“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.
Thanks to the two ditches, when Kyle sealed off 231, there was no way around the block.
The lead sedan, a familiar Chevy with the black letters “PV” spray-painted on the front doors, waited too long to slow down and ended up screeching to a wobbly stop. The other cars did the same – the fourth car actually rammed the rear bumper of the third. Their doors flew open and 16 men in PV uniforms leapt out, waving their rifles and swearing in incoherent rage at the “cracker motherfucker” driving the truck blocking their way.
The rear truck slowed down too, and turned to position itself to block the way back north. The PVs, eyes fixed south, did not notice.
Turnbull aimed, exhaled, and fired a burst of 7.62 millimeter rounds at the targets 75 meters down and to his front.
The rest of the Kalashnikovs lit up, and then the other weapons too. Glass shattered, steel punctured, tires blew out, and the concrete exploded in a hundred tiny eruptions.
Turnbull’s first burst caught a short PV who had been looking up at the tree line while the others were shouting at the trucker. One of Turnbull’s guiding principles was to always try to kill the smart ones first. Whether or not the guy had actually figured out that this was a trap was a moot point; three rounds sunk hard into his chest and sluiced out his back, splattering blood and chunks across the concrete.
He didn’t fall right away, though; that took a second burst, which caught him in the shoulder, then the throat, then the chin, and then the forehead in rapid succession. That fusillade finally convinced him to sprawl on his back and die, freeing Turnbull to seek his second target, a skinny one sprinting for cover in the far ditch. His next burst of fire tore up the unlucky Volunteer’s spine like a series of five little red volcanos.
Skinny’s bladder and his legs were freed from their slavery to his faraway brain when Turnbull’s rounds severed his spinal column. His legs went in opposite directions as his sphincter relaxed. Skinny collapsed face-first in the dirt of the soft shoulder, his urine turning it to mud, his dignity taken along with his life.
Everyone was firing down the line, though fire from the AKs slackened as they ran their first magazines dry. Turnbull dropped his mag and inserted a fresh one, then sought a new target.
Was that Do-Rag there, near the front of the second car, with crazy, panicked eyes? He had no weapon, having dropped it when the shooting started. It turned out that it’s scary when they shoot back at you. Turnbull took aim center mass and pulled the trigger. Nothing. It was jammed. The former PV rifle was apparently trying to help out its former owners.
Do-Rag turned and bolted east, toward the open field. He didn’t stop at the ditch – he leaped over it and sprinted.
Do-Rag was getting away. No time to clear the AK.
“Sergeant, can I borrow your rifle for a second?” Turnbull asked.
“It’s almost dry,” Banks replied, handing it over without any questions.
“Oh, I only need one shot,” Turnbull said. Banks shrugged. He turned toward the man on his other side and began directing his teammate’s fire at the few targets still standing down on the road.
Turnbull lay flat and took up the heavy rifle. Banks was using iron sights, so Turnbull did it the old-fashioned way. He put the front sight post on Do-Rag’s back as the PV ran away and aligned it. Maybe a 200 meter shot on a moving target. Hard, but not that hard.
Turnbull exhaled and pulled. The trigger broke unexpectedly and the gun sounded like a howitzer as the .308 round streaked out of the barrel.
Do-Rag looked like someone had hit him in the lower back with a pile driver. He was down for good.
“Here’s your gun,” Turnbull said, handing it back and assessing the situation. There was still some shooting, but nothing was moving down there.
“Cease fire!” he yelled. Langer and Banks and then the rest of them picked up the “Cease fire” call, and the firing ceased.
Drawing his .45, he got on his feet. “Assault! Let’s go!” he cried, and he and most of the shooters charged down the embankment into the corpse-strewn kill zone.
Turnbull crossed the ditch and hit the asphalt, his pistol up, seeking targets. Nothing. Movement right – Turnbull pivoted. Kyle stepped forward from over near the ditch, AR15 in hand.