Globall War of Terror - Rest Stop

Globall War of Terror: Rest Stop


We'd left campus at about 6 PM with darkness in two hours. This was the second best timing in my opinion - either we hit the checkpoint 2-3 hours before dawn when the checkpoint guards are tired or possibly even asleep themselves, or just as the sun is going down and they are tired and looking forward to end of shift.

Buddy quite reasonably asked what our final destination was.

I was afraid he'd ask that.

"Kind of thataway, I'm afraid."

"Sir, if you get killed, what am I supposed to do?"

Put that way, it was a fair question. I was playing this one very close to my chest.

"Your best."

"Shit."

I shared his unhappiness. But this was a deeper game than he knew.

I checked the maps again. Then I did something I'd been dreading. Sooner or later it was going to bit me in the ass, hard, but meanwhile it was just too convenient.

I turned on the satphone, extended its antenna and laid it on the dash. Picking up messages, if any.

It was an adversary controlled device. They were probably still paying the bill just for these moments in which I would turn it on and attempt to get use out of it. In this case they would get the fact I was off campus, range and bearing and direction of travel. Until I powered it off again.

One message. Burner number. "Call me."

As we merged to 101 headed towards 680, I did.

"Yo," I said.

It was a synthesized computer voice. "Urgent. Option Four repeat Four. One hour window, mark. Destroy this phone."

He - Wyatt - disconnected. I took the battery out, then the satcom SIM card. Then I drew my pistol.

"What are you doing?" Buddy asked.

I dropped the magazine, racked the slide and palmed the round. Then I used the butt of the unloaded handgun to beat the snot out of the satphone until I could see chips fly.

I reloaded and holstered. I carefully secured the tiny satcom SIM card in the front of my underwear.

"Bad call, huh?"

"Maybe not." I keyed my radio to Tactical.

"Keep up," I ordered. Then turned to Buddy.

"Floor it. Emergency maximum speed, now."

"You're the boss."

The engine raced to full power and we hurtled down the #1 lane of 680 North at sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour ... slowing somewhat for the route up the Sunol Grade.

"On the downhill, make your speed 75."

"Got it."

"Your exit will be Highway 84 east repeat east, the second ramp."

Buddy didn't object to my repetition, even though he'd driven this route a thousand times. The wrong exit could kill us all.

Both east and west 84 exits had new post-Firecracker signage.

"OFFICIAL TRAFFIC ONLY. ALL VEHICLES HALT FOR INSPECTION AT SECURITY CHECKPOINT. DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED."

The 84 east checkpoint was at the chokepoint where two lanes narrowed to one. Now they narrowed to a guard shack on the left, portable lights on trailer towers with generators - none running, a larger portable building to the right, a porta-potty, and ground markings for portable truck scales.

It was normally staffed by two Homeland vehicles. Neither was present.

As we approached, Buddy asked urgently, "Stop or run it?"

"Stop. If you don't see anyone, go."

We obediently stopped briefly at the balk line. No one was in the guard shack. No vehicles were present.

So we proceeded forward and the rest of the convoy followed.

The unwinking cameras of the checkpoint would detect us, of course. But were they monitored? Would anyone ever look at the footage? If they did, would they care? Or see an official looking convoy and assume?

We were not going to stop to find out.

According to intelligence reports, there was a much larger checkpoint at the Altamont Pass. So we wouldn't be going there.

We wouldn't be stopping for anything. If one of the infirmary patients died in the ambulance, too bad. They had all we could do for them in the ambo with them - two medics, what supplies we had, and the firefighter driving. If someone in the shuttle bus needed to pee, they could point it out the window (if so equipped) or use the bucket supplied. Behind us, it was just barely possible to climb from the cab to the flatbed - although inadvisable at any speed due to the wind.

I gave directions. Local roads. Bypassing the sensitive areas of Pleasanton, then Livermore.

We committed to one of the two alternate local roads leaving Livermore for the Valley.

At the top, we saw a single Alameda County Sheriff's Office patrol car. As it was upside down and had all its windows smashed some time ago, we paid no attention.

Now we downshifted. This was perhaps a two lane road if one were generous. Grueling on the drivers, which was par for the course.

Not as grueling as what awaited us at the bottom. This road ran not merely next to but through a piece of critical infrastructure, an electrical substation.

We had no idea if it was guarded or by who.

The sun was setting behind us as we made our way down the eastern slope.

Buddy did not turn on his headlights. Therefore neither did anyone else.

A single white 4 door pickup truck was parked across the road about five hundred yards short of the substation.

Buddy looked to me for cues.

"Stop fifty yards short."

We came to a halt with an unfortunate but muted screech of air brakes. The rest of the convoy stopped behind us -- interstate bus, ambulance, shuttle bus in that order.

I dismounted from the cab. I motioned with a single raised finger.

A single guard dismounted from the front of the two cargo vans strapped down to our flatbed trailer. He had a rifle, a standard semiauto AR.

We walked up to the blocking pickup truck. It was very quiet, we could hear metal cooling in the evening air behind us as we walked up.

The guard behind the wheel of the truck was asleep. And not merely dozing. He was asleep to the world, windows down.

He even had a discreet little pillow behind his neck. It clashed horribly with his spectacularly ugly uniform - that of a competitor private company.

My instincts took over.

"Wake up!" I barked at him, empty handed. My guard behind me faded back a few steps, rifle slung but ready to bring up in an instant.

"Huh?"

"Wake up and pass us through!"

He jumped in his seat, almost hitting his head on the roof of the pickup. "Sir!"

He turned on his headlights to see us better. He saw the two of us in uniform, a truck in the lead behind us, and three other vehicles behind that. Obviously a convoy. Obviously legit.

"Sorry, sir, I have to call you in."

"Very well. Now move your vehicle."

He looked at the two of us, started to object that this was not his protocol, and met two blank faces.

Then he really looked ... looked ... at me. Uniform, gear, picture badge, rank markings.

He moved his vehicle. As the truck came up to us - slowly - we both boarded it with the skill and ease that comes with many convoy runs.

"Headlights on," I ordered. Buddy turned his on, then the convoy did the same.

I was completely unsurprised when a second unmarked white pickup truck, parked blocking in the other direction, also moved out of our way so that we could complete our pass through the sensitive area they were supposed to be restricting access to.

I wondered if either guard would have the moral courage to actually call in.

For the next two hours we rumbled our way across the Central Valley of California on local roads. When we crossed a freeway we did so on bridges that did not connect with the freeway, by design.

We headed generally east but north whenever opportunity permitted.

A bit before midnight, in full darkness, we came up to what had been a set of roadside produce stands and a large parking area.

"Pull in."

I walked to each vehicle after we parked in a herringbone formation.

"Rest stop. Twenty minutes. Everyone off and stretch. Restroom, water. Vehicle crews check vehicles."

For myself I went from vehicle to vehicle. First was the interstate bus. The septic tank was a third full - I'd demanded that the onboard restroom only be used 'in emergency' and from the line of men pissing in the ditch, apparently this had been honored.

Then the ambulance. All patients still alive, said the firefighter. The medics were in back handling a bedpan moment.

Then the shuttle bus. The tenants were unhappy.

"This is so small and crowded! How can we get on the larger bus?" one woman complained.

"Be careful what you ask for, you might get it. They have more people per square foot than you do. Ask a few bus passengers. If you can get one to trade with you, I'll consider it."

She got no takers.

The bus was sound. The brakes - which we'd worried about - were holding up nicely.

Last I checked the cargo vans. The nursery was holding up well, although they appreciated the chance to clean out diapers when the van wasn't rocking around. The barracks was good, although Brooke had been bored.

She wasn't bored now. She was up on top of the barracks van, wearing Gen3 night vision goggles and scanning, with her rifle near at hand. My orders had been clear - "You get overwatch at every stop, you are my reaction force, you are my strike reserve. Otherwise rest until I call for you. When I do call for you, be very ready to kill."

I gathered up our folks.

Then we had a problem. We had an eight year old boy missing. His mom started to panic, and her babbling started to get loud.

I turned like the turret ring of a main battle tank and said low and fierce, "Keep her quiet!"

Other mothers talked to her. A guard listened, asking questions of them, not her.

"He wandered off to pee. He likes to wander off."

Were none of these people aware of the deadly danger they were in?

"Give me a search. Two men, both volunteers, all together with one guard and a radio. Spiral out on this side of the road, hopefully he didn't cross it. You have ten minutes to find him. Do _not_ get separated, people die that way."

A separate whispered word to the guard.

"If one of them deliberately tries to ditch you, kill him immediately."

I turned to Buddy.

"Unload the barracks van. Move Brooke and her full gear to the front of the interstate bus. If the boy is not found in ten minutes, I will leave behind one guard and the mother with that vehicle. They will be authorized to wait for one hour. Then the guard and the van are to leave and rejoin the convoy - if he can. The mother may choose to stay with her son or come back to the convoy. The guard and van must return."

Predictably, the refugees set up a small flood of protest.

"I have one hundred and sixty lives to think of. I can only afford to lose two more searching for just one."

They did the math.

Buddy was setting up the ramps to unload the barracks van when the boy turned up. He'd been exploring the produce stands, wandered into the orchard and lost track of the time.

His mom frog marched him into the bus and I heard muffled yelps as she spanked him.

We did two head counts before I was satisfied that we had everyone. During the second count, the guard I'd tasked for the barracks van asked me privately, "Sir, would you have left me behind _by myself_ for her to look for him? For an hour? I'd never have caught up!"

I replied very quietly.

"That's what I would have let them think. Your orders would have been to wait ten minutes more, kill her, strip and conceal her body, follow us immediately and then rejoin the convoy after an hour on our tail. I need the van and I need you. I can't leave behind a live person who can be interrogated."

I'd very carefully picked the guards for this run. Most of my crew could kill. Not many could murder.

The logic was as cold and ruthless as the situation itself. Dead she would be just another tragedy. Alive she would be a pointer leading to us.

The second head count was also good.

Then and only then we got back on the road.

Globall War of Terror - Vapor Lock

Globall War of Terror - Vapor Lock


Just about dawn, it was time for the convoy to fuel up.

We'd bypassed several large truck stops. What I needed was a gas station - a place that sold fuel but wasn't busy, didn't have a lot of witnesses and most importantly didn't have an official presence.

We found what we were looking for, a Chevron station with just one car outside in the parking area.

We pulled in and I took a stack of bills from the briefcase to talk to the station owner.

He was happy to take bluebacks and I was happy to pay in bluebacks.

Signs of the times - his shop was sold out of nearly all food, all liquor and all tobacco. The rest of the sundries had a fine layer of dust on them.

My eye caught on the tiny medications and first aid section such stores have. It was empty.

As I returned to the flatbed, one of the guards waved from the bus. I ignored him and got on board, then gave the "Roll Out" motion with my hand out the window.

We therefore rolled out.

Whatever problem was on the bus, either the guards could handle it or they could not. We were not going to dick around at a known location for any reason.

I heard two mike clicks on Tactical. We had a simple code. Your order in the convoy was your mike click. The bus was second in line thus two mike clicks.

I opened up my wifi cell and saw a message.

"2. Man restrained, tried to leave. Instructions?"

Idiots.

I sent a single character in reply.

"N"

As in No or Negative or Nincompoop.

Knowing there was a problem - actually two problems - on the bus was helpful, as it affected our route.

I picked more local roads and a curve that would hook us out into the real Northern California. Not the Bay Area, not Sacramento, not the 101 and 5 corridors ... the real deal, which has a lot more in common with Idaho than Lake Tahoe.

It was coming up on mid morning and I was hungry. I had a couple granola bars tucked away in a pocket, but I'd brought a hundred sixty people with me and no plans for serving them breakfast. Or lunch or dinner for that matter.

So my stomach would serve as their alarm clock. If I needed food real bad, _so did they_.

In practice, it would take a very stupid person not to carry food on them in preparation for a trip, in these troubled times. But I'd had a three month crash course in just how stupid these people could be.

A little after noon we reached National Forest area, and I breathed just that little bit easier.

The US Forest Service had been activated and deployed, _as an agency_ to China. Their responsibilities had been handed off to local sheriff's offices, who were far too busy trying to keep the peace with half their staff (all the ex-military ones...) deployed to China as well.

I told Buddy to pull off down a side road into what I fervently hoped was an empty campground. It was. Then I checked a water faucet for flow. It worked.

Then and only then did I give the signal for dismount, and walked over to check on the bus.

The prisoner strapped into a seat had fouled himself and was drooling.

"Runner. Get a medic from the ambo, now," I snapped to one of the men.

"What happened?"

"He started yelling about how he had to get out of here, he was off the bus, he just wanted to go home."

Psychological casualty. Dammit. We manhandled the prisoner, as gently as we could given his struggles, to a vandalized picnic table. The medic started checking him over.

"Ten minute piss break. Stay close. Then everyone come back, I need to talk to all of you."

The medic reported.

"No drugs or alcohol, no pre-existing conditions, blood sugar is good. He just lost his shit."

So to speak.

"Will physical restraint do? Or do we need to go chemical?"

I had two doses of Halidol left, on my body, but those were for emergencies. I would have to use sativa drops.

"He's calmer now. I'll try talking him down."

While the medic did so, I had everyone gather around. Brooke was on overwatch with her rifle at the ready. She didn't need to participate, and would let me know if we had company.

It was time for a class.

First I taught them a trick from the Occupy movement called "Mic Check."

You say something, a sentence or two. Then you say "Mic Check." Then people who just barely heard you, repeat to the people around you the sentence you just said. A very poor man's PA system. But unlike a conventional PA, it could not be heard at a distance beyond that of the crowd.

Communication established, I started with my next point.

During the next leg, I needed the bus and the shuttle bus to elect a leader and a deputy leader. The guards would observe to prevent fraud but not participate or interfere.

I needed the leader and deputy leader and senior guard on the bus and shuttle bus to elect five people (the bus) and two people (the shuttle) to help keep order, especially at rest stops. These seven would be posted in a circle around the group and be supervised by one of my guards. No wandering off. No missing kids. Or adults for that matter.

Then I launched into the meat of the discussion, in short form amenable to Mic Check format.

"All of you were subject to being interned or killed. The Client is paying to take you somewhere safe. For obvious reasons I can't tell you where yet. I know you're hungry, we couldn't bring enough food. We are working on it. Meanwhile do the best you can to feed the kids from what little you have."

The nursery had both food and formula, but that was for nursing mothers and babes in arms only. That was a subject I would kill over.

"Another twenty minute break. Drink water. Refill the water containers. Stretch. We have to leave soon."

We started mounting up again. I really wanted to have a huddle with my guards, to check on them, but I didn't dare take the time until the passengers could keep a little order on their own.

The upset passenger now had his hands tied in front of him. He stared fixedly at the back of the seat in front of him.

"He's trying, guys," the medic said to the bus crew. We'd swapped out - drivers to sleep in the barracks van, guards to take over as drivers. As planned. "But he doesn't himself know if he's going to lose it again. If he asks you to tie him up, don't give him shit, just do it. OK?"

They nodded after I did.

I briefly checked the shuttle bus (OK) and the ambulance (patients asleep). Then returned to the cab.

My eyes were starting to hurt. It was time.

I opened the package from the infirmary and gave myself two stimulant tablets.

We left the campground as we had found it. Leave only piss and shit, take only tap water and no memories.

An hour later we reached an open truck stop. We really didn't have a choice, given my choice for the next leg. But we could maximize the odds.

Buddy pulled in to the farthest line of pumps. I got out and swiped fuel cards instead of talking to people inside.

The moment between entering my authorization code and that blessed, blessed word APPROVED was music to my ears. Because I wasn't using any of the client provided plastic. I was using Company plastic, intended to fuel a single patrol car. Not intended to fuel a convoy movement.

In the long run it wouldn't matter, we would bill the Client at a tiny markup. But in the moment it meant someone looking for us would have to sort through hundreds of Company transactions instead of a single Client one.

Buddy blearily got out of the truck and lurched to the back, then up to the barracks van.

Brooke - with her rifle down by her leg - came to take his place as the lead driver.

As we finished fueling up, a single Sheriff's Office patrol car, driving fast, pulled into the lot.

Damn.

It pulled in front of the store area and a deputy got out, completely uninterested in us. He seemed to be focused on getting inside the door as soon as possible.

I recognized the power walk.

Restroom response, Code 2.

I gave the "Move Out" circular hand signal and we immediately departed.

Now we turned sharp east. Our local road took us towards northern Nevada.

We'd had to tank. Because we wouldn't be seeing another gas station for at least three hundred miles.

This would be flat terrain with no skilful driving required.

We were literally going to Burning Man. Black Rock Desert, Gerlach Nevada.

Under normal conditions we'd have been jacked up at least three different ways by the California Highway Patrol. Not stopping at weigh stations, gross violations of commercial vehicle and passenger transport regulations, and enough contraband to qualify as our own entry in 21st Century Criminal Street Gangs.

But these conditions were not normal and what was left of CHP was focused on much more serious issues than roadway enforcement in rural parts of the state. After sending all veterans to China.

We were going far away from civilization. No gas stations, no grocery stores, a briefcase of cash and credit no good where neither is accepted.

We weren't the only ones. A lot of people who'd made it out of the Bay Area had simply ... kept going. And Burning Man was a place they knew they could drive to.

But it had no infrastructure and it had been three months.

This was terrain where a jack rabbit not carrying rations could starve to death.

But there were ranches and farms. I had a short list of places to check.

We had almost one hundred and seventy five mouths to feed. We would work something out; we would pay for our food.

The first farm was a burned out shell. No point in going closer, I closed my binocular case and gestured Brooke to keep going.

The second ranch had cattle. And a man on horseback watching them, with a rifle.

I briefly keyed the radio.

"Convoy halt."

"OK, pass the word, 5 minute piss break, be ready to move."

"What are you doing?" Brooke asked as I started to get out.

"Going to go see a man aboard a horse."

It took her a moment to get it. Then she was torn between the need to stay with the lead vehicle and the need to take out her baton and beat me to death for stupidity.

Meanwhile I was halfway to the man on the horse, empty handed, waving.

He sidled up. I knew Brooke was watching with the binoculars, cursing that she dared not bring her rifle up.

"Howdy. You folks passing through?"

"Yes," I said, taking some effort to avoid saying Yup. "My passengers are getting a bit hungry, though. We'd like to buy some food."

"Hard times," the man replied.

"We'll be on our way, then." I bowed slightly and turned.

"Hold up. You can pay?"

"We can pay."

He looked me over, looked us over.

"We bring it out to you. Keep your folks here. About two hundred meals? Three thousand blues, take it or leave it."

"Done."

He came with me to the truck. He saw the money in the briefcase. He saw Brooke's rifle close enough for his eyes to narrow at the three position "happy switch."

Then he rode off, leaving his cattle unprotected, to the ranch house in the middle distance.

We extended the piss break, woke everyone up, guards in full gear with rifles, newly elected 'monitors' holding a perimeter. The tarps we'd brought became shade from the increasing heat.

An hour later, a cloud of dust. The man came back. I wordlessly gave him $1500. He signaled the cloud closer. A pickup truck towing a small trailer. Four men visible, all armed. One woman, also armed.

The small trailer was a towable barbeque. The cowboys brought over two cattle. I gave the man the other $1500. They shot the cattle and one man and woman started to work butchering while another started the grill.

Over the very freshest tri tip it was possible to have, the rancher and I talked. Around us everyone ate, except the rancher's men and half my guards at a time.

"My boy's Army. Thought maybe I'd not see the next Great War. Hard times though. Hard times."

I told him what I'd seen in San Francisco and San Mateo. And at Stanford.

"Hard times. The brave boys off fighting... the cowards here making the best, I suppose."

There's an art to talking rancher, farmer, cowboy or fisherman. Let them talk. Listen hard. Realize that every word has three or more meanings.

"You're not going to Reno?"

I shook my head.

"Wise man. I'd keep 'er going down the old Jungo trail. Know it?"

Only from maps, but I said "Not recently."

He gave detailed route information. And two hundred pounds of beef jerky.

I supplied him with two hundred rounds of 5.56, ten gallons gasoline, a pound of cannabis and two grenades. His eyes flickered at the last.

"Hard times, son. Where you taking these folks? Because there ain't no where safe, you know that."

It was not an actual question, nor would I have answered it.

"A man's got to do what's right," I said.

"That he does. Good luck to you and yours."

It had been three hours in the heat of the day. But well worth every moment.

Buddy took over again as driver. A few hour's sleep had been enough for him.

As we pulled out, I rested my eyes for a moment.

When I opened them, the sun lay low in the sky and a sign said "Gerlach 8."