299 Days VIII: The War

by Glen Tate

  “Bear two out,” Jim Q. said in their language, before going to find Ted.

  When he caught up with him, he mentioned the meeting that night. Ted nodded slowly. It must be the meeting about the offensive. Finally. Ted had been waiting for weeks for the green light.

  “My guys are ready,” Ted said out loud to himself. They were. Not ultra-ready, but as ready as they could be. They were ready enough for the mission best suited for the 17th Irregulars that he and Lt. Col. Hammond sketched out from the beginning: rear-echelon occupiers of Olympia with a strong civil affairs emphasis. Ted just hoped that this was the same mission they would receive. He was hoping his semi-rag tag unit wouldn’t be tasked with taking a fortified Lima facility.

  Ted got on the radio and called Grant. “Giraffe 7, Giraffe 7, Green 1.”

  After a few seconds, Grant answered, “Green 1, Giraffe 7.”

  “Supper at the ranch,” Ted said. He added, “Bring a toothbrush,” which essentially meant that he’d better plan to spend the night.

  “Roger that,” Grant said. Another evening and night away from the family, he thought. Oh well. That was becoming more and more common for him. For the most part, his family was understanding. He had to get the “rental team” up to speed to get some food and gas coming to Pierce Point. It was a worthy cause, even if it was a lie. The actual cause was even more worthy, but his family wouldn’t understand.

  “Should I bring my cousins?” Grant asked. This was code for the Team.

  “Negative,” Ted answered.

  “Copy,” Grant said. “Giraffe 7 out.”

  “Green 1 out,” Ted said.

  It was about 4:30 p.m. Dinner was always at 5:30 p.m. It was earlier than most civilians were used to, but the unit got up at 5:00 a.m.

  Grant arrived at Marion Farm about a half hour later. He flashed the guards the unit’s “1-7” sign and they let him in. The sign was just for fun. The guards recognized Grant.

  Grant checked his watch. It was a little after five. That gave him some time to talk to Ted and see what was going on. Grant could sense that something big was up. He, too, had been waiting for the green light from HQ This must be it, Grant thought.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Grant asked when he saw Ted.

  “All unit-commander meeting tonight at HQ,” Ted said. “You know what that means.”

  “Yep,” Grant said. His marriage was about to finally end, he thought. That’s what’s up. Oh, and he might be killed. There was that, too.

  Grant had dinner and talked to the troops all night. Around10:00 p.m., he took a caffeine pill, anticipating a long night. A little while later, he and Ted got their kit and rifles and headed out to the beach landing. There was the Chief ready to take them to Boston Harbor.

  They still hadn’t found Paul’s body and Mark was still insane. Every time Grant got out on the water, he thought about Paul and how dangerous it was just to move around now. Grant would inquire with HQ tonight about a Purple Heart for Paul. He died during operations. No one was shooting at him, but he was out on the water doing something dangerous for the unit. Grant would also inquire if there was some commendation for a training injury for Tony Atkins, who was still recovering. A commanding officer had the duty and responsibility to get his men recognized by higher ups when they deserved it. Tony and Paul surely did.

  The boat ride to Boston Harbor was uneventful. Grant remembered the last one back in the summer, which had been his first trip to Boston Harbor. Everything seemed magic on that trip. It was a brand new adventure, going to meet with a Special Forces commander and finding out you are commanding a guerilla unit. That had been an amazing trip.

  This trip was not like that. This was all business. Comparing the first trip to the second, Grant realized how much he had changed in the past few months. He had gone from thinking it was amazing that he was part of this guerilla adventure to thinking he was going to see his boss and get a big work assignment.

  Grant had become a soldier in the past few months, a professional soldier. Not in the sense that he was particularly good at it, but that it was his job to be a soldier. Now he thought of soldiering as his job rather than an adventure.

  Security was particularly tight that night. The Chief had to make several radio checks at various points with code phrases. The picket boats were farther out and more numerous than the first time. There were soldiers on the bank along the entrance to the marina. And the marina itself was bristling with soldiers, very well-armed soldiers. They had medium, and even heavy machine guns and grenade launchers. Grant hadn’t seen that the first time he was out at Boston Harbor. The Patriot forces were getting much better armed as they captured Lima weapons.

  When they pulled into the their slip at the marina, a sergeant—in an actual uniform consisting of FUSA Army fatigues, but with a “Wash. State Guard” name tape—came up to them and said, “Unit, please?”

  “17th Irregulars,” Grant said.

  The sergeant looked at his clipboard.

  “And you are?” he asked.

  “Lt. Matson and Sgt. Malloy,” Grant said as he realized that he was in civilian clothes and had no insignia, except for his small homemade 17th Irregular unit patch, which would be next to impossible to see in the dark with the poor lighting of the marina.

  “Call signs, please,” the sergeant said.

  “Giraffe 7 and Green 1,” Grant said. He was glad that they had so many security checks. It took two seconds to give a call sign, but it was an easy way to uncover a Lima spy who could get all of them killed. It was an excellent use of two seconds of time.

  The sergeant checked his clipboard. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting Grant. Grant wasn’t used to saluting since they were under battlefield rules out at Marion Farm even though no one was actively shooting at them. But it must be okay to salute here at HQ since the sergeant saluted first. Grant returned the salute.

  The sergeant told them to go to the building where they met the first time he was out there. The Chief took off from the slip to make room for the next boatload of meeting attendees. Grant and Ted started walking toward the meeting building. Grant was amazed at how … “military” the place was. Everyone had uniforms – actual uniforms. Grant felt a little out of place in civilian clothes, albeit contractor clothes, and his tactical vest. Ted was a little more in place with his Army fatigues, but also with a tactical vest and a baseball cap. Grant and Ted had their rifles, which made them stand out. Except for the guards, most of the uniformed troops at Boston Harbor did not have rifles.

  There were several other contractor-looking guys among the much larger number of men and women in actual uniforms. Grant assumed that the contractor-looking guys, who all had beards, must be from guerilla units, like Grant and Ted.

  The closer Grant and Ted got to the well-lit meeting building, the more they could see people’s faces. There was a seriousness on most faces, not worry or stress. People had their game faces on. It was go time. They were serious people about to perform serious business. There was a slight air of nervousness. It wasn’t a lack of confidence, rather an air of “this is really going to happen – and soon.”

  At the door to the building, a soldier was checking rifles to make sure the safeties were on, which Grant thought was odd. Of course Grant’s and Ted’s safeties were on, but maybe there were some guerillas attending who had only recently learned how to handle guns.

  A second soldier, actually, an airman in Air Force fatigues with the State Guard name tape, was at a card table at the entrance asking for each person’s unit and once again verifying call signs.

  “Take a seat wherever you’d like, Lieutenant and Sergeant,” the airman said.

  Ted’s eyes lit up and he ran over to some guys and gave them a “bro hug,” the kind of mild hug and pat on the back guys do. Ted introduced them to Grant. They were former colleagues of Ted’s from his Ft. Lewis Special Forces unit.

  They chatted for a while. Ted’s colleagues were doing the same as Ted, leading and trai
ning guerilla units nearby. Some units were out in the rural areas even farther away from Olympia and the Seattle metro area than Pierce Point. Quite a few were located on or near the water, like Pierce Point. Some units were surprisingly close to the Seattle metro area. One of Ted’s colleagues, unarmed in jeans and looking like a non-descript civilian, just said, “I’m with some guys behind the JBLM line,” referring to the ring of fortifications surrounding Joint Base Lewis McChord. “That’s about all I’ll say.” Fair enough.

  Ted’s colleagues talked about how they got from their areas to Boston Harbor. For many, it was quite a journey. For the ones from rural areas, they had to take back roads because I-5 was sealed off. Some had to walk from a drop-off point to a beach where they were picked up by a boat from Boston Harbor. For the guy in jeans who was operating from behind the JBLM line, it took two days and two fake IDs to get there. Grant and Ted realized how easy they had it, just taking a short boat trip there.

  Grant was reminded how strategically located Pierce Point was, especially with its proximity to Olympia. No wonder Lt. Col. Hammond had been so excited to have a unit out there, especially one built around personal friends of Ted’s. And one that was running its local community so well.

  The meeting started right at midnight. These military personnel were very precise about time. No one strolled in late. “Early is on time and on time is late,” was their saying.

  The captain from the first meeting took the podium. Grant recalled that his name was Morris.

  “I need each irregular unit to count off,” Morris said.

  The highest ranking person from each unit stood up and gave their unit’s number. There were two units missing, the Fourth and Fifteenth. Quite a few of the commanders were women, more than had been assigned as commanders at the first meeting. Grant wondered why.

  After the Sixteenth, Grant stood up and said with a strong and confident voice, “Seventeenth.” They went to the Twenty Fourth and that was it.

  Some in the audience, like Ted’s friend in jeans, didn’t count off. They must not be in irregular units. They were probably “special specials” as Ted called them, meaning “special special operations.”

  “Thank you,” Captain Morris said. “We have representatives of all but two of our irregular units. I would like to thank the women who are here in particular. Some of the units could not get their commanders out here given the travel conditions so they sent women who would look less suspicious to the Limas and could get through the checkpoints. These ‘nice ladies’ wouldn’t hurt a fly, right?” People laughed.

  “Now I give you our commander, Lt. Col. Hammond,” Capt. Morris said.

  Ted and the other Special Forces guys clapped. They loved Hammond. Everyone else joined the applause. That was not military custom, to applaud a speaker about to give a briefing, but Hammond deserved it.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Hammond said. “You know how a speaker will often thank people for coming. Usually that’s just polite talk. Not tonight. Thank you. Each of you. You risked your lives to be here. I’ll try to make it worth your while. We have some important business to discuss.”

  Hammond went from the podium to a large map of Western Washington, holding a pointer, which was all he needed. A microphone was unnecessary with his deep, booming voice.

  “We are here,” Hammond said, pointing a few miles from Olympia on the map. “You are from all over here,” he said pointing to various points in western Washington.

  “We’re going to take Olympia,” Hammond said, in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. The crowd digested that for a moment and then some started to clap and cheer. Pretty soon, the crowd was whooping and hollering.

  “God damned right,” Hammond yelled in response to the cheering. “We’re going to take the capitol and drive those bastards out.” This was followed by more cheering.

  “This is our state and that’s our capitol!” Hammond yelled, accompanied by even more cheering. This was no typical military briefing which would not include cheering. But this wasn’t a war in some far off country, either. This was America. This was a war for their country. They had been treated like shit by those bastards in Olympia. The government and gangs had been taking whatever they wanted. More than one solider in that room had a wife or daughter taken by the gangs. Nothing made a man fight harder than that. Most people in the audience had friends or loved ones thrown in jail by the Limas. Several had their spouses or children killed. Every single person in that room was there to end it. They had been preparing for a long time to stop it. The hatred and revenge had been boiling over and over. They had nightmares. They cried uncontrollably at the kitchen table when they saw the empty seat formerly occupied by their dead or missing family member. They could not sleep trying to keep out the thoughts about what the gangs were doing to a wife or daughter. It was time to finally fix the mess that had been made. It had to end.

  Hammond let the cheers die down until it was silent. “Here’s how we’re going to do it,” he said, with obvious pride. He had been working on this for months. “You’re all a part of it,” Hammond said. “A big part.” Grant swelled with pride. He felt important, not in an egotistical way, but in a small part-of-something-big way.

  “But before I describe how we’ll do it,” Hammond said, “I will first tell you why we’re doing it.” It was important for the unit commanders to know why they were doing this, not just how.

  Hammond shrugged and said, “Simple. You already figured it out: Olympia is the state capitol. It’s symbolic, the seat of state government. I don’t mean symbolic as in ‘just a meaningless symbol.’ It’s hugely important to have the capitol. We will implement an interim state government—we have one in place already and they’re ready to start governing—and then we’ll rightly claim to be the ‘legitimate authorities’ in the state. We’ll have pictures of the new management of the state sitting in the Legislature and we’ll get it out to the rest of population who are trapped in Seattle and the suburbs. Us sitting in the House and Senate chambers. That’s a very powerful message.” Grant pictured that in his mind. It was exhilarating. It was why they were doing all of this.

  “That photo of Patriots sitting in the Legislature’s seats,” Hammond said, “will prove to the remaining Limas that we’re winning. It will make it even more obvious to everyone that Seattle is their only stronghold. More and more of them will go to Seattle, which is fine with us. We’ll be herding those bastards to a big pen. We can either go take Seattle when the conditions are right or just leave them in their pen, where they can’t hurt us and screw things up like they did last time.” More applause exploded from the room.

  “Olympia as an objective makes sense on two more levels,” Hammond said. “First, as I’ll describe more, Olympia is weakly defended. Most of their beef is up in Seattle. Second, we have lots of assets south of Seattle, near Olympia. That’s the beauty of JBLM being nearby. We have lots of Patriot FUSA troops here in the neighborhood.” He smiled and pointed at members of the audience in military uniforms.

  “Here’s the plan in a nutshell,” Hammond said, “We start off with irregular units north of Seattle, in Seattle itself, and over here in the eastern Washington farms. These units start diversionary guerilla attacks. We give the Limas a day or two to move their forces there. Then we have regular units come from here,” he pointed to several areas on the map, demonstrating that the regular units would be coming from all over the area. It looked like they were pretty widely disbursed.

  Hammond smiled and said, “And here.” He pointed to JBLM. There are Patriot regular units at Ft. Lewis? What the hell?

  “That’s right,” Hammond said pointing again at JBLM, “we have regular units right under the Limas’ noses.” He let that sink in with the audience.

  “I won’t give details,” Hammond said, “but there are bunch of sit-out units.” He was referring to the term for units sitting out the war. Usually for a price. But apparently, the Limas couldn’t buy ultimate loyalty from th
ese units. Or the sit-out units were figuring out that the Limas were losing and the sit-outs wanted to be on the winning side. Either way, some of the sit-outs would be joining the Patriots, so who cared what their motivations were. News that some sit-out units would be joining the Patriots drew some more whooping and hollering.

  “The regular units will spearhead the drive to Olympia, but,” Hammond paused, “their main job will be to fight the Lima regular units rushing down from JBLM to reinforce Olympia. We want our regular forces facing their regular forces, but that leaves lots of the street-to-street fighting inside Olympia up to the irregular units. That’s why you’re here tonight.”

  Hammond paused again. He was about to launch into the main message, so he gathered his thoughts.

  “I want to start,” Hammond said, “with a philosophical overview that will explain the operational details of why we’re going to attack the capitol.”

  He put his finger up for emphasis and said, “The philosophical overview is the difference between chaos and order.” That got some people curious.

  “When you’re in control,” Hammond continued, “minimize chaos. When you’re trying to take control, maximize chaos.” He let that sink in.

  “At the beginning of any insurgency,” Hammond said, “the insurgents—by definition—are not in control of the government. They are the underdogs. The rebels. They need to maximize chaos. That’s what we do. Maximize chaos. Hit soft targets at first. Make them divert troops from other battles to protect their soft targets. We also steal all the shit we can haul away. Blow up fuel supplies. Disrupt communications. Get their uniforms and, wearing Lima uniforms, go shoot them up close so they never trust their fellow soldiers in uniform. That’s some powerful chaos. They have to devote guards to protect themselves from people in their own uniforms. Chaos. Maximize it.”

  Hammond paused and continued, “Then, after we’ve dished out all that chaos, we’ll be winning. We’ll start to be in control. That’s when we’ll switch roles with the Limas. They’ll be the insurgents and we’ll be the government.”