Kurt Schlichter: Indian Country

“Oh, no,” Said Turnbull, pushing the puppy away. “That’s disgusting. You have dead toad breath.” But he didn’t make the dog get off his lap.

“You’re alive,” said a lieutenant colonel who had approached from the south. The nametape on his uniform read “FLYNN.”

“I don’t feel that way right now, Clay,” replied Turnbull, petting the puppy and not at all surprised to see him. “Hey, you changed your fake name again.”

“What?” Deeds looked down at his nametape. “Oh, right. So, you have a friend. I didn’t peg you for a dog person.”

“I’m not.” The dog growled at Deeds. “But I think maybe I could be.”

“Helluva fight,” Deeds said.

“Yeah,” Turnbull replied. “I’m too tired for my debrief now. But yeah, a helluva fight.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for debriefing, Kelly.”

“You know that they killed Deloitte,” Turnbull said. “Apparently he preferred to die like a soldier than live as a butcher.”

“We heard that through a radio intercept. I’m sorry.”

“There was a time I’d have taken a bullet for him. We were on the same side then. And then we were fighting each other here. I don’t mind fighting, Clay, but I’d rather fight people I hate. And I didn’t hate him.”

“Civil wars are the most vicious wars,” Deeds said, sitting. “You take everything bad about a routine war and add betrayal to the mix.”

“How the hell did it ever come to this?”

“I don’t know, Kelly. It wasn’t hard to see where things were headed. It’s like we were steering the Titanic by committee and no one would turn us away from the iceberg right ahead.”

“So what now?” Turnbull petted the dog, which continued to regard Clay warily.

“So, we gave up a little bit of Virginia, and now we have a little bit of Indiana. The bad guys tried to create facts on the ground, and the locals stopped them for long enough for us to move. And when the PR saw they couldn’t stop us, they caved at the negotiating table. You were a big part of it.”

“So it’s all about lines on a map?”

“You don’t really believe that, Kelly.”

Turnbull looked out across the town, and thought of Langer, Wohl, Bellman, that kid Kyle – all dead. The bodies of those killed fighting had been carried off, but there were still wrecked vehicles pushed to the side waiting to be dragged away. The façade of Main Street was pocked with bullet holes. The Walmart had burned down to the foundations. There was a blood splatter in the middle of the street in front of him. He couldn’t tell whether it was from a local or one of the PRA troops.

“What’s it matter what I believe?” Turnbull asked.

“It matters to you. I’m just not sure you’ll admit it. It matters to these folks. In the end, this place was their home. They fought for it. Without the guys like you to help them, they would have lost it, and probably their lives too. If you hadn’t made it ungovernable…”

“I just showed them some tricks. They did the fighting. And the dying. Most of them were amateurs, just regular people.”

“That’s what the British probably said around 1775.”

“Except these were our own people we were rebelling against, at least they had been.”

“That’s another thing the British probably said around 1775.”

“Wait, doesn’t that mean you’re kind of comparing me to the French?”

“I’d never do that when you’re packing heat, Kelly.”

“So what now?” asked Turnbull, not truly caring. He’d never been so tired.

“Now we occupy it and defend it. It’s ours again. I expect they’ll try to instigate instability, make it hard for us to govern.”

“Like we did to them?”

“Exactly.”

“Not quite. There’s one key difference.”

“And that is?”

“They’re the bad guys,” said Turnbull.

“I always enjoyed your rejection of moral equivalence, Kelly.”

“I’ve seen them in action, Clay. PVs, PSF, PBI. And I’m telling you – I’m not going to play nice anymore.”

“Did you ever?”

“I tried it out for a little while. I got burned. People died. You don’t put your hand on a hot stove twice.”

“Good, because we need you again. And your unique perspective on not playing nice.”

“I’m not sure I’m finished here yet.”

“Sure you are. They can clean up the mess on their own. In fact, they should. It’s their home, not yours. You’ve done your part. Time for you to go home.”

“Where is home, anyway?”

“Good point. Maybe you should take some time and find yourself one. After all, you fought for your homeland. You should actually have an actual home in your land, not just a string of FOBs, safe houses, and BOQs.”

“I guess he needs a home too,” Turnbull said, ruffling the dog’s fur. “But I’m too tired right now to think about it.”

“You can sleep on the Blackhawk. Get your stuff.”

“You’re looking at it.” Turnbull stood and stared at his M4 for a minute. He left it on the bench. Somebody else would put it to good use here. And he still had his .45.

They walked through town toward the high school, with the little dog trotting along at his heels. The helicopter had landed on the football field and waited with its blades rotating. In the parking lot, a platoon of US troops were mounting up into their vehicles again, ready to head north. Locals wandered by, men and women, young and old, most armed, looking grim, assessing the damage. Turnbull recognized some, but not all of the faces.

One thing he noted – they weren’t the faces of civilians anymore.

“Like I mentioned, there’s another problem we’re having,” Clay said. “I think you could help us with it.”

“You sure have a lot of problems. How screwed are you that I’m the solution?”

“Very. We can talk on the flight home.”

“I don’t think so. I’m going to sleep. And I’m not sure when or even if I’m ever waking up.”

Turnbull took off his cap, scooped up the dog, and trotted along behind Deeds in a low crouch toward the Blackhawk, the blades whirling above them. They were going to be the helicopter’s only passengers.

The crew chief helped Deeds in first. Deeds slid over on fabric seats and began buckling himself in.

Then the crew chief reached his hand out to help, but suddenly withdrew it.

“You can’t have an animal on the aircraft,” he yelled over the engine’s whine.

Turnbull ignored him and climbed into the passenger compartment without assistance, still clutching the puppy. He sat on the canvas seat with the dog next to him. It proceeded to growl at the crew chief.

“I said no dogs on the aircraft!” shouted the sergeant. It was bad enough to have to chauffeur some light colonel and his filthy civilian pal around like they were a couple of general officers, but this mutt was too much.

Turnbull stared, noting the chief’s body armor and that thinking between the eyes would be best. His Wilson .45 still had a full mag left.

Deeds leaned in, shouting above the engine roar.

“Son, let it go.”

“But Colonel, the regs say—”

“Let it go,” Deeds repeated in that voice he used when he was giving a direction, not a suggestion.

The crew chief grimaced, then waved his hand to the pilot. The engine revved up, the blades spun faster, and the aircraft lifted off as Turnbull himself buckled up and put on the headphones. He clutched the puppy tightly, leaned back, and shut his eyes.

“This is bullshit,” the crew chief sputtered into his mic, unable to let it go.

Turnbull didn’t even open his eyes as he keyed his mic and spoke just one more time before falling into a deep sleep.