by Glen Tate
The next truck that drove up had a beautiful sight in the bed: a pallet of empty sandbags and a bunch of shovels. Perfect.
“Where did you get those?” Grant asked the driver.
“County DEM,” the driver said with a smile, referring to the Department of Emergency Management. “I volunteered for the floods every year and they put a pallet out at my place. Never thought I’d need them. Bet they stop bullets real good.”
Grant realized that time was running out to fill and place the sandbags. He ran over to Dan and told him what was in the truck. Dan grinned. “Thank God,” he said.
Dan started grabbing guys and telling them to get as many men as possible together to start filling sand bags. Luckily, the guy who brought the sandbags had a dozen or so orange traffic cones with the tips cut off. When they were tipped upside down, they worked perfectly as funnels for filling sandbags.
Dan knew exactly where to place the sandbags. In a few minutes, the beginnings of sandbag bunkers started to appear; a crossfire directed at the gate and a series of bunkers toward the creek. Dan was loving this. He never thought he’d get to use his base-defense skills in the states. He wished he didn’t have to, but if he did, he was glad he knew what he was doing.
Grant watched as the new arrivals were looking where to store their extra ammunition. He hastily decided to create an ammunition bank. He had no idea if this was how to do that, but today he was making up lots of stuff as he went along. He got someone to take all the loose ammunition—the plastic bags, the back packs, the boxes sitting in the fire station, everything that wasn’t in a magazine—and group them by caliber. Then everyone could get a few dozen rounds of what they needed. They might not get their own boxes of ammo back, but at least it would be organized and those who brought extra could get it to the people who needed it. Plus, it added a sense of organization to everything. Grant knew that a bunch of guys with hunting rifles would act like a bunch of guys with hunting rifles if this was unorganized like a hunting camp. But, if this were organized like a military operation—even an amateur one—then the men would act like it was a military operation. They needed to know that the people leading them were organized and knew what they were doing. Even if, in reality, they were just making stuff up.
Pretty soon, a card table in the fire station had stacks of ammunition sorted by caliber. Grant was watching to see if people were hesitant to put their personal ammunition into the ammunition bank. They weren’t. People from the outside were about to attack them and try to kill them. They thought an ammunition bank was a great idea. They seemed to be willing to donate to the cause because the cause seemed to be run well.
There was a lesson in all that, Grant thought. Show people that their contributions will be put to good use to solve their problems, and they’ll be willing to sacrifice for it. If they think their contributions will be wasted, they’ll hold onto what’s theirs.
Grant saw the Team giving impromptu weapons classes to the brand new guards. They brought down all their extra rifles, like the AKs and tactical shotguns. Grant noticed that his two AK-74s and his A2 AR were among them. Good. A handful of guards had experience with ARs, including the one who now had Grant’s good old A2. The guys with ARs must be ex-military or law enforcement who were familiar with them.
The Team was making sure everyone had extra magazines. Grant ran over and told them about the ammunition bank and suggested that they create a magazine bank and have a couple people loading magazines at the table. Scotty took all the Team’s extra magazines over to the table and grabbed a couple guys to start loading them and sorting the loaded mags by type.
Grant yelled to Scotty, “Make sure you load the non-corrosive 5.45 for the AK-74s. I don’t want to forget to clean those AKs after all this and have rust.” It was weird what details people think of in situations like this. Scotty nodded. He was thinking the same thing about the corrosive 5.45 x 39 ammo. The corrosive salts in the primers of the surplus Russian 5.45 ammo could be cleaned off the gun with hot water or Windex, but if that wasn’t done, the gun would get a light coating of rust after about twenty-four hours. Knowing this, Grant had a few hundred rounds of non-corrosive 5.45 for just an occasion like this.
Rich was overseeing all the guys with hunting rifles and shotguns. He motioned for Grant to come over.
“Hey,” Rich asked Grant, “can you make sure the guys with shotguns have the appropriate ammo?”
“Like slugs for the guys taking out vehicles and buckshot for the guys taking out people?” Grant asked with a smile.
Rich smiled, too. “Well, yes, like that.” This Grant guy wasn’t too worthless. For a lawyer.
“Way ahead of you, Rich,” Grant said with a smile. It was OK to enjoy this, wasn’t it? “We have an ammunition bank with ammo sorted by caliber, like slugs and buck shot for shotguns. You put the guys where you want them to be and I’ll make sure they have exactly the ammo they need.”
“OK, sounds good,” said Rich. Wow. So much was coming together right then. He just hoped it was enough for what would hit them that night. Or maybe earlier.
Not everything was going well, though. Grant was amazed by all the volunteers, most of whom seemed to know how to handle their weapons and follow directions. They were self-disciplined group. With one exception.
Grant saw a teenage kid with a pistol out sideways gangster style. He was showing off to his friends. Then he waved it around, pointing it toward the guards and the fire station.
Grant ran over to him and screamed, “What the hell are you doing?” That stunned the teenager. Grant, knowing that he needed to make an example out of this kid to keep discipline and order, yelled, “You think this is some rap video or video game? This isn’t play time, boy. This is your life and your neighbors’ lives. We ain’t playin’.”
By this time, Dan came over. He was in command of the guards and needed to assert his authority, which was fine with Grant. Dan yelled, in his master sergeant voice, “Surrender your weapon, son. Now.”
Dan held his hand out for the kid to put his pistol in. The kid was still stunned. He handed Dan the pistol—still pointing it in an unsafe direction, namely at Dan. Dan ejected the magazine, racked the slide to eject the round in the chamber, and handed the empty pistol to Grant.
Dan glared at the teen and said in a low voice, “You’re done, son. Walk back home. Your pistol will be here for someone else to pick up for you. Don’t you ever do that again.”
It was silent. Everyone got the picture. Yes, they were volunteers and the leaders didn’t insist on strict military discipline. There was no rank or “yes, sir” or “yes, sergeant,” but there was discipline. Do something stupid and you’re done.
The teen was humiliated as he got his backpack and left. His head was down and he shuffled his feet. He started walking up the road all alone. He knew he’d be alone while everyone else got to be on guard duty for the big shoot out. All the others watched him as he walked away thinking “Glad that’s not me.”
Grant thought back to George Washington’s writings on the Revolutionary War. A constant theme was the discipline of the troops. Washington faced the same situation Grant did: untrained volunteers. They couldn’t be disciplined like regular troops because they could just go home, but there had to be enough discipline for the untrained volunteers to be an effective fighting force.
Grant thought that they were achieving that balance out there. Time would tell. Sending a boy home was one thing. What about when the troops tried to desert or stole some food? Do you shoot him? Shoot one of the residents you’re trying to protect? Hopefully they’d never confront that, but Grant knew they probably would.
A truck came down the road from the Grange. It had the last load of volunteers and was picking up the Grange ladies to take them back. There was no need for grandmas to be in a firefight. Pastor Pete got out of the truck. He had a pistol. How appropriate. Grant was reminded of the saying from the Alamo: “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.”
&n
bsp; The bustle went on for another hour or so. Everyone was running around doing things like getting the right ammo to everyone, setting up a field hospital, filling sandbags, and giving impromptu weapons lessons. The longer this went on, the more the initial excitement of pitching in was wearing off. People were watching the sandbag bunkers going up and realizing real bullets would be flying toward them. Real bullets. The field hospital was reassuring in one sense, but terrifying in another: people would be lying on those tables bleeding to death. Screaming. Dying.
Volunteers who didn’t know much about guns were runners. They would resupply guards with ammunition and evacuate the wounded to the fire station, if necessary. They would run messages between points, including the snipers. The snipers had a radio, but it was impossible to predict when things wouldn’t work. Runners thought they weren’t doing the important work since they didn’t have rifles, when in fact the runners had perhaps the most dangerous job.
Dan and Ryan were putting together squads. In the real military, a squad was usually ten men. Ten or so people were behind each of the two cross-fire sandbag bunkers. The snipers were another squad (although Grant never really saw them so he didn’t know how many there were). Ten or so more were split between the two sandbag bunkers guarding the flank by the river in case anyone came across there. This squad probably wouldn’t have direct contact so they were held in reserve. The medical team and Pastor Pete did their own thing; they weren’t in a squad. The fifteen or so runners were a squad. The squads were just groupings; they were not formal units. They were just a way to keep track of people and have them organized around tasks.
The Team, which only had six, was another squad. The Team would be the dynamic, offensive unit that would attack, if needed. When they weren’t doing that, the Team would motivate the guards. And in preparation for all of this, they would train guards.
Each squad had a squad leader. Rich picked them since he knew most of the guards. The exception was the Team; Rich didn’t pick that squad leader because everyone knew it was Pow. He was the tactical leader of the Team and Grant would just be a member of the Team.
That’s when Grant realized that he’d never actually been in a gunfight with the Team. This would be their first one. He hoped they’d live up to their reputation.
Chapter 121
The Authorities Arrive
(May 12)
Seeing the Grange ladies going back reminded Grant about Chip at the Grange. Grant ran to the communications person, the “comm chick” as they called her. Her name was Heidi and she was in her late teens. She was a sheriff’s search and rescue volunteer and a radio geek. She had a ham radio—a nice one—and kept in contact with her dad, Curt Copeland, the ham radio guy. He was at his house with the massive ham radio antennas. They also kept in contact with Linda Rodriquez, the former Seattle police dispatcher who was the dispatcher at the comm center in the Grange. Between Heidi at the gate, Linda at the Grange, and Curt at his house, they had communications with everyone they needed to. They needed to have a CB and a ham radio, and sometimes both, and switch back and forth, but it was better than no comms.
Grant asked Heidi, “Can you get me the Grange?”
Heidi nodded. She handed Grant the ham radio. Good, Grant realized when he had a reasonably secure ham radio, what he had to say wasn’t something he wanted just anyone on a CB to hear. Linda answered.
“Hey, Linda, this is Grant. Can you get me Chip?” Grant said, while Heidi was cringing at Grant’s improper use of radio lingo.
Linda answered, “Hold on. I’ll get him.”
About thirty seconds later, Chip came on. “Yah?”
“Chip, it’s Grant. We’re geared up down at the gate pretty good. The Grange ladies are coming back to you. Here’s my question: You got enough beef watchin’ the snacks?”
Chip laughed at Grant’s rather lame attempt to speak in code about the semi. “Yep,” Chip said. “Got five cows and me, the lead bull. Besides, the farmer has the keys.” That was pretty lame code talking, too.
“What’s going on at the homestead?” Grant asked.
“Lots of people got the word,” Chip said. “They’re showing up. I screen out the ones that won’t be much help. One old fart came with his M1 Garand from Korea and wanted to fight. He’s one of the reserve cows. The strong young bulls, I send down to where you are. I let them know what’s going on down there. So, what is going on?”
Grant didn’t want to say too much, even on the ham radio. “Things are fine down here,” he said. “‘Nuff said. See you in the morning,” Grant added, thinking silently, “Probably.”
“You come back in the morning, Mr. Matson,” Chip said, “so I can say, ‘Mornin’ Sunshine.’”
It was silent for a while. Chip didn’t want to lose any members of the new Pierce Point family.
“Will do, Uncle Chip,” Grant said.
He handed the radio back to Heidi. “How many handheld ham radios do we have?”
“This one down here,” Heidi said, “one spare at the Grange, my dad has one, Linda has one at the Grange, and the Chief has one. The rest of the radios here are CBs. Rich, Dan, and the snipers have a CB. So do I, of course.”
“Any extra CB handhelds?” Grant asked.
“Yep,” Heidi said, “One. Who needs it?”
“Pow,” Grant said. “I’ll take it to him.” Heidi got it, checked the battery level, and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” Grant said.
As Grant was walking over to Pow, the CB crackled.
“Visitors,” a voice said. Grant got a chill down his spine. That was exactly what he feared. Grant looked at the sky. It was still light out. It was late afternoon. It was a terrible time to try to attack, unless the attackers were furious and blood-thirsty. Why not wait until night?
Rich and Dan yelled for the squad leaders to get their people ready. This was it.
Dan had his dog team in hand and pointed at the gate. Anyone who walked across that bridge would be chewed to bits by those dogs. They were terrifying, which was half the point. The other half was actually chewing bad guys to bits.
Grant ran toward the Team, which was gathering together behind one of the sandbag bunkers. He would be a foot soldier on the Team now that he’d done all that organizing. The Team looked at each other. They knew one another so well. They’d done this before. Not “this” exactly; not a gun fight. But, they’d done plenty else. It was time to prove themselves. They were up for it.
A police car with its lights flashing was slowly coming down the road from Frederickson. It stopped, well short of the solid metal gate, and turned down Pierce Point Road. The car wasn’t about to try to drive across that bridge.
The voice came back on the radio. “Just one vehicle. Lights on. No others. No one on foot. Yet.” Grant had never heard the voice before. It was a man. He sounded like he knew what he was doing.
Rich was puzzled. Just one police car? That’s it. Either this is not the attack or it’s a trick. Something was up.
Rich yelled, “No one shoots. No shooting unless your squad leader says so.” Squad leaders and others were repeating it to everyone around them so everyone got it.
Rich was behind the other sandbag bunker. He got on his CB, turned the channel and said into the handheld, “Who are you?”
“Sheriff’s Department,” the voice said. He was on CB channel 9, the emergency channel. “Who’s this?”
Rich recognized the cop’s voice. It was John Bennington, a sergeant Rich had worked with. A good guy. “Is this John?”
“Yes,” Bennington said. “Is this Rich?”
“Yep,” Rich said. “Hi, John. What brings you out to Pierce Point?” Rich asked calmly.
“There’s been a report of a stolen truck. You know anything about that?” Bennington asked.
“Nope,” Rich said. “I know about a truck that broke down a few hundred yards from the entrance. Some black guy came here this afternoon and said he needed help. We got his rig started up ag
ain and he drove it in here. Then he said he’s walking to town. He left a couple hours ago. We have the truck. You want to see it?”
“You have it?” Bennington was surprised. “Really?”
“Yep,” Rich said. “Want to see? I have the papers on the load that he left. If you walk slowly across the bridge, you won’t get shot. You see, we’re taking security into our own hands here, given all that’s happened. Your response times are a little long now. No offense.”
“None taken,” Bennington said. “OK. Sgt. Summers is with me and he’ll stay in the car.”
Sergeant Summers? Was that Dylan Summers, the young deputy? Rich asked, “Did you say Sgt. Summers?”
“Yep,” Bennington said. “Lots of promotions lately with all the AWOL people. I’m a lieutenant, myself.”
“Congratulations,” Rich said. So this is how they were getting guys to keep manning the patrol cars: promotions. Great. But John was a decent guy, so unless he’d radically changed in the last few weeks, he probably hadn’t let it go to his head.
“Coming out,” Bennington said.
Rich yelled to the squads, “Hold your fire. I repeat: do not fire.”
People were tense. When most of the guards heard the car door open and shut, they started gripping their guns hard. Grant found himself scanning the river and the flanks. Just one cop car at the gate wasn’t the attacking force. It must be coming from some other direction. Grant was scanning right, left, and to the rear. So was the Team.
Bennington walked slowly with his hands to his sides. He made it to the gate and motioned that he wanted to go under the metal pole and come across. Rich gave him the thumbs up. Bennington scrunched down under the metal pole and crossed over. Rich came out from his sandbag bunker and strolled over with extreme calm and confidence. After all, he was just talking to an old friend. It wasn’t like they had anything to hide.