Indian Country

by Kurt A Schlichter

  The woods erupted with fire as several independent bands of guerrillas converged on the backed-up convoy north of the bridge. With its leadership gone and the vehicles trapped, the guerrillas could hit at targets at will along the half-mile long traffic jam.

  “Sort of like picking off the legions at the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest,” Turnbull had told them when outlining his plan. “They’re the Romans, you’re the barbarians,” he added helpfully.

  The vicious struggle went on all night as the survivors desperately fought a losing fight to keep the invisible guerrillas at bay.

  The PRA combat engineers waded into the muddy White River water and splashed under the Route 231 bridge to remove the guerrillas’ explosives under the watchful gaze of three tanks that had pulled up to the embankment to cover them by fire. Aimed rifle shots every few minutes from guerrillas in concealed positions took one or two soldiers down, but mostly they drew a thunderous volley of machine gun fire in return in the general direction of the shot. That was the idea. Slow them down, burn their ammo.

  Turnbull did not blow it. That would have disrupted his plan. Instead, he let them discover the explosives and remove them so they would risk crossing. Turnbull then left Wohl in command south of the bridge and moved back into Jasper proper to make sure the preparations were underway for when the tanks finally got into town.

  The tactical command post for the 172nd Brigade was actually three HUMVEEs plus two elderly M577 armored command vehicles. They looked like green boxes on tracks, and they provided a mobile forward command post for the brigade commander. The main command post, remained back in Bloomington; it was not planning to jump south until Jasper was secured.

  Inside, bouncing around on the hard bench seats as they moved south on the torn-up asphalt of Route 231, Major Little was receiving updates on the status of his brigade’s battle. The rear area was a mess, his S3 explained. Support units were under attack throughout the backfield.

  “I’m worried about our logistics, sir,” the operations officer said.

  “We won’t need any if we just take the town!”

  The ops officer paused; that was not how this worked.

  “You need to understand, sir. Except for the tanks, we’re road bound. The insurgents can go anywhere. They choose when to fight and from where. They have the initiative. They engage us with their damn deer rifles at long range and our M4s and AKs can’t effectively return fire. They’re hitting us in our weak spots, the supporters and logistics units. They aren’t taking on our tanks in the open head-to-head.”

  “They’re farmers and racist insurance salespersons!”

  “No sir, they’re guerrillas fighting on their own ground, to protect their families,” snapped the ops officer, trying to keep it respectful. “Just like the dead white men who wrote the old Constitution envisioned when they wrote the Second Amendment. And we’re outsiders, here in Indian Country only because some woman in the capital told us to be here.”

  “Watch yourself, Colonel,” Little hissed.

  “Loyalty means telling the truth.”

  “No,” said Little. “Loyalty means obedience.”

  The TAC-CP rolled into the field north of the White River Bridge on Route 231. Major Little stepped out of the rear hatch in a fury. His operations officer followed.

  “Why are they all sitting here? Why aren’t they moving?” the commander fumed, staring southward.

  “Sir, we should step behind the 577,” the operation officer said. They were exposed to sniper fire from the opposite bank and the command vehicles were going to be bullet magnets. Sure enough, there was a loud ding off the far side of the vehicle and Little practically leapt behind it.

  Captain Cardillo had been given a heads up that Blue Falcon was in the area and came back to meet him, zigging and zagging and remaining low. He was well-aware of the sniper threat – he had lost several soldiers so far.

  “Sir,” Cardillo said, saluting as he reported. Little had hated the patriarchal idea of saluting right up until the moment he took command. The ops officer smiled as Little proudly returned the sniper check.

  “Why are we stuck here, Captain? I said move fast and take the damn town!”

  “We had to clear the bridge. It was wired to blow,” Cardillo replied. “And we had to do it under fire.” As if on cue, another rifle round echoed and then the three overwatch tanks all opened up with their heavy machine guns.

  Little frowned. He had just learned that Bravo Company had arrived to find the bridge over the Porterville Road blown. And he had heard the reports from the survivors of A Company. Repeating that disaster on the Route 257 Bridge would not do.

  “Is it clear now?” the brigade commander asked.

  “Yes, the engineers confirmed it. And they think it will hold the tanks.”

  “What?”

  “The tanks are 70 tons combat loaded, Sir. You have to make sure the bridge can support the weight.”

  “And it will?”

  “We think so.”

  “Then attack, now.”

  “Roger. I’ll alert the infantry company.”

  “Just get your tanks into Jasper. The infantry can follow.”

  “Sir,” the operations officer said to the commander he outranked. “Sending tanks into an urban area without infantry is risky as hell. The M1s aren’t even equipped with the urban combat package. No remote controlled machine guns, no reactive armor. I strongly suggest –”

  “They have old hunting rifles and some AR15s. I’m not going to wait. Captain, move out! Use your big guns and take Jasper!”

  Cardillo knew better than to argue. He just hoped the infantry would follow quickly. But the ops officer spoke up.

  “Sir, we need at least a company with them. We just do.”

  Little grunted. “Fine.” He stomped off, and Cardillo turned to the operations officer.

  “Sir, I can’t reach my battalion commander. He was supposed to be here.”

  The ops officer sighed. “A sniper put a slug through his head out on the road.”

  “Geez.” First the brigade commander, and now his battalion commander. At least his battalion commander had been able to go out like a soldier.

  “Yeah. Be careful in town. That could turn into a royal clusterfuck real fast. We haven’t seen any anti-tank systems yet, but you know there’s lots of ways to mess with tanks in an urban area. Hit them hard, but remember who you are. Be careful of civilians. Try and get them to run – those PSF and PV bastards are killing everyone they catch.”

  “Oh no, you’re kidding me.”

  “I wish I was. We’re professionals. We’re soldiers, not murderers. You remember that. Do it for the boss.”

  “Yeah,” said Cardillo, nodding.

  “Look, we’re staging the arty now. You’ll have priority of fires. The range fan covers all of Jasper.”

  Cardillo nodded. At least he could call for support from the brigade’s three remaining howitzers, and his requests would go to the head of the line. That was something. He moved off to prepare his force to move.

  16.

  The ten tanks of Caring Company roared over the Route 231 Bridge followed by six truckloads of infantry – the rest would follow – and the TAC-CP. Captain Cardillo’s tank was second in sequence and he kept one hand on the radio switch and one on the machine gun mount.

  From his position on a hill, Davey Wohl keyed his radio mic.

  “Gandalf, this is Hobbit. They’re coming. Out.”

  He turned to his own troops and smiled. “Let’s go. It’s on.” They got up, and began moving toward the road, weapons ready.

  “Gandalf, this is Orc, over,” Banks said, calling headquarters using the ridiculous name his element had been assigned. He hated those stupid elf operas. Give him a John Wayne movie any day, especially Sands of Iwo Jima.

  “Orc, this is Gandalf, over.”

  “No contact yet. Continuing mission. Orc out.” Banks waved for his troops to follow him south. The sun was set
ting, but it might actually be easier to find the artillery in the dark. There were only a few places it could be. And it sure as hell would be impossible to hide once it started shooting.

  The PV sedan, a red 2013 Chevy Impala, slammed into the fallen tree just after it made the corner, bringing the vehicle from 40 miles an hour to a dead stop in the space of two feet. The driver and front passenger must not have been wearing seatbelts because they both flew through the windshield and bounced down the road, ending up in two unnatural piles of former people.

  The next PV vehicle was a pick-up, and it crashed into the rear, spilling the four Volunteers in the back. Then a couple more PSF cruisers plowed into the crazy daisy chain of demolition.

  A fifth sedan managed to skid to a halt without colliding. A farmer named Eli stepped out of his position with a Mossberg 12-guage 590A Tactical shotgun and pumped a load of Remington Express double-aught into the driver’s head through the window. He racked in another shell, pivoted and put three blasts in rapid succession into the occupants of the back seat. The one PSF officer in the passenger seat rolled out of the car and immediately raised his hands.

  “Don’t move, boy,” Eli said, taking aim at the prisoner’s face.

  There were a flurry of shots as the guerrillas finished off the injured in the other cars.

  Eli brought the PSF officer to Cannon, having relieved him of his pistol and body armor, and pushed him to the ground. Cannon looked him over. He seemed like an alien, not a fellow law enforcement officer.

  “What’s your mission here?”

  “Nothing. We’re just patrolling.”

  “Tell me the truth. We saw what you people do to civilians.”

  The PSF officer looked panicked. “I didn’t do any of it. I haven’t hurt anyone.”

  “So what’s your mission?”

  “We’re supposed to follow the soldiers and deal with terrorists,” the PSF prisoner said, and then realized that perhaps his choice of words was suboptimal. “With the locals.”

  “Deal with?”

  “Look, they shot some, but not me! I didn’t shoot anyone! The PBI guy made us. He ordered us to.”

  “PBI?”

  “Yes, he’s in charge. He has a tactical team. They have these black SUVs. They told us to shoot everyone. But I didn’t! I hid! I didn’t do anything!”

  “What do you want me to do with him?” Eli asked. It was pretty clear Eli would do whatever he asked.

  Cannon delayed. “Just stand him up.”

  Eli took the officer by the arm and hauled him to his feet. A small sack fell out of the breast pocket of the black PSF uniform. Cannon reached down and picked it up.

  “That’s not mine!” said the prisoner. How many dopers had told Cannon the same thing when he caught them holding back before all this began?

  The bag contained wedding rings and watches. Cannon looked up at Eli, who nodded.

  “Got it,” said Eli, who pushed the prisoner forward and shot him in the chest.

  Cannon felt nothing, and it sickened him that he felt nothing. But there was no time for that now.

  “Let’s move out.” They now knew their quarry.

  Turnbull watched as the tanks tore down Route 231 into Jasper. The insurgents had set up battle positions in and around both sides of the street at the north end of town. His was in the Walmart – the guerrillas had spent the day knocking out the front windows so it was open to the road.

  The tanks were moving fast, about 20 miles per hour, and covering the four miles from the bridge south quickly. No one had engaged them; Wohl’s force let them pass right through.

  The west side of the road was all houses; on the east, a closed Home Depot, an abandoned McDonald’s, and the recently requisitioned Walmart store. The tanks were moving fast. Turnbull hoped that he had trained the other gunner well.

  Turnbull engaged the sight on his FGM-148 Javelin missile. With the sun setting, he used thermal. He selected the third tank in line and locked on it. He pushed the trigger and he was surrounded by exhaust gasses as the missile leapt out of the launcher, followed a fraction of a second later by the second from the other missile team.

  The missile erupted from the tube and the fins popped into place – not that he could see it. He did see the burning light of the engine jiggle and twist in the air as it made for the speeding Abrams. The missile flew upwards and down in a lazy arc – its target was not the tank itself but the air directly above it. About one meter over the turret, the HEAT round detonated, its shaped explosive forming a stream of superheated plasma that went straight down into the relatively thin armor at the top of the tank.

  It was an immediate crew kill, and the second Javelin exploded over the next tank’s gas turbine engine and turned it to scrap. The halon fire suppression system inside the crew compartment kept that crew from roasting. Unfortunately, when they scrambled out of the crew compartment, the other guerrillas opened fire, cutting them down before they hit the ground.

  “Displace!” Turnbull yelled, abandoning the Javelin launchers. They didn’t have any more missiles anyway. Turnbull and the others sprinted to the back of the warehouse as two M1s fired their main guns. The first was the wrong round for the job; in the excitement, the loader had filled the breech with a M829 Armor-Piercing, Fin-Stabilized, Discarding Sabot anti-tank round – basically a titanium dart fired off at several times the speed of sound whose sheer energy would send it punching through tank armor and turn the crew inside the target to a pinkish mist. The sabot shot into the warehouse through the open frontage, flew through a dozen rows of shelves, punched out the back of the building with a barely perceptible loss of speed and finally buried itself 40 feet into the earth.

  The second shot was more effective. It was a HEAT round, and it exploded against the back wall, spraying the four guerrillas with fragments.

  Turnbull was knocked to the ground, disoriented for a moment by the heat and the noise and the spray of pieces of building. He shook his head and stood, as did two of the others, the ringing in their ears loud and sustained. The fourth guerrilla, whose name he did not even know, lay there unmoving with a shard of rebar sticking out of his eye.

  Turnbull ran, but a red curtain seemed to descend over one eye. He wiped it, and as he suspected, it was blood from a cut on his head. He kept running through the “EMPLOYEES ONLY” door into the back area and then was thrown off his feet again. Out in the store area, two more HEAT rounds blew the interior apart. He shook it off again, and they ran through the loading dock and toward the woods.

  The appearance of the anti-tank missiles in the hands of the guerrillas had changed everything for Captain Cardillo. He realized his eight remaining tanks were in a kill zone and he did exactly what he was trained to do – punched it in order to get the hell out of there.

  The turbines of the eight surviving tanks roared as the drivers demanded their full 1,500 horsepower. They tore off south down 231 into the middle of town.

  But that left the trucks full of infantry behind in the kill zone. The infantry company dismounted under a ferocious storm of bullets. The guerrillas with AR15-style weapons and other modern combat rifles focused on achieving fire superiority – that is, they attempted to put such heavy fire on the enemy that the blues would be unable to maneuver or counter attack. The snipers, the veteran deer hunters with the scoped Remingtons and Winchesters, focused on aimed shots at officers, NCOs, and anyone else who looked like he was taking initiative.

  As the tanks headed into town and Turnbull was running out to Mill Street, which ran parallel to 231 behind the Walmart. The pick-up truck he had requisitioned was sitting there, keys in the ignition. He put his M4 on the seat and punched it, heading toward the heart of Jasper.

  Both sides of 231 were lined with businesses and other buildings close to the road, which to Cardillo was a mixed blessing. The wall of structures made it hard for the guerrillas to engage them with Javelins, but it would also let them get really close. He held the M2 machine gun’s dual gri
ps tight, thumbs hovering over the thumb trigger.

  Nothing.

  And then something, an explosion on the treads of the rear M1 tank. The metal treads flew off and flapped on the road as the vehicle came to a halt.

  All hell broke loose and fire started coming from every direction. Cardillo saw flashes, swiveled his turret and fired at them with the heavy machine gun.

  The PRA infantry company commander took a 5.56 millimeter round through the throat and fell dead at the feet of a lieutenant, who instantly took charge and rallied his force. The machine guns began kicking and his men and women began returning fire. There was a lot of fire coming from the houses on the west of the road, so he pointed it out to his fire support officer, who checked grid coordinates and got on the radio.

  “Quebec One-Seven, this is Crusader Nine! Fire mission! Fire mission! Over!”

  As the FSO called in artillery, the infantry lieutenant ordered a casualty collection point in the McDonald’s and put one of the medics in charge of the dozen wounded. More people flooded into the restaurant, and he realized they were senior officers. The TAC-CP had pulled up outside and was co-locating in the old fast food joint.

  The building shook, and he looked across the street to see 105 millimeter artillery shells exploding among the houses where the enemy was hiding. The fire from the insurgents slackened, and he began to move his company south.

  Langer’s eyes opened. He was still in the hospital bed. Somehow he had hoped he would wake up elsewhere. There were no beeping monitors because the power was off, but he was hooked to an IV. That came right out. He slid around on his bed in his gown and sat on the bed.

  Damn, his stomach hurt.

  There were a lot of people running around the hospital floor. Yelling and shouting, but he could hear the shooting and the explosions outside over the noise.

  He wasn’t staying here. Not while a fight was going on.