“So, if you look at the map,” he continued. “You see we’d be defending alone, at least until we get reinforced, deep inside red territory. That means there is no rear area for us. Everywhere is the front line.”
A sergeant appeared with a cup of black coffee. Deloitte had mentioned off-handedly that he was tired and could use some a few minutes before, and even in a little thing like this his soldiers were trying to fulfill his intent. He took a sip. Good. The mess sergeant had somehow come up with real coffee. He resolved not to ask how – best he did not know.
Deloitte looked out at his officers and senior NCOs. Most had never been in action; only a few had held over like him from the old US Army after the Split. The PR military was a low-prestige institution, having to beg for every penny from a government more focused with paying off domestic constituents than providing for a defense from outsiders. The US, on the other hand, was highly militarized – a result of the red states’ martial tradition, the pro-military bent of its conservative founders, and because it had to carry the full weight of defending North America after the blues went back on the deal they made to share the burden in the Treaty of St. Louis that formalized the Split.
“There is some good news. We are getting a helicopter package of four Blackhawks,” Deloitte said.
“Jimmy Carters!” Major Little piped up. The name of the PR’s utility helicopters had been adjudged “problematic” and had been changed to honor one of its most revered former US presidents.
“And four Apaches,” continued Deloitte.
“Woodrow Wilsons!” shouted Little.
“The helicopter package will be here in Bloomington centered at Monroe Municipal Airfield. We are also getting two Predator drones, with Hellfire capability. They and the controllers will be collocated there. It’s out in the boonies, but we need the runway. S3, slice off a platoon for security. S4, figure out the feeding, fueling and arming.” The ops and logistics officers nodded and jotted down their instructions.
“We also need to make sure the operations order addresses issues of intersectionality –,” began Major Little.
“Sergeant Major, help the major leave.” Little got up and ran to the door ahead of the senior NCO, who seemed disappointed not to have a chance to assist.
“I’m calling HQ!” the Diversity Officer shouted, and then he slipped out the door. It slammed shut behind him.
“We don’t have orders to assist the civilian police yet,” Deloitte said. “That may come to pass, because they don’t know shit about counterinsurgency and it may all fall onto us to fix this mess for them. If they do, the drones give us 24/7 surveillance and recon. We can use the Jimmy Carters to drop in scouts to interdict guerrillas. But we may have to defend against a conventional red move north. I don’t know what’s going to happen, so we need to plan for both. If we have to roll, it’s pretty obvious where we need to focus. There’s People’s Interstate 69 as one enemy axis heading north-south, and 231 in mid-sector is the other. People’s I-64 runs east-west. These will be critical main support routes for us too if the red forces come north, and they are key targets for guerrillas. They cut those and that’s a lot of food and other supplies that can’t move out of, or through, here. So, here’s my basic commander’s intent for when you’re preparing my courses of action. If it goes down and we get the order, we’re going to focus our ops at the center of all those key routes.”
“We’re going right here,” Deloitte said, gesturing to a clear island in the middle of the ops map. “To Jasper.”
Turnbull was just lying down in the guestroom bed, Beretta on the nightstand, when his cell rang. The name that came up was “Peter Dolenz.” He unlocked it, 1-2-3-4, and answered.
“This is Mike.”
“We don’t have long,” Clay Deeds said unnecessarily. “We’re aware of your situation.”
“Sorry about the whole guerrilla war thing. I tried to behave.”
“You’re not the only one who’s had that problem, but you probably figured that out. It’s starting all across the region. We have 50 seconds.”
“Do you want me to slow it down now?” asked Turnbull. “I’m not sure it’s something you can set on simmer.”
“No. I want you to keep it up. The negotiations – they’re at an impasse. Warren closed the border tonight. We need the facts on the ground changed, Kelly. Forty.”
“So you want me to crank it up?”
“Do what you do. Make it ungovernable. Thirty seconds.”
“What about all these nice people who may die because we’re cranking up our secret war?”
“What about all the ones who won’t die because we’re going to get them out from under the PR’s boot. Twenty seconds.”
“How long do you need?”
“Seven days to see if negotiations are going to work. You hold out that long, then we’re coming in one way or the other. Ten seconds.”
“We can hold out for a week, unless Deloitte sends in his troops. Then it’s something wholly other.”
“Jasper’s the key to the whole region. You have to hold it. And that’s zero. Good luck, Kelly.”
The line went dead.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Turnbull said, the pistol aimed at Langer’s face as he opened it.
“I’m not lonely,” Langer said. “Just heard you get a call and talking. Something I should know?”
“No,” Turnbull replied. He lowered the gun and placed it back on the nightstand next to a glass of water and a paperback.
“What’s The Runewench of Zorgon?” Langer asked.
“Nothing,” snapped Turnbull, pulling the book out of sight.
“M’kay,” Langer replied, backing out part way, then stopping. “You sure there’s nothing going on you aren’t telling us?”
“Nope,” Turnbull replied. Langer closed the door, and Turnbull switched off the lamp. He lay there for a long time, staring into the darkness.
Two PSF officers, both male, walked into the Sunrise Diner with a third man wearing plainclothes. Turnbull put down his watery coffee and slipped the locked and loaded Beretta onto his lap. He’d kill the big uniformed one first, and the smaller one second – both headshots, just in case they weren’t flabby and were wearing vests under their uniforms. He’d do the detective last, then out the back door. If that stupid dog followed him as he ran, he’d consider shooting it too.
His planning process completed, Turnbull returned to his breakfast. Dale Chalmers was sweating and the Mayor swallowed hard even though his food had not arrived.
“Just be cool,” Turnbull said, sipping. The three blues were talking to Becky the waitress, all friendly-like. Were they attempting to woo the populace and win their hearts and minds, or were they just trying to score a little small town strange? Becky seemed to be having neither.
“We’re hiding in plain sight,” Dale said. “That’s the best place to hide.”
“No, it’s actually a terrible place to hide, but we don’t have much choice now,” Turnbull said. He agreed to meet at the diner because he could watch this morning’s proceedings. There were wall-to-wall PSF outside today in anticipation of the “Voluntary Youth March Against Terrorist Hate Criminals and Intolerance.” Turnbull had come in the back door from the rear parking area. It was a small miracle that that stupid dog’s barking had not alerted anyone; it was beyond him how it could bark so loud being so small and with a dead frog in its mouth.
The big PSF looked over at them and then tapped the detective on the shoulder and pointed. It looked like he was pointing at the Mayor, an assessment by Turnbull that saved their lives. The trio approached. Turnbull did not reach for his gun just then; he smiled harmlessly as he thought through exactly how, if necessary, he would reach for his gun and kill them all.