Kurt Schlichter: Indian Country

The next morning, the colonel thanked him and told Turnbull he would be sending a letter commending his efforts to his commander. But they did not need Turnbull’s services at that time. Turnbull had never been rejected for anything in his Army career.

“I suppose you’ll tell me,” Turnbull said, doing his best not to take the bait and get angry.

Clay’s face brightened. “They did predict that you would say something like that . They certainly predicted that the issue of your rejection by Delta would agitate you, which it has.”

“The reason?” Turnbull asked.

“Oh yes. Well, your physical skills were top notch. All of your scores were exceptional, in fact. You were off the charts in pure aggression and your stubborn refusal to quit. There was only one problem, Captain Turnbull. Delta rejected you because you habitually violate known norms, rules, and laws. You find them… frustrating, so you just ignore them. Now, the good news is, you’re not a sadist. You do not seem to get unusual pleasure from the suffering of others.”

“Just the normal amount?”

Clay smiled. “So you’re not a sociopath, which is good.”

“That’s a relief.”

“You’re just not reliable, in the sense that they could rely on you to complete your mission but they could not rely on you not to go and take it to the next level,” Said Clay. “Delta wanted a xacto knife. Subtle, precise. And you’re a battle axe with a mind of its own.”

“Not subtle, not precise.”

“No. Kelly, a man like you isn’t given an assignment. You’re unleashed. And that’s exactly what I need.”

“Thanks, I guess. So, are you ever going to tell me why he’s here?” Turnbull asked. Javadi grinned again.

“You are going to be working with me and him directly.”

Turnbull looked over the Iranian, and not in a nice way. “You know, Javadi, someday we’re probably going to be shooting each other. I mean, overtly, not just covertly.”

“But not today,” Javadi said. “Not for the time being. By the way, thank you for last night. For the Accountant.”

“Sorry I couldn’t take him alive,” Turnbull lied.

“I am not. He knew things that were… what is the term? ‘Inconvenient.’ So thank you for solving our problem, as we expected you would.”

“If you think telling me you played me makes me want to cap you any less, you are terminally mistaken.”

The Iranian smiled. “I think we will work together very, very well, Captain.”

Turnbull drummed his fingers on the table. Clay motioned to Javadi, who got up and left the room without another word.

“Sometimes we have to work with bad guys to get other worse guys,” Clay said after the Iranian closed the door behind him.

“Yeah, I get the whole ambiguity thing you people have to deal with. I prefer being straightforward. There’s the bad guy. I go shoot him.”

“And I need a guy who’s direct, but also who can take it to the next level when necessary, if you get my meaning,” Clay said. “This is only a short term op, Captain. A couple months. Then you come home. This war here – at least our part of it – is ending. Everyone’s going home. They’re bringing us back from almost everywhere. You’ve read about what’s happening at home, haven’t you?

“I don’t follow the news much. Got other things on my mind.”

“Well,” said Clay. “Did you know we’re leaving Europe? Three brigades pulling out. Have to appease the Bear and all. NATO Article 5 isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on – President Clinton always talked a big game about Russians when she was slagging President Trump, but she isn’t going to war for Poland. I guess she’s just not that into our allies. You could ask the Baltic States about that, if there were any that Putin hadn’t grabbed as soon as she was sworn in. And back home it’s getting ugly. You heard what Texas said about her fracking ban yesterday?”

Turnbull shook his head.

“Texas said ‘No,’ and pretty much dared the President to do something about it.”

“I make it a point not to pay attention to politics anymore.”

“Yes, but soon politics will be paying attention to you,” Clay replied. “You work with me here for a couple months, then we go back home. And you work for me there.”

“Doing what back home?”

“Whatever needs done.”

“Which side?” said Turnbull.

“The one with the Constitution.”

“Sounds like a great deal. Now, am I volunteering or being voluntold?”

Clay shrugged, and Turnbull nodded resignedly.

“Understood. So, there are always details. What are the details?”

“None of this exists. This interview, this discussion, none of it,” Clay said. “Agreed?”

“I kind of assumed that.”

“And if I need to take you out to protect our country, you are history. I hope it won’t come to that, but if it does, adios . Mission first. Know that going in. I’ll always be straight with you, Kelly. Relatively.”

Turnbull had the feeling then that if he left that room without signing on the dotted line, it was going to be adios anyway. “Guess I’m in.”

Clay smiled and nodded.

“And they predicted I’d accept.”

“Oh yes,” Clay said.

“So what now?”

“The paperwork is done; you’re seconded to the Department of State as an agricultural liaison. The Army is probably happy to have you become our problem. You settle in here and tonight the three of us will meet and start planning.”

“Okay,” said Turnbull, unconvinced. “But I don’t trust that Javadi guy.”

“Nor do I, but it’s in his interest that we succeed so I expect we will. I’m not particularly concerned about what happens here in Baghdad.”

“You’re not? Seems pretty significant to me.”

“It’s what’s happening back home that concerns me. We’ll finish up here, and then we’ll go home,” Clay said. “It’s getting ugly, Kelly.”

“Ugly enough that you need a guy like me?”

“I truly hope not,” said Clay.

Dale Chalmers kept his shower short for two reasons. First, in 2027 in the People’s Republic, hot water was expensive; his power bills had tripled since the Split. Second, a long shower was a waste. It was an odd day of the month and the license plate on his Dodge ended in “8,” so like all the other evens without a special pass, he was walking to work today in the June heat. That meant putting his suit and black shoes into a bag and changing in the bathroom at the office after wiping off his sweat with the towel he kept there for that purpose – paper towels had been banned as an “environmental outrage.”

On the upside, his sacrifice was going to help save the polar bears or something. Yet the new climate change laws didn’t seem to be helping to temper the heat wave that was turning Southern Indiana into a sauna.

He toweled off and put on shorts and sneakers and came downstairs. Liz and the kids were already around the table eating breakfast.

“Why won’t you buy Count Chocula?” Jimmy complained.

“I told you,” Liz said. “There’s no more Count Chocula.”

It was true. All the sugary cereals that kids actually liked were long gone from the supermarket shelves. They announced the new regulation from the Food Justice Commission on the news one evening and the next day shelves were bare. The broadcast had featured interviews with several moms excited about the opportunities presented by their narrowed options, but none of Liz’s friends were happy about having to hear their kids complain.

Dale ate his corn flakes dry – the store was out of milk and the kids got what they had left in the carton. The empty went into the cardboard recycling bin – Liz was careful about that, not wanting another $100 fine if one of the snoops who went up and down the street pawing through people’s bins on trash day caught them misdividing their recyclables again.