“Make that very lucky I gave my word,” Turnbull said. He picked up the PBI agent roughly by his zip-tie binding, ensuring he stretched the arms at as unpleasant an angle as he could without hearing a snap, and lifted the man to his feet. Kunstler glared even more intensely.
“You pray, right red stater?” Kunstler said through clenched teeth. “You all believe in your magical sky king and pray, don’t you? Well, you better pray our positions are never reversed because –”
The Beretta was out of Turnbull’s thigh holster and pressed up against Kunstler’s forehead.
“If you flap your talk hole just one more time, you’re finding out if there’s life after death,” Turnbull said. Behind Kunstler, two insurgents stepped out of the potential splatter cone.
“Nothing to say? No more penetrating theological insights?” Turnbull asked.
The gun didn’t move, not a quiver or a shake, as it pushed on the detective’s forehead. Kunstler stood, still and silent, growing pale.
“I didn’t think so,” Turnbull said, a bit disappointed. “Now get your sorry ass on the bus. You’re going home.”
12.
Colonel Deloitte’s finger ran across the map in his main command post outside Bloomington. His battle captain, the officer who was the central collection point for the information coming into the command post (being old school, Deloitte still habitually referred to it as a “TOC,” or “tactical operations center,” though the nomenclature had changed), stood behind him watching. His S3, the lieutenant colonel operations officer with a high and tight haircut, stood there as well, cradling a notepad.
Behind them, the map NCO observed the officer huddle. It was his map. The staff sergeant made the changes and adjustments to it; no one else touched it. Even the commander did not touch the map to change it. So the sergeant kept his wary eye on the officers to make sure they didn’t mess with his work. Deloitte was experienced enough that it never occurred to him to do so, but every once in a while some lieutenant with a marker would start heading towards the map and need to be driven away. The staff sergeant was all over that.
“Have you figured out what the order means yet?” Deloitte said to the S3. “Because I’m still baffled.”
XX Corps, the higher headquarters for Midwestern combat units had sent down the order to Deloitte’s 172nd Brigade an hour ago and they were trying to make sense of it. Back in the old US Army, something so unclear and confused would have never gotten out the door, and there would have been a face-to-face orders briefing by the division commander for the subordinate units to make sure everyone was synched.
But the divisions were gone now – cutting out that traditional layer of command and control was a cost-cutting move to free up money to be spent on people who oppression kept from supporting themselves somehow – and the corps commander up in Chicago did not seem to want to engage in actual commanding. She had been selected with great fanfare to take charge of the massive XX Corps and “smash the camouflage ceiling.” After an undistinguished career in logistics, and after her first order brief a year ago had been a humiliating fiasco – for one thing, she did not understand her corps order of battle and was surprised to learn the corps had some tanks – she stopped engaging in any activity where she might have to display any tactical knowledge. After that, she just hunkered down in the Windy City, attending parties in her medal-bedecked Class A uniform and sending out long missives about the need to combat the real enemy, patriarchy.
“It looks like there’s a declaration of martial law in the south Indiana region, and we’re supposed to be prepared to move our forces in to establish order,” said the operations officer. “It doesn’t say when. Until then, it seems to say we have to keep our ground forces north of Route 150, which runs east-west north of Jasper at Loogootee. But then we are also supposed to fight insurgents south of there, somehow. I don’t get it either, sir.”
“Corps doesn’t want us sending the ground battalions south yet because the reds will see the movement and they might react,” Deloitte said. “But it still wants us to make the problem go away. What’s the order say about air assets?”
The operations officer reviewed the three pages of the printed order again. “Nothing about air,” he said, annoyed. A comprehensive order would have mentioned air operations in detail.
“If there’s nothing saying we can’t use air, then we can use it. And I’m going to push the envelope and say we can insert recon teams,” directed the colonel. He stared at the map. It was all red except for a strip a few miles in along the border, which was the Ohio River in this sector. There were several military outposts there, mostly observation positions and radar sites monitoring the red forces. But between there and Bloomington, it was scarlet.
“The interstates,” Deloitte said, tapping the map. “That’s how they influence the fight now that they’ve taken Jasper. That’s how they stop us from deploying quickly. And that’s how they make it known everywhere that we are losing even with the media blackout.”
“The PSF already cut off the food, fuel and other deliveries into the red areas,” said the ops officer. “Whatever is on the interstates is passing through the area, not stopping.”
“Most of it is agricultural products moving to the east coast cities from the farm states,” Deloitte said. “Food. They can detour north, but that disrupts everything. If the food stops coming, the cities explode.”
“And there’s no hiding what’s happening,” said the operations officer.
“What else?” asked Deloitte.
The operations officer reviewed some notes, then looked up. “There’s also a lot here, about two of the three pages, about stomping out phallocentrism in the military command structure.”
“Tell Major Little I need a detailed memo on how we can most gender-inclusively execute our anti-phallocentrism mission. That should keep the little shit out of my hair for a while. In the meantime, start planning for combat ops. I want to initiate air ops ASAP.
“I-69 north-south and I-64 east-west are the two main arteries through this region,” Turnbull said, the AAA map laid out over a desk in the bank branch they were using as a headquarters. The original idea was to use the PSF station as the headquarters, but Turnbull nixed it.
“That’s the first place I’d hit with an airstrike,” he said. “Clean it out and leave it empty.”
The bank was solid, one of the few reinforced buildings in town. It also had a huge pile of PR currency in the vault, which the workers had forgotten to close when they left. That would make for useful kindling.
Larry Langer and Dale Chalmers stood around the desk where the manager used to sit. He was gone now, having fled north with most of the rest of the Tories. They had clogged the roads out of town earlier. Turnbull had directed that they be let go – no need to have a whiny, fussy Fifth Column among them, agitating about imagined racism and homophobia.
The bank was a hive of activity. Lee Rogers stood a few feet away talking to some people about food stocks. Power was already cut; how long the generators could make up for it was anyone’s guess. Food and fuel were going to be problems. Nothing was flowing into the area anymore – but with the freeways still open, stuff was flowing across.
“You want to cut the freeways?” Langer said.
“That’s right. Cutting off 64 and 69 will prevent them from moving military forces quickly. It’ll keep them on smaller roads, where they’ll be slower and more vulnerable. But it also has a strategic component. It effectively blocks out the agricultural products from Southern Indiana and Illinois completely, and forces goods from further west around on a long detour north. When the country split, the blue folks forgot who feeds them. They need every inch of farmland they can get.”
Langer cocked an eyebrow. “So, how does that help us?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” said Turnbull.
“So they gotta tighten their belt in New York City because they aren’t getting all the beans and corn they used to. How does tha
t help us?”
“It makes them pay attention to us.”
“It might just make them pay too much attention to us, if you get my meaning,” At Turnbull’s direction, Langer had organized a number of teams to head north to Bloomington to scout out the People’s Republic Army’s forces and their locations and report back. The PRA was sitting there for now, but who knew when it might move south to put an end to their little revolt?
“What are you saying?” Turnbull asked.
“I’m just wondering if this was meant to get them off our backs, or if you’ve got bigger plans.”
“Spit it out, Larry,” Turnbull said.
“Well, are you doing this for us, or for the US? Because I don’t quite see the end game here. Oh, don’t get me wrong – I like to fight. I got nothing to lose. Those blue sons of bitches already killed all my family. I’ll shoot them until they shoot me. But how does this end for all these nice people like Dale and Lee here?”
Lee had joined them and was looking at Turnbull. So was Dale.
“What’s the endgame here, boss?” Lee asked.
Turnbull paused. “There’s a good chance this half of the state is going over to the red,” he said. “I don’t know how or when, or even if. It’s a possibility. They’re talking about it, the reds and the blues. Secret negotiations”
“Holy shit,” Lee said.
“Are the reds going to invade?” Dale said.
“I don’t know. There are negotiations. My mission is to make it easier to lose this place than keep it. And your mission is to keep the PR from treating you like dirt, and you’re accomplishing it.”
“I feel like we’re pieces in a bigger game,” Dale said. “Do we matter at all?”
“Do you matter to yourselves? I didn’t make you fight. I offered to help you if you did. You wanted to live free. Our interests correspond. So now, what’s next?”
“We could just stay put, let this settle down,” Ted Cannon said. He had gotten out of the hospital and made his way over to the headquarters. His face still looked like a stretch of Chechnyan ruins, but he was on his feet. He had battle gear on and an AK was over his shoulder.
“You think it will simmer down? You worked with them,” Turnbull said. “You know them better than any of us. Do you think they can tolerate people living free in the heartland of the People’s Republic?”
“They won’t think about anything else until we’re back under their thumb,” Ted said. “You’re right, I know them. They can’t stand defiance, and they’ll do whatever they have to do not only to get us back under control but to make sure we can never stand up to them again.”
“If we don’t cut those roads, they can swing in and around us fast with their heavy army units before we can stop them. That’s our tactical reason to do it. And there’s the strategic reason – hitting them in the stomach,” Turnbull said.
“I don’t care much about how much they have to eat in New York City,” Langer said. “But if those freeways are open they can move on us before we know they’re coming. So, that’s gotta get done.”
“I have some ideas,” Turnbull said.
“Me too,” replied Langer.
“What else?” Turnbull asked.
Dale spoke up. “I’ll get working on the coordination with other areas,” he said. While the PSF had not been completely driven out of the regions to the east and west – except for the Hoosier National Forest, which no PSF unit would dare enter – much of the map across south Indiana and Illinois and even Ohio was red. There were enough friends and relatives across the area that hooking up contact between resistance units was relatively easy.
“Good,” Turnbull said. “And get the Mayor working to organize the noncombatants. We’ll need the hospital up and running even though most of the doctors ditched. Plus, we need the stuff we talked about built.”
Lee Rogers nodded. Her logistics portfolio included construction and manufacturing.
“What do you want me to do?” Ted Cannon said.
“You are ex-military, right?” Turnbull asked.
“MP,” Cannon replied.
Turnbull motioned him over and bent over the map on the desk. “Okay, while I’m out dealing with the interstates, I need you organizing the defense in depth north of town. Divide into sectors; Dale knows the plan. We need to be able to defeat the main force advance, but we also need to fight the counter-recon battle. If I know their commander, he’s going to flood the zone with recon, surveillance, and target acquisition elements. You gotta stop them.”
Ted nodded. During a conventional fight, military police abandoned their usual role of pulling over drunk privates driving back from the club and undertook rear area security, meaning locating and eliminating spies and infiltrators.
The huddle broke apart, and they went off in their various directions, all except Turnbull. He surveyed the activity. The locals had slid into their new roles quickly and with remarkably few bumps. Many had military experience, which helped. But mostly these people had been organizing their own businesses, their churches, and their community activities from Little League to parades all their lives. Maybe it was different elsewhere, but here they didn’t look to anyone else to do for them. When the PR government left, the Mayor simply created a new one. These people always assumed they would do for themselves, so when someone needed to step up someone always did. Turnbull was providing them some tactical expertise and some guidance, but this war was decentralized, not dictated. They had to fight it if they wanted to be free.
Turnbull watched them proceed with satisfaction. This was becoming a real insurgency. Now all they had to do was not get killed.
Closing the freeway was a two part-operation. Turnbull oversaw Part One.
Six sets of four vehicles entered at various points on I-69 and I-64. There was not a lot of traffic, but there was some – mostly long haul trucks. And they were the target.
Turnbull’s team waited by the side of the road west of the Route 161 junction with I-64. Within five minutes a pair of dull gray tractor-trailer rigs passed them. The four vehicles pulled out into the freeway.
“Trail, anything, over?” Turnbull called into the mic from the first vehicle, a Chevy Blazer.
“Negative, over,” reported the last vehicle. No PSF in sight.
“Engaging, out,” said Turnbull. He put down the mic and picked up the Remington 870. It was full of deer slugs.
He didn’t bother cocking it. There was always one in his chamber.
The rigs were doing 60, with the second drafting the first. Turnbull nodded to his driver and the Chevy swung out into the left lane and punched it. The green terrain began flying by at 70, then 80, until the SUV caught up parallel to the first rig and hung there, next to its quarry.
The driver did not look over at him.
“Honk,” Turnbull said. The Chevy’s horn honked, but the truck driver ignored them.
“Okay,” Turnbull said. “So we’re playing horsey.”
He hung the 12-guage out the window, pointed to the outside tire of the rear double tire and fired.
That the driver reacted to, trying to keep control of the monster truck, which swung across the road and almost side-swiped the Chevy.
Now the driver finally looked over at Turnbull, and Turnbull took the opportunity to pump his shotgun. He pointed his finger at the driver, and then at the shoulder. The driver slowed – the Chevy matched it – and rolled his truck to a stop with the shredded rear tire flapping. The second truck, whose driver had watched the whole thing, did the same with another insurgent vehicle to its left.
“Get out,” Turnbull said, having gotten out and pointing the Remington at the cab. The driver complied, terrified.
“What are you carrying?” Turnbull asked.
“Dry goods,” The driver said. “Like blankets and towels.”
Too bad. Food would have been nice.
“Keys in it?” asked Turnbull. The driver nodded and Turnbull motioned to one of the guerrillas who k
new how to drive a big rig. The guerrilla hopped up and into the cab. The driver was baffled.
“We’re liberating this truck,” Turnbull said.
“I just drive them,” replied the driver.
“Well, we’re not liberating you. You can go where you want. You do need to forget what we look like, though.”
“Forget who?”
“That’s the spirit. Walk east. I’m sure someone will give you a lift to the next truck stop. And when you get there, you tell them what happened. You tell them the interstates are closed.”
The trucker nodded vigorously.
A pair of guerrillas marched the second driver up. He looked inconsolable. They placed him by his friend, and Turnbull gestured east with the barrel of his scattergun. They started walking.
“Beef,” said one of the guerrillas proudly.
“Looks like we’re grilling tonight,” Turnbull said. “Get it to town and turn it over to Lee Rogers.”
Turnbull gestured to the guerrilla inside the cab to fire up the rig, which he did. Then Turnbull nodded and the driver pulled the truck across the two lanes, stopped and shut it off. He got out and met Turnbull in the middle of the freeway.
“Perfect,” said Turnbull. He motioned for the Chevy Blazer and a Ford F-150 to roll up. Both had winches on their front bumpers.
Part Two of the plan was led by Larry Langer. He and three cars of guerrillas pulled off I-64 at Route 65 a dozen miles west of where I-64 and I-69 crossed. The old Moto Mart sign was faded and forgotten. The new sign read “PEOPLE’S TRUCK STOP.” Perhaps 15 trucks and their trailers sat in the lot.
There was no PSF in sight. There had been some guerrilla activity around here so the blues were keeping off the roads. Their cruisers seemed to attract bullets. Langer issued a quick series of orders to his men and took four with him toward the restaurant and store.
The store portion was largely deserted. The old racks that used to hold CDs of long forgotten country western singers and paperbacks by obscure authors were largely empty. The candy bar rack had a paltry selection, and the coolers were only half-filled with sodas and the like. The register girl, who looked like she used to be hefty but had involuntarily dropped a few dozen pounds thanks to the richness of socialism, simply stared blankly when the five men with guns walked in.
Indian Country Page 21