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Global War of Terror: Consolidation
Dec. 3rd, 2017 05:36 pmI stayed in the back of the trailer a few moments, making sure via radio and a remote feed from our long range CCTV that the destruction of the enemy force was complete.
The Major - I still didn't have his name - walked briskly over to me and saluted. I returned it, although he was the one who deserved the salute. I didn't know yet what challenges his convoy had overcome to get to us, but if that last hour was any measure, it had to have been epic.
"Major John Cartwright, [CLIENT] Security Management. You must be [Echo 18]."
I nodded. "Please forgive me for not getting up. We need to meet at length. But right now, I need to get your folks squared away and your convoy inside the perimeter. Do you have 100% accountability for all your personnel?"
He nodded.
"I'll advise the Gate Captain. Let's meet in the Executive Briefing Room in two hours. I'm attaching Sarah Stewart to you as your liasion. She's a shift supervisor; we're not using ranks, she's the equivalent of a Lieutenant. Anything you need, you get. First thing she'll get you over to the infirmary, get that arm checked, you can check on your wounded."
He nodded again. I made the necessary radio calls. Sarah to escort Major Cartwright and liase with the convoy. Patty to maintain 100% accountability as Gate Captain. Reluctantly - Brooke to take over consolidation outside the perimeter.
Then and only then did I allow myself to be put on a stretcher and carried through the gate.
An extremely heavily armed man with a permanent scowl stood behind a sandbag berm. His semiautomatic shotgun was his greeting to everyone. The bayonet took the place of a smile. His helmet and armor were the best we could scrounge.
"Badges," he demanded, and we each showed ours. A second, apparently unarmed man with a face like a rabbit and a clipboard checked off our names. I happened to know that he carried more knives than I carried spare magazines.
Straight out of the procedures manual. "The Gate Captain is personally responsible for maintaining 100% accountability of all persons, living or dead, who pass through the South Gate. The use of force, up to and including deadly force, is explicitly authorized."
Past the Hate Truck parking space with sandbag revetment, around the dog leg barriers, past the decoy watch tower made of plywood (and fresh bullet holes), through the T intersection and towards the parking lot.
It reminded me of Stanford - but much smaller. Two tents - one with a red streamer, one with a yellow streamer, each full of improvised cots - some were tables. A third area on the grass with chairs, in which some people sat as if utterly exhausted and others cared for them.
The red tent was now empty, but discarded dressings, medical litter, and body fluids told a grim tale of fights with death. The one metal table - stolen from the kitchens - was being cleaned as I watched. The yellow tent still had several people in it, but each was attended by at least two others.
Two sections of chain link fence covered by tarp, behind which two deeply upset people - one of them Security, and armed - had clipboards and digital cameras, with which to document the neat lines of fresh bodies. No victory is without price.
The vet wearing the TRIAGE vest tsk-tsked when she saw me. The bearers put me down briefly while her experienced hands checked the leg dressing. I briefly told her about my audition as a tactical pinata. She asked several questions, shined a light in my eyes, and did a head-to-toe anyway.
"I'm not happy with that leg, Mister. You do not walk on it. That's an order. If it starts bleeding again, you come to the infirmary Code 3. Take four of these and go do your job before I tie you to the bed. We need to clean it out but we're a little busy. See us in two hours, or I hunt you down. Next!"
WIth that, I radioed for a cart. Of course it was driven by Shane Shreve, the mold from which all stereotypes of stupid guards was made. The bearers settled me in the back of the cart and went back to get someone else.
"Where to, boss?"
I thought about it. I had to trust my subordinates to do their jobs. That meant the convoy, the gate, the cleanup out on the road ... all in good hands. So I needed to think about the _next_ thing to get done.
"Infirmary. Then Security Operations."
Our infirmary is where the old Security office used to be. This is for several reasons, but mostly because when the building had been built about sixty years ago, the design had actually included a medical care area adjacent to the fire station. Over the years the usage had changed - storage, meeting rooms, IT support, storage again - but the area had reverted to a reception desk, wards, individual exam rooms and secure medical storage.
The stretcher bearer team on duty at the former loading dock picked me up, put me on the wheeled gurney and brought me in. I waved off the nurse. She looked puzzled but nodded and went back to her tasks.
The infirmary was full - survivors of the convoy, survivors of the reaction force, the occasional Reaction Team member.
I knew way too much about how to evaluate how busy the infirmary was. Not only had I lived there last week for a couple days, but this was neither the first nor the last major incident we had survived. I could read the whiteboard as well as any of the dedicated medical staff.
"Twenty four patients. Twelve Red. Eight Yellow. Three Green. One Black."
Persons who needed first aid or routine follow up were White and not posted on the wall. We had dozens of those.
I waved over the security guard assigned to the Infirmary. His explicit job was to protect the medical staff and the patients, and to call for assistance if he needed it.
"Report."
"Sir. Most of the Reds are from the convoy. I have a list." He passed it over and I read it. Just names to me. But we would reconcile them with the list from Major Cartwright and from the gate entry.
People are far more dangerous than explosives. Maintaining the Count of authorized persons on the property was one of our most critical tasks.
The rule for the Infirmary was very simple. Patients were disarmed - just as the sign said. "Patients May Not Possess Weapons - No Exceptions Ever." The armory for storing their weapons was out on the loading dock; the emergency explosives storage for any applicable items was in a shed in a pit buried in the grass outside, secured by a padlock.
Another of the infirmary guard's tasks, in the guise of helping with patient care, was to discreetly search any admitted patient - and in the case of a prisoner, to summon assistance and search with much more thoroughness and no discretion whatsoever. Normal doctrine required one guard per prisoner, in a separate area if feasible.
I waved down the nurse.
"I'll come back to handle this," I waved at my leg, "later. But we are likely to get a second influx of badly wounded prisoners shortly. I'd say at least a dozen."
She looked pained. "We're full."
"I agree. Let's set up a prisoner ward on the loading dock. Just be ready."
Coordination completed, I allowed myself to be transferred to a wheelchair. They'd be needing the gurney. Then I allowed Shane to wheel me to Security Operations.
When I cleared the door, I was paid one of the highest compliments of my career.
"Attention on deck!" shouted the guard at the door.
Then everyone spontaneously broke out in applause.
They were relieved to be alive. And they were under the mistaken impression that I had something to do with it.
I let it continue for a moment. Then I cleared my throat.
"Thank you, but we have a lot of work to do."
I designated a scribe to write on the whiteboard I temporarily couldn't reach, and we got started.
###
[Note: this is the first viewpoint change away from E18 in the series.]
I had been given a task. I hated it. I thought it was a waste of time and an unnecessary risk to lives.
But I would do it. That is what it is to live under discipline.
The second worst day of my life was when I was dismissed from the Corps. Yes, it was a medical, but that doesn't matter. Worthless is worthless.
The worst day of my life ... I didn't want to think about that. My brain went to white noise when I saw the white patch on my ring finger, or I smelled flowers, or ...
Work to do.
"My name is Brooke. I am in charge of this operation. Our objective is to safe and secure the hostiles, weapons and equipment that now litter our perimeter road. This is an extremely dangerous operation and it will be conducted under full military discipline. I don't care if you are an employee or a contractor. If you do something stupid I will hurt you. If you endanger other people's lives I will _shoot_ you. Understood?"
A pile of nods from the scratch team: mostly Reaction Team, client employees, but some Security personnel and stretcher bearers and two medics. And Mo.
"In the event of another attack, we will retreat to the South Gate in an orderly fashion, staying well to the right of the balk line. If you hear sirens, retreat immediately, do not wait for orders. We are going to do this slowly, carefully and by the numbers."
We had shopping carts. We had a rickshaw rigged up as a manual ambulance. But we were not going to have any motor vehicles outside the wire. Mo had his hand truck and a metal wheelbarrow. Crazy Muslim bastard.
One of the shopping carts had a huge pile of zip ties on it.
"[CLIENT] Security! We are taking you into custody! Do not resist! At the first sign of resistance you will be shot!"
With that we approached the first body and checked the pulse. Dead. So we searched. Weapons in the shopping cart, face photo, briefly document ... and anything splody, call for Mo to evaluate and render safe.
The first living enemy was moaning feebly. He still had his ankles zip tied together and his hands zip tied to his belt. Massive injuries. The medic gave a thumbs down. Expectant.
So he got a brief ride in the rickshaw to just outside the gate, in a shady spot, where his moans would not interfere in our operations.
The third living enemy went for something in a pocket.
I wasted ammunition, but I was making a point. Six three round bursts, eighteen shots. What was left of him was strips and rags of flesh and an exploded skull.
The item was a knife.
"We are taking you into custody! This idiot tried to stab one of us! We killed him. Don't make us kill you! Give up quietly!"
Many more dead than living, only to be expected. We still zip tied the dead. Not because we are afraid of zombies, but because zip ties are cheap, humans are very hard to kill, and one asshole behind us with a weapon we missed could ruin our entire day.
We summoned Mo to look at something. He waved us way back. He got some tools out. Then he shook his head and got out the fishing pole.
We all went much further back, but still in easy rifle range.
He hooked the grenade and with a practiced flick, the net bag attached to the end of the pole picked up the grenade and flung it towards the opposite ditch.
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Mo shouted as he flung himself to the ground.
We all ducked.
BOOM!
I have no idea what the fuck we pay Mo. But it's not enough.
We advanced and continued the evolution.
We took no casualties.
That is my only definition of a good day out.
The Major - I still didn't have his name - walked briskly over to me and saluted. I returned it, although he was the one who deserved the salute. I didn't know yet what challenges his convoy had overcome to get to us, but if that last hour was any measure, it had to have been epic.
"Major John Cartwright, [CLIENT] Security Management. You must be [Echo 18]."
I nodded. "Please forgive me for not getting up. We need to meet at length. But right now, I need to get your folks squared away and your convoy inside the perimeter. Do you have 100% accountability for all your personnel?"
He nodded.
"I'll advise the Gate Captain. Let's meet in the Executive Briefing Room in two hours. I'm attaching Sarah Stewart to you as your liasion. She's a shift supervisor; we're not using ranks, she's the equivalent of a Lieutenant. Anything you need, you get. First thing she'll get you over to the infirmary, get that arm checked, you can check on your wounded."
He nodded again. I made the necessary radio calls. Sarah to escort Major Cartwright and liase with the convoy. Patty to maintain 100% accountability as Gate Captain. Reluctantly - Brooke to take over consolidation outside the perimeter.
Then and only then did I allow myself to be put on a stretcher and carried through the gate.
An extremely heavily armed man with a permanent scowl stood behind a sandbag berm. His semiautomatic shotgun was his greeting to everyone. The bayonet took the place of a smile. His helmet and armor were the best we could scrounge.
"Badges," he demanded, and we each showed ours. A second, apparently unarmed man with a face like a rabbit and a clipboard checked off our names. I happened to know that he carried more knives than I carried spare magazines.
Straight out of the procedures manual. "The Gate Captain is personally responsible for maintaining 100% accountability of all persons, living or dead, who pass through the South Gate. The use of force, up to and including deadly force, is explicitly authorized."
Past the Hate Truck parking space with sandbag revetment, around the dog leg barriers, past the decoy watch tower made of plywood (and fresh bullet holes), through the T intersection and towards the parking lot.
It reminded me of Stanford - but much smaller. Two tents - one with a red streamer, one with a yellow streamer, each full of improvised cots - some were tables. A third area on the grass with chairs, in which some people sat as if utterly exhausted and others cared for them.
The red tent was now empty, but discarded dressings, medical litter, and body fluids told a grim tale of fights with death. The one metal table - stolen from the kitchens - was being cleaned as I watched. The yellow tent still had several people in it, but each was attended by at least two others.
Two sections of chain link fence covered by tarp, behind which two deeply upset people - one of them Security, and armed - had clipboards and digital cameras, with which to document the neat lines of fresh bodies. No victory is without price.
The vet wearing the TRIAGE vest tsk-tsked when she saw me. The bearers put me down briefly while her experienced hands checked the leg dressing. I briefly told her about my audition as a tactical pinata. She asked several questions, shined a light in my eyes, and did a head-to-toe anyway.
"I'm not happy with that leg, Mister. You do not walk on it. That's an order. If it starts bleeding again, you come to the infirmary Code 3. Take four of these and go do your job before I tie you to the bed. We need to clean it out but we're a little busy. See us in two hours, or I hunt you down. Next!"
WIth that, I radioed for a cart. Of course it was driven by Shane Shreve, the mold from which all stereotypes of stupid guards was made. The bearers settled me in the back of the cart and went back to get someone else.
"Where to, boss?"
I thought about it. I had to trust my subordinates to do their jobs. That meant the convoy, the gate, the cleanup out on the road ... all in good hands. So I needed to think about the _next_ thing to get done.
"Infirmary. Then Security Operations."
Our infirmary is where the old Security office used to be. This is for several reasons, but mostly because when the building had been built about sixty years ago, the design had actually included a medical care area adjacent to the fire station. Over the years the usage had changed - storage, meeting rooms, IT support, storage again - but the area had reverted to a reception desk, wards, individual exam rooms and secure medical storage.
The stretcher bearer team on duty at the former loading dock picked me up, put me on the wheeled gurney and brought me in. I waved off the nurse. She looked puzzled but nodded and went back to her tasks.
The infirmary was full - survivors of the convoy, survivors of the reaction force, the occasional Reaction Team member.
I knew way too much about how to evaluate how busy the infirmary was. Not only had I lived there last week for a couple days, but this was neither the first nor the last major incident we had survived. I could read the whiteboard as well as any of the dedicated medical staff.
"Twenty four patients. Twelve Red. Eight Yellow. Three Green. One Black."
Persons who needed first aid or routine follow up were White and not posted on the wall. We had dozens of those.
I waved over the security guard assigned to the Infirmary. His explicit job was to protect the medical staff and the patients, and to call for assistance if he needed it.
"Report."
"Sir. Most of the Reds are from the convoy. I have a list." He passed it over and I read it. Just names to me. But we would reconcile them with the list from Major Cartwright and from the gate entry.
People are far more dangerous than explosives. Maintaining the Count of authorized persons on the property was one of our most critical tasks.
The rule for the Infirmary was very simple. Patients were disarmed - just as the sign said. "Patients May Not Possess Weapons - No Exceptions Ever." The armory for storing their weapons was out on the loading dock; the emergency explosives storage for any applicable items was in a shed in a pit buried in the grass outside, secured by a padlock.
Another of the infirmary guard's tasks, in the guise of helping with patient care, was to discreetly search any admitted patient - and in the case of a prisoner, to summon assistance and search with much more thoroughness and no discretion whatsoever. Normal doctrine required one guard per prisoner, in a separate area if feasible.
I waved down the nurse.
"I'll come back to handle this," I waved at my leg, "later. But we are likely to get a second influx of badly wounded prisoners shortly. I'd say at least a dozen."
She looked pained. "We're full."
"I agree. Let's set up a prisoner ward on the loading dock. Just be ready."
Coordination completed, I allowed myself to be transferred to a wheelchair. They'd be needing the gurney. Then I allowed Shane to wheel me to Security Operations.
When I cleared the door, I was paid one of the highest compliments of my career.
"Attention on deck!" shouted the guard at the door.
Then everyone spontaneously broke out in applause.
They were relieved to be alive. And they were under the mistaken impression that I had something to do with it.
I let it continue for a moment. Then I cleared my throat.
"Thank you, but we have a lot of work to do."
I designated a scribe to write on the whiteboard I temporarily couldn't reach, and we got started.
###
[Note: this is the first viewpoint change away from E18 in the series.]
I had been given a task. I hated it. I thought it was a waste of time and an unnecessary risk to lives.
But I would do it. That is what it is to live under discipline.
The second worst day of my life was when I was dismissed from the Corps. Yes, it was a medical, but that doesn't matter. Worthless is worthless.
The worst day of my life ... I didn't want to think about that. My brain went to white noise when I saw the white patch on my ring finger, or I smelled flowers, or ...
Work to do.
"My name is Brooke. I am in charge of this operation. Our objective is to safe and secure the hostiles, weapons and equipment that now litter our perimeter road. This is an extremely dangerous operation and it will be conducted under full military discipline. I don't care if you are an employee or a contractor. If you do something stupid I will hurt you. If you endanger other people's lives I will _shoot_ you. Understood?"
A pile of nods from the scratch team: mostly Reaction Team, client employees, but some Security personnel and stretcher bearers and two medics. And Mo.
"In the event of another attack, we will retreat to the South Gate in an orderly fashion, staying well to the right of the balk line. If you hear sirens, retreat immediately, do not wait for orders. We are going to do this slowly, carefully and by the numbers."
We had shopping carts. We had a rickshaw rigged up as a manual ambulance. But we were not going to have any motor vehicles outside the wire. Mo had his hand truck and a metal wheelbarrow. Crazy Muslim bastard.
One of the shopping carts had a huge pile of zip ties on it.
"[CLIENT] Security! We are taking you into custody! Do not resist! At the first sign of resistance you will be shot!"
With that we approached the first body and checked the pulse. Dead. So we searched. Weapons in the shopping cart, face photo, briefly document ... and anything splody, call for Mo to evaluate and render safe.
The first living enemy was moaning feebly. He still had his ankles zip tied together and his hands zip tied to his belt. Massive injuries. The medic gave a thumbs down. Expectant.
So he got a brief ride in the rickshaw to just outside the gate, in a shady spot, where his moans would not interfere in our operations.
The third living enemy went for something in a pocket.
I wasted ammunition, but I was making a point. Six three round bursts, eighteen shots. What was left of him was strips and rags of flesh and an exploded skull.
The item was a knife.
"We are taking you into custody! This idiot tried to stab one of us! We killed him. Don't make us kill you! Give up quietly!"
Many more dead than living, only to be expected. We still zip tied the dead. Not because we are afraid of zombies, but because zip ties are cheap, humans are very hard to kill, and one asshole behind us with a weapon we missed could ruin our entire day.
We summoned Mo to look at something. He waved us way back. He got some tools out. Then he shook his head and got out the fishing pole.
We all went much further back, but still in easy rifle range.
He hooked the grenade and with a practiced flick, the net bag attached to the end of the pole picked up the grenade and flung it towards the opposite ditch.
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Mo shouted as he flung himself to the ground.
We all ducked.
BOOM!
I have no idea what the fuck we pay Mo. But it's not enough.
We advanced and continued the evolution.
We took no casualties.
That is my only definition of a good day out.
