Glen Tate - 299 Days - The 17th Irregulars

“I’ll get the bags and the backpack out,” the first soldier said. “I assume the ruck goes with the medic, right?” He motioned for the backpack.

“Yes,” Nick said.

“The civilian backpack is my get home bag and can stay,” Grant said.

The first soldier got the two bags and the ruck out. He gave them a quick search, looking for a really big bomb. He opened the ruck and saw it was full of medical supplies. His eyes lit up. Lt. Matson had brought an awesome guest.

“All clear,” the first soldier said. “Go ahead and go down the road gentlemen.”

“Can I get my rifle?” Grant asked. He couldn’t stand to leave his gun unattended. Not like he thought these guys would steal it. He just couldn’t stand to leave his AR behind.

“Of course, sir,” the first soldier said. They were searching for a car bomb, not something less lethal like a rifle.

Grant looked at the second man and said, “Nick here will get my rifle and hand it to me.” The second soldier nodded. Everything was done overtly in such situations. The smallest little thing needed to be announced and acknowledged. No surprises.

Nick slowly got the rifle from the passenger side, checked that it was on safe—it was, of course—and, with the muzzle pointed down and with his finger off the trigger, walked around and handed it to Grant who checked that it was on safe and slowly slung it over his shoulder.

“Nice job, gentlemen,” Grant said to the two soldiers. “I appreciate a secure gate.”

“It’s our job, sir,” the second soldier said. “You’re our first stop so far so we were making sure we had our procedure down. Looks like we do.”

“Yep,” Grant said. Grant looked at the first soldier, who by now had come up to Grant. Grant said to him, “Would you like the keys?” That way they could move the Tacura if someone else came in.

“Yes, sir,” the first soldier said. Grant got out his keys.

Grant took one of Nick’s bags and Nick got the second one and his ruck. The second soldier said something into his radio. “They’re expecting you at the house,” he said to Grant and Nick.

“Thanks, guys,” Grant said, instantly realizing that he needed to work on being the lieutenant and being more formal. “As you were, gentlemen,” Grant said to the guards. He and Nick started to walk the few hundred yards to the farm. Nick’s eyes became huge as he started to see the Patriot’s facilities.

Nick was stunned at how perfect this place was. It was huge. A big barn, outbuildings, and a farmhouse. There were soldiers and armed civilians everywhere. Fatigues mostly from the Army, but some from the Navy, and Air Force. Nick even thought that he saw one man in Marine fatigues. Most of the men had beards, which looked weird with the military uniforms. The civilians were decently equipped. Most of them had ARs slung over their shoulders and others had pistol belts. A handful of the civilians had kit and looked like contractors.

“Wow. You guys are pretty squared away. You’re a real unit out here,” Nick said. “We kept hearing at Ft. Lewis that guerilla units were forming up with mostly civilians but plenty of AWOL military people in them. The brass were very afraid of these units. I thought maybe it was propaganda that the Patriots had all these irregular units. Guess it’s true.”

Grant nodded. This was further validation that Hammond and the whole Boston Harbor operation was for real and not some small group of goofballs masquerading as a “Special Operations Command.” The irregular units were serious business. And now Grant was getting confirmation that the Limas knew it.

Grant saw something out of the corner of his eye. He recognized that the Team was there; those were the contractor-looking guys Nick had seen.

Grant yelled toward the Team, “Hey, homos, what are you doing here?” Not exactly military protocol from a commanding officer, but Grant wasn’t exactly a military officer. He had been calling the Team “homos” for a couple of years. Old habits die hard.

The Team turned at the familiar voice and came over. Grant gave each one of the Team a “bro hug.” They talked for a while. Grant introduced Nick and showed off Nick’s backpack with medical supplies.

“A combat medic? Nice,” Pow said. “Very nice.”

By this time, Ted and Sap had come up to them. Grant introduced them to Nick who couldn’t believe how many soldiers were there and how military they seemed to be, albeit with some civilians and non-regulation facial hair like beards. But still. This was not a hillbilly unit. It was a military unit dispensing with some military protocol, but still deadly serious.

“What was your unit?” Ted asked Nick.

“2nd Battalion, 23rd Infantry Regiment, 4th Stryker Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, at JBLM,” Nick said. Translated, that meant that Nick was assigned to the 4th Strykers—which were like armored personnel carriers—at Joint Base Lewis McChord, the giant military base between Olympia and Tacoma that included Ft. Lewis.

“Stryker, huh?” Ted asked. The Stryker units saw plenty of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. Their medics were good. They had to be, unfortunately.

Ted wanted to test this new guy to make sure he was a real medic. “Who was your CO?” Ted asked Nick.

“Col. Pete Lowe,” Nick said without hesitation. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Ted, although he didn’t know all of the COs at Ft. Lewis now that he had been out of the Army. The COs changed pretty often.

“What was your MOS?” Ted asked. “MOS” was the acronym for military occupational specialty. Each job in the military had an MOS.

“68 Whiskey, sir,” Nick said instantly, using the phonetic alphabet term “whiskey” for the letter W. Ted knew that 68W was the correct MOS for a combat medic.

“Sergeant, not ‘sir,’” Ted said. “I work for a living.” Ted did not have any rank insignia on—almost no one did—so Nick assumed he was an officer and called him “sir.”

Ted continued the questioning to see if this supposed medic was legit. “Where’d you go to medic school?”

“Ft. Sam Houston, Sergeant,” Nick said instantly, again. Ted knew that was the correct answer.

“You got your CMB?” Ted asked, referring to the combat medic badge, a designation showing that a person had been a medic in a unit engaged in combat.

“No, Sergeant,” Nick said. “Went from Ft. Sam straight to Ft. Lewis. No deployment overseas.”

“Why did you leave your unit?” Ted asked.

“Things are bad, Sergeant,” Nick said, shaking his head. “There is no discipline at all. As in, none. Everyone is taking off. Well, took off. I was one of the last to go. Shoulda gone sooner, but I was following orders.”

“Why do you want to join a rebel unit?” Ted asked. He knew that this new medic had come straight from Pierce Point and therefore had not gone through vetting from HQ. So it was up to Ted to screen this guy. Grant must have already done some screening or he wouldn’t have brought him out here.

“I’ve seen what’s happening,” Nick said, still standing at attention. “It’s out of control, Sergeant. I want things back the way they were. I have a wife and two babies. They aren’t growing up like this. Not if I can help it.”

“Sgt. Malloy,” Grant said, “Nick here has an incentive to not screw us.” Grant didn’t want to be a dick, but he wanted Nick and the others standing around listening to know that Grant took this job very seriously and was willing to do horrible things in order to win this war.

Nick nodded, knowing exactly what Grant meant. “My wife and kids,” Nick said, “are here in Pierce Point and Lt. Matson knows where they are. You guys control everyone coming and going. My family isn’t going anywhere. They are in your hands.”