299 Days VIII: The War (20 page)

Tet would mean hunger at Pierce Point. Not just the smaller meals and lack of variety
people had already been putting up with, it meant actual malnutrition. People would
go to bed hungry, see their kids go hungry. Parents would hear their kids ask, “why
didn’t we have dinner? We didn’t have any lunch or breakfast. My tummy hurts.” Older
people and others with weakened bodies would die from common illnesses, even from
colds and the flu. There would be more Sunday funerals at the Grange. Many more.

There was also a good chance that the Utility Treaty would break down, at least in
Washington State, once there was full-scale war. The Limas had been trying to keep
Undecided military units on the sidelines by promising to let the utilities stay on.
The Limas would no longer have anything to lose by turning them off in the rural areas,
like Pierce Point, that were supplying the units attacking Lima strongholds. Surely,
the Limas had a plan to take down the utilities, if attacked.

Grant’s family was prepared for this, as much as they could be. Grant had that Berkey
water filter at the cabin, which would treat any kind of water and make it drinkable.
It was amazing technology. He had told Manda where it was and how to use it. At least
his family would have drinking water.

They had firewood and a woodstove, so they’d be relatively warm. Many people in Pierce
Point, however, didn’t have water filters or woodstoves. Everything in American society,
even after the Collapse, ran on electricity. One critical example was the refrigerators
at the Grange kitchen. Maybe they would have enough generators and gas for critical
things, like the Grange refrigerators. Maybe. If not, perishable food could not be
stored. This would happen at the worst possible time: in the winter, when people were
malnourished and needed fruit, vegetables, and meat the most. There were some healthy
home canned foods but not nearly enough. Instead of these nutritious foods, the people
of Pierce Point would have to fighting off illness with mashed potato mix and cornbread,
and even that would be in dwindling supply.

“This will suck, guys,” Grant said to Rich and Dan. “But Pierce Point is amazingly
well-prepared.” Grant reminded them of all the ways the community had pulled together
and all they had accomplished over the summer and fall: the semi-trailer, the meal
cards, the gardening and hunting. “We’ll make it through this, and, best of all, this
will end. This year will be the last year of this crap. Next year will be different.”

Grant looked them right in the eyes and said, “It will be a new year under new management.”

(December 30)

“Breaker nine, breaker nine,” Rich said on the CB radio, sounding like he was dying,
“This is former Deputy Rich Gentry for Lt. Bennington. We have a serious illness out
at Pierce Point, copy?”

There was static for a while until a voice came on and said, “We’ll try to patch you
through.”

This was followed by more static for another two or three minutes until another voice
came on. “Patching through.”

Rich was realizing how bad things must be in Frederickson. They couldn’t even get
radio messages through quickly. Grant and the “rental team” might have it a little
easier than they thought.

Finally, Bennington came on. He sounded calm. “Yeah, Rich,” he said. “What is it?”

“I’ll switch over to get off Channel 9,” Rich said. Bennington knew that the next
channel was 11. They had come up with this when Bennington had brought little Lucia
out to get her away from Winters.

“Roger that,” Bennington said. “Switching.”

Rich turned the CB to channel 11 and waited a few seconds. “John, this is Rich,” he
said. “You copy?”

“Yep,” Bennington said. “What’s the emergency out there?” Bennington was playing along
perfectly.

“Ruptured gall bladder,” Rich said weakly, like he was in pain.

“Who?” Bennington asked, knowing the answer.

“Me,” Rich said. “I have a ruptured gall bladder. I’m coming in to the hospital.”

“When?” Bennington asked, with a touch of excitement in his voice. He knew that “ruptured
gall bladder” was code for activating him to kill Winters, and as many of the others,
as possible.

“They got me stabilized here,” Rich said, “but I need to get to the hospital by about
9:00 tomorrow night. To repeat: 9:00 p.m. on December 31. Copy?”

There was a pause. Maybe Bennington was writing it down. This was a pretty big detail
to get right.

“Copy,” Bennington said, “9:00 p.m. on December 31. I’ll let the hospital know and
we’ll be ready for you. We’ll all be ready.” Bennington sounded confident about just
how ready they would be.

“Roger that,” Rich said. “See you then. Gentry out.”

“Bennington out,” John said.

So that was it. An inside assassination job had been put into motion.

Rich changed the CB channel to 31. “Giraffe 7, this is Fred 1. You copy?”

There was a pause. Then a voice Rich didn’t recognize, Jim Q.’s, came on. “Giraffe
7 is busy. I can take a message.”

Rich didn’t trust anyone, especially a voice he didn’t know. “Have him call me on
this channel.”

“Roger that,” Jim Q. said. He knew that the person trying to reach Grant was a friendly
because he used the call sign “Giraffe 7.”

A few minutes later, Grant came on. “This is Giraffe 7.”

“Giraffe 7, this is Fred 1,” Rich said. “Hey, man, sorry to bother you, but I wanted
to let you know I called in the gall bladder situation. Everything is fine. Looks
like everything is taken care of.”

Grant knew what “gall bladder” meant. “Glad to hear that,” Grant said. “Thanks for
the update. Giraffe 7 out.”

“Fred 1 out.”

Rich looked around. He was alone in the radio room of Curt Copeland’s house. Curt
was Pierce Point’s ham radio guy with the CB that had the big, powerful antenna, the
one that could get out to Frederickson without a problem. Rich had asked Curt to stand
outside and not listen. Rich didn’t give a reason and Curt didn’t ask.

“All done,” Rich said to Curt once he was outside. “Thanks for your radios.”

“No problem,” Curt said. “Anything I can do to help.” Curt was more than happy to
be considered important after years of people thinking he was odd for liking radios.

Rich excused himself and went back to the Grange.

In Frederickson, Bennington sat in his car. He felt the adrenaline surge through him.
His face got hot and he felt a burst of energy. In the privacy of his patrol, where
no one could hear him, he started pounding the dashboard of his car and screaming.
For months, he had been holding back his rage at Winters, the County, the gangs, the
Collapse, his ex-wife, and all those children like Lucia, the little Mexican girl
who Winters raped. Lucia was the last straw for Bennington He was screaming at the
top of his lungs to get all of the anger out of him. He felt strong and powerful hitting
the dashboard and screaming. He was out of control; the hatred and revenge was pouring
out against his will. At first, he was afraid of how much fury he had, but he quickly
realized that the rage was good. It was giving him strength and purpose. He needed
the rage to do what he was going to do. Lucia and the others needed his rage to fuel
the revenge he was about to dish out.

After a minute or two of pounding the dashboard, his fists hurt and his voice was
hoarse. He began calming himself down. He needed to be one hundred percent normal
for the next thirty-six hours in order to pull this off.

Bennington knew he’d probably die. There was a part of him that actually looked forward
to it. It would be better than what he was doing now, which was helping bullies and
gangs commit their crimes. He had brought shame to himself by helping them. Now he
would bring honor to himself. For generations, they’d talk about this and what a hero
he was. He had to admit that he wanted that, to make up for what he’d done up until
now. To redeem himself.

Bennington went over the plan he’d been refining in his mind for weeks. It was a solid
plan. Ambitious, but solid. He knew he would have to do this all alone. Although he
knew plenty of fellow officers who were disgusted with Winters and the gangs, he wasn’t
sure he could trust them. This was too big to gamble with. Not only would trusting
the wrong person get him killed, but whatever the Patriots were going to do in the
next thirty-six hours would be jeopardized, too. This plan—in which he did the job
without any help—would either succeed or fail. It was that simple.

Bennington wished the timing was different. He was glad it was going to be over
soon, but New Year’s Eve was a hard time to get things done. People would be taking
the day off and partying. Well, the county officials and gang leaders would be partying
since they were the ones with the booze and girls.

Then he thought about it. The partying would actually be an opportunity. Bennington
readjusted his plan accordingly. Hey, he thought, this might actually work out better
than I thought. Wow, he thought, doing this on New Year’s Eve will actually be a good
thing. He thought back to George Washington crossing the Delaware River on Christmas
Day when the enemy was hung over and sleeping. It worked.

Bennington started to smile as the new plan unfolded in his head. Pretty soon, he
was laughing out loud. This would be perfect.

Time to get it going. Redemption time.

(December 31)

Grant was taking a nap. He had been doing that on an increasing basis. Instead of
sleeping all night, he’d work hard for eight or ten hours planning, organizing, and
motivating people and then take a two-hour nap. This was happening naturally; he didn’t
plan it. But, he figured, it was good he was getting in this rhythm because that’s
how it would be on the battlefield. Well, it would probably be twenty-four hours up
and then a two-hour nap, if he was lucky. Either way, napping would be the only sleep
he’d get. It was remarkable how well he was adapting to this napping schedule. It
was almost like the human body was made to nap.

Without a regular work or meal schedule, Grant quickly lost touch of the time on a
clock. In his world, it was either dark or light. He was either working or not. He
was either hungry or not. Up until now, he had almost never looked at his watch—he
had almost not brought a watch from Olympia to his cabin—but now he looked at it all
the time. It was the only way to tell what part of the day it was.

Grant wasn’t even tired. He felt alive and alert. He was operating at peak efficiency.
He knew that every second counted right now. Every little detail of planning could
mean life or death. Everything was serious.

Grant was riding this feeling and remaining extremely upbeat and enthusiastic. He
had every member of the 17th motivated at peak levels, too. Grant would go around
asking them, “How the hell are you, soldier?” “Out-fucking-standing, sir!” was the
answer he’d get. Everyone was amped.

The last-minute preparations were like a final practice exam before the big test.
They worked on unit-wide movements where all the members of the 17th would advance
on the farmhouse, each squad covering another squad and then advancing themselves.
They practiced communications, which were crucial. It was like a big ballet. They
were going at full speed now and doing things flawlessly after months of working up
to this point.

They had a plan for everything. They planned out what to do with casualties. How to
treat them and, unfortunately, how to preserve the bodies until they could be taken
out with dignity. They had a plan for various communication failures. Simple, yet
ingenious plans to switch frequencies. Ways to identify friendly fighters. They even
had a plan for dealing with enemy prisoners when they didn’t have enough men to guard
them. They would use zip ties, thin plastic straps used to hold wires and cables in
place, but big enough to encompass two wrists, as makeshift handcuffs. They would
mark the forehead of each Lima prisoner with a big “L” in permanent marker. This would
tell other Patriot units that the prisoner was an enemy soldier and prevent him from
trying to blend back into the civilian population if he escaped. Tagging the enemy
with an “L” would also allow the general population to exact any revenge they felt.
Marking prisoners for possible civilian reprisals wasn’t exactly following the Geneva
Convention, but the Patriots had received reports of how the Limas were treating Patriot
prisoners. An “L” on the forehead was much more humane than what the Limas did to
Patriots.

They went over the route they would be taking to Olympia and the rally points, spots
where they’d meet other members of the unit if they became scattered. Having stray
soldiers wandering around the battlefield was a waste of strength and got people killed,
so they reviewed rally points over and over again. They had a few highway maps and
one detailed street map of Olympia, but that was it. Far less mapping than a “real”
military unit would have. But they made do.

They had a plan for regrouping if the unit was disbursed at just about every one of
the forty mile-markers from Pierce Point to the state capitol. For example, if the
unit was bogged down or split apart right outside Frederickson, they would rally at
the high school right outside the city limits. They would gather around the gym. The
squad leaders were tasked with fitting all these details in their brains. Constantly
going over them helped them remember the finer points. Repetition was the only way
to retain all this information. Pretty soon, tired troops could recite the answers
without even thinking. It was perfect.