299 Days: The 17th Irregulars

Chapter 208 “Battle Stations!”

Up in a remote inlet of the Puget Sound, the waterway surrounding the Seattle metropolitan area, Joe Tantori’s radio crackled very early in the morning. He was in bed, just waking up. Crap. Would he ever get a full night’s sleep?

“Visitor coming straight at us,” the voice of the dispatcher said. “Armed vessel. High rate of speed.” The dispatcher was trying to be calm, but it was obvious he was nervous.

“Battle stations!” Joe yelled into his radio. He jumped out of bed, got some pants on, and told his wife to get the kids and go into the safe room. His wife was already out of the bedroom and heading for the kids’ room, just like they’d practiced over and over.

A second later, a siren went off in Joe’s compound. People were scrambling around, grabbing rifles and donning gear to go out onto the patrol boats. This was the first time they’d had a real “battle stations” call. They’d practiced it, but it was pretty much chaos now that it was for real.

We might die today, Joe thought. Things had been going so well that it was inevitable that something bad would happen. Joe and his guys had been guarding the new bank in town and making a mint. They got a share of the safe deposit fees and were paid in gold, silver, ammo, food, and other valuables. Morale was sky high. Joe’s Marines, military contractors, and ex-law enforcement guys had just about the best jobs in the whole county.

But Joe—an Oath Keeper and Patriot—had decided to take the huge risk of being a privateer, making him a person who basically stole Loyalist and pirate goods on the water and gave a portion to the Patriots. Like in the Revolutionary War.

This obviously made the Loyalists and pirates very mad. And the amount he kept wasn’t much, making it not worth the risk, if business was all he cared about.

But Joe wasn’t a businessman. He was a Patriot who made an honest profit. Well, “honest” in the sense of stealing from people who stole it from others. The Loyalists and the pirates were the same in Joe’s mind. One might steal from taxpayers via the law, but the other one stole it the old fashioned way.

“Military vessel!” the dispatcher said. “Heavy machine guns fore and aft!”

Oh crap, Joe thought. Probably the Loyalist Navy. Probably the first vessel in a wave of attacks. They were hitting at dawn, which made sense.

“Second vessel,” said the dispatcher. “Civilian vessel with machine guns,” he said calmly. The dispatcher was calming his voice down so he didn’t worry the men, but his voice was the only part of him that wasn’t terrified.

“Flag?” Joe yelled into the radio. The Loyalists would have the old flag on their ship. Probably.

“Cannot verify,” said the dispatcher a few seconds later. “No verified flag.”

By now, Joe was out of the house and in the parade grounds as they called the big common area in the middle of all the buildings. People were running around all over. The Marines seemed fairly calm. This was another drill, right? They’d done this a million times back at Indian Island Naval Magazine and the Bangor sub base where they formerly guarded huge weapon stockpiles before they went AWOL and joined Joe’s company. Joe’s military contractors and ex-law enforcement men seemed less calm. They hadn’t done drills like this nearly as many times.

“Friendly! Friendly! Friendly!” the dispatcher yelled. He was joyous and relieved. He realized how emotional he was getting and calmed it down. “We have confirmation of friendlies,” he said very calmly.

“Code blue,” Joe yelled. “Do not fire, though. Do not fire unless fired upon!”

“Roger that. Code blue,” the dispatcher said. “Code blue” meant a vessel or vehicle that appears to be friendly, but still should be treated as hostile by aiming weapons at it. Don’t fire, though, unless fired upon.

The siren blaring through Joe’s compound changed from a series of three short blasts signifying “battle stations” to two long blasts, which meant “code blue.” Hearing this change, the troops were relaxing a bit, but they were still ready to destroy whatever was coming into the dock. The Marines were checking the skies for helicopters. If the Limas were coming, it would be a coordinated air/sea and possibly, a land attack.

“Flag confirmed. Gadsden. Friendly flag,” the dispatcher said, now fully in control of his emotions. The vessel had the yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag, which was a very welcomed sign.

“Code blue,” Joe repeated into the radio, making sure everyone knew this was still a code blue, not a picnic. “The Limas could be flying a Gadsden. Code blue. Copy?”

“Copy,” the dispatcher said.

“Copy,” the voices of several squad leaders reported.

The siren remained at two long blasts. There was no letting up just because of the color of the flag.

A few tense seconds passed.

“Radio confirmation,” the dispatcher said. “Confirmation of a friendly. Code used. Finally.”

“Sirens to code yellow,” Joe said. “Yellow” as in Gadsden yellow, the color of the Patriot flag. A few seconds later, the sirens went to four short blasts. Everyone was relaxing.

The first boat pulled into the dock. It wasn’t a military vessel as the dispatcher had first reported. Joe knew, first reports—especially when people are scared—are seldom entirely accurate.

The second vessel, which was a thirty-foot civilian cabin cruiser and likely a transport, came in second. Both boats were seemingly harmless civilian-looking ones that would blend in with the other boats on the water, which would come in handy when FUSA naval forces or pirates came near. The only disadvantage to the civilian boats was that that thin fiberglass in the hull wouldn’t stop a .22 bullet, let alone what was just about to fly from Joe’s compound if those vessels hadn’t properly identified themselves.

Joe had about ten men behind sand bags with rifles and one M240 light machine gun pointed toward the approaching vessels. He walked up to the first boat in a sign of confidence, wanting to show his guys that he was fearless. He was reasonably certain he wasn’t going to die that day. Guess I’ll find out, he thought.

“Lieutenant Commander Dibble sends his regards,” yelled out a sailor in FUSA Navy fatigues as he approached Joe. When he got closer, Joe could see the “U.S. Navy” tag was off the fatigues and had been replaced with one saying, “Free Wash. State Guard.”

He didn’t look like Dibble, the Patriot naval officer who had landed there before and given Joe his “letter of marque” which was a letter from the commander of the Free Washington State Guard allowing Joe to operate as a privateer. The sailor was a younger guy, in his early thirties. When he finally came into the light and Joe could see him, the sailor was tan, suggesting he’d been out on the water a lot that summer.

So far, so good, Joe thought. He smiled and relaxed. He cinched his AR tight against his chest. He wasn’t going to need it right away. Out of habit, he checked to make sure it was on safe.

“May I ask why you didn’t radio ahead and let us know not to shoot you?” Joe asked. “You were a few seconds away from being blown out of the water.” He was serious. He was just about to order his men to annihilate the boats. Joe wasn’t pissed, but he was concerned. He didn’t want an incident like this to happen again. Next time, things might go poorly. Dying was bad enough, but dying from friendly fire was even worse. Not only are people dead, but those who kill them feel guilty for the rest of their lives. Besides the human toll, friendly fire destroys morale.

“We had the wrong frequency, sir,” the sailor said. “We called in one number off from what was on our cheat sheet,” he said. “We realized it and called in on the right one right before…”

“We shot you full of holes,” Joe said. Mistakes like this one accounted for more deaths than brave fights against the enemy. Details mattered in this business. Those details often mattered the most in the times when people were sleep deprived and scared to death, which was when people screwed up details the most.

Joe had already made his point about the radio frequency and didn’t want to be a dick, so he smiled and extended his hand for a shake. “I’m Joe Tantori. And you are?”

“Petty Officer Yearwood, sir,” the sailor said. “T. G. Yearwood of the Free Washington Navy.” Yearwood pointed to three others on board. “This is my crew.” The three tipped their helmets and nodded. No saluting on the battle field. Besides, Joe was a civilian. There was no need to salute him. Maybe, Yearwood thought, Joe had been commissioned as an officer in that letter of marque, but oh well. Not a lot of formality out here. Just getting a job done.

“I have some goodies for you, Petty Officer, but I need a little more identification,” Joe said. “I would hate to give away Patriot supplies to a thief, no offense.”

“None taken, sir,” Yearwood said. “I can do one better than identification. You are encouraged to contact Lt. Cmdr. Dibble on the frequency you have already been given.” Dibble had given Joe a piece of paper along with his letter of marque that had a special radio frequency on it and a code word. “Once you contact him,” Yearwood told Joe, “I will give you a code phrase, you will give it back to him, and he will verify that I am authorized to pick up the cargo.”

Joe nodded. “’Preciate it, Petty Officer.” Joe keyed the radio on his tactical vest and said, “Jeff. Bring me the letter of marque.”

A second later, a voice said, “Roger that.”

“Go ahead and relax, gentlemen,” Joe said to Yearwood. “You guys need some food, water, a potty break?”

“Yes, sir,” Yearwood said. He arranged for the transport vessel to dock so they could load up and avail themselves of the facilities. Joe arranged for the kitchen to start cooking up some breakfast for the sailors.

By this time, Jeff arrived with a piece of paper and a larger radio. Joe looked at the paper and saw the frequency, which Joe entered in the larger radio and looked at the first code word. It was “John Barry,” a Revolutionary War naval hero who almost no one knew of. Joe called that frequency and asked for “John Barry.”

A voice, which didn’t belong to Dibble, came on and said, “John Barry here. And who might this be?”

“Water buffalo,” Joe said, reading the second code word. Water buffalo? Why did he get a lame code name like that?

“Right on schedule,” the voice on the radio said. “Get the code word from your visitors and let me know what it is.”

Yearwood said, “Cheetah.”

Joe repeated “Cheetah” into the radio.

“OK, good to go, sir,” the voice said. “Your visitors are authorized to make a pick-up. Thank you for your support, sir.”

“Roger that,” Joe said. Joe got the inventory sheet of the booty and had a detail of Marines help the sailors load it. Lots of ammunition, medical supplies, cash, some gold and silver, some jewelry, and lots of miscellaneous things of value. There had been several bottles of booze, including some high-dollar brands, but Joe kept those for his boys.

He got a signed copy of the inventory to show what he donated and made sure the sailors rotated into the kitchen and got some chow.

“Home-cooked breakfast,” Yearwood said to Joe as he came back from the kitchen toward the boat. “Haven’t had that in a while. It was good, sir. Really good. Thanks.” There is something about a good meal that makes life so much better. Especially when you didn’t expect one.

“My pleasure, man,” Joe said, dispensing of military formality, since he wasn’t an officer. Or, maybe he was; Yearwood kept calling him “sir,” which could be because he was an officer or because Yearwood said “sir” out of habit. Joe made a mental note to look at his letter of marque later to see if he had been commissioned as an officer. Regardless of what it said, though, it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t going to start acting all military. He was a Patriot just doing what he could for the cause. And getting reimbursed for it.

“You need to fuel up?” Joe asked Yearwood.

“That would be great, sir,” Yearwood replied. He was just about to ask Joe for some fuel, but Joe beat him to it. Yearwood had enough to make it back to base, but with only a very tight margin for error. If they had to chase a vessel—or if they got chased—they would run out.

Joe told a Marine to have both of the vessels topped off. Both ran on diesel, which was good because Joe had a few hundred gallons of diesel in his underground tank. He started off with five hundred gallons and kept replenishing the tank with the diesel he got from the bank work. The fuel he was giving the two boats was a significant contribution, almost as valuable as the booty he was providing. Joe—ever the business man—thought about the portion of the booty he was keeping and realized the fuel he was using on patrols and giving to Yearwood was actually worth slightly more than what he was keeping from this deal. No biggie. The booty was just a way to finance the maritime patrols. If Joe was in this to make money, he would be a pirate.

Joe noticed that one of the sailors was talking to Marty, who was the gunnery sergeant in charge of the Marines. He walked over and listened. The sailor was briefing Marty on the most recent intelligence they had. Marty was with a corporal who had a nautical chart of the area, which they were marking with a pencil.

When he saw Joe, Marty said, “I’d rather be us than them. The Limas are in bad shape in Puget Sound. We pretty much own the water. Lots of little pirate craft. No way to interdict all of them. The Limas have massive protection for their big naval convoys.”

Marty smiled and said, “Get this. The Limas have full anti-sub protections going.”

That didn’t mean a lot to Joe at first.

“They are worried about Patriot subs sinking them!” Marty said. “That means we have regular units on our side making their lives miserable. Outstanding. Outstanding!”

Joe stood there and took it all in. Patriot naval forces making contact with him at this compound to haul away letter-of-marque booty. Lima forces bogged down trying to protect against Patriot submarines. Patriots having nearly free use of the water. This was going much better than Joe had thought it would. Much better.

“How many men you got?” Joe asked Yearwood.

“Seven,” Yearwood said. “Eight if you count me.”

Joe opened up a bag he had. He counted out eight cigars. “After you get done fueling, enjoy these on the ride back, gentlemen. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

Yearwood smiled. A home-cooked breakfast and a cigar. That’s when Yearwood knew they would win this war.