Globall War of Terror: Judgment Day

[In which there is no mystery about who is coming to dinner...]
GWOT Judgment Day


Globall War of Terror - Judgment Day

The Black Hawk helicopter orbited the campus at about 500' AGL, clearly inspecting where it was thinking of landing. With two exceptions, the guard force was on normal alert status for 0900 on a weekday morning. I had issued strict instructions that no one was to point anything at the nice helicopter. Marines _always_ shoot back and have been known to shoot first.

Just about anything might come out of the helicopter, so I had ordered Mo to escort a scavenging party off campus and Brooke to take the day off locked into my quarters in its Data Center cage. I felt they were the most vulnerable to being drafted - both were extremely competent and had very specialized training and skills.

At the turn around retasked as a helipad, I waited with two guards, one firefighter, one contractor tech (wearing her Fire Captain hat), the executive assistant to the Site Location Executive, and a sales representative who thought he was in charge. I was OK with that.

The rotors flared and the door gunner pointed his minigun at us.

Fucking rude. Also the other reason I had my key players on the bench. Damned if I would let one little mishap - such as pressing down on a butterfly trigger - deprive us of all our defenses.

The fire captain, Janine, waved angrily. She had at her feet a coil of rope tied off to a crowbar - we had no Halligan bars - and I could read her thought as if she had spoken out loud.

'If that asshole hoses us down I am going to throw this crowbar right through his rotors and find out if the Jesus nut or my brush truck's axle snaps first."

Officially of course she was there in the unlikely event of a crash landing. The rotors whipped the air into us, but not grit as we had watered the pad down in advance.

Prior planning had saved all our lives so many times that it was now second nature. To my relief, the door gunner angrily yanked his barrel upwards and fumbled with it - hopefully putting it on safe, but no longer muzzling us.

I'd shot people and beaten up subordinates for less. So I pasted a grin on my face as several men in Marine camo dismounted and walked briskly towards us.

They walked right past the salesperson's outstretched hand and suddenly unsmiling executive assistant, pushed the driver out of the cart, and drove it towards the main building.

The minigun operator resumed pointing at us.

This was just a little bit off script.

I keyed the mike, grateful that I was wearing a discreet earpiece and wire mike set.

"Echo 18, Condition Orange. I repeat, Condition Orange. Weapons tight, secure the grounds. Condition Orange."

"Copy Orange," a puzzled voice said on the radio as a stern voice - my own, prerecorded - spoke on the site PA speakers.

"Attention to arms. Attention to arms. Secure all perimeter doors immediately. No one is to enter or exit any door or gate. Reaction team members are to draw their equipment and hold their positions."

This was followed by the dispatcher saying, "We are weapons tight, again weapons tight. Secure all doors and gates."

All over the site, members of the corporate militia were putting on vests, hard hats, harnesses and backpacks. They should have been putting on body armor and ballistic helmets, but we had what we had. They were also loading shotguns and rifles and checking their pistols. Condition Orange instructed them to hold and defend their work areas. Weapons tight meant they were not to fire unless personally attacked, in direct point self defense only.

The commandeered cart rumbled down the path. When they had gotten half way I said, "Echo 18, Control, disable Cart 4. Word of the day is parapet, I say again parapet."

Obligingly the cart came to a halt.

The newly arrived began trying to start it again, with no success.

I picked up my bicycle and pedaled towards them.

Behind me, the helicopter's PA system boomed, "KEEP BACK!" presumably because the sales guy or executive assistant had tried to approach.

My guards knew better. The two person fire crew knew better too.

As I approached the cart, two of the Marine party - boarding party? raiding party? - dismounted and now muzzled me with their rifles.

I dismounted from the bike, hands empty and only my holstered handguns visible. I raised my hands to head height and walked forward.

At the first "HALT!" I stopped, and gave the challenge.

"[ECHO 18], [CLIENT] Security! Identify yourselves and give the password!"

"Marines!" one of the gunmen replied.

"I need a name and a password!"

"Or what?"

"Or you can get back in your helicopter and fly the fuck off! You are under observation! Name! Password!"

That word means something to security. To "observe" and report, befiting our menial status in the grand scheme of things.

"Observe" means something different to a soldier. What can be observed can be taken under fire, and my site was rapidly resembling an angry hornet's nest. If hornets had gun barrels for stingers.

"Hernandez. Oboe," was the Marine's grudging reply.

"Countersign. Norwood. Saxophone," I replied. "Permission to advance and be recognized."

They motioned me forward. I stood fast.

"You have my permission to advance and be recognized! One only!"

I'm the sentry. You're the intruders. Read the script.

By this point we were covered by at least three Pan-Tilt-Zoom - PTZ - cameras and a precision sniper rifle from the roof of H5 Executive. I felt certain that additional rifles were pointed at us from window frames, concealed by building shadows.

A short stocky Marine strode forward with a single star on his rank tab. A big one.

"General Hernandez, I am [name], [CLIENT] Security, site manager for [Company.] Respectfully request we tone this down, sir. Mr. Norwood is expecting you in a conference room. Mr. Jones and Mr. Tamlin were to escort you to him."

"What if I want him to come to me?"

"I will relay that and see what he says."

I did so. Unbeknownst to me, Legal One (my nominal boss), the Site Location Executive, and the Director of Sales were in a three cornered screaming match, and it took a moment for Legal One to get a word in edgewise.

The resulting blast of angry profanity through my earpiece nearly deafened me. I unplugged same. The profanity continued.

"General, I am instructed to hand you this radio. May I approach, or I can set it down and withdraw?"

He waved me forward and took the radio. I waited while profanity wound down.

The General was well groomed and carrying a holstered pistol. One of his flunkies - still on the cart - carried his laptop case. His eyes missed nothing.

He spoke a few words into the radio, and received a single word reply.

He handed the radio back.

Over radio, Legal One snapped "Drive the General to the sally port and clear his party in."

"Yes, sir," I replied. "Break. Echo 18, when I mount re-enable Cart 4. Parapet. Code Change."

"Copy."

The General evicted his driver with an eyeball flick - who perforce got in the back, crowding the two riflemen - and I got in and drove.

"Welcome to [CLIENT], Gentlemen. Our DOD contract requires us to sign in all visitors. You will be issued," non-working, "... access badges printed with your ranke and name. Please wear them at all times."

As I drove up the site's PA system concluded a message, "... ion Yellow. No unnecessary site movement. Recation Team members shoulder arms."

A single guard with a laptop and printer on a mobile cart awaited outside the heavy thick double doors, reinforced with plywood at the bottom and stolen bullet resistant transparent laminate bolted to the tops. He started typing as soon as he could see last names on uniform tags.

General Hernandez's badge was already printed and dangling from a [CLIENT] promotional lanyard. He put it on and I called, "Open the port!"

They did.

The badging technician quietly insisted on first names and held out log forms to sign. A mouse click later he was handing out more badges.

The General motioned for me to lead and I did.

We took the stairs. Neither of us were about to trust an elevator.

I ignored the sounds of a scuffle. Predictably one of the Marines pushed his way past without signing in, and our guards filled the gap and occupied the long narrow hallway between doors.

Either the duty supervisor could handle it, or not. I was busy.

Our Site Location Executive was standing at the top of the fifth floor H building stairwell.

"Mr. Norwood, General Hernandez," I announced and let the General go past me, then stood with my back to the open stairwell door as they briskly walked together down the hall to the SLE's office.

Even half expecting it, it still hurt and knocked the breath out of me to be body slammed by a few hundred pounds of Marines.

From my new ankle eye view, I had an excellent view of a tan desert boot in immaculate condition as its owner asked a question.

Immediate percussive feedback would follow as needed.

"Where's the General?"

"Executive offices," I replied.

"Where are those?"

I started to get up and a boot on my back interrupted.

I stayed put, shut up and ignored questions for a moment.

Then I heard the distinctive THUNK! sound of an expandable baton being deployed.

Not by the Marines.

Security Officer 2/UA Samir stood ten feet away with his drawn baton.

"This area is off limits to unauthorized personnel," he said quickly.

One Marine rushed him as a second reached for his belt. That was just not on.

I twisted, yanked on the ankle hard, let the Marine fall into a heap of other Marines, scrambled clear and drew my Taser - not my handgun - shouting "Enough!"

I wasn't about to shoot one of our customers.

But I was totally OK with using an irreplaceable Taser cartridge to make one do the funky chicken dance.

The Marine who attacked Samir was now hopping in a circle after being popped one in the right shin.

Samir had pulled it. Almost certainly hadn't broken the leg.

I did not muzzle the Marines.

"I am [Echo 18] the security manager and we are all going to Stand Fast!"

Three members of the Reaction Team showed up with shotguns.

They didn't have non-lethal weapons.

"Muzzles up!" I ordered them at once, and they complied.

The Marines were standing still. So I holstered my Taser.

"Marines, your General is in the Executive Offices with the company site executive. No harm will come to either of them for any reason. We stand here and hold what we got. Samir, holster your baton. Someone get drinks from H5 for the Marines."

A tray of sealed cans was carried out from the sales floor. We'd made arrangements to entertain the General's party.

I popped a can of Rip-IT with my gun hand and drank.

The Marines glared but took drinks. Not all opened them.

The Marine with the shin strike deliberately walked back on the hurt leg as if pain was nothing. The Reaction Team - all employees, none former military - kept their distance like cats at a dog fight.

The highest rank was Lieutenant. That meant at least two or three hire ranked assholes wanding the site. It couldn't be helped.

I cocked my head.

"Lieutenant Jamieson, there is a comfortable waiting area just the other side of those double doors. Help yourselves to snacks, telephones, Internet access, power. The only risk is that Sales might try to tell you about our products."

"Fall out," he decided to tell his men. "You take me to the General."

A reasonable request, especially because if he could get through the SLE's senior secretary, he would be the first to get past the 'Dragon Lady.'

I delivered him to her and not without a twinge of guilt, walked to the conference room in which the SLE and General were actually meeting.

"Come in!" the SLE boomed when he saw me walk past.

Perforce I did. The client employed Executive Protection Specialist was the only other person in the room, and we ignored each other.

"General, you've met [Echo 18]. He's the only reason we're still in business here."

I treasured that instant of recognition.

"[Echo 18], extend the General and his men every courtesy. Dismissed."

i walked back to the Sales area and told the men where the General was, and that they were to wait. I rescued Lt. Jamieson from the Dragon Lady - he was silently but profoundly grateful, and I was only mildly burnt - and walked him first to his boss - "I'm fine, go away" then back to his men.

This left me free to chase down a Major (Pain In The Ass) and Captain (Asshat), assign them handlers, have snacks and drinks sent out to the helo crew, and slowly drag down site alert levels by word of mouth.

Two Marines got badges labeled Firstname [Last Name] and were mocked by their comrades. After some discussion real badges with plausible names were supplied.

The whole business had been a test, a security exercise without informing us.

The General intended to trust us with the lives of his men - not here, but in China where our products were used daily - and the last garbled word was that perhaps everything was not quite as kosher as it seemed.

I found myself giving the Major and the Lieutenant a site tour while the Captain (a medical doctor) made rounds in our infirmary.

Major Anderson became Major Assburns immediately in my mind, and Lieutenant Jamieson became Lieutenant Jizz-On. They had nothing but contempt for the hard work that kept 3,500 people alive during Apocalypse. They felt the cart stalling had been a lucky break and our security was a joke.

Their tour skipped the data center, motor pool, generator yard and of course the demo shed. They didn't notice the omissions. They even had the gall to sneer at lunch, mixed greens and bits of fat pretending to be a hearty lunch salad.

Over lunch they informed me that my whole security force was to be drafted. Well, except that guy in the wheelchair. And that other guy with one leg. And the girl with the sudden weeping fits (whom I'd seen kill a man with a flashlight). And the guy with the sing song accent. But everyone with a sound mind and four sound limbs was going to San Diego, then China.

I said nothing. Not my call.

A PA page summoned me to the executive conference room.

The Site Location Executive is alone and looking forlorn.

"Son, can I interest you in a job?"

Apparently, Legal One had just been reactivated - as an officer - which meant he was leaving on the same chopper as the General. No notice, no reprieve, no mercy. He was packing now. Four other employees who had been officers lacked that Essential Site Personnel designator and were also flying out momentarily.

I politely opined that I would be more effective as a contractor.

The SLE's eyebrows grew to be opposed apostrophes. Then he saw the point. I did too much for his company to legitimize my actions.

"The General offered to replace you with Lieutenant Jamieson. To his regret, I declined. I think he was trying to get rid of him. You are now Essential Site Personnel, reporting directly to me until a replacement can be obtained.

"Now get these asshole customers off my site."

"Yes, sir."

###

Exeunt annnoying customers, stage right. Cart rides to the helipad were prompt but kept breaking down there. (I signaled the PTZ with a number of fingers for which cart to enable or disable - our guests never noticed.) The drafted Client employees used all of the twenty minutes given them to pack.

The weepy eyed girl - Sarah, one of my night supervisors - suffered a fate worse than death in the bushes beyond the helipad. She volunteered and cheerfully faked enthusiasm for her ordeal the entire time, and her sacrifice gained us three modern fragmentation grenades, a pair of night vision goggles (for which we would have to find or make our own batteries) and an M249 light machine gun.

After hiding behind the brush truck, she vomited copiously and snuggled a rear wheel, nose running silently.

Legal One boarded the helicopter in his best suit with the words, "Good luck." (He would quickly slither sideways into a military press liasion position for the 10th Military District.)

As the helicopter lifted - and the grinning, literally fucking door gunner muzzled us again - I started to take the crowbar from Janine.

She did not let go of it.

"Remember," she whispered fiercely and instead dragged me over to help lift the shell-shocked Sarah into the truck cab.

Suddenly she was crying in my arms and hugging like I was a hoist harness. Janine ran interference. A few minutes later we drove to the infirmary where in a closed room, I talked Sarah down, saw that she was dosed and put to bed under armed guard.

Another casualty of survival after Apocalypse.

###

Epilogue

The bed was cool to the touch, a mercy after the hot and angry hands and other body parts.

There was no one else in the room. So she curled herself into a ball, hands clenched together around an object.

She had turned in three grenades.

They would save lives, for a certainty.

Her price had been four.