by Glen Tate
“No problem,” Curt said. “Anything I can do to help.” Curt was more than happy to be considered important after years of people thinking he was odd for liking radios.
Rich excused himself and went back to the Grange.
In Frederickson, Bennington sat in his car. He felt the adrenaline surge through him. His face got hot and he felt a burst of energy. In the privacy of his patrol, where no one could hear him, he started pounding the dashboard of his car and screaming. For months, he had been holding back his rage at Winters, the County, the gangs, the Collapse, his ex-wife, and all those children like Lucia, the little Mexican girl who Winters raped. Lucia was the last straw for Bennington He was screaming at the top of his lungs to get all of the anger out of him. He felt strong and powerful hitting the dashboard and screaming. He was out of control; the hatred and revenge was pouring out against his will. At first, he was afraid of how much fury he had, but he quickly realized that the rage was good. It was giving him strength and purpose. He needed the rage to do what he was going to do. Lucia and the others needed his rage to fuel the revenge he was about to dish out.
After a minute or two of pounding the dashboard, his fists hurt and his voice was hoarse. He began calming himself down. He needed to be one hundred percent normal for the next thirty-six hours in order to pull this off.
Bennington knew he’d probably die. There was a part of him that actually looked forward to it. It would be better than what he was doing now, which was helping bullies and gangs commit their crimes. He had brought shame to himself by helping them. Now he would bring honor to himself. For generations, they’d talk about this and what a hero he was. He had to admit that he wanted that, to make up for what he’d done up until now. To redeem himself.
Bennington went over the plan he’d been refining in his mind for weeks. It was a solid plan. Ambitious, but solid. He knew he would have to do this all alone. Although he knew plenty of fellow officers who were disgusted with Winters and the gangs, he wasn’t sure he could trust them. This was too big to gamble with. Not only would trusting the wrong person get him killed, but whatever the Patriots were going to do in the next thirty-six hours would be jeopardized, too. This plan—in which he did the job without any help—would either succeed or fail. It was that simple.
Bennington wished the timing was different. He was glad it was going to be over soon, but New Year’s Eve was a hard time to get things done. People would be taking the day off and partying. Well, the county officials and gang leaders would be partying since they were the ones with the booze and girls.
Then he thought about it. The partying would actually be an opportunity. Bennington readjusted his plan accordingly. Hey, he thought, this might actually work out better than I thought. Wow, he thought, doing this on New Year’s Eve will actually be a good thing. He thought back to George Washington crossing the Delaware River on Christmas Day when the enemy was hung over and sleeping. It worked.
Bennington started to smile as the new plan unfolded in his head. Pretty soon, he was laughing out loud. This would be perfect.
Time to get it going. Redemption time.
Chapter 269
Strap It On
(December 31)
Grant was taking a nap. He had been doing that on an increasing basis. Instead of sleeping all night, he’d work hard for eight or ten hours planning, organizing, and motivating people and then take a two-hour nap. This was happening naturally; he didn’t plan it. But, he figured, it was good he was getting in this rhythm because that’s how it would be on the battlefield. Well, it would probably be twenty-four hours up and then a two-hour nap, if he was lucky. Either way, napping would be the only sleep he’d get. It was remarkable how well he was adapting to this napping schedule. It was almost like the human body was made to nap.
Without a regular work or meal schedule, Grant quickly lost touch of the time on a clock. In his world, it was either dark or light. He was either working or not. He was either hungry or not. Up until now, he had almost never looked at his watch—he had almost not brought a watch from Olympia to his cabin—but now he looked at it all the time. It was the only way to tell what part of the day it was.
Grant wasn’t even tired. He felt alive and alert. He was operating at peak efficiency. He knew that every second counted right now. Every little detail of planning could mean life or death. Everything was serious.
Grant was riding this feeling and remaining extremely upbeat and enthusiastic. He had every member of the 17th motivated at peak levels, too. Grant would go around asking them, “How the hell are you, soldier?” “Out-fucking-standing, sir!” was the answer he’d get. Everyone was amped.
The last-minute preparations were like a final practice exam before the big test. They worked on unit-wide movements where all the members of the 17th would advance on the farmhouse, each squad covering another squad and then advancing themselves. They practiced communications, which were crucial. It was like a big ballet. They were going at full speed now and doing things flawlessly after months of working up to this point.
They had a plan for everything. They planned out what to do with casualties. How to treat them and, unfortunately, how to preserve the bodies until they could be taken out with dignity. They had a plan for various communication failures. Simple, yet ingenious plans to switch frequencies. Ways to identify friendly fighters. They even had a plan for dealing with enemy prisoners when they didn’t have enough men to guard them. They would use zip ties, thin plastic straps used to hold wires and cables in place, but big enough to encompass two wrists, as makeshift handcuffs. They would mark the forehead of each Lima prisoner with a big “L” in permanent marker. This would tell other Patriot units that the prisoner was an enemy soldier and prevent him from trying to blend back into the civilian population if he escaped. Tagging the enemy with an “L” would also allow the general population to exact any revenge they felt. Marking prisoners for possible civilian reprisals wasn’t exactly following the Geneva Convention, but the Patriots had received reports of how the Limas were treating Patriot prisoners. An “L” on the forehead was much more humane than what the Limas did to Patriots.
They went over the route they would be taking to Olympia and the rally points, spots where they’d meet other members of the unit if they became scattered. Having stray soldiers wandering around the battlefield was a waste of strength and got people killed, so they reviewed rally points over and over again. They had a few highway maps and one detailed street map of Olympia, but that was it. Far less mapping than a “real” military unit would have. But they made do.
They had a plan for regrouping if the unit was disbursed at just about every one of the forty mile-markers from Pierce Point to the state capitol. For example, if the unit was bogged down or split apart right outside Frederickson, they would rally at the high school right outside the city limits. They would gather around the gym. The squad leaders were tasked with fitting all these details in their brains. Constantly going over them helped them remember the finer points. Repetition was the only way to retain all this information. Pretty soon, tired troops could recite the answers without even thinking. It was perfect.
The closer they got to launching, the food changed. They’d been eating well lately because they were getting rid of the hard-to-cook foods. Now, as they were close to shipping out, the meals got simpler. Food and supplies were getting packed up and the KP crews who cleaned up after a cooked meal were needed for unit-wide movements and to attend briefings. This meant less cooked food and more cold food, which was okay. They could handle it. Besides, they might as well get used to eating whatever they could find. The battlefield was not known for fine dining.
Ted and Sap felt good that the unit was ready. They knew the details of what a unit needed to know. They had trained lots of irregular troops before.
New Year’s Eve, the day before the mission, was a rest day. The troops got to relax. They were encouraged to sleep during the day since they’d be up that night
, as well as the next, and the next, and for who knows how long. Grant expected them to be too nervous to rest. He was wrong, though. All the work they’d put in over the past few days, mental and physical, wore everyone out. And they were now used to napping, so they slept well that day.
They were roused at 5:00 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. They had a good dinner; better than the previous few days. The big treat was coffee. All the coffee they wanted. That had never happened before. Franny wouldn’t have any coffee makers or a place to make coffee in the next few days, so he figured he might as well use it all up.
Grant and Ted wanted them all jacked up on caffeine to psych them up, and to keep them up for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours.
They only had three little coffee makers and about a hundred coffee drinkers. “You ever tried to make coffee for a hundred guys?” Franny asked when Ted inquired about how to make all the coffee. Franny started in the afternoon with the little coffee makers and put each pot into a few big ice coolers with a spigot at the bottom to let melting ice water out. It worked fine. By dinner time, everyone was jacked up on coffee. Of course, those ice coolers would forever smell like coffee, but that was less important than the troops being tired.
Pastor Pete was there, as he would be moving out with the unit. He gave a very short prayer before dinner.
“Remember,” he told the unit, “you have to account for your life. Just remember that. You will spend eternity stuck with what you did down here. If you intentionally kill innocents, you’ll live with that forever. If you make an honest mistake, it will be an honest mistake. If you risk yourself for your unit mates, you’ll be remembered forever for that.”
Pastor Pete paused. “Think of this way,” he said. “Everything you’re about to do will be recorded like a movie. You, and everyone else, will be able to view it for a million years. Remember: you’re on camera. Act accordingly.”
That was it. Short, free of Bible quotes and verses, and completely non-denominational. Yet profound.
Grant was the next to speak. He, too, would keep it short and hopefully profound.
“Remember when you got here?” Grant asked. “Remember what you knew: just about nothing. Now look at you. Myers,” Grant said pointing to one of the soldiers.
“What is the rally point for mile marker twelve?” Grant asked.
“KOA camp ground,” Myers said without thinking.
“See,” Grant said. “You guys are ready. Very ready. You know why you’re doing this; we’ve talked about that a thousand times. Now it’s time to go do it. I trust each and every one of you with my life.”
Grant was not qualified to give the next speech, so he had the person who was give it. He had worked this out in advance.
“Sgt. Malloy has some thoughts for you,” Grant said, as Ted stood up. Ted nodded to Grant to thank him for giving him the floor.
“You’ll be scared,” Ted said. “And you should be. You’re doing something extremely important and your unit mates are counting on you. You want to do this right. You’ll go through a lot of emotions out there. But that’s normal. I’ve been there. Several times.” He looked over at Sap who nodded.
“When you have emotions you haven’t had before, realize that’s because you haven’t done this before,” Ted said. “Your emotions are normal in this situation, it’s just not normal for you to actually be in this situation. That’s all. Don’t think you’re weird when weird things start to happen. Just accept it and keep your mind on doing your job.”
Ted looked around the room to make eye contact with every single person. “You will be scared. But you will be surprised how instinctually your training takes over. You will just do the right thing and not even know it. It’s weird, but a lifesaver. It’s what we’ve been doing for months out here. You’ll see why we did what we did out here when you’re out there.”
“Some of you,” Ted said, “will have to kill people. Do it. You’ll know when you need to. It’s usually when someone is trying to kill you. There is something about someone trying to kill you that will clarify your thinking. It makes decision making very easy. In fact, you won’t even know you’re making decisions. You’ll just be doing what you trained to do without even thinking. Trust me. You will just do it. That’s normal.”
“What happens,” Ted asked, “if you stop to have a debate with yourself and spend a few seconds trying to decide if each person trying to kill you deserves to die? Well, two things happen. One is bad and the other is worse. The first thing is that you’re dead. That’s bad. But what’s worse is that your unit mates will probably also get killed. You see, it’s not just you out there. It’s all of us. We work together as one. So if you decide to choke, you’re choking the rest of us. So forget about yourself and do the right thing for all of us. You’ll see what I mean when this is over.
And one final thought.” Ted then became very serious.
“Like Lt. Matson, I trust each and every one of you with my life. There is no higher honor I can bestow on you. Odds are one of you will probably save my life in the next few days. Thank you in advance.” Ted pointed at Sap, which was Sap’s signal to get things going. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to gear up. Strap it on and report to your squad leader back here. Let’s go fix things.”
A cheer went up. Grant couldn’t resist the opportunity to fire them up even more. He yelled, “How the hell are you?”
“Out-fucking-standing!” they yelled back in unison. Even Pastor Pete.
Grant was already in his kit with his rifle. He was ready to go. So was the Team. They huddled together with the rest of the HQ/Team squad. The Team had done this before—well, not this exact same thing, but they’d geared up to go into a fight numerous times. This was no big deal they kept telling themselves, but they were scared. And hiding it well.
So was Grant. He wasn’t scared to die because he knew he’d be going to heaven. But he was scared about being captured and tortured. Thinking about what the Limas would do to him was terrifying; he planned on shooting himself with his little Ruger LCP .380 auto pistol he kept in his pocket before they could get to him. He wasn’t sure if he would have the courage to shoot himself, but at least he’d have a pistol to point at an enemy soldier and then the enemy could shoot him.
He was also scared about being maimed, especially being paralyzed. He was really scared about the mental aftershocks of combat. He knew he’d be changed after this. He thought about what happened to Sniper Mike, who still had the feeling he was being watched by enemy snipers, even though he knew it wasn’t true. Grant knew he would have nightmares and sleeplessness, at a bare minimum. There was no way to go into combat and have things work out well. There would be some damage; the only question was how much.
Off in the distance, Grant heard Smithson start up the diesel semi and get it idling. This was really going to happen. The sound of the diesel engine suddenly made this very, very real. A wave of excitement and fear swelled up in Grant.
Grant, Ted, and Sap oversaw the gathering of the squads and made sure they had all their gear. The squads assembled in the pre-arranged order and headed out to the semi.
The other vehicles were parked in the order they would be in during the convoy. The first vehicle was the scout car. They had made a last-minute change from the original plan, which had been to have Mark’s truck with the Team in the lead, but then an opportunity presented itself. They got a car. And they had a former Army scout in the unit. So the first vehicle would be a nondescript car with three men, one of whom was the scout, the other two were experienced infantrymen. They had a radio and would probe ahead and radio in any threats. Their car ran on gasoline, unfortunately, and they only had a few gas cans for it. Oh well. The car wouldn’t use that much gas and it wasn’t too far to Olympia. They could always ditch the car if they ran out of gas and have the scout ride in Mark’s truck.
The second vehicle was Mark’s black Chevy truck with the extended cab. It was a diesel and held the Team. Bobby would driv
e and Scotty would be up front on the radio. Pow and Grant would be in the rear seats. Ryan and Wes drew the short straws and would be in the back of the truck with a tarp over them. The tarp could be thrown off and those two could get into the fight quickly, if they had to. That way, the truck wouldn’t have a bunch of well-armed men visible in the back, which would draw far too much attention. The tarp was also nice if it rained, which it probably would, given the time of year.
The third vehicle was the semi, which Smithson drove. Jim Q. and Ted were in the cab with him. With communications from Jim Q., Ted could lead the unit if the Team’s truck was hit and Grant was out of the fight. Not that Grant would actually be leading the fight, but he was the lieutenant.
Most of the soldiers were in the back of the semi. Those who might have to get in and out frequently, like those who would be fighting a lot, were packed by the trailer door. The further up front a person was, the less elite he or she was. The Chairborne squad was at the very front of the truck.
The fourth vehicle was the chase truck. It got that name because it was originally planned to be the last vehicle. The chase truck was Rich’s green Ford diesel pickup. It, too, had an extended cab and was driven by one of the former Pierce Point guards who was now in the unit. He was actually Rich’s neighbor and had promised him that he’d take good care of his truck. There were a bunch of supplies and two men under a tarp in the back of the chase truck. There were two people in the rear cab who would likely get in and out often: Nick, the medic, and Donnie Tailorman, the sniper.
Donnie was a Pierce Point civilian. He wasn’t a sniper in the sense of sneaking into enemy territory for days and taking a shot. He was just a really good shot with a really good rifle. He was more aptly called a “marksman.”
Donnie, who was in his mid-fifties and in spectacular shape, was one of the Pierce Point guards poached by the 17th. He was a plumber by trade and really helped with getting the farm up and running, but his passion in life, and the reason he was in the 17th, was that he was an amazing hunter. He loved to go to Idaho and Montana and hunt elk at long ranges. He had a 300 Win. Mag. with a powerful scope. He could hit man-sized targets out to eight hundred yards. He wasn’t a military-grade sniper, but damned close and an extremely good guy to have around.