“Probably to tell us how the new real sheriff in town is going to run things.”
“I don’t like any of this, Ted. None of it.”
Cannon finished the last of his responsible coffee, lost in thought.
“For too long, this department has tolerated sexism, racism, classism, homophobia, and…” Lieutenant Kessler paused, trying to remember what sin she had forgotten.
Greely, the PSF officer who Cannon had noted following the lieutenant around like an eager beagle puppy, piped up.
“Sexism?”
“I said ‘sexism’ already,” the Lieutenant snapped back.
Greely looked wounded.
“Transphobia!” she said, triumphant. “For too long, this department has refused to challenge the paradigm of hate left over from the former United States. That changes now. We will no longer tolerate the systemic hate criminality that remains dug into this county and this whole region.”
Cannon was standing in the back with the other local deputies; the new PSF officers had taken the chairs. There was some low mumbling of disapproval around him, but not so loud as to draw attention. That there was tension between the locals and the newcomers was no surprise. When the Crisis had come and the reds and the blues were negotiating the mechanics of the Split, the Hoosiers of Southern Indiana had simply assumed they would go along with the red states. After all, in temperament and voting patterns, that’s where they belonged. But the negotiators had agreed that the existing state borders would be honored – it would be all or nothing. Perhaps that was necessary to avoid even more violence – the number of dead in the growing series of clashes was rising – but the people of Southern Indiana were ceded to the People’s Republic along with the rest of the state, and the Split consummated and the Treaty of St. Louis was signed and sealed before they could react. Since then, they had always suspected that the faraway powers that be looked upon them with distrust.
Their suspicions were correct.
“As the PSF integrates existing law enforcement agencies, it is important that we break with your oppressive traditions and demonstrate the new path the People’s Security Force will take from this point on,” the Lieutenant said. “We need to show that intolerance will no longer be tolerated. We need to stamp out resistance to the people’s will.”
Denny Dietrich leaned in toward Deputy Cannon.
“This is not going to be good,” he said.
“We have identified known subversives and we intend to sweep through and collect the illegal firearms that you failed to collect after they were banned. Also, these criminals have been burning wood for heat in violation of the Carbon Crime and Denial Act. I have here warrants for five members of the Langer family. We are going to raid their compound tonight. Officer Greely will brief you on the tactical details…”
“Lieutenant,” Deputy Cannon began. “A raid is a really bad idea. A dangerous idea. We can talk to them. We know them.”
“Yes, you know them. That’s apparently the problem. You know these social criminals and you therefore refuse to act.”
“Lieutenant, they are probably armed. A couple of them have military training…”
“We will be armed too, Deputy. And we will outnumber them and have the element of surprise when we hit their compound.”
“Look, it’s not a ‘compound.’ It’s a farm. And there are young kids there. If you come in heavy, they’ll fight. If you want to take them, grab them when they come into town on errands…”
“You miss the point, Deputy. They are defying the People’s Republic. That’s intolerable, and I intend to show it will not be tolerated. Sergeant Greely, brief the plan.”
Cannon and Dietrich rode in the last cruiser in the 12-vehicle convoy. Greely’s plan called for a direct, frontal assault on the compound. No recon, no perimeter. Drive in, jump out and grab everyone.
“We’ll hit them so fast they’ll give right up,” Greely had said, proud of his plan. Greely had clearly never met a Langer.
Cannon and Dietrich immediately volunteered to be in the last vehicle. They figured that would be the one least likely to be shot to pieces.
About a mile out, Sergeant Dietrich racked his Mossberg. Cannon looked at him quizzically.
“Just in case,” the Sergeant said. Cannon, driving, looked down at his own.
The eager PSF officers had been excited to break out the Army surplus M16s and the new AKs they had brought with them. None appeared to have any advanced tactical training. But they did have enthusiasm.
“I’m gonna shoot me some redneck, ride their asses back here tied to my hood,” one officer had crowed as they prepped to deploy. His PSF pals had giggled. Cannon double checked the plates in his body armor.
Up ahead, Cannon could see the head of the convoy pull off on a dirt road to the right. Down at the end was the Langer family farm, maybe a quarter mile in. The radio crackled with static.
“We see the house, over,” someone reported.
Cannon turned right onto the dirt road, the last of the cars.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
“We’re taking fire!” shrieked the radio.
More fire up ahead, some automatic. The cars in front of Cannon were still going fast, headed right into the meat grinder.
“Screw this,” Cannon said, hitting the brakes. His car stopped. The others ahead kept going.
There was a hurricane of gunfire ahead by the house. Cannon and Dietrich looked at each other.
“Aw, shit,” Cannon said, and they both bailed out onto the dirt road. “I’ll flank left, Sarge.”
Dietrich nodded, and Cannon moved into the woods, maneuvering toward the western side of the farm buildings he could faintly make out through the trees.
More gunshots – many of them, and shouts from men and women. There were cries for help. And always more shooting.
Remembering his Army training, Cannon moved forward with his shotgun ready in three-to-five second rushes, taking cover as best he could after each movement to ensure it was safe to make the next one. As he got closer, he could see the situation better. It was a nightmare. The police vehicles were bunched up in a large open space in front of the main house. Off to the side, he made out Larry’s truck – flag sticker still there, of course. The PSF that weren’t down – and a number were down – were firing as fast as they could into the house. There were civilian bodies on the stairs and in the grass. A couple men, at least one woman. What looked like two kids.
It occurred to Cannon that a figure walking through the woods off to the flank was as likely to be shot by the PSF idiots as by the surviving Langers, and he redoubled his efforts at stealth. He kept moving, unsure exactly what he would do when he got to wherever he was going.
A shirtless boy, maybe fifteen – that would be Jimmy Langer, who Cannon had made pour a 40 of Miller into the gutter last year – ran out of the back of the house. If he had gone straight, he would have been able to reach the cornfield and freedom, but instead he turned and came back around to the front, pistol in hand.
Cannon opened his mouth to shout, but the kid came into the view of a pair of PSF on the left of the cluster first. They pivoted and opened fire on full auto. Most rounds missed, but at least a couple slammed into the boy’s gut and tossed his skinny body backwards onto the grass, where he writhed and cried out.
Cannon, heedless of the danger, began to run forward toward the wounded boy, even as the two PSF shooters charged their victim.
“Wait!” he shouted, but the pair reached the young man and shot him to pieces as he lay on the grass. Cannon stopped, stunned.
One shooter was the officer who had promised to bag himself a redneck; he was beaming and sounding off about his achievement to his buddy until his forehead exploded out and all over his partner in a fountain of red.