299 Days: The 17th Irregulars

Chapter 204 A Good Gang

Hearing Ted call him “Lieutenant” forced Grant to quickly think about what he needed to do after they landed at the farm. He realized he had to walk Jim Q. into the camp and explain what a Quadra was. And that Grant was their CO. Actually, Grant realized as he was waking up, this introduction of his rank and Jim Q. was pretty important. First impressions were everything. Grant started to get mentally ready for another important meeting. It was almost 3:00 a.m. and it was time to go to work.

They slowed down to a drift. Grant was impatient. He wanted to go ashore and get this meeting over with and then go to bed. He realized this wasn’t going to happen. Tonight was a work night. He could sleep in tomorrow. Or, technically, today since it was after midnight. Way after midnight.

Grant took the opportunity of the silent drift to prepare for his speech. He got some thoughts in order and decided on the political approach to take. He would confidently tell the men that he was their CO, but not be a dick about it. As a civilian, and, worse yet, a lawyer, people might assume he would be a dick on a power trip. Grant knew how to handle this.

“Hey, Ted,” Grant said, “I need you to introduce me as the new lieutenant. You know, Lt. Col. Hammond commissioned this guy, that kind of thing.” Ted nodded.

“I’m just a UCG,” Grant said, using the Team’s self-deprecating term for untrained civilian goofball, “so I need some credibility. You’re Special Forces and a master sergeant. You introducing me gives it some credibility.”

Ted nodded. He had been thinking the same thing.

Grant continued, “I’ll introduce Jim Q. and tell people about how I’ll be running things.” Grant smiled and said to Ted, “Which is to say, how you are running things. I’m in charge but you’re the day-to-day guy. Any recommendations on my approach, Sergeant?” Grant was practicing his style of command, which would consist of gathering lots of input from the people who actually knew what the hell they were doing, while he remained in command.

Soldiers needed to know their CO is in command. Even if he doesn’t know everything, they need to know there is a CO. Showing some humility by asking for a master sergeant’s “recommendations” was the perfect middle-ground approach.

“Sounds good, Lieutenant,” Ted said. “I have to get in the habit of calling you ‘Lieutenant’.”

“Oh, I know, ‘Sergeant,’” Grant said, “I’m doing the same, Ted. We’ll make this work, Sgt. Malloy.”

“Yes, sir,” Ted said to Grant, still practicing. “It’s good you’re taking your commission seriously, but not too seriously. Of course, military protocol is vastly relaxed in an irregular unit. But these guys need to see, at least at this early stage when they’re setting their views on what kind of unit this is, that there’s a CO who is taking the job seriously…and that there’s a sergeant around who knows what the hell he’s doing,” Ted said with a smile.

“Roger that, Sergeant,” Grant said, “Roger that.” Grant smiled. He and Ted would do a great job at this. Together. Like Grant and Rich would do the civilian side well. Together. There are no Lone Rangers or ego trips out here, Grant thought. That will get you killed.

Finally, it was time to land. The boat softly bumped up on the shore. They jumped out one by one. Grant’s hillbilly slippers were waterproof up to about the ankle. The water was about that deep, but he jumped in and the water went over his ankle and into his socks. Oh well, it was pretty warm out.

Ted and Sap helped Jim Q. with his duffle bag. He put it over his shoulders and started walking. Sap took point. Everyone had their rifle in hand, except for Jim Q. who hadn’t been assigned one yet. For all they knew, Marion Farm had been overrun and was now manned with Limas who were waiting to ambush them along the road. It was unlikely, but possible. Sap keyed the mic three times on the radio hanging from the left shoulder of his kit. A second later, there were four mic keys in response. Sap gave the thumbs up. The Patriots at Marion Farm were expecting them. Grant took up the rear, AR in hand and walking backwards half the time to watch for anyone behind them who shouldn’t be there.

The quiet. Once again, Grant loved the quiet of moving through the woods. He heard the wind gently swaying the evergreens. It was so peaceful. Then Grant would turn around, sweep the rear looking through the red dot and circle of his EO Tech sight on his AR, watching and listening for anything trying to kill him and his guys. It was armed serenity, despite the whole people-might-be-trying-to-kill-you thing.

After a few minutes, Sap halted them and keyed his mic twice. One keying of the mic was the answer. Sap kept moving forward.

By now, they could see the guard station on the little hill at the entrance from the beach to the farm. As they got closer, one of the two guards said, “Welcome, gentlemen. How ‘bout them Packers?”

Sap quickly said, “Offensive line could use some work” and kept walking. Grant realized that this was a code for testing friendlies. The mic key code could be compromised pretty easily, but references to Sap’s Wisconsin upbringing would be a much harder code to break.

They were now in the lights of the outbuildings and farmhouse. Grant was stunned at how large, and perfect, the place was. He was tired and it was dark, so he wasn’t fully taking in all the sights of the facility.

Grant did notice that there was a lot of activity at the farm for the middle of the night. Then again, people in this business probably worked a lot at night, like Grant was tonight.

They got to the farmhouse and went in the front door. Don, the Air Force RED HORSE guy, was in command in Ted’s absence. Ted said to Don, “Get everyone together, we have an announcement and,” he said pointing to Jim Q., “an introduction.” Don rounded everyone up. In the meantime, Grant and the others who had been in Boston Harbor had something to eat; cornbread from that night’s dinner, to be exact. Don brought everyone into the kitchen where Grant and the others were eating. There were about ten of them, including civilians Stan and Carl, Tom in his Air Force fatigues, and Travis in his Navy fatigues. There were a couple more Air Force and Navy guys helping Don put the facility together. The rest were a couple of infantrymen, all in their fatigues with the “U.S. Army” name tape taken off. This core group was a good sample of what the full unit would be: civilians, support troops from the Air Force and Navy, and infantrymen.

“All here, boss, except the guards.” Don said to Ted. Ted nodded.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement,” Ted said. “I would like to introduce you to Lt. Grant Matson, the commanding officer of our unit, the 17th Irregulars of the Free Washington State Guard.” Ted started applauding and the rest of the group quickly followed.

When the applause died down, Don said, “So we’re the 17th Irregulars, huh?” He thought about it and said, “Cool. What’s our mission?” Ted explained the mission—the short version—to Don and the others. They would train a mixture of FUSA military and civilians to be guerillas and to occupy an objective after the regular Patriot forces had taken it. Ted didn’t go into the details about Grant and the Team doing their civil affairs mission. They didn’t need to know all the details just yet.

Grant was embarrassed to admit that no one asked about him. The attention was on the unit and what it would be doing. That made sense when he thought about it, but Grant expected to be grilled by the troops on whether he had any military experience and whether he could be a battlefield commander. Instead, the troops just seemed to accept that he was the lieutenant and go on with their jobs.

Ted realized that Grant needed a little attention with the big announcement about him being in command. “And the guy you knew as Grant,” Ted said, “was commissioned by Lt. Col. Hammond of the Special Operations Command as our lieutenant.” Everyone applauded.

“Lt. Matson,” Ted said, “do you care to say something to your troops?” This was Grant’s chance to describe his philosophy of command and set the tone for the unit. This was a chance he would only get once, and he knew he had to make it good.

“Thanks, Sgt. Malloy,” Grant said. “Here’s the deal folks. I was a civilian my whole life. I will rely heavily on Sgt. Malloy here. I am not pretending to be something I’m not. Never have. I found that life goes much more smoothly when you’re not trying to be something you’re not. So, while I know quite a bit about tactical things and I know how to organize people pretty damned well, I have no military background to speak of, so I compensate for that by listening to Ted, or,” Grant caught himself, “as I now call him, Sgt. Malloy.”

Grant looked at each person in the kitchen for a moment and said, “But I am in command. I am responsible for each of you. I am working with HQ on some stuff that I am pretty good at,” he said, keeping the civil affairs thing vague. “Bottom line: Special Operations Command put me in charge. So I am. Gladly. This is how I have been called on to serve in taking this country back. It’s what I’m supposed to do, and I’m damned glad to be doing it.”

“Battlefield rules out here, obviously,” Grant said, trying to show his troops that he had some military knowledge. “No saluting, no attention when I walk in, none of that stuff. I would have you call me Grant like you have been, but I need to show the people who aren’t out here yet that I’m the CO, so I’ll ask you to call me ‘Lieutenant’ around the others. But when this core group is alone, I’m fine with Grant. All I want to do is win and bring each and every one of you back home to wherever home is for you. The rest of it—titles, saluting, that kind of ego shit—I could do without.”

“Here is one thing I insist on in this unit,” Grant said in his command voice. “Every single person is a warrior. Every single one. No matter what your job here, you are a warrior first and a dishwasher, or whatever, second. This isn’t like the military units some of you came from where things were so specialized that you only worked on one particular piece of equipment for four years and someone else took care of the ‘gun part’ of the mission. Not here. You will all be trained as fighters and you will get some rifle time. It might be guard duty, or it might be infantry duty, or it might be some high-speed commando shit in a raid, but you will all be rifle-toting fighters. If anyone isn’t OK with that, you’ll need to go. So, is everyone OK with that?”

A thunderous, “Yes, sir!” broke out in unison. Grant smiled. That’s the spirit he wanted to see. “Another thing,” he said, “that will be new to you military people is that, when the unit is up to full strength, it will have lots of civilians. I need the military people and civilians to work together seamlessly. This is a military unit, albeit it an irregular one. You military guys will know more than the civilians and will need to train them. But, we’re all Americans, we’re all Patriots, and we’re all risking our lives to make things right again. I want each of you military guys to take a civilian or two under your wing. Can you do that for me?”

Another thunderous, “Yes, sir!” The conversation was going better than Grant had expected.

“Another thing,” Grant continued. “Let your chain of command know if you need things or have suggestions on how to make this work better.” Grant wanted to get all the good ideas he could out of these people. “Hey, let’s be honest: We’re making this up as we go. None of us have ever been in an irregular unit. The U.S. hasn’t had irregular units for over two hundred years, but ask the British, and I’m sure they’ll say that irregulars can mess you up.” That got some cheers. Grant wanted to make the connection with the troops that the 17th was like the militias during the Revolutionary War. He hoped for the same outcome as in that war.

Grant continued, “We’re out here at a farm. None of you have ever set up a base at a farm. None of you have ever operated without the full logistical support of the United States military. Sergeants Malloy and Sappenfield have set up indigenous units, but with local tribes in far off places, so that’s a little different for them too, but the idea is just the same. This means we’ll look to them on a lot of matters, but I want each of you to tell us what’s working, what’s not working, and what would work better.”

“I mentioned chain of command,” Grant said, “so I better add that we’ll come up with squad leaders in a while.” Grant hadn’t talked to Ted about squad leaders, but just assumed that would be done. “When we have a couple squads worth of people out here, we’ll do that. I’m not rigid on many things, but the chain of command is important, especially because I won’t be out here full time. Unfortunately, I have to be back in Pierce Point during the days most of the time. I have a cover to maintain and some work back there that directly benefits the unit.” Grant was being vague and painting a slightly rosier picture than reality, but was referring to recruiting Pierce Point guards and walk-ons from the gate. Plus, Grant had to make sure Pierce Point ran smoothly. It wouldn’t do the 17th any good if all the residents in the vicinity of the Marion Farm were starving and killing each other. “It sucks that I’m not here 24/7. But,” Grant said pointing to the crowd in the kitchen, “we’re in good hands. You guys can handle anything.” They were nodding. “Sgt. Malloy will solve most of the problems,” Grant continued, “but he can get a hold of me whenever, so I’m always available by radio.” Sap told Grant he would give him one of the secure military radios they used to communicate with Scotty earlier and would show him how to use it. Grant would have the military radio with him at all times, and Scotty would keep the radio he had and would be back up for contacting Grant.

“Oh,” Grant said, because he almost forgot this important part, “I want some traditions out here. We’re a new unit starting from scratch. We can have our own traditions. Something like, I dunno, dinner on Sunday where we all sit down and relax with a big meal. Something like that. This is a family. Families have traditions. Traditions will be part of the great memories you have from being in this unit. Let’s have some traditions and stories to tell our grandkids.”

Ted smiled. He liked the idea of a Sunday dinner tradition. That was how things used to be. Once upon a time, America took time out and relaxed, without cell phones and computers, and without working second jobs to pay their taxes. People talked to each other.

“Any questions?” Grant asked.

There weren’t any.

“OK,” Grant said, “now to introduce the newest member of the unit, Jim Q.” Grant pointed at him, and he waved to the group.

“He’s our Quadra,” Grant said, “which is HQ’s term for these very unique radio crypto guys.” Crypto was short for “cryptographer,” which meant a code expert. Grant didn’t want to give out the details of the code talkers just yet. “Jim Q., why don’t you tell everyone about yourself?”

Jim Q. smiled. He wasn’t nervous about meeting a bunch of strangers. “I’m Jim and since I’m a Quadra, I’m going by Jim Q. I know a very, very unique code that I can use on the radio to talk to HQ and other irregular units. I can also use this code to write notes for HQ and read their notes that come in. They’re written in a code that the Limas absolutely cannot break. They’ve never seen or heard anything like this before.”

The soldiers were very impressed that HQ had cryptos out here, and felt special, like HQ cared by sending them a code guy. They were reassured that their communications would be encoded.

“I’m Arab, but Christian,” Jim Q. said, addressing what he knew most of the guys were likely thinking. “I’m not some terrorist.” He’d been explaining this since he was a kid. After September 11th, people got nervous at just the sight of him. He understood. He got nervous at the sight of young Arab men, too. “In fact, the terrorists love to kill Christians like me, and often do, especially in the country my family came from.”

“An Arab working the codes?” Grant said. “You’re probably wondering if we’ve lost our minds. Fair enough. But there are things you don’t know about that give me absolute trust in Jim Q. and the other Quadras. Here’s one: all of the Quadras’ families are in Patriot ‘safekeeping.’ One little incident and they’ll never see their families. And this ‘safekeeping’ was their idea.”

Grant looked at each soldier and said, “Here’s the bottom line: Jim Q. is our code guy, HQ extensively vetted him and all the others like him, and I trust him with my life and yours. Anyone have a problem with Jim Q.?”

It was silent and a few heads were shaking. “That’s what I thought,” Grant said, sounding a bit like a dick, but he needed to make this point in his command voice. He couldn’t have people distrusting any member of the unit, especially not the very crucial code guy. It was more important for everyone to trust Jim Q. than for Grant to not be a slight dick for a few seconds.

Anderson, one of the Army infantrymen out there, who was black, said, “Don’t worry, Jim Q. I’ll keep these cracker-asses away from you.” He laughed, letting everyone know he was kidding. Anderson had a great sense of humor and wanted to show everyone that the unit was cool with Jim Q. Grant appreciated the humor. It was a great way to put people at ease.

Ted said, also jokingly, “What Corporal Anderson means is that we have a diverse workplace and all are welcomed.”

Jim Q., not missing a beat, said, “A diverse workplace? That’s fine. Just keep the cracker-asses away from me.” Everyone laughed. Humor was a social lubricant. It made otherwise sticky situations flow smoothly.

“One more thing, Lieutenant,” Anderson said. He was on a roll and wanted to get another laugh. He made the number one with his thumb. Then he folded in his next two fingers, so just his right ring finger and pinkie were out. Then he held up all five fingers on his left hand.

“See,” he said looking at his thumb. “That’s a one.” Then he looked at the remaining two fingers, and the five on the other hand, and said, “That’s a seven.”

He looked up and smiled, “The 1-7, y’all. The 1-7.”

“That’s our gang sign,” Grant said. Some people were stunned. A Patriot guerilla unit with a “gang sign”?

“That’s right: our gang sign,” Grant said. “We’re a gang here at the 17th. A good gang.”

Everyone was smiling and nodding while flashing each other the “1-7” sign.

Grant sat back and watched his unit bond. They were a good gang, indeed.