In the post-Split US Army, Basic was also harder than before. It was more serious, and where the old Basic had been designed to pass recruits, this one was designed to force them to choose whether or not to succeed. The old Basic meant to prepare warriors. The new Basic meant to do that too, but also to ensure that each recruit had to want it.
You didn’t just get full citizenship by virtue of being born in the US anymore. The right to vote and hold public office had to be earned. These recruits were at the very beginning of their two-year citizenship service. If they volunteered, they could try no matter what their physical condition. If they performed to the standard – modified where need be for recruits like the one in the wheelchair – they graduated. But if the suck got the better of them, well, there was always The Bell.
Turnbull looked it over, a brass bell with a little rope hanging down from the clapper. The drill sergeants ensured that the recruits carried it with them everywhere. It was always there as they trained, beckoning the weak-hearted. A drill sergeant would jump your shit for anything – a look, a pause, a bootlace out of place – but if a recruit was headed toward The Bell, no drill sergeant would do anything more than watch.
Ring it, and you were gone – after you talked to the company commander.
“Anyone ring out today, Top?” asked Turnbull, his right hand dropping to his holster to ensure his service SIG 320 was still there. Constantly check your stuff – that habit was ingrained in him. Like all non-recruits, he carried his weapon at all times, on duty and off.
“Nope, none yet,” replied the first sergeant with a hint of pride. When a recruit failed, he felt the failure even if he didn’t show it. Top was a big, mean-looking NCO with a 101st Airborne patch on his right shoulder and a Combat Infantryman Badge on his chest from the pre-Split Army – though he saw action long before enlisting while growing up on the mean streets of Detroit. The recruits were scared of him, but they were scared of everyone. But what distinguished Top was the respect bordering on fear of the drill sergeant cadre.
When Turnbull had arrived a few months before to take command of the company while recuperating from his latest Middle Eastern escapade, it took him about three seconds to know two things. First, he might have orders into the CO slot, but the sergeants owned Alpha Company, 2-80th Field Artillery. Second, if he let Top do his job, this company command tour was going to be the easiest assignment he had ever had.
“Think we’ll make the average pass rate?” asked Turnbull, still getting into the swing of this training unit gig.
“I’d say about seventy-five percent,” Top replied. “The Army’s a shock to a lot of them, especially the ones coming from the blue states. They are all gung ho to vote, but then they see what they have to do to earn it and they think again.”
Over at the eight foot wall obstacle, a fat kid fell on one of his buddies, sending them both sprawling on the ground. They picked themselves up, and this time they got over by working together.
“Jessup’s down 12 pounds,” Top said. “He might just make it. Now sir, watch Marshall there.”
Marshall was a strong, good-looking college grad whose attitude always called in fire on his own position. Turnbull had read his record – his family had money and came from the blue after the Split. Marshall was either going to be a leader or a pain in the ass.
Marshall and a couple others ran to the base of the wall just as Autry, the recruit in the wheelchair, rolled up. Marshall ignored him and pulled himself up and over.
Top was off like a shot.
“Marshall! Get your ass over here!”
The recruit trotted over after seeming to ponder whether to bother responding, then assumed something remotely like the position of attention.
“Yes, First Sergeant?”
“Why’d you leave your buddy behind?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t you ‘huh’ me, recruit! Autry. You left him.”
“So?”
Turnbull put his hand on Top’s shoulder to keep him from committing manslaughter. The First Sergeant continued.
“Recruit, you talk to me like that again and I will put my boot so far up your ass that you’ll taste shoe leather.”
“I don’t think so,” Marshall said, turning and walking to The Bell. He grabbed the rope and clanged it.
“My office,” Turnbull said.
The company commander’s office was on the ground floor of the main building in the Alpha company area. A large counter and admin area blocked access to Turnbull’s front door; several NCOs were there working. Inside his office, which was completely bare except for the desk and chairs, was a second door in the back leading into Top’s identical office next door.
Turnbull closed the front door, walked over and sat at his desk. He put the DA Form 444 his clerk had prepared down in front of him, along with a blue pen. He had expressed that he needed a DA 444 and it had appeared – the power of command. He wondered whatever happened to Colonel Deloitte, who had taught him about how being a commander worked.
Sitting down, he realized that nothing hurt – that was a change. He had been healing from his injuries here in the rear with the gear, and it was certainly nice not having all sorts of people trying to put holes in him for once, but lately he had been starting to feel ready to get back into the game. Dealing with assholes like Marshall was already getting old.
There was a rap on his door that brought his attention back to his present problem.
“Enter!” Turnbull shouted.
First Sergeant came in and formally reported; Turnbull returned his salute. Marshall walked in next with a smirk on his face, slouching as he stood before the desk.
“I’m technically a civilian now, so I don’t have to ‘sir’ you, right? Or salute?”
“True,” Turnbull said. “You don’t have to do anything. Except listen.”
“To what?” Marshall said insolently. Turnbull wondered if this punk understood the risk he was taking disrespecting Top’s commander – the only thing keeping him out of a full body cast was First Sergeant’s professionalism.
“To me try and talk you out of quitting.”
“Go ahead and try.”
“Yeah, don’t expect me to put my heart into it because I think you’re a little shit and exactly the reason why now we make people earn the right to vote in the United States. But the Army still has regs, and since this is a big decision for you – because you won’t get a second chance to serve if you bail – the regs say I have to make sure you understand the implications of your decision.”
“I understand.”
“You understand that you will not be able to vote in any election?”
“Yeah.”
“Or hold any elected office or any appointed office of significant responsibility?”
“Yeah.”
“You understand there may be social consequences to your decision?”
“Social consequences?”
“Yeah, like people – especially women – may think you’re a pussy.”
Marshal snorted. “Women are not going to be a problem. I make a little more than you Army guys.”
“Well, technically, your dad makes more than us Army guys and gives some of it to you, which, of course, is the kind of character-wrecking parental malpractice that led you to be standing here quitting.”
“I want out. Where do I sign?”
“I have your DA Form 444 right here, awaiting your signature. But I really hate to see someone who probably could succeed choose not to. I’m just kind of curious. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you quitting?”
Marshall laughed sourly. “I’m quitting because I don’t need this shit or want this shit. I wish my father had never left Chicago when this redneck country broke away. I’m going back where they appreciate education, and I don’t have to pretend I don’t think you Jesus freaks are clowns, and I won’t have to crawl around in the mud with idiots just to vote.”
“Th
ose sound like awfully good reasons. Sign here,” Turnbull said, sliding over the pen and paper. Marshall wrote out his name and tossed the pen down, smiling. Turnbull took it and signed that he had advised the recruit of the consequences of his decision on the “Commander” line.
“Am I done?” Marshall asked.
“Oh yeah, you’re done. And thank you,” Turnbull said pleasantly.
“For what?”
“For not pissing in America’s gene pool. First Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Please get Mr. Marshall the fuck out of my company area.”
Top smiled and placed a huge hand on the new civilian’s right shoulder.
“Time to go, Mr. Marshall,” he said, none-too-gently pulling the young man outside.
Paperwork. Readiness reports. Assessments. Turnbull threw down his pen and looked around his office. Were the walls closing in on him? He could swear the room looked smaller than it did when he sat down a couple hours ago.
Then again, he could always go back to his spartan bachelor officer quarters and be smothered by its walls.
Turnbull rubbed his face and looked out his window into the company parade ground. Across the way the lights were on in the troop barracks.
“Someone got caught with a Milky Way bar and now they’re paying the price,” said Top from the inside doorway. “The whole company is having a GI party. By the time the recruits get to sleep, my barracks will be gleaming.”
“And a Milky Way is the worst kind of candy bar,” Turnbull said. “Like a Butterfinger, maybe that would be worth it. I never got caught with any pogey bait when I was in Basic, but you know I had it.”
“Yeah, sir, you strike me as that guy in the platoon who always had something going on the side. You know, I knew when I met you that you had been a NCO, that you went Officer Candidate School.”
“My worst career decision ever. Landed me behind this desk.”
“Well, sir,” said the NCO, coming in and sitting down. “I don’t think that’s exactly what got you here. You’re not a cannon cocker, but you have a company command in a Field Artillery unit. Tells me they needed to find a shelf to keep you on until they needed you again.”
“Just trying to get my command time, Top.”
“Uh huh, sir. Yeah, I figure you can’t talk about what got you so beat up you had to recuperate here, but you can’t fool this old NCO. I ran your record as soon as you signed in. You know what comes up?”
“I’m guessing not a lot.”
“Nothing. Everything is sealed. You’re something … unusual. I don’t quite know what you are, and I know you can’t tell me, but you’re something unusual.”
“Well, I’ll try to do my best while I’m here.”
“You seem better, so I’m guessing that won’t be too long. They always have something for guys like you to do. Of course, my problem is your replacement. What if I end up with a slug?”
“Hell Top, if anyone can square away a dicked up O3, it’s you.”
“I’ve had to square away a lot of young captains in my time.”
“I bet. That’s what a first sergeant does. Captain-squaring away is core NCO business.”
Top laughed. “Well sir, I gotta go walk through the billets and sow some righteous terror in the hearts of our young recruits. You have a good night.”
“You want me to come along?”
“Nah, sir. Sowing righteous terror is core NCO business too. Plus, you probably don’t want to see what happens if they’re as dicked-up as I bet they are.”
“Roger, First Sergeant. Then I’ll see you at PT tomorrow at…?”
“Oh-five thirty.” Top smiled. “Unless they piss me off. Then it’ll be oh-four thirty.”
The bachelor officer quarters on main post were still as depressing as he remembered from when he left them 18 hours ago, also in the dark. The building was five stories high, full of a lot of lieutenants in training and some permanent party officers like Turnbull, mostly company grades but with a smattering of a few divorced majors and the occasional light colonel. A pair of first lieutenants slipped into the elevator with him, a male and a female. They chatted about some bar in Lawton they would be hitting with their pals later. Turnbull ignored them. He had long ago left their world for a darker, more brutal one; he was an alien who outwardly looked like his peers, but in reality they were not his peers at all.
The pair got off on the fourth floor and Turnbull was glad to be alone again. It occurred to him that the female had been pretty, that at one time he might even have talked to her, chatted her up. But now, what was he going to say to her? How would he break the ice?
“Kill anyone interesting lately? I have.”
The door opened on the fifth floor and he walked into the corridor. A low-bidder fluorescent bulb flashed and flickered, casting its unnatural light on the ancient, industrial carpet that had seen a million pairs of combat boots trudging over it.
BOQ Room 555 was at the end of the hall, and without a conscious thought he scanned the frame and the seal and…saw a space.
Had he forgotten to shut the door at 0440 this morning?
No. He always checked to make sure it was snug. Always.
Housekeeping? The local ladies who vacuumed and dusted and who also did his laundry for $100 a month had been doing their thing for generations of officers. They would never forget to close a door.
Turnbull drew his SIG and stepped off center of the doorframe. He listened.
Nothing.
He slammed his tan boot hard into the door, sending it flying hard into the doorstopper on the wall. But by the time it hit he was inside, weapon up and seeking targets.
He could see most of the living room from the entry hall – clear. The kitchen was through a doorway to the right. He sliced it and advanced as a shape filled the doorway.
It was wearing camo – he was wearing camo, a big, middle aged soldier with a shocked look.
Turnbull, still charging, dropped his left hand from the pistol and grabbed the front collar of the intruder, pushing him back hard against the fridge and thrusting the pistol into his stunned face.
“Do not fucking move,” Turnbull hissed. Judging from his expression, this guy was not going to move.
Turnbull looked him over, and noted the eagle.
“Okay Colonel, why are you in my quarters?”
“Kelly,” said a familiar voice behind him in the entry hall. “Could you not shoot the nice O6?”
“He’s with you, Clay?” The gun did not waver.
“Oh yeah. He’s okay.”
Turnbull waited a moment, then lowered the weapon and released the colonel, who took in a deep breath and regained his composure.
“Well, come on in,” Turnbull said, turning to face Clay Deeds, who was also dressed in a colonel’s uniform but with a nametape reading “JOHNSON.” “You know, there is probably a better way to set up a sit down than sneaking into my quarters. This could have ended really badly. For both of you.”
“I thought Colonel French here could use a little demonstration of your unique Kelly Turnbull style.”
“Colonel French,” Turnbull said, nodding.
“Captain Turnbull,” the officer replied. “Colonel Johnson told me you could be aggressive. Highly aggressive. But, you do seem to be able to control it.”
“I think maybe you got lucky this time,” Deeds said. Turnbull holstered the pistol as he tried to get a sense of the odd dynamic.
“No,” said French. “I think he can do what we need him to do.”
“And what’s that, sir?” Turnbull said. Who was this guy?
“Let’s talk in your living room. I’d suggest we open some beers but your fridge is empty. Well, you do have some mustard and what used to be a half of a Domino’s pizza a month ago,” Deeds said.
“If I knew you were coming, I’d have stopped at the Class Six, Colonel Johnson.”
Deeds nodded and the three went into the sparely furnished living room. The i
ntruders took seats on the nondescript couch. Turnbull sat in an old chair facing them. It had a dark stain on the cushion that looked like a horse head. The fabric felt like sandpaper.
“So, what’s going on?”
“How’s your health, Captain?” French asked.
“Good?” Turnbull said suspiciously, his eyes flicking over to meet Deeds’s own.
“Excellent,” said French.
“And my health matters why, Colonel?”
“We need to send you in,” French replied.
“In where?”
“This is all classified, of course,” French said. Of course it was – Turnbull shot Deeds a “Who is this idiot?” look, and Deeds looked up at the ceiling.
“Okay,” Turnbull said. “So where do you want me to go?”
“Indiana.”
“What?”
“The state.”
“Sir, I know what Indiana is. What I don’t know is why you would want me to go there. I mean, what’s in Indiana?”
“What is there are a bunch of red Americans trapped on the other side. Look, when the Split happened, it happened fast. Clinton took over in 2021 and immediately started retaliating against the red states. The executive orders, the regulations – and when the red states finally said ‘No more’ we were on the brink of all out civil war.”
“I remember. I was there.”
“I know. Well, I don’t know exactly what you did during the Crisis, but I expect it was pretty intense.”
“Intense is one way of putting it.”
“Our mutual friend Colonel Johnson here, whoever he really is, did not fill me in on all your past activities when we asked for you. But it’s clear you’ve operated in the People’s Republic before. And in even less permissive environments.”
Indian Country Page 5
