“We’re packed up,” Rogers said.
“Load ‘em up and move ‘em out,” replied Turnbull, shoving the paper back into the ammo can and re-latching it. “We have two days to get ready.”
15.
The 172nd Brigade’s command post was full of soldiers making their final plans for the invasion of Southern Indiana. Deloitte had just returned from the field, inspecting his forces, ensuring they were ready for what was coming. He had been out at the artillery battalion for that last two hours. The unit was supposed to have two M119 105 millimeter towed howitzer batteries and one M777A2 155mm towed howitzer battery, all of six guns each – a fair amount of fire power. The 172nd, thanks to budget cuts, had one battery of four 105 guns, of which three were operational. On top of that was minimal ammunition – less than 200 M1 high explosive shells plus some illumination rounds. Still, the King of Battle would be a powerful asset even in its diminished form. And the battery commander, selected because he scored highest on his oppression ratings, was fairly capable.
That was good, because they were going to war.
The corps order came down the previous night. They were to move south and “defeat the racist terrorists inhabiting the Jasper region and then be prepared to repel the racist red forces.”
But because the military always came last in the People’s Republic’s priorities, his brigade was at far less than full strength, with about only 80% of the allocated personing. He had a tank battalion that was allocated 58 tanks. Only 31 were operational; some had been reassigned to other brigades and the rest were awaiting – endlessly – parts. His infantry battalion was light, not heavy mechanized, so there were no Bradley fighting vehicles or Strykers for the infantry to ride in that could keep up with the armor. That was bad, but the 172nd was still a powerful force. He would have to sacrifice some of the speed of the armor to keep the infantry around it – they would have to ride in 5-ton cargo trucks – but in the end there was nothing the guerrillas had that could hold its own in a stand-up fight against a M1 Abrams.
Well, not “Abrams” any more – in the PRA, it was now formally known as a “Chavez,” after Caesar Chavez. General Creighton Abrams had been the Army chief of staff and commander of US forces in Vietnam, so he was declared “a symbol of racist oppression and contrary to the values of inclusiveness and diversity that are our People’s Republic Army’s true strength.”
The colonel would have happily traded all his diversity and inclusiveness right then and there for some more howitzer tubes and tanks.
Deloitte had mixed feelings about his force’s fighting ability. Training had been limited and constantly interrupted with stand-downs to address the crisis du jour. Some trooper looked at another cross-eyed and then the whole unit was sitting in auditoriums for two days hearing lectures on white privilege instead of being out working on the iron. He had done his best to preserve a firm chain of command, but the PRA’s “anti-patriarchal and imbalanced power relationship paradigm” efforts had undercut the authority of his front line leaders. Many were solid, but sergeants and junior officers too often just shrugged their shoulders when soldiers pushed back on orders that were insufficiently fun or fulfilling to them. It did not help that they were constantly being undercut by the new policies that allowed malcontents to go around their chain of command and complain directly to the Command Diversity Officer.
Where was Major Little anyway? Deloitte was relieved that the pest wasn’t disrupting his command post, so he did not give him another thought. He went on with the planning and coordination, focusing particularly on the logistics. Tanks and the other vehicles were notoriously thirsty, and they were hungry for ammo. Feeding and fueling was as important as the fighting.
And so were rules of engagement.
“We are seeking to defeat armed insurgents. You can shoot them, but not civilians. We are professionals, not monsters,” he had told his assembled officers when briefing them on his plan earlier in the day. “These are fellow citizens. If they shoot at you, engage. If they give up, take prisoners.” Little had attended that briefing, and he was visibly displeased.
Deloitte did not give a damn.
Deloitte was busy working when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Sir,” said the operations officer, his tired face creased with concern. “You need to see this.”
They walked outside the tent, past the MPs guarding it, to the large mall parking lot that was their assembly area. The lot was big, and had been empty – the PR closed it the year before as “a symbol of consumerist waste and climate criminality.” The tanks, trucks, and troops had only filled half when Deloitte had entered the command post tent an hour before. Now there were dozens of buses, many PSF cruisers, and a variety of civilian vehicles with “PV” spray-painted on them pouring in.
“What the hell?” Deloitte asked.
A group of a dozen men in black tactical gear, with tricked out M4s, was coming their way from a row of black government SUVs. He recognized Inspector Kunstler, wearing tactical gear himself, and Major Little was with him, grinning.
They stopped in front of the colonel.
“What is this?” Deloitte asked.
“Let’s go inside our headquarters, Colonel,” Kunstler said. They all went back into the tent, including the tactical team. The guards did not try to check their identification.
Inside, Kunstler took off his black helmet and put it on a rickety wooden desk cluttered with papers and coffee cups.
“This is the supplementary paramilitary force,” Kunstler replied. “My Peoples Bureau of Investigation tactical unit, plus 300 PSF and 300 people’s volunteers.”
“Why? They’ll just get in my way,” Deloitte replied.
“Their mission is dealing with the local populace while you defeat the insurgents and prepare to repel a racist invasion by the reds,” Kunstler said.
“What do you mean ‘dealing with’?” Deloitte asked.
“That is not your concern. Our force will follow behind yours and secure or otherwise address any rebel prisoners. We’ll deal with their property as appropriate. Our intention is to eliminate the resistance in this region for good.”
“You’re going to murder them,” Deloitte said. “You’ll turn your fake cops and thugs on the people down there, pillage through their homes, burn their towns, and murder them.”
“Careful, Colonel,” said Kunstler. “You’ve read the revised martial law proclamation, haven’t you? No? Let me share the highlights.”
Kunstler pulled a paper from his gear and unfolded it, then read. “The racist homophobic patriarchal and sexist terrorist rebellion will be crushed without mercy. Insurrection and disobedience to the laws of the People’s Republic is treason and shall be punishable by death.”
Kunstler looked up at the horrified Deloitte. “What are your questions, Colonel?”
“I’m calling my commander.”
“You can, but she signed off on the order. See?” Kunstler turned the paper to face the colonel, and his commander’s signature block and familiar squiggle were at the bottom.
“So you’re just going to sweep in behind us and kill everyone you find?”
“Not everyone. There may be some children who can be reeducated. Naturally, oppressed peoples will not be harmed, since they are obviously victims themselves,” Kunstler said. “I’ve studied this area, Colonel. These people are reactionaries, terrorists. They insist on living on their own terms, as if they still controlled things like they did under the old government. They voted for Trump in 2016, and against President Clinton in 2020. Their attitudes and foolish religious beliefs were themselves an act of violence to progressive peoples everywhere. This is self-defense. We will no longer tolerate their intolerance. They defied us and they must pay. They must be made an example.”