This happened fifteen more times and then it was the 17th’s turn. “17th Irregulars!” the captain yelled. Grant gave the thumbs up, motioned for Jim Q. to stand with him, and then motioned for Ted and Sap to come up front and get some applause. They did.
There they were: the four of them, as a unit. It was a brand new feeling. But, it was a completely comfortable feeling, too. Grant, having seen sixteen previous examples of what to do, crisply led his men through the hall to cheers. As he approached the exit, there was Hammond extending his hand for a handshake.
“Really glad you’re with us, Grant,” Hammond said sincerely, using a rare reference to a first name.
“Me too, sir,” Grant said, without standing at attention. Grant wanted to communicate that he, too, was temporarily breaking with military protocol to show his sincerity.
“We have some big plans for the 17th,” Hammond said. He looked at Ted and Sap, both of whom nodded. “Let’s just say you guys are pre-positioned in the right place.”
Grant had suspected all along that the 17th’s target was nearby Olympia. Now he knew it.
“We’re supposed to be here,” Grant said. Hammond smiled. He had been thinking the same thing. “Supposed to be, sir,” Grant repeated. He had never met anyone like Hammond who was on the same outside-thought wavelength.
“You take good care of Ted and Sap, Lieutenant,” Hammond said. “They were in my old unit and I think the world of both of them. They’re good men; Oath Keepers and superb warriors. Plus, Ted knew you from peacetime. Perfect, just perfect. And I understand you have some hardware in your basement that might help equip quite a few of your unit.” He was smiling.
Wow. Hammond knew details about every unit. “Yes, sir,” Grant said. “Well, they actually belong to…”
“Chip,” Hammond said. Man, this guy knew everything. Impressive. “I understand they split up the inventory of Capitol City Guns,” Hammond said, “and that Chip’s already donated them. Thank him for me. Ted will be bringing out a similar number, and then some.” Hammond was getting a little hoarse from all the yelling and talking. His hoarseness just emphasized that he was giving this his all.
“Yes, sir,” was all Grant could manage to say. He was still stunned at all the detail Hammond had mastered. Hammond was this up-to-speed on each of the twenty-three irregular units. It was one thing to say that was his job, but it was more than just a job for Hammond—he was making sure his guys came out of everything OK and that the Patriots won.
When Grant and Hammond were done talking, Grant stepped aside so Hammond could talk to Jim Q. Hammond said Jim Q.’s real name, “Khnanya,” pronouncing it exactly like Jim Q. had, and then said something in some foreign language. Hammond spoke the code talker language? At least a little. Wow.
Then Grant realized that Special Forces soldiers had to learn lots of languages to operate in the foreign areas where they worked. Hammond was fluent in Spanish, Russian, Pashto, and French. He spoke a little of six other languages, some of which had no written alphabet. Hammond majored in linguistics at West Point.
After Hammond said something in the code talker’s language, Jim Q. smiled, puffed out his chest and said, “Yes, sir. Very much, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jim Q. had never heard someone outside his family ever speak his language. It was surreal to see someone else saying these words.
Next in line for greetings from Hammond were Ted and Sap. “You guys take care of my young lieutenant and Khnanya here,” Hammond said.
“Yes, sir,” Ted said.
“Will do, sir,” Sap said.
“Sap, how is your mom doing back in Wisconsin?” Hammond asked.
Sap looked down at the floor. “Dunno, sir. Can’t get in touch with her, but she needed some pretty serious medications and…well, you know.”
Hammond looked like his own mom had died. “Sorry to hear that, son. Anything I can do?”
“For my mom? No, sir,” Sap said. “We can win this war and not have things like my mom’s situation come up again.”
“Indeed,” Hammond said with a nod to Sap. “You’re a good man, Brandon. Go out and make me proud with the 17th.”
“Yes, sir,” Sap said. He tried to smile, but couldn’t now that he had been reminded about his mom, though it was his dad he worried about. His mom and dad had been inseparable since high school.
“I sense great things from the 17th,” Hammond said with yet another smile. “Go out there and take back our country, gentlemen.” He shook each man’s hand, looked them straight in the eye, and said, with absolute sincerity, “Take it back.”
Grant had become ultra-confident about winning the war on the boat ride in when, looking at the stars, the outside thought told him they would win. He assumed the details of how they’d win would be chaotic. They were taking on the largest and, supposedly strongest, military on earth. But now he knew how they’d win: They would be led by people like Jim Hammond.
Hammond had been placed in Washington State with some amazing skills, Grant realized, and following Hammond would lead to victory. In that moment, Grant was even more confident than when he was looking up at the stars. Not only did he know with absolute certainty that they would win, he now felt like he knew how and why.
Except it hadn’t happened yet. They still had lots of hurdles. Probably awful, awful hurdles. This wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but they would win.
The 18th was right behind them and Hammond was greeting them and similarly showing a mastery of every detail of them and their mission.
Grant, Jim Q., Ted, and Sap walked out of the hall.
Ted and Sap had heard some pep talks before, but this was the best they’d ever heard by far. Here they were, experienced combat Special Forces veterans, and they were pumped up like little kids.
As they were leaving, a Navy petty officer with a clipboard and “Free Wash. State Guard” on the name tag of his fatigues, said to them, “The 17th, I presume?”
Grant nodded. It took him a second to realize that he was in charge. He would answer questions like that. This was quite a change from a half hour ago when the question was whether he was “Mr.” Matson or “Lt.” Matson.
“Your craft is waiting over at slip twenty-two, down this way,” the petty officer said, and pointed to a corner of the marina. “Good night, gentlemen and good luck.” The petty officer looked at Jim Q. and said, “I’d say ‘good luck’ in your language, but I don’t even know what language it is. Better that we don’t, but good luck.” The petty officer tipped his head instead of saluting. Battlefield rules on saluting were in place. Boston Harbor, as beautiful and joyous as that place was that night, was technically a battlefield.
“Thank you,” Jim Q. said. He was told not to use words from his language unless absolutely necessary. Saying “Basima,” his word for “thank you,” with the petty officer would be polite, but if the petty officer were a spy, the Loyalists would know what language the code talkers were using.
Jim Q. wanted to be polite, so he said to the petty officer, “I would say ‘thank you’ in my language, but…”
The petty officer put his hand up and said, “Understood. OPSEC, sir,” which was the military acronym for “operational security.” That term basically meant, “Don’t be a dumbass and give out little details that allow people to find you and kill you.”
Grant and the rest of the 17th walked down the marina toward the boat for the ride home. They weren’t talking. They moved as quietly as possible at all times. It wasn’t natural for Grant to walk around with friends and not talk. He’d been talking with friends instead of walking silently for over forty years during peace time. But now, even though Boston Harbor was as secure as possible, it just seemed stupid and unprofessional to blab. It was like hunting. Everyone’s quiet until they’re in camp.