Indian Country

by Kurt A Schlichter

  “Roger.”

  The helicopters broke off their attack and began flying north. On the way out they saw several suspicious vehicles, and wiped them out.

  Ted Cannon saw them fly by again, this time heading north. He had watched their attack on Jasper from his vantage point, and as they passed he unloaded a clip at them from his AK.

  They didn’t notice.

  Turnbull hopped out of the pick-up in the Courthouse Square. There were fires around town, and several people under sheets in the square.

  “Apache gunships,” Davey Wohl said, his face tight with anger. “They just came in here and lit us up. And there was nothing we could do.”

  Dale Chalmers approached. The bank headquarters had not been hit – which told Turnbull that the enemy had no eyes in town. Not yet at least.

  “How many?” Turnbull asked.

  “At least 20 dead,” Dale said. He seemed calm for someone whose friends had probably just been torn apart by the helicopters. “They hit the PSF station, like you said. And the fire house.”

  “Shit,” Turnbull said.

  “Yeah, the whole fire crew is gone. And Ted reported that they dropped in recon elements. We think we got them all. But they killed a couple more of us.”

  “We’re holding the interstates, but on the way back we got droned,” Turnbull said.

  “Droned?” Dale said. “They’re using drones on us now?”

  “Yeah, drones. We need to assume we’re always under surveillance.”

  “Kelly,” Davey Wohl said. “I’ll fight anytime anywhere, you know that.”

  “I know it,” Turnbull said.

  “But drones? Apache gunships? We don’t have anything to stop them. All we have are these hunting rifles and AR15s.”

  “That’s going to be enough,” Turnbull said.

  “What? We shot the hell out of the Apaches and they kept flying. We can’t even see those damn drones. How can we fight them with rifles, Kelly? How?” asked Wohl.

  “How?” asked Turnbull. “We shoot the guys behind the controls.”

  13.

  The sun was just coming up. It was quite a beautiful Indiana day.

  On a quiet back road, Larry Langer let the wind blow through the tips of his long, stringy hair as he steered the motorcycle north. It had been a while since he had ridden one, but it came back to him quickly. He kept his speed up, just in case someone above was watching. Part of the idea behind the Kawasaki was that one man on a motorcycle was less likely to attract attention from the eyes in the sky. Worst case, he might be harder to hit if they decided he was a bad guy.

  His .357 was tucked in his pants and under his zipped up denim jacket. He wore a helmet, which was against his principles, only because it made him less likely to have some random PSF cruiser try to pull him over.

  This was a sacrifice. Larry Langer considered helmet laws an unconscionable intrusion upon a man’s natural rights.

  He pressed on. His target was about 50 miles north of Jasper, just outside of Bloomington.

  Langer had been pleased with how his mission to the truck stop had gone – he had repeated it at another further up I-69 later that day. Sure enough, no one had even tried to use the interstates since.

  But he had returned to a Jasper in crisis as the townspeople tried to deal with the aftermath of the helicopter raid. Between the Apache and drone strikes, there were about two dozen dead townsfolk and as many wounded, some badly. The real costs of the fight was only now registering on the people.

  It was a cost Larry Langer already knew.

  He rode on, passing the old, abandoned Navy surface testing facility at Greenwood Lake. The People’s Republic was not much interested in building ships – it was a waste of money that could go to subsidizing various constituencies instead. After the Split, the sailors had left and no one ever came back.

  He passed under I-69 on a narrow country road where the interstate veered northeast toward Bloomington. The freeway was empty in both directions, and it lent the land an eerie quiet. The motorcycle was about the only sound – the farms were still, and there were no farmers about that he could see. Maybe they had left. Maybe they were in the woods with rifles making sure no one tried to use the interstate.

  The insurgent-controlled area extended only a few miles north of I-69, and he soon crossed into the area under the People’s Republic’s nominal control. Up here, no one was completely in charge. But apparently the local PSF units were exercising discretion – he did not see any PR security forces on the roads.

  After another ten minutes of riding, he came to the mile marker that had been agreed upon as the rally point, pulled off the road, and waited.

  After ten minutes, a large orange van appeared. Painted in black on both sides were the words “SPECIALLY ABLED PERSONS SPECIAL TRANSPORTATION.” In smaller letters was the warning: “Notice: It Is Unlawful To Disrespect Or Shame The Occupants Of This Bus.” The van pulled up and the door opened. Three people with hunting rifles looked him over.

  “You’re picking me up in the short bus?” Langer asked.

  “Who are you?” a woman with a Winchester asked. The rifle wasn’t quite pointed at him, but it wasn’t quite pointed away either.

  “A friend from Jasper,” Langer said.

  “Get in.”

  “The battle damage assessment is pretty good,” said the operations officer. “The Predator took out two rebel vehicles, with multiple casualties. The Apache raid –”

  “That’s offensive!” shouted Major Little. “They are called Woodrow Wilsons!”

  “Where’s my anti-phallocentrism plan, Major?” asked Deloitte.

  “Don’t you think I don’t see what’s going on here, Colonel,” the Command Diversity Officer said.

  “What’s going on, Major?”

  “You’re trying to sideline me so you can run this unit in your own racist, sexist, patriarchal image. Well, I won’t let it happen,” Little said.

  “Do I need to have you escorted out of my command post?” Deloitte said.

  “There’s going to be an accounting,” Little said.

  “Stand there and be quiet, Major. The soldiers are talking. Go on, Colonel.”

  The operations officer continued. “The gunship raid eliminated the abandoned PSF station. It does not appear they were using it as their headquarters as we expected. There was heavy resistance, but all small arms. Both Apaches” – Little seethed at that – “suffered significant damage. One is deadlined.”

  “How long?”

  “Maintenance says at least a week. A big round, probably from a deer rifle, hit a hydraulics coupling and, bottom line, they can’t get the part from depot. It’s back ordered.”

  “So some guy with his Remington and a two dollar bullet took out a $35 million dollar aircraft that’s 25% of my air combat power because the logistic system can’t get me a part?”

  The operations officer nodded. “And there’s another aircraft down. Software issue that will take a specialist coming from depot. They’re both sitting on the flight line at Monroe Municipal Airfield, waiting.”

  “And waiting and waiting, because this army can’t do simple things like get helicopters fixed.”

  “It’s inappropriate to disrespect the logistical system,” Little piped in.

  Deloitte ignored him. “We’ll need the two operational aircraft up this afternoon ready to be called in on targets of opportunity. The Predator can do it, or the scouts. How many recon teams are in place?”

  “Only one, sir.”

  “Of three?”

  “Yes, the insurgents were very effective in detecting the insertions. We think they are operating a zone defense. The one team in place is the furthest from town, and we don’t have anything useful from it yet because it can’t see much where it is. I’d recommend shifting them to an alternate position where they can observe better, but the woods are crawling with insurgents and they know the ground like the back of their hands. If our guys move, they probably die
.”

  “But we have Predators up?”

  “One’s up now doing high loops over the town. We’re holding off engaging targets for now, which is good because there are so many targets.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sir, Jasper’s like an ant colony. They aren’t hiding. They’re out in the open moving around.”

  “They’re doing it on purpose, giving us too many targets. Hiding the wheat in among the chaff.”

  The operations officer nodded. Little looked confused; his brain was processing the word “chaff” for possible offensiveness.

  “And we have fifteen Hellfires total left.”

  “Fifteen? I’m surprised it’s that many. Don’t count on resupply. The whole PRA missile inventory is probably stripped out. No Hellfire engagement without my authorization from now on. We need to save them for the tanks if the US forces come north. We can’t waste them on guerrillas unless the target is too good to pass up.”

  The operations officer nodded. “I’ll pass the guidance to the controllers at Monroe. Now, we’re still in the planning process for moving south on order. The decision briefing is tonight. I’ll have you three courses of action.”

  “Fine. Anything else?”

  “Communications instructions,” said the operations officer. “We’re changing tactical call signs in case the insurgents compromised the signals instructions the destroyed recon teams carried. Sir, you are Red Eagle. I’m Yellow Hawk.” The operations officer turned to the Command Diversity Officer, grinning. “And you are Blue Falcon.”

  It was 3:00 p.m. when Langer pulled his motorcycle up to the bank and went inside. The court house square was a hub of activity, but it did not appear that there had been any strikes in town since morning. Turnbull was poring over maps by the manager’s desk, and that’s where Langer headed.

  Turnbull saw him coming. “Well?”

  “I got a great tour from our pals,” Langer said. “Got right up close.”

  “Good. I have the force waiting. What do we have?”

  “Maybe a platoon for security, but no more than a squad on duty at any one time,” Langer said. He pulled a folded paper out of his denim jacket and flattened it out on the desk over the map. “Cyclone fence around the perimeter, with barbed wire around the top. There’s a tower and I guess it’s got a M240. A couple hummers with .50 cals over here. Some 5-ton and HEMMT trucks. Fueler here on the tarmac with JP-8. Now these buildings hold the crews – pilots over here, everyone who doesn’t think he’s God’s gift over here. And in those trailers, the drone jockeys.”

  “Checkpoints?”

  “No, it’s outside the PSF perimeter around Bloomington. Anyway, the blue are more concerned with keeping people from heading south than from us coming up north.”

  “Okay,” Turnbull said. “Let’s get saddled up and moving.”

  The force moved out in individual vehicles with four guerrillas each and a map. Each took a different route north, all heading to converge at the rally point near a small hamlet named Hendriksville a few miles west of Bloomington. The rendezvous time was 2000 hours, with the sun falling in the sky.

  Turnbull rode in the backseat of a Toyota Camry with Langer, who brought some Pabst. But it wasn’t good Pabst. It was the same mass produced swill everyone outside the cities drank, but wearing Pabst livery. Brands were, of course, wasteful. But in the cities, there were microbreweries catering to the urban elite. Somehow, catering to their tastes was never, ever wasteful.

  “Beer privilege,” Langer snorted, but he still sucked it down.

  “How many of those are you going to drink?” Turnbull asked when Langer opened up his second.

  “I dunno. How many beers away is it?’

  The driver was a young man who had been kicked out of college and returned home after being accused of “gaze rape” by a 260 pound womyn with a nose ring. He had been eager to get involved in the fight, and now he was pointing out the windshield.

  “Helicopters!”

  Across the open field to the east, at about 300 feet, were a pair of Apaches headed south. The car entered a thicket of trees on both sides of the road.

  “Stop!” Turnbull said, and the kid skidded to a halt, then pulled to the side of the road.

  “Out and scatter!” Turnbull said, bailing out of the vehicle and sprinting toward the woods. The others followed his example, and they went in four different directions.

  After 50 yards, Turnbull stopped, knelt and keyed the mic on his Motorola. “This is Broadsword, Hillary in five mikes! I say again! Hillary in five mikes!” That was the code word anyone on the mission was to give for Apaches approaching. Hopefully Jasper would be ready when they arrived in what he estimated would be five minutes.

  Assuming the gunships weren’t going to pause to search and destroy the occupants of the Camry they had passed coming north.

  After a few minutes, it became clear the Apaches were not going to detour from their route to hunt down one random car – he had been counting on that when designing the decentralized movement plan – and the four loaded back into the Toyota and restarted their interrupted journey.

  “Made me spill my beer,” Langer complained. “I guess I really ought to thank them.”

  Turnbull and Langer crawled on their bellies like reptiles, from the soft shoulder under the trees and to the perimeter cyclone fence. Both carried AKs looted from the PSF station, which pleased neither. Turnbull carried wire cutters. Langer had a bolt cutter.

  Behind them, in the trees, waited a dozen guerrillas. Another team was cutting its way in down the fence line to the north.

  Langer covered Turnbull while he cut. The tower was peeking just over the top of the long general aviation sheds that blocked their view of the flight line, so they kept low. Turnbull snipped one segment, then another, then another. After two minutes and a dozen snips, a man-sized segment of fence fell over. Turnbull pushed it away.

  He nodded at Langer and went through. Langer signaled the rest of the team to move up and wait, and then he slithered through the hole as well.

  The fence was up on an embankment and they rolled down the little grass hill to the pavement, got to their feet and dashed to the sheds. Carefully, they worked their way down to the south end.

  A noise.

  Langer raised his rifle, but Turnbull waved him off and placed his own against the shed wall. He drew the Ka-Bar knife from the scabbard on his battle rig. The blade was dark steel, and only the razor-sharp edge he had put on it gleamed in the moonlight.

  Footsteps.

  Turnbull held out one finger and Langer nodded.

  The steps came closer and a man rounded the corner.

  It was a soldier in PRA camouflage battle dress, with body armor and a Kevlar helmet left over from the US Army days. His M4 was over his shoulder, and he stopped, trying to compute the two men standing directly in front of him.

  They did not compute. He went for his weapon, and Turnbull leapt forward.

  The soldier stumbled back, but Turnbull was faster. His left hand shot up and grabbed the lid of the helmet and pulled it down and forward while bringing the knife upward. It entered under his jaw, the thrust coming up met by the weight of him falling forward. The soldier went limp instantly – the blade had gone through and severed his spinal cord.

  “Damn,” Langer said. “That is messed up.”

  “Help me,” Turnbull said. They pulled the body together and dragged it behind the building, laying him out.

  “Overwatch,” Turnbull said, and Langer went to the corner, AK up, while Turnbull undid the man’s M4A1. It had a selector switch that said “AUTO” instead of “BURST,” so it would fire full automatic. Turnbull checked the chamber; there was a round in it. He dumped his AK mags and loaded up with six thirty-round M4 magazines.

  “Let’s go,” said Turnbull, gesturing to the rest of the team.

  “You leaving your Ka-Bar?” asked Langer.

  Turnbull growled, knelt down and started work
ing the blade out of the corpse’s neck as the other team members sprinted over to the shed. They stared at him and the body and then him again.

  “What?” asked Turnbull.

  No one answered.

  Langer peered around the corner and then waved them forward. The team moved swiftly between the buildings, trying to stay out of sight from the guards on the control tower.

  They made it to the final shed. Beyond it was the flight line and living area for the aviation unit.

  Gunfire and a stream of tracers erupted from the tower, but not directed at them. The second group was drawing fire somewhere to the north.

  “Shit,” hissed Turnbull. “Larry, the truck. The truck!”

  Langer nodded and tore off.

  “Follow me!” Turnbull said to the team, rushing around the corner.

  The tower was right ahead of them, and the M240 machine gunner was spraying down a target on the other side of the complex. He was certainly not looking at the dozen guerrillas approaching from his flank.

  Turnbull switched the M4 to AUTO and aimed as he ran. His weapon erupted in a long burst that sent sparks off the tower walls, but missed the gunner.

  That was okay – the intent was to suppress him and get him to let up on his own fire. It worked.

  The rest of the teams fired too as they ran. Sparks were ricocheting off the tower and the catwalk. There were at least three shapes up there now. One got off a burst from his rifle before someone’s bullet hit him and he went down. The other two soldiers were taking cover.

  As the team charged, Turnbull waved three of them off toward the foot of the tower and the stairwell. The rest followed Turnbull’s lead. There was more shooting now. Apparently the other team had come out of cover and started suppressing the control tower. But that meant they were not going to be able to do their other mission.

  Turnbull darted past the tower and headed toward the trailers and admin buildings at a full run.

  Langer flung open the door of a big, green Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Truck, or HEMTT, as the troops called them. The cab of the low-slung, vaguely insect-like truck was empty. The steering wheel was chained to a ring welded into the floor – a not-unreasonable precaution since the vehicle had no keys. Langer leaned his AK against the wheel and unlimbered the bolt cutters, set them on a link and squeezed. It snapped through. He cut the other side of the link, pulled the chain remnant out of the steering wheel, and climbed up to the metal landing outside the cab.