by Glen Tate
“Are you OK?” Jeanie asked.
Jim paused. He didn’t want to make her worry, but the answer was “no.”
“I guess so,” Jim said. “Here’s the deal. My CO,” which meant commanding officer, “came to me and said that CID found that I had some Facebook friends who are POI.” “CID” was the Army’s Criminal Investigative Division, the Guard’s internal affairs police.
Facebook friends. Jeanie froze. It felt like all the blood drained out of her. They knew about Jim’s friendship with the WAB guys. Oh crap. She and Jim were in danger now.
“What did your CO say?” Jeanie asked. She was hoping desperately for good news from Jim.
“He said that I’m getting transferred to a ‘less sensitive’ unit,” Jim said. “I’m going out to some farm in Eastern Washington to guard it. I’m done in the Guard. My career is over. I’ll serve out my time in this new unit. They call it the ‘penal battalion.’ It’s more like being in jail. The MPs watch the unit like hawks. We get all the shit work. I mean the total shit work. I’m not supposed to be calling anyone. I gotta go. Love you. Don’t worry.”
Jeanie started crying. “Wait.” She didn’t want him to hang up. “Are you going to be OK?”
Jim regretted telling her what had happened. She’d just worry now.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s not like I’m in an actual jail or anything. Besides, we have plenty to eat and the gangs are miles away.” He was serious: he’d be fine. Because the Guard was so screwed up they couldn’t actually pull off anything nasty towards him. He needed Jeanie to know that.
“Here’s the thing,” Jim said in a whisper. He was talking quickly to get all of the information out before he had to hang up. “Nothing is going right. I mean the Guard is totally dysfunctional right now. We’re not even issued ammunition. We show the public our weapons but they don’t know that they’re unloaded. This is all a show. We don’t have radios most of the time and no one is told what frequencies to use. The political people don’t trust us; they think we’ll link up with defecting units. Half the time there’s no fuel for our vehicles. Cooked food comes sometimes. Other times we use up the MREs.”
Jim paused and then kept going to get all the info out to Jeanie. “At first, most of the men were reporting for duty. A week ago, it was down to half. Now it’s even less. People are just melting away. The next morning they’re not around. We can’t do a thing. No one can make a decision. Everything is political. We were supposed to go into Seattle last week. We were told to go, then to not go. Then to go, then not. Over and over. It was ridiculous. They were trying to figure if sending more of us would ‘escalate’ the situation in Seattle. Then some wanted a ‘show of force’ and then the de-escalators would win and we’d stand down. A total joke.”
Jim caught his breath and kept whispering. “So don’t worry. I’m probably better off at the potato farm. We’ll just sit around there and make sure the Hamburglar doesn’t steal the Fry Guys,” he said in a reference to the old McDonald’s cartoon characters advertising Happy Meals. Back when there were Happy Meals.
That made Jeanie laugh. The Hamburglar. That was her Jim, making jokes in a tough situation. He would be OK.
“So you’re not working on computers anymore,” she asked, knowing the answer. She was whispering, too.
“Uh, no,” Jim said. “They don’t want a ‘POI-lover’ like me near the networks. That’s the really frustrating part,” he said getting a little choked up. “I know that system like the back of my hand. I can stop some of the hacking that’s going on and get the system back up when it goes down. They need me. But I was a Facebook friend with someone who pisses them off. So they put me on Hamburglar duty.”
Jeanie laughed again. That was what Jim needed to hear. She was laughing. She wouldn’t worry. He could go now.
“Gotta run, dear,” Jim said in a hurried whisper. “Love you. I’ll be fine. Tell the TV stations that the Fry Guys are safe from the Hamburglar.” He hung up.
Jeanie laughed some more.
And then cried. And cried and cried.
She was worried about Jim. And herself. She knew that she held an ultra-high security clearance. It wouldn’t be long before she got sent on Hamburglar duty. Her career was over.
But, it could even be worse. They could kick her out of Camp Murray and make her live out there with the regular people. She would have to stand in line with an FCard—if they even gave her an FCard. She might go to jail. They might…
Just then Jason walked into Jeanie’s office. “Jeanie, can I talk to you?” he asked. He closed the door to her office. Here it came.
“Yeah, Jason, what’s up?” she asked as cheery as possible.
“Were you crying?” he asked. She had tears on her cheeks.
“Allergies,” she said. It’s what she always said when she didn’t want people to know she was crying.
“Jeanie, we love your work here, but we need to make some changes,” Jason said. “We’d like you to work with some of the VIPs who come out here. We’d like you to give them pep talks. We have them come to Camp Murray to get energized. It’s kind of a reward to local elected officials and others who do a good job. Hear a speech from the Governor, that kind of thing. You would be a handler of them when they get here. How does that sound?”
Busted. She knew they knew about Jim and the POI thing. Maybe they knew about Jeanie socializing in the past with the WAB guys; maybe they could tell she unfriended them a while ago on Facebook. Oh well. Giving VIP tours was better than going to jail.
Were they being nice to her because they liked her? Nah, Jeanie decided. They didn’t want her, with all her sensitive information, to just go out into the streets and meet up with the Patriots and spill her guts. They wanted to keep an eye on her. Where better to do that than Camp Murray? She was in the civilian version of a penal battalion, though it beat jail and it beat being out on the street.
“Sure,” she said with a fake smile. “Sounds great. Put me to use where I’m needed the most.”
Jason’s cell phone rang. He looked at the number and said, “Gotta go. See you around, Jeanie.”
Jeanie sat in her office and cried some more. Her whole life had been on an amazing trajectory. At age twenty-eight she had been the communications director for the next governor. Now she was a suspected terrorist sympathizer and being watched. Her life seemed over.
Tomorrow was her twenty-ninth birthday.
Chapter 132
Meal Cards
(May 13)
One of the looters was attacking Grant. He drew for his pistol. He felt it. Before he could unholster it, the looter grabbed him by the shoulders and started shaking him.
“Whoa! Whoa! Wake up!” the looter said as he grabbed Grant’s right arm and the pistol. Grant opened his eyes and saw Drew holding his arm. Oh God, it was only Drew.
Grant was fully awake in an instant. And embarrassed. “Oh, hey, Drew, sorry. Thought you were someone else. Really sorry about that.” Grant was trying to downplay almost drawing a gun on his father–in-law.
Drew was startled. “I think having a gun on your side makes sense when you’re awake,” Drew said, “but you might want to take off your pistol next time you fall asleep.” He had a point.
“Yep,” Grant said. “Sorry. I fell asleep before I could take off my pistol belt or clothes.” Grant was slightly indignant that he had been awake for so long protecting people and now they were telling him how to dress for bed, but he didn’t want to hurt someone by accident. “I’ll put this on the nightstand in the future.”
“The meeting is in an hour,” Drew said. “I thought we should go up there a little early, get dinner, and start planning for the meeting.” Drew had been working hard on the lists of volunteers and their contributions. The expected attack and the rush of volunteers to the gate had been a lot of work for him.
Drew had several assistants. He was taking all the help he could find. He also knew that the more volunteers for keeping
records about contributions, the less people could accuse Grant and his family of controlling everything. One can’t become a very successful business person like Drew without understanding basic politics.
Eileen was working on the Over Road dinner, which was the dinner for those who didn’t eat routinely at the Grange. The dinner was over at the Colsons’, who were hosting it each night. They had all that deer meat in the freezer. Grant hadn’t thought much about their food out there on Over Road since he’d been eating food provided by the Grange ladies. He was glad that things seemed to be proceeding along without much of his oversight. The group meals at the Colsons were just happening on their own. A routine was settling in on Over Road.
Grant was still waking up. He realized this would be yet another important meeting. He would be asking for a vote to allow the semi to be used only for emergencies. This vote had to go right. Hungry, scared people and a semi load of food? What are the odds that people would say, “No, you keep the Pop Tarts for someone who needs them more. I’ll rely on my garden first and then the Pop Tarts only as a last resort.” That might have made sense a few decades ago, but most Americans had stopped thinking about self-sufficiency a long time ago. Now they thought that food came from a semi, not a garden. But it was better to have a semi load of food and have to decide what to do with it than not have it.
Grant wasn’t very talkative. He had been talking nonstop for…a day or two. He didn’t even know. Days and nights were blurring together.
Grant looked for Lisa. She wasn’t home. She was probably working at the Grange. He walked outside. The bright light hurt his eyes. He put on his sunglasses.
He saw the Team leaving the yellow cabin.
“Hey, those are my guys,” Grant said to himself.
His guys. It felt great to say that. What an amazing bunch of guys. They’d really come together as a rock solid and tight group. They’d risk their lives for each other. They already had. Bringing Lisa and the kids and the in-laws out of Olympia. Or yesterday when they ran up on Gideon’s truck and then covered each other on the retreat back to the gate.
“My guys,” Grant said to himself again. There was no feeling like that in the world. The camaraderie was the only good part of the Collapse. He’d trade the camaraderie for not having a Collapse, but if there was going to be a Collapse, he was grateful he had his guys. “Grateful” was too weak of a word. There was no word for it.
The Team was getting into Mark’s truck. Slowly. They were tired. Grant was glad he, in his forties, was just as tired as these twenty-somethings in great shape.
“This never gets old,” Grant said as he got into the truck. They smiled.
“Beats the shit out of selling insurance,” Pow said. More smiles.
Armed serenity, Grant thought once again as he looked at his guys in the truck with kit and ARs. This is armed serenity. Grant absolutely loved this feeling. Sheepdogs love being sheepdogs.
The Team talked a little about the preparations for the attack the day before that never materialized. They talked about which of the guards seemed to be better than others. About their extra weapons which were donated to the cause and they wanted back. Each man had been responsible for getting his loaned gear back. That reminded Grant that the Team had loaned out his A2, the standard-issue AR he had.
“Hey, where’s my A2?” Grant asked.
“Yellow cabin,” Wes said.
“Thanks, man,” Grant said.
“No problemo, my brother,” Wes answered.
They pulled into the Grange and the place was packed. People were standing around the semi gawking. They were thrilled about the big prize. Gideon was standing by the truck shaking hands. Everyone wanted to meet the mystery man who brought them all the food.
Chip and the guards were being polite, but making sure people stayed a few yards back. Grant loved the political message the guards were sending about the semi: this thing is very valuable and your community is protecting it.
Grant spent about twenty minutes chatting with people. They all had questions or wanted to tell him how glad they were about the semi. The story about the head fake was going around. Grant wanted to eat and then dive into preparing for his speech on saving the semi for emergencies but people kept talking to him. He realized that part of his job was talking to people. He didn’t mind it; he just wanted to get a lot done. That meant talking to people. Besides, he thought to himself with a chuckle, he’s running for judge so he should talk to as many voters as possible.
Finally, Grant had to break away and get something to eat. Despite that giant breakfast a few hours ago, he was still hungry. The Grange ladies were serving deer burgers and potato salad. Heavy on the potatoes and light on the mayonnaise because, Grant suspected, potatoes can be grown at Pierce Point but mayonnaise must be trucked in from California. That’s fine. Grant preferred potatoes to mayonnaise, anyway.
Rich had a crowd around him, too. Finally Rich came over and said, “OK, so you’ll present your plan for holding onto the semi for emergencies.”
Grant nodded. His mouth was full of potato salad.
“Anything else?” Rich asked.
“Yep,” Grant said in between mouthfuls. “An alert system for reserve guards getting to the gate. And a transportation system.” Grant chewed some more.
“And a gardening system,” Grant said. “A pretty full agenda.”
Rich was in charge and was doing plenty, but he was glad Grant was around to think of things, logistical and political things, and just get them done. It took a lot off Rich’s plate.
He looked at his watch, and went to the little podium and said to the crowd, “OK, let’s get started.”
Rich was in charge, but in a collaborative way. He wasn’t trying to boss people around; he was guiding them and letting people take the lead on various things. He had no desire to be a dictator and it showed. At the same time, everyone knew who to come to with a problem that needed to be solved.
Rich gave a briefing to everyone on the semi. He noted that the food in the semi was nonperishable so it would last for quite some time. A few years, actually. That was a key point Grant wanted to make sure people understood. There was no need to eat the food now.
The cat was out of the bag about the head fake. There was no way to keep a secret out there. It would get back to Bennington that they had the semi full of food. Oh well. At least they had it.
“Will the police come to get the semi when they realize it’s full of food?” Was the first question someone asked.
“I doubt it,” said Rich. “The deputy I was talking to was noticing the dozens of guards, sandbag bunkers, and especially those dogs.” People looked over at Dan, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Besides, they have lots of problems on their hands in town.”
Rich told the audience about the Mexican part of town being gated off and the Blue Ribbon Boys and the FC. He didn’t talk about the corruption and Commissioner Winters, but he didn’t need to. They all understood. No one really looked to the government as a neutral group there to help.
Rich said, “Grant here has a proposal about the semi.”
People started cheering. That was a good sign.
Grant started by saying, “You can thank Gideon Armstrong.” Gideon came forward to accept the cheering. “Gideon risked a lot to give this food to us.” More cheering. Grant wished that he had talked to Gideon in advance to have Gideon tell the crowd that he wanted “his” food to be used only for emergencies. You can’t do everything perfectly. Grant had been busy preparing to fight off an attack.
Grant needed the crowd to know that he had something to do with the food, too, so that his suggestion on its use would be heeded. “I’d like to thank the Team, too. We,” he made sure to use the word “we” so they knew he was involved, “rushed into potential gunfire to secure this.” More cheering. “And Mr. Smithson for his quick work to switch out the trailers like he did.” More cheering.
“I have a plan,” Grant said during all the che
ering, “about what to do with this food. Hold onto it for emergencies. It’s nonperishable. We don’t have to eat it now before it goes bad. It won’t go bad for a year or two, or probably even longer,” Grant said. He paused for effect.
“I feel very, very strongly that we use this for emergencies only,” Grant said. “We use up our other food supplies first. We share with each other and help the elderly and disabled first. Then, if we’re out of food after that, we might dip into this semi. If, and only if, we really, really need to. But, this isn’t a dictatorship,” Grant said while staring right at Snelling. Grant was surprised to see he had shown his face at the Grange after the shellacking he took at the last meeting. “So does everyone agree to hold onto the food for emergencies?”
Most people were saying, “Yes” or nodding or clapping. Most, though, not all.
Someone asked, “So how exactly would this work?”
Grant said, “We use up our own food first. We share among ourselves. Who here won’t share?” No one said a word. Of course not. Not in public. People would be greedy bastards in private, but usually not raise their hands to say so. Grant needed people to publicly acknowledge that they would share.
“When someone is out of their own food,” Grant said, “they can get a meal card. That allows them to get one good meal a day here at the Grange. The Grange will get food by donations. The kitchen is set up to take in large amounts of food and prepare it. For example, a deer. Someone could bring one in and that becomes deer for a hundred people that day.”
Grant wanted to downplay this next point, so he just squished it in between other points and said it plainly. “Those working for the community like the guards and the Grange ladies get their meals provided,” he said. Grant didn’t want people to complain that some people are getting free food. Yes, some people are. People who hold a rifle and risk their lives to protect everyone. Deer burgers and potato salad was a small price to pay for not having a motorcycle gang showing up at their doors.
