299 Days: The Stronghold (15 page)

“Congratulations,” Rich said. So this is how they were getting guys to keep manning the patrol cars: promotions. Great. But John was a decent guy, so unless he’d radically changed in the last few weeks, he probably hadn’t let it go to his head.

“Coming out,” Bennington said.

Rich yelled to the squads, “Hold your fire. I repeat: do
not
fire.”

People were tense. When most of the guards heard the car door open and shut, they started gripping their guns hard. Grant found himself scanning the river and the flanks. Just one cop car at the gate wasn’t the attacking force. It must be coming from some other direction. Grant was scanning right, left, and to the rear. So was the Team.

Bennington walked slowly with his hands to his sides. He made it to the gate and motioned that he wanted to go under the metal pole and come across. Rich gave him the thumbs up. Bennington scrunched down under the metal pole and crossed over. Rich came out from his sandbag bunker and strolled over with extreme calm and confidence. After all, he was just talking to an old friend. It wasn’t like they had anything to hide.

Bennington was marveling at all the defenses. He especially noted Dan’s K9 team. He would make a report to headquarters on this. His initial impression was: Don’t fuck with Pierce Point.

Rich had some papers in his hand and showed them to Bennington. “As far as I can tell from these,” Rich said, “that trailer is empty. A return run from Tacoma from a few days ago. That’s what the black guy said.”

Bennington asked, “Mind if I look in there?”

“Of course not,” Rich said. “Let me get the keys.” Smithson had previously given Rich the keys to his empty trailer.

Rich pointed toward his pants pocket to let Bennington know that he would be getting the keys out of his pocket instead of drawing a pistol on him. Bennington nodded.

Rich got the keys out of his pocket and took Bennington over to the truck, which was in plain sight. Rich unlocked the padlocks and opened the trailer door.

“See,” Rich said. “Empty. It’s probably why he just abandoned this. He probably went to the gate at Frederickson. He was headed that direction, toward town,” Rich said, pointing toward Frederickson.

Bennington was stunned. He was surprised not only that Rich had let him cross the bridge, but that the truck was empty. Bennington had been told by the county emergency management people that the truck—and the truck Rich that was showing him matched the description he’d been given—was full of something valuable that they wanted back in Frederickson. But the emergency management people and the FC idiots from Olympia were dumbshits, Bennington thought. This confirmed it. They had Bennington chasing after empty trucks.

“OK, that’s empty alright,” Bennington said. “The Commissioner will be disappointed.”

“The Commissioner?” Rich asked.

“Oh, yeah, Commissioner Winters,” Bennington said, referring to one of the county commissioners. “He is kind of running things now.” Bennington rolled his eyes. Bennington hated Winters. Winters was corrupt.

“As in, running things with gangs?” Rich asked.

Bennington smiled, “Well, that’s the rumor, but you can never believe all that.” Bennington was communicating loud and clear.

Bennington pointed to his pocket and said, “Mind if I take a picture for the Commissioner?”

“Sure,” Rich said. Bennington pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and took a few pictures.

“Well,” Bennington said, “thanks for letting me see the truck. You can keep it. It’s worthless now. Just another truck without any diesel. How’s the family?” He asked.

Rich and Bennington talked about their families for a minute or two. Bennington’s wife had recently left him and took their daughter with her to Mill Creek, a suburb north of Seattle. Bennington constantly worried about his daughter up there in Seattle with all that was going on. He knew he couldn’t get up to her now or maybe ever.

When they were done catching up on family news, Rich said, “Oh, hey, John, I have something for you.” He ran over to the fire station and returned with a paper bag that he handed to Bennington.

Bennington knew what it was without opening it—a bottle of booze. Bennington wouldn’t open it up in front of all those witnesses. He smiled and said, “Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to.”

Rich smiled. He knew what was going on. Grant, who was watching from behind a sandbag bunker, sensed that this happened all the time at the Sheriff’s department, which was probably why Rich left the force. Only it probably wasn’t a bottle of booze between two old friends that got Rich to leave.

“Take care,” Bennington said as he was walking back across the bridge with the bag in his hand. “Let me know if you need anything out here, but it looks like you guys are taking care of yourselves.” That was exactly what Rich hoped Bennington would conclude. Pierce Point was taking care of itself and not messing with the authorities—that’s what Winters would hear from Bennington. Good.

Bennington got in the car and it slowly backed down the road to the Frederickson road and drove off.

When the car was gone, Rich looked at the guards and Team and yelled, “That’s how we do it at Pierce Point!”

Cheers went up all around. They wouldn’t have to fight. Probably not. Well, not tonight.

Rich said, “I want you guys to stay here until morning. I’m not letting our guard down. We’re here, we’re fed, and we might as well finish this job. Maybe people at the county are mad at Bennington for coming back with a picture of an empty trailer. We’ll see. But stick around.” People were so happy that there wasn’t a gunfight that they didn’t mind staying there all night. None of them wanted to be a coward and leave. They enjoyed the camaraderie of just being there and were ready to fight for their homes and families.

People came up to Rich to congratulate him. That bribery at the end was a nice touch. They knew they’d have fewer problems with the cops now.

Grant went into the volunteer fire station to see Lisa. She had heard that there probably wasn’t going to be a fight and was relieved. It was anti-climactic, but in a good way.

Grant couldn’t help himself. “You know, honey, the idea for the empty trailer was mine.”

She just nodded. She was very proud of him, but couldn’t let him know. He was obnoxious enough now; he’d be worse if she actually acknowledged how smart that stunt was.

“Uh huh. Nice,” is all she said. But Grant knew that she was proud and glad. Or at least, he thought she was.

After a while, Rich came over to Grant and said, “Hey, nice head fake. That was brilliant.”

Grant was proud. “Well,” he said, “we got lucky that Smithson had that extra trailer with the paper work.” Grant paused and then said, “You know, Rich, the best part about outsmarting those bastards is that you don’t have that ringing in your ears from, you know… shooting them.”

“And them shooting back,” Rich said.

Chapter 122

Aftermath of False Attack

(May 12)

It was a great night down at the gate with the euphoria from the evening’s events lingering in the air. Most of the guards realized now that they were probably not prepared for a full-on battle for the gate. What had been casual guard duty, hanging out with friends and carrying around rifles was now far more serious. Each person down at the gate had played through his or her mind “what if 100 gang bangers had tried to come through the gate?”

Good. They needed to have a reality check, especially one that didn’t involve any actual shooting. Rich, Dan, and Grant talked about how important it had been for people to think this through. To think about how serious the threat was and how much work it took to prevent the slaughter of them and their families. People needed to understand exactly why they were fighting in order to fight hard. They understood now.

Rich, Dan, and Grant used that night to finish organizing the defenses. Dan talked to squads about what they would do in the case of an attack. How they would get more ammo from a runner. How they would get the wounded to the fire station. How they would communicate with other squads. How they would treat prisoners. Grant was just listening to Dan because he had no idea how to do these things. Rich was listening to Dan, too.

One thing Grant hadn’t known about was the hidden observer who had radioed in “visitors.” Grant asked Dan about that, and he pulled Grant away from the crowd. Dan whispered, “I don’t want anyone except you and Rich, and maybe the Team, to know about our sniper. I don’t want the guards to be talking and compromising him. I’ll introduce you to him later, if he comes back across the gate, but he’s Sniper Mike. Mike Graggola. Iraq and Afghanistan. Army scout and marksman. He didn’t go to sniper school, but he’s a great sniper.”

Dan pointed across the river, on the other side of the gate. “He’s out there. Somewhere. He lives across the gate in that house,” Dan pointed to a house on the other side of the road to Frederickson. “I know his dad. His parents are in Pierce Point now so they’re safe. But Mike is free rangin’ over there. With a handheld CB. He has a night vision scope. One of the ones that is commercially available for hunting.”

Dan looked troubled. “He got pretty messed up in the sandbox,” meaning Iraq and Afghanistan. “Mike has PTSD and likes to be in the woods alone. He’s not dangerous or anything. In fact, he’s a great kid. Quiet and polite. But he said that when he got back, he couldn’t shake the feeling that people were watching him. He knew it wasn’t true, but he had been watched for so long by people trying to kill him that he got used to it. He had seemed to be improving, but then this crisis or whatever it is happened and now he’s back in a combat role. Exactly what he didn’t need.”

Dan looked over toward Sniper Mike’s probable location and said, “Damn. I hate war. Really, I do. It’s what I did for a living—and what it looks like I’m doing now. But I hate it. I remember when Mike was a teenager, out driving too fast and trying to make out with girls. That wasn’t that long ago. Now he feels like people are watching him, even though he knows they’re not. He feels like there’s something weak about him for having PTSD. Of course, it’s not weakness. It’s what the brain does when you’re in a shitty situation for a couple tours like Mike was.”

Dan looked down and kicked a rock with his combat boots. “I hope he can come out of this.” Dan looked up at the gate and all the guards. “But I doubt what’s going on now will help him. People are still trying to kill him, it’s just that it’s the cops or gangs or whatever now. Maybe not right now, but they’ll be back and would love to snuff out our forward observer. He’s all alone over there. He’s got a sniper rifle with that night vision. He’s got a bunch of guns to take care of himself and food and water at his house. But he’s out in the woods all the time. Poor guy.” Dan just stared over at Mike’s house and then walked away. He had nothing else to say. In fact, talking about how Sniper Mike had come home to a war
here
depressed Dan.

All the leaders were doing their best to keep everyone’s readiness high. No relaxing. A convoy of police, FC, gangs—or a combination of all three—could make a run across that bridge at any moment.

People were getting tired late into the evening. Squad leaders asked if people could nap in shifts. Everyone looked at Dan. “Sure, half at one time. Two hour naps.”

Grant took a nap himself. Around dark, a truck came from the Grange with blankets. It was mid-May, so it got down to about 60 degrees at night. Not terrible, but not exactly warm, either. Grant found a piece of dirt and borrowed a blanket. The ground was hard, but he was so tired he was out cold. Someone woke him up in the middle of the night. Surprisingly, he was nearly refreshed. Grant got a caffeine pill from his front pocket. In a few minutes, things were fine again.

It was quiet that night. He could hear the guards talking, and overheard the most amazing conversations. People—usually people who had never really talked to each other before—were talking about their lives, their dreams, their fears. They were talking about stupid stuff, too, like which young starlet in the movies was hotter. These people who never really knew each other before all this were bonding. The group was getting tight fast.

You know, Grant thought to himself, maybe the scare of the gangs or cops or whatever coming for the semi was actually a blessing in disguise. It got the guards organized. It got the sandbags put up. It got lots of volunteers down here. It got people to bond. It’s amazing how different a situation can seem a few hours later. Grant had gone from expecting a bloody fight, and maybe even dying, to seeing the whole thing as a positive experience.

He went to see Lisa. She was still down at the volunteer fire station in case there was a night attack. He was trying not to hang around her too much because it would look bad. Everyone else was supposed to stay alert but he, a leader, was chatting with his wife? That would not be a good example.

Grant came in a couple times to see her and explained the whole role model thing about why he wasn’t going to be hanging out in the fire station with her. She seemed to understand.

Lisa didn’t say it, because it wouldn’t change anything if she did, but she really wanted him to be with her. As much as she thought he was a gun-toting hillbilly wild man, she felt safe around him, especially with all this going on. She noticed that Grant seemed more confident and fearless than most others. What she didn’t know was that Grant had been around guns so much and had people shooting right next to him on the range during training with the Team that this didn’t faze him. Not as much, at least. He was still scared, but not terrified. He knew that most amateurs were such bad shots that a guy shooting at him was likely to miss him. Even close in, most bad guys would be terrible shots. Most cops only shot fifty rounds a year to re-qualify on their pistols; Grant had seen them on the law enforcement range the Team practiced on. Gang bangers were even worse shots. They pointed their guns sideways and cared more about how they looked with a gun than actually hitting a target. Besides, Grant had the confidence of knowing that in a fight he’d react the right way, not run. Back in Olympia when looters were attacking Ron, Grant had driven straight for them, got out, started shooting, and hit them very efficiently, without even thinking. He knew he’d react the same way in the next fight. That created confidence.