by Glen Tate
“OK,” Grant said. “Worth a try.”
Grant sat back and thought. He could not verify Olson’s story, but Olson seemed either truthful or was a professional liar. Grant decided to take a risk with him. He would have some good skills for the unit.
“Welcome to the rental team,” Grant said to Olson, who smiled. He needed a job. And was hungry.
Grant kept thinking about whether he could trust Olson. There was a solution. Of sorts.
Embahla. That was the term Ted had previously told Grant about. This was a word in a native language of one of the countries Ted had been in for people who are still being tested for loyalty. Ted would have a special program for embahlas at Marion Farm. Embahlas would never be given information that, if it got out, could harm the unit. Different trusted members of the unit would strike up conversations with the embahlas and see if their stories changed. For example, Olson would be asked several times by different people in casual conversations to tell his story about handing over his gun and badge. The trusted soldiers would tell Ted and Sap what the answers were. They were looking for a change in the story. Ted assigned a solider, Don, the Air Force RED HORSE guy, to be the internal intelligence man.
Don kept track of the embahlas. He even assigned a trusted solider to buddy up with each embahla. A spy would likely be a loner who didn’t want to get close to the people he was trying to kill. In contrast, a genuine Patriot soldier would naturally want to buddy up with fellow Patriots. Don was issued the very limited liquor they had out at the Marion Farm. He used the liquor to get the embahlas drunk at least once and see what they said when their tongues were loosened.
So far, all of the embahlas were checking out. They still didn’t get near the communications information. Their bunks and unused clothing were secretly searched when they weren’t around. They were not allowed to leave Marion Farm under any circumstances. That way, they couldn’t communicate with the Limas and couldn’t conveniently be absent if a strike was about to annihilate the farm. If the Limas had people infiltrating Marion Farm who had undetectable communications and who were willing to die in the resulting strike, then so be it. The 17th didn’t have a countermeasure for that. It was one of the many risks they took operating a guerrilla unit.
Chapter 227
Crazy-Ass Idea
(November 10)
Because it was November, Grant thought about the Pilgrims back in the Massachusetts colony. They were hungry, in constant danger, and cut off from all they knew as normal. They, like the people at Pierce Point, were heading into a bad winter. What did they do? They scratched together the best of what they had and put on a feast to give thanks.
That gave Grant an idea. Things were getting a little worse each day at Pierce Point. People weren’t starving, but the “summer picnic” was over. Some people were running out of food. There were constant pleas at each Grange meeting to start distributing the food in the semi-trailer.
Grant, Rich, and a core group of others fought off the requests for the semi food each time. Not until things were absolutely dire, they kept saying. Even though a semi of food was an amazing amount of food, it would be gone in two weeks if the five hundred or so people in Pierce Point were relying on it. Then people would be back in the same situation. Not only would it run out quickly, but tapping the semi also presented the problem of distributing the food in exactly equal portions; that would cause fighting. The whole topic of opening up the semi was a problem they didn’t need out there until it was absolutely necessary.
Only a small portion of the people at Pierce Point were clamoring to get free stuff. Maybe ten percent insisted on opening up the semi, with people softly supporting them making up another ten percent. Though only about twenty percent wanted to dip into the reserves, that small group was loud.
It was interesting. These demanding people had never been to Grange meetings all summer, yet they were showing up regularly now. Almost none of them volunteered at the Grange. They couldn’t be bothered to participate in the community’s decision making back in the summer. It was different now, when they wanted something.
Needed something was more like it. They were desperate and showed up for the first time to plead for what they needed. Just like the old days, Grant realized. Goof off all the time, need something, and then go beg the community for it. It will be given to you. People will feel sorry for you. You’ll get whatever you want. Cry a little and say, “It’s for the children.”
But that didn’t work anymore. Now there wasn’t a bunch of free government money to dole out. There wasn’t much of anything.
Grant was trying to avoid a full-on political fight over opening up the semi, but the constant cries to distribute the semi food were getting louder and louder. Finally, Grant said what needed to be said.
“You people,” Grant loudly exclaimed at a Grange meeting, “wanting to open up the semi had all summer to prepare for the winter. Gardens, hunting, fishing, canning, smoking, drying, freezing. What the hell were you doing all summer? Ralph Ramirez, the ‘Ag. Director,’ and his volunteers were available all summer to help you start gardens. Didn’t Ralph and his folks coordinate people working on farms and then getting food in return? You all could have worked for a farm and you’d have some food now.”
It was silent. This issue had been brewing for a long time. “Wasn’t there beef and even llama,” Grant continued, “available for barter at the Winston farm? Weren’t there a zillion hunting parties that went out from every neighborhood and shared the meat? Didn’t everyone go fishing and then smoke the fish? Clams, oysters? Picking berries? Making jam and canning vegetables in neighborhood canning parties? Storing up FCard food from Frederickson? What about starting a little business, like the kids mowing lawns with push mowers, and buying food with your earnings?”
Grant paused and yelled, “What the hell were you doing all summer?” The unprepared people became furious when they were confronted with this question. They had various excuses. They didn’t know how to garden or hunt. Fair enough, but there were plenty of people teaching these skills. Most people hadn’t gardened in years or ever, yet gardens sprung up almost overnight during the summer. Need seeds? Ralph and his volunteers had a seed bank. Don’t know how to hunt? Tag along with a rifle and don’t talk in the woods. Shoot at suitable animals. Someone will help you butcher the game.
There were some people who had a legitimate reason for not preparing over the summer, like the elderly and people with disabilities, but they were taken care of by neighbors’ charity and the Grange. That was not an issue. And they weren’t the ones who were angered by Grant’s question. The ones who hated to hear that were the able-bodied who, for whatever reason, didn’t prepare for the winter. They were the grasshoppers who played all summer while the ants prepared for the winter.
Grant tried to think of why people wouldn’t get off their asses and prepare over the summer for the approaching winter. Most of the unprepared were people, often younger people, who had never had a job. Or even worked … at anything. They never had any chores around the house, never had a part-time job in high school, and never had a job after they graduated. They were like so many other Americans. They just sort of floated along and always seemed to have money for fast food and video games. They never thought about how to feed themselves; food just appeared. They had attention spans measured in milliseconds. They couldn’t spend more than a few minutes in a garden or hunting without quitting. They were useless. And American society had allowed them to be that way.
That didn’t get them sympathy with Grant or the majority of Pierce Point residents. It meant the lazy needed to adapt or … die. It was harsh, but true. Adapt or die. Well, “die” might be too strong of a word. Adapt or “don’t try to take the food I prepared,” was more the sentiment.
Grant was glad that the majority of Pierce Point residents had the same attitude toward the unprepared. Over the course of the summer, the majority worked hard at preparing and saw the shitbags sitting around. Th
ey told lazy people to get working and saw them still sitting around. They personally tried to get specific people to prepare who didn’t. Now, many of the people telling others to prepare had a personal experience to throw back at the lazy. Like, “Remember around July Fourth when I tried to give you seeds and you said you wanted to hang out with your friends instead?” Lots of lifelong friendships and even some families were torn apart by this.
So, politically speaking, there was a big problem out at Pierce Point, but the majority of people were solid. Grant was not concerned that the twenty percent or so of people wanting to open up the semi would win. He was not happy about a significant minority of people being so at odds with the majority, but at least the good guys had the votes.
Then again, the twenty percent were fairly well armed. Chip had quietly beefed up the guards at the Grange where the semi-trailer was located. As the winter approached, it was beefed up again. There were constant rumors that some group of people would try to take the food. So far, the rumors had not materialized.
It was against this backdrop that Grant had his big idea: a Thanksgiving dinner at the Grange for the whole community. For everyone—even the slackers. It would be the last free meal. One free meal was a lot less of a big deal than the months of free meals they wanted. Plus, the majority could tell the slackers: “We gave you a free Thanksgiving dinner. We gave you something. Now shut up and start working for your meals.”
But there was a bigger purpose for the Thanksgiving dinner. It would give everyone hope. If they could have a Thanksgiving dinner under these conditions, anything was possible. Anything.
Thanksgiving would allow them to reflect on how grateful they were for how good they had it in Pierce Point compared to the rest of the country. It would be a big community-wide celebration; a feast.
There was just one problem.
The food. Where would they get all the food, especially the turkey, stuffing, and cranberries? America was heading into a winter of possible starvation and Grant was planning a Thanksgiving dinner for about five hundred people? Had he lost touch with reality?
Grant knew what to do. He walked out of the Grange where he was pacing around, mulling over his big idea and found Chip.
“Chip,” Grant said, “I have a crazy-ass idea.”
Chapter 228
Throwing Some Turkey Around
(November 10)
“I’m listening,” Chip said. He always loved it when Grant approached him with one of his “crazy-ass” ideas. They were usually pretty good. Sometimes not, but always entertaining.
“Thanksgiving is in about two weeks,” Grant stated. “How much would it kick ass to have a Thanksgiving dinner for everyone at the Grange and one at Marion Farm. Turkey, gravy, the whole nine yards. Mashed potatoes. Hell, maybe even some pumpkin’ pie, brother.”
Chip just looked at Grant like he was kidding or crazy.
“Well, it would kick ass, except there isn’t any frickin’ turkey to be found within a fifty-mile radius,” Chip said.
“Here’s my crazy-ass idea,” Grant said as he motioned for Chip to come closer and hear his secret.
Chip approached. This better be good, he thought. Chip thought about how great Thanksgiving dinner would be. He realized how much the community needed it. A Thanksgiving dinner might bring people back together after all of the increasing bickering. It would be the most memorable Thanksgiving of their lifetimes. It would be exactly what everyone needed. But Chip didn’t want to be disappointed by some stupid joke Grant was probably about to tell, so he got himself ready to be disappointed.
“Got any extra ARs?” Grant asked Chip.
Aha. That was how to buy the turkey.
“Um,” Chip said, “we kinda need all the ARs we can round up for the little thing going on at the Marion Farm.” Chip rolled his eyes at Grant and said, “Maybe you’ve heard about what’s going on out there, Lieutenant.”
“But do you have any extras?” Grant asked, undeterred by Chip’s logic.
Chip thought about it. He had two ARs in his personal stash. They were old A2s with carry handles and iron sights. They worked fine, but were pretty basic. Chip had been holding onto them for some reason. He didn’t know why. He was just holding onto them.
“Where do we buy turkey, especially with ARs as cash?” Chip asked.
“I dunno,” Grant said as he shrugged.
Chip laughed. “Remember the last time you said to me ‘I dunno’?” he asked.
Grant shook his head.
“When Rich asked you,” Chip said with a smile, “Why you knew to go get Gideon’s semi and have him drive it into here, you said, ‘I dunno’.” Chip grinned and asked, “Remember that?”
“Oh, yeah,” Grant said. “Well, this is the same thing. I don’t know where to get the turkey. But I know we will.”
That was logical enough for Chip. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to have a Thanksgiving dinner out there. Chip never had a family around for Thanksgiving. He usually dreaded the holiday. Now he had a family. Finally. And, damn it, he was going to have a Thanksgiving dinner with his new family.
Chip thought about it. He could only think of one reason not to do it. “What does Ted think about this?” Chip asked.
“I dunno,” Grant said with a grin, realizing he was using that trademark phrase again. “I was going to bring a couple of the turkeys to Marion Farm for the unit to have a Thanksgiving dinner, too.” Grant thought for the first time that maybe ARs would be better used fighting the coming war than paying for a single meal. Grant was embarrassed that he was just now realizing this.
“If Ted is OK with diverting two ARs for turkeys—if we can even find any turkeys—then I’ll donate them,” Chip said, not really believing that he was saying something as stupid as that.
Grant smiled. Now he just had to convince Ted. That might be hard.
A couple ARs was a big deal. Oh well. Grant was one step closer to his Thanksgiving dinner. Chip had just agreed to donate two extremely valuable items.
“Thanks, man,” Grant said. “Really. Thanks.”
Chip just nodded. “No problem. I love turkey.”
Grant headed over to Marion Farm. The 17th guards let him in.
“To what do we owe a rare daytime visit, Lieutenant?” One of the guards asked.
“Top secret,” Grant said with a smile.
The guard radioed, “Giraffe 7 here to see Green 1.” Ted would be waiting for him.
“Thanks,” Grant told the guard as he dipped his head as if he were tipping his hat. No saluting out in the field. Especially when saluting would let an observer know that the two men were in a military unit.
Grant walked down the road toward the farmhouse. Ted was there and came up to see him.
“What’s up?” Ted asked, assuming something must be important if Grant was coming to the farm during the day.
“I’ve got a big political problem brewing at Pierce Point and I need your OK on something to solve it,” Grant said, “and this will do some great morale boosting for the unit here.”
Ted was naturally curious. He wanted to say yes to something that solved a political problem and boosted morale. He just didn’t quite know why Grant needed his permission.
“I’m opposed to it,” Ted said after hearing Grant’s proposal. “Two ARs is a big deal. That’s two soldiers I can’t field.”
Ted thought and then said something that might be offensive to Grant, but he didn’t care. “Grant, we’re in the war business, not the catering business.”
Grant was a bit taken aback. Ted had a point, but that “catering business” jab was kind of lame. Grant stiffed his posture and got a serious look on his face.
“I’m the commanding officer out here,” he said in his command voice, which was something he rarely had to use. “Those guns are Chip’s, not the unit’s.”
Grant stared Ted right in the eyes and said, “I need to pull a rabbit out of my hat for the folks in Pierce Point. A politica
l rabbit. We might have a little civil war of our own out there with all the slackers wanting to open up the semi. And my men—yes, my men—here in the 17th deserve a fucking Thanksgiving dinner.”
Ted was surprised—and impressed—with Grant’s strong stance. Ted saluted Grant and said, “Yes, sir.”
Grant was stunned. Did Ted just salute him? And call him “sir”? And agree to do what he said?
Grant meekly replied, “Huh? Seriously?”
Ted laughed. “Yes, sir. We’ll have a Thanksgiving dinner.”
Grant and Ted broke out into laughter. Grant had been doing such a good job of being in command, except for that last “Huh? Seriously?” But he was learning.
Besides, Ted realized what a great idea the Thanksgiving dinner was, at least for the unit. It would be fantastic and bring them even closer together. Ted didn’t know the details about the political situation in Pierce Point, but he knew Grant was running that place like a finely tuned watch. If Grant said he needed to throw some turkey around, that’s what needed to happen.
“One question, Lieutenant,” Ted said. “Where do we get the turkey? And, for what, a couple hundred people?”
“Six hundred, probably. About five hundred at Pierce Point and about a hundred here,” Grant said.
Ted shrugged and asked, “Where do we get the turkey?”
“I dunno,” Grant said, using his favorite phrase. Grant shrugged.
“I can’t exactly order some from HQ,” Ted said.
“We’ll have the FCard crew that goes into town each day ask around,” Grant said. “I bet the gangs can get us turkey. A couple hundred pounds of it. Seriously. They can get anything people want. And they can probably use a couple of ARs.” Grant and Ted didn’t want to think about how the gangs would use ARs. That was somebody else’s problem. That sounded cruel, but it was the truth. They didn’t really like thinking about themselves doing business with the gangs, either, but they needed turkeys and had a couple of ARs. That’s just how it was.
