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.”