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 knew 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.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Langer said. “We ain’t here for you.”
The girl, who made the minimum wage of $19 People’s Dollars an hour, felt herself far too underpaid to intervene in whatever was happening. When the five men proceeded on toward the restaurant, she took the opportunity to slip out the back door.
Langer walked into the diner and immediately unloaded half a magazine of AK rounds into the ceiling. A cascade of white tile dust and debris dropped down as the entire place stared, amazed.
“Hi there!” he said. “We are the forces of Free Indiana. If you’ve heard them calling this ‘Indian Country,’ well, I guess that makes us the Indians!”
He looked over at a picture of the doddering President Elizabeth Warren on the wall and nodded. “No offense, ma’am.”
He walked to the front while his guerrillas spread around the perimeter of the room.
“Now, I want to make an announcement and I want you to carry it far and wide for me,” he said. “Relax. I ain’t going to hurt you, unless you decide to pick up your cell phone or some other such foolishness. I need you to spread this message for me. Spread the word to all your brother and sister truckers.”
“I don’t identify as either,” one of the diners said, indignant. Langer stared for a moment. One of the other guerrillas walked over and stood by xim; xe got the message and was quiet.
“I ain’t here to discuss your plumbing, sir, ma’am, whatever. I’m here to tell you to don’t come back. Don’t drive your trucks through here. Not during the day, not at night, because this is your gimme. This is your free pass. But the next time it ain’t going to go so good.”
There was a storm of gunfire outside the diner in the parking lot. The truckers all looked, but the guerrillas didn’t flinch. Outside, the other guerrillas were spraying the trailers with rifle fire, punching holes in them, making sure that anyone who saw them understood what a drive through Indian Country meant.
Four PSF cruisers and an orange big rig wrecker marked “Clyde’s Towing and Recovery, Bloomington, IA” headed southbound on I-69 toward the two toppled tractor trailers blocking the north-south interstate near where it crossed under Route 125. This was the northernmost of the blocks – there were reported to be others but no PSF had gone past the first one to explore.
These two trucks, one blocking each pair of lanes, had been tipped over next to the overpass and then dragged in close. There was no on or off ramp at 125, so there was no easy way to bypass the block. I-69 was sealed tight.
The convoy pulled up to the toppled trailers, and the PSF officers got out of their cruisers warily. After all, this was Indian Country, even if they never used that term around the brass.
There were some buildings to the west, and tree lines in the distance all around. They formed a rough 360 degree perimeter, AKs pointing outward. Nothing. The leader motioned for the wrecker operator to come forward, which he did – reluctantly. He had not been asked along. He had been taken.
“Well, get going,” said the PSF leader. “Clear it.”