299 Days: The Restoration

Chapter 300 “Kah-mah-la-malik!”

It was strangely quiet at the brewery after Bravo Company and half of the 17th left. It was noisy in one sense—radio traffic, people running around coordinating things, everyone asking Ted and Grant to make decisions—but it was quiet in another sense. Not seeing half the unit around was weird.

Grant had thought of a lot of scenarios over the past few months for combat in Olympia, but half his unit getting poached by a regular unit wasn’t one of them. He felt nervous. He always had a plan for everything. Everything. But not for this. He used plans like a crutch in stressful situations, and he didn’t have his crutch now. Everything seemed chaotic. And he was tired, which amplified his emotions.

Grant motioned for Jim Q. to come over. “Tell HQ that civil affairs is up and running in the brewery.” Jim Q. started talking in his code, but Grant heard “brewery” in English as he had before.

A reply came back on the radio. Jim Q. said, “Boston Harbor says they’ll start sending civil affairs assets and problems here. We’re the official civil affairs operation.” Jim Q. smiled. He was very proud of the people he was with.

More weird language on the radio. “We should be getting some MREs here on a couple of trucks. One white pick-up and one black one.”

Ted was way ahead of Grant. “Let the perimeter know,” he told a runner.

“Tell HQ that I could use a field kitchen and some more food here, too,” Grant said. “We can feed our forces and civilians.” Jim Q. started relaying those messages.

There were trucks and troops, friendlies, arriving now. There were so many of them that they stopped trying to identify the good guys. Everyone was a good guy. Grant was starting to get the feeling that there weren’t any bad guys around.

Grant looked at his watch. It was 7:58 a.m. and the sun was finally up.

“Boom!” The explosion was so loud and deep that it shook everything in the brewery. It was far off, but still. Very powerful. Gunfire erupted in the distance, right in the direction of the capitol. It was a full-on pitched battle with what sounded like hundreds of shooters, not the random pops they’d been hearing all night. It sounded like a major assault. Bravo Company was probably in on it. Grant prayed for his guys. He prayed for all the Patriots, but especially for his guys.

Grant tried to keep acting normal. He didn’t want his people to get alarmed.

“What the hell was that?” someone on the fourth floor asked. Everyone was quiet so Jim Q. could hear the radio and tell them.

Jim Q. shrugged. There were no reports yet.

The noise of the activity kept going, like the delivery of MREs, but people weren’t talking much. They were listening.

A few more minutes passed. Everyone was pretending to concentrate on their work but most were really straining their ears for word of what had happened. And what might be happening.

“Kah-mah-la-malik!” a jubilant voice came on the radio speaking in Jim Q.’s language. He was bursting with joy. “Kah-mah-la-malik!” he kept repeating.

Grant had no idea what “kah-mah-la-malik” meant, but it must be really good news.

“Victory!” Jim Q. yelled. “The Limas in the capitol buildings surrendered!”

Everyone started jumping and yelling. It was the happiest moment of Grant’s life. He felt guilty admitting that. The happiest moment of his life was supposed to be the birth of his children, but this was better. The horror was over. Things would be fixed. Finally. Finally.

“That quick?” Grant asked Ted. “How the…”

“Weird shit happens,” Ted answered with a huge smile on his face. “We knew the Limas were weak here, but twenty-four hours? That’s all it took? Wow.”

“The Limas detonated their ammo storage,” Jim Q. said breathlessly, relaying the reports he was getting from HQ. “That’s what the big explosion was.”

Grant looked out the windows facing the capitol buildings. There was a big black mushroom cloud rising in the early morning sky. He’d never seen a mushroom cloud. He always had associated them with nuclear explosions, but a large conventional explosion apparently could cause one, too.

Grant just watched the mushroom cloud. He’d waited years to see that. He’d worked and worried for years. He’d risked his job, then his marriage, then his life for this. And it just happened. A giant cloud of smoke slowly climbing into the air.

The gunfire was starting to die down. It sounded like some desperate people fired everything they had, some confident people returned fire, and then the desperate people dropped their guns. At least that’s how Grant hoped it was going.

Suddenly, the lights came on. Whoa. Grant looked at the other brewery buildings, the ones that were supposedly locked. The lights were on in those, too.

“What the hell?” Grant yelled.

Just then Don, the RED HORSE airman, came running into the fourth floor observation point.

“Ta da!” Don said. He took a bow. “You can thank me later.”

“How did…” Ted started to ask.

Don shrugged and then smiled. “I got skills. My guys got skills.”

Don looked at Grant, “I took the liberty of breaking into all the surrounding buildings and getting the electricity going. Water’s up and running, too. I thought we could use the facilities for all that will be coming our way.” He smiled and said to Grant, “I assume that was okay with you, Lieutenant?”

“Fuck yes, it was okay!” Grant yelled. “Oh — fucking - kay, indeed.” Grant wanted to hug Don, but that wouldn’t be appropriate. Oh, what the hell. He ran over and bro hugged Don. Not a full hug, just a bro hug. Hey, they were an irregular unit. They could do things like that.

Another coincidence, Grant thought. Right now, when wounded prisoners and civilians would be streaming to the only functioning civil affairs operation in the city, they suddenly had electricity and water.

You have a lot of people to help in the next few hours and days. I am helping you help them. Grant felt that instant calm come over him. He felt the goose bumps on his arms. He soaked in the feeling of hearing from the outside thought, and knowing he was doing what he was supposed to be doing. He realized he needed to get back to work, so he turned to Jim Q.

“Tell HQ,” he said to Jim Q., “that we have full electricity and water at all the buildings at the brewery. We can accommodate a field hospital, prisoner processing, and even civilians here.” Grant was so proud. The 17th, just a hillbilly irregular unit, was able to call in that piece of great news.

“Roger that, 17th,” a voice said in English over the radio. That was the first time Grant had heard English.

Another voice came on in English. “Please be advised that Quadras are no longer needed for routine traffic. We have too much radio traffic. Using Quadras for everything is slowing things down. Sensitive tactical communications should still go through Quadras, but routine traffic, such as the coordination of relief can be conducted in English.”

Jim Q. smiled. His job was done. He had accomplished what he wanted to: Olympia was in the hands of the Patriots and there was no longer a need for him to be using his language on the radio. That meant victory. His family would be honored for this. They would be proud of this for generations. Jim Q. took a deep breath and soaked in the feeling. Honor for generations. That, and avenging his cousin’s imprisonment, was why they did this.

About an hour later, the first wounded started to arrive, followed by a medical unit and then more wounded and medical units. They were feverishly setting up a field hospital in one of the brewery buildings and Don and his guys were helping them. Random members of the 17th split themselves off into work details to help. It was amazing to watch. They were just helping their buddies like they’d done for months at Marion Farm.

“Get the kids out of here and somewhere else,” Grant said. They needed the space for the wounded. Someone ran down the stairs to the second and third floors. Pretty soon, the kids were gone.

Anne Sherryton went with them. She would protect them. Actually, being with them was more for her recovery than their safety. She knew she wouldn’t do an awful thing like she’d done a few hours ago if those kids were around. Besides, she promised the kids that she’d read them bedtime stories. And she was going to keep that promise. That was what normal, good people do.

The next few hours were a blur. Grant hadn’t had any real sleep in… he actually had no idea. There was so much to do. He needed to make sure the 17th personnel got all the incoming soldiers and civilians to where they needed to be, and ensure HQ knew what they were doing at the brewery. He needed to make sure the area was still secure and that the civilians could be controlled so they didn’t swarm the place. He also needed to make sure there were no Limas hiding among the civilians and trying to detonate a suicide bomb.

“Put up signs for the hospital, prisoner processing, and kitchen,” Grant remembered telling someone who ran off and, presumably, followed his instructions. Franny asked Grant if the brewery had any refrigerators or freezers. “Try the Baskin Robbins up the street,” Grant suggested.

The radio was full of urgent messages. Everyone in the Patriots’ Olympia forces seemed to have something to say to the civil affairs hub or ask the hub for. And, though Grant was technically in charge, most of the time he had no idea what he was doing. He was just doing. Occasionally he would hear himself talking and was amazed at how authoritative and knowledgeable he sounded.

After a while, Grant’s voice was getting hoarse. He had to stop and… just not talk. He was getting woozy again so he tried to eat an MRE, but he couldn’t. He tried to lie down and get a quick nap. He couldn’t. He had to continue doing all the stuff he was doing.

Keep going. This is no time to stop.

He jumped back up, full of energy and ran at full speed until dark.

He saw some of the Bravo Company squad leaders coming up to the fourth floor, which had become the command post.

“Any casualties?” Grant asked the squad leaders.

They nodded. “Two,” a sergeant answered.

“Who?” Grant asked. He was praying it wasn’t any of his.

“A couple of ours, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. “Your guys are all fine.”

Grant tried not to act happy. Two Bravo Company men were casualties and that wasn’t good news.

“How bad?” Grant asked.

“One KIA,” the sergeant said, meaning killed in action, “and one with some shrapnel to the legs. He’ll be okay.”

“My condolences,” Grant said to the sergeant who nodded slightly at Grant.

That reminded Grant that they needed a place to put bodies. He had a runner find Don to see if any place in the brewery had a functioning refrigeration system. Nope. Don and the commander of the medical unit came up with a temporary solution and Grant didn’t want to know what it was.

Pastor Pete and a couple other chaplains had set up a makeshift chapel in one of the brewery’s office buildings. They were counseling soldiers one on one. Lots of grieving over lost comrades. Lots of people who had never seen or done what they had just seen or done, like killing people. Or watching people kill and be killed. Or seeing horrific injuries. There were lots of Anne Sherrytons. Nice people doing horrible things and trying to figure out what just happened.

Grant saw the Team coming up to the fourth floor. They looked tired.

“Welcome back,” Grant said. “How’d it go?”

“Shitty,” Pow said. “We didn’t see any action.”

The Team went on to tell Grant about how they slowly made their way down the main street to the capitol only to hear of the surrender right before they got into position. There were Limas running away from the capitol and straight toward their general position.

“Bravo Company got a bunch of them who wouldn’t drop their weapons,” Wes said. “We were holding an intersection and the bad guys went the other way.” Wes was a little disappointed.

Capt. Edwards came up and said to the Team, “Get something to eat and maybe a nap. We’re going back out in an hour. Night patrol.” The Team nodded slowly. They wanted to go back out and kill some bad guys, but… they were so tired.

Grant pulled Edwards aside. “Can I ask a favor?” he asked Edwards after a bright idea jumped into his mind. “I need to motivate some of my guys.”

“What do you have in mind?” Edwards asked.

“Could my Team do a motorized patrol with you guys?” Grant asked.

“Sure,” Edwards said. “As long as you supply the motor.” He looked at Grant, “Why a motorized patrol?”

“Kind of an inside joke,” Grant said. “But it’ll motivate them.”

“Okay,” Edwards said. He didn’t care about some joke. If Grant wanted his guys to ride, and if he provided the ride, whatever.

Grant went to find the Team as they were just finishing their pancakes. He got an eerie feeling as he watched Wes eat his pancakes. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he sensed something bad.

They got their gear and slowly went outside to Mark’s truck. Grant handed the keys to Bobby. “Get in.”

The Team got into the truck, wondering what was up. Once they were in, Grant said, “This never gets old.”

“Beats the shit out of selling insurance,” Pow said with a smile. It was a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

They all laughed. Then teared up. It was exactly what they needed to hear. They needed to be reminded that they were part of a team, something special. They had come a long way. They’d been doing this for months now—years, counting all the pre-Collapse training they had done together. They could do this. They were tired and cold and heading out into pockets of fierce Lima resistance, about to face urban combat which was the most dangerous kind. But they could do it. Because this was what they were made to do, and who they were made to do it with.

This never gets old, Grant thought to himself as he watched them drive away.