by Glen Tate
Pow paused and looked Grant right in the eye. “It’s an honor, man. An honor to be trusted with this job. Enjoy it. That’s what I’ve figured out. Enjoy the job, just don’t enjoy the killing.”
Pow did a press check of his AR, which was contagious. Grant did one, too, and Scotty looked back from the front cab and, seeing Grant and Pow do one, did the same. Bobby, who was in the driver’s seat, got his AR from his left side where it was riding between his seat and the driver’s side door. He grabbed it with this left hand and did a press check, which wasn’t easy, given that he was right handed. He saw the brass cartridge case in the chamber and gave Scotty a thumbs up. Things were settling back into their regular flow. The Team was press checking and heading off to something big.
Scotty’s radio crackled. The unit was getting ready to move out. All the vehicles were ready and the drivers and their navigators had their directions and maps. Gas levels were okay. They’d stop in a few hours and refuel.
And eat. Everyone was starving. They had a big dinner several hours ago, but the constant stress and tension burned up a lot of calories. At first, most of the troops were too nervous to eat. But, now that they’d survived their first “battle,” they relaxed. And got hungry.
Oh well, Grant thought. They’d be hungry for a while. One of the things Ted and Sap consciously did in training, without the troops realizing it, was to change their expectations about hunger. In peacetime, everyone in the unit ate normal meals before they came out to Marion Farm. Back then, the refrigerator, fast food, or convenience store was never more than a minute away. They never had to go eight hours without eating and worry about getting hungry, but they did at Marion Farm, on occasion. When they pulled a twelve-hour guard shift and maybe had been working before that and hadn’t gotten a chance to eat. It was rare for them to go without eating all day, but it was relatively common for them to go without a meal, given the training cycle and their jobs around camp, like guard duty and unloading the boat.
Grant was now realizing how beneficial it was that he and the others in the unit didn’t bat an eye at going long periods without a meal. Now they could handle not eating for a while without thinking it was the end of the world. They had experienced some discomfort and made it through just fine. So, as the troops were hungry now after midnight, they knew they’d live just fine. They’d get some chow whenever it was possible.
They rolled out of Frederickson onto the main road to Olympia. They had alternate routes planned out but, unless there was a reason to do otherwise, the main road still made the most sense. It would all depend on how much resistance they met.
It can’t be this easy, Grant kept thinking. There’s no way this will be a cakewalk. Frederickson had gone surprisingly well, but they had gotten lucky. Bennington had pulled that off almost single handedly. That couldn’t be expected in Olympia.
If they suffered massive casualties, it would be in the next few hours, Grant thought. They’d have several troops picked off in Olympia during the occupation, Grant figured, but a massive hit would come on the road when they were all in one place. Hopefully the semi- trailer wouldn’t get hit.
The main road turned into Frederickson eventually became the main street through town. They traveled slowly. Nineteen Delta was a very cautious guy. Thank God.
It took an hour and a half to get out of Frederickson. The troops were quietly talking to pass the time. They weren’t goofing around—there was still a serious mood—but they were keeping the mood light as they crept through the dark and seemingly empty town. There were probably people in town, but it was impossible to tell. There were no lights on, no activity. Everyone was probably hiding under their beds.
A few minutes outside of Frederickson, Nineteen Delta came on the radio. “Roadblock. Halt. Take cover. We’ll check it out.”
Things got tense again. After a few minutes, Nineteen Delta came back on the radio. “They claim to be friendlies and want to join up.”
Grant and Pow looked at each other. Pow mouthed, “What the fuck?” They had a plan for this. Sort of.
“Tell him to have their CO,” meaning commanding officer, “at the roadblock and I’ll talk to him,” Grant said to Scotty. This involved political stuff, which was his thing. Grant wanted to ask Ted what he thought, but Scotty telling Nineteen Delta on the intra-unit radios that Grant was getting out to talk to the guards would tell Ted what was going on. If Ted thought it was a terrible idea, he could say so on the radio.
“No need to handcuff them all,” Grant said to Scotty. “Just have the Clean Up Crew cover them extra well. This could be an ambush.” Scotty relayed that through the intra-unit radio to Nineteen Delta, but didn’t use the word “ambush.” There was no need to alarm the rest of the unit.
Meerkat and Anderson had the handful of guards covered while Nineteen Delta was searching a wide radius around the roadblock for an ambush. There didn’t appear to be one. It was dark, so Nineteen Delta couldn’t be sure that there weren’t mines or IEDs there, but he wasn’t too concerned. The guards, four of them, looked pretty ragtag. He doubted they were sophisticated bomb makers. They were “duck hunter” guards, typical guys with hunting rifles and shotguns wearing hunting clothes. Their roadblock was very crude: two cars across the road. But it was effective; it caused the 17th to stop.
When the area around the roadblock was secure, Nineteen Delta radioed it in. Ted got on the radio. “Have the flank checkers get out.”
They had a plan for being stopped. They would have the flank checkers—two members of the Team in the lead truck and the six or so men in the chase truck—get out and check the right and left flanks of the convoy and the rear.
This meant Pow and Scotty in the lead truck. Bobby, the driver, stayed in the truck, as did Grant, since losing the CO in a routine flank check made no sense. Ryan and Wes would stay under the tarp since it was so hard to get in and out.
Grant was embarrassed that he hadn’t immediately thought of doing the flank check the moment the convoy stopped at a blockage. Oh well, he thought. Ted thought of it. That was why he was around.
Besides, Grant had been analyzing what to do with these unknown roadblock guards. Solving this political problem was Grant’s job; the flank check was Ted’s. Things worked better when people had well defined roles.
“I want to talk to these guys,” he said to Bobby as Grant got out of the rear cab. Bobby nodded, and kept his attention focused on punching the gas pedal and getting the hell out of there if an ambush started.
As Pow and Scotty got out, Pow pointed to a clump of trees about a hundred yards ahead and said to Bobby, “Rally point.” If possible, that would be where Bobby would go, in an emergency to wait for Pow, Scotty, and Grant before Bobby took off. It was critical that everyone knew where to get back into the convoy so no one got left behind. Then again, anyone left behind by their own vehicle could grab a ride with another vehicle.
This would not be ideal, though, because there would be confusion whether that person made it back to the convoy. The driver of each vehicle (other than the semi) was responsible for making sure all of his men were accounted for. The squad leaders in the back of the semi would account for each of their troops and report to Sap, who was ultimately responsible for making sure all eighty-four troops in the semi were accounted for. This was the kind of thing they had gone over for hours in meetings and had practiced for days, which was why Grant didn’t want to have these roadblock guys join up. There were way too many moving pieces to that. Four random guys would get confused and throw the plans off. There wasn’t much room for them in the back of the semi, anyway. They had a little room back there, but it was for other things. Besides, they really didn’t need four duck hunters.
Grant realized how much his thinking had changed since the Collapse began. A year ago, if Grant had been approached because four armed men wanted to join the Patriots in an armed battle, he would have said, “Sure, the more the merrier.” Grant would have thought of them wanting to join as a v
alidation of how right the Patriots were and how wrong the Loyalists were, of how triumphant the Patriot cause was. Sort of like some children’s book where the good citizens out in the country enthusiastically join George Washington’s army, with drums, flutes and waving flags.
Now Grant realized that these guys would be a liability, a distraction, a monkey wrench. He had gone from an idealist to a manager of military details, but that didn’t mean these guys were useless. Far from it. Grant approached them with his right thumb on the safety of his AR. He could click it off and fire in a split second. He treated these guys as hostile until he had reason to think otherwise.
As Grant approached them, he could see that there were four of them and their weapons were leaning up against their truck. Meerkat and Anderson were covering them while Nineteen Delta was talking to them with a flashlight in his left hand and his Glock in his right hand, lowered, but ready to go.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Grant said. “I’m … well, it doesn’t matter who I am. I understand you guys want to join up. I have a few questions, but I’ll make this quick because I don’t like having my guys sitting here for long. No offense.”
They nodded. These guys were happy and excited. They didn’t seem like they were setting up an ambush. They appeared interested in helping.
“You guys know which side we’re on, right?” Grant asked.
“Yep,” replied the oldest one, who was in his mid-forties. “Patriots. Just like us.”
“We are, indeed, Patriots,” Grant said. “But we don’t know whether you are or not. It’s not like we get official membership cards.”
They nodded again. They thought this might happen where they’d have to prove that they were the good guys.
“Here’s the deal, gentlemen,” Grant said. “You’re more valuable to the cause doing what you’re doing. Making sure no bad guys come into or out of Frederickson. Manning this roadblock.”
“Like blocking the passage of the gangs that have been speeding out of there all night?” the youngest one said with great enthusiasm. “We got here too late to stop them … and there’s only four of us,” he said with some embarrassment.
“Don’t apologize,” Grant said. “We need you to stop gangs. Or Limas.”
“What are Limas?” the oldest one asked. Grant remembered that these guys had probably been hunkered down for the past several months trying to feed their families and protect themselves from gangs and corrupt cops. They didn’t sit around making military plans or using slang like the 17th did, so Grant explained what a Lima was.
They smiled. They liked this kind of talk. They had been whispering among themselves for months about how much they hated the Loyalists, but they couldn’t do much about it. Now there were all these Patriot military guys who were out in the open and about to kick somebody’s ass. The good guys were out and fighting. Finally. These four had been dreaming for months that this would happen, and now it was.
“We also need you guys to make sure no Limas come up from Frederickson to chase us,” Grant said. He smiled and said, “As unlikely as that is.”
The four nodded again. They were mesmerized by Grant and the others. Real live Patriot military was here. Well, little did they know, Patriot irregulars, but, from the perspective of a good ole’ boy out there in the country just trying to survive, the 17th Irregulars seemed like Green Berets. They kind of were. Kind of, but not really. They were trained by Green Berets, which was better than nothing.
“What can we do to help?” the oldest one, and apparent leader, asked.
“Tell us everything you know about any obstacles or enemy up the road,” Grant said pointing toward Olympia. He would not tell these four the 17th’s objective, but they had probably figured it out.
“None, at least that we know of,” the oldest one said. “But we don’t get out on the road much. Gas is impossible to get out here.”
“Okay, here’s another thing you can do,” Grant said. “There’s a new Sheriff in Frederickson. He has a posse. You can link up with them and do whatever they need. They’re the new cops, not the old ones you’ve been dealing with. The old ones are in jail,” Grant said with a grin. “You’ll know the posse is the real posse if you ask whether they’re with the ‘gall bladder surgeon.’”
“The what?” the oldest asked.
“Gall bladder surgeon,” Grant said. “Just roll with it.”
“Which reminds me,” Grant added, “you guys need a call sign. It’s how we know people are good guys. Pick one.”
“Lake Isabella,” the young one said. “That’s right over there. It’s where we live.”
“Okay,” Grant said. “You’re now the Lake Isabella Boys. I’ll call that into HQ and tell them that there is a Patriot roadblock here going by the call sign ‘Lake Isabella Boys.’”
Grant looked at the Lake Isabella Boys’ gear. They had obviously just thrown their guns into the truck and headed over here with the two blocking cars. That’s all they had.
“Let me guess,” Grant said, “you don’t have a radio.”
“Nope,” said the oldest one.
“Can you get a CB?” Grant asked.
“Yep,” one of them said. “I got an old one. It’s at home.”
“Get it fired up and at your post here,” Grant said. He was consciously trying to use military terms like “post” so these guys would feel like they were part of a military unit. That would make them take this … war, that’s the word, more seriously. Feeling like they were part of a military operation would also make them more likely to take orders, which was key.
“Use channel 11,” Grant continued, “and talk to the new cops on it. That’ll get you squared away. Remember to mention the gall bladder surgeon on channel 11 so the new cops know you’re on the team. Don’t use the gall bladder thing after that. Just once. We don’t want anyone listening to know our codes, okay?”
They all nodded. This was the most exciting thing, by far, that had happened since this whole Collapse thing started. They even had a code name!
Grant basically trusted these Lake Isabella Boys, but he needed to make absolute sure. He thought of a way to test their loyalty.
“Any of you got little kids?” Grant asked. Two of them raised their hands.
“Good,” Grant said. “We might need them. We have a special operation to perform that requires a couple of little kids as decoys. Can we borrow your kids for a couple of weeks?”
What an outlandish request. “Borrow” kids for a few weeks? To be decoys in a special operations military mission? Insane.
“Is thirteen too young?” one of the guys asked. “My boy would love to help.”
“Would you go get him?” Grant asked. The guy started walking toward the truck to drive back home to get his son.
“Okay, okay,” Grant said and stopped the man. “You passed the test.” The Lake Isabella Boys looked stunned. So did Meerkat and Anderson who were covering them.
“We don’t need your kids,” Grant said. “I just wanted to see if you’d give them up. That shows you are Patriots.”
The men smiled. They had just been fooled. But in a good way.
“You guys are officially fighting for the good guys now,” Grant said to the Lake Isabella Boys. “Welcome to the Patriots. And have a happy New Year.”
Grant shook their hands and then realized he was wasting precious time. He saluted them, which was part of his effort to impress upon them that this was a real live military operation and they were now part of it. They saluted back. Their salutes weren’t official military ones since they had no military training, but were the kind of salutes they’d seen in movies, which was fine. They’d be a great roadblock and, once they got their CB, an observation point. Both of these would be a big help. It would at least slow down any Limas who would be coming from Frederickson to attack the 17th from the rear.
As he walked back to Mark’s truck, Grant realized that Ted needed to know what was going on, so he went up to the semi cab and mo
tioned for Ted to get out. Grant told him what had happened and that Jim Q. should call into HQ and tell them that some friendlies at Lake Isabella were manning a roadblock and what their code name was.
“How did you know they were Patriots?” Ted asked.
Grant told the story about asking them for a kid.
“King Solomon,” Ted said, “Nice one.” He was referring to the story in the Bible of King Solomon who used a similar trick . The king was asked to judge which of two women was the real mother of a child. He said the baby would be cut in half and each woman given a piece. The real mother cried out that the other woman should have the baby just so he could live. This revealed that she was the real mother, because the real mother would not want her child cut in half.
Ted had figured out where Grant got the idea. It showed what kind of books Ted read.
Chapter 279
Casualties
(January 1)
As they went slowly—very, very slowly—down Highway 101 toward Olympia for the next couple of hours, Grant couldn’t stop thinking about the Lake Isabella Boys. There must be thousands of guys like them who were just waiting for a real military push to bring them out of the woodwork, guys who had been keeping their heads down and taking care of their families for months. They had a gun and were willing to risk it all to make things better. They were enthused and would do anything, including giving their kids to strangers who promised to use them as decoys in a special operations mission, to get this horrible nightmare of the Collapse over with. The political significance of the Lake Isabella Boys was loud and clear: the people were damned sick and tired of the “legitimate authorities.” Grant had assumed a high level of civilian support for the march on Olympia, but maybe it would be even higher than he thought, making it easier than he predicted.
His peaceful thought was rudely interrupted by the loud boom of a rifle shot up ahead. Even through the windows of Mark’s truck, the shots outside startled him. The noise was followed by a loud thud and the sound of crunching metal and glass.
