The wounded kept flowing in. It was hard to tell if they were friendlies or enemy, but it didn’t matter. They all got treated. Grant had never understood that. Why waste precious medical supplies on the people who had been trying to kill you just a little while ago? But doctors and nurses took an oath to treat the wounded. It was also part of the Geneva Convention. As if the Limas followed that. But the Patriots did, to the best of their ability. Luckily for Grant, the medical units took over those operations. All he was doing for them was giving them a building with electricity and water and providing security for the area. Well, several other units were augmenting the 17th on security. At this point, things were very blurry for Grant. He didn’t know what he and the 17th were doing exactly; he just knew that stuff was getting done somehow.
At some point in the middle of the night, prisoners started trickling in. Some came from the field hospital after being treated. Others walked in under their own power to surrender. Most came with their hands already zip tied by Patriot units. But some just walked up to the brewery with their hands up. They were mostly young National Guard kids who were glad this whole stupid thing was over. They’d been told the Patriots would torture and kill them, but everything else their Lima officers had told them was a lie so, they figured this must be, too.
The amount of prisoners was becoming a problem. The brewery building they were using was quickly filling up. And it wasn’t too secure. They needed to figure out where to set up a makeshift detention facility.
“The high school is about a mile that way,” Grant explained to a major who said he was the head of the MPs, or military police. Grant was pointed up the street toward the Baskin Robbins. “Lots of lockable rooms and a big kitchen. High schools are kind of like prisons anyway,” Grant said with a laugh.
“Good idea, Lieutenant,” the major said. He started yelling to get a team together to go check out the high school. He found a local civilian who would show them where the high school was.
There were lots of civilians pouring in to the brewery—the word got out that this was the place where the Patriots were—to offer help. There were two kinds of civilians at the brewery. The first were hungry civilians, or those with untreated medical needs. They had no political ideals; they viewed the Patriots as just another provider of food or medical treatment. They didn’t care. There were way too many hungry kids. They got first priority in the kitchen, right after soldiers going back out to fight.
The second category of civilians streaming in to the brewery was the closet Patriots and gray men and women who wanted to offer their help. People like Ron Spencer.
Earlier, a neighbor of Ron’s, an Undecided, had come running to Ron’s house to tell him the Patriots had taken the capitol campus and had set up a headquarters at the brewery. Ron wanted to race to the brewery and offer his help but, after thinking about it, decided to stay in his neighborhood. Ron had his shotgun and was ready. He was going to protect his family. The three members of the “Carlos Cabal,” as they called the neighborhood Lima leaders, could try to come after Ron and his family. Protecting his family was his first priority. Killing Limas was a distant second. Besides, Ron had done his duty by tagging the three Carlos Cabal houses with that big black “L” on the front door, which would help the Patriots when they finally got to the Cedars.
The fourth floor observation point was becoming a communications center. Radio after radio was carried up those stairs and being set up.
The fourth floor com center was a family reunion of Quadras. They were reunited after being in separate units for months and not seeing each other. They hugged and did a short dance that looked like a Greek wedding dance. They talked a thousand miles an hour in their language, laughed, and threw up their arms in joy. Then they went back to work relaying the very sensitive communications with huge smiles on their faces.
No one was working on political affairs, Grant realized. Everyone at the brewery was a military person working on military issues, like a field hospital, communications, field kitchen, and holding prisoners. Grant realized this was a critical time for politics.
Grant was very respectful of others’ rank and position, but he needed to assert himself on the political affairs. If someone wanted to tell him to stand down, he’d be happy to let them handle it while he took a nap. He was getting delirious at this point, but the outside thought had told him to press on so that was what he was going to do.
Grant found the major who was in charge of intelligence. “Major,” Grant said as he re-introduced himself, “I’m in charge of civil affairs.” That was kind of true. No one had told him he wasn’t in charge of civil affairs.
“Great,” the major said, assuming Grant had actual training and experience at civil affairs. “Go do it. What’s your plan?”
That was a great question. “We’ll start off,” Grant said authoritatively, “with some political messages. We’ll brief the troops on what to tell people they encounter. That message will basically be that we’re here to help, not carry out revenge killings.”
Grant held up two fingers and said, “There are two messages, one to enemy military and one to the civilians. To the enemy military, the message is that we accept Lima—or, pardon me “legitimate authority”—surrenders and will treat them well. Feed them, that kind of thing.”
Grant put up his second finger and continued as if he knew what he was talking about, “The message to the civilians is that we are here to feed them and treat their medical needs. We will establish order and protect them from the gangs. Enemy military and law enforcement will get fair treatment; gangs won’t. They’re criminals and the civilians need to see that we’re not a gang and won’t tolerate it.”
The major nodded. In his mind, Lima military and police got fair treatment because they were uniformed enemy. Gangs weren’t. They were just criminals.
Grant continued, “So we get those two messages out to the troops and then we start to get the messages out to the civilians who are coming here. Every soldier should have the spiel down. The civilians will take the messages they receive back to their neighbors. The good news that we’re treating people fairly will spread like wildfire. Then we try to get a radio station and broadcast. I’d love to print up pamphlets but, let me guess, we don’t have printing capabilities.”
“There was a copy center on the way in here,” the major said. Of course. Grant had forgotten about the copy center two blocks away. If their copy machines hadn’t been stolen and they had paper and electricity, then they were in business. It was pamphlet time.
“Great,” Grant said. “I’ll put one of my men on making pamphlets.” By “one of my men,” Grant meant… he’d hand write them himself.
“Go at it… what’s your name again?” the major asked.
“Lt. Matson,” Grant said. “I’m in command of the 17th Irregulars.” He knew his credibility would go down with his lowly rank of lieutenant and the fact that he was in a mere irregular unit. So he smiled and added, “We’re the guys who brought this fine brewery to you.”
“An irregular unit did this?” the major asked and looked around at the humming observation center up on the fourth floor.
“Solid,” the major said. “Very solid, Lieutenant.” Then he thought about it: a good chunk of the Patriot forces were irregular units. He shouldn’t have been that surprised.
Grant started on the pamphlet. He got a runner to go to the copy center, break in, and check out the equipment. He asked him to return with a ream of paper and any pens they could find. The runner saluted and took off.