“My pleasure, man,” Joe said, dispensing of military formality, since he wasn’t an officer. Or, maybe he was; Yearwood kept calling him “sir,” which could be because he was an officer or because Yearwood said “sir” out of habit. Joe made a mental note to look at his letter of marque later to see if he had been commissioned as an officer. Regardless of what it said, though, it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t going to start acting all military. He was a Patriot just doing what he could for the cause. And getting reimbursed for it.
“You need to fuel up?” Joe asked Yearwood.
“That would be great, sir,” Yearwood replied. He was just about to ask Joe for some fuel, but Joe beat him to it. Yearwood had enough to make it back to base, but with only a very tight margin for error. If they had to chase a vessel—or if they got chased—they would run out.
Joe told a Marine to have both of the vessels topped off. Both ran on diesel, which was good because Joe had a few hundred gallons of diesel in his underground tank. He started off with five hundred gallons and kept replenishing the tank with the diesel he got from the bank work. The fuel he was giving the two boats was a significant contribution, almost as valuable as the booty he was providing. Joe—ever the business man—thought about the portion of the booty he was keeping and realized the fuel he was using on patrols and giving to Yearwood was actually worth slightly more than what he was keeping from this deal. No biggie. The booty was just a way to finance the maritime patrols. If Joe was in this to make money, he would be a pirate.
Joe noticed that one of the sailors was talking to Marty, who was the gunnery sergeant in charge of the Marines. He walked over and listened. The sailor was briefing Marty on the most recent intelligence they had. Marty was with a corporal who had a nautical chart of the area, which they were marking with a pencil.
When he saw Joe, Marty said, “I’d rather be us than them. The Limas are in bad shape in Puget Sound. We pretty much own the water. Lots of little pirate craft. No way to interdict all of them. The Limas have massive protection for their big naval convoys.”
Marty smiled and said, “Get this. The Limas have full anti-sub protections going.”
That didn’t mean a lot to Joe at first.
“They are worried about Patriot subs sinking them!” Marty said. “That means we have regular units on our side making their lives miserable. Outstanding. Outstanding!”
Joe stood there and took it all in. Patriot naval forces making contact with him at this compound to haul away letter-of-marque booty. Lima forces bogged down trying to protect against Patriot submarines. Patriots having nearly free use of the water. This was going much better than Joe had thought it would. Much better.
“How many men you got?” Joe asked Yearwood.
“Seven,” Yearwood said. “Eight if you count me.”
Joe opened up a bag he had. He counted out eight cigars. “After you get done fueling, enjoy these on the ride back, gentlemen. I appreciate what you’re doing.”
Yearwood smiled. A home-cooked breakfast and a cigar. That’s when Yearwood knew they would win this war.
Chapter 209
Simplified… But More Complicated
Grant was doing less and less of his “day job.” He had people in place who were taking care of just about everything. He was constantly amazed at how Pierce Point had come together for mutual aid. A prime example of this was Sandy McPherson’s battery bank, where people were donating their unused batteries, which had become incredibly valuable now that the stores no longer had them There were still problems—mostly greed, selfishness, and jealousy due to scarce resources—but, overall, Pierce Point was humming along. They continued to hear about how things were going in Frederickson and elsewhere. They were very lucky to be where they were.
People were getting accustomed to death. The most common source of death was the lack of medications and simple medical conditions, especially infections, which had been no big deal during peacetime. There were some suicides, too. Pastor Pete’s Sunday services were growing, as were the funeral services afterwards.
But for every horrible thing that happened, there seemed to be one good thing. People were sharing. People were finding out that, after a few months of not having any peacetime luxuries, they weren’t the weak and dependent sheeple they thought. They could actually take care of themselves. People were discovering themselves and their strengths.
The “new normal” everyone was talking about had definitely settled in. The guards guarded. The farmers farmed. The Grange kitchen ladies cooked for a growing number of people who contributed to the community with their labor or donations. The FCard crew made their daily runs to town and returned with enough food to make a difference. The clinic treated people. The librarian collected and checked out books—and politely reminded people when their books were overdue. The adults and kids socialized at Saturday night events. People seemed to be living their lives almost like they had for centuries all over the world, just without all the comforts—or craziness—of pre-Collapse America. It was the acoustic version of life.
On the other hand, life got much more complicated after the Collapse. It was simplified in some ways, like no more running back and forth to soccer practice, but it was more complicated in other ways, like hiding the fact that you’re the commanding officer of the 17th Irregulars. Simplified, but more complicated.
The secrets and the lying were really bothering Grant. Lying and keeping secrets was all he did anymore. He had so many secrets, cover stories, and lies going that he couldn’t keep track of them. Around Pierce Point, he started a new policy with people, including his family: not saying much. The less he said, like about why so many strangers had been seen out by the Marion Farm, the lower the chances that he’d contradict himself and tip someone off that he was lying. He’d still chat with Pierce Point people and his family about mindless things, but he tried not to talk about anything important. It was killing him. He hated to be deceptive, especially with Lisa.
A few times, when he would abruptly change the subject, she would ask him what was wrong. “Nothing,” he’d snap. It was unfair to her, but lives literally depended on it.
Lisa wondered if everything that Grant had on his mind, like helping to run Pierce Point and maybe even the looters he’d killed back in Olympia, was starting to get to him. She was worried that her husband was changing right before her eyes from a good man into a grouchy killer. She was afraid he was changing forever. She looked for signs that “old Grant” was back. She would seize any little shred of good news, like when he wasn’t grouchy. She was worried about him and about them. She could feel their marriage slipping away.
So could Grant. He hated it when he snapped. He would try to make up for it. He would explain to her over and over again, “It’s not you, honey. It’s all this crap I have on my mind. It’s not fair to you. Sorry.” Then something would happen, like when they thought a FUSA reconnaissance helicopter was snooping around, and he’d be back to snapping. He couldn’t help it. And he hated that.
Grant had mentally written off his marriage twice before. The first time was when Lisa had initially refused to come out to the cabin. The second time was when Grant had signed up with the Patriots. At that time, he figured his marriage was one of the prices he would have to pay when he had to bug out and fight this war. “Lives, fortunes, and sacred honor,” he recalled from the Revolutionary War. The only question was whether he would also pay even more by going to jail, getting wounded, or dying. Or maybe all three.