299 Days: The Preparation Part 13

Being a conservative in the Seattle area was hard. The socially intolerant connotations of the term conservative equated to being a hateful person. This meant that a conservative had to be his or her own person.

For Jeanie, this meant being herself and not giving a d.a.m.n what people thought. Since she was far more libertarian than socially conservative, Jeanie partied her a.s.s off. As she put it, "I put the *party' in the *Republican party.'" Grant was the same way so they got along just fine.

Grant would have beers with Jeanie, and the handful of other conservatives in Olympia. Jeanie would come over to the Matson house. She didn't have kids so she loved seeing Manda and Cole. Grant even invited her to the very special WAB Super Bowl and Fourth of July parties. She fit in perfectly into the tiny, tiny conservative social circles of Olympia.

Jeanie had a boyfriend, Jim. He was in early thirties and worked for the Department of Revenue, or "DOR" as everyone in Olympia called it. He was DOR's database expert who kept the state tax computer system humming along. Jim was also an officer in the Washington National Guard and worked on their computers.

Jim and Grant worked out at the same time at the gym and they got to know each other well. Jim must have trusted Grant because one day, after a hard work out, he used the "R" word with Grant. It wasn't "Republican."

Jim looked around to make sure no one in the area could hear him. "You know, Grant, things are getting so bad there might be a revolution in this country. People won't take all the taxes and bullying."

Revolution? Grant had thought it but never heard anyone else say that word.

"Don't get me wrong - I don't want a revolution," Jim said.

"I'm in the Guard. I will have to put anything like that down. I have an obligation to." He paused and looked Grant right in the eye. "It's coming."

Jim looked away because he couldn't handle how serious this conversation was getting. He resumed a normal conversational tone. "The things I see at DOR would blow your mind. They just make up rules and nail people for cash. It's a racket. Unreal. I can't believe people are just taking this. They can't keep on getting screwed like this for long. They will rise up at some point." Jim appeared relieved by getting this off his chest.

"I'm trying to find another job," he whispered. "I can't stand what DOR is doing. But I know the DOR computer systems like the back of my hand. I run them. That knowledge doesn't transfer easily into any other job. What I do is too specialized."

A guy who thinks there will be a revolution is the guy in charge of the state tax computer system? That seemed like a bit of a security breach.

Grant wanted to help Jim but knew he couldn't really. "I'll keep my ears open for you, Jim." Then talk turned to "safe" topics like sports and celebrities that were destroying their lives.

On the way back to the office, Grant drove by Nancy Ringman, the old Auditor's Chief of Staff. She hadn't been immediately fired by Rick Menlow, but after a few months, she finally left the Auditor's Office.

Nancy landed on her feet, though. Her good friend, the Governor, appointed her to be the head of the Campaign Finance Commission. That agency, commonly called the CFC, was the one that enforced the state's campaign financial disclosure laws. This would give her the power to investigate candidates and political contributors for not reporting contributions. The CFC was famous for investigating Republicans but looking the other way at Democrats. Great, Grant thought. Nancy's experience at the State Auditor's Office covering up Democrats' illegal activities makes her perfectly qualified for the CFC.

Running the CFC was about the same level of job she had at the Auditor's Office. In fact, she was probably making more money. But that's not what she wanted. She wanted to run the Auditor's Office the way she wanted to run it. She didn't want to start again in some other agency. She had been p.i.s.sed for weeks.

Nancy was cold to Grant the few times he saw her in the neighborhood where they both lived. Vicious was actually a better word. One time she couldn't hold it back and ripped into Grant about "Republicans not caring about the work we do" or something. Grant thought she might try to hit him, which was a pretty silly thought, but she seemed that mad. How weird, Grant thought. What a hateful little monster. Oh well. Grant could care less what she thought, but he was struck at how angry she was. He figured he better steer clear of her for a while.

As a government insider at the State Auditor's Office, Grant now got to see it close up. It was even worse than he knew when he was on the outside.

Grant spent most of his day going to meetings at which nothing got done. During one all-agency meeting in the Governor's Office about what state agencies would propose to the Legislature in the next legislative session, there was a request for suggestions to deal with the ballooning public employee pension crisis. The Governor's legislative director, Sean Patterson, kicked it off.

"Well," said Sean, a distinguished looking fifty-something man with silver hair and an impeccable suit, "our state and local government pension funds are $16 billion in the hole. The unions won't budge. The Governor doesn't want to ask any more of them. You understand." They all did, except Grant. Well, he understood why, but he didn't agree.

Grant blurted out, "How is this sustainable?"

Silence.

Most people in the room didn't know who Grant was, let alone that he worked for a Republican. They a.s.sumed he was some uninformed staffer covering a meeting for his boss.

Sean, who knew that Grant was an opponent, said coolly, "The system was set up when times were better."

"But didn't anyone have a plan for if the good times didn't last?" Grant asked.

More silence. Now Grant was getting some glares.

"Let me be honest, Grant," Sean said in a mildly condescending voice. "The system wasn't designed to last. It was temporary. It got us through some elections, OK? We all knew it wouldn't last, but the end came quicker and harder than we thought. OK?" He said "OK" as if to say "you made your point, you little snot nose, now let's move on to the meeting that I'm in control of."

"Understood," Grant said. He had to show some respect, or he'd be thrown out of the meeting. He needed to stay in that meeting to gather more intelligence; political intelligence.

The main subject of the meeting was the recent revenue shortfall. For some reason that no one in the room could understand (except Grant), raising taxes had resulted in less economic activity and therefore less tax revenue. They were baffled.

"We need the money," Sean said. "That's the bottom line. How do we go get it?"

"Let's raise the income tax on high-end earners," was someone's predictable suggestion.

"Well, we've done that a lot lately," said the Governor's political director, whose name Grant had forgotten. "The *high-end' earner is now getting down to the upper ends of the middle cla.s.s." The political director did not want her boss, the Governor, to run for re- election after raising taxes a zillionth time.

Sean shot back, "That's our money. We need it."

"Your money?" Grant said with obvious anger. "It's not your money, it's theirs." Grant looked Sean right in the eyes.

Silence.

Everyone stared at Grant. That was twice now that Grant had said something inappropriate. Grant wanted to leave the room but knew he couldn't. He had to be there for all the Ed Oleos, Big Sams, and Joe Tantoris. But he had nothing more to say. He had just said all he needed to.

After Grant recovered from saying something that stunned the whole room into silence, he started to think about what had Sean had just said. Oh G.o.d, Grant thought. It's true. These people really think the people's money is the government's money. The people work for the government. The people need to work harder so the government can get more. Grant had always thought they believed it, but there in that conference room they had come right out and said it. It was true. He was seeing it with his own eyes. It was frightening.

Right then and there Grant decided that he couldn't be part of this. He also realized - with absolute certainty now - that the government was worse than even he had thought. These people were thieves.

How could these thieves keep doing this and not get caught?

Grant had a second epiphany: the idiot sheeple kept voting for the thieves. The sheeple got sc.r.a.ps from the thieves and were too scared to stand up for what's right. It was kind of like his mom letting his dad hurt people because she was too weak to stand up. Same thing, bigger scale.

Grant struggled to stay in his chair and make it through the meeting. When the meeting was finally over, he walked back from the Governor's Office to the nearby Auditor's Office on the capitol grounds. All the post-election euphoria about getting to help people from the inside had thoroughly worn off by now. Little by little, the old staff that remained in the Auditor's Office were thwarting the new Auditor's reform agenda. Grant knew this would happen. Now the old staff was rallying and making it impossible for the new Auditor and the handful of his new people to get any reforms done. It was getting ridiculous. Grant needed to do something about it.

He walked into Menlow's office, and closed the Auditor's door. "Rick," Grant said to Menlow, "you need to fire some people or they'll derail you."

The Auditor did not like this. Before Grant had made it back to the office, Sean had called Menlow to tell him about Grant's "divisive" remarks at the meeting. Menlow needed Grant to quit causing him problems. Grant's "helping the citizens" thing had gone a little too far.

Menlow calmly replied, "Grant, I need to govern. I'm no longer running for this office when I needed to promise reforms. I need to be practical now. Maybe you could be a little more cooperative with the staff here."

Grant understood perfectly what Menlow was saying. "Play ball" was the message he was sending to Grant. This was the beginning of the end of Grant's government employment. Good riddance.

There was no reason to be a jerk to Menlow; it wouldn't change anything. "I will try, Mr. Auditor," Grant said. There was some silence and then Grant added, "I'd better get back to work." Time to start the exit from the Auditor's Office and get back to WAB. Grant had tried to reform the system from the inside. At least he tried.

Grant looked for Jeanie so he could vent to her. She was a hardcore conservative so she would see his point of view.

Jeanie seemed to have been expecting Grant to talk to her. Had Menlow told her about the meeting?

Grant told her what had happened and that he needed to leave the Auditor's Office. "Jeanie, how can you stand all this?"

"I dunno, Grant," Jeanie said with a sigh. "I need this job.

There aren't too many slots for a Republican communications director in this state." Her voice turned jokingly sarcastic to make the point, "Oh, wait, there's only one and I already have the job. I need to keep it."

Grant could see where this was going. He had stupidly put his faith in a politician and a political system. This system was not fixable. At least not without ma.s.sive change. An election here and there couldn't do it. It would take something bigger. That terrified him.

Chapter 27.

Glock Grant had one hole in his preps: a sidearm. He had a revolver and a pocket pistol. They were fine for what they were, but he needed a tactical side arm. Or two. Like the Glock he borrowed from Pow. He went to Capitol City Guns.

Chip was glad to see him, as usual. "Care to buy anything today, Mr. Matson?" He asked.

"You got any Glocks?" Grant asked. Of course they did. Several dozen.

Grant tried a Glock Model 22, the full-size Glock in .40 just like the one he had borrowed from Pow. It fit perfectly in Grant's hand. It had substance to it, but wasn't too heavy. It was the perfect balance. The one he was handling had glow-in-the-dark night sights. Night sights are a must, Grant presumed.

"Special deal for you, my friend," Chip said. "This is a gently used law enforcement trade-in. Just $399. Night sights and all." Grant looked it over; it was in great shape. It seemed like most police only shot their pistols once a year to qualify. This thing was practically new. "And, of course, we have a liberal return policy here for our favorite customers," Chip said.

"Sold," Grant said. "I'll need a few magazines, too." Grant checked his envelope of cash he brought in from the car. He had been driving all over the state on State Auditor business so he had some pretty decent expense checks from all the reimburs.e.m.e.nts. "How about ten magazines?" Grant said. Glock magazines were relatively cheap, about $20 each, which was half of what some other pistol magazines were. Grant had at least ten magazines for every gun he owned that used magazines. A gun is useless without a magazine, and magazines break and get lost. Pistol magazines were a good investment, too. A $20 Glock magazine would be worth ten times that during a collapse. There were likely half a million Glocks in .40 out there. They were standard issue to most police departments. There would always be demand for them and for their magazines in a barter situation. With so many of them out there, there would be parts (although Glocks almost never broke) and there was always lots of .40 ammo available. With all those cops with Glocks in .40, they would have guns, magazines, and ammo to sell if they needed spare cash. It scared Grant that his vision of what was coming included some cops selling their weapons.

Grant needed some ammo. At first, he bought ammunition in fifty-round boxes. Now, he bought ammo by the case. Capitol City gave him a "volume discount" on cases and basically sold them to him for their wholesale cost. He would use roughly half a case at a time on training.

Grant would take the other half case and stockpile it. He put the ammo in .50 ammo cans like the ones he had in the storage shed and now out at his cabin. At this point, he had about two dozen ammo cans, each holding several hundred rounds, depending on the size of the cartridge. About a dozen ammo cans were at his house. He couldn't believe his wife didn't wonder what was in all those Army green square cans with little blue painter's tape labels on them marked "5.56" "7.62" "12" "38" and "380." Now ammo cans with "40" on them would be appearing.

Grant used reloads for training. These were cartridges that had been fired once (or more) and then a new bullet, primer, and powder were put on. Some guys, like Pow, reloaded their own ammunition. Grant wanted to reload his ammo, but he didn't have the time to do it and didn't shoot enough to justify the cost of the reloading equipment. Reloads were about half as much as new ammunition. They weren't as accurate, but they were still plenty accurate for clanging a steel plate. They would certainly work for defensive purposes, too.

"I'll take a case of .40 reloads," Grant told Chip. He had plenty of cash in the envelope. "Oh, h.e.l.l, two cases" Grant said.

There was nothing more comforting to Grant than buying cases of ammo. A case of ammunition is a very comforting thing for someone who thinks the country is spiraling toward a collapse. Ammo would never be cheaper than it was then, he would use it and have fun, and it was literally a precious metal that was an investment. Most importantly, a case of ammo could save his life and many others'. There was no downside. It was better than spending the money on something like golf clubs.

When Grant was a kid, getting a new pair of shoes before school started was a really big deal. It was his only pair for the year. It meant going to Grossman's, the "department" store in Forks that was really just a store with a few different things. Grossmans would give him a plastic Easter egg with candy in it when he bought a new pair of shoes. That candy was an event for poor people. And with new shoes, it was easy to forget he was poor.

Grossman's would give Grant the chance to wear his new shoes out of the store after his mother paid for them. Grant would always say yes. It was such a great feeling to walk out of the store in those new shoes. The thrill of getting something new was magnified by using it right away.

The same was true of guns. Grant took the new Glock to the range immediately. It shot just like the one Pow had loaned him. It was so smooth. And accurate. The holster worked flawlessly; he was getting very fast at drawing that thing. He fired the Glock 22 as fast as he could to see if it jammed. Never. Not once. In the thousands of rounds he put through that gun, it never jammed once.

Grant was ready for the next Sunday afternoon with the Team.

Chip would come by the range every couple Sundays. Chip was pretty good with a carbine and pistol.

The guest instructor on some Sunday afternoons was Special Forces Ted. He would teach the guys basic small arms skills. How to move. How to shoot. How to move and shoot. And communicate. Nothing fancy. No complicated gear or advanced tactics. Ted realized that the Team members were civilians who did this every other weekend.

Special Forces Ted loved it. These young guys worshipped him. Teaching these basic small arms tactics was exactly what Ted had done in the Army. The primary mission of Green Berets was to train allied indigenous fighters behind enemy lines to be guerillas and hara.s.s whatever enemy army the U.S. was fighting. Special Forces spend most of their time training raw indigenous recruits in very basic skills. That's what Ted was doing with these guys. And he had some very good students.

Training with the Team was going great. Grant was getting better with every session. He became so comfortable with an AR and a Glock that they started to seem like pieces of clothing. Comfortable clothing he loved to wear.

Grant was bonding with these guys. They started working on shooting together as two-man and larger teams. They all started watching the Magpul Dynamics training DVDs in between their time out on the range. These DVDs had several hours of expert training on handguns and carbines (a term for short tactical rifles like an AR). They were invaluable. Another fabulous, and free, resource was the availability of hundreds of YouTube videos on shooting, guns, and tactical gear. A particularly good YouTube channel was the one by a guy who went by "Nutnfancy."

The Team did one thing differently than lots of guys who watched the Magpul DVDs and Nutnfancy videos: they practiced. Instead of sitting in a warm, dry house on a couch and watching people doing tactical things on a TV or computer screen, the Team took what they saw on those screens and went out and practiced. Every other Sunday afternoon they went to the range and coached each other. The DVDs and YouTube videos were a basis for it, but the practice, with live rounds, was how they got good. Really good.

The most valuable training came from Special Forces Ted. Realizing that these guys were civilians and only had ARs and pistols - instead of grenades, machine guns, and air cover - Special Forces Ted kept the training at what he called the "law enforcement level," which was short ranges like point blank to about fifty yards, maybe 100 for some situations. With a potential urban battlefield in mind, Ted trained the Team on picking cover, changing out magazines, switching from rifle to pistol, moving, communicating, and shooting, shooting, shooting.

On the range, the Team worked on their communications.

They had standard terms they would yell to each other. "Check" meant they were reloading a magazine or had a jam (very infrequent), so they were temporarily out of commission. They didn't use the term "Reloading" or "Jam" because, at these short urban warfare distances, an enemy may hear that and know one of the Team was temporarily out of action.

If a member of the Team heard one say "Check," that meant that the other guy would cover the first member while he fixed the problem. The other guy would yell "OK" to signal that he heard the "Check." If a member's rifle ran dry and needed a new magazine, he would usually transition to his pistol, get to a place like behind cover where he could put a fresh magazine in his rifle, holster his pistol, and keep going with his rifle. If a Team member needed to move to another position, he would yell "Moving" so the other guy knew he was moving and could keep track of where he was and wouldn't shoot him by mistake. The other member would yell "Move" to let the moving member know that he heard him (it was hard to hear when guns are going off). The moving member would go behind the member who yelled "Move" and tap him on the shoulder so he knew the moving member had cleared him, and then take the next position. They were always a.s.sessing the scene to find the next piece of cover.

There was a lot of thought that went into gun fighting. The shooting part, the marksmanship to hit a target, was just a small piece of it. Thinking about transitioning between weapons, realizing when one magazine was getting low, changing out empty magazines, communicating, and moving so that they didn't shoot each other took lots and lots of practice, but it was worth it. And it was the most fun they could have with their pants on.

The Team started incorporating movement into their drills. Moving around while people are shooting live ammunition is something that must be done with great care. Trust was very important among teammates. No one even came close to doing anything - ever - that was dangerous. They always knew exactly where their teammates were and never fired in a dangerous direction. They practiced the movements dozens of times without firing to get a rhythm down.

On those Sunday afternoons, the Team practiced leap-frogging so at least one guy was firing on a target as the others were moving. They practiced sustained fire, which was firing a round every so often to keep the bad guys' heads down while a teammate reloaded, advanced, or retreated. Communicating all the while. Finding cover and constantly moving, if possible.

After one particularly good training session, Pow seemed a little choked up. He said, "I'd go into a fight with any of you guys." It was weird and totally understandable at the same time. It was weird because they were civilians and it was peacetime, so there was no logical reason to think there would be a gunfight anytime soon. But it was also understandable because all of the guys knew they were training for something. Some, like Grant, knew exactly what they were training for. Grant knew he wouldn't tell the Team he was a "survivalist" until later. He didn't want to seem like a weirdo and have the guys shy away from him.

Scotty had a feeling things would be going downhill in the country soon and that they had better learn how to take care of business if there were no cops around.

Others, like Bobby and Pow, had an inkling of what looting and gang warfare could look like, but they were training primarily because it was fun.

Wes was hard to read. There was something complex going on in that guy's head. Grant decided to find out. If Wes were crazy, Grant needed to know so they could kick him off the Team. Crazy people can't be trusted to be around live fire exercises.

"So what's the life story of Wes Marlin?" Grant asked one day when they were cleaning their guns and were the only ones left on the range. There was something about cleaning guns that leads guys to have deep conversations.

"Not much," Wes said in that southern accent. He paused.

"I grew up in North Carolina mostly," he continued. "My dad is in the Army and we went all over, but he spent a lot of time at Bragg and Benning," two Army bases for special operations forces.

"What does he do in the Army?" Grant asked.

"He's a Ranger," Wes said. "Just about to retire. He's out at Ft. Lewis now. That's how I got out here to Washington State." Wes was kind of quiet.

"Do you like it out here?" Grant asked.

"Yeah, it's OK," he said with a shrug. "It's a little cold up here and the people are a little weird. There are too many leftist, bleeding heart stickers on Subarus up here, y'know?" They talked about all the liberal whack jobs in Washington State for a while.

"So what do you do at the equipment rental store?" Grant asked.

"Just about everything," Wes said. "I fix all the machinery and maintain it. I show customers how to use all the machines." Wow, Grant thought. This guy knows how to fix machinery. What an a.s.set when equipment breaks and there's no one to call. Wes was still holding something back. Grant thought there was a disconnect between Wes coming out to Washington State and spending the past few years working at the rental place.

"What's your dad like?" Grant asked.

Wes straightened his posture, looked Grant in the eye, and said, "He's an a.s.shole."

That's what Wes was holding back.