Glen Tate - 299 Days - The 17th Irregulars

The letter transitioned from friendly shout outs to serious business. It described how weak the Loyalists were, how many military units were defecting, how the Patriots were forming guerilla bands all over the state, and how the population was turning against the so-called “legitimate authorities.”

“Why you, Ben?” the letter asked. “A fair question,” it said. “We know you and trust you. You are a Patriot. And you have thousands of followers from Rebel Radio.”

That really caught Ben off guard. Other than Dennis’ observations around town of their slogans going up as graffiti, he had no idea that people were taking Rebel Radio seriously.

The letter went on to describe how, after the military victory, the Patriots would set up an interim government. They would appoint temporary legislators, a governor, and judges. They would hold an election—at least in the territories they controlled—to ratify the temporary officials. They would then work on a constitutional convention to draft a new state constitution—with real checks on power. The letter went on to proudly state that they would adopt a “high five” constitutional provision. This was the provision Ben and the others had always talked about that would limit the state spending to a maximum of five percent of the state’s gross domestic product, hence the label “high five.” These were all things Ben and others had talked about many times over beers before the Collapse. Things they said they would love to do if they ever could.

“Well, now we can,” the letter said. “It’s our time to fix things, Ben. We need you. We need you for governor. We’ve talked about it and talked about it, and no one can come up with a better person to be the Interim Governor. This will be the most important thing you ever do. People will remember it for generations. We need you.”

Ben was stunned. The letter was so personal, with all those references to people he knew so well, and seemed to be written by someone who knew him well. He got to the end of the letter and saw who signed it.

“John Trappford.” He must have written this a few days before he was killed. Ben looked at the handwritten note below the signature.

“PS: You’re dead anyway, Ben. They’re looking for you. They’ll find you eventually—if they stay in power. You might as well help us prevent that from happening. John.”

How could Ben say no to John Trappford? And Carly, who had risked her life to get this letter to him. And, Ben admitted to himself, that postscript about being dead if the Loyalists stayed in power was a motivating factor, too.

“This is the chance we’ve been waiting for,” Carly said when she saw Ben was done reading the letter. “This is what we’ve always talked about. It’s time to do it.”

Ben knew she was right. He knew he wanted to do it. He’d have to talk to Laura, his wife. They had always talked about him running for office if the state ever got its crap together and was actually open to someone like him. As the Collapse started, they knew that getting elected was even less likely. Both Ben and Laura thought about the possibility of the Patriots winning by force and then utilizing the services of Ben and the other WAB people. But they never really thought through the whole part about people trying to catch them and kill them. It added a whole new seriousness to what used to be just a daydream.

“I’ve got to talk to my family about this,” Ben said.

“Of course,” Carly said. The people at the Think Farm had told her that Ben would probably say this.

“How do I get back to you guys?” Ben asked.

“There’s no real good way to do that,” Carly said. The people at the Think Farm had no radios because they could only use very, very high-tech encrypted ones. The Loyalist might not be putting too much effort into rounding up garden-variety POIs, but they would spare nothing to take out the Think Farm. The Patriots didn’t yet have any ultra-encrypted radios for them. They relied on messengers, which was less than ideal.

“I will come back in a few days,” she said. She was not excited about making the trip out again with all the dangers, but a return trip would be much safer and easier. Besides, she told herself, she would be coming back with some friends; well-armed friends.

Life was going really well in Seattle for Professor Carol Matson. Well, going as well as could be expected given all the terrorists and teabaggers trying to prevent the government from helping people. Carol still had her job — thank God — at the University of Washington teaching Freedom Corps volunteers Spanish, which was her specialty.

Kind of. She was a world-renowned scholar of the literature of the Simon Bolivar era. But, in these times, there wasn’t a use for that now, so she taught beginning Spanish.

Actually, she was tasked with keeping an eye on the FCorps volunteers. “Patriot” spies had infiltrated the FCorps and Carol was helping the legitimate authorities figure out who they were. In fact, teaching beginning Spanish was only a small part of what she did. Getting to know the FCorps volunteers, and finding out all she could about them, was her real job.

Her FCard had a good balance put on it each month. She could get her beloved lattes at the University book store. With coffee beans being so scarce, only faculty like her and important officials could get lattes there. She was very glad to get special treatment like that. She felt a little guilty about this, being a progressive and all, but she had to admit she’d do just about anything for that daily latte.

Carol continued to worry about her Patriot right-wing whacko brother, Grant, who was on the POI list. She was worried the authorities would hold her brother’s insanity against her. So far they hadn’t.

This should all be over soon, Carol thought as she sipped her daily latte at 9:15 a.m. Time for that latte and the caffeine rush that would get her through the day. The news said that the military and police were rounding up many teabaggers and stopping dozens of attacks on a daily basis. She saw teabaggers confessing on TV every night. They admitted doing horrible things, but were sorry now. One time, she thought she noticed the same teabagger confessing twice, only with a different name. There was a rumor that the confessions were fake, but that was just right-wing propaganda.

The initial shock of Crisis was over for Carol. The first few weeks were horrifying. The empty shelves, the crime, the terrorist attacks, but things were now in a “new normal” phase.

Carol felt like she was part of something new and very big. The right people were running things now and the legitimate authorities had nationalized almost everything. Progressives like her were in charge. They were getting so much done with all these new emergency powers to overthrow the capitalist power structure. She hated to admit it, but she was a little glad about the Crisis. It was a way to get some things done that couldn’t be done with the knuckle dragger macho men in control of everything.

It had been such an adventurous spring and early summer, and things would be heading toward autumn in a few months. This would all be over soon. Probably by the winter break. Or, as the teabaggers called it, “Christmas.”

Carol finished her latte and went to work. She was so lucky to be in Seattle.

Jeanie Thompson also felt lucky to be where she was: Camp Murray, the Washington State command center at Ft. Lewis. It was extremely secure. A thousand troops guarded her and the people she worked with, who consisted of the Governor, the command staff of the Washington National Guard, the state police, several federal agents, and miscellaneous state officials. Her boss was one of those state officials. Jeanie felt extremely secure there. She could hear the faint sound of gunfire “outside the wire” in the surrounding area. There was more and more gunfire at night, and now there was even some during the day, though it sounded far away.