Indian Country

by Kurt A Schlichter

  “What do you see, over?”

  Nothing.

  “What do you see, over?” he shouted.

  “I think I’m deaf,” came the response.

  “Go around and tell me what you see, over!” cried Banks.

  Up on the water tower, Banks’s observer stood up and slowly came around on the walkway until he was on the north side – he had wisely stayed on the south side so he couldn’t be seen while waiting and to shield him from the blast. On the north face, there were now several jagged holes in the tank spraying out water thanks to shrapnel from the vaporized truck. He looked down below at the target.

  “It’s all fire and smoke,” he said into the radio. Then he remembered proper radio procedure. “Over.”

  “The radars – gimme the BDA, over,” Banks demanded, using the acronym for Battle Damage Assessment.

  “Can’t see – gotta let the smoke clear, over.”

  “Observe and report, out,” Banks said, putting down the radio. He had been afraid of this – he had hoped he could confirm the radars were out of action and scoot, but now he had to stick around until he got confirmation that the units were destroyed.

  “Fire,” he told his team.

  The half-dozen guerrillas near him began to fire their deer rifles, concentrating their shots on the windows of the barracks and the control room. Banks joined in with his M14. The idea was suppression – it looked like the massive explosion had stunned the garrison and the rifle fire would encourage them to keep down as the observer waited for the smoke to clear so he could confirm that they had accomplished their mission and get out of there.

  After about 60 seconds, the door of one of the barracks opened and two figures stumbled out. Both were armed. One fired an automatic burst in the general direction of the east. Immediately all the shooters zeroed in on these live targets. After a few more rounds, the non-shooter staggered and fell. A moment later, the shooter dropped straight down – Banks figured somebody’s .30-06 bullet had severed his spine at his neck. The team returned to firing at the buildings’ windows; no one else came outside or attempted to return fire.

  Up on the tower, the observer watched the buildings surrounding the parking lot outside the wire as they burned. But he could now sort of see the field through the smoke and ash and dust. There had been three radar dish trailers. In the flickering light of the fires, he could see that two were knocked over, their dishes bent. One of them was itself on fire. The third trailer was still upright, but its dish was gone – blown completely off.

  The observer keyed his mic. “The targets are non-op. I say again, they are non-operational, over,” he said.

  “Roger. Get back here, out,” said Banks.

  The observer climbed down the ladder, than dropped the last ten feet to the ground and took off running to the woods, just as he had rehearsed. Not more than ten steps inside the tree line he met up with Banks and the team, and together they followed their planned egress route out to their waiting rides back home.

  Two vans headed north on 145 past I-64. Where they crossed the glorified creek that is the Anderson River near a small farm, they flashed their headlights twice and continued north. A quarter mile north, at the edge of the field, Turnbull saw the signal.

  “We’re a go,” he said to his dozen troops. Signal intelligence would detect that the Branchville Correctional Facility radars were out and the mission would commence.

  It was 0020 hours. The guerrillas were moving to their assigned positions with their metal buckets. At 0025, Turnbull gave the signal, and each guerrilla lit the lighter fluid-soaked wood in his bucket.

  The blacked-out MH-47G had been circling over largely unoccupied territory south of the big bend in the Ohio River a few miles west of Brandenburg for about twenty minutes when the radio call from mission control came in. The crew already expected it – the advanced electronic countermeasures onboard the special ops Chinook had already seen the radar site at Branchville go black.

  “Conspiracy 17, Reagan, Reagan,” the controller called, using the code word to proceed on the mission. The helicopter, call sign Conspiracy 17 (pronounced “one seven”) did not respond – it was on radio silence. Instead, the pilot, a US Army Chief Warrant Officer 4 out of the 160th Special Operations Regiment at Ft. Campbell, vectored northwest through the big, wide gap that just appeared in the People’s Republic’s radar coverage of its southern border.

  The helicopter was a dark hole in the sky, its running and interior lights off and the special engine muffler engaged. That cost them a little bit of power, but they still had plenty of speed, especially since it was a short hop and the ship wasn’t wearing its extra fuel tanks.

  The pitch black, except for the occasional lighted building below, was no problem. The pilot engaged his forward-looking infrared and followed the pre-programed flight plan.

  They crossed over the border south of Derby on the Ohio River and were officially in enemy territory. They flew fast and low on a course that took them just south of Branchville, where the staff sergeant manning the starboard side M134 7.62mm electric Gatling gun got a good view of the fire at the prison and the rescue vehicles that were showing up some 40 minutes after the incident.

  The aircraft turned north about 1000 feet east of 145 and headed north parallel to the road. The long black ribbon running east-west that was I-64 appeared ahead of them. There was very little traffic and what there was always came in packs of four or five vehicles – obviously patrols. None of the patrols were close enough to see or hear them – and even if the enemy was using thermal imaging (unlikely, since that investment would take money away from the PR’s prioritized welfare spending) the helicopter featured an infrared damper for its exhaust ports to reduce its heat signature in the sky.

  About a minute later, the pilot saw an upside down “T” formation of four light sources on the objective up ahead. He slowed as he came in and descended, and he put the wheels down just below the base of the marker, with the long refueling pole jutting forward between the flame buckets. The ground supported the heavy aircraft, as expected, and there was remarkably little dust kicked up by the rotor wash. The analyst who had selected the site had done his job well.

  While his men doused the signal fires, the bare-headed Turnbull approached the rear of the aircraft as the ramp lowered. The crew chief stood on the deck, ear protection and goggles on. He signaled and Turnbull and several men moved onboard to push out the three wheeled pallets. Once they were all on the ground, Turnbull turned back to the crew chief, who gave him a thumbs up. Turnbull returned the gesture.

  The Chinook powered up as the ramp closed, and Turnbull and his men covered their faces as the rotor wash flowed over them. Conspiracy 17 lifted up into the night sky, almost disappearing in the dark, and then it veered east and left them, heading home on a different course.

  Turnbull fitted his cap back on his head as the dust settled, then turned to his troops.

  “Let’s get this shit loaded up,” he ordered. Then men began breaking down the pallets. Turnbull walked around and observed as the guerrillas moved with a purpose. It looked like everything was there. A dozen Javelin missiles. Some AT 4 launchers. The C4 and det cord. The special purpose shaped demolitions. Mines. Medical supplies, including anti-coagulant bandages. But where was his special request?

  The men had pulled their 4x4s onto the field and were loading up the truck beds. Lee Rogers, the logistics expert from Walmart who was Turnbull’s supply officer, was supervising. Turnbull finished radio checks with the security elements watching the roads for patrols when Rogers approached with an olive drab steel ammo can that was dangling a manila tag attached to the handle by a white piece of string.

  “This one’s for you – I think,” she said.

  Turnbull took it, and Rogers began directing the work.

  The tag said, “For Michael N.”

  Turnbull flicked open the latch. There was a piece of paper and ten extended .45 1911A1 mags with hollow points. He un
folded the paper. It read, “They’re coming. 48 hours. Don’t be their Steppin’ Stone.”

  “We’re packed up,” Rogers said.

  “Load ‘em up and move ‘em out,” replied Turnbull, shoving the paper back into the ammo can and re-latching it. “We have two days to get ready.”

  15.

  The 172nd Brigade’s command post was full of soldiers making their final plans for the invasion of Southern Indiana. Deloitte had just returned from the field, inspecting his forces, ensuring they were ready for what was coming. He had been out at the artillery battalion for that last two hours. The unit was supposed to have two M119 105 millimeter towed howitzer batteries and one M777A2 155mm towed howitzer battery, all of six guns each – a fair amount of fire power. The 172nd, thanks to budget cuts, had one battery of four 105 guns, of which three were operational. On top of that was minimal ammunition – less than 200 M1 high explosive shells plus some illumination rounds. Still, the King of Battle would be a powerful asset even in its diminished form. And the battery commander, selected because he scored highest on his oppression ratings, was fairly capable.

  That was good, because they were going to war.

  The corps order came down the previous night. They were to move south and “defeat the racist terrorists inhabiting the Jasper region and then be prepared to repel the racist red forces.”

  But because the military always came last in the People’s Republic’s priorities, his brigade was at far less than full strength, with about only 80% of the allocated personing. He had a tank battalion that was allocated 58 tanks. Only 31 were operational; some had been reassigned to other brigades and the rest were awaiting – endlessly – parts. His infantry battalion was light, not heavy mechanized, so there were no Bradley fighting vehicles or Strykers for the infantry to ride in that could keep up with the armor. That was bad, but the 172nd was still a powerful force. He would have to sacrifice some of the speed of the armor to keep the infantry around it – they would have to ride in 5-ton cargo trucks – but in the end there was nothing the guerrillas had that could hold its own in a stand-up fight against a M1 Abrams.

  Well, not “Abrams” any more – in the PRA, it was now formally known as a “Chavez,” after Caesar Chavez. General Creighton Abrams had been the Army chief of staff and commander of US forces in Vietnam, so he was declared “a symbol of racist oppression and contrary to the values of inclusiveness and diversity that are our People’s Republic Army’s true strength.”

  The colonel would have happily traded all his diversity and inclusiveness right then and there for some more howitzer tubes and tanks.

  Deloitte had mixed feelings about his force’s fighting ability. Training had been limited and constantly interrupted with stand-downs to address the crisis du jour. Some trooper looked at another cross-eyed and then the whole unit was sitting in auditoriums for two days hearing lectures on white privilege instead of being out working on the iron. He had done his best to preserve a firm chain of command, but the PRA’s “anti-patriarchal and imbalanced power relationship paradigm” efforts had undercut the authority of his front line leaders. Many were solid, but sergeants and junior officers too often just shrugged their shoulders when soldiers pushed back on orders that were insufficiently fun or fulfilling to them. It did not help that they were constantly being undercut by the new policies that allowed malcontents to go around their chain of command and complain directly to the Command Diversity Officer.

  Where was Major Little anyway? Deloitte was relieved that the pest wasn’t disrupting his command post, so he did not give him another thought. He went on with the planning and coordination, focusing particularly on the logistics. Tanks and the other vehicles were notoriously thirsty, and they were hungry for ammo. Feeding and fueling was as important as the fighting.

  And so were rules of engagement.

  “We are seeking to defeat armed insurgents. You can shoot them, but not civilians. We are professionals, not monsters,” he had told his assembled officers when briefing them on his plan earlier in the day. “These are fellow citizens. If they shoot at you, engage. If they give up, take prisoners.” Little had attended that briefing, and he was visibly displeased.

  Deloitte did not give a damn.

  Deloitte was busy working when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Sir,” said the operations officer, his tired face creased with concern. “You need to see this.”

  They walked outside the tent, past the MPs guarding it, to the large mall parking lot that was their assembly area. The lot was big, and had been empty – the PR closed it the year before as “a symbol of consumerist waste and climate criminality.” The tanks, trucks, and troops had only filled half when Deloitte had entered the command post tent an hour before. Now there were dozens of buses, many PSF cruisers, and a variety of civilian vehicles with “PV” spray-painted on them pouring in.

  “What the hell?” Deloitte asked.

  A group of a dozen men in black tactical gear, with tricked out M4s, was coming their way from a row of black government SUVs. He recognized Inspector Kunstler, wearing tactical gear himself, and Major Little was with him, grinning.

  They stopped in front of the colonel.

  “What is this?” Deloitte asked.

  “Let’s go inside our headquarters, Colonel,” Kunstler said. They all went back into the tent, including the tactical team. The guards did not try to check their identification.

  Inside, Kunstler took off his black helmet and put it on a rickety wooden desk cluttered with papers and coffee cups.

  “This is the supplementary paramilitary force,” Kunstler replied. “My Peoples Bureau of Investigation tactical unit, plus 300 PSF and 300 people’s volunteers.”

  “Why? They’ll just get in my way,” Deloitte replied.

  “Their mission is dealing with the local populace while you defeat the insurgents and prepare to repel a racist invasion by the reds,” Kunstler said.

  “What do you mean ‘dealing with’?” Deloitte asked.

  “That is not your concern. Our force will follow behind yours and secure or otherwise address any rebel prisoners. We’ll deal with their property as appropriate. Our intention is to eliminate the resistance in this region for good.”

  “You’re going to murder them,” Deloitte said. “You’ll turn your fake cops and thugs on the people down there, pillage through their homes, burn their towns, and murder them.”

  “Careful, Colonel,” said Kunstler. “You’ve read the revised martial law proclamation, haven’t you? No? Let me share the highlights.”

  Kunstler pulled a paper from his gear and unfolded it, then read. “The racist homophobic patriarchal and sexist terrorist rebellion will be crushed without mercy. Insurrection and disobedience to the laws of the People’s Republic is treason and shall be punishable by death.”

  Kunstler looked up at the horrified Deloitte. “What are your questions, Colonel?”

  “I’m calling my commander.”

  “You can, but she signed off on the order. See?” Kunstler turned the paper to face the colonel, and his commander’s signature block and familiar squiggle were at the bottom.

  “So you’re just going to sweep in behind us and kill everyone you find?”

  “Not everyone. There may be some children who can be reeducated. Naturally, oppressed peoples will not be harmed, since they are obviously victims themselves,” Kunstler said. “I’ve studied this area, Colonel. These people are reactionaries, terrorists. They insist on living on their own terms, as if they still controlled things like they did under the old government. They voted for Trump in 2016, and against President Clinton in 2020. Their attitudes and foolish religious beliefs were themselves an act of violence to progressive peoples everywhere. This is self-defense. We will no longer tolerate their intolerance. They defied us and they must pay. They must be made an example.”

  “I’m not doing it,” Deloitte said.

  “You’re what?” asked Kunstler, not surp
rised.

  “I’m not having any part of your scorched earth killing spree. My troops are soldiers, not murderers.”

  “Frankly, I expected this,” Kunstler said. “I hoped you might see the error of your ways, but it’s clear you won’t.”

  “There’s no error. I won’t do it.”

  “Principle, or preference, Colonel?” Said Kunstler. “I think the latter. You see, Major Little informed me that you actually met with the terrorist leader last night. You’ve colluded with them, Colonel. In a way, you’re complicit in this rebellion. Fortunately, the order also places all military forces under my overall command. So I am relieving you of command. Major Little will take command of the PRA force during the operation.”

  Little grinned widely.

  “And you, Colonel, you’re under arrest. For insurrection and disobedience to the laws of the People’s Republic,” the Inspector said.

  “Treason,” Major Little said, still grinning.

  Three members of the tactical team took a hold of Deloitte; one relieved him of his Beretta. The ops officer and some of the troops reached for theirs and the other tactical team members took aim with their M4s. The tent was dead silent.

  “No,” Deloitte said. “Put your weapons down. Do your duty.”

  His troops relaxed slightly. The tactical team kept its weapons up; a fight would be a bloodbath. Deloitte would not do that to them.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said to his operations officer.

  “No, you won’t,” said Major Little as the PBI tactical team hustled Colonel Deloitte out of the tent.

  “The East Fork of the White River,” Turnbull said, standing with his assembled field commanders in the bank headquarters. It was the last briefing before they returned to their units.

  “Between I-69 and the Hoosier National Forest,” he continued, “there are three crossings, three bridges. Route 231, Route 257 and North Portersville Road. So those are the choke points for forces coming straight south. They could get around our flank through Hoosier, but that’s a seam with their unit to the east and the woods are a death trap besides. On the west, we blocked I-69 pretty good. So I think they’ll come straight down on those three axes.”