by Glen Tate
Jeanie needed the comfort provided by the drop of the Times Square ball. It made everything seem … normal which meant that the upcoming year would be great, as they always should be.
Things could suck all year, but seeing that ball drop meant some things never change. Hey, Jeanie thought, America has had a rough couple of years—this year in particular—but America will bounce back. It always does, right? Jeanie was upbeat and optimistic for the first time in months. Things would get better.
Suddenly, the TV went off. Jason was standing in front of it with the power cord in his hand. He looked very serious. And worried.
“Sorry, everyone,” Jason said. “We have a general alert. Everyone needs to go to their duty stations. There have been several attacks tonight all over western Washington.”
Everyone was stunned. Now? New Year’s Eve? This was a holiday. The Patriots were savages. They couldn’t even give the legitimate authorities one night off? They were animals.
Jeanie and everyone else took a second or two to fully comprehend what was going on. Attacks? All over western Washington? Was this the beginning of the war? The real war? The big one?
Then Jeanie started to tear up. The new year. The new year would suck. It was actually going to be worse than the previous one. This wasn’t going to get better. Last year wasn’t a fluke bad year. Things would suck forever. There would never be a good year again. They were only going to become worse and worse.
Jeanie started running to her “duty station,” which was at the visitors’ barracks. That was the few rooms they had for visitors to stay. Since Jeanie handled the NVIPs, the “not very important persons” who got tours of Camp Murray, the visitors’ barracks was her duty station. It was a humiliation to have a lame “duty station” like that, but that was just one of the humiliations she suffered at Camp Murray because she was not fully trusted.
There she sat for about twenty minutes, which was an excruciatingly long time, in the visitors’ barracks. She could hear people running around. Jeanie was obviously useless there where nothing was happening. That gave her twenty minutes to think about New Year’s Eves past … and, unfortunately, future. Christmas had been so bleak trapped there in the prison of Camp Murray, but this was worse. Far worse. Hope was being attacked on New Year’s Eve. Which was exactly what the Patriots wanted, she realized.
Finally, Jeanie couldn’t take it anymore. She went back to the cafeteria to talk to people. She needed to find out what was going on.
“There has been a series of apparently coordinated attacks tonight,” one of her State Patrol friends told her as he ran into the next room. “All around Olympia. And in Seattle. Even in the JBLM ring. All over the state.”
“Are they attacking us here?” Jeanie asked.
“Nope,” her friend said. “Not yet.” He ran off.
That was reassuring. “Not yet.” Boy, that would help her sleep tonight.
Jeanie was starving for information. She went back into the big meeting room with the TV. It was on again, replaying the ball drop. She checked all the channels. Same thing: New Year’s programs. The news stations were replaying the President’s New Year’s speech about how last year was a challenge, but everything would be better this year. Duh, Jeanie, the political media expert, thought. Of course TV won’t be covering the attacks.
Jeanie realized that she couldn’t find out what was going on. She’d have to just wait and see if they were attacked. It was the most helpless feeling she’d ever had. Just sit and wait to see if a fight is coming to you.
She went back to her “duty station” and sat there. Pretty soon, she was crying. Softly at first, but when she realized no one was around to hear her, loudly. She was remembering all the things she’d seen and heard about how weak the “legitimate authorities” were. The speculation about whether they could withstand an attack. Now she had to sit and wonder whether they could. And then what would happen to people like her, if they couldn’t.
Jeanie lost track of time that night. She thought about each of the lies she told all day long. The biggest lie she told visitors was that the population overwhelmingly supported the legitimate authorities. That would be tested tonight. She would tell the visitors that the military units were loyal. That would be tested. She told them that Camp Murray had a plan for everything. That would be tested.
She knew how it would turn out. She started crying even louder.
Chapter 273
The Clear Out Crew
(December 31)
“All clear to mile post two,” a voice said on the radio. The voice was “Nineteen Delta,” who was Josiah Wallingford, a former Army scout. The code 19D was the MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) for a scout. So, in Army lingo, a scout was a 19D.
Josiah insisted on being called “Nineteen Delta.” It wasn’t an ego thing about being a scout. He really, really didn’t want his real name used. He seemed to have some deep reason why, but he wouldn’t say why when he was asked. That was cool. Many people in the Patriot movement were using fake names or going exclusively by code names. It was accepted.
Ted and Grant were extremely grateful to have a scout in the unit. Nineteen Delta was the eyes of the unit. He would go ahead of them and spot any problems.
Nineteen Delta was in the little lead car, the “scout car,” with two other soldiers, Jake “Meerkat” Herman and Corporal DeShante Anderson. Meerkat grew up a poor white kid in Nashville. Anderson, who was black, grew up in Chicago. He had invented the “1-7” “gang sign” for the unit.
These two guys knew how to fight in urban settings. They’d had to do it all their lives; they just refined their skills and got better gear in the Army.
Nineteen Delta, Meerkat, and Anderson were called the “Clear Out Crew” because the three of them would work together to clear out any obstacles, like enemy guards.
The Clear Out Crew dressed in civilian clothes so they could blend in, if necessary. Their civilian car even had a “We Support the Recovery!” bumper sticker. They had a set of fake identities supplied by HQ and they could operate independently in Lima-controlled areas for several days, if necessary. The Clear Out Crew was one of the prizes of the 17th. Most irregular units didn’t have guys like that.
It was silent in Mark’s truck. Bobby was driving and Scotty was in the front cab working the radios. Grant and Pow were in the rear cab, which also had loads of gear. Ryan and Wes were under a tarp in the back of the truck with additional supplies.
Everyone was silent because they wanted to listen to the radio and pay attention. They were constantly scanning their surroundings. It was like hunting. Serious hunters focus on their surroundings. Bad ones relax and talk. The price for being a bad hunter was not getting a deer. The price for relaxing and talking out here was dying.
So far, so good, Ted thought. They’d only gone two miles, but the roads were totally clear. It was eight more miles to the Blue Ribbon Boys’ gate at the entrance to Frederickson, which would be the first battle, unless Bennington had taken care of things.
Nineteen Delta gave “all clear” reports at each mile marker all the way up to mile post nine.
“Going on foot,” Nineteen Delta said as they were approaching mile post ten and the Frederickson gate manned by the Blue Ribbon Boys. Nineteen Delta grew up on a Montana ranch and had hunted since he was seven years old. He knew how to move silently quite well.
All the 17th’s convoy vehicles pulled off the road to wait. They were sitting ducks there, so the troops in pickups and utility vehicles got out and patrolled around. Grant would have joined them but, as the commanding officer, he wasn’t supposed to unnecessarily expose himself to fire. Bobby was driving, so he wasn’t supposed to leave the truck except in an emergency. Scotty was doing comms for Grant, so he needed to stay put. And Ryan and Wes were under the tarp, so they weren’t going anywhere. This left Pow to be the one to get out and check things over.
A few minutes went by, which seemed like a few hours. Grant rolled down the wind
ow in Mark’s truck so he could hear anything, and sure enough, he heard something.
The soft sound of gunfire in the distance. Faint “pop, pop, pops.” It sounded like a few fire fights in Frederickson. Good. Probably.
“Two guards at the gate,” Nineteen Delta whispered into the radio. “Clear Out Crew, link up with me.” His voice was very calm, which reassured everyone else in the unit who was listening on the radio.
Grant was gung ho, but he could not do what the Clear Out Crew did. Because they had to be so silent, their primary weapon was a knife. When Grant watched them training, he realized that the one thing he couldn’t do was sneak up on a guy and slit his throat. He just couldn’t do it. But the Clear Out Crew could. And they could do it extremely well.
After a few minutes, Nineteen Bravo came on the radio. “Objective secure. No further guards. Just two. Go ahead and roll in.”
Bobby put the truck in gear. They kept the engine idling so they could quickly take off, if necessary. Besides, it was a diesel. It needed to idle.
Grant was glad to be moving. It was better than being a sitting duck. But, then again, maybe they were heading closer to an ambush, he thought. Sitting somewhere relatively safe or moving forward? Grant would pick moving because that put them closer to Olympia, and getting there was their job. Everything they’d done for months was about getting to Olympia.
The Frederickson gate was well lit. As Mark’s truck came up on the guards, Grant could see the lead car and the Clear Out Crew. They had face masks on and they looked terrifying. Nineteen Delta came over to Mark’s truck. Bobby rolled the window down.
“Got two prisoners,” Nineteen Delta said. “A couple teenage punks were taking a piss when we took out their two colleagues. They came back to their posts, saw us, and instantly surrendered. Hammer and tag?”
“Yep,” Grant said. “Hammer and tag.” This was the phrase they had come up with for how they would take care of prisoners they didn’t want to take with them because they didn’t have the transport space, the resources to guard them, or food to feed them. They wouldn’t have any of those things for prisoners, except maybe high-value ones, on the ride into Olympia. Once they got to Olympia, they would have temporary facilities to house prisoners, but not now.
“Hammer and tag” meant the unit would take a hammer or other heavy object, like a pistol, and smash the hands of the prisoner. They wouldn’t count on zip ties to handcuff them because unattended prisoners could wriggle out of them after a few hours. Smashing the prisoner’s hands meant they couldn’t fight for a few weeks or maybe months while they healed. Smashing their hands was more humane than shooting them. The unit would then “tag” the prisoner by marking his face in permanent marker with an “L” for Lima. That way, others could know that the prisoner was a Lima. And, with broken or severely bruised hands, the prisoner wasn’t a threat.
Grant had no moral problem with hammer and tagging enemy prisoners. If Lima combatants got out of this fight with just smashed hands, they were getting off easy. Under any set of morals, Lima combatants deserved to die. Most armies would have shot them without even thinking about it. So, as harsh as smashing their hands was, it was still far more humane than shooting them. And it solved the Patriot’s problem of transporting, guarding, and feeding the prisoners.
Nineteen Delta whispered “hammer and tag” to the Clear Out Crew. Anderson put the hands of the two terrified guards on the metal gate while Nineteen Delta held Scotty’s silenced .22 pistol, the “Hush Puppy,” to the guards’ heads.
The guards had a piece of duct tape on their mouths so they couldn’t scream. Meerkat took out his pistol. The guards started to scream into the duct tape. They were screaming for their lives, but no one else could hear them. It sounded pathetic. They were so helpless.
Meerkat used the butt of his pistol, a heavy 1911, to smash the hands of the first guard. He screamed out in pain, muffled by the tape. Meerkat smashed the hands of the second guard. He then took out a Sharpie pen and wrote a huge “L” on the guards’ faces. The Clear Out Crew walked away, opened up the gate, and got in the lead car. The guards rolled around on the ground screaming into their duct tape gags, like squealing pigs.
That was it? Grant thought. The Frederickson gate was taken? It couldn’t be that easy.
Things were going to become harder now that they were in Frederickson, Grant realized. They could roll down a country road on the way into town, but now they were in town, where every block had a dozen possible ambush points, full of people. More people meant more Lima sympathizers calling in to the authorities that a strange convoy was there. It also meant more people shooting at them. And it meant more innocent civilians to navigate.
Moving through town took forever. They spent more time idling than moving. Ted had made a calculated decision to do it this way and Grant had agreed. They could just ram through Frederickson and keep going, but if they left Frederickson in Lima hands, they would have their escape route back to Pierce Point cut off. And Pierce Point would be exposed to a strong Lima force that could roll down the road and take on the Pierce Point guards; guards who were weakened without the Team with eight guards, now in the 17th. By blowing through an unsecured Frederickson and racing to Olympia, the 17th would have effectively divided themselves and Pierce Point. Besides, the 17th was merely an irregular unit sent in behind the regular forces taking Olympia. They weren’t in a rush to get there.
Bennington was the other reason Ted and Grant decided to go slowly through Frederickson and make sure it was secured. If Bennington had taken out the town’s leadership and successfully created chaos right when the 17th was rolling through, then it would be much easier to take Frederickson. Maybe even possible for an irregular unit of just one hundred troops. Maybe.
As the 17th crept through Frederickson, the sound of gunfire was getting louder and louder. There was still no contact with the enemy. They got about a mile in when the inevitable happened.
An FCorps volunteer in Frederickson, Levi Millsaps, saw the convoy. He knew that a semi with lead and chase cars and trucks wasn’t normal. It was New Year’s Eve. No one had a reason to be driving at 10:00 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. The only semis that ever came through town went to the grocery store or courthouse. This convoy wasn’t going in that direction, besides there was gunfire throughout the city. Something was going on. He had earlier heard on his FCorps radio that there was a “Code Orange.” He didn’t know what that meant, but calling out a code, along with the gunfire in the distance, must mean something was going on.
“County EM dispatch,” he radioed in to County Emergency Management. “This is Levi Millsaps. Copy?”
“Millsaps, County EM dispatch,” a dispatcher said. “Go ahead.” It wasn’t the voice of the regular dispatcher, but someone new.
“Yeah, I’m here by the Lions Park and I’m seeing something strange,” Millsaps said.
“What do you see?” crackled the voice.
“A semi-truck with a lead car and pickup and a couple pickups and car behind it. And the pickup behind the semi has several armed men in the back of the truck.”
“Excellent,” said the dispatcher. “The food semi finally got here. The cars and pickup are the escorts. Thanks for the report, Millsaps.”
Millsaps felt proud. He had helped. He had observed something and reported it. Millsaps was a hard core Loyalist, a true believer in the legitimate authorities. He had retired from the Post Office and volunteered back in 2011 for the Department of Homeland Security’s “see something, say something” campaign. Millsaps thought it was important to watch people. There were terrorists everywhere. He wanted to protect his fellow citizens from them, and keeping a watchful eye on them was the way to do it.
“What’s all the gunfire about?” Millsaps asked.
“Can’t say on the radio,” the dispatcher said. “It’ll be over soon, though.”
“OK,” Millsaps said. “I’m on standby if you need me.”
“Thanks,” the dispatch
er said. “Bennington out.”
Chapter 274
“There’s a New Sheriff in Town”
(December 31)
About a half hour before the Pierce Point convoy descended upon Frederickson, Bennington had returned from the fighting at the MexiZone and went straight to the courthouse.
He headed to Julie Mather’s room and pounded on the door.
“Julie, it’s John Bennington,” he said. “I need you to come out.”
Julie was terrified. She had heard all those explosions in the courthouse. She had no idea what was going on, but knew it had to be big … and bad. She had been hurt by so many men, including plenty in the courthouse. She would never open her door to one of them pounding on the door.
Except John. He was the one man there who had never hurt her. He never tried to get her into bed. In fact, he even tried to protect her from Winters and the others. He was always respectful.
“Julie, you are in danger,” Bennington said. “The explosions were in the conference room. Who was it that told you to be ‘sick’ tonight?” Bennington hoped no one heard him say that, but this part of the courthouse was now empty, except for Julie.
That’s right! Julie thought. Bennington had saved her. He must be behind the explosions. He must be … now she understood what was going on. Bennington had killed all the people in the conference room. She had no idea why he would risk his own life to kill those people, but somehow it made sense. Bennington had been the only person to be nice to her, so it made sense that he would be the only person who would finally do something.
