“What exactly do you want me to do in Indiana?”
“Southern Indiana, to be exact. It should have come with us in the Split. There are a lot of places like that, red splotches on the map that got left on the other side because the negotiators chose to stick with state lines when splitting up the country. It was probably a good idea at the time. It had to happen fast or a lot more people were going to die than already did. You remember the hatred, don’t you?”
Turnbull did. He had been in the middle of it, the palpable contempt and fury of Americans against one another. He’d seen the blood on the ground – hell, he shed some of it. Colonel French continued.
“There are these little enclaves across the continent, red in the blue, some blue in the red. People who belong on the other side, with the other side. And the situation is getting worse. The People’s Republic – I can’t believe they chose that name just to spite us – is getting more and more oppressive every day. And they are concentrating on the red enclaves.”
“What do you want me to do? Do you want me to go in and smoke somebody? Because as Colonel – what’s his fake name? Johnson? – will tell you, that’s kind of my wheelhouse.”
Deeds broke into a smile. “It really is, which is why I’m not sure you’re right for this mission.”
French continued: “There are talks coming up, secret talks. Negotiations to resolve the border once and for all. Our position will be stronger as to the red parts we want with … appropriate facts on the ground.”
“Appropriate facts on the ground?”
“If these places are hard to govern, the blues might be more willing to let them go.”
Turnbull leaned in. “How hard to govern are we talking about?”
“Not violence. Oh no, we don’t want a violent insurgency.”
“You want a peaceful one?”
“There’s resistance already. It’s informal. Mostly peaceful, though earlier this week a bunch of People’s Security Force officers were killed raiding a family outside Jasper.”
“What’s Jasper?”
“The town where you will center your ops. It’s strategically significant, near three main arteries – the old I-69, I-64, and US-231. Look, you’re Special Forces. You’re not just trained to kill people and break things. You’re trained to organize indigenous forces as well as do recon and feed us intel. You go in, evaluate the situation, work with the locals to demonstrate to the blues that Southern Indiana is not worth the trouble. You – and the others we’re sending in elsewhere – set the conditions for a successful negotiation.”
“But you don’t want me to kill anybody?”
“No. Absolutely not. This is not a combat mission. It’s hearts and minds. You’re not even taking weapons.”
“Well, this sounds super appealing and a nice change of pace from getting shot at in weird foreign countries, but I think I’ll have to pass.”
“Captain, you’re still in the Army,” Colonel French said.
“Well, kind of. I usually work for him.”
Deeds leaned in. “Well Kelly, that’s the thing. You still belong to the Army. That’s why you’re here, doing a command tour. They realized you were on their books and when they got you back for a little while they decided they wanted to keep you for a while.”
“You’ll certainly work with Colonel Johnson here. He’s representing whatever agency he represents on this mission. But you’re a soldier first. Remember that.”
“So, you’re ordering me to volunteer?”
“No,” Deeds piped up. “He’s just ordering you.”
French nodded.
“Since it’s decided, I guess I should get some specifics.”
“Colonel Johnson will fill you in on those. He’ll also liaison with you when I don’t.”
“And what’s your role, Colonel French?”
“I’m military intelligence. You’re under my overall command.”
“Sir, I still think I’m missing something here. You could send me any place. Why Jasper and Indiana? I’ve never even been there.”
“There is one other thing. The Military District of Southern Indiana – they call it the MDSI and it’s pretty much everything south of Indianapolis. It’s commanded by Colonel Jeff Deloitte.”
“He went blue?”
“Yes. He chose to go with the blue states when they split off. His family is all in New England. Now he’s the military commander for that region. There’s an infantry and an armor battalion there as part of the 172nd Brigade, which he commands too. But understand, he’s not the commander of the PSF or the secret police. They are independent, and our intel is that the military does not always play well with the civilian law enforcement.”
“Deloitte knows counter-insurgency,” Turnbull said.
“And you know him,” French replied, and stood up. “I’ll leave you two to talk details. Glad to have you aboard, Captain.”
“Glad to be shanghaied, Colonel.”
French disappeared out the front door. Deeds sat back as Turnbull looked him over.
“How did I get sucked into this clusterfuck, Clay?”
“Numbers, Kelly. They’re sending in a bunch of people to embed in these disputed areas. And they had you – I couldn’t hide you off the books, since you’re currently turning civilians into Army guys.”
“No gun? That’s not going to work for me.”
“Of course you get a gun. What, do you think I’m listening to him? But they don’t want a war. They just want to know what’s going on and for you to facilitate some nonviolent dissent.”
“The blues will object. Dissent stopped being patriotic in the People’s Republic a long time ago. I hear they are getting more serious about their oppression. I guess all those rights in their new constitution have an asterisk.”
“Well Kelly, they came for the guns and took whatever people admitted having. They were at kind of a disadvantage finding them without records. Thanks to you, of course, the federal firearms data all went poof during the Crisis.”
“Yeah,” Turnbull said, smiling. “That was a real tragedy.”
“They’re doing more. New laws, new rules. People are getting angry. Especially about the pressure on churches, at least the ones who won’t play ball. You just need to help guide the anger in a constructive direction until the negotiations finish. Hopefully, they’ll decide Southern Indiana is too much trouble to keep.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Don’t start a war, Kelly. Nobody wants that. We want a nice, peaceful resolution. We give up some ground, and so do they, and then we live in peace.”
“You’ve been in there, right?”
Deeds shrugged.
“I don’t know if they want peace, Clay. They seem to hate us pretty good.”
“Just try not to kill anyone. It would make Colonel French upset.”
“I’ll make pleasing him my main goal. How long am I in?”
“A few weeks, tops. They’re trying to get the negotiations done fast. Your main contact’s a minister. Knows everyone in town. I’ve had him as a source for a while.”
“Is your network compromised? Do they know I’m coming?”
“No. That’s the advantage of not having much of a network – they can’t infiltrate what doesn’t exist.”
“Enemy forces?”
“Local sheriffs, but they are getting taken over by the People’s Security Force. Those are the guys that shot up the family farm last week. A real bloodbath, but they lost some too. No People’s Bureau of Investigation in town – it’s too small. They haven’t sent in any People’s Volunteers yet; those guys are real winners. And your boy’s military units are 40 miles away. So keep out of the way of the local yokels and you’re good.”
“Seems super easy. Like every mission I get from you,” Turnbull said. “And yet, they never are.”
“If it was easy, Kelly, I’d send someone else,” Clay said. He tossed Turnbull a Cincinnati Blues baseball cap. “Enjoy.”
4.
“You sure you want a .45?” Clay Deeds asked Turnbull.
They were inside a customs interview room with the door locked. Outside, a 787 thundered down the runway. Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport was now the busiest airport in the new United States, serving the capital city and the huge metroplex that expanded relentlessly in all directions out across the plains.
“Yeah. I like killing what I shoot the first time,” Turnbull said, his meaty hand out.
Deeds passed him a black 1911A1 in a small, inside the waistband Uncle Mike’s holster. There were thick serrations on the sides of the carbon steel slide to facilitate cocking, and nicely grooved black grips with a pewter eagle emblem. It was maybe seven and a half inches long, about three pounds, with the sharp edges rounded for concealed carry.
“It’s a Wilson Combat XTAC Elite Compact, fake serial number. It predates the Split, so it’s not going to give you away as a red stater. It’s pretty much stock, not much use on it. Our people didn’t have a lot to do to it to recondition it, except change the number.”
Turnbull slid the weapon out of the holster and looked it over, then pulled back the slide. Clear chamber. Good tolerances, solid. He approved.
“Kelly, how about a Glock 19? Fifteen plus one rounds. Lighter, faster rate of fire. And nine mil ammo is easy to get.”
“Pass.” Turnbull took one of the three eight round extended mags of .45 Federal Premium HST rounds and slipped it into the well. The mag stuck out a little below the grip, but he’d deal with it for the extra shot.
“The ammo is all pre-Split too. So are the mags. It’s all sterile. They can’t trace it to us, but they’re locking people up for five years for having a gun so don’t get caught with it.”
“I don’t plan to get arrested.” He released the slide, then carefully dropped the hammer and slid the weapon into the holster and slipped the holster inside his pants in the small of his back under his sport coat.
“You’re carrying the gun on the plane on you?”
“Uh huh. They might search my luggage and maybe my carry-on, but I’ve yet to be patted down going through customs. After all I’m what? An accountant?”
“Michael David Nesmith. Twenty-eight. CPA from Indianapolis.”
“At least you named me after the smart Monkee.”
Deeds looked at him, a bit pleasantly surprised.
“I grew up around classic rock,” Turnbull said.
“Nesmith’s mother actually got rich inventing Liquid Paper.”
“I have no idea what that is,” Turnbull said. “Anyway, I’ve got the back story memorized.” He took the other two mags and slipped them into the pockets of his tan slacks. “Wife is Darlene, kids Cindy and Kaden. The dog is Tiger.”
“Here’s your iPhone 14,” Deeds said. “There are photos of the family and the mutt. The home number goes to a controller inside the PR – ‘Cindy’ will answer if someone calls. The other numbers are cut-outs except for one special one and Pastor Bellman’s. He’s real. He’s your point of contact. You meet him tonight, six p.m., at his church.”
“The safeword is ‘Utah.’”
“‘Password.’ Please don’t get those terms mixed up, Kelly.”
There were a few dozen apps loaded into the phone. The Justice Air app was right there on the front. Turnbull hit it.
“Your Justice Air app doesn’t work.”
“It’s buggy. I printed you a paper boarding pass. You got the wallet and passport?”
“Yeah. Car keys?” Deeds handed him a ring with a remote and what looked like house keys. All fakes.
“Blue 2015 Chrysler parked in the long term lot, fifth floor. Photos on the phone.”
Turnbull flipped through the pictures. “You could have picked me a hotter wife.”
“That’s my sister, Kelly.” It was unclear if this was a joke.
“No wonder she’s not my type.” He flipped through a few more snaps until he came to a couple photos of a blue sedan in a parking structure next to a pillar with “5-B” painted on it. In the background was a poster: “Report Racism! No Tolerance for Intolerance!”
“The phone has about 100,000 alternating electronic signatures. It won’t sign in to a cell tower the same way twice, so it’s hard to trace. Your password is one-two-three-four.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You’re Army so I kept it simple. Punch in one-two-three-four-five and you wipe the memory, so be careful. Now, the special contact is Peter Dolenz.”
“Really? Or am I just a daydream believer?”
“Come on, your plane boards in ten. Now, under Dolenz’s contact is a phone number. That’s your ‘no shit emergency’ number. It comes to or from us and it means something significant is happening. The email address is to a Canadian account. We’ll get it. The phone will auto encrypt, but remember – those bastards got most of Silicon Valley in the divorce and don’t think they can’t intercept and trace you.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a believer.”
“Just stop. The carry-on has a laptop we’ve loaded with accounting stuff. No password; they can dig through it all day and all they’ll get is bored. We gave you a paperback suitable for your cover’s background as an accountant so you can read on the plane. Your suitcase is already in the baggage system. It’s full of business clothes in your size, all from the PR. There are no work clothes, just some jeans, so on your way stop at the surplus store on the outskirts of Bloomington and get yourself some boots and other gear. The address is in your phone. You were here in Dallas on business for a week, so the clothes are all dirty. That should discourage the customs folks from poking around. Which is good, since there’s $25,000 in real dollars in the liner.”
Turnbull said nothing.
“What?” asked Deeds.
“I was just trying to think of another Monkees song and I can’t.”
“Come on, before you miss the last plane to Clarksville.”
Deeds walked him out of the customs office, the US customs officers all wise enough to ignore the pair. Turnbull carried a doofy vinyl computer bag as his carry-on. His tan sport coat was too big, but it hid the .45 nicely. At the door into the passenger terminal, well beyond the security gates, Turnbull paused.
“Any last guidance?”
“Try not to start a war.”
“Okay. I promise not to start one,” Turnbull said, then opened the door and slipped into the stream of passengers.
Turnbull entered the terminal alone – Deeds did not do public appearances. It was crowded, with travelers pulling their carry-ons and kids crying and running rampant. The Justice Air gates were at the end of the terminal; the People’s Republic’s new “public option” airline was one of the government competitors it had established in many industries to balance out the capitalists. The PR had little choice but to create a government airline – soon after the Split, all the major carriers moved their headquarters to the red. Though many flew into the PR, for now at least, the new government aggressively regulated them. Slowly but surely, they were pulling out – and the political tension that was ratcheting up did not help.
The flights out were crowded – this one was full, and the passengers looking to fly into Indianapolis were backed up out of the gate area and spilling into the terminal hallway. A 737 in Justice Air livery was unloading passengers from Chicago, but they were diverted downstairs into customs. You could travel freely between the two countries, at least for now, but this was a vivid reminder that they were now, in fact, two separate countries.
A bitter looking woman at the counter picked up the hand mic. “This flight is delayed an hour,” she said over the loudspeaker, adding, “It’s not Justice Air’s fault.”
Turnbull frowned. It was almost certainly Justice Air’s fault.
He kept to himself as he waited, looking over his fellow passengers for any PR security types who he should avoid. There were not any. The PR would never admit it, but it could rely on the US’s strict securi
ty measures and aggressive border controls – the same ones it regularly labeled racist, sexist, and Islamophobic.
Fox News was playing on the video monitors. There were a couple jabbering talking heads, one a perky blonde and one a salty looking dude, and the chyron read “Travel Ban Threatened As Tensions With PR Increase.”
A man nearby mumbled to his wife, “We might be getting out just in time.”
“I hate this place and these racists,” hissed the wife. She seemed angry; her face might be moderately attractive if it wasn’t twisted with bitterness. Turnbull assessed that this guy’s marriage was a never-ending delight.
The flight finally boarded 90 minutes late. The first to load were a pack of well-dressed people. There was no announcement or fanfare – they just went first. As the last one disappeared down the jetway, the woman at the counter picked up the mic again. “Justice Air does not believe in privilege and there are no boarding groups. Please demonstrate your commitment to cooperation and consensus as you board.”
It was, of course, chaos. The crowd swelled and bunched around the entrance to the jetway, shoving and pushing. Turnbull hung back, not wanting someone in the scrum to rub up against his piece. When the throbbing mass thinned a bit, he darted in. Stepping onto the plane, he passed the first class area, except it wasn’t called “First Class” anymore. It was simply not acknowledged, and the travelers passing in the aisle instinctively avoided making eye contact with their pampered betters.
The loading took 30 minutes, plus another ten inside as the crew argued with irate travelers about their luggage, demanding random pieces be checked because of “luggage privilege.”
Turnbull was on an aisle seat next to some pale college age kid who was on his cell talking way too loud with a buddy.
“D-Yazzy? For realz? His rhymes are lazy and derivative.”
This was not Turnbull’s wheelhouse. He was vaguely aware that there was a rapper named Kanye West who was married to some Kardashian and whose 2020 third party presidential bid had evolved from a bizarre joke into a serious threat to Hillary Clinton’s electoral coalition. Kanye had dropped out of the race after the first three-way debate had turned into a profanity-laced, incoherent screaming match, a decision he claimed he made because, “God told me I should heal the world with my music instead.” Turnbull later read that West had immigrated to the red states as a post-Split tax refugee, telling reporters, “I gotta keep my money. Plus, Hillary is gonna kill me with polonium.”
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