by Glen Tate
And there was Nineteen Delta. A heart of gold. A tough, tough kid. Well, Grant thought, a man in his late twenties, but still a “kid” to an old guy like Grant. Nineteen Delta was kind and always looked after the weaker members of the unit. Now he was split apart, parts of him hanging out of his body. All that kindness was now gone. He was now just parts of a person, covered in blood.
“Get the utility truck over here to take away their bodies,” Grant said to Scotty. “Take them to Frederickson. Bennington will make sure they get the burial they deserve.”
“We need the utility truck over here,” Scotty said into the radio. He didn’t want to say “To pick up two bodies.” The guys, especially back in the semi-trailer, would be speculating and getting scared. They needed to have their edge now. There was no use worrying about whose bodies they were. There would be more.
The utility truck came up. The Pierce Point guard driving it got out and, seeing the bodies in his headlights, threw up. He was embarrassed, but returned to work and did what needed to be done.
“Don’t worry about barfing,” Grant said. “I’ve done it.”
But not this time, Grant thought. Something had changed in him. He had become less sensitive to these things. He was still moved by the tragedies, just not as much as when he was back in Pierce Point. He realized that when he left his family to ship out with the unit, he mentally transitioned to being a soldier. He was no longer “father, husband, attorney” Grant Matson. He was simply “soldier” Grant Matson now, and his mental change was being reflected in his ability to react as such to tragedies.
The convoy was about one hundred yards from the overpass. They were parked on the side of the highway on one of those nice, wide shoulders designed to fit a semi so it’s still off the road. They had enough room on the shoulder, especially with the pickups, to get out and move around. The shoulder was like a long, thin parking lot.
They were parked near a highway light which provided a decent amount of light for their long convoy on the shoulder. Grant didn’t like that they—a big, fat target—were illuminated but, so far, it seemed like there was no enemy around, so he appreciated the light.
The Pierce Point guard driving the chase truck got a chainsaw out. He went over to the logjam and started up the saw.
During all the craziness, Grant had forgotten all about the obstacle that lay ahead of them. Oh crap. They were a stalled, sitting duck, he remembered. It was time to get out of this.
He went over to the guard, who knew how to use a chainsaw.
“We’ll cut this,” he said pointing to logs. “Here, here, and here,” he said. Grant was glad that this ole’ boy from rural western Washington knew a thing or two about cutting wood. Grant was extremely grateful that someone had thought to bring the chainsaw. And the bolt cutters. They’d probably need those later, too.
“How long?” Grant asked.
“A half hour, if we get people to move the pieces,” he said.
Grant ran over to Scotty and told him to have the semi unload the troops. It would take many, many muscles to get the cut up logs off the highway.
They made short work of the logjam. Thank God they had that chainsaw. Grant was praying that the chain didn’t break. Then again, they could have someone jump in the utility truck and go get a chainsaw or two from the Lake Isabella Boys a few miles back.
“Pretty sophisticated,” Ted said as he shined his flashlight on the ropes used to hold the logs up on the embankment and then release them. “Somebody knows what they’re doing.”
Grant looked at Ted and started to say that this was not good news.
Ted nodded before Grant could speak. “Yep,” Ted said, as if he were reading Grant’s mind. “There will be more of these obstacles up the road. And they’d be crazy not to have an ambush or two attached to each obstacle. We got lucky on this first one.”
Ted looked again at the ropes for the log release. “They were ready for us to come. Well, not us, per se, but people like us. It might take a couple of days to get Olympia.” Ted looked down the highway in that direction and just stared. He was calculating how much time, and how many lives, it would take to get down the damned highway.
Get to Olympia, Grant thought. We have to get to Olympia. He looked at his watch. It was 6:17 a.m. It was still dark.
Grant looked around. The men were exhausted. They’d slept, most of them at least, until yesterday afternoon, but they were mentally and emotionally drained.
They’d been keyed up with anxiety and action all night, and it had been a long one. In the street lights by the overpass, Grant could see his breath. He assumed the temperature was in the high thirties. Most soldiers had fleece jackets and pants under their fatigues and civilian clothes. They weren’t freezing, but the cold still burned up lots of calories.
Grant’s stomach rumbled. He was really hungry. He found Ted and whispered, “Should we feed these guys?” Grant didn’t trust his judgment on this issue; he needed Ted’s input. They only had about five MREs per person and they needed to get moving. Then again, they were hungry and tired and needed a mental break. These guys, including Grant, were not Special Forces. They were irregular volunteers. They couldn’t be ordered to march for two days straight without food like a regular Army unit could.
“Just thinkin’ the same thing,” Ted said. “When the highway is clear, we’ll have breakfast.”
When the road was fully clear, he ordered the troops to reassemble by their vehicles. They knew that this meant they were going back on the road. They were tired and hungry, but no one whined about going back out, which was what Ted wanted to see. He had lowered their expectations. They thought they were going back to work.
“Breakfast time, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. The troops relaxed and felt relieved. There were a couple fist pumps at this news, but most soldiers didn’t want to show how glad they were to eat because they didn’t want to look like sissies. But they were all damned glad to get some chow.
Franny was breaking out the MREs. They were in cases in the back of the utility truck. The sound of Franny busting into the thick cardboard boxes was a sweet sound. Most people hadn’t realized how hungry they were until they thought they would actually be eating. It had been over twelve hours since they last had any food and for the past half hour or so, they’d been doing hard work clearing the logs off the highway. They were hungry.
Without being told, the troops lined up by squad on the shoulder of the highway behind the chase truck, at the very rear of the convoy, where the MREs were.
The military had a reason to organize people the way it did; it wasn’t just to boss people around. It was a very practical way to have a large group of people do the same thing at the same time.
The HQ/Team squad was pulling guard duty while the others ate. Someone had to be out there looking for threats. And the HQ/Team squad, as the leaders, had an obligation to make sure everyone ate before they did. It was part of the deal in a military unit. Leadership got certain perks, but also had duties to others. Eating last was one of those duties.
The unit had not eaten MREs during training as they were too valuable when there was regular food to cook. Some of the military members of the unit, like the Air Force and Navy people, had never really eaten MREs when they were in the FUSA military. Maybe they did a couple of times, but it was almost novelty food back then. Almost all of the civilians in the unit had never eaten an MRE.
There were a lot of urban legends and myths about MREs. Most people thought they tasted bad, but they didn’t (for the most part). They were actually very nutritious, designed to give troops strength and nourishment in situations exactly like the one facing the 17th Irregulars there on the side of Highway 101. The troops were too hungry to worry about what their MREs tasted like.
Franny was giving a quick refresher class on what is in an MRE, how to open them, how to use the heating unit, and how to pack the wrappers back into the bag. He had done this for the troops during training, but that was a few months ago.
Guys were getting out their pocket knives because it took a knife to open up an MRE. They could be opened without one, but it was hard. “Can I borrow that knife you guys have?” one of the soldiers asked Wes, who was guarding the flank closest to the utility truck where the MREs were being handed out. The soldier was referring to the big Zero Tolerance folding knives that belonged to each member of the Team.
“I ain’t dulling my blade for some MRE, dude,” Wes said in his southern drawl. His Zero Tolerance would hold an edge forever, but there was a tradition. Fighting knives are not used for day-to-day things. A person’s fighting knife was a tool for a specific job; not used for little jobs when another tool would do. Wes got out his cheapo pocket knife and tossed it to the soldier. “Use this, bro.”
One of the soldiers was using his flashlight to see what entrée his buddy got. The highway light wasn’t sufficient to see the black writing on the brown MRE bag.
“Egg omelet!” he said. “You do not want to eat that. Worst food on the planet. Inedible. We called those things ‘chicken shit’ back at my old unit ‘cause we were pretty sure they just had chickens shit in a bag and then call it an ‘omelet.’”
Just like in any American military unit out in the field, MRE entrees and, especially side dishes, were being traded like the stock exchange. The winners were the ones who got fudge brownies and pound cake in their meals. The losers were those who got the egg omelets as their entrees. There was not much of a market for MRE egg omelets.
“I’ll trade you some crackers for that that chicken shit,” one of the infantrymen said to the hapless soldier who was stuck with the egg omelet. The infantryman had previously eaten plenty of MREs. He knew that the reputation of MRE egg omelets was overblown. They didn’t taste great, but were certainly edible. There was more protein in one of those omelets than in the crackers; much more filling.
“Done,” said the soldier with the omelet. He was a former civilian who had never eaten an MRE, so he believed the reputation of the egg omelet, but the good news for him was that the egg omelet also came with hash browns and Pop Tarts. Not bad.
“Clam chowder?” another soldier said as he shined a flashlight on his. “Are you kidding me? How disgusting is that? Cold clam chowder out of a bag?”
“I’ll take it,” said another soldier, who had MRE chowder before and knew that it was pretty good. “Loves me my chowder.”
Ted and Grant were watching all this as they were guarding. Ted looked over at Grant and had a big grin on his face. So did Grant. Over just a few months, this ragtag collection of military people and civilians had come together as a solid unit. Now they sounded like experienced military personnel, trading MREs and complaining about egg omelets.
It only took a few minutes for most people to finish their meals. They were wolfing them down. A couple were taking longer because they were using the heating packets to heat up entrees and hot drinks. Franny went around and collected all the spare accessory packets, which had salt and pepper and matches, and all the unused heating packets. Those were valuable.
A squad leader saw that all his men were done eating. Without being told, he rounded them up and got them onto guard duty so the HQ/Team squad could eat.
Grant went over to the utility truck. Franny handed him an MRE. It felt so good in his hand. A big square block of food. It was weird. It was just an MRE, but Grant was so hungry. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he was holding a meal.
But he had work to do. They could eat their MREs in the trucks. Grant found Ted and said, “Let’s get out of here.” Ted nodded and told the squad leaders to start packing everyone up.
It would take a few minutes to get everyone into the semi-trailer. Enough time for Grant to start eating. He took the precious cargo over to the rear seat of the extended cab of Mark’s truck and unpacked the little packages of food inside and put them on the seat. He was standing outside the truck with the MRE on the seat. The truck’s indoor lights were on so he could see what meal he got.
“Beef patty.” Decent. And it was even better covered in the BBQ sauce that it came with. Mexican macaroni and cheese. Pretty good, actually. Nacho cheese pretzels and a packet of cheese spread like Velveeta, which he squirted on the two wheat snack breads, which were really good. Way better than you’d think with a name like “wheat snack bread.”
“Hey, look, a combat cheeseburger,” Grant said to Bobby about his two pieces of wheat snack bread with cheese spread and a beef patty. Bobby laughed.
“Beef stew and one of those awesome HOOAH bars,” Bobby said about his MRE. The HOOAH bars were like a military version of an energy bar. They were really good, though it was rumored that anyone who ate one would be unable to take a crap for a week after.
About halfway through Grant’s meal, Ted was walking up to each vehicle yelling, “Mount up!” It was time to get back on the road.
The guys on the Team gobbled the food from their opened pouches and threw the unopened ones into their cargo pockets. They knew to gather all the wrappers. Franny came around collecting them in one of the empty MRE case boxes. This was not done out of some desire to recycle for the environment, but to make sure no one could tell how many men had eaten there. OPSEC required that litter be picked up.
Grant did a final count of the men in the truck. He ran out to the bed of the truck and said, “Any ugly homos under that tarp?”
“Just us two,” Wes said from underneath. “Ryan said I have to put out for my MRE. He said Marines do that all the time.”
“Fuck you, hillbilly,” Ryan said with a laugh.
“That’s exactly what you’re trying to do to me under this tarp,” Wes shot back.
Things were back to normal.
Grant heard the diesel engine of the semi rev up. It was time to go back to work.
Chapter 281
The New Scouts
(January 1)
Before heading out again, Grant went over to Ted for some last minute instructions. He ran up to the cab of the semi where Ted was and climbed up to the passenger side. Ted had his window down and the heat from the cab was flowing out. It felt great against the cold from outside. It felt like it was about to rain. Grant could tell from the way the wind was starting to pick up.
“You got point,” Ted said to Grant.
Oh great, Grant thought. Now the Team was the scout unit. Except they had no scout training. Oh well. He couldn’t sweat it. They didn’t have any formal military or law enforcement training, but look at all they’d done so far.
“Roger that,” Grant said. “We need to boogie to Olympia.”
“Be careful,” Ted said. He could tell Grant was anxious to get to Olympia. A little too much. Patience was a virtue—especially when people were trying to kill you with snipers, booby traps, and ambushes. It was even more important for scouts to be patient, and Grant wasn’t.
“Sure,” Grant said, trying to act like he wasn’t scared out of his mind about being in the lead vehicle. He thought it was crazy to have the commanding officer in the lead vehicle and scouting … but, he had to admit that the real operational commander of this unit was in the cab of the semi.
“No, seriously, Grant, slow it down,” Ted said. “Be very cautious. Get us there alive. Don’t give those Lima bastards anything to brag about, like shooting up the 17th Irregulars.”
Grant nodded. This was a rare rebuke from Ted. It was a soft rebuke, but a rebuke nonetheless. Ted was serious.
“Got it,” Grant finally said. “We’ll try to be as cautious as possible.”
Ted smiled. “Besides, we’re getting radio traffic, in Jim Q.’s totally incomprehensible language, and things are going well.” Jim Q. looked over at Grant and nodded.
Grant felt a shot of warm adrenaline and joy soar through his body. He’d been waiting to hear that. He wanted to know every detail.
“The main fighting,” Ted said, “is along I-5 from JBLM down into Olympia. That’s the frontal assault from the regular forces.
That’s the brunt of the fighting. The Patriot regulars have pushed the Limas back into Olympia. We have guys like us coming up I-5 from the south, a couple of Lewis County units. They’re not meeting much resistance. Mostly these overpass things like we got. Snipers and road obstacles. No helos or artillery. So far.”
Grant was thrilled. This might actually work, he thought for the first time. He knew things would work out in the end, but he had no idea things were going to go this well this quickly. So far.
“Why?” Grant asked. “Why are we having it so easy?” He wanted to understand everything about this that he could.
Ted shrugged. “Best we can figure is that morale is at rock bottom for the Limas. All they have, for the most part, are kids in National Guard uniforms. Their officers or the gangs, or both, have looted their supplies and equipment. There are some cops, a splinter group of State Patrol, who are putting up a good fight against us, especially in the urban areas of Olympia. But, overall, these poor Lima kids have no idea why they’re fighting. They don’t believe their bosses any more. They’re just there. Pointing their rifles in the direction they’re told.”
This was exactly what Grant thought might happen, but just not so quickly. This was fantastic.
Ted looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “We’re going to win this. We’re going to take Olympia. I have two questions, though.”
Grant was hanging on his every word. “Yeah?”
“First,” Ted said, “will we hold Olympia after a counter attack?” He paused and said, “And, second, will the 17th get to Olympia in one piece?” Ted looked at Grant and said, “Get us there, Lieutenant, in one piece. Scout us in. Be patient. They don’t need us there right now. They need us there in a while, alive and ready to kick ass inside Olympia, not dead on the highway outside of town. You don’t want to come this far and then not get to Olympia, do you?”
“Got it,” Grant said. He did. Knowing that the battle was going well reduced the pressure to quickly get to Olympia. And, Grant now had to admit to himself, he was being a little too competitive. He used to think the amazing, wonderful, fantastic 17th Irregulars, who seemed to pull rabbits out of their hats and wildly exceed the expectations placed on an irregular unit, should be the first ones into Olympia and wave a Don’t Tread on Me flag. He had wanted some glory, but now he felt ashamed of that desire. Glory was an abstract, theoretical idea. Anderson, Meerkat, and Nineteen Delta were real. Limiting the casualties to just those three would be the glory. Not waving a flag.
