Glen Tate - 299 Days - The Restoration

“That fucking kid messed up my kit,” Ryan said out loud even though no one was around. “Now I need to get it dry cleaned. I don’t have time for that shit.”

Ryan started crying at the absurdity of what he’d just said. At the absurdity of killing a teenager. At the absurdity that Wes, a bad-ass gun fighter, died in basically an accident, falling out of a truck and getting hauled away. The absurdity that Ryan was actually talking about dry cleaning a tactical vest. Everything was so absurd. This war, this Collapse, this life.

The truck came up to Ryan and he pointed down the road toward the rest of the Team. “Go get them and bring them back here,” he said to the driver.

“Hop in,” the driver said.

The truck returned with the Team. They had silently and solemnly put Wes in the back of the truck. The Bravo Company soldiers saluted Wes. The Team appreciated the respect.

They slowly drove the truck back to the brewery. It was the longest, quietest ride in their lives. Everyone was silently reflecting and thinking about Wes, what he’d meant to them, what all they’d done together. His southern drawl, which was so unique up in Washington State, would be irreplaceable to the group. His father, who insisted that he become a Ranger, would be proud. Wes died a hero’s death, fighting bad guys and protecting the innocent.

And Kellie. Poor Kellie and their baby. He or she would never meet his or her father.

“Every New Year’s Day from here on out,” Ryan yelled all of a sudden to the guys in the cab, “one of us is going to spend it with Kellie and tell Wes’ child what a great man he was. Is that a promise?”

No one had to even answer.

At the brewery, before word about Wes had come back, Grant was glad that he got to be the commanding officer of the 17th again now that Lieutenant Colonel Brussels had taken over command of the brewery. That was a lot less to worry about than trying to hold everything together at the brewery. Grant looked for Ted because he really couldn’t do much with the 17th without Ted.

Grant found him napping. It was about 5:30 a.m. on whatever day it was. Grant had lost track of the dates, and days of the week. At this point, he only knew daytime and nighttime, and even that was getting blurry.

The 17th had taken over the third floor where the kids had stayed. There were several members of the 17th there, the ones who hadn’t been put on a detail with another unit. Grant couldn’t resist. For just a second, he was going to let himself lie peacefully on the cement floor and rest his eyes.

He woke up when he heard Ted saying, “Wakey, wakey, Lieutenant.”

“How long was I out?” Grant asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Two and a half hours,” Ted answered. “Let’s get some food.” Good idea, Grant thought. He was beyond hungry, although he was so used the feeling of hunger by now that it didn’t really bother him.

The sun was coming up. They went to the field kitchen and got some pancakes. Nice. Pancakes never tasted so good. Grant popped a caffeine pill and got ready for a day’s worth of work. Or a night’s worth. Or whatever it would end up being.

The runner came back from the copy center where the copy machines were actually working. The runner gave Grant a ream of paper and several pens. Grant neatly handwrote a small leaflet—four to one page and double-sided—that made four simple points. First, the Patriots had liberated the city. It was over. Second, civilians should stay indoors unless they had an emergency, in which case they could come to the brewery. Third, military and law enforcement of the “former authorities” could turn themselves in for consideration of a full pardon. Finally, gang members would be treated like the criminals they were. The pamphlet also said that anyone who reported a former regime member would be rewarded for assisting the Patriots. Grant had no idea if they had anything to reward informants with. He just wanted the Limas to see that they couldn’t trust anyone, especially the general population.

Grant had the runner and a newly formed work detail make as many copies as possible and then cut them up into quarters for distribution.

He then spent the next half hour or so talking to his troops, making sure they’d had some sleep and some food. But, he just generally wanted to perk them up and tried to do so by telling them how important their job was, and how the 17th had made the whole brewery HQ possible Grant also told his troops how he thought they might have Olympia wrapped up in a couple weeks and maybe they could get back to Pierce Point, or maybe they’d go up to Seattle. But Grant let his irregulars know that he wouldn’t volunteer the unit for any missions that weren’t absolutely necessary. Individual members could volunteer for missions, but Grant wasn’t going to obligate the whole unit just so he could please his superiors.

A runner came up to Grant and said, “Battalion Commander wants to see you right now!” Grant ran with the runner up to the fourth floor.

“Yes, sir,” Grant said, breathlessly when he saw Brussels. “What can I do for you?”

Brussels had a pamphlet in his hand. He screamed, “Is this yours?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said, a little timidly. This wasn’t going well.

“Did you clear this with me?” Brussels screamed. Everyone on the floor became quiet.

“No, sir,” Grant said, getting mad. Who the fuck was this guy to question Grant’s civil affairs work?

“This headquarters is under my command and you are in my headquarters,” Brussels seethed. “You are under my command.”

“Not really,” Grant blurted out. Oh great. That wasn’t very diplomatic.

“What did you say?” Brussels asked in a calm voice that showed he had the power.

“Well, sir, I’m not really under your command,” Grant said. “I was ordered by Lt. Col. Hammond, Special Operations Commander, to take care of civil affairs here. I am doing that.”

“What’s this about pardons?” Brussels asked. That must be what was pissing him off. Either that or he needed to yell at someone just to show he was in charge. Or he was tired. Or all of these things.

“We want to get the Limas to turn themselves in,” Grant said, stating the obvious.

“We?” Brussels yelled. “We do? No, Lieutenant Irregular, you want the Limas to turn themselves in. I want to kill them.”

Oh, so that was it — a difference in viewpoint about reconciliation after the victory. It was the old American Revolution versus French Revolution thing.

Might as well go for broke, Grant thought. He knew he’d have to win this argument with Brussels, or all he’d been working for would be lost.

“That would not be the most effective strategy from a civil affairs perspective,” Grant said.

Brussels exploded. “Oh, Mr. Civil Affairs, tell me again what civil affairs unit you were in? What training you’ve had for this?”

“None, sir,” Grant said with a little edge in his voice, feeling himself getting pissed. He wasn’t used to being screamed at and his exhaustion lowered his inhibitions. People were usually pretty happy to have him around. “But I have been put in charge of this, of civil affairs, and I’m doing my job, sir.”

Now Brussels was being challenged in front of his men. Grant wished he hadn’t done that, but it was too late now.

“Get me Hammond at Boston Harbor,” Brussels screamed to a radio operator.

About thirty silent and tense seconds later Lt. Col. Hammond was on the radio.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked.

“Did you tell some lieutenant in some irregular unit to do all the civil affairs here?” Brussels asked.