299 Days IX: The Restoration (15 page)

The trip in to the capitol area went remarkably fast because they were speeding. The pick-ups on the sides were doing a great job keeping the Suburban perfectly shielded from attack although, with the highway empty, it wasn’t hard to keep pace like that. There were no cars to get in the way.

“Boom! Boom! Crack! Crack!” A line of red tracers went up from their right and over into some buildings ahead of them.

“Blue!” Brad yelled into the radio. They sped up. Everyone in the Suburban was scared, except Brad and Jerry.

“Yellow two,” a voice said on the radio. Brad relaxed.

“That was nothing,” Brad reported to the protectees. “Just some fighting, not aimed at us.”

In a minute or two, they were off the highway and onto the exit. They took the exit fast and raced through the red light at the intersection, knowing that being off the highway was a dangerous time because they would be moving more slowly and exposed to numerous buildings that made excellent cover for an ambush.

The street took them past the brewery which was blocked off.

“There’s your military headquarters,” Brad said to Ben, pointing to the brewery. There were vehicles and soldiers everywhere around it.

“We’re going there?” Ben asked. “To have me, you know, talk to the troops?” Ben was still trying to feel comfortable in his new role as commander in chief.

“No, Governor,” Brad said. “We want to keep your arrival under wraps for a while. We have this all planned out. We’ll get you in front of the troops, soon and often.” Brad’s protectees were usually elected officials. He learned early on that politicians like them loved to talk to crowds, even when it was dangerous. It made his job of protecting them harder, but it was part of the deal.

They went on the side streets around the brewery and down towards the capitol. The lead driver gave the passwords at the military checkpoints and they went right through. It was extremely well planned and orchestrated.

The rain had stopped but everything was still wet. There were burned out pick-ups and a few military vehicles. There were boarded up buildings, covered in graffiti, surrounded by trash and debris. They hadn’t been in Olympia for months. They had no idea how bad it had become.

“We’re cleaning up this garbage, right?” Ben asked. “Can we get some Loyalist prisoners to do that?”

“Look at you, Governor,” Tom said with a smile. “You’re governing.”

It hit all of them. They really were governing now, after all the bitching they’d done about the former government. Now it was up to them to get things done, to fix things. They finally got what they wanted: a chance to do things their way, the constitutional way. But now, any failures were on them. They couldn’t blame the “powers that be” any longer. That was them now.

They had inherited problems almost too vast to imagine. It was a civil war, although they never used that term because it didn’t fit very well. A “civil war,” everyone thought, harkening back to history, was a large army of blue and gray troops fighting big battles. This wasn’t that. It was a breakdown with one side trying to hold onto power and another side trying to clean things up. There weren’t large battles. Instead, it only took a slight nudge to topple a broken and battered government that could barely stand up. To call it a “civil war” was an exaggeration.

They also inherited a complete breakdown of the economy. Economy? What economy? Gangs stealing everything in sight wasn’t an “economy.” Handing out FCards, usually based on political loyalty, wasn’t an “economy.” Commandeering truckloads of food wasn’t an “economy.” The closest thing to an “economy” was people doing little tiny odd jobs to get paid in food or gasoline or ammunition.

But that would be the basis for restoring the economy. People, at least some of them, would still work. They would still trade things. That was how the American economy recovered after the devastating Revolutionary War. It would be the basis now for a complete rebuild. No more government-controlled economy. No more crushing taxes and regulation. The briefing binders in the Suburban were full of ways to make sure the government didn’t resume its old ways of taxing and controlling. And destroying.

“Winter kill-off,” Brian said looking at all the garbage, burned-out vehicles, and boarded up buildings. “You know, like a field at the end of winter. Everything, including the weeds, is killed off, which makes it possible to plant seeds that will grow in the spring and summer. It still takes constant work, making sure the weeds don’t come back, but you start with a clean slate.”

As they passed through more destruction of their formerly nice city, Brian said, “This is our clean slate.”

Everyone sat and thought about that. The destruction, especially the destroyed vehicles and burned out buildings, got worse the closer they got to the capitol.

“This area looks familiar,” Carly said as they went down Capitol Boulevard toward the old WAB building.

“It should,” Brad said as they turned in front of the brick WAB building. The headlights from the Suburban and convoy showed that the WAB building had burn marks on the outside of its beautiful brick walls. The windows were smashed out. More garbage. It was caked up against the walls of the building like a snowdrift.

The parking lot was full of vehicles, some military and many pick-ups. There were dozens of soldiers and more of those contractor-looking guys, like the ones in the pick-ups accompanying them. The lights were on in the building.

“Here’s your temporary headquarters, Governor,” Brad said. “We still have some cleanup to do at the capitol, but we should have it ready for you in a few hours, maybe a day.”

Ben, Tom, Brian, and Carly had forgotten just how destroyed the WAB building had been. It was scarred and ugly, and was a symbol to them of how destroyed the State of Washington itself had become. A formerly beautiful and functioning thing, like that historic building, was now a trashed shell of what it had been.

The WAB building had been intentionally selected as the temporary headquarters. The political people back at the Think Farm wanted to put the new Governor and his staff in the proper frame of mind when they returned to Olympia. They wanted the new leadership to realize how all the formerly good things had been destroyed. And nothing symbolized that more for the former WAB people than the trashing of their beautiful building. Besides, the WAB building was only a few blocks from the capitol and the security people said it would work as temporary headquarters.

As the Suburban stopped, the occupants now knew better than to get out without being given the okay, though it was weird to just sit in a car after it stopped.

Brad was checking things out and working on the radio. Finally he said, “Some people will be opening your doors. Let them. And then quickly follow them into the building. Let them be your shields. That’s their jobs. They’re all volunteers.” He wanted to, but didn’t, say, “They’re your bullet catchers.”

All the passenger doors opened at the same time. There were military people and those same contractor-looking guys. Everyone got out of the Suburban and walked quickly into the building. Sure enough, the soldiers and others formed a shield around them as they went in.

The place was cleaned up and orderly, not like the last time Tom had been there. And it had a functioning office. There was even a receptionist who they didn’t recognize at the reception desk. There were other obvious Think Farm staff members. Ben recognized some of them as the political people he used to hang out with socially. They were the “known conservatives” who had to go underground when the Collapse started.

When they walked in to the lobby, the receptionist said excitedly, “Welcome back, Governor.” Ben looked around to see who she was talking to. Oh. It was him. He acted like he knew that she meant him, although it was pretty obvious he didn’t.

Brad led them into Tom’s old office. It had new office furniture—well, new to them, but obviously old furniture from somewhere else. It looked like an office someone could actually sit in and get some work done like things were normal again.

Ben, Tom, Brian, and Carly were blown away. They had been cooped up alone at the Prosser Farm for months and had no idea all the preparations that had been going on for them. Carly had told them that the Think Farm was buzzing day and night with planning for the eventual victory and then governing, but that was just vague generalities. Now they could see tangible proof that the Think Farm had planned everything and they were ready to govern.

Tom started to sit at the desk in his old office. It felt natural.

“Uh, Tom,” Brad said, “I believe this is Gov. Trenton’s office.”

Everyone laughed. Tom was embarrassed. That would be one of the other changes he would need to get used to. Tom’s former employee, Ben, was now his boss.

Tom extended his hand to Ben as if to say, “Here. Sit at your desk.” So Ben did just that. He sat in the comfortable office chair and observed all the people in the room who were looking at him with joy on their face. He was their Governor. Him. He remembered the drunken conversation he’d had with Grant Matson while watching the Seahawks in the 2005 Super Bowl about the insanity of thinking Ben could ever be the governor.

Ben couldn’t smile, though when he thought about Grant. He wondered if Grant was still alive since he was a “prepper” and had that awesome cabin and all those guns. But, he was also on the POI list. Ben wondered if Grant had been picked up, maybe never making it to his cabin.

That was the bittersweet nature of all this, Ben thought. There was the sweetness of something wonderful, like being the governor and having a chance to fix the state. But it was at the cost of bitter things, like whatever happened to Grant and all the others.

Everyone in the room—staff from the Think Farm, Brad and Jerry the EPU agents, Tom, Brian, and Carly—was looking at Ben with a huge smile. Ben, sitting in that desk had been what they’d worked for, and risked their lives for, for months. Years, actually, counting the risks they were taking before the Collapse by being “known conservatives” or Oath Keepers.

Someone started clapping and soon, everyone joined in. Ben couldn’t take it. They were clapping for him, but he didn’t deserve it. They did, all those people who sacrificed for him to be able to sit in that chair. Ben stood up and started clapping. He started to tear up.

Ben couldn’t stand it any longer. He was not worthy of applause. He walked from behind the desk and went up to Brad and Jerry and hugged them. Tom, Brian, and Carly joined in. Pretty soon, the Think Farm staff was in a big huddle, too. Everyone was crying.

After a while, Ben realized he needed to project the image of a calm decision maker, not a crying man. So he said, “Okay it’s time to get to work.” The huddle broke up and Ben thanked everyone before going to his desk.

“Let’s go fix this state.”

Chapter 308

Under Arrest

(January 2)

“What’s your name?” the man asked Nancy Ringman, this time in a softer tone because she’d just admitted to being the ringleader. He already had what he needed on her. Besides, she was an overweight woman in her sixties. She wasn’t exactly a tactical threat. But it was a little after midnight at a big school facility so there could be threats everywhere.

“Nancy,” she said timidly, starting to realize what was happening. She was being captured by the teabaggers. This was the most terrifying thing that could happen to her. She had heard stories about what the so-called “Patriots” did to prisoners.

“Nancy what?” the man asked, in a kind, almost a sympathetic, tone.

She started to give her last name and then it hit her: she was guilty. She’d done horrible things. Sure, the people under the football field were teabaggers and they needed the room at Clover Park for the good people who needed a place to stay. But they were people and she ordered them to be … she couldn’t finish that thought.

“Ring…” she started to say.

“Ringleader?” the man asked.

Then she fully realized what she’d done. She was the ringleader. She had been a moment away from killing herself when the soldiers came. She might as well have the teabaggers do it for her at this point.

“Ringman,” she said. “My name is Nancy Ringman and I ordered the killings.” She felt a biggest sigh of relief of her entire life.

The man was silent. He was trained to let people confess without interruption.

“Thank you, Nancy,” the man said. “My name is Chad. Stephenson. My friends call me ‘Otter.’” He was giving her a tidbit of personal information as a goodwill offering. This helped build rapport with a suspect.

Nancy started crying again at the thought of whether she could call him “Otter.” She didn’t feel worthy of being his friend and calling him that because of what she’d done. Finally, she summoned up the strength to talk to him.

“What’s going to happen to me, Mr. Stephenson?”

Otter noted that her use of his last name meant she didn’t trust him as a friend. That’s okay, he thought. Whatever works.

“You’re under arrest, Nancy,” he said. “We need to find out what happened here. Can you help me with that, Nancy?”

She was still on her knees with her hands at her sides. Her head was down, and she stared at the hard concrete below her.

She looked up meekly at Otter and said, “Sir, I need to stand up. My knees hurt. This concrete is killing me.”