Indian Country

by Kurt A Schlichter

  The PSF cruiser was headed into the kill zone, probably at the speed limit.

  “Get ready,” Banks said.

  The riflemen aimed.

  The PSF cruiser disappeared for a moment behind a willow tree growing on the banks of the small creek that ran north-south through the field. When it emerged, Banks barked.

  “Fire!”

  The three rifles erupted – the noise was deafening. The first volley off, all three pulled back the bolts on their rifles, jacked in another round and took aim. The three shots of the second volley were staggered, first one then two more in rapid succession. The shooters immediately began jacking in their third round.

  Turnbull, ears ringing, was watching the cruiser through his binos. After the initial volley – nothing. The car kept going. But after the second, it swerved and ran off onto the shoulder before recovering. The third volley roared, and the front passenger’s headlight was snuffed out. The cruiser accelerated, crossing the median and back and then tearing off to the west unsteadily.

  It vanished out of sight.

  “Get your brass and on your feet!” Banks barked. The shooters grabbed up their empty shell casings and arose, and so did Turnbull, carrying one of the liberated Kalashnikovs kindly donated by the People’s Volunteers. The first shooter led them off the ridge and back into the woods along the path they had already reconnoitered. Banks was last out of the position, ensuring that there was nothing and no one left behind.

  They tramped through the woods silently and in single file for about 15 minutes until they returned to the barn. They slipped inside, and then began to laugh and congratulate each other. A few minutes later, the two pairs of spotters entered and the whole team was assembled. While Turnbull watched, Banks conducted the after-action review – what went right, and more importantly, what went wrong.

  Kyle seemed disappointed. “Well, it doesn’t look like we killed them,” he said.

  Turnbull spoke up. “Doesn’t matter. That wasn’t the purpose.”

  “I thought in wars you killed the enemy,”

  “In wars you beat the enemy. Sometimes that means you kill them, sometimes that doesn’t matter. Alive or dead, after tonight they’ll know that the countryside is ours, and they either have to move in force when they come out here or give it over to us.”

  “What the nice officer is saying,” Banks said, “is that tonight we turned Dubois County pink.”

  Banks lit his cigar, then Turnbull’s. The air was a bit chilly, but neither showed it.

  “This is your area now. Unless we’re doing something bigger, you deal with them when they come through,” Turnbull said.

  “The Department of Agriculture inspector is supposed to be coming tomorrow,” Banks said. “Every time, it’s more land ordered out of production, more new rules, and more ‘equality contributions’ of a part of the harvests.”

  “When he gets here, have a little talk with him,” said Turnbull.

  “Him? I don’t even want to go there – last time some government asshole came through I assumed it was a chick because it had tits and that cost me 20 minutes of crying about how I was imposing my idea of gender identity on it.”

  “If it does that again, shoot it,” suggested Turnbull.

  “Yeah, that’s my plan. We’re also going to start setting aside food in case things get uglier. The prices are going down – see, because the government loves us – so naturally, there’s less in the stores to buy every week. My wife couldn’t get coffee at the supermarket; you gotta go in town to Starbucks to get any anymore. Nice to be pals with the government, huh? You get a monopoly.”

  “They like big companies fine if the big companies do what they say,” said Turnbull.

  “And when the government takes over the grocery stores like it says it’s going to, the shortages will only get worse. So, down there, in the red, it’s not bad like the news always says, is it?”

  “Well, you can get coffee in the supermarkets and Starbucks isn’t the only coffee shop.”

  “You can say what you want, right?” Banks asked, exhaling a cloud.

  “Yeah, they kept the old First Amendment and didn’t do what they did here – add a whole bunch of exceptions.”

  “I’d go,” Banks said. “But on the other hand, fuck that noise. This is my land and no one’s driving me off it.”

  Ted Cannon was still assigned to a desk inside the Jasper PSF station, and he saw firsthand the chaos that followed the four separate sniper attacks on cruisers across the Jasper sector the night before. Walking in for his shift at 0700, he saw the four vehicles that had been shot at. A couple were short side windows; one’s rear window had a bullet hole almost dead center. All four had holes punched through the sheet metal. One had a headlamp shot out; another had blood in the passenger’s seat where a slug went through the door and shattered the officer’s humerus.

  The detectives were all over the vehicles; they had retrieved some of the slugs, which were deformed but they were obviously large caliber hunting rounds.

  Cannon went inside, where Kessler was fuming in her office, sipping a Starbucks coffee. Her subordinates were not looking to her for solutions. They were exploring their own.

  “I ain’t going back out there on those backwoods Deliverance country-ass roads,” one patrol officer told another. “I’ll pull my shit off on a side road and hide until my shift’s done. Get high!”

  His pal half-laughed and half-considered that course of action.

  “It’s the coordination that should worry you,” PBI Inspector Kunstler was telling the lieutenant. He was in plainclothes and calm; she was shaking with rage and fear. “Four incidents, identical incidents, within a few hours? That’s not a coincidence. They are getting more sophisticated.”

  “I don’t understand how this is happening,” Kessler said. “I thought we took all the guns.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, apparently they still have quite a lot of them. And I expect ammunition as well. What we need is the people of this region to identify the criminals so we can break up this ring – or rings. But it seems the people here refuse to help. ”

  “They’re all racist reactionaries,” Kessler offered. Kunstler’s expression did not change.

  “Obviously, we can’t allow any of this into the media,” Kunstler said. “We’ll need more checkpoints and ID checks by your people. We can increase media and communications monitoring. We’re already mapping relationship networks on our software. And we can use the schools, interview students and encourage denunciations.”

  “More ID checks and checkpoints. Yes, we’ll do those.”

  “And are you going to take any retaliatory action?”

  Kessler looked around, as if she were caged. “Sergeant, what are the nearest towns to these terrorist attacks?”

  The sergeant, another out-of-towner stared at the map on her wall. “St. Anthony is close by where Unit 14 was shot at.”

  “We’ll send the Volunteers in there tonight,” Kessler said. Kunstler did not reply. He turned and went back to his suite of offices.

  Cannon headed to the back door.

  “So, we know they come south from Indianapolis. We know they’ll come into Jasper and pick up some PSF escorts like last time. The question is, which way will they come?” asked Turnbull. Langer didn’t bother looking at the map Turnbull had spread across the work bench in Lee Rogers’s garage.

  “Gotta come down 231,” Langer said. “Now, the question is whether they keep coming down 231 after Jasper to 64, or if they come down on 162 and hit 64.”

  “We can’t know,” Turnbull said. “We need to hit them before they get to Jasper, somewhere along 231, before they pick up their PSF escort.”

  “You got a 20 mile shot straight south from Loogootee,” Langer said. “Gotta be somewhere that’s good near the middle.”

  Turnbull pulled the keys to Lee Rogers’s Ford truck out of his pocket and jiggled them.

  It was an even day, and Lee’s truck had an even-numb
ered license plate to avoid attention and climate crime traffic stops. The pair took side streets until they got to 231 just south of the Walmart and turned north. There was not much traffic in the late morning. About half-way up, they found what they were looking for – a narrow stretch, with a wooded rise on one side and a long field stretching away in the other. Deep ditches paralleled both shoulders.

  “We could seal it off there with a big truck or something,” Turnbull said. “And then another behind to block them in the kill zone.”

  “Plenty of big trucks around,” Langer replied as a semi whipped past northbound.

  “At least 15 minutes until help arrives, assuming they even get a call off. Lots of roads heading west, so afterwards we can get away fast and work our way back south. The meet-up in Jasper is supposed to be at 2030 hours, so this probably goes down around 2000 hours.”

  Langer nodded. “We hook us up a spotter with a cell phone up in Loogootee, and he gives us a heads-up when they’re coming south.”

  “We can bounce the calls around so it’s hard to track to someone around here. Dale can figure out who calls who.

  “I got a team I want to use,” Langer said. “They did good the other night.”

  “I want to use Banks’s team from Bretzville,” Turnbull said. “Though if we miss their area is undefended.”

  “Reckon we best not miss then.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go. We got nine hours ‘til show time.”

  They kept to the speed limit heading south, and it was as they crossed the low span of the East Fork of the White River that a PSF cruiser pulled off the side of the road and fell in behind him.

  Langer said nothing. He pulled out his .357, opened the chamber to confirm he had six magnum rounds loaded. Turnbull carefully and with little fuss pulled the Wilson Combat from behind him and placed it on his lap.

  “We got the right plates, evens, right?” asked Langer calmly.

  “Not sure that matters,” Turnbull said, eyes on the rearview.

  The cruiser hit its lights.

  “Better make this quick, before they can call it in,” Langer said. “Lee’ll be mighty pissed if she finds out there’s a BOLO on her truck.”

  Turnbull eased the truck to the shoulder and released his seatbelt. Langer hadn’t been wearing one.

  Turnbull’s right hand took the .45; his left reached over and grasped the door handle.

  The cruiser rolled up close. Two officers. Their doors cracked open. No big deal, apparently.

  Turnbull and Langer each threw their respective door open and rolled out onto their respective feet, catching the PSF officers as they were in the midst of exiting their sedan.

  It wasn’t clear who fired first, Langer or Turnbull. Turnbull aimed center mass on the officer through the window of his target’s open door.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  The window was down because there was no shatter. Instead, there were three eruptions on the front of the PSF officer’s uniform. He staggered backwards and onto the road, trying to draw. He had a vest, and probably some broken ribs. Turnbull fired again and again, then pivoted upwards and fired four more headshots. At least one connected – there was a puff of pink and the officer dropped dead on his back on the road.

  The .45’s slide was locked back. Turnbull dropped the extended mag and slapped home a full one then released the slide and returned to seeking targets.

  Movement left – no, it was Langer by the PSF car, pointing the big magnum at something on the ground and firing.

  The last gunshot echoed in the air – fortunately, the nearest house was some distance away.

  “You clear?” shouted Turnbull, searching for targets. His own was not moving – even his twitching had ceased.

  “Oh yeah, I’m good,” said Langer. “This son of a bitch ain’t so good, though.”

  “Help me get them in the truck bed before someone comes along and sees us.

  They loaded the bodies in the back of Lee Rogers’s pick-up and covered them with a tarp.

  “Follow me,” Langer said, trotting back to the cruiser. He did something under the dash, then fired it up and turned it around, heading back to the bridge. Turnbull followed him as he made a right onto a dirt road running parallel to the river and about 15 feet above it. They went in about a quarter mile to a quiet bend, where Langer stopped. Turnbull parked.

  “Pulled out the GPS,” Langer said, holding up a grey metal device with a couple of wires hanging from it.

  “Get the radio out too. Maybe we can listen in.”

  Langer nodded and went to work as Turnbull kept watch. After a few minutes, he produced the radio. He also took the AKs out of the vehicle, along with the extra ammo. They had already liberated the side arms. To Turnbull’s disappointment, the dead PSF carried 9 millimeter Berettas. He had only about one and a half magazines of .45 left. But he did retrieve a fairly decent Kevlar plate from the back of each one’s vest. The front plates were terminal. Those would go in his own plate carrier rig, front and back. And he liberated a thigh holster from one as well.

  Langer put the sedan in neutral and pushed from the driver’s door so he could steer; Turnbull pushed from behind. The sedan went forward over the bank and down into the river with a splash. The windows were all open, so it flooded almost immediately. With a final gasp in the form of a huge air bubble, it sunk into the muddy water.

  “I’d plant those two here, but I need to go back to Lee’s and borrow her shovel too,” Langer said. They returned to the truck and headed south toward town.

  Turnbull was taking the lead on this one personally. There were two cells involved, one Langer had trained and Banks’s from Bretzville. Their vehicles were left guarded about a mile west off a little used farm road. They made the march east to the ambush point with the sun still up, so they kept to the woods. They had all taken off work early to plan and rehearse; most worked for themselves or each other, so no one outside the circle of trust noticed.

  The mission was much more impromptu than Turnbull liked, but they would be fighting somewhere tonight, and his vote was for on the ground of his own choosing. He planned it and rehearsed them as best he could in the time he had.

  “How did your discussion with the ag inspector go?” Turnbull asked Banks as they walked between the trees.

  “Pretty well. A couple of guys in masks pushed his car off the road, dragged him out from behind the wheel and kicked his ass pretty good. Told him things had changed and that his services were no longer needed,” Banks replied. “He won’t be back.”

  “He?” asked Turnbull. “You didn’t misgender xim, did you?”

  “I’m pretty sure he was a he,” Banks said. “From the way he cried when I slammed the butt of my fourteen into his nutsack.”

  “That’s the moment genderfluidity becomes much less fluid,” Turnbull said. “So is Kyle going to be able to pull off his part of all this?”

  “Drive a truck badly? Yeah, I figure he can do that right, especially when he’s trying to.”

  The two cells rendezvoused, but Turnbull and Langer did not let them interact – OPSEC. The pair handled the coordination between the teams. Langer’s crew took the north part of the wooded embankment and the north security position that would seal off the kill zone along the 100 meter asphalt strip. Turnbull’s team took the south, including the southern security element. There were 18 bodies there, not counting Kyle and the rear truck driver Langer’s group supplied.

  Turnbull carefully positioned each shooter, and reiterated the plan. Each shooter set up right-left limit stakes to help ensure his fire was into his assigned sector of fire. Maybe five were prior service military in some form – they got it right away. It took some effort to train up the others. To the extent their training was incomplete, now it was time to learn by doing.

  The call came in on a burner cell at 8:17 p.m., routed through a half-dozen people who had no idea about the nature of the message they were passing onward. The four People’s Volunteer vehicles had
passed through Loogootee at 8:05 p.m. Turnbull huddled with Langer for a moment, and then the local took off to his troops.

  “Three minutes,” Turnbull said to the men to each side. He lay down, his AK ready. He had passed five others out to the shooters. He would initiate the ambush with automatic fire and the others with Kalashnikovs would join him in trying to run up the count fast. The rest, with their deer rifles or AR15 semi-autos would provide pinpoint fire.

  Banks had his M14. He would put holes through anything the bad guys tried to hide behind.

  Kyle sat in the cab of a moving company semi he had taken at gunpoint outside Jasper an hour ago. The driver was sitting zip tied in a gas station washroom where he’d be discovered the next morning – a small sacrifice for the cause. Kyle held the Motorola in his hand.

  “Inbound,” barked the radio. The northern spotters had the enemy in sight. Kyle started the engine with a gloved hand and glanced at the AR15 he had selected for tonight that was perched on the passenger seat. He carried six other 30-round mags of 5.56 millimeter ammo in his web gear.

  Turnbull had taken him aside and, after explaining his special mission as the blocker, told him, “This time, when it goes off, kill as many as you want.” Kyle thought of that and swallowed.

  It seemed more thrilling when it was less abstract.

  The lights appeared up ahead at the curve. It looked like four sedans heading south fast. Kyle gripped the steering wheel with one hand and the gear shift with his other.

  Turnbull watched the convoy and noticed it was followed a hundred meters or so behind by a tractor-trailer rig. That would be the rear blocker.

  He turned his eyes south. Kyle’s rig was idling by the side of the access road. The convoy was coming fast.

  “Any time, Kyle,” Turnbull said to himself.

  The rig lurched forward as if obeying Turnbull’s command. It pulled straight across the four-way intersection, blocking it. To the right, on the northeast corner was a ditch parallel to the highway, and then the embankment where the shooters were positioned. To the left, at the northwest corner, there was another parallel ditch, then a field rolling out a half mile to a far off tree line one could barely make out in the fading daylight.