Glen Tate - 299 Days - The 17th Irregulars

They sped to the middle of the inlet. It was scary as hell speeding through the water in the pitch dark, but Paul did it like it was no big deal. He was scared, but not showing it. He had a job to do and was damned glad to be doing it.

From the reflection of the moon on the water, Grant could faintly see another boat without its lights on. Paul saw it, too. He slowed to a stop and drifted. The radio crackled again and Paul put the boat in a steep left turn and sped up. They went in two circles. Grant could faintly see the other boat doing the same. The radio crackled again and Paul straightened out and headed straight toward shore. Grant knew that Paul was doing this on purpose and was skilled at it, but he was still terrified. The faint outline of shore was getting close. Really close. Grant was just about to say something when Paul turned hard left and started going through the inlet about a hundred yards off shore. “Tide is in pretty high or we couldn’t do this,” he said.

“Plus, at this distance from shore, it’s harder for people there to shoot us,” Ted said.

As they went down the inlet and got farther from the lights of Boston Harbor, the moonlight made it easier to see things without the man-made lights diluting the moonlight.

The inlet was empty. There were almost no lights on the cabins along shore. Grant wondered why. Duh, because it’s the middle of the night. People are asleep. And people along shore didn’t keep the night lights on because that would just tell pirates that there was a cabin there. In fact, Grant had heard at the Grange that some of the people in Pierce Point right on the water would put blankets over their waterside windows to prevent any light from showing through.

Grant thought about the modern day pirates out there. They were gangs in boats. Grant hadn’t heard of any confirmed pirates in Peterson Inlet off of Pierce Point. The beach patrol made sure of that. Pierce Point probably had the only organized beach patrol with good radios in the area and the pirates knew they could have a much easier time elsewhere. Why not take the easy stuff first? Then move onto the harder targets. Grant knew that Pierce Point was vulnerable from attack by sea, but, on the other hand, Pierce Point could also easily transport things by sea, like the 17th. Sea access was a double-edged sword.

In the quiet of no one talking and the hum of the engines and water, Grant fell asleep. He woke up, embarrassed that the old dude was napping. He looked around and saw they were almost at the Marion Farm landing.

“You were only out a couple of minutes, Lieutenant,” Ted said, giving the answer to the question he anticipated Grant would ask.

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.