“What’s Jasper?”
“The town where you will center your ops. It’s strategically significant, near three main arteries – the old I-69, I-64, and US-231. Look, you’re Special Forces. You’re not just trained to kill people and break things. You’re trained to organize indigenous forces as well as do recon and feed us intel. You go in, evaluate the situation, work with the locals to demonstrate to the blues that Southern Indiana is not worth the trouble. You – and the others we’re sending in elsewhere – set the conditions for a successful negotiation.”
“But you don’t want me to kill anybody?”
“No. Absolutely not. This is not a combat mission. It’s hearts and minds. You’re not even taking weapons.”
“Well, this sounds super appealing and a nice change of pace from getting shot at in weird foreign countries, but I think I’ll have to pass.”
“Captain, you’re still in the Army,” Colonel French said.
“Well, kind of. I usually work for him.”
Deeds leaned in. “Well Kelly, that’s the thing. You still belong to the Army. That’s why you’re here, doing a command tour. They realized you were on their books and when they got you back for a little while they decided they wanted to keep you for a while.”
“You’ll certainly work with Colonel Johnson here. He’s representing whatever agency he represents on this mission. But you’re a soldier first. Remember that.”
“So, you’re ordering me to volunteer?”
“No,” Deeds piped up. “He’s just ordering you.”
French nodded.
“Since it’s decided, I guess I should get some specifics.”
“Colonel Johnson will fill you in on those. He’ll also liaison with you when I don’t.”
“And what’s your role, Colonel French?”
“I’m military intelligence. You’re under my overall command.”
“Sir, I still think I’m missing something here. You could send me any place. Why Jasper and Indiana? I’ve never even been there.”
“There is one other thing. The Military District of Southern Indiana – they call it the MDSI and it’s pretty much everything south of Indianapolis. It’s commanded by Colonel Jeff Deloitte.”
“He went blue?”
“Yes. He chose to go with the blue states when they split off. His family is all in New England. Now he’s the military commander for that region. There’s an infantry and an armor battalion there as part of the 172nd Brigade, which he commands too. But understand, he’s not the commander of the PSF or the secret police. They are independent, and our intel is that the military does not always play well with the civilian law enforcement.”
“Deloitte knows counter-insurgency,” Turnbull said.
“And you know him,” French replied, and stood up. “I’ll leave you two to talk details. Glad to have you aboard, Captain.”
“Glad to be shanghaied, Colonel.”
French disappeared out the front door. Deeds sat back as Turnbull looked him over.
“How did I get sucked into this clusterfuck, Clay?”
“Numbers, Kelly. They’re sending in a bunch of people to embed in these disputed areas. And they had you – I couldn’t hide you off the books, since you’re currently turning civilians into Army guys.”
“No gun? That’s not going to work for me.”
“Of course you get a gun. What, do you think I’m listening to him? But they don’t want a war. They just want to know what’s going on and for you to facilitate some nonviolent dissent.”
“The blues will object. Dissent stopped being patriotic in the People’s Republic a long time ago. I hear they are getting more serious about their oppression. I guess all those rights in their new constitution have an asterisk.”
“Well Kelly, they came for the guns and took whatever people admitted having. They were at kind of a disadvantage finding them without records. Thanks to you, of course, the federal firearms data all went poof during the Crisis.”
“Yeah,” Turnbull said, smiling. “That was a real tragedy.”
“They’re doing more. New laws, new rules. People are getting angry. Especially about the pressure on churches, at least the ones who won’t play ball. You just need to help guide the anger in a constructive direction until the negotiations finish. Hopefully, they’ll decide Southern Indiana is too much trouble to keep.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Don’t start a war, Kelly. Nobody wants that. We want a nice, peaceful resolution. We give up some ground, and so do they, and then we live in peace.”
“You’ve been in there, right?”
Deeds shrugged.
“I don’t know if they want peace, Clay. They seem to hate us pretty good.”
“Just try not to kill anyone. It would make Colonel French upset.”
“I’ll make pleasing him my main goal. How long am I in?”
“A few weeks, tops. They’re trying to get the negotiations done fast. Your main contact’s a minister. Knows everyone in town. I’ve had him as a source for a while.”
“Is your network compromised? Do they know I’m coming?”
“No. That’s the advantage of not having much of a network – they can’t infiltrate what doesn’t exist.”
“Enemy forces?”
“Local sheriffs, but they are getting taken over by the People’s Security Force. Those are the guys that shot up the family farm last week. A real bloodbath, but they lost some too. No People’s Bureau of Investigation in town – it’s too small. They haven’t sent in any People’s Volunteers yet; those guys are real winners. And your boy’s military units are 40 miles away. So keep out of the way of the local yokels and you’re good.”
“Seems super easy. Like every mission I get from you,” Turnbull said. “And yet, they never are.”
“If it was easy, Kelly, I’d send someone else,” Clay said. He tossed Turnbull a Cincinnati Blues baseball cap. “Enjoy.”
4.
“You sure you want a .45?” Clay Deeds asked Turnbull.
They were inside a customs interview room with the door locked. Outside, a 787 thundered down the runway. Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport was now the busiest airport in the new United States, serving the capital city and the huge metroplex that expanded relentlessly in all directions out across the plains.
“Yeah. I like killing what I shoot the first time,” Turnbull said, his meaty hand out.
Deeds passed him a black 1911A1 in a small, inside the waistband Uncle Mike’s holster. There were thick serrations on the sides of the carbon steel slide to facilitate cocking, and nicely grooved black grips with a pewter eagle emblem. It was maybe seven and a half inches long, about three pounds, with the sharp edges rounded for concealed carry.
“It’s a Wilson Combat XTAC Elite Compact, fake serial number. It predates the Split, so it’s not going to give you away as a red stater. It’s pretty much stock, not much use on it. Our people didn’t have a lot to do to it to recondition it, except change the number.”
Turnbull slid the weapon out of the holster and looked it over, then pulled back the slide. Clear chamber. Good tolerances, solid. He approved.
“Kelly, how about a Glock 19? Fifteen plus one rounds. Lighter, faster rate of fire. And nine mil ammo is easy to get.”
“Pass.” Turnbull took one of the three eight round extended mags of .45 Federal Premium HST rounds and slipped it into the well. The mag stuck out a little below the grip, but he’d deal with it for the extra shot.
“The ammo is all pre-Split too. So are the mags. It’s all sterile. They can’t trace it to us, but they’re locking people up for five years for having a gun so don’t get caught with it.”