299 Days: The 17th Irregulars

Chapter 209 Simplified… But More Complicated

Grant was doing less and less of his “day job.” He had people in place who were taking care of just about everything. He was constantly amazed at how Pierce Point had come together for mutual aid. A prime example of this was Sandy McPherson’s battery bank, where people were donating their unused batteries, which had become incredibly valuable now that the stores no longer had them There were still problems—mostly greed, selfishness, and jealousy due to scarce resources—but, overall, Pierce Point was humming along. They continued to hear about how things were going in Frederickson and elsewhere. They were very lucky to be where they were.

People were getting accustomed to death. The most common source of death was the lack of medications and simple medical conditions, especially infections, which had been no big deal during peacetime. There were some suicides, too. Pastor Pete’s Sunday services were growing, as were the funeral services afterwards.

But for every horrible thing that happened, there seemed to be one good thing. People were sharing. People were finding out that, after a few months of not having any peacetime luxuries, they weren’t the weak and dependent sheeple they thought. They could actually take care of themselves. People were discovering themselves and their strengths.

The “new normal” everyone was talking about had definitely settled in. The guards guarded. The farmers farmed. The Grange kitchen ladies cooked for a growing number of people who contributed to the community with their labor or donations. The FCard crew made their daily runs to town and returned with enough food to make a difference. The clinic treated people. The librarian collected and checked out books—and politely reminded people when their books were overdue. The adults and kids socialized at Saturday night events. People seemed to be living their lives almost like they had for centuries all over the world, just without all the comforts—or craziness—of pre-Collapse America. It was the acoustic version of life.

On the other hand, life got much more complicated after the Collapse. It was simplified in some ways, like no more running back and forth to soccer practice, but it was more complicated in other ways, like hiding the fact that you’re the commanding officer of the 17th Irregulars. Simplified, but more complicated.

The secrets and the lying were really bothering Grant. Lying and keeping secrets was all he did anymore. He had so many secrets, cover stories, and lies going that he couldn’t keep track of them. Around Pierce Point, he started a new policy with people, including his family: not saying much. The less he said, like about why so many strangers had been seen out by the Marion Farm, the lower the chances that he’d contradict himself and tip someone off that he was lying. He’d still chat with Pierce Point people and his family about mindless things, but he tried not to talk about anything important. It was killing him. He hated to be deceptive, especially with Lisa.

A few times, when he would abruptly change the subject, she would ask him what was wrong. “Nothing,” he’d snap. It was unfair to her, but lives literally depended on it.

Lisa wondered if everything that Grant had on his mind, like helping to run Pierce Point and maybe even the looters he’d killed back in Olympia, was starting to get to him. She was worried that her husband was changing right before her eyes from a good man into a grouchy killer. She was afraid he was changing forever. She looked for signs that “old Grant” was back. She would seize any little shred of good news, like when he wasn’t grouchy. She was worried about him and about them. She could feel their marriage slipping away.

So could Grant. He hated it when he snapped. He would try to make up for it. He would explain to her over and over again, “It’s not you, honey. It’s all this crap I have on my mind. It’s not fair to you. Sorry.” Then something would happen, like when they thought a FUSA reconnaissance helicopter was snooping around, and he’d be back to snapping. He couldn’t help it. And he hated that.

Grant had mentally written off his marriage twice before. The first time was when Lisa had initially refused to come out to the cabin. The second time was when Grant had signed up with the Patriots. At that time, he figured his marriage was one of the prices he would have to pay when he had to bug out and fight this war. “Lives, fortunes, and sacred honor,” he recalled from the Revolutionary War. The only question was whether he would also pay even more by going to jail, getting wounded, or dying. Or maybe all three.

Even if Grant didn’t get captured, wounded, or killed, his marriage was a cost that would almost certainly be paid, especially if things continued like they were going. He went back and forth in his mind—sometimes for hours a day—about whether there was a way to get through this without damaging his marriage. Yes, there was. By quitting the Patriots and not putting his very special skills to good use.

But, try as he might, Grant could not get past the absolutely undeniable conclusion that he was there for a reason. People were counting on him. He had a job to do. A really important one. One he didn’t want to do, but he had been placed there, at this time, and with these people to do. He had no choice. If his only concern was never making Lisa mad, he wouldn’t have prepped and he would have stayed in Olympia. And, he would very likely be in jail or dead now. So not making her mad could not be the sole thing he had to consider.

As Grant did less and less of his Pierce Point day job, he filled up that time by doing more and more for the unit. He went out to Marion Farm as often as he could, which was at least every other day. He had Sunday dinner out there. That tradition was really taking off. Pretty soon he was going out to Marion Farm every day. Then he started staying overnight there a few times a week. He told Lisa that he had to work with the Team. She was actually glad to have “grouchy Grant” out of the house.

The Team was integrating very nicely with the rest of the unit. Just like when they rolled into Pierce Point for the first time, they were not acting like they were experts. This was even more appropriate because they were now among regular military personnel, some of whom were accomplished infantrymen. The Team, with some initial guidance from Grant, approached their role within the unit by thinking of themselves as specialists. They specialized in the SWAT stuff. They had a very specific job. They didn’t try to be infantrymen. Or medics, or RED HORSE, or electricians, or communications guys, or cooks. They learned all they could from everyone else. They were always the first to set down their rifles and help unload supplies. They made sure and took their turn on KP, which was the military acronym for helping in the kitchen with washing dishes and other unglamorous tasks.

While they were integrating with the 17th, the Team still did their own thing and remained a tight group. They trained together at the Richardson House in Pierce Point. They did their day jobs out at Pierce Point, away from the 17th out at Marion Farm. They only spent about ten percent of their time at the Marion Farm with the 17th, so they were the same close-knit band of brothers the other ninety percent of the time. Training, working, and living together.

The Team Chicks were getting more and more used to the Team being gone much of the time, especially overnight on their “training” which was at the secret place they couldn’t tell the girls about. While the Team still wanted to spend every second they could with the Team Chicks, especially in the privacy of one of the cabins, they had been together for several weeks now and things had cooled down a bit with the girls. Things were still smokin’ hot, just not white hot, which made it a little easier to be away.

Sure enough, people were starting to wonder what was up out at the Marion Farm. The 17th was doing a great job of remaining hidden. They took secrecy seriously. They only came in from the beach landing at night, had hidden guards around the perimeter to keep others out, limited guests to very trusted people like Grant and the Team, and kept the noise down.

But still. It was hard to have a few dozen people in on a big secret and not have them talk, which was especially true when the only form of entertainment was the rumor mill. Luckily, most people discounted the rumors they heard because most gossip had proven to be notoriously unreliable. But it became almost a sport for people to sit around and say, “You know what I heard?” and then slightly exaggerate a story that had been slightly exaggerated when they heard it. These slight exaggerations added up over a short period of time into big exaggerations until the rumor became unbelievable and most wouldn’t believe it, though a few always would.

Some people in Pierce Point knew that something was going on in the area around the Marion Farm. The cover story about the “rental team” was proving a good one because people took the story and then tried to analyze it. How many fighters were on the rental team? Were they from around here? Were they ex-military or law enforcement? How much rent was Pierce Point getting? But they were confining their rumors to talking about the details of a “rental team” instead of a new topic, like whether there was a Patriot irregular unit out at the Marion Farm. A rental team was much, much less of a threat to the authorities.

One of the topics of conversation between Grant and Ted in Grant’s frequent trips to the Marion Farm was exactly what the Pierce Point rumor mill was saying about the “rental team.” It seemed that most people in Pierce Point thought a rental team was out there, but they realized they needed to keep it secret for the safety of the rental team—and to make sure Pierce Point got the rent. That was the beauty of the rental team cover story: people had a personal incentive to keep the secret.

Ted told Grant that the unit was now up to thirty-seven fighters. They were mostly ex-military recruited and screened by HQ at Boston Harbor. They came out in boatloads of two or three, along with supplies. Paul was ferrying them in every night. Sometimes, a couple of runs a night. The Chief would make the runs, too.

One night, Grant was out at Marion Farm and had just met the latest boatload of fighters, which he always did when new fighters joined the group. On this specific night, the first boatload had three new fighters; two were former Army. One was an MP, or military policeman, and the other was an air defense technician. Grant and Ted were glad to have the MP; he would help the Team on their unique mission.

“Air defense, huh?” Grant said to the former technician when she came into the farmhouse kitchen, which was becoming the “office” to meet the new Commanding Officer.

“Yes, sir,” the very attractive twenty-something woman said as she stood at attention in the kitchen. Better get a big stick to keep the men away from her, Grant thought. Ted had a system set up for the females to have separate quarters and facilities. There was a strict no-fraternization order. In an ideal world, the distractions between men and women would be dealt with by completely separate facilities, but this was not an ideal situation. Grant and Ted needed every fighter they could get, especially those with skills. This woman could shoot and march and build up the facilities at the farm, which was really all that Grant and Ted cared about.

“What was your unit?” Grant asked.

“The 5-5 of the 31st Air Defense Artillery Battalion at Ft. Lewis,” she said. Her name tag said “Sherryton.”

“You were a technician, Corporal Sherryton?” Grant asked. He had her file in his hands. Her first name was Anne and she held the rank of a Specialist 4 in the FUSA Army, but was made a corporal in the 17th Irregulars.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I kept the computers running.” What she didn’t say, because it wasn’t the most best point to make, is that she joined the Army to pay for college, which was very common before the Collapse. The military was another way for people to qualify for entitlements. This was not universally true, but was often the case, especially among the support personnel such as the technicians who kept the high-tech military running.

“Why are you here, Corporal?” Grant asked in an inquisitive, not demeaning, tone. He knew that she had passed the screening at HQ, but was interested in each of his soldiers.

“This can’t go on any longer, sir,” Sherryton answered. “I want my country back. It’s that simple, sir.”

She paused. Should she tell him and all the people in that kitchen the truth? Tell them the awful things that had happened? Oh, what the hell. He asked a question and she had an answer. She looked at Grant and felt like she could trust him. Besides, she had nothing to lose. Everything had been taken from her. This guerilla unit out in the sticks was her home now, and probably her final home. It was the last stop on a train ride through misery like she never thought she’d see. This was it –the end of the line. Might as well get it all out now. It would feel good to tell people why she was doing this, and to get it off her chest, which was easier said than done. Telling the story would probably make her cry, and that was not a good thing for a soldier to do, especially in front of other soldiers, and definitely when first meeting the new commanding officer. Not to mention that crying was ten times worse because she was a female soldier and being emotional could be used against her to say she wasn’t “combat ready.”

She was trying not to get emotional. She quickly got the quiver in her lip under control, which she had been doing a lot of lately. Turn the crying into anger, she told herself. She listened to herself and took a few seconds before she turned the crying into anger. Then more anger. Then more. Now she was ready to tell the world why she was out there.

“The gangs, sir,” she said at attention, tough as nails. “They got my family back in Chicago while I was training in Oklahoma; my mother, my father and…my poor little sister. That’s all I’ll say.”

Sherryton straightened up even more than when she was at attention, looked Grant straight in the eye, and said, “Payback, sir.” She squinted her eyes, her voice got icy and scary, and she repeated, “Payback.” The room was silent and the tone of her voice was frightening. She wanted to kill people. A lovely and charming young lady wanted to kill people.

Perfect, unfortunately. That was exactly what Grant was looking for. A motivated fighter with nothing to lose. She’d already lost everything back in Chicago. Forget that there was no air defense computer system for her to fix. She had what it took out here.

“Welcome to the 17th Irregulars, Corporal Sherryton,” Grant said as he extended his hand for a handshake and smiled.

Then Grant turned his smile into a fearless stare, looked her right in the eye, gritted his teeth, and said, “We’ll give you a chance for payback.” He quickly turned back into a compassionate person. He felt horrible for this innocent young lady. “My condolences about your family.”

She nodded and mouthed “Thank you,” and looked down at the floor.

Grant sensed the guilt she felt. So many people had been away from home when terrible things happened to their families.

He said, “You couldn’t have stopped them. But,” Grant pointed all around the kitchen to all the people there, “We can. And will. I can’t wait until we unleash on them.” Sherryton halfway smiled. It was the closest thing to a smile she could muster.

Grant got his composure back and said to her, “Report to Sgt. Sappenfield here and he’ll get you squared away with your quarters.”

Grant paused and wondered if he should say the next thing that came to his mind. Oh, what the hell. She had opened up with him. He took her hand in a handshake and looked her right in the eye.

“Welcome, Anne.” Grant wanted to add that personal touch, even though it wasn’t military protocol, so she would feel like this was her new home. He needed one hundred percent out of every fighter. Connecting with each one of them on a personal level—a level much deeper than just military protocol—was essential. Who gave a crap about military protocol? Grant wasn’t even a “real” officer, anyway.

It was past midnight and Grant wanted to get home for a little sleep. “What you got for me, Sergeant?” Grant asked Ted, requesting his briefing on what was going on when Grant was off in Pierce Point doing his day job. The two men left the crowded kitchen and walked into the downstairs bedroom of the farmhouse, which was where they could talk behind a closed door.

When they got into the bedroom and closed the door, Ted said, “Things are going pretty well.” He went over the new arrivals. There were some skilled people, but mostly ones like Anne people who had the general soldiering skills necessary and were physically fit, emotionally sound, and could shoot a rifle, but, more importantly, who wanted to take their country back. The civilians had no military training, of course, but had reasons to be there. They were people who had been in the crosshairs of the government. One was even a POI, like Grant.

“We’re at about one-third strength now,” Ted said. “We have some more work to do to get this farm ready to house about one hundred personnel. But we’re slowly building it up as the new arrivals come. We put them to work on the facilities. We’re getting them slowly integrated. That’s the advantage of getting them a few at a time. We can see what skills they have, if they are leaders, that kind of thing.”

“How we doin’ on supplies?” Grant asked. That was always at the forefront of his mind.

“Decent. So far,” Ted said. “Food is largely taken care of. We have basic FCard foods like pancake mix, cornbread mix, and oatmeal. We’re getting a garden going, some chickens for eggs, and Paul and the Chief are getting us fresh fish most nights. Oh, and Anderson shot a deer last night. He was pretty proud of his city-boy self becoming a hunter.”

“We only have a minimal amount of medical supplies,” Ted continued. “HQ is getting us more. Soon, or so they say.” Ted thought they would come, but he had spent his whole life being told that supplies were just about to arrive. This was different, however. Unlike his FUSA Army days when there were unlimited supplies and it was just a bureaucratic battle to get them, now supplies were actually scarce.

“Weapons?” Grant asked.

“Got a decent supply,” Ted said, with a smile. “We basically have the inventory of the gun store.” Ted and Chip had split the inventory up when they evacuated Chip’s gun store after the Olympia riots started. Ted took about half and got them to HQ in Boston Harbor, where they were earmarked for the 17th and distributed in dribs and drabs. Chip had the other half and they were in Grant’s basement. Or, had been. Chip had moved them out about a week ago over the span of two nights.

“How many is that?” Grant asked.

“I have seventy-one ARs. Almost all with iron sights, but a few with optics, mostly red-dot sights. About 250 magazines. About 15,000 rounds of 5.56. About a dozen AKs, decent supply of mags and ammo. A handful of tactical shotguns and butt loads of 12 gauge ammo, mostly bird shot. Assorted side arms. Different calibers and magazines, but lots of 9mm Glocks and Berettas. Some Sigs and XDs. Some in .40, and some 1911s.”

“Any heavy stuff?” Grant asked.

“Two M240s machine guns,” Ted said. “One is at the beach landing entrance you saw. The other one is being unpacked and cleaned up right now. We have a little ammo for the 240s, but I’d like more.”

“Explosives?” Grant asked.

“Not much,” Ted said. “We have a handful of grenades, but that’s it. Some training grenades, which will be more important now than live ones. I’m harping on Boston Harbor for more grenades and some grenade launchers, but they’re a bit overwhelmed now.”

“I bet we’ll get more of the good stuff as regular units come over to our side,” Grant said, half predicting it and half just being hopeful.

“Probably. I never count on that, though,” Ted said.

“Comms,” Grant said. “Can’t forget comms.” He was trying to be the wise commanding officer, even if he wasn’t.

“We have a decent assortment of handheld radios and a couple secure ones for talking to Boston Harbor,” Ted said. “Jim Q. is all over that. Man, that code talker shit is awesome.”

“So he’s workin’ out?” Grant asked.

“Yep. Very well,” Ted said. “He stays in the background, but is social. He lets everyone know he’s not a Muslim, which is prudent, unfortunately. He talks to them about modern American culture: movies, music, sports. He speaks perfect English; no different than you or me. The troops can tell real quickly that he’s been living in America his whole life. And he’s mastered the comms plan. He knows it all, except how to fix radios, but that’s really not to be expected from a civilian.”

“What’s next out here?” Grant asked, wanting to wrap it up. It was late and he was tired.

“We keep getting more personnel and supplies in a couple boatloads at a time just like we’re doing,” Ted said. “Then it’s training time.”

“When do you want the Team here full time?

Grant asked.

“Not until we’ve got the cadre,” Ted said, referring to the term for the troops in a Special Forces guerilla unit, “basically trained. Then we’ll fold in the Team. We’ll have them get integrated with the cadre. Then we’ll practice moving and communicating as a whole unit.”

Ted looked at Grant and said, “Then it’s go time. Probably in a couple of months.” Grant could tell that Ted knew something that Grant didn’t. He could also tell that when the time was right, Ted would tell him. It would be uncool now to ask for the details. Grant knew that in a real military unit, with a real commander, he would be in on all the details. But this was different. Grant was away from the unit most of the time and could be captured in Pierce Point if the Limas got in there or had a sympathizer. Grant was actually glad he didn’t know the specific details.

Grant nodded to Ted. A couple of months? Wow. This was serious and only kept getting more serious. First, the riots. Then the bug out, the hangings, joining up with the Patriots, Snelling getting whacked, building up the troops at the farm, and now “go time” in a couple of months.

It all just naturally progressed. At any given time, it would have seemed that combat was unlikely. But one event slowly and naturally flowed into the next, and then the next. It was going to happen. What would have seemed like a crazy concept only a year ago was now becoming a reality.

Combat in a couple of months? Grant was glad to get it over with. He wanted to either die or win. One way or another, he just wanted to get this thing over with. He was scared and excited at the same time.

Ted could tell that Grant—a civilian who had never been in combat—was scared and excited. The new guys always were. New officers were especially scared and excited because they wanted to see if they had what it took. New officers wanted to see if their units had been trained and led well enough to make it through those few minutes of hell that were coming.

“We’ll be fine, Grant,” Ted said in a soft and reassuring voice. “We’re not going out until we’re ready. I have that assurance from HQ. I insisted on it. Besides, Hammond knows this. He’s an SF guy. He’s been in indigenous units that weren’t ready. He knows that it’s my call when we’re ready.” Grant wasn’t offended at all that it wasn’t his call; he was relieved. Ted was the professional here.

Grant relaxed. All the “coincidences” started flashing through his mind that put him in this place at this time. Then he thought about the message from the outside thought on the starlight boat ride to Boston Harbor that everything would be fine. Grant looked at Ted and put his hand on his shoulder.

“I have every confidence in you, HQ, and these guys out here,” Grant said with a smile. Grant was truly happy. He knew things would work out. He just knew it. And it made him joyous.

“And, I gotta admit, I have confidence in me,” Grant said to Ted. “Between you and me, Ted,” Grant said with a big smile, “we’ll do this job right.”

Ted smiled, too. He was glad his untrained civilian lieutenant had some self-confidence—and the good sense to trust a twenty-five-year Special Forces veteran like him. It was the perfect combination of what was needed in an untested lieutenant.

Ted put his hand on Grant’s shoulder, too. “Yes, sir, we’ll do this job right,” he said. Then he grinned and added, “Hell yes, Grant. Hell yes.”