Kurt Schlichter - People's Republic

Best of all, he liked not having to check behind him.

He sat on the porch, drinking coffee, his stupid dog curled up beside him. It was nearly useless, that dog, a light brown mix who had no real purpose except to mooch food and demand attention. It had followed him home one day and he had never bothered to chase it away. Maybe his time in cities had made him soft, he reflected. A real rancher would have gotten rid of it long ago. The damn thing couldn’t even be bothered to kill rats.

His smartphone pinged; a vehicle had entered the property and was coming down the driveway. The time was 0845 hours. A good sign. Somewhere along the line, some NCO had taught Lieutenant Ryan that if you weren’t fifteen minutes early you were already late.

Junior pulled up in a tan late-model BMW 6-series. Pricey. You had to get it from Cuba, because of the EU boycott of the racist, imperialist, and insufficiently Islamacist-subservient United States. Cuba, having finally tossed out its communist government (with just a little bit of help from the United States – Turnbull savored the memory of the rum), was now growing rich selling to the Americans what the Europeans refused to sell them directly. The Caribbean island was the world’s second largest buyer of German cars, right after Germany itself.

The dog looked over, bored, and then put his head back down. Not a bark, not even a growl. Sheesh, sighed Turnbull.

Junior wore tan combat boots, khaki tactical slacks with a checked shirt, and he looked remarkably crisp in the wilting 90 degree heat. He carried an HK-style USP in .45 – perhaps likewise bought through Cuba, but more likely built at one of the weapons plants dotting the Southern states. The few gun makers left in blue states at the start of the Crisis had been among the first to depart after the Split.

“So, I’m here.”

“Let’s go shoot. Follow me.” The dog watched them go; there was no way he was leaving the shade.

Turnbull had set up a range behind his house. A table held a pair of modified M4 carbines; they were accessorized with close quarter battle sights, fore grip handles and suppressors.

The table also held a pair of Glocks, plus eye and ear protection. There were dozens of boxes of ammo and a stack of empty magazines that they proceeded to fill.

“The Glocks are simple, reliable, and shoot 9 mm, probably the easiest round to find on the black market over there. Clay used his intel connections to get us a couple modified ones from the special ops guy’s secret stash, sixth generation, special handgrips, improved slide. We’ll each take ten mags plus one in the gun. They aren’t flashy on the outside, and some cops still carry them, so it’s a good relatively inconspicuous choice. The M4s are an improved version of a time-tested weapon. You guys on active duty still use them. Full auto, of course. Clay dropped them off yesterday afternoon. They’re clean – they can’t be traced to the US. Neither can the Glocks.”

“So why are we using the M4 platform? There are a lot of others we could choose from.”

“Familiarity. We both used it in the service. The bad guys sometimes use AK series rifles bought from China or wherever whenever they can, but there are enough M4s still over there that they won’t draw special attention in and of themselves. Plus, the four provides good firepower – these are full auto. The suppressors won’t make them silent, but will quiet them down a little. Think of these carbines as a last resort – they only come out to rock and roll if we have to.”

“Like you did in Los Angeles last week.”

“I never admit anything. But yeah.”

“You took on four armed PSF officers all alone. That seems a little crazy.”

“I wasn’t alone. I had two powerful allies, surprise and aggression. The People’s Security Force are really just security guards with a license to kill. Don’t think of them as cops; cops are professionals and have a code. These guys have greed and an attitude; they don’t help people, they only help themselves. They aren’t picked because they’re smart and they aren’t trained to do much more than bully people who can’t fight back. Our edge is that they think they’ve broken the populace, that no one will resist. When someone does, there are a critical few moments when they are mentally resetting into a combat mindset. You need to take advantage of it. That’s where the aggression comes in. They expect you to run away. Instead, you charge. They aren’t trained to fight even odds or without the initiative. So when you attack, it throws them off balance. At Ft. Benning, what did they train you to do in an ambush?”

“Turn and attack into it.”

“Right. See, we think like soldiers, not sheep. These guys aren’t used to soldiers. They assume we’re sheep. So when we battle instead of baa, we have an edge,” he said. Then, “So how did you get wounded?”

“I was in the 36th Division along the border in Kentucky. My platoon was running a security op in the DMZ with Ohio and we ran into some traffickers. We got six of them. I took a round in the thigh. They had AKs.”

“The proudly gun-free Peoples Republic. Yeah, the PR hates armed citizens, but if you’re a criminal you’re good to go. Or if you’re one of their PBI stormtroopers. Or guarding the rich folks. Then guns are great.”

“What’s that one?” Junior asked, pointing to a pistol on the table that looked like a high-tech Luger.

“That’s a present from Clay, too. It’s a Ruger 22/45 .22 semi-auto pistol, and it comes with this suppressor. I’m going to use subsonic, frangible rounds. Silent but deadly on an unarmored target. They won’t penetrate for shit, except through a skull.”

“How silent?”

“Well, let’s find out.” Turnbull loaded a 10 round magazine and screwed the silencer onto the end of the barrel. Inserting the mag, he cocked it and quickly brought it up to his dominant right eye and squeezed off six rapid rounds, two each at three metal targets. The dings of the hits echoed across the range, but that was it – the action made a little noise, but other than that, the only sound was a dull thuft .

“Okay, that’s useful,” said Turnbull. “Now, I want you to forget everything they taught you about shooting in Army school. Pick up your four and follow me.”

They shot all day, going through various engagement scenarios with the pistols and the carbines until Turnbull was satisfied that he had broken at least the worst of Junior’s shooting habits. The Glocks and the M4s were just as Clay had promised – top of the line. Except you could take the best weapon and turn it into a brick by putting it in an untrained shooter’s paws. Luckily, the kid learned fast, took correction, and he generally kept his mouth shut and listened. That was a good sign too.

“You ever been on the other side?” Turnbull asked as they cleaned the weapons on the porch. Bottles of Shiner Bock sat beside them, glistening with moisture in the hot, thick air. The dog came over and demanded attention from Junior, who petted him.

“Hey, don’t encourage that mutt,” said Turnbull as he wiped grime out of the lower receiver. “He’s useless. He’s a welfare cheat and I’m Uncle Sucker.”

Junior scratched the terrier’s head anyway. “When I was a kid we went to California and New York a few times before they seceded. I don’t remember much. Of course, I wasn’t of age when the Split happened so I had to earn my citizenship.”

“How about after the Split, but before they blockaded us?”

“No. Dad was really busy as part of the transition, setting up the government here after the Split. It was a weird time.”

“You’re telling me.”

“You fought in it, right?” Junior asked. The dog, bored of the attention, turned and walked to the corner of the porch and plopped himself down.