He pulled the paper back and said to Bobby, “You need to tell me what channel the
gall bladder surgeon talks to you on.”
Bobby nodded and looked at Scotty.
“Eleven,” Scotty yelled across the cab and out the window to Mendez.
“That’s what I thought, but you can’t be too careful with things like this,” Mendez
said and handed the paper to Bobby. Bobby handed it to Grant, in the rear of the cab.
“I’ll be sitting in my cruiser for a while,” Mendez said as he walked back to his
police car. He got in and turned the lights off. Now that he had made contact with
the reinforcements, he could turn the lights off and not be giving away his position
to the gangs any longer.
Grant looked at the paper. It was addressed to “Rich’s guys.” Grant scanned it and
smiled. He got out of the truck and walked over to the semi cab, where Ted was.
“This is fucking brilliant,” Grant said to Ted. “Rich’s cop friend, who is named Bennington,
killed a bunch of the cop and gang leadership, started a war between the two, and
now is in the radio room at the courthouse. He gave us 144.75 as the frequency to
talk to him on and a code phrase to authenticate ourselves.”
Grant pointed over toward the courthouse, which was at least a mile away. “And, get
this,” he said. “Bennington has called out a posse of the Patriot cops who got fired.
Now they, the good cops, will start popping the gangs and bad cops.”
“Chaos,” Ted said with a smile. “Exactly what we need right now.”
“Bennington needs some help from us,” Grant said, scanning the paper again. “He needs
us to make a show of force where the gangs are rallying and planning an attack on
the courthouse.” Grant pointed to the handwritten map Bennington had drawn and told
Ted the plan Bennington had written down.
“This is great,” Ted said. “Let’s do it.”
Grant ran back to Mark’s truck. The inter-unit radios were crackling. Ted got on the
radio and briefed Sap, who was in the back of the semi. Ted knew everyone in the semi-trailer
could hear the radio, so he was effectively talking to everyone. His voice was always
calm, but he paid extra attention to sounding calm so everyone in the semi-trailer
would know things were under control. Hearing the briefing, even one delivered by
a calm leader like Ted, increased the emotions in the semi-trailer. The nervousness
level went up in the trailer, as did the excitement level. This was real. It was go
time. They were heading into a big fight.
Ted quickly briefed the chase truck and the scout car so now everyone knew the plan.
He made sure every car had drawn out a map of where they needed to be. There would
be no GPS for this maneuver. Thank God, Ted thought, that some people still knew how
to use a map. After years of relying on GPS, many people had lost this knowledge.
Jim Q. got on the 144.75 mHz frequency on the ham radio band and said, “Gall Bladder
Surgeon, this is Cavalry 1,” which was the code phrase Bennington had given the 17
th
.
“Do you copy?”
Bennington came on the radio. “Cavalry 1, this is Gall Bladder Surgeon, copy.”
“We have the paper and are proceeding as instructed,” Jim Q. said.
“Roger that,” Bennington said. “See you in a few.”
Mendez would drive the lead car and direct them where they needed to go. Even with
a guide, someone in each vehicle was acting as the navigator with the hand drawn maps
they had quickly scribbled. They made sure that the direction they were going in was
consistent with the map. The convoy was now rolling.
The 17th could hear an increase in the rate of fire, and it was getting louder as
they got closer to their objective. It was now getting frighteningly loud and constant.
There were wild bursts of fire; high-volume, “spray and pray” fire that seemed random
instead of well-aimed. Then there would be single shots that seemed more deliberate
and careful. It was impossible to know if the gangs were doing the spray and pray
or if the cops were terrified and doing it. It seemed like after a wild burst, a few
single shots would put an end to the bursts.
There was a real firefight going on—and they were heading straight into it. Just as
they had been all day, the soldiers of the 17th were a combination of excited and
afraid – but even more so now that they heard the fight they were about get into.
Everyone was silent, straining to hear any little noise that could tell them more
about what they were facing. No one wanted to talk and distract the others.
“One more block and then we dismount,” Nineteen Delta said into the radio. The convoy
slowed and then came to a gentle stop.
When the scout vehicle stopped, everyone paused. For a second or two, all the vehicles
just sat there. Ted’s voice came on the intra-unit radios in each vehicle.
“This is it,” he said.
Grant motioned for Scotty to hand him the radio. “Let’s go to work,” he said to the
whole unit.
With that, they plunged into the darkness and went into combat for the first time.
(January 1)
Grant couldn’t feel his legs. He was so jacked up on adrenaline, he was just gliding
around. He didn’t have solid control over his muscles. He was just going through motions,
like an automated robot. He felt stronger than he’d ever felt. His vision seemed crystal
clear, his hearing was sharp. It was like when he shot the looters. His body was pumping
adrenaline—human rocket fuel. He was firing on all cylinders.
Grant first ran up to Mendez’s car and the scout car. They were in some scary part
of town. All the businesses were abandoned. The street lights were on and they cast
a weird yellow shadow on everything. There was garbage blowing around. The place looked
terrifying, like a foreboding scene from a movie where only bad things happened.
“You know what you need to do?” Grant asked Nineteen Delta.
“Yes, sir. We’re heading out to get a look,” he said, motioning for Meerkat and Anderson
to take up observation positions.
Grant gave him the thumbs up and turned around to run to the semi. Ted was already
out of the cab and the semi-trailer door was up. Sap was getting the troops out of
the trailer. From a block away, they were dismounting from the semi and running out
on foot for two reasons. First, it was important for them to get out now, before the
shooting started. Second, they didn’t want any enemy to see that they were traveling
in a semi. The enemy could radio that in and then their cover would be blown on the
road to Olympia.
The troops were running out and grouping by squad behind trash dumpsters or any other
cover they could find. It was interesting, Grant thought. They had practiced rolling
out of the trailer back in training. But they never knew exactly what setting they’d
be rolling out into. So when the guys exited the trailer for real this time, they
were scrambling to find cover to get behind. Oh well. You can’t rehearse for everything.
The Team had gone ahead to help the scouts. Grant and Ted were with the main group
of troops from the semi. The chase truck was guarding the rear.
Grant was terrified. Not of the gunfire; he’d been through that before and hadn’t
been shot. He was afraid of himself—of making a mistake. Grant realized he had no
idea what to do because he had never been in command during combat. Actually, it was
worse: he’d never been in combat. But he was in command. He blurted out, “Okay, Ted,
what do we do?”
Ted turned and said, “We get in a fight.” He smiled. He loved this. Good.
Ted told Jim. Q to radio to Bennington that they were in place.
“Give the order to move out whenever you’re ready,” Grant said to Ted, embarrassed
that he didn’t know what to do, but glad that he wasn’t trying to do it.
Ted got on the inter-unit radio. “Move out. Follow the scouts and Team. Guard the
flanks and rear. Let’s go!”
That’s how it started. Everyone just started running, taking cover along the way if
possible, and scrambling up the street. The street lights were illuminating them.
Grant wished those things were off, but he didn’t want to fire shots to take them
out. They still had the element of surprise.
They all ran down street, sweeping the areas in front of them with their rifles. They
were moving like a real military unit, just like in training. For the first time,
Grant could see how all that training—constantly practicing how to move as a unit—was
paying off. As they moved down the street, the 17th Irregulars projected deadly military
power and professionalism.
Something else struck Grant: the loudness of their boots. They sounded like a stampede
of bulls. But in boots.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” Grant was terrified. He felt another surge of adrenaline, which
he didn’t think was possible, given all the adrenaline he had pumping through his
body already. The gun shots were louder than he expected. He always wore hearing protection
while practicing, but he didn’t have hearing protection now. And it wasn’t practice.
It was all very, very real.
The troops instinctively dropped down and took cover where they could. Ted and Sap
were motioning and yelling for them to get up and keep advancing. Most did. A few
froze. Ted and Sap were keeping track of who froze. Grant just kept running forward.
He wanted to go up the street and be with the Team, even though the gunfire was up
there. He was being drawn like a magnet toward his guys. And the gunfire. Because
that was where his guys were.
The gunfire stopped as quickly as it began. A car alarm was going off. It was hard
to hear anything else but that alarm. Everyone’s ears were ringing. Finally, Grant
heard some voices yelling in Spanish in the distance. They sounded scared.
There were also voices in English much closer. “Oh, shit!” one of them said. “Who
are these guys?”
Grant had made it up to the Team by now. Mendez was right behind him. All of them
and the scouts were taking cover behind some fancy gang cars and SUVs that were shot
full of holes. That’s where the car alarm was coming from. Fifty yards away, toward
the apparent entrance to the Mexican neighborhood with its guard gate, was a small
group of cops. Fifty yards beyond that at the neighborhood guard gate, was a large
group of gang-looking young men.
Grant looked back at the 17th. In the street light, he could see most of the unit.
They filled up the street and sidewalks and overflowed everywhere. It looked like
there were a thousand of them. Grant couldn’t believe how overpowering and badass
they looked. Everyone was standing up straight or aiming their weapon properly. Every
single person looked serious and attentive. They looked professional.
Grant tried to imagine what a cop or gang banger’s reaction to the sight of the 17th
would be. The troops in that street looked like a real military unit. Well, since
most had beards and irregular uniforms, maybe they looked more like a unit full of
experienced military contractors. But that made them seem even scarier. They looked
like mercenaries. Maybe even a rival gang of former military men, not a tightly directed
military unit.
The troops looked like they could go off—and in a big way—at any moment they chose.
They looked military enough to be very effective, but uncontrolled enough to flip
into revenge mode and destroy anything. It was the worst combination for anyone in
their way. Good.
“This is Deputy Mendez!” Mendez yelled in English toward the voice that had hollered
out. “All of you put your hands up! Cops and gangbangers. All of you. You’re all under
arrest.”
The cops were stunned. They had assumed the well-armed soldiers were from the Army
or something and were there to reinforce them.
Not one of the cops put his hands up. They were still trying to figure out what was
going on.
“Don’t fuck with us!” Anderson yelled out. “Hands up, bitches!” he said in a voice
that sounded like he’d wanted to say that to cops for some time.
Hearing that, the cops started putting their weapons down and raising their hands.
The Team covered them while the Clear Out Crew cuffed them with zip ties. It was a
very dangerous part of the fight.
Soon, lights started coming on in the Mexican neighborhood. People were yelling and
vehicles were starting up. It quickly sounded like everyone in that neighborhood who
could possibly leave was racing out of there. Dogs were barking and kids were crying.
It took a while to safely cuff all the cops. “Who are you guys?” one of them asked
Nineteen Delta.
“Shut up,” Nineteen Delta snapped back. “Don’t distract me or I will fucking kill
you. Understand?” He wanted to use his voice to assert that he and his people were
in full command of this situation, and that they had the power of life and death over
their prisoners. If he could use his voice as a weapon, instead of his rifle, pistol,
or knife, Nineteen Delta was a happy man.
“They’re getting away,” one cop yelled as the sound of people fleeing the Mexican
neighborhood grew louder.
“Shut up!” Mendez yelled. “Shut the fuck up!” Mendez, too, was trying to use his voice
instead of weapons to accomplish what needed to be done.