Glen Tate: 299 Days: The 17th Irregulars

In late June, the legitimate authorities flexed their muscles and used what remained of their operable helicopters and took out a few Patriot units. The Patriots hit back hard.

Today they were going to mount a big coordinated raid on the Tacoma TDF and freed several hundred political prisoners. The Patriots did this with some very good special operations soldiers, mostly Rangers from Ft. Lewis. They also brazenly drove civilian vehicles full of regular forces and irregulars right into the heart of Tacoma, slicing through the woefully weak roadblocks and quickly shooting up the pathetic Freedom Corps guards. They fought their way out of town after they got the prisoners into city buses they’d stolen. It was impressive. Tom knew which side had motivated troops and it wasn’t his.

“I got a load of contractors,” Tom said to Brown over the increasing noise of the helicopter. There were almost no elite troops who were still working for the legitimate authorities; most were on the Patriot side or contracting for private parties who needed security. So the legitimate authorities had to rely on contractors who were well paid and didn’t ask any questions.

“They’re ready to go out,” Tom said to Brown, having to shout now that the helicopter blades were turning faster. “Give me the coordinates and I’ll get it started.” The MI officer nodded and handed Tom a scrap of paper with some numbers on it. Tom walked it over to the communications officer in the TOC and wrote down the numbers for her.

“I’m supposed to have that,” she said, referring to the original scrap of paper.

“Archives,” Tom said. “I gotta archive this stuff. Didn’t you get that briefing?” She shook her head, assuming he was right; he was her boss, after all. She was trained to follow instructions without questioning them.

Tom walked out of the main room of the TOC and put the scrap of paper in his pocket. He turned around and almost bumped into his boss, Major Saunders.

“I heard the bird,” Maj. Saunders said with great excitement, like a child, “Is there an op?”

Tom hated Saunders. He was such a pencil pusher. He tried to be “tactic-cool” by using words like “op” when he had never even been on a real operation. Filling out forms — and political butt kissing — was all the action Saunders had ever seen.

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, “Some teabagger camp outside of Olympia. The boys are going out to take them down.”

“Hit ‘em hard,” Saunders said and punched his fist into the air.

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, wondering how he could stand to be in the same room as this idiot.

Suddenly the helicopter blades started to slow down. It was powering down.

“What’s that?” Saunders asked.

“I’ll find out,” Tom said. He knew exactly what it was. The same thing it always was.

Tom ran out to the helicopter as the helicopter crew chief was running in toward Tom.

“What’s wrong?” Tom yelled.

“Low hydraulic pressure in the main power unit,” he said, pissed. “I have no auxiliary unit. This is the second time this week this has happened. I need a new unit. Now. Or this thing won’t fly.” There were no more power units on base and it would be a joke to order them.

Tom turned and made a hand signal to the TOC signifying that the mission was being cancelled. He ran back to the TOC and saw the contractors.

“Aborted,” he said to them. They didn’t care. They had no desire to go on a mission. They got paid the same whether they went out on raids or sat on base. They walked away without saying a word.

Tom knew what was next. Saunders came up to him. “Well, it lifted off, didn’t it?” he said to Tom.

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, lying. Of course. Everything was bullshit here. Everything.

“Too bad we had to turn back,” Saunders said. Tom hated it when this desk jockey used the word “we” to refer to the men who actually fought.

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, and added, just for fun, “Too bad we couldn’t go out and hit them hard.” We. Ha.

“You’ll make a report,” Saunders said anxiously to Tom.

“Yes, sir,” Tom said. A report meant that Tom would write down that a “counter-terrorist mission was initiated but had to return due to a helicopter malfunction.” This meant it would count as a mission for Saunders’ statistics. Then Saunders could tell his boss about the mission that went out, and their bosses could tell their bosses that it went out. Except it didn’t. Everyone’s statistics would look good, which was much more important than actually fighting the Patriots.

Before he wrote the report, Tom grabbed one of the outdated search and rescue radios, the kind used by pilots to radio in their positions if they were downed, and went outside to get some fresh air. Those old radios ran on a set of frequencies that weren’t used much anymore because there were so few air missions going out that no one really monitored them.

Once he was outside and away from anyone, he pulled out the scrap of paper and called in the coordinates.

Tammy Colson was running late for work. She hit the snooze bar on the alarm clock, which was always dangerous, and now she was seven minutes late. She had her morning routine down to the last minute.

Tammy, who was a typical American woman in her late forties, was getting dressed and checked the clock again. Dang. She was definitely going to be late, which she hated.. She always had. She paused and chuckled to herself. No one was on time anymore. Being exactly on time was what people did before the Collapse. Now, everyone pretty much showed up when they showed up. Life had slowed immensely.

OK, I’m late, she thought. Deal with it. She laughed at herself. Years and years of habit, like being perfectly punctual, were hard to break. She wanted to work on breaking her habit, so instead of her usual routine of rushing out of the house without eating, and then being hungry all day until lunch, Tammy made herself breakfast. Oatmeal. Her neighbors out here, the Matsons, had plenty of it and had given a five-pound bag to her family. Plain oatmeal was nothing special, but the Matsons gave them a bunch of hot cocoa mix, too, which Tammy put into the oatmeal. Now she had sweetened chocolate oatmeal. It was really good. She felt relaxed. She was going to be late to work, and it wasn’t going to stress her out.

Tammy got into her car and headed to work at the local power company. She was the only driver on the roads in Pierce Point. She was the only person (at least that she knew of) in Pierce Point who got free gas, so she still drove places.

There was a deal of sorts. The government needed the people, like her, who could run the electrical system to be at work so they made sure key workers at utilities had gas for their cars. They looked the other way when those key workers sold the small amounts of the extra gas they received. It was considered a “retention bonus” to keep key people. The last thing the government wanted was for the utilities to be cut off to people they were trying to keep happy and calm…and compliant.

Having gas wasn’t the only concern that utility workers had. They also had to get to work safely. Luckily for Tammy, the power company was only five miles from the Pierce Point gate. Tammy, a country girl through and through, carried a 1911 in a shoulder holster, making it much easier to access when driving than it would be if it were in a belt holster. Mark, her husband, had initially wanted to ride with her, but then realized he had to stay at her office all day because he couldn’t drive back and forth. The extra gas was only for an employee to get to work and get home; the extra trip for someone dropping an employee off and picking him or her up was not allowed. They were lucky to have gas at all, and there was no reason to push it with extra trips.