Globall War of Terror: Take Out

Globall War of Terror - Take Out

I woke up in the cot and checked my watch. 0400 hours.

Shane Shreve was still sitting there with his shotgun, fixed bayonet, held in his hands. He took the assassination attempt on me extremely personally.

I took stock of my leg. Seemed to move OK. I turned and stood up.

Shane immediately helped me to a wheelchair, slinging the shotgun with bayonet down. He wheeled me towards the toilet on the loading dock. We passed a ward of groaning wounded - the survivors from the prisoners we had taken.

I limped into the toilet and used it. Pure bliss. Noting from the color of my urine that I was dehydrated, I fixed that from the sink.

As I sat down in the chair again, I whispered to Shane, "Get me to the motor pool. Discreetly." I had to explain long enough for him to undog the trash door. A gap in that camera could be covered more easily than a gap in the loading dock doors.

We reached the motor pool and I picked up the phone, calling the duty supervisor's office phone directly. Patty picked up.

"It's me. I need a supervisor's meeting in the motor pool ASAP. I need someone to wake up Buddy and get him down here. Quiet as we can, this is an op."

"Copy," she said. Competent subordinates are a joy.

Then I whipped out my wi-fi cell and called someone who would not be happy about an early morning phone call. Sure enough, he wasn't. But thirty seconds of quiet conversation later, he agreed that he would be meeting me at the motor pool Right Fucking Now.

Then I started going into the convoy lockers, pulling gear. I popped the trunk on the Crown Victoria with the light bar and started loading up.

The supervisors gathered. "Boss?"

"We have three days of food left. There will be no convoy unless we do it ourselves. I am leaving Cartwright in technical charge. That means give him the run around, pay him all respect to his face, but run things the way we always do. And watch him. We know one of his people tried to kill me. Something is dirty in Reno.

"As far as anyone knows, I am in the small office recovering from my injuries. Shane Shreve will be guarding the door. Shane, my life depends on people thinking I'm in there. Bring trays of food, bring out buckets.

"What I am actually doing is going out to make up our own convoy. I'm taking the client's finance guy and our best truck driver. I expect to be back within five days. If I am not, I'm most likely dead.

"Brooke, here's the keys to my cage. Go get all my gear and throw it in the Vic. I will try to check in by satphone but I may not be able to. Any questions?"

As a body, they all volunteered to go with me. I was flattered but had to decline.

"All we can spare is me. I need you folks to hold this place together, especially if I don't make it."

Buddy showed up. "Yo?"

"Take out run. You're driving."

He started checking over the Crown Vic like our lives depended on it. Well, they did.

My favorite pencil necked geek stumbled into the group with his briefcase.

"Clint, we're going shopping. Small convoy, just one vehicle. Got everything you need to buy anything we want?"

He blinked.

"Yes. I've got letters of credit, checks, fuel cards, credit cards..."

"Good. Grab a vest."

With the cooperation of all the on duty and off duty supervisors, it proved surprisingly easy to sneak us out the South Gate, as I planned. Camera recordings would be tampered with.

As we accelerated away towards the 101 freeway, Buddy asked only one question.

"What's our route?"

"Complicated. I'll navigate. It's going to be a lot of farm roads. Roughly Gilroy to Hollister to Airline Highway to Coalinga."

GPS did not work. Something about Chinese missile targeting. But GLONASS worked just fine and the smartphone I put up on the dash was GLONASS capable.

"Clint, I need your help. Remember that money you wired to my personal account for the data center operation?"

"Yes."

"I need cash - bluebacks - and credit cards and fuel cards. We're going to run two convoys. When we get to Bakersfield, we're going to buy a vehicle and stock it with [CLIENT] money and supplies. But then I'm going to buy a vehicle and stock it with my money, buying supplies for the new PX."

"We don't have a PX."

"We will have a PX if my vehicle makes it back."

"Oh."

"Can you drive a truck?"

"No."

"OK, you get to ride shotgun with Buddy."

We made the first series of torturous turns to avoid the roadblocks across South County. For some reason, the towns of Morgan Hill and Gilroy did not want to be overrun with desperate radioactive starving refugees. How unchivalrous of them.

I flipped open the satphone I had confiscated from Jaswant weeks ago. I called 411 for directory assistance - and you don't want to know how much that costs from a satphone! - and got the number I needed.

"Taft Correctional Institution, general operator, how may I direct your call?"

I gave a name. They tracked him down. He was pleased to hear that I had survived, and assumed that I had not.

Then I got down to brass tacks.

"Is Bakersfield up?"

"How so?"

"Are grocery stores open? Gas stations? Costco? Dollar stores?"

"Yeah ... some stuff closes at nightfall, but it's all open."

"Any rationing?"

"Not if you have money."

"Sweet." We talked pleasantries for a moment then I disconnected and pulled the battery. I really didn't want to use the satphone for anything I could avoid - it wasn't ours, and the people who had provided it to Jaswant had tried to hold the site's data links for ransom.

But I didn't want to make it a few hundred miles south to find out it was just as bad down there as up here.

Coming up on 7 AM. Just about light.

"Roadblock," Buddy warned. Sure enough, two pickup trucks parked in a herringbone formation across the road.

I reached across the dash and turned on the forward strobe lights and squawked the siren a couple times.

They hastily parted so that we could go past. We did not slow. I secured the lights.

No markings but plenty of guns. Farmers? Neighborhood defense? Bandits?

Who cares? Behind us now.

I gave additional directions. We would be skirting towns and committing to regional roads only when necessary.

I felt confident that we could BS our way through an official block, especially on the way back. It was opportunists I was worried about.

I settled into a half-glaze, semi-sleep while paying attention to our location on the navigation system and the paper maps. I gave directions as needed.

At a dirt road intersection with the main highway, I told Buddy to take a right.

Farm road. I'd driven it myself before. But it was neither well marked nor well known.

"Buddy, you think you can get a bus down this?"

"Not a problem."

"Good."

Hours later we made it to another set of roads, then a road that paralleled the I-5 freeway.

We nosed through a gap in the fence and were on the freeway.

The I-5 is the regional artery that connects Northern and Southern California. It is normally full of cars and trucks and buses and RVs.

It was less busy, but the traffic was convoys. Lines of trucks. Military vehicles with armed HUMVEEs in the lead and covering the rear. We gave them a wide berth, especially because of the huge signs on the backs of the tail vehicles.

"KEEP BACK 100 YARDS OR YOU WILL BE SHOT"

A rest stop with gas pumps was coming up. I shook my head and Buddy kept going.

Good call. There was a roadblock at the exit with police checking papers.

Much closer to Bakersfield, we entered the second phase of our operation by exiting the freeway at a remote ramp, using the overpass, and resuming our meandering on local roads.

We made it into Bakersfield proper in the early afternoon.

I wanted to weep. It was all so ... normal. Less traffic, but still traffic. Stores open, people on the street, kids at school.

First stop, gas station. Fuel up. Second stop, restaurant. Fuel us up. Third stop I had already picked out.

"ROUTE 99 TRUCK SALES."

I rousted the salesperson. He went with Buddy to go look at vehicles while Clint and I braced the manager.

A couple of phone calls later, the manager could not be more helpful. Buddy picked out the bus we wanted - an interstate type bus with luggage compartment below and seats for forty-odd passengers above. He could drive it - he could drive anything.

We bought it, tanks full of diesel with two spare tires and some parts. Anything to help a wealthy customer.

Then we went to Costco.

Again, I wanted to weep. Shelves. Stocked. Food. Signs talking about shortages and apologies for goods they could not get. But pallets. Of food.

Clint and a Costco supervisor sorted out payment. We rolled the bus to the back of the warehouse and supplies started flowing out on pallets.

Now for the fun part. Breaking bulk. Handing bags and bags and bags of stuff up the passenger entry and stacking it across the back of the bus. With the three of us, this promised to be hard and take many hours. Buddy and Clint and I pitched in with a will.

One of the Costco forklift drivers paused. "Where are you taking the stuff?"

I was so tired I answered honestly. "Disaster relief, San Jose area."

Half the Costco staff immediately took a break and trooped out to the back and set up a human chain, loading bags and boxes and totes. Somehow their supervisors forgot to call them back from break - they were too busy loading too.

Forty people times two hundred pounds is 4 tons. Forty people times fifty pounds is another ton. Buses aren't meant for carrying but we loaded that bus with five tons of food. Good food, quality food. You can keep someone alive with a pound of food per day. Ten thousand person-days of food. Or four solid days of food for the site, including the perimeter encampment.

I gave Buddy the GLONASS smartphone and the paper maps.

"See you back at site. I've got some errands to run."

He looked at me.

"You're going solo?"

Clint was distracted with last minute reconciliation. I met Buddy's eyes.

"FBI agents work in pairs so they can testify to each other's actions. CIA agents work alone so there's no witnesses."

He nodded once and shook my hand. Good luck.

As the bus pulled out, I limped to the Crown Vic and drove immediately to the URGENT CARE we had passed on the way in.

The doctor examined my leg, took X-rays, stapled it in two places, gave me prescriptions and OTC meds, and told me that it would heal on its own in a few weeks.

Then I laid it on the line.

"You have no reason to believe me. But I just came down from San Jose and I'm going back. We have 2700 people being cared for by a vet surgeon, a respiratory therapist and two nurses. We are almost totally out of prescription medications. We have over thirty people in the infirmary with life threatening injuries and hundreds of walking wounded."

I handed him a list, the list the vet had given me of what we needed. He read it and flinched.

I took out a stack of bluebacks - the new Homeland approved currency. He waved it away.

Then he asked me to pull my car up to the back of the clinic.

His staff started loading boxes and crates into the trunk. They were cleaning out their medication storage. All of it.

I offered payment again.

"Go with God," the doctor said.

I blinked back tears as I drove away. Then doubled back a few blocks over.

I was not going back to San Jose. Not yet.

What I needed was to gamble. Montrose's Toast.

"He fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who will not put it to the touch, to win or lose it all."

I set my course east. First the other side of the Sierras.

Then to Reno. To put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.

Globall War of Terror; "I Shot A Man In Reno"

Globall War of Terror: "I Shot A Man In Reno"

Night was no good for this kind of travel. But stopping was no good either. In the dark, a Crown Victoria going someplace purposefully looked too much like a cop for bandits to mess with, and too much like a cop for cops to mess with.

A convenience store stocked me up with beef jerky, caffeine tabs, water and miscellaneous supplies.

After getting over the Sierras, my route was 395. I passed Manzanar.

If you don't know the history, Manzanar was one of the internment camps from World War II, in which Japanese Americans were kept after their property and land was stolen.

It was back in service. As an internment camp. Fresh triple barbed wire with upended 40' containers as guard towers, and a machine gun nest at the gate.

How little we learn.

I fueled up just after dawn in a little town named Independence. I needed sleep but I needed to avoid entanglements with local law enforcement -- and staying in a hotel or motel would mean that knock on the door.

So I parked the Crown Vic in the front parking lot of City Hall and wandered away on foot. I found a gap between some bushes and a fence and curled up in a woolen blanket to sleep.

I woke up several hours later bleary, itchy and bug bitten ... but I woke up. A few baby wipes later, I walked back to my car in an authoritative manner, keyed in, started up and drove off.

Reno was calling. To be specific, the Reno offices of the [CLIENT]. I knew they had dismissed the [COMPANY] guards immediately after the Firecracker, and replaced them with sycophants and hangers-on of the existing administrative staff. But they hadn't known how to secure the badging system or the cameras or anything else for that matter.

I needed light for the next step. Fortunately I made it to the target address -- in a suburban neighborhood of Reno - a few hours before dusk. I stashed the car and got out my chosen weapon. I now wore a hoodie and jeans. Any decent cop would take me on his copdar and jack me up, and then I would be done. So I had to not get caught.

It took an hour of crawling to flank the target address from two blocks away, and set up in the bushes somewhere I could see the front door but could not be seen.

This allowed me to set up the tripod and connect the weapon.

The target's car pulled into the driveway. I put my finger in the correct spot and deliberately did not tense. I would get only one good shot.

He got out of his car and walked to his front door. I pressed the button on the SLR and it speed-shot twenty four images of him.

Mission accomplished. I removed the media card and concealed it on my person, secured the SLR and tripod, and reversed my trail through the bushes, down the street, back to the car and out of the area.

Clean up again with baby wipes. Spot the car some distance from the Reno client site.

Now I needed to infiltrate. But the in-house guards were worthless. They did not patrol. They did not pay attention to cameras. They did not even move the cameras from time to time. They were goof offs.

That got me through the perimeter fence, across the parking lot, and to an edge of the building not covered by cameras.

But getting on the roof would require actual effort. I put on my climbing gloves and proceeded to free-climb an exterior wall corner. When two walls make a corner facing each other, someone with training and courage can free-climb by pressing their body against one then the other.

Once on the roof, I could get to a roof hatch and down and in. Fire safety.

I was careful to wear a glove on my right hand. I could tuck it in a hoodie pocket when passing a camera to look normal. But I did not want to leave prints.

I had an office in mind. A few moments with a bump key and a pick got me in. This put me in front of a computer. I put a flash stick into it and rebooted it.

That got me into the network. The same network as San Jose. I opened a text window and sent a brief command.

Network compromised.

Then I printed images from the camera card and a file I had brought with me.

This required me to reboot the computer and go out into the corridor to use a code to retrieve the prints from the network printer.

So far so good.

Now back to the roof, up the roof hatch, and across to another part of the building. Into the HVAC spaces, crawl up into the dropped ceiling. This area was lousy with cameras, and even an idiot could tell that someone didn't belong in the Executive Offices at 8 PM at night.

I made sure I had the correct office. Then I attached two quick release clips to my print-outs and lowered them down onto the desk with monofilament lines and a portable fishing rod. Never break in without one.

Payload delivered, I retraced my steps to the roof. Now to get down.

I'd done a lot of climbing. My legs were rubbery. So I ate some beef jerky, drank some water and admired the view from the site. Stretched my legs and my feet.

I climbed out to the edge and lowered myself by my arms until I dangled from the edge of the 3rd story railing. Then blocked myself into the corner formed by the walls and ...

started ...

slowly ...

inexhorably ...

sliding ...

down the wall.

Fortunately for me, my bestest friend - the bushes - helped break my fall. But I was stunned all over for a few minutes and had to rest.

I then limped to the arc not covered by perimeter cameras and walked off the site, back over the perimeter fence in a different spot, and ultimately back to the car.

I changed from hoodie and jeans to company shirt and pants and uniform jacket. I put on my gun belt and firearm. I tucked everything away neatly except my lunch.

I then started patrolling as if I were checking my Reno accounts.

This allowed me to wander further and further away from the site, and closer and closer to the edge of the city. I tanked - using cash - at a gas station near the freeway.

By midnight I was clear and rolling south. I stayed in uniform and armed the entire time. I was buzzed twice by CHP - they saw me in gear and wandered off.

A different route through the Sierras got me to the Fresno area.

Buddy had given me an idea.

"No one bothers a car hauler."

I found another roadside truck shop and changed again before going in. A cashier's check and some bluebacks got me title to a pickup truck and a trailer configured to haul three cars. I rigged up the Crown Vic as one of the hauled vehicles. Then I bought two frankly decrepit vans.

I didn't care if they ran or not. I wanted the cargo space.

Then I went to the Dollar Store and bought - in boxes, out the back door - as much food and personal care supplies as I could fit into the two vans. Candy was fine. Cough drops were fine. I was not buying stuff that was life or death. I was buying luxury items. Things you could live without but which would make life worth living.

I fully fueled all four vehicles and made sure I had a siphon hose and fuel cans.

Now i wouldn't need to tank as I doubled back south, almost as far as Bakersfield, and drove north again.

More beef jerky, more caffeine. Put the uniform and gear back on.

Good thing, too, because I hit an official government roadblock south of Gilroy.

Gilroy PD.

"Good afternoon, officers," I said as I rolled down the window and kept my hands at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock on the steering wheel.

"Where are you headed?"

"San Jose." I passed over driver's license, temporary registration, proof of (corporate) insurance, and travel letter.

We had spent effort making that last as official looking as possible. My client and my company asked official organizations to allow us to proceed on emergency response and disaster recovery operations.

They passed the paperwork back and waved me through.

Two hours later I was approaching the South Gate.

I pulled in, submitted to inspection, and was flagged to the motor pool.

I entrusted the cargo to Buddy - who had made it back yesterday - and found myself gently placed into that wheelchair and wheeled by Shane Shreve to the small office.

There is just no getting away from that man.

###

"What the fuck?!? What the fuck is this?!?"

Twenty four photos of the Site Location Executive for the Reno offices going from his car into the front of his house.

Pictures of every doctored box on the Reno convoy. The supposed contents, then the actual contents. Lovingly detailed, suitable for prosecution.

Both sets of documents on his desk, in an alarmed room surrounded by cameras in a secure building. With no evidence how they got there. Printed on a client owned printer in the same complex.

"You can't even keep my OFFICE secure! I could have been killed! You two STOLE from the company and what's more important, you got CAUGHT at it!!!

"What kind of bumbling incompetent fools are you?!?"