“I’m telling you, I’ve done this before,” said Deloitte. “If you want to keep control, give it up. Leave them alone. They don’t want to fight. But they will if you force them to.”
“My people can handle a few hicks with deer rifles,” Lieutenant Kessler said confidently. “Maybe with a little PBI and PV support, but we can stomp this out before it gets out of control.”
“With this guy’s untrained flunkies, and your thugs with badges? Five half-competent hicks with deer rifles could shut down your entire operation. How many bodies do you have, anyway? How many can Chief Clements here give you? Get you up to maybe 200? Let’s assume 100 of them are going to be logistics, admin, and command and control, and that you’ve achieved a 50% tooth-to-tail support ratio, which is unheard of in modern warfare. And make no mistake, we’re talking warfare. So, you got maybe 100 actual bodies to patrol and secure thousands of square miles. They have to retrain, refit, eat, sleep, shit, shower, and shave, so maybe you have 25% on duty at once. That’s what? Twenty-five bodies at any given moment? For four or five counties? You can’t guard every inch of road. You can’t guard every piece of vital infrastructure. You can’t guard every target for assassination.”
Clement spoke up. “We will find the leaders and arrest them! Cut the head off the snake, destroy their network.”
“You don’t get it. There’s no network. There’s no organization. They’re going to decentralize. They’re going to operate on a cell basis. We’re not just seeing it around Jasper. We’ve seen these problems all through Southern Illinois and Ohio too. You need to understand that you don’t have a good kinetic solution to what you’re facing.”
Franco X was baffled by the word “kinetic.” It seemed to puzzle Xeno too; xe scratched xis head before speaking.
“Well, if the PSF can’t handle it then we’ll call you in to save the day,” said Xeno.
“Let’s say I give up my mission to deter and defeat red invaders and focus on counter-insurgency. I have two battalions, plus support – about 3,000 troops. You think I can control the Military District of Southern Indiana with a two-maneuver battalion brigade? I can defeat any grouping of rebels should they be dumb enough to let me catch them concentrated in one area, but if this thing blows up – if you light a fuse that makes this thing blow up – there’s not much I can do to stop it. And if you tell me to do it anyway, you’ll need to authorize me to do things that even you don’t want me to do.”
“If we have to scorch the earth, Colonel, we will scorch the earth,” said Xeno. “We are not giving up Southern Indiana. And it doesn’t matter how many racist knuckle draggers have to die to keep it that way.”
“Those are your own citizens,” Deloitte said bitterly.
“I agree with Xeno, Colonel, I respect your views, but the time for firmness is here,” Kunstler said. “We cannot allow this to continue. We need to stop it before it gets out of control. I’m authorizing the additional People Security Force officers and the PBI detectives to support Lieutenant Kessler’s program. Lieutenant, you are going to have access to the People Volunteers as you need them. Do what you have to do. And Colonel, if we are forced to call you in, I am confident that you will do your duty.”
“I know what my duty is. You don’t need to tell me. I’ve been doing it for 30 years.”
“But now you are doing it for a new country, a better country,” Kunstler said.
“Well, then I should go,” Deloitte said, standing. “Looks like I need to do some more training for my brigade. Oh wait, I can’t do any training for three days because I have a mandatory shutdown because one of my guys wolf whistled at some E-4 and I now have to do three days of sexual harassment training instead of combat training.”
“Colonel, I sometimes wonder about your priorities,” Xeno snapped.
“My priority is accomplishing my mission,” Deloitte said as he headed toward the door. “I’m still wondering about yours.”
7.
Deputy Ted Cannon was rebelling – if he was going to get called into the station at 7:00 AM on a Sunday morning, he was damn well wearing his tan uniform.
He drove down Main Street as he always did, heading out from his house where he used to live with his wife before she took off, and slowed as he saw something up ahead. There were two PSF cruisers, front to front, blocking most of the road at 5th. A checkpoint – four PSF officers stood about, one of them gesturing to a guy in a pick-up truck they had stopped. The officers stepped back and looked into the bed, then peered inside the cab, and finally waved him through after he showed his ID.
In the People’s Republic, they were big on ID. Apparently somewhere along the way, identification had stopped being racist because they were always asking for it.
Cannon rolled up in his cruiser slowly, intending to pass, but the lead officer held up his palm. Cannon stopped and rolled down his window. The PSF officer was one of the new ones that Cannon had seen around the station. He stepped forward, looking Cannon over.
“Where’s your black uniform,” he asked.
“In the hamper.”
“You’re supposed to wear the new uniform.”
“Am I working for you now?” Cannon snapped. The officer frowned.
“Where is your ID?”
“In my ass,” Cannon answered. “What the hell is this roadblock for?”
“This is a checkpoint,” said the PSF officer.
“No shit,” said Cannon. “Why do you have a checkpoint here in the middle of town on a Sunday morning?”
“Because we’re tired of your hick friends’ bullshit.”
“Get out of my way,” Cannon said. The PSF officer seemed to think about it for a moment, then thought better of it and stepped aside. Cannon drove through and down the street to the station.
He parked outside in the lot, having managed to snag one of the now-scarce empty spaces. With the station packed with newcomers, he often had to park down the street.
There seemed to be an unusual level of activity for a Sunday – officers were walking about, some in tactical gear. They all stared at him and his old school uniform. Cannon went inside.
Kessler saw him and scowled upon seeing the deputy’s uniform. It was the only tan one in the station. Everyone else was now in black. And there were long weapons and other gear lying about – what had been a friendly local sheriff’s station now looked paramilitary, and distinctly unwelcoming.
Cannon approached Lieutenant Kessler, who was consulting with several sergeants.
“Is there an operation going on?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because this is my town.”
“You’re not involved. Stay out of the way.”
“Where’s the Sheriff?”
“Relieved. This is my station now.” She turned to one of the sergeants. “You make sure that Officer Cannon stays off his cell phone and doesn’t leave until the operation’s over.”
“What are you talking about?” Cannon asked.
“Oh, you’ll see soon enough. We are reasserting control,” Kessler said, walking away.
“Where’d you sleep?” asked Pastor Bellman, leaning against the railing of the stairs up to the church. The doors behind him were wide open. It was still an hour before the 9:30 service and it was still cool.
Turnbull smiled. “I got myself a room. Okay, it’s a garage.”
“Did you already get your stuff out of my handyman’s room?” the pastor asked. “There was a towel and some paperback book. Looked like porn.”
“I wish it was porn. Yeah, I got them. So who am I meeting this morning?”
“Somebody right up your alley, I think. Just don’t make any sudden moves.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds edgy. Should I have brought my AK?”
“Not sure that would help you a whole lot if you got on his wrong side. He’s that way.” Bellman pointed to a tree line a few hundred meters north of the church across an overgrown field.
“Go inside the tree l
ine about 100 meters north and there’s a creek. Head west. Keep going about a mile. And then you’ll find the mystery man.” Pastor Bellman smiled. “More likely he’ll find you first.”
“He knows I’m coming, right?”
“Oh yeah. He’s not the kind of guy you want to surprise. Better get going. People are starting to show up.” Turnbull noted a Chevrolet pulling into the parking lot with a family.
“How many do you get on your average Sunday, Pastor?”
“A lot more than I used to. Half the churches around here are closed down now. People had either left or they’ve been foreclosed on since they cancelled the religious property tax exemption. I guess we’re just stubborn.”
“You know it’s only going to get worse for you guys?”
“I know. But a little oppression hones the faith.”
“I guess so. Just don’t let yourself get too honed. I’ll see you after the service, if your mystery man lets me live.”
Bellman smiled and went inside the sanctuary, Turnbull turned and began his long walk across the grass towards the woods. The heat, the stickiness, the bugs his feet kicked up in the unruly grass – it was like walking through the savannah.
People just sort of assumed that America was always a civilized continent, that there was nothing wild about it, but they couldn’t have been more wrong. There was something primeval, something untamed here, almost jungle-like, when you stepped out of civilization’s realm. It was masked by all the tens of thousands of square miles of pavement and buildings. But it was out there, at the fringes. Something wild.
Turnbull got to the tree line. Inside it was dark, and as soon as he stepped inside rays of sunlight streamed down through the canopy of leaves. It smelled rich and earthy, a different world.
His booted feet crunched as he stepped clumsily on the detritus littering the forest floor. That cued him to shift into stealth mode. He slowed up, watching the ground in front of him, carefully calculating where he placed his feet on each step. Now he was back at Fort Benning, at Dahlonega, at Hulbert, walking through the woods on patrol. Fifty meters inside the tree line he stopped and took a knee and waited, getting used to it, hearing the noises of the forest, and just as importantly, hearing the silences.
After about ten minutes he felt comfortable and at home, so he arose and began walking, each step calculated, each step careful. After a couple minutes, he came to the creek. It was slow moving and quiet, maybe a meter or two across, most of it less than a foot deep, but there were some pools where he could not make out the bottom. A dark green frog leapt off the bank and into the water with a plunk. Turnbull froze and listened. Nothing.
He kept going, holding to the south bank, backed off a couple meters from the water, moving quietly, looking down at each step, and then around him. Every few minutes he would stop again to listen, usually pausing behind a bush or a tree trunk. He was back on patrol, albeit without his battle gear, without a rifle. He felt the weight of the .45 in the small of his back under his long shirt.
Turnbull counted his steps, as he had been trained to do, knowing his stride was exactly 33 inches in the open, but adjusting for the smaller steps he was taking in that confined space. It was slow going, moving around trees, avoiding roots, and stepping over logs after peering down on the other side to make sure he didn’t step on a copperhead.
No copperheads. That was a relief. But he kicked up a garter snake, which slid off of the bank and into the water and swam away like a big green “S” with a yellow stripe running down its back.
Turnbull figured he was a half mile in, then about a mile. Now far out of town, the sounds of the cars rumbling along the roads had faded. He was in the deep woods. He was in his element.
Did he smell smoke?
Turnbull dropped and listened again. Nothing, but there was something more going on. He felt it somehow. He was getting close.
“Y’all just hold up now,” he heard a male voice say, and Turnbull dropped and rolled, taking cover behind a log, his weapon now ready.
“The pastor says you’re an okay guy, and I want to believe him, being a man of God and all, but if you’re gonna start pointing guns at me, you and I are going to have a problem, mister,” said the voice. It was coming from up ahead, but Turnbull couldn’t place it. The guy was well-concealed.
“How do I know you’re not pointing a gun at me?” asked Turnbull.
“Well, I am, but then this is my house, and I figure I got a right to point a gun at anybody who comes in to my house, if you know what I mean.”
“Maybe so,” Turnbull said. Damn, where was this guy? “So how about neither of us point any guns at each other and we can take it from there?”
“Okay sir. That sounds fair to me. Why don’t ya stand up, let me take a look at you?”
“How about we both stand up and take a look at each other?”
“That seems fair to me too.” There was a rustle about seven or eight meters to his front. A shape was rising out of the brush. Turnbull stood up too, slowly, careful not to do anything that could possibly be interpreted as hostile.
The man in front of Turnbull was skinny, wiry and weathered with a scraggly beard. He didn’t seem afraid. Instead, he seemed rather confident, totally at home, and he had a big .357 silver Colt Python revolver slipped into the belt at the front of his jeans. He wore a black T-shirt, a little bit tattered, with an eagle rampant over an American flag. Not exactly consistent with the PR’s evolving fashion sensibilities.
“My name is Kelly,” Turnbull said.
“I’m Larry Langer. Pleased to meet you.”
“Langer,” said Turnbull. “You’re the one that got away.”
“Yes, sir. I got away. But I ain’t going away, if you get my meaning. I’m just biding my time. I got accounts to settle, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do. And I can’t say I blame you.”
“Pastor said I needed to meet you. Said you and I might share some common interests.”
“We might. But I’m not exactly interested in settling any scores.”
“Pastor said that too. Well, we still might have some common ground. But I’m not done with the sons of bitches who murdered my family quite yet.”
“You’ve been living out here?”
“Sure have. It’s my second home. Been running around these woods since I was four years old. Hunting, fishing. Got a little tent and a cook stove over there. Dug a nice privy too, back from the creek of course.”
“Of course.”
“I’m pretty comfortable. Like to have a big fire, but if they see smoke then they’d get all excited and send somebody else to give me a citation for climate violations. And if they did that I’d have to shoot the son of a bitch, and that’d attract even more attention. When the shooting starts, I intend to be the one starting it, and when I’m good and ready.”
“Seems to me you want to get your own private war going on,” Turnbull said.
“Guess I do. Are you here to start your own?”
“Just here to be difficult. I don’t intend to do any killing unless I have to. Though these PR bastards seem intent on pushing things that way.”
“I gotta say, I liked being part of the United States. This Split’s been nothing but trouble. You think you’re gonna be able to deal with these people without killing a few of them?”
“I’m not optimistic,” Turnbull said. “I have experience with these bastards too.”
“All we ever asked for was just to be left alone,” said Langer. “We just want to keep doing what we’ve always been doing. Never hurt anybody. Never stole anybody’s stuff, never got sideways with anyone who didn’t get sideways with us. But they just couldn’t leave it be.”
“They can’t, because if they see you doing what you want to do, then other people are going to want to do what they want to do, and then pretty soon our People’s Republic friends are not going to have anyone to boss around anymore.”
“Yep,” Langer said, walking slow
ly forward. “So where do you come from anyway? Down in the red?”
“I came from where I came from. It’s not important.”
“Oh yeah, OPSEC. You know, I was a Marine. And a good one. I did one tour and made Lance Corporal three times.” Langer smiled. His teeth could have used some work. “Fought in Falluja. Never occurred to me I might have to fight here at home.”
“Maybe it won’t have to come to that. I just think maybe that, since you know the area and the people and have some training, maybe you can help me make things a little more difficult for these folks.”
“Maybe I can. But that’s not saying that I’m not going to expect some payback at some point. They killed my family, and that’s got to be answered.”
“I hear you. And I –”
Shots, in the distance, to the east. A lot of them.
Both men froze,
A burst, then more shots. Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam.
“AKs,” said Langer. “You don’t forget what they sound like.”
“PSF or PVs,” Turnbull said.
“It’s back in town,” Langer said.
“Back from where I came,” said Turnbull.
“The church,” Langer said.
“You coming, Larry?”
“I’m with you.”
“Let’s go.”
They began running through the forest back the way Turnbull had come. There was no deliberation now – they were moving full speed.
Pastor Bellman looked out over his congregation and observed that nearly every space in the pews was filled. Before the Split, he’d have been overjoyed. But the fact was that First Baptist had inherited a lot of families from the other churches in and around town that closed since the Split. Pretty soon he was going to have to add another service at 11 a.m. to handle the attendance – people just wouldn’t all fit in the 9:30 service. And it seemed to him that people are paying more close attention to his sermons. In times like these, people looked for the comfort of God.
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