299 Days: The 17th Irregulars

by Glen Tate

  “Flag?” Joe yelled into the radio. The Loyalists would have the old flag on their ship. Probably.

  “Cannot verify,” said the dispatcher a few seconds later. “No verified flag.”

  By now, Joe was out of the house and in the parade grounds as they called the big common area in the middle of all the buildings. People were running around all over. The Marines seemed fairly calm. This was another drill, right? They’d done this a million times back at Indian Island Naval Magazine and the Bangor sub base where they formerly guarded huge weapon stockpiles before they went AWOL and joined Joe’s company. Joe’s military contractors and ex-law enforcement men seemed less calm. They hadn’t done drills like this nearly as many times.

  “Friendly! Friendly! Friendly!” the dispatcher yelled. He was joyous and relieved. He realized how emotional he was getting and calmed it down. “We have confirmation of friendlies,” he said very calmly.

  “Code blue,” Joe yelled. “Do not fire, though. Do not fire unless fired upon!”

  “Roger that. Code blue,” the dispatcher said. “Code blue” meant a vessel or vehicle that appears to be friendly, but still should be treated as hostile by aiming weapons at it. Don’t fire, though, unless fired upon.

  The siren blaring through Joe’s compound changed from a series of three short blasts signifying “battle stations” to two long blasts, which meant “code blue.” Hearing this change, the troops were relaxing a bit, but they were still ready to destroy whatever was coming into the dock. The Marines were checking the skies for helicopters. If the Limas were coming, it would be a coordinated air/sea and possibly, a land attack.

  “Flag confirmed. Gadsden. Friendly flag,” the dispatcher said, now fully in control of his emotions. The vessel had the yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag, which was a very welcomed sign.

  “Code blue,” Joe repeated into the radio, making sure everyone knew this was still a code blue, not a picnic. “The Limas could be flying a Gadsden. Code blue. Copy?”

  “Copy,” the dispatcher said.

  “Copy,” the voices of several squad leaders reported.

  The siren remained at two long blasts. There was no letting up just because of the color of the flag.

  A few tense seconds passed.

  “Radio confirmation,” the dispatcher said. “Confirmation of a friendly. Code used. Finally.”

  “Sirens to code yellow,” Joe said. “Yellow” as in Gadsden yellow, the color of the Patriot flag. A few seconds later, the sirens went to four short blasts. Everyone was relaxing.

  The first boat pulled into the dock. It wasn’t a military vessel as the dispatcher had first reported. Joe knew, first reports—especially when people are scared—are seldom entirely accurate.

  The second vessel, which was a thirty-foot civilian cabin cruiser and likely a transport, came in second. Both boats were seemingly harmless civilian-looking ones that would blend in with the other boats on the water, which would come in handy when FUSA naval forces or pirates came near. The only disadvantage to the civilian boats was that that thin fiberglass in the hull wouldn’t stop a .22 bullet, let alone what was just about to fly from Joe’s compound if those vessels hadn’t properly identified themselves.

  Joe had about ten men behind sand bags with rifles and one M240 light machine gun pointed toward the approaching vessels. He walked up to the first boat in a sign of confidence, wanting to show his guys that he was fearless. He was reasonably certain he wasn’t going to die that day. Guess I’ll find out, he thought.

  “Lieutenant Commander Dibble sends his regards,” yelled out a sailor in FUSA Navy fatigues as he approached Joe. When he got closer, Joe could see the “U.S. Navy” tag was off the fatigues and had been replaced with one saying, “Free Wash. State Guard.”

  He didn’t look like Dibble, the Patriot naval officer who had landed there before and given Joe his “letter of marque” which was a letter from the commander of the Free Washington State Guard allowing Joe to operate as a privateer. The sailor was a younger guy, in his early thirties. When he finally came into the light and Joe could see him, the sailor was tan, suggesting he’d been out on the water a lot that summer.

  So far, so good, Joe thought. He smiled and relaxed. He cinched his AR tight against his chest. He wasn’t going to need it right away. Out of habit, he checked to make sure it was on safe.

  “May I ask why you didn’t radio ahead and let us know not to shoot you?” Joe asked. “You were a few seconds away from being blown out of the water.” He was serious. He was just about to order his men to annihilate the boats. Joe wasn’t pissed, but he was concerned. He didn’t want an incident like this to happen again. Next time, things might go poorly. Dying was bad enough, but dying from friendly fire was even worse. Not only are people dead, but those who kill them feel guilty for the rest of their lives. Besides the human toll, friendly fire destroys morale.

  “We had the wrong frequency, sir,” the sailor said. “We called in one number off from what was on our cheat sheet,” he said. “We realized it and called in on the right one right before…”

  “We shot you full of holes,” Joe said. Mistakes like this one accounted for more deaths than brave fights against the enemy. Details mattered in this business. Those details often mattered the most in the times when people were sleep deprived and scared to death, which was when people screwed up details the most.

  Joe had already made his point about the radio frequency and didn’t want to be a dick, so he smiled and extended his hand for a shake. “I’m Joe Tantori. And you are?”

  “Petty Officer Yearwood, sir,” the sailor said. “T. G. Yearwood of the Free Washington Navy.” Yearwood pointed to three others on board. “This is my crew.” The three tipped their helmets and nodded. No saluting on the battle field. Besides, Joe was a civilian. There was no need to salute him. Maybe, Yearwood thought, Joe had been commissioned as an officer in that letter of marque, but oh well. Not a lot of formality out here. Just getting a job done.

  “I have some goodies for you, Petty Officer, but I need a little more identification,” Joe said. “I would hate to give away Patriot supplies to a thief, no offense.”

  “None taken, sir,” Yearwood said. “I can do one better than identification. You are encouraged to contact Lt. Cmdr. Dibble on the frequency you have already been given.” Dibble had given Joe a piece of paper along with his letter of marque that had a special radio frequency on it and a code word. “Once you contact him,” Yearwood told Joe, “I will give you a code phrase, you will give it back to him, and he will verify that I am authorized to pick up the cargo.”

  Joe nodded. “’Preciate it, Petty Officer.” Joe keyed the radio on his tactical vest and said, “Jeff. Bring me the letter of marque.”

  A second later, a voice said, “Roger that.”

  “Go ahead and relax, gentlemen,” Joe said to Yearwood. “You guys need some food, water, a potty break?”

  “Yes, sir,” Yearwood said. He arranged for the transport vessel to dock so they could load up and avail themselves of the facilities. Joe arranged for the kitchen to start cooking up some breakfast for the sailors.

  By this time, Jeff arrived with a piece of paper and a larger radio. Joe looked at the paper and saw the frequency, which Joe entered in the larger radio and looked at the first code word. It was “John Barry,” a Revolutionary War naval hero who almost no one knew of. Joe called that frequency and asked for “John Barry.”

  A voice, which didn’t belong to Dibble, came on and said, “John Barry here. And who might this be?”

  “Water buffalo,” Joe said, reading the second code word. Water buffalo? Why did he get a lame code name like that?

  “Right on schedule,” the voice on the radio said. “Get the code word from your visitors and let me know what it is.”

  Yearwood said, “Cheetah.”

  Joe repeated “Cheetah” into the radio.

  “OK, good to go, sir,” the voice said. “Your visitors are authoriz
ed to make a pick-up. Thank you for your support, sir.”

  “Roger that,” Joe said. Joe got the inventory sheet of the booty and had a detail of Marines help the sailors load it. Lots of ammunition, medical supplies, cash, some gold and silver, some jewelry, and lots of miscellaneous things of value. There had been several bottles of booze, including some high-dollar brands, but Joe kept those for his boys.

  He got a signed copy of the inventory to show what he donated and made sure the sailors rotated into the kitchen and got some chow.

  “Home-cooked breakfast,” Yearwood said to Joe as he came back from the kitchen toward the boat. “Haven’t had that in a while. It was good, sir. Really good. Thanks.” There is something about a good meal that makes life so much better. Especially when you didn’t expect one.

  “My pleasure, man,” Joe said, dispensing of military formality, since he wasn’t an officer. Or, maybe he was; Yearwood kept calling him “sir,” which could be because he was an officer or because Yearwood said “sir” out of habit. Joe made a mental note to look at his letter of marque later to see if he had been commissioned as an officer. Regardless of what it said, though, it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t going to start acting all military. He was a Patriot just doing what he could for the cause. And getting reimbursed for it.

  “You need to fuel up?” Joe asked Yearwood.

  “That would be great, sir,” Yearwood replied. He was just about to ask Joe for some fuel, but Joe beat him to it. Yearwood had enough to make it back to base, but with only a very tight margin for error. If they had to chase a vessel—or if they got chased—they would run out.

  Joe told a Marine to have both of the vessels topped off. Both ran on diesel, which was good because Joe had a few hundred gallons of diesel in his underground tank. He started off with five hundred gallons and kept replenishing the tank with the diesel he got from the bank work. The fuel he was giving the two boats was a significant contribution, almost as valuable as the booty he was providing. Joe—ever the business man—thought about the portion of the booty he was keeping and realized the fuel he was using on patrols and giving to Yearwood was actually worth slightly more than what he was keeping from this deal. No biggie. The booty was just a way to finance the maritime patrols. If Joe was in this to make money, he would be a pirate.

  Joe noticed that one of the sailors was talking to Marty, who was the gunnery sergeant in charge of the Marines. He walked over and listened. The sailor was briefing Marty on the most recent intelligence they had. Marty was with a corporal who had a nautical chart of the area, which they were marking with a pencil.

  When he saw Joe, Marty said, “I’d rather be us than them. The Limas are in bad shape in Puget Sound. We pretty much own the water. Lots of little pirate craft. No way to interdict all of them. The Limas have massive protection for their big naval convoys.”

  Marty smiled and said, “Get this. The Limas have full anti-sub protections going.”

  That didn’t mean a lot to Joe at first.

  “They are worried about Patriot subs sinking them!” Marty said. “That means we have regular units on our side making their lives miserable. Outstanding. Outstanding!”

  Joe stood there and took it all in. Patriot naval forces making contact with him at this compound to haul away letter-of-marque booty. Lima forces bogged down trying to protect against Patriot submarines. Patriots having nearly free use of the water. This was going much better than Joe had thought it would. Much better.

  “How many men you got?” Joe asked Yearwood.

  “Seven,” Yearwood said. “Eight if you count me.”

  Joe opened up a bag he had. He counted out eight cigars. “After you get done fueling, enjoy these on the ride back, gentlemen. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  Yearwood smiled. A home-cooked breakfast and a cigar. That’s when Yearwood knew they would win this war.

  Chapter 209

  Simplified…But More Complicated

  (July 28)

  Grant was doing less and less of his “day job.” He had people in place who were taking care of just about everything. He was constantly amazed at how Pierce Point had come together for mutual aid. A prime example of this was Sandy McPherson’s battery bank, where people were donating their unused batteries, which had become incredibly valuable now that the stores no longer had them There were still problems—mostly greed, selfishness, and jealousy due to scarce resources—but, overall, Pierce Point was humming along. They continued to hear about how things were going in Frederickson and elsewhere. They were very lucky to be where they were.

  People were getting accustomed to death. The most common source of death was the lack of medications and simple medical conditions, especially infections, which had been no big deal during peacetime. There were some suicides, too. Pastor Pete’s Sunday services were growing, as were the funeral services afterwards.

  But for every horrible thing that happened, there seemed to be one good thing. People were sharing. People were finding out that, after a few months of not having any peacetime luxuries, they weren’t the weak and dependent sheeple they thought. They could actually take care of themselves. People were discovering themselves and their strengths.

  The “new normal” everyone was talking about had definitely settled in. The guards guarded. The farmers farmed. The Grange kitchen ladies cooked for a growing number of people who contributed to the community with their labor or donations. The FCard crew made their daily runs to town and returned with enough food to make a difference. The clinic treated people. The librarian collected and checked out books—and politely reminded people when their books were overdue. The adults and kids socialized at Saturday night events. People seemed to be living their lives almost like they had for centuries all over the world, just without all the comforts—or craziness—of pre-Collapse America. It was the acoustic version of life.

  On the other hand, life got much more complicated after the Collapse. It was simplified in some ways, like no more running back and forth to soccer practice, but it was more complicated in other ways, like hiding the fact that you’re the commanding officer of the 17th Irregulars. Simplified, but more complicated.

  The secrets and the lying were really bothering Grant. Lying and keeping secrets was all he did anymore. He had so many secrets, cover stories, and lies going that he couldn’t keep track of them. Around Pierce Point, he started a new policy with people, including his family: not saying much. The less he said, like about why so many strangers had been seen out by the Marion Farm, the lower the chances that he’d contradict himself and tip someone off that he was lying. He’d still chat with Pierce Point people and his family about mindless things, but he tried not to talk about anything important. It was killing him. He hated to be deceptive, especially with Lisa.

  A few times, when he would abruptly change the subject, she would ask him what was wrong. “Nothing,” he’d snap. It was unfair to her, but lives literally depended on it.

  Lisa wondered if everything that Grant had on his mind, like helping to run Pierce Point and maybe even the looters he’d killed back in Olympia, was starting to get to him. She was worried that her husband was changing right before her eyes from a good man into a grouchy killer. She was afraid he was changing forever. She looked for signs that “old Grant” was back. She would seize any little shred of good news, like when he wasn’t grouchy. She was worried about him and about them. She could feel their marriage slipping away.

  So could Grant. He hated it when he snapped. He would try to make up for it. He would explain to her over and over again, “It’s not you, honey. It’s all this crap I have on my mind. It’s not fair to you. Sorry.” Then something would happen, like when they thought a FUSA reconnaissance helicopter was snooping around, and he’d be back to snapping. He couldn’t help it. And he hated that.

  Grant had mentally written off his marriage twice before. The first time was when Lisa had initially refused to come out to the cabin. The second time was w
hen Grant had signed up with the Patriots. At that time, he figured his marriage was one of the prices he would have to pay when he had to bug out and fight this war. “Lives, fortunes, and sacred honor,” he recalled from the Revolutionary War. The only question was whether he would also pay even more by going to jail, getting wounded, or dying. Or maybe all three.

  Even if Grant didn’t get captured, wounded, or killed, his marriage was a cost that would almost certainly be paid, especially if things continued like they were going. He went back and forth in his mind—sometimes for hours a day—about whether there was a way to get through this without damaging his marriage. Yes, there was. By quitting the Patriots and not putting his very special skills to good use.

  But, try as he might, Grant could not get past the absolutely undeniable conclusion that he was there for a reason. People were counting on him. He had a job to do. A really important one. One he didn’t want to do, but he had been placed there, at this time, and with these people to do. He had no choice. If his only concern was never making Lisa mad, he wouldn’t have prepped and he would have stayed in Olympia. And, he would very likely be in jail or dead now. So not making her mad could not be the sole thing he had to consider.

  As Grant did less and less of his Pierce Point day job, he filled up that time by doing more and more for the unit. He went out to Marion Farm as often as he could, which was at least every other day. He had Sunday dinner out there. That tradition was really taking off. Pretty soon he was going out to Marion Farm every day. Then he started staying overnight there a few times a week. He told Lisa that he had to work with the Team. She was actually glad to have “grouchy Grant” out of the house.

  The Team was integrating very nicely with the rest of the unit. Just like when they rolled into Pierce Point for the first time, they were not acting like they were experts. This was even more appropriate because they were now among regular military personnel, some of whom were accomplished infantrymen. The Team, with some initial guidance from Grant, approached their role within the unit by thinking of themselves as specialists. They specialized in the SWAT stuff. They had a very specific job. They didn’t try to be infantrymen. Or medics, or RED HORSE, or electricians, or communications guys, or cooks. They learned all they could from everyone else. They were always the first to set down their rifles and help unload supplies. They made sure and took their turn on KP, which was the military acronym for helping in the kitchen with washing dishes and other unglamorous tasks.