299 Days: The Stronghold

Chapter 120 Preparing for Attack (May 12)

It was late afternoon and Grant knew the day was just beginning. He would be up all night again. He was glad he got all those caffeine pills a few years ago when he was storing away supplies. They had a shelf life of several years and were cheap, back then. Good luck finding them now. When he was preparing for all of this, he had a feeling he’d be pulling long nights on guard duty, and tonight was one of them. Well, not guard duty. Probably actual fighting.

Operation Head Fake, phase one, was complete.

Dan’s dogs were well behaved, which wasn’t a surprise. Dan had them tied up in a shaded area of the fire station. Despite all the activity and noise, they just sat quietly. Every once in a while Dan would come and pet them.

Cars and trucks started heading down the road from the Grange to the gate. The Grange ladies—Grant needed to learn their names, but he was always so busy when he saw them—were bringing enough food to choke a horse. They were loving this, getting to cook for all these people. It was like having all the grandkids over, except people were about to try to kill all the “grandkids” they were feeding.

“Eat up,” Dan yelled. “It’s going to be a long night.” He said it like he’d said it many times before in the Air Force.

Next, a car came to the gate with the medical team. There was Lisa. Some of the guards hadn’t seen her yet and they were gawking. A couple made comments about the hot chick. It didn’t bother Grant. In fact, he found having twenty-something guys think his forty-something wife was hot was quite an honor.

Ryan looked at Grant and said, “Dr. Foxy is here.” That nickname spread among the guards. It was all good fun, Grant thought. Besides, these guys were about to be in the first gunfight of their lives, so they deserved a light moment. Reflecting on the gunfight he was in with the looters back in Olympia, he knew how much they would change after this.

Lisa found Grant and came up to him. She was a little bewildered. She’d seen Grant and the Team walking around in kit and with guns, but she’d never seen anything like the gate. There were about two dozen armed men, some looking very military. There was a seriousness in the air. There was a gate over a bridge that she used to drive across on leisurely trips out to a cabin. Now it looked like a war zone. There was a bustle and hubbub of military preparations that was unmistakable. Lisa had never experienced it, and never expected to experience it. She was a nice girl who became a doctor and expected to live an easy suburban life. Now she was at a soon-to-be battlefield preparing to treat gunshot wounds. Lots of them. She was concerned about the teenage kids with hunting rifles who didn’t seem to know what they were doing.

She also worried about Grant. She was terrified that she would watch him get shot and would have the image burned in her memory forever. It was hard enough to be a suburban mother turned battlefield doctor, but worrying about having to watch her husband get killed or maimed was too much.

For a second, Lisa thought that this was all Grant’s fault. There probably wasn’t a battle like this back in Olympia. The stores were probably open and the police were keeping order there. It was stupid to be out here in Hillbillyville.

Then she remembered how things were when they left Olympia, and she knew that it had only gotten worse since then. No, she was actually glad Grant had this cabin out here and stored up all that food and even had those horrible guns. She knew she was lucky to be out there with everyone, but she resented it at the same time. Why couldn’t things just be normal again?

She was busy making sure the nurses and EMT had what they needed. They were really short on medical supplies. Tim, the EMT, had two really good full trauma kits and a few medium-sized first aid kits. Other people, including the Team, had small first aid kits. It would do for this one battle, but they’d be out of medical supplies for the next one.

Oh, God, Lisa thought: a battle. This was horrible. There would be a next battle. Is this how life would be from now on? War and battles and shootings and amputations?

Tim, the EMT, was talking to Dan when Dan motioned for Lisa to come over. Dan and Lisa had met at the Grange a few days earlier. “Doctor,” Dan said, “Tim and I were trying to make sure as many guards as possible have first aid kits. Tim will find out which ones have first aid training and get kits to them, but we need a field hospital. Do you have a preference on which building to use?”

“My ER back in Olympia,” Lisa said. She realized that wasn’t a constructive comment, so she pointed to the volunteer fire station and said, “Well, I guess that will do.” It was made of cinder blocks and was partially shielded by a dirt berm. It would be “bullet resistant,” but not bullet proof.

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” said Dan, who had already decided that’s where the field hospital would go. The fire station was crowded. That’s where people were eating and storing gear. Dan motioned for Ryan, who was nearby.

“Ryan,” Dan said, “Take Dr. Matson and go clear out all the space she needs in the fire station for her field hospital. Obviously her use of space takes precedence over any others.” Ryan nodded and started running over to the fire station.

Everything happened quickly, with a hustle at the gate as they were preparing for the attack. For the arrival of the gangs, or FC, or cops or whoever might be coming any minute.

Truckloads of volunteer guards started showing up; mostly guys of varying ages, but some women, with hunting rifles. Some had pistols, too, and a few had shotguns. They had extra ammunition in plastic Target and Wal-Mart bags. Not exactly “tactical,” but effective.

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.”

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.