Read Holding Their Own: The Toymaker for Free Online Page B

at school, images of cities and landscapes that seemed so different than his native Texas. Didn’t his father know there were other ways to make a living? Didn’t the old man realize there was another world out there?
    Now, older and with experience under his belt, Bishop understood his father’s perspective. Given the responsibilities of trying to feed his own family, his father’s approach didn’t seem so harsh or outdated.
    “I’d give my best rifle to spend a day with my dad,” Bishop whispered. “I wish I’d paid more attention. Those lessons would help me now. I could pass them onto Hunter. He might need them later.”
    Despite the soft pillow and clean sheets, sleep proved difficult. Bishop’s mind eventually slowed, it’s whirling cycle surrendering to a body feeling the effects of a hard day’s toil.

    “I’ll take the first watch,” Chief Master Sergeant Grissom announced, throwing the remainder of his coffee into the fire and watching the sparks and steam sizzle into the night. “I’ll wake you in three hours.”
    “Be careful,” teased Sergeant Jones. “We’re in Indian country.”
    “I like my scalp just the way it is,” added the lieutenant, unrolling his sleeping bag. “The women back at Fort Bragg would never forgive you if a savage’s tomahawk fucks up my rugged, but handsome profile. Now, Jones over there,” he continued, nodding toward the third man, “he could use a little cosmetic surgery. Boyish good looks have gone out of style.”
    “Whatever,” Grissom grunted. “I guess I should consider it a privilege to stand guard over your beauty sleep, eh LT?”
    “All of you ‘ Chair Force’ studs should be proud to serve with us Army men,” Jones countered. “It’ll enlarge your nut sack and grow chest hair. Make a man out of you.”
    Rolling his eyes, Sergeant Grissom ignored the twin insults to his service and manhood. He’d long ago grown used to the bravado of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces operators. The banter was predictable. 
    Grissom grunted, still shaking his head over the exchange. Bending to heft his rifle and night vision, he moved away from the fire and began thinking about the pattern he would follow during his stint on watch.
    Being in the U.S. Air Force had been a deliberate choice. Signing up to be a Pararescue Specialist or PJ (abbreviated from the original Para Jumper) had been his ultimate goal. After almost two years of the most arduous training in the military, Grissom had graduated and joined the teams.
    For those in the know, PJs commanded the same respect as Navy SEALS, Green Berets, and the CAG. In fact, most of Grissom’s deployments had been with integrated teams from those same units.
    Grissom had wanted to serve with the PJs because their core objective was to save lives. Their primary mission was to rescue downed pilots from the most hostile territories and fight their way back to friendly lines if necessary.
    He’d attended all of the elite schools, from Army Airborne training at Fort Benning to the combat diver course in Panama City, Florida.
    After receiving the same level of combat instruction as any Special Forces operator, the PJs were only halfway through their curriculum. Next came nearly a year of specialized medical training, multiple survival courses, and a constant diet of refresher exercises. To be a PJ required heart and brains.
    The sergeant meandered his way up the ridge from the bivouac, wanting to access the higher ground so he could gain a better perspective of their surroundings. In reality, he was still curious about their secondary objective, motivated to study the earth-moving activities in detail.
    Despite the good-natured banter from the soldiers below, Grissom wasn’t really worried about being discovered. They were only going to be in the area for a short period of time – a quick insertion, reconnaissance, and then orderly egress.
    Their primary objective, Los Alamos, had been a mixed bag. They had found the