Kurt Schlichter - Indian Country

Their suspicions were correct.

“As the PSF integrates existing law enforcement agencies, it is important that we break with your oppressive traditions and demonstrate the new path the People’s Security Force will take from this point on,” the Lieutenant said. “We need to show that intolerance will no longer be tolerated. We need to stamp out resistance to the people’s will.”

Denny Dietrich leaned in toward Deputy Cannon.

“This is not going to be good,” he said.

“We have identified known subversives and we intend to sweep through and collect the illegal firearms that you failed to collect after they were banned. Also, these criminals have been burning wood for heat in violation of the Carbon Crime and Denial Act. I have here warrants for five members of the Langer family. We are going to raid their compound tonight. Officer Greely will brief you on the tactical details…”

“Lieutenant,” Deputy Cannon began. “A raid is a really bad idea. A dangerous idea. We can talk to them. We know them.”

“Yes, you know them. That’s apparently the problem. You know these social criminals and you therefore refuse to act.”

“Lieutenant, they are probably armed. A couple of them have military training…”

“We will be armed too, Deputy. And we will outnumber them and have the element of surprise when we hit their compound.”

“Look, it’s not a ‘compound.’ It’s a farm. And there are young kids there. If you come in heavy, they’ll fight. If you want to take them, grab them when they come into town on errands…”

“You miss the point, Deputy. They are defying the People’s Republic. That’s intolerable, and I intend to show it will not be tolerated. Sergeant Greely, brief the plan.”

Cannon and Dietrich rode in the last cruiser in the 12-vehicle convoy. Greely’s plan called for a direct, frontal assault on the compound. No recon, no perimeter. Drive in, jump out and grab everyone.

“We’ll hit them so fast they’ll give right up,” Greely had said, proud of his plan. Greely had clearly never met a Langer.

Cannon and Dietrich immediately volunteered to be in the last vehicle. They figured that would be the one least likely to be shot to pieces.

About a mile out, Sergeant Dietrich racked his Mossberg. Cannon looked at him quizzically.

“Just in case,” the Sergeant said. Cannon, driving, looked down at his own.

The eager PSF officers had been excited to break out the Army surplus M16s and the new AKs they had brought with them. None appeared to have any advanced tactical training. But they did have enthusiasm.

“I’m gonna shoot me some redneck, ride their asses back here tied to my hood,” one officer had crowed as they prepped to deploy. His PSF pals had giggled. Cannon double checked the plates in his body armor.

Up ahead, Cannon could see the head of the convoy pull off on a dirt road to the right. Down at the end was the Langer family farm, maybe a quarter mile in. The radio crackled with static.

“We see the house, over,” someone reported.

Cannon turned right onto the dirt road, the last of the cars.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“We’re taking fire!” shrieked the radio.

More fire up ahead, some automatic. The cars in front of Cannon were still going fast, headed right into the meat grinder.

“Screw this,” Cannon said, hitting the brakes. His car stopped. The others ahead kept going.

There was a hurricane of gunfire ahead by the house. Cannon and Dietrich looked at each other.

“Aw, shit,” Cannon said, and they both bailed out onto the dirt road. “I’ll flank left, Sarge.”

Dietrich nodded, and Cannon moved into the woods, maneuvering toward the western side of the farm buildings he could faintly make out through the trees.

More gunshots – many of them, and shouts from men and women. There were cries for help. And always more shooting.

Remembering his Army training, Cannon moved forward with his shotgun ready in three-to-five second rushes, taking cover as best he could after each movement to ensure it was safe to make the next one. As he got closer, he could see the situation better. It was a nightmare. The police vehicles were bunched up in a large open space in front of the main house. Off to the side, he made out Larry’s truck – flag sticker still there, of course. The PSF that weren’t down – and a number were down – were firing as fast as they could into the house. There were civilian bodies on the stairs and in the grass. A couple men, at least one woman. What looked like two kids.

It occurred to Cannon that a figure walking through the woods off to the flank was as likely to be shot by the PSF idiots as by the surviving Langers, and he redoubled his efforts at stealth. He kept moving, unsure exactly what he would do when he got to wherever he was going.

A shirtless boy, maybe fifteen – that would be Jimmy Langer, who Cannon had made pour a 40 of Miller into the gutter last year – ran out of the back of the house. If he had gone straight, he would have been able to reach the cornfield and freedom, but instead he turned and came back around to the front, pistol in hand.

Cannon opened his mouth to shout, but the kid came into the view of a pair of PSF on the left of the cluster first. They pivoted and opened fire on full auto. Most rounds missed, but at least a couple slammed into the boy’s gut and tossed his skinny body backwards onto the grass, where he writhed and cried out.

Cannon, heedless of the danger, began to run forward toward the wounded boy, even as the two PSF shooters charged their victim.

“Wait!” he shouted, but the pair reached the young man and shot him to pieces as he lay on the grass. Cannon stopped, stunned.

One shooter was the officer who had promised to bag himself a redneck; he was beaming and sounding off about his achievement to his buddy until his forehead exploded out and all over his partner in a fountain of red.

Larry Langer was behind the falling PSF thug, a smoking Colt Python in hand. The second PSF officer started to raise his AK but Langer was too quick and too accurate. Shooter Two died from a .357 round through the bridge of his nose. Langer surveyed the corpses of the men who had slaughtered his little brother dispassionately, and then darted into the woods.

Cannon’s shotgun was up when Larry Langer ran up on him. The fugitive stopped.

“You gonna kill me, Ted?”

Cannon said nothing. The shooting at the house continued; there did not seem to be any more return fire. Smoke was coming out of the windows.

“Well, go on. You bastards killed everyone else. You can kill me too. At least it won’t be a stranger who does me.”

Cannon stood there, pointing the 12 gauge.

“Run. Don’t stop,” the deputy said.

Larry Langer took off past him into the deep woods. And Ted Cannon just stood and watched the house burn.

Captain Kelly Turnbull, clad in camo with none of his scare badges or tabs, surveyed his basic training company as its recruits navigated the obstacle course. They were men and women, some too fat, some too skinny. One was in a wheelchair. All were stumbling between, or trying to scramble over, the wood and rope structures, exhausted, hungry, and sweaty. Worse for them, every moment they were under the exacting observation of Turnbull’s cadre of drill sergeants, who made it abundantly clear that this pathetic corps of half-stepping dumbasses was undoubtedly the biggest bunch of fuck-ups to ever be dumped off buses into a US Army recruit depot.

Watching them was comedy gold, a festival of tripping and fumbling, falling and groaning. A young woman on the rope swing let go too soon, and plopped into a muddy puddle with a brown splash. It could have been worse; when Turnbull had done his basic training at Benning, it was January through March. Here at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, if it had been winter instead of summer, she would have wrecked herself on the ice. The mud was probably a welcome relief from the heat.