by Glen Tate
“What?” Paul asked. “Lieutenant?”
“Yep,” Ted said to Paul. “He is now your commanding officer. He is the CO of the 17th Irregulars. That’s your unit now.”
“What’s the 17th Irregulars?” Paul asked after a brief pause. Ted told him about the unit and a little bit of what had happened in Hammond’s office and then the meeting hall.
“Cool,” Paul said. He stood up straight and his chest puffed out a bit. He was proud to be part of this. He kept thinking how far he’d come. Now he was a soldier. Or a sailor. Or whatever he was.
Although Grant was tired, and tired of talking in particular, he couldn’t resist the opportunity. He said to Paul, “The boat guys were very important in the Revolutionary War. Did I ever tell you about how George Washington got a little navy together and used them to do some pretty amazing things?” That resulted in a ten-minute talk. Paul was very interested. He was realizing how important his job was.
A minute after Grant was done talking about George Washington’s navy, the radio crackled. Paul answered with a call sign Grant didn’t recognize. Paul said, “We’re cleared to go. We’ll be going fast at first, then we’ll slow down and go in circles for a while. We’ll come close to another boat, which also won’t have its lights on, then we’ll cruise out at a weird angle, and then straighten out. It’s part of a thing to make it hard for an observer on the shore to keep track of the boats. Like three-card Monte, where they move their hands around to keep you from seeing which one is the money card. Anyone on shore watching us will think we’re just smugglers doing a drop or something. That’s the idea.”
Grant was realizing that all this zooming around the water, coming close to other boats with their lights off, and then taking off at weird angles, all in the dark, was pretty dangerous. Given how weak the Limas would probably be in straight-on combat, Grant bet that many of the military deaths in this war would be from accidents. Most people thought the only way to die in the military was to dramatically take a bullet to the chest while shooting at the enemy. Not true. Those kinds of deaths were actually pretty rare. Accidents and friendly fire were much more common, and just as deadly.
“Untie me,” Paul said. Grant and Sap jumped off the boat, untied it, and jumped back on.
One more crackle of the radio and Paul moved the boat slowly out of the slip in the marina. When they had cleared the end of the marina, Paul said, “Find a seat and hang on.” He started to take off at a steady and moderate rate of speed. Pretty soon, after his wake was lessened, but not completely eliminated, he punched it. Everyone was pushed back in their seats. This boat had some horsepower. Whoever they got it from had a hell of a boat.
They sped to the middle of the inlet. It was scary as hell speeding through the water in the pitch dark, but Paul did it like it was no big deal. He was scared, but not showing it. He had a job to do and was damned glad to be doing it.
From the reflection of the moon on the water, Grant could faintly see another boat without its lights on. Paul saw it, too. He slowed to a stop and drifted. The radio crackled again and Paul put the boat in a steep left turn and sped up. They went in two circles. Grant could faintly see the other boat doing the same. The radio crackled again and Paul straightened out and headed straight toward shore. Grant knew that Paul was doing this on purpose and was skilled at it, but he was still terrified. The faint outline of shore was getting close. Really close. Grant was just about to say something when Paul turned hard left and started going through the inlet about a hundred yards off shore. “Tide is in pretty high or we couldn’t do this,” he said.
“Plus, at this distance from shore, it’s harder for people there to shoot us,” Ted said.
As they went down the inlet and got farther from the lights of Boston Harbor, the moonlight made it easier to see things without the man-made lights diluting the moonlight.
The inlet was empty. There were almost no lights on the cabins along shore. Grant wondered why. Duh, because it’s the middle of the night. People are asleep. And people along shore didn’t keep the night lights on because that would just tell pirates that there was a cabin there. In fact, Grant had heard at the Grange that some of the people in Pierce Point right on the water would put blankets over their waterside windows to prevent any light from showing through.
Grant thought about the modern day pirates out there. They were gangs in boats. Grant hadn’t heard of any confirmed pirates in Peterson Inlet off of Pierce Point. The beach patrol made sure of that. Pierce Point probably had the only organized beach patrol with good radios in the area and the pirates knew they could have a much easier time elsewhere. Why not take the easy stuff first? Then move onto the harder targets. Grant knew that Pierce Point was vulnerable from attack by sea, but, on the other hand, Pierce Point could also easily transport things by sea, like the 17th. Sea access was a double-edged sword.
In the quiet of no one talking and the hum of the engines and water, Grant fell asleep. He woke up, embarrassed that the old dude was napping. He looked around and saw they were almost at the Marion Farm landing.
“You were only out a couple of minutes, Lieutenant,” Ted said, giving the answer to the question he anticipated Grant would ask.
Chapter 204
A Good Gang
(July 22)
Hearing Ted call him “Lieutenant” forced Grant to quickly think about what he needed to do after they landed at the farm. He realized he had to walk Jim Q. into the camp and explain what a Quadra was. And that Grant was their CO. Actually, Grant realized as he was waking up, this introduction of his rank and Jim Q. was pretty important. First impressions were everything. Grant started to get mentally ready for another important meeting. It was almost 3:00 a.m. and it was time to go to work.
They slowed down to a drift. Grant was impatient. He wanted to go ashore and get this meeting over with and then go to bed. He realized this wasn’t going to happen. Tonight was a work night. He could sleep in tomorrow. Or, technically, today since it was after midnight. Way after midnight.
Grant took the opportunity of the silent drift to prepare for his speech. He got some thoughts in order and decided on the political approach to take. He would confidently tell the men that he was their CO, but not be a dick about it. As a civilian, and, worse yet, a lawyer, people might assume he would be a dick on a power trip. Grant knew how to handle this.
“Hey, Ted,” Grant said, “I need you to introduce me as the new lieutenant. You know, Lt. Col. Hammond commissioned this guy, that kind of thing.” Ted nodded.
“I’m just a UCG,” Grant said, using the Team’s self-deprecating term for untrained civilian goofball, “so I need some credibility. You’re Special Forces and a master sergeant. You introducing me gives it some credibility.”
Ted nodded. He had been thinking the same thing.
Grant continued, “I’ll introduce Jim Q. and tell people about how I’ll be running things.” Grant smiled and said to Ted, “Which is to say, how you are running things. I’m in charge but you’re the day-to-day guy. Any recommendations on my approach, Sergeant?” Grant was practicing his style of command, which would consist of gathering lots of input from the people who actually knew what the hell they were doing, while he remained in command.
Soldiers needed to know their CO is in command. Even if he doesn’t know everything, they need to know there is a CO. Showing some humility by asking for a master sergeant’s “recommendations” was the perfect middle-ground approach.
“Sounds good, Lieutenant,” Ted said. “I have to get in the habit of calling you ‘Lieutenant’.”
“Oh, I know, ‘Sergeant,’” Grant said, “I’m doing the same, Ted. We’ll make this work, Sgt. Malloy.”
“Yes, sir,” Ted said to Grant, still practicing. “It’s good you’re taking your commission seriously, but not too seriously. Of course, military protocol is vastly relaxed in an irregular unit. But these guys need to see, at least at this early stage when they’re setting their views on what
kind of unit this is, that there’s a CO who is taking the job seriously…and that there’s a sergeant around who knows what the hell he’s doing,” Ted said with a smile.
“Roger that, Sergeant,” Grant said, “Roger that.” Grant smiled. He and Ted would do a great job at this. Together. Like Grant and Rich would do the civilian side well. Together. There are no Lone Rangers or ego trips out here, Grant thought. That will get you killed.
Finally, it was time to land. The boat softly bumped up on the shore. They jumped out one by one. Grant’s hillbilly slippers were waterproof up to about the ankle. The water was about that deep, but he jumped in and the water went over his ankle and into his socks. Oh well, it was pretty warm out.
Ted and Sap helped Jim Q. with his duffle bag. He put it over his shoulders and started walking. Sap took point. Everyone had their rifle in hand, except for Jim Q. who hadn’t been assigned one yet. For all they knew, Marion Farm had been overrun and was now manned with Limas who were waiting to ambush them along the road. It was unlikely, but possible. Sap keyed the mic three times on the radio hanging from the left shoulder of his kit. A second later, there were four mic keys in response. Sap gave the thumbs up. The Patriots at Marion Farm were expecting them. Grant took up the rear, AR in hand and walking backwards half the time to watch for anyone behind them who shouldn’t be there.
The quiet. Once again, Grant loved the quiet of moving through the woods. He heard the wind gently swaying the evergreens. It was so peaceful. Then Grant would turn around, sweep the rear looking through the red dot and circle of his EO Tech sight on his AR, watching and listening for anything trying to kill him and his guys. It was armed serenity, despite the whole people-might-be-trying-to-kill-you thing.
After a few minutes, Sap halted them and keyed his mic twice. One keying of the mic was the answer. Sap kept moving forward.
By now, they could see the guard station on the little hill at the entrance from the beach to the farm. As they got closer, one of the two guards said, “Welcome, gentlemen. How ‘bout them Packers?”
Sap quickly said, “Offensive line could use some work” and kept walking. Grant realized that this was a code for testing friendlies. The mic key code could be compromised pretty easily, but references to Sap’s Wisconsin upbringing would be a much harder code to break.
They were now in the lights of the outbuildings and farmhouse. Grant was stunned at how large, and perfect, the place was. He was tired and it was dark, so he wasn’t fully taking in all the sights of the facility.
Grant did notice that there was a lot of activity at the farm for the middle of the night. Then again, people in this business probably worked a lot at night, like Grant was tonight.
They got to the farmhouse and went in the front door. Don, the Air Force RED HORSE guy, was in command in Ted’s absence. Ted said to Don, “Get everyone together, we have an announcement and,” he said pointing to Jim Q., “an introduction.” Don rounded everyone up. In the meantime, Grant and the others who had been in Boston Harbor had something to eat; cornbread from that night’s dinner, to be exact. Don brought everyone into the kitchen where Grant and the others were eating. There were about ten of them, including civilians Stan and Carl, Tom in his Air Force fatigues, and Travis in his Navy fatigues. There were a couple more Air Force and Navy guys helping Don put the facility together. The rest were a couple of infantrymen, all in their fatigues with the “U.S. Army” name tape taken off. This core group was a good sample of what the full unit would be: civilians, support troops from the Air Force and Navy, and infantrymen.
“All here, boss, except the guards.” Don said to Ted. Ted nodded.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement,” Ted said. “I would like to introduce you to Lt. Grant Matson, the commanding officer of our unit, the 17th Irregulars of the Free Washington State Guard.” Ted started applauding and the rest of the group quickly followed.
When the applause died down, Don said, “So we’re the 17th Irregulars, huh?” He thought about it and said, “Cool. What’s our mission?” Ted explained the mission—the short version—to Don and the others. They would train a mixture of FUSA military and civilians to be guerillas and to occupy an objective after the regular Patriot forces had taken it. Ted didn’t go into the details about Grant and the Team doing their civil affairs mission. They didn’t need to know all the details just yet.
Grant was embarrassed to admit that no one asked about him. The attention was on the unit and what it would be doing. That made sense when he thought about it, but Grant expected to be grilled by the troops on whether he had any military experience and whether he could be a battlefield commander. Instead, the troops just seemed to accept that he was the lieutenant and go on with their jobs.
Ted realized that Grant needed a little attention with the big announcement about him being in command. “And the guy you knew as Grant,” Ted said, “was commissioned by Lt. Col. Hammond of the Special Operations Command as our lieutenant.” Everyone applauded.
“Lt. Matson,” Ted said, “do you care to say something to your troops?” This was Grant’s chance to describe his philosophy of command and set the tone for the unit. This was a chance he would only get once, and he knew he had to make it good.
“Thanks, Sgt. Malloy,” Grant said. “Here’s the deal folks. I was a civilian my whole life. I will rely heavily on Sgt. Malloy here. I am not pretending to be something I’m not. Never have. I found that life goes much more smoothly when you’re not trying to be something you’re not. So, while I know quite a bit about tactical things and I know how to organize people pretty damned well, I have no military background to speak of, so I compensate for that by listening to Ted, or,” Grant caught himself, “as I now call him, Sgt. Malloy.”
Grant looked at each person in the kitchen for a moment and said, “But I am in command. I am responsible for each of you. I am working with HQ on some stuff that I am pretty good at,” he said, keeping the civil affairs thing vague. “Bottom line: Special Operations Command put me in charge. So I am. Gladly. This is how I have been called on to serve in taking this country back. It’s what I’m supposed to do, and I’m damned glad to be doing it.”
“Battlefield rules out here, obviously,” Grant said, trying to show his troops that he had some military knowledge. “No saluting, no attention when I walk in, none of that stuff. I would have you call me Grant like you have been, but I need to show the people who aren’t out here yet that I’m the CO, so I’ll ask you to call me ‘Lieutenant’ around the others. But when this core group is alone, I’m fine with Grant. All I want to do is win and bring each and every one of you back home to wherever home is for you. The rest of it—titles, saluting, that kind of ego shit—I could do without.”
“Here is one thing I insist on in this unit,” Grant said in his command voice. “Every single person is a warrior. Every single one. No matter what your job here, you are a warrior first and a dishwasher, or whatever, second. This isn’t like the military units some of you came from where things were so specialized that you only worked on one particular piece of equipment for four years and someone else took care of the ‘gun part’ of the mission. Not here. You will all be trained as fighters and you will get some rifle time. It might be guard duty, or it might be infantry duty, or it might be some high-speed commando shit in a raid, but you will all be rifle-toting fighters. If anyone isn’t OK with that, you’ll need to go. So, is everyone OK with that?”
A thunderous, “Yes, sir!” broke out in unison. Grant smiled. That’s the spirit he wanted to see. “Another thing,” he said, “that will be new to you military people is that, when the unit is up to full strength, it will have lots of civilians. I need the military people and civilians to work together seamlessly. This is a military unit, albeit it an irregular one. You military guys will know more than the civilians and will need to train them. But, we’re all Americans, we’re all Patriots, and we’re all risking our lives to make things right again. I want each of y
ou military guys to take a civilian or two under your wing. Can you do that for me?”
Another thunderous, “Yes, sir!” The conversation was going better than Grant had expected.
“Another thing,” Grant continued. “Let your chain of command know if you need things or have suggestions on how to make this work better.” Grant wanted to get all the good ideas he could out of these people. “Hey, let’s be honest: We’re making this up as we go. None of us have ever been in an irregular unit. The U.S. hasn’t had irregular units for over two hundred years, but ask the British, and I’m sure they’ll say that irregulars can mess you up.” That got some cheers. Grant wanted to make the connection with the troops that the 17th was like the militias during the Revolutionary War. He hoped for the same outcome as in that war.
Grant continued, “We’re out here at a farm. None of you have ever set up a base at a farm. None of you have ever operated without the full logistical support of the United States military. Sergeants Malloy and Sappenfield have set up indigenous units, but with local tribes in far off places, so that’s a little different for them too, but the idea is just the same. This means we’ll look to them on a lot of matters, but I want each of you to tell us what’s working, what’s not working, and what would work better.”
“I mentioned chain of command,” Grant said, “so I better add that we’ll come up with squad leaders in a while.” Grant hadn’t talked to Ted about squad leaders, but just assumed that would be done. “When we have a couple squads worth of people out here, we’ll do that. I’m not rigid on many things, but the chain of command is important, especially because I won’t be out here full time. Unfortunately, I have to be back in Pierce Point during the days most of the time. I have a cover to maintain and some work back there that directly benefits the unit.” Grant was being vague and painting a slightly rosier picture than reality, but was referring to recruiting Pierce Point guards and walk-ons from the gate. Plus, Grant had to make sure Pierce Point ran smoothly. It wouldn’t do the 17th any good if all the residents in the vicinity of the Marion Farm were starving and killing each other. “It sucks that I’m not here 24/7. But,” Grant said pointing to the crowd in the kitchen, “we’re in good hands. You guys can handle anything.” They were nodding. “Sgt. Malloy will solve most of the problems,” Grant continued, “but he can get a hold of me whenever, so I’m always available by radio.” Sap told Grant he would give him one of the secure military radios they used to communicate with Scotty earlier and would show him how to use it. Grant would have the military radio with him at all times, and Scotty would keep the radio he had and would be back up for contacting Grant.
