by Glen Tate
He wondered if he was just being a jerk about the whole government-worker versus private-sector thing. When FCards came out, his views were confirmed.
It turned out that, for some reason, all the government people had higher amounts put on their FCards. They would actually brag about how high their FCard amount was. It was a status symbol. Ron and the few private-sector people in the neighborhood got a third less and had just as many dependents. So, even though there was no longer a state budget, the public employees were still giving themselves more than the private sector. Just like the good old days before the Collapse when they did the same thing via public sector unions electing bought-and-paid-for legislators who appropriated more and more money for their union pals, who returned the favor the next election cycle. They did it with tax dollars in the past, but were doing it with FCard credits now. Because they could.
None of this sat well with Ron. He had been on the fence before the Collapse when Grant would talk about all the corruption and “soft tyranny.” Ron knew that Grant was right, but it just seemed so radical to say those things. “Tyranny?” In America? Oh, come on. Wasn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?
No. Grant had been right. Ron felt stupid to be trapped there in the Cedars trading in silver for a few gallons of gas and having to wave at the FC idiots lining the entrance of his neighborhood so he could go home. Ron had his family, some silver, and some guns so he was better off than most, but still. He felt like he got left behind in some crappy place. He wanted to make things better.
Ron was out driving one of the ladies from church so she could move into her son’s house a few miles away out in the country. He came to an intersection and there was some graffiti. It said, “I miss America.”
That hit him like a ton of bricks. Ron missed America. He missed having a job, having plenty to eat, not worrying about his family, and never having to deal with all the corruption and lawlessness. He missed America, too.
A few miles away, closer to the country where the church lady was moving, was some more graffiti, also in that Patriot yellow color. It said, “Resist.”
Right then and there, Ron decided that he would resist. He would figure out a silent and secret way to throw a monkey wrench in the government’s machine. He was not openly a Patriot like Grant, but he would fight these bastards. Fight them. He just needed to come up with a way to do it.
Then he got an idea. The perfect idea.
Chapter 126
Security Contractors
(May 13)
It was a beautiful morning. Nothing beat early summer in Washington State, Andy “Booger” Borger thought. It was much better than his native Pennsylvania where summer was hot and humid and full of bugs. Not here in Washington. He didn’t even mind the rain that seemed to fall nonstop from about October to March.
Andy was on guard duty at Joe Tantori’s compound. He was a former Army Ranger who saw a lot of action in Iraq and then in Afghanistan as a private military contractor. Now he was a trainer for Joe’s military and law enforcement students. He was one of Joe’s dozen employees out there; the “Dirty Dozen,” as they called themselves. They had some recent new guys, too; the eight law enforcement guys who came out a couple weeks ago after quitting the force because of the budget cuts.
Andy loved his job. He loved the Dirty Dozen. He loved Joe. Andy was divorced—aren’t all special operations guys? This made Joe and the Dirty Dozen Andy’s family.
It was about an hour after dawn. Andy had been the observer at the guard shack all night. He was a little tired, but this guard duty was nothing like the sleep deprivation he experienced as a Ranger.
Andy thought he heard a vehicle. That was weird. He was miles from the nearest town, and there was hardly ever any traffic.
It wasn’t just one vehicle. It was several. Heavy vehicles. It almost sounded like a convoy of military vehicles. They made a distinctive sound he’d heard hundreds of times. What the hell was a military convoy doing out here?
Then Andy saw them. The lead vehicle was an armored Humvee with several five-ton military trucks following. Andy counted six trucks.
Oh shit. “Franco one, Franco two,” Andy said into the radio to Joe’s base. “Visitors. Repeat: visitors. Seven vehicles. Six are five-tons.” Andy looked to see if any had heavy machine guns. Nope. They were just troop transports. “No Ma deuces, just trucks.” (“Ma deuce” referred to an M2 .50 machine gun.) Trucks full of military. While the Dirty Dozen were good and they had the backing of eight new guys, they were likely no match for the 60 guys that could be held inside six five-tons.
I might die today, Andy thought to himself. He’d had that thought a few times before, but it was still a big deal each time he had it.
The radios came to life. A truckload of Joe’s guys from the main compound were coming up the road for back up. Andy heard their truck start up about a minute after he radioed it in. In that amount of time, the military convoy had slowly crept to the gate.
Andy had been in combat many times, but he was scared right now. Really scared. It was weird: he wasn’t as scared when insurgents were trying to kill him in Iraq. They were actually pretty shitty fighters. He had no fear of them.
But he was scared of what was rumbling down the road at him right now. An American military convoy. That scared the shit out of him. Unless they were National Guard pukes, the men in those trucks would be formidable. It would be a hell of a fight.
Wait. Why would an American military convoy be coming out to Joe’s compound? A raid? What had they done? Well, they possessed about a 100 illegal ARs, some AKs, and some other now-restricted firearms. That was probably it. The old bumper sticker about prying his gun out of his “cold dead hands” flashed through Andy’s mind. Maybe that was going to happen today. So be it. Andy had long ago decided that he’d die for his guys. No biggie. It had to happen sometime. He should have been killed a couple of times in Iraq and once in Afghanistan, but had lucked out. Maybe this was his time.
Andy shouldered his AK, which he preferred to AR. Out of habit, he aimed his AK at the lead Humvee. He didn’t really expect to take it out given all its armor, including the windshield. Andy’s main weapon was his radio. He’d use that to get more guns on target.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Andy said into the radio, using his left hand to key the mic while his right hand held the AK on target. He wanted that truck load of Joe’s guys to get there right now.
“Don’t shoot, Booger,” Joe said on the radio. “Don’t shoot unless they shoot first. I think I know what this is all about.”
The military convoy had come to a full stop by now. No one was getting out. Their engines were still idling. It was that familiar diesel idling sound.
The truckload of Joe’s guys came screaming up the road to the gate and guard shack where Andy was. He was glad to see them. Even if they were about to die, at least he’d have company when it happened.
The truck stopped at the guard shack and Joe jumped out of the back and ran up to the gate to get a better look at the convoy. He didn’t have a rifle. He waved at the Humvee. A hand from the Humvee waved back and then a man got out of it.
Andy aimed his AK at the man getting out of the Humvee. The man getting out was a Marine..
Joe started laughing. He threw his hands up and started running toward the Marine who put up his hands, as if to greet Joe.
Joe hugged him; a “bro hug” not a “chick hug.” The Marine seemed uncomfortable with even the “bro hug.”
Joe said, “About damned time, Marty.” The Marine smiled.
Joe turned around to Andy and the truck of guys and yelled, “Stand down. These are friendlies.”
Joe and the Marine talked for a while. Both seemed to be pretty happy.
Andy recognized the Marine now. He was Gunnery Sergeant Booth, whose first name was Martin. Andy remembered that the Gunnery Sergeant was a friend of Joe’s. Marty apparently brought more friends. Andy still didn’t know what this was all about. There wasn’t a cl
ass scheduled for today, so the Marines weren’t here for that.
Joe opened the gate. Andy, who trusted Joe with his life, couldn’t help asking, “Boss, you sure you want to do that?”
Joe laughed and, with a huge smile, waved to Andy and the guys in the truck to come over to him.
“Well, gentlemen, we have a few more guests out here at the compound,” Joe said. “A few squads of Marines and a bunch of supplies. Boys, we’re in the ‘security contractor’ business now.”
Huh? “Security contractors?”
Joe said, “I’ll fill you in in a while. Let these guys in. We’ll brief you as soon as they’re squared away.”
Joe jumped back into the truck and it went out the gate to turn around and lead the convoy into the compound. Andy watched as the seven vehicles went past. Four of the five-ton trucks were packed with Marines and two had supplies. It was a lot of stuff.
Andy wanted to go down the road and see what all this was about. Lucky for him, his guard shift was up.
He radioed, “Franco one, Franco two. Send in the day shift.” A few minutes later, one of the new guys, Michael “Cowboy” Troy, a former Sheriff’s deputy, came to relieve him.
As Cowboy Troy came up the road, Andy asked, “So what’s the deal?”
“The Dirty Dozen just became the Dirty Several Dozen,” Cowboy Troy said. “They came from Bangor sub base. AWOL. Brought their weapons, machine guns, crates of ammo, and tons of other stuff. Looks like maybe five squads.”
Andy hadn’t been too happy when the close-knit Dirty Dozen became diluted with the new cops, but now all these Marines? Then Andy remembered what he felt like when he thought that convoy was coming to attack the compound. Fear. Being outnumbered. Facing a really good American military unit. Now they would have amazing manpower and firepower out at Joe’s place. Andy was warming up to the idea of the new arrivals. Maybe this wasn’t a bad thing.
He walked back down the road, which was a quarter mile to the main house, out buildings, bunkhouse, and classrooms. Three Marines were walking up the road toward him in full kit. One of the Marines said, “We’re augmenting your guard.” Andy nodded. That made sense. Maybe Uncle Sam would want to reclaim all his stuff that had just been stolen.
Joe’s wife and kids were staying at the main house. They were greeting the Marines, who were extremely polite. “Yes sir,” and “Yes ma’am,” they all said.
Gunnery Sgt. Booth was putting the Marines to work unloading the two cargo trucks. Andy couldn’t believe his eyes. He saw several M240 machine guns, a couple of Ma Deuce heavy .50 machine guns, and even a couple of anti-tank rockets. There were stacks and stacks of wooden crates of ammo, and probably 100 cases of MREs. Joe was getting the forklift to unload the crates. He had a cigar lit and a huge smile.
Andy helped with all the unloading and getting the Marines quartered. He counted fifty-six of them. With the three up on guard duty, that was fifty-nine. Just shy of six squads. Crap. That was a lot of Marines.
There were forty-seven spots in the bunkhouse for the students. The Marines brought some heavy duty tents. They were setting up two to house the Marines who didn’t have a place in the bunkhouse. Sgt. Booth was talking to Joe about where to place the machine guns. After an hour or two, things were pretty squared away. Everyone was hungry.
Andy started to smell something tasty. Joe’s wife and couple of the Dirty Dozen hollered that breakfast was ready. The Marines were probably up all night packing that stuff. Sgt. Booth gave them permission to eat and they went into the dining area of the classroom where the students ate during classes. The classroom was jam packed with Marines. It was a beautiful sight when security was in short supply.
After everyone had breakfast, Joe stood up at the front of the room and said, “Welcome gentlemen. As Gunny explained to you before you agreed to come here, I decided to hire you since the federal government no longer needs your services. You will be fed and taken care of. Your duties will be much like when you were active duty.”
Joe continued. “We’ll go over your duties in more detail after you get a tour of the facilities, we work up a guard schedule, and you get some sleep, but here’s the basic deal: you are now ‘security contractors.’ I have clients in town and out here who need their lives and property protected. I have some super guys, the Dirty Dozen and some former LEOs, but we’ve got even more super guys now. We will be conducting show-of-force patrols in town and dealing with whatever we need to deal with. Some of you will remain here to protect this place.”
Joe paused, wondering how much he should tell the Marines, and then decided to tell them just about everything. “My clients,” Joe said, “pay me in gold, silver, gasoline, food, and whatever else they have. Maybe those damned FCards. Let me worry about the business end. You will be paid a share of whatever I collect. You guys are way better off than the general population and your former colleagues who agreed to be shipped off to go kill Americans.”
It got silent when he said that. Joe motioned for Booth to say something.
“Military discipline will be maintained,” Booth said. “By me and Mr. Tantori’s men, too. If any of you dishonor this unit, stealing, killing without justification, or, God forbid, raping,” Booth looked over at Joe’s wife and said, “sorry ma’am,” and continued, “then I will shoot you. Is that clear?”
A thunderous, “Yes, Sergeant!”
Booth continued, “This is not a militia. This is not a vigilante force. This is not a gang. We are security contractors working for Mr. Tantori and, ultimately, his clients. We treat the population with maximum courtesy. These people in town aren’t Taliban. Now, that being said, we’re more than just a rented police force out here. We’re biding time until we fight in something bigger.” That surprised Joe’s men, but didn’t faze the Marines. They had discussed the “something bigger” fight before they came out there.
“Each of you,” Booth continued, “is here because you are a Patriot and would not follow unconstitutional orders, like shipping out down south. Eventually, when this war kicks off for real, we’ll be linking up with Patriot forces and taking this country back.”
“Oorah!” the Marines chanted. Booth allowed himself to smile, something he didn’t do much when he had his “sergeant face” on. “You’ll be getting further instructions from your squad leaders. That is all.” Another round of “oorah!” went up and the Marines started cleaning up the plates.
Joe was concerned about how the people in town would react to his “security contractors.” The county Joe was in was full of granolas, many of whom were Baby Boomer retirees from Seattle. These weren’t the homesteading kind of granolas, who weren’t a problem and actually were a benefit since they were largely self-sufficient. These were statist granolas. The rich lefties in the county who already had their property and set up barriers, usually environmental regulations, to keep others from competing with them. This was the “establishment” of the county. They were the ones, the chair of the county commission and the Sheriff in particular, who, before the Collapse, tried to shut down Joe’s training facility. Grant Matson and the Washington Association of Business represented Joe in court and won a court case against the county. This was how Joe met Grant.
Joe was tempted to send his men to the homes of the establishment, especially the county commissioners and former Sheriff who caused Joe so much trouble. The thought of some bloody payback crossed Joe’s mind many times. He could snap his fingers and they would be dead. But he didn’t do it.
Turns out he didn’t need to. Two days before the Marines arrived, a group of citizens went after all the corrupt bastards that had been running that county. The former establishment was now in hiding. No quite knew where. They probably went to Seattle to be with their big-government buddies. But who cared? They couldn’t boss people around and steal their property when they were hiding out. Problem solved.
A few weeks after the Marines came out there, Joe was actually making more than before the Collapse. His overhead
was low—the Marines worked for food and shelter, and an occasional bottle of booze—and he didn’t have to pay any taxes. He never realized how much time he and his company spent on stupid paperwork like withholding taxes and endless reports to government agencies. Now he spent that time on productive things, like making money.
Slowly the town and county were getting back on their feet. With the formerly all-powerful government essentially gone, and with all the statist granolas fleeing back to Seattle, the hardworking and self-reliant people remained. They thrived when there wasn’t any royalty to keep the serfs in their place, as it had been before the Collapse. A medical clinic started up in town. The power and water stayed on. Joe’s company trained a group of volunteer police and they were doing a decent job.
The Dirty Dozen and the LEOs blended in well with the Marines. The whole group became a tight-knit group. The Marines were an amazing bunch of kids. Well, men, but they seemed like kids to Joe. They were very good at their jobs. Just like everyone else out at Joe’s, the Marines had no family except each other. They were far from home, which was the South and mountain West for many of them. Joe’s crew was their family. And they’d fight for their family.
They would get their chance soon. The men knew that the security contractor job was just to maintain them while they were getting ready for…what they all knew was coming.
Chapter 127
Samizdat
(May 13)
