“If I’m not back in 20 minutes, get out of Dodge,” Deloitte said to his driver. The young specialist nodded. He had gotten the job when the colonel watched him respond to the Command Diversity Officer’s inquiry about his preferred pronouns with, “I have a dick, so it’s ‘he,’ xir.”
Deloitte got out of the hummer and took his helmet off, threw it on his seat and put on his soft cap. Leaving his rifle leaning against the radio console, he shut the door with a soft “thud” and started walking down the black asphalt road toward the rendezvous site.
Turnbull looked out and saw Deloitte from inside the empty house when he was about 100 yards away and coming up the driveway. Turnbull’s men had scouted it out a few nights ago as a possible safe house, and he had decided to use it when the idea of the meeting came up. The owner’s family had farmed the spread for over 100 years. A couple months ago, they simply abandoned it. They sold their livestock on the black market and took off for the red – victims of meddling agricultural regulators who insisted they pay for an “animal psychologist” to ascertain the feelings of their milk cows, and of the latest round of bankrupting reparations taxes meant to compensate strangers for the oppressive acts of others that happened somewhere else a century before any of the payers or payees were even born.
Turnbull left his M4 laying on the living room table. He had his canteen in hand and took a drink, looking out through the window as Deloitte walked up the path to the open front door. He had his battle gear on, and his Beretta was in a thigh holster. He watched, sipping water. It was warm, but he didn’t care.
The brigade commander hit the creaking steps, his battle gear so tight that it didn’t jiggle as he strode up them. Turnbull stepped into the doorway.
“Colonel Deloitte,” Turnbull said.
“Kelly Turnbull. Shit, how long has it been?”
“Five years. Since that night in Baghdad.”
“I figured the spooks had swooped you up when I got orders transferring you to civilian control. What was your cover? Agriculture attaché or something?”
“Not sure. I’ve had a lot of covers.”
“No doubt.”
“It’s good to see you, sir.”
“I wish it were under different circumstances.”
Turnbull waved him off the porch and inside. “Come on in. They left a couch.”
Deloitte came into the house and took off his soft cap, then sat down in the fake leather chair that faced where the TV had been. The big screen was one of the few possessions the occupants took.
Turnbull walked around the coffee table and plopped into the sofa. A small mushroom cloud of dust erupted. Turnbull fanned it out of his face.
“Since you’re all rustic now Kelly, you got some lemonade for me?”
“I don’t think they have lemonade in the PR anymore, sir. I hear it’s racist against limes.”
“I live that shit every day, so that’s a lot less funny than you think from where I sit, Captain. So, what’s with the M9? I thought you liked 1911s.”
“I do. I can’t find any replacement ammo. You got any .45 rounds?”
“What, are you nuts? Those are like gold,” Deloitte laughed. Even before the Split, most of the gun and ammo makers had moved into the free red states where the Second Amendment wasn’t the red-headed stepchild of the Constitution. That meant the PR had to buy its ammunition overseas, and it did not import that caliber because there was no civilian ammo market anymore, and because it did not issue the .45 round to its forces. The PR preferred smaller, less powerful calibers that were easier to handle by smaller operators. Plus the .45 round was just too all-American, and it was considered offensive to Native Americans due to its association with cowboys.
“Couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Deloitte’s eyes went to the M4 on the coffee table. Turnbull has tricked it out with a new sight, a fore grip and a green beam designator. “Is that one of my weapons under all those mods?”
“Yeah. Pretty clean when I got it.”
“I let sergeants do sergeants’ business, when I can.”
“So how are your troops?” asked Turnbull.
“Good, most of them. A few duds.”
“Commanders always spend ninety percent of their time on ten percent of the troops.”
“True that. It’s different in a lot of ways in the PRA. We usually don’t salute.”
“Does saluting reinforce patriarchal hegemonies?” asked Turnbull.
“Yeah,” said Deloitte, a bit surprised. “How did you know?”
“I just guessed.”
“You always were a quick study. You still a captain?”
“Probably.”
Deloitte leaned back in the La-Z-Boy. “So, how have you been, Kelly?”
“Just fine. Just doing my thing.”
“I’ve noticed. I should’ve known it was you from the beginning. You’ve pretty much gone right by the numbers. You did it just like I trained you, just like I’d have done it in your boots. You’ve mobilized the masses, and you’ve provoked overreach by the counterinsurgents.”
“Provoked them?” said Turnbull. “I don’t know about that. They didn’t seem to need a lot of provocation to go all stormtrooper on the locals.”
“You have to remember, the People’s Volunteers are just untrained thugs, and the People’s Security Force are not soldiers. They’re not really police either.”
“Kind of a Gestapo that gives out parking tickets, right?”
Deloitte looked him over. “You think I don’t know that the Republic isn’t perfect?”
“The People’s Republic,” Turnbull sneered. “I think this abortion of a fake country is a hell of a long way from perfect. I think it would have to work its way up to just being shitty.”
“Kelly, that’s my country you’re talking about.”
“Is it? Really? Why?”
“Because it’s the one I swore an oath to.”
“You swore an oath to the United States first.”
“That was a different United States. I don’t remember its capital being Dallas.”
“You had a choice. You chose them.”
“I never saw it as ‘them and us,’ Kelly. I saw it as a separation, not a divorce. I’m still hoping mom and dad make up and get back together again someday.”
“I don’t see that in the cards, sir.”
“Be that as it may, here we are.”
“Here we are,” repeated Turnbull, sadly.
“I’m a soldier and I follow orders,” Colonel Deloitte said, shrugging.
“My country right or wrong?”
“Always. Just like you.”
“Sir, I gotta tell you, I kind of like being in the country that’s right.”
“Like I said, it ain’t perfect, but it’s mine. And it ain’t yours. Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be back in Arizona or wherever you came from?”
“Texas. I guess I’m here for the same reason you are. I took an oath, and this is where they told me to go.”
“This is isn’t your fight, Kelly.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve gotten to know these people pretty good. They’re still Americans, even if they ended up on the wrong side of some line on a map. They’re real Americans, a little thinner than most Americans, thanks to the bounty of socialism, but still Americans. And they need to come home.”
Deloitte leaned forward. “They’re Americans who kill other Americans.”
“Finish the sentence,” said Turnbull. “They’re Americans who kill other Americans who tried to take away the rights God gave them. The right to say what they think, to pray how they want, to keep a rifle to protect those rights.”