299 Days: The 17th Irregulars

Chapter 199 “Yes, Sir. With Pride.”

Hearing the outside thought verify that this was what Grant was supposed to do was exactly what he needed to hear. Grant was calm. It was that amazing peaceful calm that came when the outside thought told him he was on track and was doing what he was supposed to be doing.

As the boat quietly chugged along the shoreline of Pierce Point and out toward Boston Harbor, Grant looked up at the stars. There were millions of them; many, many more than he was used to seeing. Grant looked at all the millions of stars and thought, “I am just one of these little things. One of millions, but together they make up something bigger.”

Yes.

The peace and calm was overwhelming. Grant knew he could do anything now. Well, not him alone. But, with help — from the most powerful thing in the universe.

Anything. Anything at all could be accomplished. Grant stopped worrying about Lisa’s reaction to the Ted project. He stopped worrying about her leaving him. He stopped worrying about the Team getting killed or wounded. He stopped worrying about everything. He just sat back in the seat on the boat and looked up at the stars as they silently glided to Boston Harbor. It was another lifetime memory he was soaking in.

After a while, after the mild caffeine rush had kicked in, the radio crackled and Paul responded. They were getting near some lights. It must be Boston Harbor. Paul gave the right signals with his boat lights to the picket boats outlying Boston Harbor. As they got closer, Grant looked at the “fishing” boats. The boats had some very well armed men and big radio antennas. The men on the boat saluted them. Grant returned the salute without thinking. Then he realized what he had just done. Saluted. This was getting serious.

The boat slowed to a crawl as they entered the marina. Grant had been to Boston Harbor several times before. It was about ten miles from Olympia. He rented a boat out there and puttered around Boston

Harbor with Cole when he was little. Cole had loved it. Grant had great memories of this place.

As they pulled further into the marina, Grant was amazed at what a great place Boston Harbor was for a headquarters. The marina was easily defended and was on the remote southern tip of Puget Sound, which was the water superhighway for the entire Seattle metropolitan area. The little town of Boston Harbor looked like the American version of a Norwegian fishing village. It was full of nice buildings to house people. There was one really big and nice house right on the water with lots of guards around it and its lights on. That must be HQ.

Grant helped Ted and Sap tie up the boat as Paul put it perfectly into its slip. No one had said a word for the last twenty minutes they had been in the boat. It was a welcomed break. Grant talked and listened all day long. He needed quiet time, especially with the stars out, a big adventure ahead of him, and, most importantly, with the outside thought talking to him. It had been a spectacular night so far.

As Grant got off the boat he started to think for the first time about whether he would make a good impression on the brass. He laughed at himself. Who cares? He wasn’t interviewing for a job. Hell, he’d be happy not to have the job of being a Patriot guerilla. He would be happy to stay in Pierce Point and do his Grange job and go out with the Team on occasional calls.

But, Grant knew he had a bigger job to do. He knew that HQ would have him do whatever it was that he was supposed to do. The outside thought had confirmed that he was on the right course. He was just there to see what the details of the course would be. He had never been more calm and confident.

And it showed. The way he walked. The way he carried his kit and AR. He looked like a professional. A quiet professional who had been doing this his whole life, which was hilarious. Only three months ago, he had just been a lawyer with a semi-normal white collar life. There was no way to tell that now by looking at him. He had totally transformed. Well, he hadn’t transformed; he was the same guy he’d been. Instead, circumstances had brought out the Grant that was always there, but had never had a reason to come out.

Ted motioned for Grant to follow him. They came up to a guard at the marina gate, who knew Ted and Sap and waved them through. The guard stopped Grant, pointed to him, and asked Sap, “Is this the visitor you said you’d be bringing back?”

“Yep,” Sap said. “Ketchup sandwich.”

The guard nodded and said to Grant, “Welcome to Boston Harbor, Mr. Matson.” Apparently “ketchup sandwich” was a code word. There were lots of those out there.

They walked across the dock to the little store at the marina. The lights were on and the shelves were entirely bare. This was the first store Grant had been in since he left Olympia. He was struck again by how odd the empty shelves looked. It made him realize how good they had it in Pierce Point.

Ted, Sap, and Grant walked to the road and up the hill to the big house with the lights on. There were guards everywhere. Radios were crackling as they headed toward HQ. The guards were very well armed. Most had impressive kit. These guys looked like military guys. Actually, they looked like private military contractors, but Grant knew that they were military, just without uniforms because the Free Washington State Guard didn’t have its own uniforms yet. A few had their old FUSA fatigues—mostly Army, but a few of the different camo patterns of the Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps—with “Free Wash. State Guard” sewn on the area where “U.S. Army” or other branch name had once been.

Most of the men looked like Grant. Many were younger than him, but he fit right in as far as clothing was concerned. Along with his AR, Grant had his black tactical vest with coyote brown pouches, gray t shirt, tan 5.11 pants, “hillbilly slippers” (Romeo boots), and his tan baseball cap. The cap had the Survival Podcast ant symbol on it. He thought about the ant symbol, which reflected the ant and grasshopper from the fable about how the hardworking ant prepped while the playful grasshopper didn’t, and the ant made it through the winter but the grasshopper did not. The Survival Podcast ant hat was a statement to the world that “I am an ant.”

As they came up to the porch, there were three guards and a stack of sand bags. Grant wondered if he would have to leave his rifle and pistol with the guards. Ted and Sap walked right past the guards, and no one asked Grant to remove his weapons, so he didn’t.

They went into the front door and Grant started to remove his hat. He remembered from his extremely limited military training in Civil Air Patrol all those years ago, that you remove your “cover” (hat, helmet, or beret) when you enter a building.

Ted saw him taking his hat off and said, “Battlefield rules out here.” While the little high school Civil Air Patrol cadets were never on a battlefield, Grant knew that “battlefield rules” meant that you could keep your cover on indoors and you didn’t salute. You kept your cover on because it was a waste of time taking it on and off. You didn’t salute on the battlefield because that allowed enemy snipers to figure out who the officers were and shoot them first.

When they walked in the front door, there was a desk in the foyer, which looked weird in a home. It was a beautiful house with a giant open entry way and big staircase going up to the second floor. There were radios crackling and a lot of activity in the house. There were mostly men in there, but some women too. Everyone looked pretty serious, but not pissed off. They were busily doing their jobs. There was an energy in the place; a vibe like important work was being done there, and being done well.

After a minute or two, a soldier in her early thirties brought them into the office on the first floor. It was big for a home office, but small for a military commander’s office. They walked in and everyone except the man behind the desk stood up when they entered the room.

The man behind the desk looked like a natural for a military commander. He was Lieutenant Colonel Jim Hammond. He was in his late forties and in great shape. He had about half his hair with a touch of gray on the temples.

Hammond was in Army fatigues. He had his “scare badges” sewn on: Special Forces tab, Ranger tab, airborne wings, combat infantry badge. He had a “Free Wash. State Guard” name tape instead of the former “U.S. Army” one. He had a military Beretta M9 pistol in a leather shoulder holster like some of the senior officers wore. The other men in the room were similarly in a uniform and had side arms, mostly on belt holsters and mostly military-issue M9s. They sat back down.

The commander looked up from his desk, smiled, and said, “Welcome Lt. Matson.”

Lieutenant Matson?

There must be some mistake. Grant wasn’t a lieutenant or in the military. Oh, wait. He was kind of in the military. He had signed up with Ted a few weeks ago back in the yellow cabin, but he didn’t have any rank or anything. He was just a guy in an irregular unit for a while until he was no longer needed.

“Lieutenant?” Grant asked. “No, sir, I’m not a lieutenant. I’m just Grant Matson.”

The commander laughed. “Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about tonight.”

The commander stood up and extended his hand. “I’m Lt. Col. Jim Hammond. I’m the CO of the Free Washington Special Operations Command.” CO stood for “commanding officer.” He pointed to Ted and said, “I worked with Master Sergeant Malloy. He’s a damned fine soldier.” Grant remembered Ted saying that his former Special Forces commander at Ft. Lewis had come over to the Patriots early on and was commanding Free Washington’s special ops.

“Yes, sir,” Grant said. Grant was standing at attention, another habit that came back to him from his Civil Air Patrol days.

“At ease, Lt. Matson,” Hammond said with another smile. “We’re just here to talk business.” Hammond looked serious for a moment. “Should I call you ‘lieutenant’ or ‘mister’ Matson?”

Grant smiled. This was a business meeting, he could tell. He’d been in quite a few of those. It was time for him to get a little bit of the balance of power back.

“Depends on how the conversation goes,” Grant said with a slight smile. “But ‘lieutenant’ works for now.” That was Grant’s not-so-subtle way of saying that he was probably agreeing to whatever was about to be asked of him. Probably, but he wanted to hear the details. His life was at stake.

Hammond smiled at Grant’s remark that “‘lieutenant’ works for now.” This Matson guy was not a pushover, Hammond thought. This guy had some moxie. Hammond opened up a paper file. Hammond looked at the file for a moment and flipped a few pages. Finally, he looked up at Grant and said, “Sgt. Malloy here tells me a lot of impressive things about you, Lt. Matson.”

“Thank you, sir,” Grant said. “I learned a lot from Ted, Sgt. Malloy, and I’m very lucky to know him. Especially in times like these.”

“Yes, indeed,” Hammond said. “Yes, indeed,” he repeated.

Hammond looked at Grant, sizing him up. He had come to an initial impression about Grant from Ted’s reports, but wanted to physically look at Grant and see if body language or anything else would change his opinion. Finally Hammond asked, “Has Sgt. Malloy told you about our plan for your services?”

Grant didn’t know if Ted was supposed to have told him about the civil affairs role, but he thought it was best to tell the truth to his…commanding officer? That felt so weird.

“Yes, sir, very briefly,” Grant said.

Hammond was watching to see if Grant’s eyes darted over to Ted to see if Ted thought it was OK to answer the question. Grant’s eyes did not dart. He looked Hammond right in the eye when he answered. Good, Hammond thought, he was truthful and confident. Hammond could trust Grant to report to him truthfully and without hesitation.

“So what do you think about our civil affairs role for you and your Team?” Hammond asked.

“I think it’s great, sir,” Grant said, again looking Hammond straight in the eye. “For whatever reason, sir, I am the right person, at the right time, in the right place. I have some unique skills. But,” Grant’s body language relaxed and he got a little informal, “the weird thing is that I don’t have any military training. I don’t claim to be an expert, sir. Me and my guys can shoot a little, but we’re amateurs.”

“I know and that’s what I like,” Hammond said as he smiled. “You aren’t playing Army. You’re humble. You know your limits. But,” Hammond was thumbing through the file, “you’ve got some organizational skills we could use. You can get a community up and running. We’ll need that.” Hammond kept looking at the file and nodding his head.

“You’ve done some amazing shit out at Pierce Point,” Hammond said. “You’re even keeping a list of Loyalists out there.” Hammond looked up at Grant and said, “I understand that the Lima leader out there had an untimely death.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said, once again looking Hammond right in the eye. One of the Team must have told Ted or Sap about Wes and the silenced .22.

“It was handled,” Grant said sternly. “We had evidence; irrefutable evidence.” Grant shrugged as if to say, “Just taking care of business.”

Grant felt a little dishonest because he had been too weak to approve the killing; Wes had done it on his own, but Grant was willing to take credit for it now that everything worked out.

“What’s your background?” Hammond asked Grant, knowing the basic answer, but wanting to hear it from Grant. Hammond had found that how people choose to answer such a question was very revealing; especially what they choose to talk about first. It was usually an indicator of their biggest priority in life. If they start by saying they have kids, then that means that they are their biggest priority. If they start off by saying which college they went to, that reveals something. If they shrug and say nothing, that says a lot, too.

Grant proceeded to tell Hammond about being a lawyer, suing the government, working for the State Auditor and resigning in disgust, prepping, coming out to Pierce Point, organizing Pierce Point, and then linking up with Ted and Sap. He never mentioned his family. Grant didn’t want to show weakness by saying, “My wife has no idea what I’m doing and would be mad at me if she found out.” That wasn’t exactly a bad-ass soldier thing to say.

Hammond was smiling again. In the absence of a real military-trained civil affairs guy, Hammond had a pretty good substitute here. And this Matson guy had known Ted from before the Collapse. Ted said he was solid. That was as good of a reference as one could have.

“What was your major in college?” Hammond asked. This was often a good way to find out a lot about people who had gone to college.

“American history, sir,” Grant said.

“What period?” Hammond asked.

“Revolutionary War,” Grant said.

Hammond leaned back and smiled. “Oh, Lt. Matson, when this whole thing is over, we need to talk over a glass of bourbon. I am a history buff. What part of the Revolutionary period interests you the most?”

“The differences between the Revolutionary War and the French Revolution,” Grant said. “The differences in philosophy and political outcome. How we came out of it with a beautiful republic and the French ended up with a murderous dictatorship and two and a half centuries of statism.”

Wow. That was the right answer, Hammond thought. The fact that Grant described the French Revolution as a murderous dictatorship was important. Hammond had been initially concerned that maybe Grant liked killing people. Maybe Grant enjoyed the thing with Snelling. Hammond didn’t need any of that. He needed someone who did not want to repeat the French Revolution. Grant was perfect.

“Would you accept an officer’s commission in the Free Washington State Guard, Mr. Matson?” Hammond asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes, sir. With pride,” Grant said.

“You know the consequences of this?” Hammond asked very seriously. Because it was a life-or-death decision.

“Yes, sir. I am a traitor and will be executed if the Limas win,” Grant said solemnly. He paused and then said, “Which means we have to win.”

Hammond liked that spirit. “Will we?” he asked Grant.

“Yes, sir,” Grant said with a nod. “Because we have the support of the population. The Limas don’t. They might have soft support, but it’s not deep or long term. The people will tolerate them as long as the semis are rolling. Take that away and there goes any support they have. We, sir, will do what the Limas can’t: give people long-term hope. We will get things running with hard work, instead of stealing things and then handing them out to people.”

Hammond was even more impressed. This Matson guy understood exactly what was going on. He just summarized everything Hammond thought about why the Patriots would win. It was uncanny; it was like Matson was in Hammond’s brain.

Hammond decided to test Grant some more. “You say the ‘support of the population,’” Hammond said. “Where did you get that?”

“George Washington and Mao, sir,” Grant said. “An unusual pair. But they said basically the same thing: popular support is key. Logistics is key. The two are combined. Popular support is the key to logistics and logistics is the key to winning a war like this.”

Hammond couldn’t resist one more test question. “Do you think Mao really wrote ‘On Guerilla War’?” Hammond asked, deeply probing Grant’s knowledge of military theory.

“Oh, no, sir,” Grant said. “It was all Sun Tzu and probably some Communist Party hacks. But it works. He got a lot right in that book, except the part about the government having the right to rule people’s lives.”

“Crap, Lieutenant,” Hammond said, no longer able to contain his glee at how much Grant knew. “We need to have a drink when this thing is over. Wow.” Hammond caught himself and realized that he shouldn’t lavish praise on a subordinate, especially a brand new one who was basically a civilian, but what the hell.

Grant was flattered, but assumed he was being flattered just to get him to join, so he didn’t let the compliments go to his head. He got down to business. He had a bunch of questions, but he didn’t ask them out loud. Grant wanted to know if he would be in day-to-day command of the guerilla unit because he wasn’t remotely qualified to do that; Ted was. How long was Grant’s commitment? He assumed commissions could be resigned. He was an irregular commander and the irregulars were like the militia in the Revolutionary War: they could just leave if they wanted. Would he get paid? Not that he wanted the money, but it was a natural question to ask. Would he have to keep his commission a secret? He assumed so. Would he have to wear a uniform? He hoped not. He was about to ask Hammond these questions.

Hammond’s anticipated Grant’s questions and said, “I imagine you have a few questions about the details of your commission, Lieutenant. Sgt. Malloy will answer those questions later, because you and I have a meeting to go to in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said. “Thank you for commissioning me.”

Grant paused, “Permission to speak with candor, sir?” Grant had learned that in Civil Air Patrol.

“Granted,” Hammond said.

“I’m supposed to do this, sir, and so are you,” Grant said. “You sense it too, don’t you Colonel?”

“Yes,” Hammond said, stunned that Grant could pick up on what he was feeling. “I most certainly do.” This was spooky, Hammond thought. They were on the same wavelength of “we’re supposed to do this.”

Hammond concentrated on getting ahold of himself. He was trying not to show any emotion. Hammond closed the file and said, “We have a meeting to get to.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said. He remembered from Civil Air Patrol that he should not turn his back on a superior officer until he was dismissed, so he waited to be dismissed.

Hammond, seeing that Grant was waiting to be dismissed, said, “Oh, you’re coming to the meeting with us, Lieutenant.”