“We have to start wearing those black PSF uniforms too,” continued Cannon. “Tan uniforms are soothing, you know. People see you as one of them, a local. Black ones are scary.”
“Maybe that’s the idea.”
“Yeah, maybe. I know we’re getting a lot of pressure to start enforcing all these new rules. I thought the new constitution had free speech in it too, but I’m not sure they meant it when they put that in. You know – don’t tell anyone – we’re supposed to be looking for people who are illegally organizing political groups. Supposedly from the US. Infiltrators.”
“Illegally organizing political groups? I thought this was supposed to still be a free country after the Split.” said Dale. “Maybe freerer.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure. Just watch who you talk to about politics. They seem a lot more interested in pointing us at people saying the wrong things instead of real criminals. This is your stop.”
The cruiser idled in front of the Chalmers Insurance storefront office as Dale thanked the deputy for the ride and got out onto the sidewalk. Cannon pulled back into traffic and headed down the street. Many of the businesses were closed – the town had never been particularly prosperous even when he was a kid in the 1990s, but now it was worse than ever.
Clumps of sullen young men hung out on the corners, probably either transferees moved in from the cities to take over the houses of people who had picked up to go south to the United States, or refugees from the former red states who had moved north. The post-Split welfare reforms in the US – essentially, a policy of not giving money to people who did not work – had finally motivated the hardcore dependent population to take action. And that action was to move to the People’s Republic, where the new government had massively increased social programs once free of the constraints imposed by their former co-nationals.
Cannon ignored the loiterers – it was clear they were up to no good, but proactively interacting with them was not worth the hassle of the inevitable complaints that would follow.
A blue pick-up truck pulled ahead of him and the stars and stripes sticker on the lower right quadrant of the back window caught his eye. He knew that truck, and he knew the driver was often his own worst enemy. Cannon flicked on his cruiser’s light bar.
After a few tense moments, the truck pulled over – Cannon was grateful for that – and the deputy got out, approaching slowly and at an angle, just in case.
Larry Langer lived outside of town and his whole family had a reputation as troublemakers – not dishonest, but just rowdy. The Langer brothers, first to fight, first to get drunk, first to tell anyone who tried to tell them what to do to go straight to hell.
Cannon peered into the bed of the pick-up and the back of the cab as he walked – not really expecting anything, but he always said you aren’t really a cop if you aren’t a little paranoid.
“Hi Ted, how’s it hanging?” Larry asked. He had a short beard and a ZZ Top cap. It took Cannon a moment to remember what a ZZ Top was.
“I’m fine. Why are you causing trouble, Larry?”
“Now how am I causing trouble, Deputy?”
“The sticker.”
“You mean the US flag?”
“Yeah, the US flag.”
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s going to offend a lot of people.”
“Is it illegal?”
“Not officially, but like I said, it’s going to offend a lot of people.”
“Well, then fuck ‘em.”
“Come on, Larry.”
“Come on what? I fought for that flag and I’ll damn well put it or any other flag I want on my truck if I damn well please.”
“Okay, things have changed, Larry. This isn’t the United States anymore. This is the People’s Republic of North America and you need to get that sticker off your truck before someone who isn’t as patient as me pulls you over. I’m telling you for your own good.”
“How about I choose what’s for my own good like a damn American?”
“Because you aren’t an American anymore,” Cannon said, then immediately felt strange.
“Ted, they’ve been pushing and pushing and pushing and they better understand that some of us are ready to push back.”
Cannon did not like the sound of that.
“You got something in your glove box, Larry?”
“You sure you want to look in there, Ted?”
“Nope, because if someone has, say, a .38 in his glove box, that’s five years, and I wouldn’t want to be the guy to bring someone in for that.”
“You want to look, Ted? You want to bring me in?”
“No,” the deputy replied. “No, I don’t. I just want you to…get along. Just take it easy and everything will work out. You know?”
“I’m a Langer, Ted. Hell, I’m an American. You ever know us to just get along?”
“Look…Larry, I’m trying hard to keep this town calm and peaceful. That’s all. In all this, I just want to keep my little town and my people safe.”
Larry Langer smiled. “Someday, you’re going to have to pick a side, Ted.”
And he drove off.
The coffee tasted tired and thinned out, which it was. “Responsible coffee” they called it – running the water through the wet grounds a second time to minimize the devastating impact upon the earth of a decent cup of Joe. Deputy Cannon drank it anyway, creamless even though he liked cream. There was none to be had in the stores this week for some reason. Part of the new normal.
The station was crowded with unfamiliar faces, strangers from elsewhere in black People’s Security Force uniforms mingling with the local deputies still wearing tan. On examination of the locals’ uniforms, one could see the faint outline on their right shoulders of where something rectangular had once been sewn on and later removed. That was the US flag they had all worn up until the Split. The new People’s Republic flag kept changing, so they never bothered sewing it on to replace the Stars and Stripes.
Sergeant Dennis Dietrich was standing outside his office, a banker’s box filled with the mementos from his 20 year career in hand.
“Denny, what’s up?” Cannon asked.
“I’ve been kicked out of my office.” The Sergeant nodded his head at the new occupant, a short, angry woman in PSF black busy hanging a rainbow flag on the wall behind her new desk.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, they’re coming in in force and I don’t know why. We got twenty new officers assigned in today.”
“Twenty? The whole department has never had twenty deputies total ever. What the hell for?”
“I don’t know, Ted. Most of them don’t look or act much like cops. I think they have some sort of shake-and-bake school to turn out PSF officers. Look at them. Half these guys we’d stop if we saw them in civvies walking down the street. That one has a skull tatt on his neck.”
“Can’t the Sheriff tell her to step off?”
“I don’t think he has any juice anymore. The Sheriff’s still the Sheriff, at least in theory, but this Lieutenant Kessler has got him spooked. She told him she needed my office and bam! I was packing my shit.”
“I don’t know what to say, Denny.”
“Shit’s changing, and I don’t like it. Not sure what I’ll do.”
Cannon said nothing; it was obvious that to “do” something meant going south – and this pumping up law enforcement on the border was not a hopeful sign that going south would be an option for much longer.
The sergeant put his box down on an adjacent desk.
“She’s calling a meeting in the assembly room at four,” the sergeant said.
“Probably to tell us how the new real sheriff in town is going to run things.”
“I don’t like any of this, Ted. None of it.”
Cannon finished the last of his responsible coffee, lost in thought.
“For too long, this department has tolerated sexism, racism, classism, homophobia, and…” Lieutenant Kessler paused, trying
to remember what sin she had forgotten.
Greely, the PSF officer who Cannon had noted following the lieutenant around like an eager beagle puppy, piped up.
“Sexism?”
“I said ‘sexism’ already,” the Lieutenant snapped back.
Greely looked wounded.
“Transphobia!” she said, triumphant. “For too long, this department has refused to challenge the paradigm of hate left over from the former United States. That changes now. We will no longer tolerate the systemic hate criminality that remains dug into this county and this whole region.”
Cannon was standing in the back with the other local deputies; the new PSF officers had taken the chairs. There was some low mumbling of disapproval around him, but not so loud as to draw attention. That there was tension between the locals and the newcomers was no surprise. When the Crisis had come and the reds and the blues were negotiating the mechanics of the Split, the Hoosiers of Southern Indiana had simply assumed they would go along with the red states. After all, in temperament and voting patterns, that’s where they belonged. But the negotiators had agreed that the existing state borders would be honored – it would be all or nothing. Perhaps that was necessary to avoid even more violence – the number of dead in the growing series of clashes was rising – but the people of Southern Indiana were ceded to the People’s Republic along with the rest of the state, and the Split consummated and the Treaty of St. Louis was signed and sealed before they could react. Since then, they had always suspected that the faraway powers that be looked upon them with distrust.
Their suspicions were correct.
“As the PSF integrates existing law enforcement agencies, it is important that we break with your oppressive traditions and demonstrate the new path the People’s Security Force will take from this point on,” the Lieutenant said. “We need to show that intolerance will no longer be tolerated. We need to stamp out resistance to the people’s will.”
Denny Dietrich leaned in toward Deputy Cannon.
“This is not going to be good,” he said.
“We have identified known subversives and we intend to sweep through and collect the illegal firearms that you failed to collect after they were banned. Also, these criminals have been burning wood for heat in violation of the Carbon Crime and Denial Act. I have here warrants for five members of the Langer family. We are going to raid their compound tonight. Officer Greely will brief you on the tactical details…”
“Lieutenant,” Deputy Cannon began. “A raid is a really bad idea. A dangerous idea. We can talk to them. We know them.”
“Yes, you know them. That’s apparently the problem. You know these social criminals and you therefore refuse to act.”
“Lieutenant, they are probably armed. A couple of them have military training…”
“We will be armed too, Deputy. And we will outnumber them and have the element of surprise when we hit their compound.”
“Look, it’s not a ‘compound.’ It’s a farm. And there are young kids there. If you come in heavy, they’ll fight. If you want to take them, grab them when they come into town on errands…”
“You miss the point, Deputy. They are defying the People’s Republic. That’s intolerable, and I intend to show it will not be tolerated. Sergeant Greely, brief the plan.”
Cannon and Dietrich rode in the last cruiser in the 12-vehicle convoy. Greely’s plan called for a direct, frontal assault on the compound. No recon, no perimeter. Drive in, jump out and grab everyone.
“We’ll hit them so fast they’ll give right up,” Greely had said, proud of his plan. Greely had clearly never met a Langer.
Cannon and Dietrich immediately volunteered to be in the last vehicle. They figured that would be the one least likely to be shot to pieces.
About a mile out, Sergeant Dietrich racked his Mossberg. Cannon looked at him quizzically.
“Just in case,” the Sergeant said. Cannon, driving, looked down at his own.
The eager PSF officers had been excited to break out the Army surplus M16s and the new AKs they had brought with them. None appeared to have any advanced tactical training. But they did have enthusiasm.
“I’m gonna shoot me some redneck, ride their asses back here tied to my hood,” one officer had crowed as they prepped to deploy. His PSF pals had giggled. Cannon double checked the plates in his body armor.
Up ahead, Cannon could see the head of the convoy pull off on a dirt road to the right. Down at the end was the Langer family farm, maybe a quarter mile in. The radio crackled with static.
“We see the house, over,” someone reported.
Cannon turned right onto the dirt road, the last of the cars.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
“We’re taking fire!” shrieked the radio.
More fire up ahead, some automatic. The cars in front of Cannon were still going fast, headed right into the meat grinder.
“Screw this,” Cannon said, hitting the brakes. His car stopped. The others ahead kept going.
There was a hurricane of gunfire ahead by the house. Cannon and Dietrich looked at each other.
“Aw, shit,” Cannon said, and they both bailed out onto the dirt road. “I’ll flank left, Sarge.”
Dietrich nodded, and Cannon moved into the woods, maneuvering toward the western side of the farm buildings he could faintly make out through the trees.
More gunshots – many of them, and shouts from men and women. There were cries for help. And always more shooting.
Remembering his Army training, Cannon moved forward with his shotgun ready in three-to-five second rushes, taking cover as best he could after each movement to ensure it was safe to make the next one. As he got closer, he could see the situation better. It was a nightmare. The police vehicles were bunched up in a large open space in front of the main house. Off to the side, he made out Larry’s truck – flag sticker still there, of course. The PSF that weren’t down – and a number were down – were firing as fast as they could into the house. There were civilian bodies on the stairs and in the grass. A couple men, at least one woman. What looked like two kids.
It occurred to Cannon that a figure walking through the woods off to the flank was as likely to be shot by the PSF idiots as by the surviving Langers, and he redoubled his efforts at stealth. He kept moving, unsure exactly what he would do when he got to wherever he was going.
A shirtless boy, maybe fifteen – that would be Jimmy Langer, who Cannon had made pour a 40 of Miller into the gutter last year – ran out of the back of the house. If he had gone straight, he would have been able to reach the cornfield and freedom, but instead he turned and came back around to the front, pistol in hand.
Cannon opened his mouth to shout, but the kid came into the view of a pair of PSF on the left of the cluster first. They pivoted and opened fire on full auto. Most rounds missed, but at least a couple slammed into the boy’s gut and tossed his skinny body backwards onto the grass, where he writhed and cried out.
Cannon, heedless of the danger, began to run forward toward the wounded boy, even as the two PSF shooters charged their victim.
“Wait!” he shouted, but the pair reached the young man and shot him to pieces as he lay on the grass. Cannon stopped, stunned.
One shooter was the officer who had promised to bag himself a redneck; he was beaming and sounding off about his achievement to his buddy until his forehead exploded out and all over his partner in a fountain of red.
Larry Langer was behind the falling PSF thug, a smoking Colt Python in hand. The second PSF officer started to raise his AK but Langer was too quick and too accurate. Shooter Two died from a .357 round through the bridge of his nose. Langer surveyed the corpses of the men who had slaughtered his little brother dispassionately, and then darted into the woods.
Cannon’s shotgun was up when Larry Langer ran up on him. The fugitive stopped.
“You gonna kill me, Ted?”
Cannon said nothing. The shooting at the house continued; there did not seem to be
any more return fire. Smoke was coming out of the windows.
“Well, go on. You bastards killed everyone else. You can kill me too. At least it won’t be a stranger who does me.”
Cannon stood there, pointing the 12 gauge.
“Run. Don’t stop,” the deputy said.
Larry Langer took off past him into the deep woods. And Ted Cannon just stood and watched the house burn.
3.
Captain Kelly Turnbull, clad in camo with none of his scare badges or tabs, surveyed his basic training company as its recruits navigated the obstacle course. They were men and women, some too fat, some too skinny. One was in a wheelchair. All were stumbling between, or trying to scramble over, the wood and rope structures, exhausted, hungry, and sweaty. Worse for them, every moment they were under the exacting observation of Turnbull’s cadre of drill sergeants, who made it abundantly clear that this pathetic corps of half-stepping dumbasses was undoubtedly the biggest bunch of fuck-ups to ever be dumped off buses into a US Army recruit depot.
Watching them was comedy gold, a festival of tripping and fumbling, falling and groaning. A young woman on the rope swing let go too soon, and plopped into a muddy puddle with a brown splash. It could have been worse; when Turnbull had done his basic training at Benning, it was January through March. Here at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, if it had been winter instead of summer, she would have wrecked herself on the ice. The mud was probably a welcome relief from the heat.
“Are those my men, First Sergeant?” Turnbull said, puffing out his chest. Top, who was also a fan of Stripes, smiled.
“Those are your men, sir.”
Turnbull laughed a little, and for the first time in months it didn’t hurt. That was good. He was healing nicely. No one could say the same about the guys who had hurt him. There was no coming back from what Turnbull did to them.
He and Top walked toward the struggling recruits – they did not get the rank or title of “Private” until they graduated – carefully observing the circus. The new soldiers were in only week six of their fourteen week Basic Combat Training course. Turnbull’s own Basic was as part of the old US Army, and it had been only ten weeks long. A lot of that time had been devoted to diversity and sexual harassment training. Those subjects had gotten less than a minute here: On Day One, Top told the assembled cluster of newly-shorn recent civilians, “You screw up and you’re out.” Once the first knucklehead grabbed a female’s breast and got dragged through the company area after one of the drill instructors knocked him out with a right cross, the entire unit became crystal clear on the Army’s harassment policy.
Indian Country Page 4
