by Glen Tate
“Yeah,” Hammond said, nodding, “it’ll be a rough winter and lots of people will die. The Limas have done so much damage to this country that we can’t wave a magic wand and make things instantly right. But you know that. The fact that you’re here in this room means that you know that there is no magic wand. You would have waved that first before you committed yourself to joining a rebel army.”
“So,” Hammond said, “that’s reason number two why you’re doing this: you know that at least 200 million people will die unless the Limas are stopped. And, because you’re a decent human being, you can’t sit back and watch that. Little kids dying of starvation. Can you just watch that and not do something? I’ve seen little kids starve to death in other places. There is no way to sit there and not do something. No possible way. And, if 200 million out of 300 million will die, what makes you think you’ll be one of the minority who makes it? What makes you think your family will, too? If there is a two-thirds odds of you dying, add in a wife and the odds of you two making it go down further. Throw in a kid and you’re even lower. The sheer odds of you and your family making it are, what, ten percent? You gonna bet on that?”
Hammond scribbled something on the file in front of him. It seemed like too serious of a moment to scribble something. Then he pointed to the captain, “Quick, Morris, pick a number between one and ten.”
“Two, sir,” Captain Morris said.
Hammond held up the file folder, which had a big “eight” written on it.
“Your family is dead,” Hammond said. “You didn’t make it into the ten percent club.”
Hammond looked back at the audience and said, “Only a fool will bet on making it by just sitting back and letting other people take care of them and their family. The Limas have such a brilliant track record of taking care of people, don’t they? Anyone with any sense will take care of themselves and the ones they love.”
“Well,” Hammond said, throwing his hands up, “how you gonna do that? By voting? Elections have been cancelled, and electing the lesser of two evils is what got us where we’re at right now. Elections will not save you. It’s too late for that. If you thought elections would work anymore, you’d be in a room tonight for a new political party. You’re not. You’re in a room tonight for a rebel army.”
“Nope,” Hammond said, “you’re not going to look to elections to save us. You’re going to drive off the animals attacking you. You’re going to push and then—bam!—the tipsy government that is barely holding on will fall over and shatter into a million pieces. You’ll be amazed at how tipsy it was. You’ll look back and say, ‘It looked so solid, but fell so easily.’ And you’ll be right.”
“So we already have three good reasons why you’re doing this,” Hammond said, putting up three fingers. “One,” he said holding up one finger, “You know you’re supposed to be doing this.
“Two,” Hammond said, holding up two fingers, “we’re going to win. The Limas are weak.”
“Third,” he said, holding up three fingers, “you can’t sit back and watch most of your country starve to death, including—odds are—your own family.”
“Oh, but there’s more,” Hammond said, holding up a fourth finger. “How about this? Your place in history. Now, it’s hard for people to think about how they’ll be viewed in the future. Fair enough. So look back at how you view people in the past. You see, every couple generations or so, Americans have to do big and nasty things, but then the country, and sometimes the whole world, thanks them. I’ll give you an example. My granddaddy was in World War II. He was a war hero, actually. The rest of his life he was respected and honored. Before him, were my ancestors who fought in the Civil War or, as I’m now coming to realize, the War Between the States. There was heroism on both sides of that one. One of them saved a family from a fire started by enemy troops. Then there’s the Revolutionary War, which is the best example of what’s happening now.”
“If just a handful of men and women,” Hammond said, “had decided to take it easy during in the Revolutionary War, there never would have been an America. How many people can say they did something that made life immeasurably better for millions of people for hundreds of years? That’s no exaggeration. Think about that, people.”
Hammond let that sink in. “Well, congratulations,” he said loudly. “That’s you. That’s you,” he said pointing to the audience, “and you and you and you.”
“So,” he continued, “to summarize—for you to remember when you’re cold, hungry, scared, and wondering if we’ll really win—here are the four reasons why we’re doing this. One, you’re supposed to do this. Two, we’re going to win. Three, you and probably over 200 million Americans are dead if we don’t do this. And, four, you will be part of history. Four damned good reasons to do this. Now let’s get to work.”
The room burst into applause. People started standing and clapping. Hammond stood at the podium with extreme pride and confidence. He smiled. He was proud to be leading these people and it showed.
Hammond screamed, “Take it back! Take this country back!”
Chants of “Take it back!” started. Pretty soon, the whole room was screaming “Take it back! Take it back!”
It was intoxicating. Grant, and everyone in that room, felt invincible, which was good, because they’d need that for what was coming.
Chapter 203
“The Unit”?
(July 22)
After the chanting died down, Hammond said, “It’s time to go back to your AOs,” referring to areas of operation. Hammond couldn’t resist. “Go and…take it back!” This started a new round of chanting. The place was bursting with enthusiasm. Grant had never seen anything like it.
The chanting died down for a second time. Hammond motioned to the captain that it was time for people to leave, and the captain said, “Each unit will form up and be dismissed.” Grant wasn’t sure what that meant, but, being number seventeen, he’d see at least sixteen examples of what he was supposed to do before it was his turn.
The captain yelled out, “1st Irregulars!” and the new lieutenant, his Quadra, and two Special Forces-looking guys from the audience stood up. The captain and Hammond started clapping. So did the audience. The 1st Irregulars went up to the podium. The captain said something to the new lieutenant and led his unit out of the meeting hall to thunderous applause. Hammond was at the exit and talked to each man as they left. He knew the names and backgrounds of each lieutenant, most of the Quadras, and all of the SF guys. Hammond literally stayed up at night memorizing details about his people. He made every single person feel important and that he was personally counting on them. Because he was.
This happened fifteen more times and then it was the 17th’s turn. “17th Irregulars!” the captain yelled. Grant gave the thumbs up, motioned for Jim Q. to stand with him, and then motioned for Ted and Sap to come up front and get some applause. They did.
There they were: the four of them, as a unit. It was a brand new feeling. But, it was a completely comfortable feeling, too. Grant, having seen sixteen previous examples of what to do, crisply led his men through the hall to cheers. As he approached the exit, there was Hammond extending his hand for a handshake.
“Really glad you’re with us, Grant,” Hammond said sincerely, using a rare reference to a first name.
“Me too, sir,” Grant said, without standing at attention. Grant wanted to communicate that he, too, was temporarily breaking with military protocol to show his sincerity.
“We have some big plans for the 17th,” Hammond said. He looked at Ted and Sap, both of whom nodded. “Let’s just say you guys are pre-positioned in the right place.”
Grant had suspected all along that the 17th’s target was nearby Olympia. Now he knew it.
“We’re supposed to be here,” Grant said. Hammond smiled. He had been thinking the same thing. “Supposed to be, sir,” Grant repeated. He had never met anyone like Hammond who was on the same outside-thought wavelength.
“You t
ake good care of Ted and Sap, Lieutenant,” Hammond said. “They were in my old unit and I think the world of both of them. They’re good men; Oath Keepers and superb warriors. Plus, Ted knew you from peacetime. Perfect, just perfect. And I understand you have some hardware in your basement that might help equip quite a few of your unit.” He was smiling.
Wow. Hammond knew details about every unit. “Yes, sir,” Grant said. “Well, they actually belong to…”
“Chip,” Hammond said. Man, this guy knew everything. Impressive. “I understand they split up the inventory of Capitol City Guns,” Hammond said, “and that Chip’s already donated them. Thank him for me. Ted will be bringing out a similar number, and then some.” Hammond was getting a little hoarse from all the yelling and talking. His hoarseness just emphasized that he was giving this his all.
“Yes, sir,” was all Grant could manage to say. He was still stunned at all the detail Hammond had mastered. Hammond was this up-to-speed on each of the twenty-three irregular units. It was one thing to say that was his job, but it was more than just a job for Hammond—he was making sure his guys came out of everything OK and that the Patriots won.
When Grant and Hammond were done talking, Grant stepped aside so Hammond could talk to Jim Q. Hammond said Jim Q.’s real name, “Khnanya,” pronouncing it exactly like Jim Q. had, and then said something in some foreign language. Hammond spoke the code talker language? At least a little. Wow.
Then Grant realized that Special Forces soldiers had to learn lots of languages to operate in the foreign areas where they worked. Hammond was fluent in Spanish, Russian, Pashto, and French. He spoke a little of six other languages, some of which had no written alphabet. Hammond majored in linguistics at West Point.
After Hammond said something in the code talker’s language, Jim Q. smiled, puffed out his chest and said, “Yes, sir. Very much, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jim Q. had never heard someone outside his family ever speak his language. It was surreal to see someone else saying these words.
Next in line for greetings from Hammond were Ted and Sap. “You guys take care of my young lieutenant and Khnanya here,” Hammond said.
“Yes, sir,” Ted said.
“Will do, sir,” Sap said.
“Sap, how is your mom doing back in Wisconsin?” Hammond asked.
Sap looked down at the floor. “Dunno, sir. Can’t get in touch with her, but she needed some pretty serious medications and…well, you know.”
Hammond looked like his own mom had died. “Sorry to hear that, son. Anything I can do?”
“For my mom? No, sir,” Sap said. “We can win this war and not have things like my mom’s situation come up again.”
“Indeed,” Hammond said with a nod to Sap. “You’re a good man, Brandon. Go out and make me proud with the 17th.”
“Yes, sir,” Sap said. He tried to smile, but couldn’t now that he had been reminded about his mom, though it was his dad he worried about. His mom and dad had been inseparable since high school.
“I sense great things from the 17th,” Hammond said with yet another smile. “Go out there and take back our country, gentlemen.” He shook each man’s hand, looked them straight in the eye, and said, with absolute sincerity, “Take it back.”
Grant had become ultra-confident about winning the war on the boat ride in when, looking at the stars, the outside thought told him they would win. He assumed the details of how they’d win would be chaotic. They were taking on the largest and, supposedly strongest, military on earth. But now he knew how they’d win: They would be led by people like Jim Hammond.
Hammond had been placed in Washington State with some amazing skills, Grant realized, and following Hammond would lead to victory. In that moment, Grant was even more confident than when he was looking up at the stars. Not only did he know with absolute certainty that they would win, he now felt like he knew how and why.
Except it hadn’t happened yet. They still had lots of hurdles. Probably awful, awful hurdles. This wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but they would win.
The 18th was right behind them and Hammond was greeting them and similarly showing a mastery of every detail of them and their mission.
Grant, Jim Q., Ted, and Sap walked out of the hall.
Ted and Sap had heard some pep talks before, but this was the best they’d ever heard by far. Here they were, experienced combat Special Forces veterans, and they were pumped up like little kids.
As they were leaving, a Navy petty officer with a clipboard and “Free Wash. State Guard” on the name tag of his fatigues, said to them, “The 17th, I presume?”
Grant nodded. It took him a second to realize that he was in charge. He would answer questions like that. This was quite a change from a half hour ago when the question was whether he was “Mr.” Matson or “Lt.” Matson.
“Your craft is waiting over at slip twenty-two, down this way,” the petty officer said, and pointed to a corner of the marina. “Good night, gentlemen and good luck.” The petty officer looked at Jim Q. and said, “I’d say ‘good luck’ in your language, but I don’t even know what language it is. Better that we don’t, but good luck.” The petty officer tipped his head instead of saluting. Battlefield rules on saluting were in place. Boston Harbor, as beautiful and joyous as that place was that night, was technically a battlefield.
“Thank you,” Jim Q. said. He was told not to use words from his language unless absolutely necessary. Saying “Basima,” his word for “thank you,” with the petty officer would be polite, but if the petty officer were a spy, the Loyalists would know what language the code talkers were using.
Jim Q. wanted to be polite, so he said to the petty officer, “I would say ‘thank you’ in my language, but…”
The petty officer put his hand up and said, “Understood. OPSEC, sir,” which was the military acronym for “operational security.” That term basically meant, “Don’t be a dumbass and give out little details that allow people to find you and kill you.”
Grant and the rest of the 17th walked down the marina toward the boat for the ride home. They weren’t talking. They moved as quietly as possible at all times. It wasn’t natural for Grant to walk around with friends and not talk. He’d been talking with friends instead of walking silently for over forty years during peace time. But now, even though Boston Harbor was as secure as possible, it just seemed stupid and unprofessional to blab. It was like hunting. Everyone’s quiet until they’re in camp.
Grant was starting to like the silence that came with his new military duties. All day long at his Grange day job people yammered to him or he had to talk to people. Sometimes, at the end of the day he couldn’t stand it if one more person talked to him; he was overloaded. The only quiet he ever got was when he was in the woods or on the water with his unit.
“His unit”? Did he just think that? It was still sinking into Grant that he was the commanding officer of the 17th Irregulars of the Free Washington State Guard. He had foreseen all the big things that had eventually happened—the Collapse, surviving out at the cabin, the Team—but he had not foreseen this lieutenant thing. He looked up at the stars and said to himself, “Awaiting further instructions.”
There was Paul ready to take them back. He was happy to see them.
Paul realized that they had one additional passenger. He pointed at Jim Q. and asked Ted, “Is he cool?”
“Yep. Jim Q., meet Paul,” Ted said. “Paul is our boat guy. He lives out at Pierce Point. Paul, Jim Q. is our radio guy.” Ted knew not to tell a single person who didn’t need to know that they had a code talker.
Paul extended his hand. “Radio guy, huh? Cool. Nice to meet you Jim Q.”
Paul pointed to a duffle bag in the boat and said to Jim Q., “A Navy guy came by and said this belongs to one of you. Is it yours?”
Jim Q. looked at the duffle bag and asked for a flashlight. Ted, Sap, Grant, and Paul each had one. Along with carrying a pistol everywhere, another new habit Grant acquired was having a flashlight, notepad and p
en, and a folding knife on him at all times.
“Mine is green light,” Paul said, referring to his flashlight. “Saves your night vision.” Paul handed it to Jim Q., who looked at the duffle bag with the green light and said, “Yep, this is mine. Thanks.”
Grant looked at his watch. It was 2:15 a.m. “Time to boogie,” he said to Paul. Grant’s caffeine pill was wearing off a little. He was emotionally exhausted. So much had happened that night.
Paul got on the radio, said something, and got an answer back. “We’re on hold for a little while. Each boat leaves with some time interval. No bunching us up. Easier for the bad guys to take more of us out if we’re bunched up.”
That reminded Grant that this war wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and started to scan around. It couldn’t hurt to have as many eyes as possible looking for threats.
Through the binos, Grant could see a boat that had made it out of the harbor. It turned its running lights off and kept going, veering right, which was the route up the Puget Sound toward Seattle. Paul’s boat would be going left.
After a while of straining to look through the binos, Grant could tell his eyes were becoming unfocused. He decided he needed to work on his command presence. Not to be bossy, just to be a lieutenant.
He handed the binos to Sap and said, “Sergeant, my old eyes are too tired to keep looking through these. Why don’t you take over?”
“Yes, sir,” Sap said.
Ted, realizing that Grant was working on his command presence, turned to Paul and said, “Grant here is now Lt. Matson.”