Glen Tate - 299 Days - The 17th Irregulars

As the boat quietly chugged along the shoreline of Pierce Point and out toward Boston Harbor, Grant looked up at the stars. There were millions of them; many, many more than he was used to seeing. Grant looked at all the millions of stars and thought, “I am just one of these little things. One of millions, but together they make up something bigger.”

Yes .

The peace and calm was overwhelming. Grant knew he could do anything now. Well, not him alone. But, with help — from the most powerful thing in the universe.

Anything. Anything at all could be accomplished. Grant stopped worrying about Lisa’s reaction to the Ted project. He stopped worrying about her leaving him. He stopped worrying about the Team getting killed or wounded. He stopped worrying about everything. He just sat back in the seat on the boat and looked up at the stars as they silently glided to Boston Harbor. It was another lifetime memory he was soaking in.

After a while, after the mild caffeine rush had kicked in, the radio crackled and Paul responded. They were getting near some lights. It must be Boston Harbor. Paul gave the right signals with his boat lights to the picket boats outlying Boston Harbor. As they got closer, Grant looked at the “fishing” boats. The boats had some very well armed men and big radio antennas. The men on the boat saluted them. Grant returned the salute without thinking. Then he realized what he had just done. Saluted. This was getting serious.

The boat slowed to a crawl as they entered the marina. Grant had been to Boston Harbor several times before. It was about ten miles from Olympia. He rented a boat out there and puttered around Boston

Harbor with Cole when he was little. Cole had loved it. Grant had great memories of this place.

As they pulled further into the marina, Grant was amazed at what a great place Boston Harbor was for a headquarters. The marina was easily defended and was on the remote southern tip of Puget Sound, which was the water superhighway for the entire Seattle metropolitan area. The little town of Boston Harbor looked like the American version of a Norwegian fishing village. It was full of nice buildings to house people. There was one really big and nice house right on the water with lots of guards around it and its lights on. That must be HQ.

Grant helped Ted and Sap tie up the boat as Paul put it perfectly into its slip. No one had said a word for the last twenty minutes they had been in the boat. It was a welcomed break. Grant talked and listened all day long. He needed quiet time, especially with the stars out, a big adventure ahead of him, and, most importantly, with the outside thought talking to him. It had been a spectacular night so far.

As Grant got off the boat he started to think for the first time about whether he would make a good impression on the brass. He laughed at himself. Who cares? He wasn’t interviewing for a job. Hell, he’d be happy not to have the job of being a Patriot guerilla. He would be happy to stay in Pierce Point and do his Grange job and go out with the Team on occasional calls.

But, Grant knew he had a bigger job to do. He knew that HQ would have him do whatever it was that he was supposed to do. The outside thought had confirmed that he was on the right course. He was just there to see what the details of the course would be. He had never been more calm and confident.

And it showed. The way he walked. The way he carried his kit and AR. He looked like a professional. A quiet professional who had been doing this his whole life, which was hilarious. Only three months ago, he had just been a lawyer with a semi-normal white collar life. There was no way to tell that now by looking at him. He had totally transformed. Well, he hadn’t transformed; he was the same guy he’d been. Instead, circumstances had brought out the Grant that was always there, but had never had a reason to come out.

Ted motioned for Grant to follow him. They came up to a guard at the marina gate, who knew Ted and Sap and waved them through. The guard stopped Grant, pointed to him, and asked Sap, “Is this the visitor you said you’d be bringing back?”

“Yep,” Sap said. “Ketchup sandwich.”

The guard nodded and said to Grant, “Welcome to Boston Harbor, Mr. Matson.” Apparently “ketchup sandwich” was a code word. There were lots of those out there.

They walked across the dock to the little store at the marina. The lights were on and the shelves were entirely bare. This was the first store Grant had been in since he left Olympia. He was struck again by how odd the empty shelves looked. It made him realize how good they had it in Pierce Point.

Ted, Sap, and Grant walked to the road and up the hill to the big house with the lights on. There were guards everywhere. Radios were crackling as they headed toward HQ. The guards were very well armed. Most had impressive kit. These guys looked like military guys. Actually, they looked like private military contractors, but Grant knew that they were military, just without uniforms because the Free Washington State Guard didn’t have its own uniforms yet. A few had their old FUSA fatigues—mostly Army, but a few of the different camo patterns of the Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps—with “Free Wash. State Guard” sewn on the area where “U.S. Army” or other branch name had once been.

Most of the men looked like Grant. Many were younger than him, but he fit right in as far as clothing was concerned. Along with his AR, Grant had his black tactical vest with coyote brown pouches, gray t shirt, tan 5.11 pants, “hillbilly slippers” (Romeo boots), and his tan baseball cap. The cap had the Survival Podcast ant symbol on it. He thought about the ant symbol, which reflected the ant and grasshopper from the fable about how the hardworking ant prepped while the playful grasshopper didn’t, and the ant made it through the winter but the grasshopper did not. The Survival Podcast ant hat was a statement to the world that “I am an ant.”

As they came up to the porch, there were three guards and a stack of sand bags. Grant wondered if he would have to leave his rifle and pistol with the guards. Ted and Sap walked right past the guards, and no one asked Grant to remove his weapons, so he didn’t.

They went into the front door and Grant started to remove his hat. He remembered from his extremely limited military training in Civil Air Patrol all those years ago, that you remove your “cover” (hat, helmet, or beret) when you enter a building.

Ted saw him taking his hat off and said, “Battlefield rules out here.” While the little high school Civil Air Patrol cadets were never on a battlefield, Grant knew that “battlefield rules” meant that you could keep your cover on indoors and you didn’t salute. You kept your cover on because it was a waste of time taking it on and off. You didn’t salute on the battlefield because that allowed enemy snipers to figure out who the officers were and shoot them first.

When they walked in the front door, there was a desk in the foyer, which looked weird in a home. It was a beautiful house with a giant open entry way and big staircase going up to the second floor. There were radios crackling and a lot of activity in the house. There were mostly men in there, but some women too. Everyone looked pretty serious, but not pissed off. They were busily doing their jobs. There was an energy in the place; a vibe like important work was being done there, and being done well.

After a minute or two, a soldier in her early thirties brought them into the office on the first floor. It was big for a home office, but small for a military commander’s office. They walked in and everyone except the man behind the desk stood up when they entered the room.

The man behind the desk looked like a natural for a military commander. He was Lieutenant Colonel Jim Hammond. He was in his late forties and in great shape. He had about half his hair with a touch of gray on the temples.