“Roger that. Code blue,” the dispatcher said. “Code blue” meant a vessel or vehicle that appears to be friendly, but still should be treated as hostile by aiming weapons at it. Don’t fire, though, unless fired upon.
The siren blaring through Joe’s compound changed from a series of three short blasts signifying “battle stations” to two long blasts, which meant “code blue.” Hearing this change, the troops were relaxing a bit, but they were still ready to destroy whatever was coming into the dock. The Marines were checking the skies for helicopters. If the Limas were coming, it would be a coordinated air/sea and possibly, a land attack.
“Flag confirmed. Gadsden. Friendly flag,” the dispatcher said, now fully in control of his emotions. The vessel had the yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag, which was a very welcomed sign.
“Code blue,” Joe repeated into the radio, making sure everyone knew this was still a code blue, not a picnic. “The Limas could be flying a Gadsden. Code blue. Copy?”
“Copy,” the dispatcher said.
“Copy,” the voices of several squad leaders reported.
The siren remained at two long blasts. There was no letting up just because of the color of the flag.
A few tense seconds passed.
“Radio confirmation,” the dispatcher said. “Confirmation of a friendly. Code used. Finally.”
“Sirens to code yellow,” Joe said. “Yellow” as in Gadsden yellow, the color of the Patriot flag. A few seconds later, the sirens went to four short blasts. Everyone was relaxing.
The first boat pulled into the dock. It wasn’t a military vessel as the dispatcher had first reported. Joe knew, first reports—especially when people are scared—are seldom entirely accurate.
The second vessel, which was a thirty-foot civilian cabin cruiser and likely a transport, came in second. Both boats were seemingly harmless civilian-looking ones that would blend in with the other boats on the water, which would come in handy when FUSA naval forces or pirates came near. The only disadvantage to the civilian boats was that that thin fiberglass in the hull wouldn’t stop a .22 bullet, let alone what was just about to fly from Joe’s compound if those vessels hadn’t properly identified themselves.
Joe had about ten men behind sand bags with rifles and one M240 light machine gun pointed toward the approaching vessels. He walked up to the first boat in a sign of confidence, wanting to show his guys that he was fearless. He was reasonably certain he wasn’t going to die that day. Guess I’ll find out, he thought.
“Lieutenant Commander Dibble sends his regards,” yelled out a sailor in FUSA Navy fatigues as he approached Joe. When he got closer, Joe could see the “U.S. Navy” tag was off the fatigues and had been replaced with one saying, “Free Wash. State Guard.”
He didn’t look like Dibble, the Patriot naval officer who had landed there before and given Joe his “letter of marque” which was a letter from the commander of the Free Washington State Guard allowing Joe to operate as a privateer. The sailor was a younger guy, in his early thirties. When he finally came into the light and Joe could see him, the sailor was tan, suggesting he’d been out on the water a lot that summer.
So far, so good, Joe thought. He smiled and relaxed. He cinched his AR tight against his chest. He wasn’t going to need it right away. Out of habit, he checked to make sure it was on safe.
“May I ask why you didn’t radio ahead and let us know not to shoot you?” Joe asked. “You were a few seconds away from being blown out of the water.” He was serious. He was just about to order his men to annihilate the boats. Joe wasn’t pissed, but he was concerned. He didn’t want an incident like this to happen again. Next time, things might go poorly. Dying was bad enough, but dying from friendly fire was even worse. Not only are people dead, but those who kill them feel guilty for the rest of their lives. Besides the human toll, friendly fire destroys morale.
“We had the wrong frequency, sir,” the sailor said. “We called in one number off from what was on our cheat sheet,” he said. “We realized it and called in on the right one right before…”
“We shot you full of holes,” Joe said. Mistakes like this one accounted for more deaths than brave fights against the enemy. Details mattered in this business. Those details often mattered the most in the times when people were sleep deprived and scared to death, which was when people screwed up details the most.
Joe had already made his point about the radio frequency and didn’t want to be a dick, so he smiled and extended his hand for a shake. “I’m Joe Tantori. And you are?”
“Petty Officer Yearwood, sir,” the sailor said. “T. G. Yearwood of the Free Washington Navy.” Yearwood pointed to three others on board. “This is my crew.” The three tipped their helmets and nodded. No saluting on the battle field. Besides, Joe was a civilian. There was no need to salute him. Maybe, Yearwood thought, Joe had been commissioned as an officer in that letter of marque, but oh well. Not a lot of formality out here. Just getting a job done.
“I have some goodies for you, Petty Officer, but I need a little more identification,” Joe said. “I would hate to give away Patriot supplies to a thief, no offense.”
“None taken, sir,” Yearwood said. “I can do one better than identification. You are encouraged to contact Lt. Cmdr. Dibble on the frequency you have already been given.” Dibble had given Joe a piece of paper along with his letter of marque that had a special radio frequency on it and a code word. “Once you contact him,” Yearwood told Joe, “I will give you a code phrase, you will give it back to him, and he will verify that I am authorized to pick up the cargo.”
Joe nodded. “’Preciate it, Petty Officer.” Joe keyed the radio on his tactical vest and said, “Jeff. Bring me the letter of marque.”
A second later, a voice said, “Roger that.”
“Go ahead and relax, gentlemen,” Joe said to Yearwood. “You guys need some food, water, a potty break?”
“Yes, sir,” Yearwood said. He arranged for the transport vessel to dock so they could load up and avail themselves of the facilities. Joe arranged for the kitchen to start cooking up some breakfast for the sailors.
By this time, Jeff arrived with a piece of paper and a larger radio. Joe looked at the paper and saw the frequency, which Joe entered in the larger radio and looked at the first code word. It was “John Barry,” a Revolutionary War naval hero who almost no one knew of. Joe called that frequency and asked for “John Barry.”
A voice, which didn’t belong to Dibble, came on and said, “John Barry here. And who might this be?”
“Water buffalo,” Joe said, reading the second code word. Water buffalo? Why did he get a lame code name like that?
“Right on schedule,” the voice on the radio said. “Get the code word from your visitors and let me know what it is.”
Yearwood said, “Cheetah.”
Joe repeated “Cheetah” into the radio.
“OK, good to go, sir,” the voice said. “Your visitors are authorized to make a pick-up. Thank you for your support, sir.”
“Roger that,” Joe said. Joe got the inventory sheet of the booty and had a detail of Marines help the sailors load it. Lots of ammunition, medical supplies, cash, some gold and silver, some jewelry, and lots of miscellaneous things of value. There had been several bottles of booze, including some high-dollar brands, but Joe kept those for his boys.
He got a signed copy of the inventory to show what he donated and made sure the sailors rotated into the kitchen and got some chow.
“Home-cooked breakfast,” Yearwood said to Joe as he came back from the kitchen toward the boat. “Haven’t had that in a while. It was good, sir. Really good. Thanks.” There is something about a good meal that makes life so much better. Especially when you didn’t expect one.