD. He was sure that’s what all the fuss had been about.

Pulling a map from his chest rig, he ducked low behind an outcropping in order to shine his flashlight on the chart. Yes, there it was; the Rio Grande River was less than a kilometer away. Now, the development all made sense.

But who could have possibly organized such a massive project? That mystery wouldn’t be solved until they could see the workers and equipment, hopefully in the morning.

Grissom was so excited by his discovery, he thought to wake the other team members and announce his sleuthy prowess. “I’ll be rousting them soon enough,” he whispered. “Let ’em sleep. They’re Army after all and need all the rest they can muster.”

Re-folding his map, the PJ decided he couldn’t wait to share his discovery. As he climbed back to the overlook, the sergeant connected his night vision to the Panther Sat-Phone using a cord from his load vest. After double-checking the connection, he punched a sequence of numbers into the small com-unit’s keypad.

Just like placing a cell call before the collapse, Grissom heard a ringing on the other end. A voice answered, “CONUS CIC (continental US combat information center), state your business.”

“This is Rat-pack 3. Repeat, this is Rat-pack 3. SITREP (situation report) and upload to follow.”

“Wait one,” replied the voice.

Another voice came on the line a few seconds later, “Go, Rat-pack 3.”

“This is Grissom. We’ve obtained eyes on the earthworks, and I believe I know what they are. Someone is preparing to dam the Rio Grande River and channel the flow through a series of irrigation channels. Video to follow.”

Turning on his night vision device, Grissom acted like he was any old vacationer filming a tourist attraction. He scanned the valley below with his NVD, all the while whispering a commentary through the Satphone. “These are the entry channels here at the north end of the valley. They branch out approximately every point-five click into the retaining pools over there. If you check the topography of my AO (area of operations), you’ll see this all fits.”

He continued his report for almost two minutes.

“Wait one while I verify the video was received,” the hollow voice from space responded.

Grissom unplugged his NVD and was returning it to his weapon when the sound of a human whimper made him freeze. It was close… damn close.

Whispering and going to an alert crouch at the same time, he said, “Contact. Wait one,” into the Satphone. He tucked the still connected device into his vest in order to have both hands free for his weapon. 

Some intuition told Grissom that the source of the noise was not a threat, but his grip never relaxed on the carbine on his shoulder. He progressed slowly, without a sound, his eyes desperately scanning the rocky surroundings for the source.

The night vision found her, balled up in an indentation of rock and covered with dead scrub. “What are you doing here?” were Grissom’s first words, quickly followed by, “I won’t hurt you. Come on out.”

But she didn’t move.

Chancing his flashlight again, the PJ’s beam illuminated a young girl, eyes wide with terror, face covered with tears, dirt, and mucus. “Come on out,” he coaxed softly. “You’re okay. I won’t hurt you.”

Shivering with fear and squinting from his light, she refused to move.

Grissom took a step toward her, thinking to offer the girl a drink and tempt her out of the narrow nook.

Taking a deep breath, she screamed with lungs full of horror.

At that moment, all hell broke loose on the ridge.

The hunting party hadn’t been in position just yet, dividing their number and moving slowly to encircle the camp. Prompted by the girl’s cry of terror, they had been forced to launch the attack early.

Grissom heard a shot from below at the same moment a shadow came flying over the rock formation, the leaping attacker catching him full on. The two combatants hit the ground hard, rolling into a desperate struggle.

Surprise was with the hunters. Weapons, skills, and conditioning with the soldiers. Around the dying fire, Jones was out of his sleeping bag first, managing to kill a charging man with a shot from his sidearm. The LT soon joined the fray, bringing his M4 to bear and spraying at the shadows.

No soldier likes to fight at night, the lack of perception afforded by the human eye serving to handicap the brain’s ability in executing the skills necessary for battle. Close quarters, hand-to-hand fighting without light was a nightmare.

In they came, shooting, screaming war cries, and wielding edged weapons. The Green Berets were savvy, hardened men, and gave back all they could.

Shots, rifle butt-strokes, and finally landing fists sounded from the camp. The grunts of straining men pushing their adrenaline-charged bodies to the limit of physical strength and mental endurance.

Grissom had his own struggle, three of the hunters determined to kill the PJ by any means. Just as he managed to dispose of the flying attacker with a series of blows to the head, two others were there, one wielding a tomahawk, the second bringing his rifle to bear.

The first shot hit the PJ in the shoulder, his body armor stopping the round from penetrating, but doing little to thwart the numbing impact of the bullet’s energy.

Sidestepping the downward arch of the hatchet, Grissom shot the wielder in the chest with a short burst as the man with the rifle worked the bolt for a second attempt.

The sergeant was bringing his weapon around to address the remaining assaulter when the Cochiti warrior made the decision he wasn’t going to be able to cycle his weapon in time. With a battle cry brimming with bloodlust, he threw his rifle at Grissom and charged low, the shining steel of a long knife appearing in his hand.

The 30-06 deer rifle impacted on the sergeant’s forearm with enough force to foul his aim, throwing his burst wide. There wasn’t time to correct, the howling attacker bowling into Grissom’s chest before he could adjust.

Slashing, sharp steel flashed brightly in the quarter moon, the screaming warrior’s arm a streaking mirage of death. Again, the PJ’s equipment saved his life, the knife’s blow bouncing harmlessly off his Kevlar helmet. He managed to grasp the foe’s wrist with both hands, twisting with every ounce of force his muscular arms could leverage.

Something on the warrior’s arm gave way, unable to withstand the torque Grissom was applying. With his throat growling a howl of pain, he rolled off of the PJ and scrambled to regain his feet.

Grissom did the same, struggling to stand while his numb hand tried to grip the carbine still strapped to his chest.

Again came a charge and flashing blade, this time in the opposite hand. The sergeant easily blocked the knife with his rifle and then shoved his attacker back in order to gain the space for a shot.

A lightning bolt of pain roared through Grissom’s shoulder before he could dispose of the man with the knife. With a look of shock and surprise, he half turned to see the young girl behind him, raising her own blade, readying to stab him again.

In a flash of desperation, the PJ grabbed her descending wrist and spun her lightweight body around, using her as a shield to stop the larger male’s charge. It was a momentary standoff.

Grissom was having trouble thinking clearly, unable to lift his weapon while holding onto the squirming girl. Both his enemy and he slowly circled each other low, in combat crouches, waiting for any opening.

Below, Jones went down with a well-thrown tomahawk buried in his throat. He fell on the dead bodies of three foe littering the forest floor at his feet.

The LT had managed to maneuver to a position where his back was against the trunk of a large pine, but the officer didn’t last long. He’d been sleeping without his armor and finally slumped to the ground after taking a third bullet to the chest.

As suddenly as it had started, the fight was over, only the moans of the wounded filling the New Mexico night.

Grissom sensed his comrades below had fallen. Using words the PJ didn’t understand, his antagonist yelled to his mates. The sound of numerous footfalls climbing up the ridge made the meaning all too clear – help was on the way, and they weren’t coming to rescue the sergeant.

The PJ shoved the girl toward his attacker, following her flying body to get in close. A brutal thrust of his rifle butt sent the knife wielder to his knees.

Grissom turned to run, the sound of a snapping branch telling him the reinforcements had arrived.

He pivoted to spray where he sensed they were. A brilliant white light blinded the sergeant as a bolt of pain shot through his skull.

He saw the ground rising toward his face. With the earth spinning out of control, his life force was being pulled away. A glow of twin orbs appeared, two faces showing in the distorted light. One was David, his son, the other Samantha, his beloved daughter. “I love you,” his heart proclaimed. “I’ll miss you.”

And then the world went black. 

It was much later than he’d anticipated before the hunting party returned. Hack knew instantly that things had not gone according to plan.

Rather than entering the pueblo with thundering hooves and shouts of victory, the caravan of horseflesh plodded in at a snail’s pace. Even in the dim light, it was clear that several of the riders were returning draped over their saddles.

Mothers and fathers streamed in from nowhere, most of them scooting close to see if their sons were among the dead. Out of the 20 men who’d left on a mission of rescue and vengeance, only 11 returned upright in the saddle.

It was with some relief that the girl, the catalyst of the entire affair, was unharmed. Riding in front of one of the men, her uncle helped the young lady down.

And then the wailing started.

Hack stayed back, letting the village deal with its reaction of remorse and disgust. He’d tried to warn the rescuers before they had ridden out.

Mothers screamed their sons’ names, fathers and uncles trying to comfort the hysterical, grieving women.

Hack watched as three bodies were unceremoniously pushed from one saddle, their limp forms slamming to the ground in a heap.

He approached the corpses, compelled by the need for answers to the hundred questions that were surging through his mind.

As he strolled across the square, the entire mood of the throng changed. Like someone had flipped a switch, one of the grieving mothers wiggled away from her husband, bent and hoisted a rock and then rushed at the dead interlopers. With an ear-splitting scream, she pummeled a soldier’s remains with her stone. A moment later, there were dozens of women following her example.

Hack was taken aback by the viciousness of the display, the women cursing and throwing as fast as their arms could move. Apache Jack appeared at his side. “They would administer the same punishment to a prisoner,” he noted. “Sometimes it is best not to be taken alive.” 

And that’s when one of the bodies moaned.

“One of them
is
still alive,” Hack turned and shouted to the uncle. “I want to talk to him… get answers to my questions. Please stop them.”

But no one seemed to heed Hack’s request, the assault continuing without interference. Hack quickly directed his entreaty to the girl’s uncle, “Please, sir, please stop them! I think these men were spying on our project, and the only way I can be sure is to interrogate the survivor.”

Several of the older men huddled, a few throwing glances at the toymaker during the brief discussion. Finally, one of them separated from the others and said, “Only for you, Grandfather. And when you’re through, we want him back.”

Stepping forward toward the women, the uncle shouted and barked a series of words. It took three more attempts before the assault was halted.

Hack rushed forward, bending over the man he hoped was still breathing. The pulse was weak, but there. He turned to the Apache and instructed, “Load this man onto my cart. We need to keep him alive long enough for me to ask a few questions.” 

As soon as he was sure the victim was being loaded, Hack spotted a young warrior briefing the tribal elders, presenting them with everything the warriors had discovered at the camp and removed from the dead.

Hack shouldered his way through the crowd, taking a knee to examine the loot.

There were three M4 carbine rifles, the short-barreled variety, all equipped with cancelation devices. “Not regular infantry,” he noted. “Probably Special Forces.”

Picking up one of the captured night vision goggles, he half turned to the Apache and exchanged a knowing nod. “Definitely Special Forces.”

The dead soldiers’ dog tags had been removed, along with their boots, wallets, and all of the contents of the packs. No one protested as Hack sorted through it all.

“These men were carrying 3-day assault packs and minimal ammunition. They were here to gather intelligence. I fear that they were intentionally positioned here to spy on the project.”

The missing girl’s uncle appeared in the circle of men, his face neutral. “They didn’t kidnap my niece,” he admitted with a sad voice. “She was hiding from them. Until the last moments, they didn’t know she was there.”

“How many got away?” Hack asked, ignoring the uncle’s admission.

“No one escaped us,” came the report. “They moved like ghosts and fought like demons, but there were only three.”

Hack turned to the local chief, “I have no use for the weapons, but I would like to examine the rest of their equipment and belongings. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes. But when you are finished, all of the captured equipment should be distributed to the families of the dead men. It is tradition,” replied the headman.

“Will do,” Hack replied, knowing that some of the hardware carried by the trespassers would feed the widows and orphans for a year.

Without another word, the toymaker pivoted and began walking with purpose back to his car. “This is very troubling,” he confided in the Apache. “Very troubling indeed.”

The president was completing his nightly routine, preparing to turn in after another day of frustration.

Enjoying his evening vice of a cigar and two fingers of brandy, the chief executive reflected on the events of the day. Like any commander, he tallied the small wins and losses, his mental scorecard used to judge the effectiveness of the campaign overall. Did he win today? How badly did he lose? It was a long-time habit, common in such competitive men.

“If I were a baseball coach, I wouldn’t be expecting to have my contract renewed,” he whispered to the empty room. “If I were commanding an infantry platoon, I’d anticipate being relieved.”

But what really was bothering him the most was missing the time he’d set aside to be with his grandchildren.

Sure, they were safe and sound at Camp David, far better off than the vast majority of their generation. David and Samantha lived inside the iron ring of security provided by the Secret Service, were well fed, received private tutoring, and slept in a warm, dry place.

But the grandfather knew they needed more than just three squares to mature into rounded, adaptable adults. They needed family and love.

A polite knock on the door interrupted the president’s bout of introspection, the Commander in Chief surprised by the appearance of an Army chaplain and one of the generals.

Before he even greeted the two arrivals, he realized the purpose of their visit. His son.

The chaplain began, “Sir, my apologies for interrupting you so late, but we thought.…”

The president didn’t let the man finish, “Dead? Confirmed? Missing? Where?”

The general stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Missing, presumed dead, sir. New Mexico.”

“And how do we know that, General? I thought he deployed on that mission only a short time ago?”

“He was in the middle of uploading a situation report when his team was attacked, sir. The satellite phone he was using remained connected for some time.”

“I want to hear it,” the president barked, his tone harsher than intended. Softer, he added, “Please.”

“Sir, I’m not sure that is a good idea at this time,” the chaplain interjected. “If you would care to sit and discuss the situation, I’d be happy to….”

Again the president interrupted. “While I appreciate your position and concern, Chaplain, I’m in no need of such unearthly support at the moment. I would like to hear the tape, General.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the senior officer, moving to pick up a nearby phone. After a series of inaudible orders, he returned the receiver to the cradle and reported, “It will be here in a few minutes, sir.”

The president fought hard to keep his emotion in check. While any normal father would be free to express whatever anger, remorse, or grieving he experienced, the chief executive was not a normal parent.

As the time passed slowly by, the president tried everything he could think of to keep himself calm. Internally, he argued that millions of parents had received similar visits. He tried to find solace in the fact he hadn’t physically seen his son’s body, and until that moment arrived, there was always hope.

His troubled mind then journeyed to the core of support that had carried him through so many similar difficult times. Fundamentally, the president’s mind functioned with a profound military influence. He tried to justify his son’s death with all of the tired excuses. He was serving his country. He was doing what he wanted to do. He died for a purpose and with honor.

None of it worked.

And then thoughts of Samantha and David came rushing to the forefront of his thinking, a tidal wave of guilt crashing against his soul. Missing his scheduled time with them took on a new, immensely painful meaning.

Staggered by it all, the president lost his grip on his brandy glass, the heavy crystal impacting the floor with a loud thud and shattering rattle.

The Secret Service instantly appeared, drawn by the sound of the broken tumbler. They helped the dazed father to a nearby chair, one of the agents on his radio calling for a surgeon.

A hundred questions came at the president, seemingly all at once.
Are you okay, sir? Are you experiencing any shortness of breath, sir? Are you feeling any pain, sir?

In a way, the barrage of inquiries was helpful, angering the president so much that his thoughts were temporarily distracted from his son.

“Would all of you fucking mother hens get the hell out of my face?” he growled. “I’m just fine, thank you. I dropped a glass for Christ’s sake. Can’t a man be clumsy every now and then without it being a national emergency?”

The triad was interrupted by the arrival of a junior officer caring a laptop computer.

“I don’t think it’s a good time to listen to this transmission,” someone said, but the president would have none of it.

The chief executive, surrounded by staff, huddled over the computer’s small speakers, his experienced ear dissecting every word and sound. Three times he asked that the recording be paused and rewound.

When it was over, he stared up at the general and said, “I admit that it sounds like my son was badly wounded or killed, but there’s no proof. I assume he will be listed as missing in action?”

“Yes, Mr. President, that is standard procedure.”

The POTUS rose from his perch, ambling to the fireplace with a blank expression. After a bit, he spoke, his voice filled with the ice of revenge, “If the Alliance is to blame for this tragedy, I will personally lead the 4
th
Infantry Division right into Alpha and kick their sorry asses.”     

Not a single person in the room doubted his words.

Realizing he was on the edge of appearing vengeful and out of control, the president forced down the rage that threatened to boil over. “And, we need to get a team into Los Alamos pronto. Right now. If someone is playing empire-builder in that part of the nation, I want that nuclear material out of their reach.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” acknowledged the general.

“One last thing, gentlemen, I will inform my grandchildren about their father as soon as more facts are known. I want to do this personally. No one is to breathe a word of this to them. Is that understood?”

After the chorus of “Yes, sir,” and “Of course, Mr. President,” died down, all of the visitors quickly filed out of the room, leaving a man who suddenly found himself feeling more like a helpless father than a powerful leader.