Kurt Schlichter: Indian Country

“And it will?”

“We think so.”

“Then attack, now.”

“Roger. I’ll alert the infantry company.”

“Just get your tanks into Jasper. The infantry can follow.”

“Sir,” the operations officer said to the commander he outranked. “Sending tanks into an urban area without infantry is risky as hell. The M1s aren’t even equipped with the urban combat package. No remote controlled machine guns, no reactive armor. I strongly suggest—”

“They have old hunting rifles and some AR15s. I’m not going to wait. Captain, move out! Use your big guns and take Jasper!”

Cardillo knew better than to argue. He just hoped the infantry would follow quickly. But the ops officer spoke up.

“Sir, we need at least a company with them. We just do.”

Little grunted. “Fine.” He stomped off, and Cardillo turned to the operations officer.

“Sir, I can’t reach my battalion commander. He was supposed to be here.”

The ops officer sighed. “A sniper put a slug through his head out on the road.”

“Geez.” First the brigade commander, and now his battalion commander. At least his battalion commander had been able to go out like a soldier.

“Yeah. Be careful in town. That could turn into a royal clusterfuck real fast. We haven’t seen any anti-tank systems yet, but you know there’s lots of ways to mess with tanks in an urban area. Hit them hard, but remember who you are. Be careful of civilians. Try and get them to run – those PSF and PV bastards are killing everyone they catch.”

“Oh no, you’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was. We’re professionals. We’re soldiers , not murderers. You remember that. Do it for the boss.”

“Yeah,” said Cardillo, nodding.

“Look, we’re staging the arty now. You’ll have priority of fires. The range fan covers all of Jasper.”

Cardillo nodded. At least he could call for support from the brigade’s three remaining howitzers, and his requests would go to the head of the line. That was something. He moved off to prepare his force to move.

The ten tanks of Caring Company roared over the Route 231 Bridge followed by six truckloads of infantry – the rest would follow – and the TAC-CP. Captain Cardillo’s tank was second in sequence and he kept one hand on the radio switch and one on the machine gun mount.

From his position on a hill, Davey Wohl keyed his radio mic.

“Gandalf, this is Hobbit. They’re coming. Out.”

He turned to his own troops and smiled. “Let’s go. It’s on.” They got up, and began moving toward the road, weapons ready.

“Gandalf, this is Orc, over,” Banks said, calling headquarters using the ridiculous name his element had been assigned. He hated those stupid elf operas. Give him a John Wayne movie any day, especially Sands of Iwo Jima .

“Orc, this is Gandalf, over.”

“No contact yet. Continuing mission. Orc out.” Banks waved for his troops to follow him south. The sun was setting, but it might actually be easier to find the artillery in the dark. There were only a few places it could be. And it sure as hell would be impossible to hide once it started shooting.

The PV sedan, a red 2013 Chevy Impala, slammed into the fallen tree just after it made the corner, bringing the vehicle from 40 miles an hour to a dead stop in the space of two feet. The driver and front passenger must not have been wearing seatbelts because they both flew through the windshield and bounced down the road, ending up in two unnatural piles of former people.

The next PV vehicle was a pick-up, and it crashed into the rear, spilling the four Volunteers in the back. Then a couple more PSF cruisers plowed into the crazy daisy chain of demolition.

A fifth sedan managed to skid to a halt without colliding. A farmer named Eli stepped out of his position with a Mossberg 12-guage 590A Tactical shotgun and pumped a load of Remington Express double-aught into the driver’s head through the window. He racked in another shell, pivoted and put three blasts in rapid succession into the occupants of the back seat. The one PSF officer in the passenger seat rolled out of the car and immediately raised his hands.

“Don’t move, boy,” Eli said, taking aim at the prisoner’s face.

There were a flurry of shots as the guerrillas finished off the injured in the other cars.

Eli brought the PSF officer to Cannon, having relieved him of his pistol and body armor, and pushed him to the ground. Cannon looked him over. He seemed like an alien, not a fellow law enforcement officer.

“What’s your mission here?”

“Nothing. We’re just patrolling.”

“Tell me the truth. We saw what you people do to civilians.”

The PSF officer looked panicked. “I didn’t do any of it. I haven’t hurt anyone.”

“So what’s your mission?”

“We’re supposed to follow the soldiers and deal with terrorists,” the PSF prisoner said, and then realized that perhaps his choice of words was suboptimal. “With the locals.”

“Deal with?”

“Look, they shot some, but not me! I didn’t shoot anyone! The PBI guy made us. He ordered us to.”

“PBI?”

“Yes, he’s in charge. He has a tactical team. They have these black SUVs. They told us to shoot everyone. But I didn’t! I hid! I didn’t do anything !”

“What do you want me to do with him?” Eli asked. It was pretty clear Eli would do whatever he asked.

Cannon delayed. “Just stand him up.”

Eli took the officer by the arm and hauled him to his feet. A small sack fell out of the breast pocket of the black PSF uniform. Cannon reached down and picked it up.

“That’s not mine!” said the prisoner. How many dopers had told Cannon the same thing when he caught them holding back before all this began?

The bag contained wedding rings and watches. Cannon looked up at Eli, who nodded.

“Got it,” said Eli, who pushed the prisoner forward and shot him in the chest.

Cannon felt nothing, and it sickened him that he felt nothing. But there was no time for that now.

“Let’s move out.” They now knew their quarry.

Turnbull watched as the tanks tore down Route 231 into Jasper. The insurgents had set up battle positions in and around both sides of the street at the north end of town. His was in the Walmart – the guerrillas had spent the day knocking out the front windows so it was open to the road.

The tanks were moving fast, about 20 miles per hour, and covering the four miles from the bridge south quickly. No one had engaged them; Wohl’s force let them pass right through.

The west side of the road was all houses; on the east, a closed Home Depot, an abandoned McDonald’s, and the recently requisitioned Walmart store. The tanks were moving fast. Turnbull hoped that he had trained the other gunner well.

Turnbull engaged the sight on his FGM-148 Javelin missile. With the sun setting, he used thermal. He selected the third tank in line and locked on it. He pushed the trigger and he was surrounded by exhaust gasses as the missile leapt out of the launcher, followed a fraction of a second later by the second from the other missile team.

The missile erupted from the tube and the fins popped into place – not that he could see it. He did see the burning light of the engine jiggle and twist in the air as it made for the speeding Abrams. The missile flew upwards and down in a lazy arc – its target was not the tank itself but the air directly above it. About one meter over the turret, the HEAT round detonated, its shaped explosive forming a stream of superheated plasma that went straight down into the relatively thin armor at the top of the tank.

It was an immediate crew kill, and the second Javelin exploded over the next tank’s gas turbine engine and turned it to scrap. The halon fire suppression system inside the crew compartment kept that crew from roasting. Unfortunately, when they scrambled out of the crew compartment, the other guerrillas opened fire, cutting them down before they hit the ground.