by Glen Tate
At the last minute, they added two utility vehicles in the rear, which hadn’t been part of the original plan until Sap asked at one meeting how they would move their wounded and dead. No one had an answer. There was no room in any other vehicle. They also needed to have some miscellaneous hauling capability.
The call went out in camp for vehicles. One of the poached Pierce Point guards came forward and volunteered his pickup. A second guard volunteered his car.
There were two problems with the utility vehicles, neither of which was insurmountable. The first problem was that neither one ran on diesel. “Gotta play the hand you’re dealt,” Ted would say, stealing the line Grant always used. It was better to have two utility vehicles than none, even if they ran on gasoline. The worst case scenario was to abandon them if they ran out of gas.
The second problem was that using these vehicles, which were kept in Pierce Point, meant that the owners would have to explain where they went. Luckily, both guards were single, so they didn’t have to explain to wives or girlfriends where they’d been for the past few months, why they needed their vehicles (when no one had gas), and where they would be going for the next few days, weeks, or months. Thank God for single guys.
The utility truck and utility car were manned by the Pierce Point guard who owned each one and a second man who provided security. It was important for these two rear-echelon vehicles, both of which could easily get cut off from the main convoy, to be driven by local Pierce Point guys who knew how to get around the territory from there to Olympia. Getting lost could get you, and others, killed.
The utility truck and utility car each had a hand-held CB, but that was it. The 17th was short on secure intra-unit radios from Boston Harbor and the squad leaders needed those. The CB-only comms in the utility truck and car meant that Jim Q. would need to remember to send out messages separately to them on the CB. This was not ideal, but nothing about this situation was ideal. It was a war; a ragtag and low-tech war. They were just damned happy to have troops, weapons, and food. Radios were a luxury.
Finally, the unit was saddled up and ready to roll out. Everyone got in their place. No one talked much. They headed out without any fanfare. They’d been rehearsing and planning for this moment for so long that it was anti-climactic when it actually happened. Everyone was preoccupied with doing their jobs; there was no time for public drama, like a goodbye speech. Every man and woman had inner drama going on about going into combat; there was no need to add to it. Grant thought that being low-key and seeming calm would communicate confidence to the unit, so he just got into his vehicle as if he were running an errand.
The radios crackled and the scout car started to move, followed by Mark’s truck. The semi lurched forward followed by Rich’s truck and the two utility vehicles. They were finally moving toward Olympia. Upon feeling the truck moving, and realizing that this time was for real, Grant sat up straight in his seat. He looked out the window and smiled. They were finally going to fix things.
When they left the guard gate at Marion Farm, it seemed weird. Most of the troops hadn’t seen anything outside of Marion Farm since they got there several months ago. Most came in at night by boat to the landing and had never left. The troops who had window seats and hadn’t lived in Pierce Point before were looking around at the new sights. They were gawking like tourists.
The convoy slowly rumbled down the road toward the Pierce Point gate. “Let Dan know we’re coming,” Grant said to Scotty.
Scotty grabbed his radio, set the frequency, and said “Badger 9, this is Pine 6, copy?”
After a while, Dan came on. “Pine 6, this is Badger 9.”
“Bringing some New Year’s Eve fireworks,” Scotty said, which was the pre-arranged code for the unit coming through the gate.
“Roger that,” Dan said. “Badger 9 out.”
Dan activated his plan for the unit moving through the gate. He had a few minutes before the slow-rumbling semi and the other vehicles would be coming. He sounded the administrative alarm, which was a whistle he had. The administrative alarm was different than the attack alarm.
The gate guards started to gather around Dan, who was in the fire station. Guards were getting out of their RVs and trailers.
Once most of the guards were there, Dan said, “Okay, folks, something’s about to happen that you didn’t see. You got that? You didn’t see what’s about to happen.”
The gate guards had become fairly used to “you didn’t see this” moments, like when Bennington came to the gate with a little Mexican girl, dropped her off, and drove away. That didn’t happen.
“There will be a car, pickup, semi, a second pickup and two last vehicles that will be going through the gate in a few minutes,” Dan said. “You didn’t see it.” The gate guards nodded.
“Now go out and tell those still on post about this,” Dan said to the gate guard squad leaders. “Dismissed.” The squad leaders ran out of the fire station to go tell the others. None of the guards went back into their warm RVs and trailers. They all wanted to see what it was that they didn’t officially see.
Dan went out to each station, especially the snipers up on the hill, to make sure they all knew friendlies were coming. The squad leaders had gotten the word out. Dan found Heidi, the comm chick, and made sure that Sniper Mike across the road knew what was going on. Heidi gave Dan a thumbs up.
Just then, the headlights of a car hit the guards. That was so rare. No one drove anymore, especially at night. It was like a UFO was shining a light on them.
Dan was standing there in the lights waving them through. One of the guards was opening the gate to let them out. Then more headlights appeared, together with the pinging hum of diesel engines.
The driver of the lead car saluted Dan and the gate guards. The passengers of the lead car had their hands out the window with a thumbs up. The Team’s truck did the same, as did the semi and the chase vehicle.
As the last vehicle cleared the gate and it was closing, Dan saluted them.
“That’s the ‘rental team,’ right?” a gate guard whispered to Dan.
“Something like that,” Dan said with a smile.
Chapter 270
Blowout New Year’s Eve Party
(December 31)
New Year’s Eve in Frederickson was a relaxed affair. People were ready to have a party. The year had been so hard. People really needed a mental break. Much like in the former Soviet Union, New Year’s Eve was a huge party. People living like that needed to believe the new year would be better than the last one. It probably wouldn’t, but it was a good excuse to get drunk in the middle of a bleak and hopeless life.
After breakfast on New Year’s Eve, Bennington got all the booze he could from the “evidence locker,” as they called it, which was where they locked up all the contraband they stole and used for themselves or sold. Bennington had a lot of booze.
He took an armload of bottles up the stairs to Commissioner Winter’s office. There was Julie Mathers, the poor receptionist who Winters repeatedly raped and then showed off the pictures to everyone. She was a shell of a person. She looked dead. She was too pathetic to look at. Bennington felt guilty for not wanting to look at her. He hoped that this would be the last day of humiliation she would suffer. “Hey, Julie,” Bennington said. “Just setting up for the party tonight.”
It took Julie a while to realize what Bennington was saying. She was always in a daze of varying intensities.
“I don’t have that down,” Julie finally said.
“Oh,” Bennington said, “I talked to Commissioner Winters about it right before Christmas. Weird. He must have forgotten. Lots going on this time of the year.”
Julie was getting scared. If Winters thought she had made a mistake…
“Put it down on his schedule for 8:00 p.m. and I’ll tell him he forgot,” Bennington said. “I’ll take the fall for not reminding him.”
Julie was relieved. “Who’s coming?” she asked.
“Department he
ads, community leaders, the usual,” Bennington said. “Community leaders” was the phrase for gang leaders.
“I have some refreshments,” Bennington said, pointing his head down at the bottles in his arms. “And there will be some girls who want to come.” The “girls” they always had at the “community leader” parties were hookers and soon-to-be rape victims, of course. Julie knew that.
“I’ll put the refreshments in the conference room and lock it,” Bennington said. “Wouldn’t want this valuable stuff to walk off.”
Julie just stared. It was horrible to look at her. She was so wrecked.
Bennington walked up to Julie and looked her in the eye. “Tonight would be a good night for you to stay in your room,” Bennington said, referring to her quarters in the courthouse. “Julie, do you understand?”
She looked puzzled.
“Julie,” Bennington said to her very sincerely, “promise me you’ll stay in your room tonight and not come out.” He was taking a huge risk about letting someone on to what was going to happen, even if it was only a vague mention of it, but he couldn’t resist. He couldn’t have anything happen to that poor, innocent woman who had been through so much.
“Okay,” she said. She had no idea why, but she could tell that Bennington was trying to protect her.
“You should be ‘sick’ tonight, Julie,” he said, staring her straight in the eye. “Trust me, you need to be sick tonight. Okay?”
Julie nodded. Bennington was talking to her in that “wink, wink” tone meaning they were breaking the rules. That was a common tone in the courthouse. As in, “this came from the evidence room,” wink, wink.
“Okay, I’ll be sick tonight,” she said.
“This is our little secret,” Bennington said. “Have I ever done anything mean to you, Julie?”
She shook her head. Bennington was just about the only man in that whole courthouse who hadn’t done something awful to her. She had always thought of him as the one man not trying to hurt her. He was one of the good guys.
“Our little secret,” Julie finally said.
Bennington nodded. “See you tomorrow morning,” he said to her. Hopefully he would see her tomorrow morning, but the odds of him still being alive by then were pretty slim. The prospect of seeing her in the morning was a silver lining in this cloud of doom. He chose that to be his goal; fight hard, stay alive, and see her face tomorrow.
Bennington spent the rest of the day going around the courthouse inviting the department heads—the Sheriff, Emergency Management coordinator, County Manager, the FCorps liaison—to Commissioner Winters’ big blow out New Year’s Eve party.
“The chicas will be outrageous,” Bennington promised all of them. “We’ve got some new ones,” Bennington told them. “Some girls who managed to get themselves in jail and are now looking for a way out,” he said with a big, fake smile.
Bennington went to the gate at the entrance to the MexiZone, which was the Mexican area of town run by the gangs. The MexiZone looked like a small town in Mexico: broken down cars, dogs running wild, and little kids everywhere. The buildings were dilapidated at best, and barely habitable at worst. Several families were packed into an apartment or small house. It was a horrible place, by design. Winters herded the Mexicans into one corner of the town so he could control them. The day-to-day control of the MexiZone – the protection money, the drug trade, the prostitutes – was administered by the gangs, who reported to Winters and gave him a cut of all the rackets. Just like a small town in Mexico, the vast majority of the people in the MexiZone were decent, hardworking people who were tyrannized by a few thugs.
Bennington was let in at the gate to the MexiZone, of course, because Winters was protecting the gangs and Bennington worked for him. The gangs in the MexiZone were “good” ones, the ones Winters could work with. There were still other gangs, but they had largely been run out of town by the “good” gangs and Winters’ police.
“I need to talk to Moco,” Bennington said, referring to the chief of staff for Señor Hernandez, the leader of the main gang in town. Hernandez had taken over from the Senorita, who was much kinder than him.
The guard had Bennington wait until a black Cadillac Escalade SUV came up. Those gang bangers drove in style while the rest of the population walked.
Moco rolled down his window. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked hung over, or high, or both.
“Party tonight,” Bennington said to Moco. “Big one. Lots of refreshments and lots of girls. New ones.” Bennington smiled a big smile.
Moco grinned back. He knew what goodies were in store tonight. “Carne fresca,” he said, which meant “fresh meat.”
“Yep,” Bennington said, forcing a big smile. “About 8:00 tonight at the Commissioner’s office. That’s when the ‘carne fresca’ will be there. They’ll go fast, so get there on time. Señor Hernandez and any of his guests are, of course, invited.”
Moco smiled and nodded. He waved and rolled his window back up.
The rest of the day, Bennington found excuses to go see department heads and senior gang officials to make sure they heard him talk up the big party. There was a buzz in the circles that ran Frederickson about this big blowout New Year’s Eve party.
Bennington had one more errand to run before the party. He went to the armory and checked out some items. When he was questioned about it, he said to the clerk, “Can’t go into it, man. Secret shit.” The clerk nodded. Bennington was a lieutenant. He got what he wanted. Besides, the clerk thought, Bennington had been in on a lot of stuff the police department had done. Like all the stuff in the “evidence room.” Bennington was solid. He could be trusted.
It had just turned dark, which was about 4:30 p.m. Bennington thought he should eat some dinner. His stomach had been queasy all day as he gave out invitations to the party and therefore saw the faces of all the people he planned to kill that night. He analyzed every way he could be killed while trying to carry out his very ambitious plan. He kept wondering how much it must hurt to be shot. He had been surging on adrenaline all day and his stomach finally had enough. He took one bite of dinner and started to puke. After he quit throwing up, he drank some water. He realized that he would be hungry later that night. “No last supper,” he muttered under his breath.
Over the next few hours, he paced around the courthouse. He thought about his life, focusing on all the good things he’d done until recently, how he had wanted to help people and joined the Sheriff’s Department. He had done good things there: he caught criminals, comforted crime victims, and steered kids in the right direction. He saved lives from car accidents, heart attacks, and once ran into a burning mobile home to save a two-year old boy. He was a good man.
Then the Crisis started. Everything turned shitty. He saw good people turn into criminals just to survive. He ended up shooting two of them, a mother and her adult son stealing some food. He watched as he and his fellow police officers became armed enforcers for corrupt politicians and gangs. He had to watch as gang thugs beat men and raped women; he couldn’t help them. He had to let it happen. That was the worst part of it: helping the gangs terrorize the innocent people of the MexiZone. To top it all off, his wife left him and took his daughter.
He went into his patrol car in the parking lot just to get away from all the people in the courthouse. He put his face in hands and started to cry about all the bad things he’d done and let happen. He had a long conversation with God and asked to be forgiven for all the things he’d done. It was a long conversation. By about 7:30 p.m., he felt relieved. He knew exactly what he needed to do. He even smiled. For real, this time.
He went up to Commissioner Winters’ office and was glad to see a handwritten note on Julie’s desk that said “Out sick.” Thank God.
Bennington unlocked the conference room and took a bottle of Jack Daniels. He took a swig. He would allow himself one swig. He went into the bathroom with the bottle.
He poured out the whiskey. He got a water bottle out of his s
mall backpack he brought with him. He filled the empty whiskey bottle with ice tea. It was light brown and looked just like whiskey. He would “drink” out of that bottle all night so everyone would assume he was as drunk as they were.
He looked at the other items in his backpack. They were perfect. Perfect for this job. He couldn’t wait.
He looked in the mirror. He smiled again. A real smile. He hadn’t seen the “old John” in the mirror in quite some time. There he was: the old, good John. The one who helped people instead of allowing people to get hurt. “Let’s go,” he said to himself.
Bennington went back into the conference room. On the way, he put his backpack in one of the cubicles by the conference room.
The first guest arrived at 7:55 p.m. He was the Emergency Services coordinator. He was a total douche bag; a complete hack. A felon—seriously, a convicted felon before the Crisis, who was picked by Winters to run the “racket,” as they privately called county government. Bennington made small talk with him, the whole time thinking, “I can’t wait to kill you.” Bennington was halfway scared that he was thinking things like “I can’t wait to kill you” and half wondering why it took him so long to come up with the courage to finally do it.
Shortly after 8:00 p.m., more guests began to arrive, mostly the rest of the department heads. A couple brought “girlfriends” who were well-known hookers. Too bad, Bennington thought, as he saw them come in. They’ll have to die, too. They hadn’t done anything too bad. They would be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bennington had a great plan, but he couldn’t make it so perfect that only truly guilty people would die. He’d struggled with this for weeks but just couldn’t come up with any other way. Besides, he told himself, the hookers were guilty in some way. Instead of making an honest living like everyone else, they were partying it up with the government and gangs, and thereby living in luxury from all the ill-gotten gains. That made it a little easier to do what he was going to do, but not much. Those girls were someone’s daughters.