299 Days: The 17th Irregulars 2d-6

by Glen Tate

  A minute later, a bearded man in military fatigues opened the gate. Grant had the unmistakable feeling that one or more rifles were aimed at his head and the Tacura’s engine block.

  The man in fatigues, who was partway behind a stump to remain out of sight and for cover in case Grant or someone else started shooting, waved Grant in through the now-open gate. Grant drove slowly. He got past the swinging metal gate, a typical farm style one and a second man in fatigues popped out from behind a big tree and gave him a signal to stop. He, too, was bearded, which looked weird with the military fatigues.

  The first man, who was now behind Grant’s car, closed the gate. The second man still had his hand up telling Grant to remain stopped.

  Once the gate was closed, the first man came up behind the car on the driver’s side. He said in a stern voice, “Out of the car.” Grant could recognize the first man, and now the second man, as soldiers he had met at the farm. He forgot their names.

  The two soldiers were being very serious and professional which Grant appreciated. This was serious business. Goofing around—especially at a gate—got people killed.

  Grant’s AR was laying barrel-down in the passenger’s foot area with the stock near the gear shift. Grant could grab it by the stock if he needed to get it. He wanted to check and see if it was on safe, but didn’t because he realized he’d need to handle it to do so. And he didn’t want to reach down for a rifle and handle it now. Oh well, he told himself, he didn’t need to check his rifle. It was always on safe when it should be. He laughed to himself about the irony of making a safety check and getting shot as a result.

  Grant said to the first soldier, “I’ll come out the driver’s side. The passenger will await directions.”

  The first man said “OK” and the second man, who had his rifle shouldered and pointed at the engine block, nodded. Grant noticed that the second man had an M1A in .308. That could stop a car better than an AR in 5.56.

  Grant got out slowly. He was not afraid, but he was cautious. He wanted to make sure something didn’t drop from his kit and then he instinctively lunged to catch it. No sudden movements. He thought how embarrassing it would be to die because your pen fell out of your pocket and you went to catch it and got shot by your own guys. Embarrassing. Hardly a hero’s death.

  Grant got out and kept his hands to his side. They weren’t raised up like in the movies, just out to his side. Grant stood there. He didn’t want to turn directly toward either of the men.

  “OK, now the passenger gets out,” the first soldier said. Nick got out and did the same thing Grant did with his hands to the side and stood in the same direction with his sides to each of the men.

  “OK, sir, please open the trunk,” the first soldier said. Grant very slowly turned and motioned for whether it was OK to get his keys out. The first soldier nodded. Grant slowly got his keys out and showed them to the soldiers. Grant hit the trunk release. He very slowly turned back around with his key in his right hand and his left hand to the side. He stood facing the same direction he had been.

  “Moving,” the first soldier said.

  “Move,” the second man said. That meant that the second man was now covering both of them. The first man looked in the trunk. He saw Nick’s two sports bags of clothes and a military back pack. Grant’s “get home bag” was in there, too, where he’d kept it since before the Collapse. As the name implied, that was a bag of things Grant would need to get home if he was in his car and a disaster happened.

  The first soldier realized that searching all these things for a bomb would take a lot of time. He also knew that with the driver being his commanding officer the odds of this being a terrorist were pretty slim. The first soldier looked in the back seat. Nothing. He came up and looked in the front seat.

  “M4 in the passenger side,” the first soldier said to the second. “Secure.” That meant that it was in a secure place.

  The first soldier thought a moment. “Tell you what, Lieutenant,” he said to Grant, “It’ll take a while to search all of this gear back here and the underside of the car for explosives. It’s only a few hundred yards to the farmhouse. How about if you keep the car here and we do a quick search of any gear you will be bringing there?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Grant said. “Just so you guys know, I’m bringing Nick here to the farm. He’s your new medic. Nick, you need those two bags and your backpack, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nick said. He hadn’t known Grant was a lieutenant, but one of the guards just referred to Grant that way. Nick had been calling Grant “sir” because the Mintons told him that Grant was the judge. Now Nick was seeing that Grant was also a lieutenant in this Patriot unit.

  “I’ll get the bags and the backpack out,” the first soldier said. “I assume the ruck goes with the medic, right?” He motioned for the backpack.

  “Yes,” Nick said.

  “The civilian backpack is my get home bag and can stay,” Grant said.

  The first soldier got the two bags and the ruck out. He gave them a quick search, looking for a really big bomb. He opened the ruck and saw it was full of medical supplies. His eyes lit up. Lt. Matson had brought an awesome guest.

  “All clear,” the first soldier said. “Go ahead and go down the road gentlemen.”

  “Can I get my rifle?” Grant asked. He couldn’t stand to leave his gun unattended. Not like he thought these guys would steal it. He just couldn’t stand to leave his AR behind.

  “Of course, sir,” the first soldier said. They were searching for a car bomb, not something less lethal like a rifle.

  Grant looked at the second man and said, “Nick here will get my rifle and hand it to me.” The second soldier nodded. Everything was done overtly in such situations. The smallest little thing needed to be announced and acknowledged. No surprises.

  Nick slowly got the rifle from the passenger side, checked that it was on safe—it was, of course—and, with the muzzle pointed down and with his finger off the trigger, walked around and handed it to Grant who checked that it was on safe and slowly slung it over his shoulder.

  “Nice job, gentlemen,” Grant said to the two soldiers. “I appreciate a secure gate.”

  “It’s our job, sir,” the second soldier said. “You’re our first stop so far so we were making sure we had our procedure down. Looks like we do.”

  “Yep,” Grant said. Grant looked at the first soldier, who by now had come up to Grant. Grant said to him, “Would you like the keys?” That way they could move the Tacura if someone else came in.

  “Yes, sir,” the first soldier said. Grant got out his keys.

  Grant took one of Nick’s bags and Nick got the second one and his ruck. The second soldier said something into his radio. “They’re expecting you at the house,” he said to Grant and Nick.

  “Thanks, guys,” Grant said, instantly realizing that he needed to work on being the lieutenant and being more formal. “As you were, gentlemen,” Grant said to the guards. He and Nick started to walk the few hundred yards to the farm. Nick’s eyes became huge as he started to see the Patriot’s facilities.

  Chapter 214

  Pretty Squared Away

  (August 1)

  Nick was stunned at how perfect this place was. It was huge. A big barn, outbuildings, and a farmhouse. There were soldiers and armed civilians everywhere. Fatigues mostly from the Army, but some from the Navy, and Air Force. Nick even thought that he saw one man in Marine fatigues. Most of the men had beards, which looked weird with the military uniforms. The civilians were decently equipped. Most of them had ARs slung over their shoulders and others had pistol belts. A handful of the civilians had kit and looked like contractors.

  “Wow. You guys are pretty squared away. You’re a real unit out here,” Nick said. “We kept hearing at Ft. Lewis that guerilla units were forming up with mostly civilians but plenty of AWOL military people in them. The brass were very afraid of these units. I thought maybe it was propaganda that the Patriots had all these i
rregular units. Guess it’s true.”

  Grant nodded. This was further validation that Hammond and the whole Boston Harbor operation was for real and not some small group of goofballs masquerading as a “Special Operations Command.” The irregular units were serious business. And now Grant was getting confirmation that the Limas knew it.

  Grant saw something out of the corner of his eye. He recognized that the Team was there; those were the contractor-looking guys Nick had seen.

  Grant yelled toward the Team, “Hey, homos, what are you doing here?” Not exactly military protocol from a commanding officer, but Grant wasn’t exactly a military officer. He had been calling the Team “homos” for a couple of years. Old habits die hard.

  The Team turned at the familiar voice and came over. Grant gave each one of the Team a “bro hug.” They talked for a while. Grant introduced Nick and showed off Nick’s backpack with medical supplies.

  “A combat medic? Nice,” Pow said. “Very nice.”

  By this time, Ted and Sap had come up to them. Grant introduced them to Nick who couldn’t believe how many soldiers were there and how military they seemed to be, albeit with some civilians and non-regulation facial hair like beards. But still. This was not a hillbilly unit. It was a military unit dispensing with some military protocol, but still deadly serious.

  “What was your unit?” Ted asked Nick.

  “2nd Battalion, 23rd Infantry Regiment, 4th Stryker Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, at JBLM,” Nick said. Translated, that meant that Nick was assigned to the 4th Strykers—which were like armored personnel carriers—at Joint Base Lewis McChord, the giant military base between Olympia and Tacoma that included Ft. Lewis.

  “Stryker, huh?” Ted asked. The Stryker units saw plenty of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. Their medics were good. They had to be, unfortunately.

  Ted wanted to test this new guy to make sure he was a real medic. “Who was your CO?” Ted asked Nick.

  “Col. Pete Lowe,” Nick said without hesitation. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Ted, although he didn’t know all of the COs at Ft. Lewis now that he had been out of the Army. The COs changed pretty often.

  “What was your MOS?” Ted asked. “MOS” was the acronym for military occupational specialty. Each job in the military had an MOS.

  “68 Whiskey, sir,” Nick said instantly, using the phonetic alphabet term “whiskey” for the letter W. Ted knew that 68W was the correct MOS for a combat medic.

  “Sergeant, not ‘sir,’” Ted said. “I work for a living.” Ted did not have any rank insignia on—almost no one did—so Nick assumed he was an officer and called him “sir.”

  Ted continued the questioning to see if this supposed medic was legit. “Where’d you go to medic school?”

  “Ft. Sam Houston, Sergeant,” Nick said instantly, again. Ted knew that was the correct answer.

  “You got your CMB?” Ted asked, referring to the combat medic badge, a designation showing that a person had been a medic in a unit engaged in combat.

  “No, Sergeant,” Nick said. “Went from Ft. Sam straight to Ft. Lewis. No deployment overseas.”

  “Why did you leave your unit?” Ted asked.

  “Things are bad, Sergeant,” Nick said, shaking his head. “There is no discipline at all. As in, none. Everyone is taking off. Well, took off. I was one of the last to go. Shoulda gone sooner, but I was following orders.”

  “Why do you want to join a rebel unit?” Ted asked. He knew that this new medic had come straight from Pierce Point and therefore had not gone through vetting from HQ. So it was up to Ted to screen this guy. Grant must have already done some screening or he wouldn’t have brought him out here.

  “I’ve seen what’s happening,” Nick said, still standing at attention. “It’s out of control, Sergeant. I want things back the way they were. I have a wife and two babies. They aren’t growing up like this. Not if I can help it.”

  “Sgt. Malloy,” Grant said, “Nick here has an incentive to not screw us.” Grant didn’t want to be a dick, but he wanted Nick and the others standing around listening to know that Grant took this job very seriously and was willing to do horrible things in order to win this war.

  Nick nodded, knowing exactly what Grant meant. “My wife and kids,” Nick said, “are here in Pierce Point and Lt. Matson knows where they are. You guys control everyone coming and going. My family isn’t going anywhere. They are in your hands.”

  “We don’t kill women and children,” Grant said, “but we would keep them in ‘protective custody’ if Nick…well, didn’t work out.”

  Grant put his arm on Nick’s shoulder for a little dramatic flair and said, “But that won’t be necessary. I’ve talked to Nick a fair amount. He volunteered for this unit before he even knew what we did.”

  Nick nodded. Then he asked, “So what do you guys do?” Grant and Ted filled Nick in on the 17th Irregulars. They didn’t mention the ultimate mission, of course. That would come later.

  Nick was smiling. “Cool. Looks like I’ll get my CMB now.” Grant and Ted didn’t say anything. They both wanted to say “Hopefully there won’t be any combat” but they knew that wasn’t true.

  “Report to Sgt. Sappenfield here and he’ll get you squared away…what was your last name?” Ted asked.

  “Folsom,” Nick said.

  “Well, Private Folsom, welcome to the 17th,” Ted said. “We’re very glad to have you.”

  “Glad to be here,” Folsom said. He walked off with Sap. Grant filled Ted in on Nick’s background.

  “Does he know where this place is?” Ted asked.

  “Blindfolded him on the way in,” Grant said, with a smile, proud of his foresight. “Not only does it prevent him from seeing how to get here, but it reinforced with Nick from the get-go how important OPSEC is.”

  Ted smiled. This lawyer Grant wasn’t as much of a…lawyer as Ted had feared. Grant was not exactly a soldier, but he wasn’t a typical dickhead lawyer either.

  Grant told Ted that he had promised Nick that he could see his family on occasion.

  “I’d rather keep all the guys here 24/7 for OPSEC,” Ted said, “but I understand why you would let Folsom go home periodically. Normally, if I let one guy go out of camp, I’d need to do that for everyone. But,” Ted said pointing to everyone, “no one here has any family nearby to go see. If that starts to change, if people in the unit have people out in Pierce Point, we’ll need to revisit this.”

  “Good point,” Grant said, embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of that. Wait. Of course he hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t been a Green Beret for twenty-five years. That’s why Ted was there.

  Grant spent the rest of the day checking on how things were progressing with the facilities at Marion Farm. He met a few more new arrivals. He chatted with each man or woman out there. He wanted to get to know them and let them know their CO a little better. He was constantly motivating and encouraging them. Not over-the-top, rah-rah motivation, just the subtle and laid back motivation he had been doing his whole life. Several hours went by.

  “Joining us for dinner, Lieutenant?” Sap asked.

  “Nah,” Grant said. “Love to, but the Grange has no idea where I am.” Grant had his radio on the Grange frequency so he would know if they really needed him. But what he really meant was that his family had no idea where he was. He didn’t want them to worry. Besides, he really wanted to eat dinner with them. He hadn’t had dinner with them in several days, but he couldn’t tell his troops that he needed to go home for dinner with his wife and kids.

  “Understood,” Sap said. “I’ll let the guards know you’re coming back and they’ll have your car turned around for you.”

  Grant thanked Sap, walked to the gate at the farm, got his car, and drove home. Just like normal. Driving his car home to have dinner with his family. After spending the day with his guerilla unit. Just like normal.

  Chapter 215

  Raid on Pierce Point

  (August 2)

  “We go
t a target near Frederickson,” Joe Brown, the military intelligence officer, said to Tom Kirkland. They were in the briefing room of the Tactical Operations Center, or TOC, at Camp Murray. “An insurgent base at a farm out there.”

  Another one? Tom wondered. They’d been seeing them pop up all over the state. Well, they were seeing what appeared to be insurgent camps, but it was hard to tell from the satellites. They could see the outlines of camps, possible camps. But it usually took human intelligence — a person on the ground — to verify a location.

  Satellite intelligence was one of the only things that still worked. Well, sort of worked. The satellite technicians were primarily located at various agencies in DC. They were still going to work. DC was solidly in Loyalist hands. Much like the Loyalists focused their resources on Seattle and Olympia in Washington State, they did so on an even more massive scale to protect their capital of Washington, DC.

  Even though the satellites could see anything, there was several million square miles of the United States to look at. They needed something to point them at a particular little chunk.

  “Some former insurgent named,” Brown said looking at his notes, “Ethan Meecham escaped from their compound. He told the local authorities in Frederickson about a ‘rental team’ the insurgents had out there at a place called,” he looked at his notes again, “Pierce Point.”

  Tom looked up. That name sounded familiar. Tom was suddenly very concerned.

  “So we asked DC to point the bird,” Brown said, referring to the satellite, “at this little patch of ground and, bam, we saw some interesting things. Then a Navy ship in the Puget Sound that actually had its radar working for a change saw some strange comings and goings of small watercraft in the area. The rare thing is that the Navy actually called it in, and, even rarer, our DC people actually put two and two together.”

  “Nice work,” Tom said and high-fived Brown. This was a much more definite target than most of the “missions” that took off from Camp Murray, most of which only happened on paper but, so far, had never actually involved a raid.