Kurt Schlichter: Indian Country

“Really? Or am I just a daydream believer?”

“Come on, your plane boards in ten. Now, under Dolenz’s contact is a phone number. That’s your ‘no shit emergency’ number. It comes to or from us and it means something significant is happening. The email address is to a Canadian account. We’ll get it. The phone will auto encrypt, but remember – those bastards got most of Silicon Valley in the divorce and don’t think they can’t intercept and trace you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a believer.”

“Just stop. The carry-on has a laptop we’ve loaded with accounting stuff. No password; they can dig through it all day and all they’ll get is bored. We gave you a paperback suitable for your cover’s background as an accountant so you can read on the plane. Your suitcase is already in the baggage system. It’s full of business clothes in your size, all from the PR. There are no work clothes, just some jeans, so on your way stop at the surplus store on the outskirts of Bloomington and get yourself some boots and other gear. The address is in your phone. You were here in Dallas on business for a week, so the clothes are all dirty. That should discourage the customs folks from poking around. Which is good, since there’s $25,000 in real dollars in the liner.”

Turnbull said nothing.

“What?” asked Deeds.

“I was just trying to think of another Monkees song and I can’t.”

“Come on, before you miss the last plane to Clarksville.”

Deeds walked him out of the customs office, the US customs officers all wise enough to ignore the pair. Turnbull carried a doofy vinyl computer bag as his carry-on. His tan sport coat was too big, but it hid the .45 nicely. At the door into the passenger terminal, well beyond the security gates, Turnbull paused.

“Any last guidance?”

“Try not to start a war.”

“Okay. I promise not to start one,” Turnbull said, then opened the door and slipped into the stream of passengers.

Turnbull entered the terminal alone – Deeds did not do public appearances. It was crowded, with travelers pulling their carry-ons and kids crying and running rampant. The Justice Air gates were at the end of the terminal; the People’s Republic’s new “public option” airline was one of the government competitors it had established in many industries to balance out the capitalists. The PR had little choice but to create a government airline – soon after the Split, all the major carriers moved their headquarters to the red. Though many flew into the PR, for now at least, the new government aggressively regulated them. Slowly but surely, they were pulling out – and the political tension that was ratcheting up did not help.

The flights out were crowded – this one was full, and the passengers looking to fly into Indianapolis were backed up out of the gate area and spilling into the terminal hallway. A 737 in Justice Air livery was unloading passengers from Chicago, but they were diverted downstairs into customs. You could travel freely between the two countries, at least for now, but this was a vivid reminder that they were now, in fact, two separate countries.

A bitter looking woman at the counter picked up the hand mic. “This flight is delayed an hour,” she said over the loudspeaker, adding, “It’s not Justice Air’s fault.”

Turnbull frowned. It was almost certainly Justice Air’s fault.

He kept to himself as he waited, looking over his fellow passengers for any PR security types who he should avoid. There were not any. The PR would never admit it, but it could rely on the US’s strict security measures and aggressive border controls – the same ones it regularly labeled racist, sexist, and Islamophobic.

Fox News was playing on the video monitors. There were a couple jabbering talking heads, one a perky blonde and one a salty looking dude, and the chyron read “Travel Ban Threatened As Tensions With PR Increase.”

A man nearby mumbled to his wife, “We might be getting out just in time.”

“I hate this place and these racists,” hissed the wife. She seemed angry; her face might be moderately attractive if it wasn’t twisted with bitterness. Turnbull assessed that this guy’s marriage was a never-ending delight.

The flight finally boarded 90 minutes late. The first to load were a pack of well-dressed people. There was no announcement or fanfare – they just went first. As the last one disappeared down the jetway, the woman at the counter picked up the mic again. “Justice Air does not believe in privilege and there are no boarding groups. Please demonstrate your commitment to cooperation and consensus as you board.”

It was, of course, chaos. The crowd swelled and bunched around the entrance to the jetway, shoving and pushing. Turnbull hung back, not wanting someone in the scrum to rub up against his piece. When the throbbing mass thinned a bit, he darted in. Stepping onto the plane, he passed the first class area, except it wasn’t called “First Class” anymore. It was simply not acknowledged, and the travelers passing in the aisle instinctively avoided making eye contact with their pampered betters.

The loading took 30 minutes, plus another ten inside as the crew argued with irate travelers about their luggage, demanding random pieces be checked because of “luggage privilege.”

Turnbull was on an aisle seat next to some pale college age kid who was on his cell talking way too loud with a buddy.

“D-Yazzy? For realz? His rhymes are lazy and derivative.”

This was not Turnbull’s wheelhouse. He was vaguely aware that there was a rapper named Kanye West who was married to some Kardashian and whose 2020 third party presidential bid had evolved from a bizarre joke into a serious threat to Hillary Clinton’s electoral coalition. Kanye had dropped out of the race after the first three-way debate had turned into a profanity-laced, incoherent screaming match, a decision he claimed he made because, “God told me I should heal the world with my music instead.” Turnbull later read that West had immigrated to the red states as a post-Split tax refugee, telling reporters, “I gotta keep my money. Plus, Hillary is gonna kill me with polonium.”

Turnbull assessed the nearby passengers – all probably harmless. He relaxed a little. The pistol in the small of his back was remarkably comfortable. He picked up a copy of the in-flight magazine, Sky Justice. The cover story was a hagiography about a differently abled Justice Air pilot. She was blind.

“Oh swell,” thought Turnbull. He wondered where her dog sat in the cockpit.

The other passengers finally settled into their places, though there was a short shouting match between two travelers who each felt entitled to a window seat and proceeded to call each other “Racist!” at the top of their lungs until the crew sorted it out. Then a very beefy-looking white female in a light blue polyester uniform got on the loudspeaker.

“I am your lead flight attendant Pat. I am a person of girth, but privileged by birth.” She did not smile as she said it – apparently it was not meant to be humorous. “My preferred pronouns are ‘she’ and ‘her.’ Our flight to Indianapolis will be about three hours. Our delays were the fault of the local government’s racist policies.” She hung up the mic and proceeded to work her way down the aisle, which was much too narrow for her extensive carriage.

A row ahead were the man and the unhappy wife from the lounge. The attendant’s hefty flank brushed him hard, and he was flustered and sputtering.

“Don’t be fatist,” snapped his appalled wife. He shut his mouth and ceased his fussing.

The plane finally took off, and Turnbull settled back. He could feel the gun in the small of his back, but it was fine there. Next to him, the collegiate hip-hop critic was bopping away to some rap song via his earbuds. Satisfied no one was paying inordinate attention to him – or anyone, since people seemed reluctant to make any eye contact at all – Turnbull pulled his carry-on up from under the seat and felt inside the front pocket for something to read. He pulled out a paperback that bore a cover depicting a green woman with pointy ears wearing a jewel-encrusted bikini writhing around some sort of magic scimitar that was wreathed in golden flames. The title was The Runewench of Zorgon: Part XII in the Elf-Blade of Norxim Saga .