by Glen Tate
The Olympia Police Department was now down to one third of their pre-Collapse strength. One third - but crime had exploded. They had eight times the murders, and were on pace for a twenty-fold increase. Theft went uninvestigated. They didn’t even try to do anything about stolen cars anymore. If a car was stolen, a victim filled out a report on a website and got an email back saying the police were working “diligently” on the case. That’s was it. An email. That was the extent of the investigation.
So the police, who didn’t enjoy getting their ass kicked by some biker-looking preacher, didn’t come back. They had other things to do. They let Mr. Shipley run Bum Town.
The warehouse across the street from the mission had been abandoned for a few years now. The state fish and game department used it to print materials—yes, the state fish and game department had its own print shop and produced printed materials that no one read because everything was on the internet. After one of the many rounds of budget cuts, even the “vital” fish and wildlife printing facility had to close. The warehouse was boarded up.
The mission was bulging at the seams, so Allen took a crow bar, a bunch of guys, and “converted” the warehouse into the “mission annex.” The state was in such disarray at that point that they didn’t even care that one of their abandoned buildings was being used by the mission.
Allen was a genius at getting donations, so pretty soon the “annex” was up and running, housing two hundred homeless people.
Punk kids were coming into Bum Town and trying to beat up Mr. Shipley’s people for fun. Bad idea. Allen organized patrols and, on three occasions, beat the hell out of the kids. One of them ended up dying. Oops. Shouldn’t have beaten up one of Mr. Shipley’s people. No cops ever came around to investigate. They were scared of Bum Town.
The news right around this time was full of stories about the “teabaggers.” Allen would watch the news and think about how the Patriots were doing what he was doing: fighting government bullies. One of his big donors had a Don’t Tread on Me sticker on a locker in his metal shop. Allen asked him about it and a conversation ensued. Pretty soon, Allen was in the Patriot underground.
The Patriots used Bum Town to hide out. Mr. Shipley told his homeless people which strangers were cool; everyone treated the Patriot soldiers and plainclothes operatives with maximum respect because Mr. Shipley said so.
The Patriots also used the abandoned warehouses—Allen had taken over several by then—to store things, like weapons. The Patriots even had full time guards in Bum Town to protect the goods.
The Patriots gathered intelligence there, too. They would ask the homeless to keep their eyes peeled for things when they ventured into other parts of town.
Everyone in the normal parts of town ignored “bums.” They pretended like they weren’t there. Several Lima officials would have highly sensitive discussions and describe classified operational details right in front of a “bum.” They assumed the homeless person was too drunk or stupid to understand what they were saying. How wrong they were. Pretty soon, the FCorps started to get nasty with Bum Town. It was an open secret that the Patriots were in there, it was just that the cops and FCorps had too many other problems to deal with. But FCorps would make periodic forays into Mr. Shipley’s territory. They were usually bullies who, like the punk kids previously, just wanted to beat people up. The bully FCorps would justify the forays into Bum Town as “fighting terrorism.”
Pretty soon, the FCorps with their stupid yellow helmets, would do what they called “bum fucks” where they would beat and rape homeless people—men or women. Mostly men. The FCorps wanted to humiliate and dominate them. It was widely known that if you wanted to rape and torture, join the FCorps. You were above the law.
The first “bum fuck” took Allen by surprise. He hated those FCorps dicks, but this? This shocked even him. He wouldn’t let it happen a second time. Pretty soon, having a yellow helmet in Bum Town was a death sentence. The FCorps started staying away.
Around Christmas, Allen’s big Patriot donor came to see him. Allen only knew him as “Mr. Smith.” Allen had found out his real name but, out of respect for the risks he was taking, only referred to him as “Mr. Smith.”
“Some heavy shit is gonna go down around New Year’s,” Mr. Smith said to Allen. “Some heavy shit.”
“Okay,” Allen said. “Let me know what I need to do.”
“Secure Bum Town so we can use it as a staging area,” Mr. Smith said. He smiled and said, “Gee, the port is right here. What a great way to land some guys. Right in the heart of the state capitol.”
“You know,” Allen said, “two of my guys were down by the water and heard the port people talking about how no one would be working there on New Year’s Eve. They’re having some big party.” Allen couldn’t remember if he had passed that on to the Patriots or not. There had been so much going on.
Mr. Smith smiled. “Yep. Your guys passed that on to HQ and, based partially on the port people being gone on New Year’s Eve, they came up with a naval landing. A small one, but a landing, nonetheless. Instead of a ‘naval’ landing, it’d be more accurate to say a ‘pirate’ landing, but good guy pirates. The Limas are so weak right now that just a small water landing like this will have a huge impact.”
Allen smiled. Brilliant. Landing forces six blocks from downtown and a mile and a half from the capitol. And Allen was perfectly positioned to help. It was like his twenty plus years of work there had been leading up to this, even though he didn’t know it back then.
“I need you to take out as many FCorps as possible,” Mr. Smith said. “About an hour before the main operation.”
“I know just how to do it,” Allen said. He described his plan to get word to the FCorps through some Patriots inside the FCorps that a big, epic bum fuck was going to happen on New Year’s Eve. Lure in as many FCorps as possible. Surround them. Let his people exact their revenge. Especially on captured yellow helmets. Let them feel what it was like to be on the receiving end for a change.
“Perfect,” Mr. Smith said. They worked out the details.
Now it was New Year’s Eve and Allen was leading his people in the hand-to-hand fighting with the FCorps in Bum Town.
“Freddy,” Allen said, “nice work. Now go back and join up with the others. The yellow helmets are on the run and we need to get as many as possible tonight.”
“There’s some boats coming!” someone yelled. Allen ran the two blocks to the port. He hoped to see many boats. They were finally going to take Olympia and end all this! No more bum fucks. No more corrupt cops. No more of this.
Allen saw the lights of big and small boats. There were about a dozen of them. He watched as they came in. When the first boat got close, he could see it was flying the Don’t Tread on Me flag. The largest boat had an armored car on it.
The side of the armored car read, “Tantori Security Co.”
Chapter 287
“We’re Winning!”
(January 1)
Back at the Prosser Farm, the EPU agents were excited. They were professionals and rarely showed emotion, but they were giddy with excitement on New Year’s morning. When they weren’t out at a guard station on the farm, they were huddled near the radio in the living room.
“Amazing,” said Mike Turner, one of the EPU agents. “They’re crumbling. I’ve never seen anything like this.” Mike went on to tell the WAB adults—the kids were off in separate rooms playing because they didn’t need to worry about all this military stuff—about how the Patriots were advancing on Olympia.
“We’ve entered the city from multiple directions,” Mike said. “Get this: we landed amphibious forces right at the port of Olympia! Amphibious forces! Like this is some real war, or something.”
Mike drew a crude map of Olympia and showed everyone roughly where the good guys were. “We’re holding the bridge at the Pierce/Thurston County line on I-5.” That bridge was necessary for the Limas to come down from JBLM to reinforce Olympia. “It’s like th
e Limas aren’t even trying to come into Olympia. I dunno. It’s like they’re letting Olympia fend for itself.” Mike was beaming. He had bet his life on the Patriots winning. And it seemed like they were.
Karen, Brian’s wife who was not exactly gung ho about all this military stuff, had been concerned that her husband was being sucked into some big military adventure without thinking. So she asked Mike, “What’s the source of this information? Patriot reports?”
Mike’s eyes lit up. “No! That’s the cool thing,” he said, losing his normal professional restraint. “All these reports I’m giving you come from the State Patrol’s own radios. We have the frequencies. We listen in on them. No, all this good news is coming straight from the Limas. You can hear how scared they are. I even recognize a few voices from my days back at the Patrol. I know them. They are terrified. We’re winning.” He put his hands up to the sky. “We’re winning!”
Brian wanted to change the subject a bit. He didn’t want his wife to look like she had been wrong, even though he knew she was.
“What’s happening inside Olympia?” Brian asked. He was wondering how his former neighbors still back in the city were doing.
“We don’t know too much about details inside the city,” Mike said. “The Lima reports about the civilians are very general. But, from our limited number of Patriot observers inside the city, we know there is a lot of shooting. Not sure if it’s gangs or military or police, or Patriot gray men and resistance. Lots of shooting, though. Detailed reports are hard to come by. Most of our guys are still on the outskirts and comin’ in.”
Brad Finehoff, the head of the EPU unit, came into the room, “A Patriot irregular unit came down Highway 101 an hour ago, linked up with the Delphi guards, and is now heading into Olympia.”
“When do we go in?” Ben asked.
“When it’s safe, Governor,” Brad said. “Not sure when that will be, but in a few days, probably.”
Everyone was silent. They just looked around and soaked it all in. There they were in the living room of a farmhouse getting updates on a war in their own town. And getting ready to go into it and become the Governor. Who would have thought this was possible a few years, or even months, earlier?
Chapter 288
HVT on Film
(January 1)
“I am Attorney General Jerry Harvey… and I have joined the Patriots,” said the small, slim, prominent looking man. He was the Loyalist Washington State Attorney General – well, now he was the former Attorney General. He was broadcasting live on every television in western Washington State and several internet news sites. The Patriots had finally hacked the stations and sites, broadcasting directly into the homes of millions of Washington residents late in the morning, when a huge audience was tuning in to find out what was causing all the gunfire and explosions they’d been hearing.
The Limas’ psychological devastation from having their own Attorney General switch sides was absolutely enormous. It was a gigantic propaganda coup, one of the most important events in the whole war. The Attorney General’s broadcast would show the Undecideds in Lima territory that the “legitimate authorities” were not invincible. If their own Attorney General was switching sides, what did that say to rank-and-file Loyalists?
“I ordered the killing and detention of hundreds of innocent people, all in violation of the Constitution,” the Attorney General said. “I did not stop the state and federal government from violating just about every law and principal of decency. I didn’t stop them. I did terrible things and am sincerely sorry. I make this confession freely. I have been treated well. I have been cooperating with Patriot prosecutors to identify my former colleagues who committed crimes so they can be held accountable. Soon. Very soon.” He said that with confidence.
“The Patriots have been very fair to me,” he continued. “I have been offered a full pardon. My family was rescued by Patriot forces and relocated to a safe location in one of the free areas of New Washington.” He paused and looked directly into the camera.
“The so-called ‘legitimate authorities’ are losing. You know it; you feel it. Listen to the voice in your heart. This can’t go on. Your kids deserve a better life. You see the lack of food, all the crime everywhere, and the corruption. You know the Loyalists are wrong. Switch sides. I did, and I’ll forever be grateful I did. Join me. Join the Patriots.” He paused to allow the camera to fade out. He looked relieved and at peace when he finished speaking.
“Okay, that’s a wrap, Jerry,” said Patriot intelligence officer Dutch Hillenburg, signaling that the video shoot was over. “Thanks, man. That was perfect.” He hugged Jerry, who began to cry. Jerry was crying tears of relief that the ordeal was over and everything had turned out so well.
“I need to be honest,” he said to Dutch. “Coming over to your side wasn’t my idea in the beginning. You had to kidnap me.” He started to cry again. “I don’t deserve any credit for making the right decision, but now that this has been forced on me, I can say that I’m glad I’m on your side. We were wrong, Dutch. I did bad things. You got me to realize that. Thank you.” Dutch nodded. He actually believed Jerry was now sorry for what he’d done.
“Sir,” a soldier said to Dutch as she walked into the conference room. “We have the special guests for you and General Harvey.” The formal title of an Attorney General is “General,” even though the Attorney General is a civilian, so Jerry was technically “General Harvey.”
“You’ll love this, Jerry,” Dutch said. He had grown so close to the former Attorney General that he could call him “Jerry.” Dutch motioned to the soldier to send in the special guests.
Helicopter pilot, Lt. Enrique “Paco” Mendez, came in with a woman, Jessica Aylesworth, and three other men; Terry Rose, a burly airborne Ranger; Tom Kirkland, a Special Forces soldier who coordinated the helicopter strikes for the Limas at Camp Murray; and Roy Chopping, a former New York City detective. They “bro hugged” and fist-bumped Dutch. Jerry looked on, not knowing any of them.
“Where are my manners?” Dutch asked. “General Harvey, this is ‘Paco,’ the helicopter pilot who picked you up in August. You probably didn’t recognize him without his helmet and visor.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Jerry said. “Under somewhat better circumstances this time,” he said, referring to the fact that when Jerry and Paco first met, it seemed like Paco was trying to kidnap him.
“General,” Paco said, tipping his head. He didn’t salute because they were indoors and Jerry was a civilian.
“And you remember Terry,” Dutch said to Jerry. “He punched you in the face and handcuffed you.”
“How could I forget?” Jerry said with a slight smile. Jerry had almost no sense of humor and seeing Terry again was terrifying. A slight smile was all he could manage.
“Sorry, General,” Terry said. “Nothing personal. Just business. I had to get you out of that building and into the bird,” he said, referring to the helicopter.
“You’ve never met Tom Kirkland,” Dutch said, motioning for Tom to shake the Attorney General’s hand. “He’s a Special Forces solider who was actually at Camp Murray coordinating the ground forces who rode on the Loyalists’ helicopter strikes. He is the one who got Terry’s people onto the helicopter Paco flew to the hospital to retrieve you.”
“You know Jessica,” Dutch said to Jerry. “She is, of course, your personal assistant.”
“Jess,” Jerry said, “I’m so glad to see you’re okay.” He hugged her and she started to cry.
“Sorry I had to do this, General Harvey,” she said. “But it all worked out. Are Linda and the kids okay?” she asked, referring to his family.
“They’re fine,” he said, “and you actually did me a favor. Now I’m not in Olympia, which will soon be under the control of people who wouldn’t like the old me.” He smiled. Getting kidnapped by the Patriots wasn’t his idea, but now he was working for the side that appeared to be winning.
“Finally,” Dutch said as he pointed to
a civilian, “this is Roy Chopping, who used to work for you at the Attorney General’s Office. He was code-named ‘Trigger’ and is the guy who arranged for your – shall we say – ‘evacuation’ from Olympia and your new life here.”
“General, it’s a pleasure,” Roy said, in his thick New York accent and shook Jerry’s hand. “Glad things turned out well.” Roy truly was glad Jerry decided to work with the Patriots because he had been ready to kill him. And Roy didn’t like killing people.
“Hey, Jerry,” Dutch said, “they’re just here to tell the story about your evacuation from Olympia.” He motioned toward the video camera. “We’re going to make a video about what happened, you know, for historical purposes. We’re documenting lots of stuff like this for the historians, for after we win.”
Jerry stared at them, trying to process what was going on. Historical purposes?
“Jerry, kids in high school history class will watch this for a couple decades to come,” Dutch said. “You’ll be famous – in a good way.”
That stirred another slight smile from Jerry. He was a politician, after all.
“Okay,” Jerry said. “Let’s do this.” He paused, “Actually, I’ve never heard the whole story of what happened, so I’m as curious as anyone else.”
Dutch smiled and directed each of the men to sit around the conference room table. When they were seated, the cameraman looked through the view finder and gave a thumbs up. They were ready to film.
“So,” Dutch said, “introduce yourselves and describe how you all came together back in August.”
After introductions, Paco started to tell the story. “I got the mission from Tom Kirkland, who was a Patriot Special Forces solider volunteering to run missions from a Lima base. He pulled me aside and told me that we needed to pick up an HVT,” a high value target. “He said the HVT was in St. Peter’s Hospital in Olympia, courtesy of a Patriot operative working within the Attorney General’s Office.” Everyone looked at Roy.