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GWOT 2 In Your Face
Mar. 1st, 2019 09:12 pmAs I expected, the Homeland inspection tour arrived two days later.
The minute the lead vehicle approached the South Gate, the barrier pole went up, the gates rolled open, all at the same time in violation of regulations, and Control announced calmly on radio, "We have a Condition Blue entering the gate."
I had written the protocol for a Homeland visit, a Condition Blue, as soon as I could get to it after returning to site. The expectation had been explained forcibly in Utah, by a Homeland officer who had punctuated his explanation with slaps to the duty supervisor's face.
The notifications went out just as fast, so the VPs of HR and Facilities were both ready in severe dress and expensive suit respectively when the gun truck pulled up.
I hope you've never seen a gun truck. I wish I would never see one again.
Imagine a military truck with the bed replaced by a big hard point mount, a pole welded to the frame. Now attach to that hard point a seat that swivels with the mounts on the other side. Now start mounting machine guns. Don't stop. Keep going.
This particular gun truck mounted twelve, count them, twelve heavy machine guns in three quad mounts of four each. The endless belts of ammunition led to hoppers welded to the base of the spinning mount.
It moved quick. Electrified mount, more a turret with an open top and a little shielding for the gunner.
I found out later that the entire shebang could be controlled by a second gunner in the back of the truck cab. The gunner on display was useful, but not essential... so sniping him out would not take the mount out of service.
Meanwhile, that one truck carried more focused firepower than a World War I trench line.
Behind the gun truck were two MRAPs, armored mine protected vehicles. In the tail was a dually, a six wheeled pickup truck painted a drab black to match the others and towing what looked like an amusement park ride trailer. Rows of seats, designed to be gotten into from the sides, overhead cover an afterthought.
Only Disneyland didn't chain you to your seat to make sure you stayed on the ride.
Homeland did.
They pulled up in the obvious spot, adjacent to C dock and the access to Logistics and the backup battle dressing area. I stood waiting with the rest of the reception committee.
Under the cover of the gun truck, twenty
odd Homeland troopers in their battle gear dismounted in clumps, covering two auditors in cheap government business suits and their officer.
The Homeland officer wore an honest to Goodness broad brimmed trooper's hat, the kind you would see on a state trooper (we call them Highway Patrol in California), except black in color with gold trim.
He looked ... dapper. Very alert, well groomed. He was not armed except for a small box that looked like a remote control. I looked closer. A presentation remote, with laser pointer.
He demonstrated the laser pointer by aiming it at the VP of Facilities and pressing the button.
Instantly, the gun truck turret swiveled to point every motherfucking gun at him, and audible clicks as the safeties came off.
The VP did exactly what I would have done, raised his hands up as high as they would go and pissed and shat himself.
"I am in charge here," the Homeland officer asserted as the fluids ran down the VP's leg, to an ignored chorus of "Yes sir!" from all present.
"I have a list of names. Bring them out."
He handed a printed list to the nearest person, who happened to be an admin. She passed it to the VP of HR. The VP of Human Resources opened her laptop. I reached for my radio mike.
There were two ways this could go. They could take some or they could kill everyone.
That said, I could probably wipe them out. The gun truck was not proof against several improvised anti armor tools, most of which were discreetly deployed. The troopers and the officer would give us some trouble, but REACT outnumbered them eight to one.
The problem was what Homeland would send next. A mechanized platoon of National Guardsmen in Bradley armored fighting vehicles with anti-tank missiles, 25mm chain guns and enough machine guns to give the gun truck a case of barrel droop.
That would kill us all.
You might be wondering, where is all this military equipment coming from? Aren't we fighting a war with China?
Yes, we are, and a lot of stuff has been pushed forward, but we've always been a nation of bullets not bodies. Most units have as many as three complete 'unit sets' of equipment, and the extras were seeing use keeping domestic affairs tranquil.
"Echo 18," the VP called me over.
I checked the names. She had already sorted on her laptop.
It was the H1Bs. Homeland had arrived to pick them up, well after I had removed them.
I checked again. It was all the H1Bs. Oh, and [Oliver].
I approached the Homeland officer and introduced myself, then continued.
"All these persons were removed from the site three weeks ago. By me."
This caught his attention.
"Where are they now?"
"I was informed that they were a threat to national security."
I lowered my voice and came closer.
"I sent them home. Homeward Bound to be exact," I said very quietly.
He looked hard at me, and at my equipment.
"You are the site security here?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you sent them Homeward Bound."
"Yes, sir."
"Not to internment."
"No, sir. I was informed they were not eligible for internment."
"Quite correct." He paused. "And Mr. [Stone]?"
"Resting peacefully, sir."
His eyes narrowed.
"He went missing, sir. The fact was reported. I am certain that his rest will not be disturbed."
The Homeland officer chuckled and clapped me on the back, walking me away from the group and to the other side of the gun truck.
"Very good. Can you prove it?"
I took out my phone. I opened the gallery I had prepared for this moment, with selected photos from our Utah trip. And from my rendition of [Oliver Stone]. I swiped right like a horny teen first discovering Tinder, or maybe Grindr. He watched carefully.
"Sorry sir, no geolocation data."
He laughed, full and loud.
"Good work! Would you like a job with Homeland?"
"I have certain perks here, sir. The VP there. The psychologist. I have a business, [Echo 18] Sundries. And it's fun being a big fish in a small pond."
"As long as you deliver. Remember that."
He walked away, waving his arms.
"Rally up!"
The convoy made a sweeping turn and departed.
The VP of Facilities matter of factly unshipped the garden hose intended for decontamination and opened his pants, hosing himself from the waist down. He didn't even flinch when the cold water hit his junk.
The VP of Human Resources was still staring at me shocked. Any HR person has to be a skilled manipulator. But she'd seen a totally different side of me.
The side that could have cheerfully gunned that truck, or been that officer. The side that I had shown off to convince the Homeland officer that I had murdered over a hundred civilians. And enjoyed myself immensely.
She turned on her heel and walked away in long smooth strides. Her sensible shoes clacked on the concrete walkway.
Her laptop remained where she had put it down on the grass.
I waited until the South Gate reported a secure condition. Then I sent a runner to return the laptop, and adjourned to H5 Observation Post. For once I took the elevator. I didn't trust my legs.
I stood at the edge of the building, no guardrail, well outside the 6' safety line beyond which one had to wear a harness and be secured to an anchor point. A fifty foot fall we knew for certain to be fatal. Especially if I followed the example of a long-dead psychological casualty of the Firecracker and led proudly with my head.
My helmet was on the asphalt shingles beside me. I had no rifle.
I was nerving myself to take the final step to protect those poor people.
A footstep sounded behind me.
A voice spoke.
"Sir," Mo said.
Oh Goddamn it.
I could save over a hundred lives, but damn two thousand more.
"I have promises to keep, and far to go before I sleep."
My own eternal rest would have to wait.
Even if it meant my certain death by torture.
Homeland would figure out that I'd fooled them. And they would have their revenge.
So be it.
When you are surrounded by death, you still don't get to choose how you die.
The minute the lead vehicle approached the South Gate, the barrier pole went up, the gates rolled open, all at the same time in violation of regulations, and Control announced calmly on radio, "We have a Condition Blue entering the gate."
I had written the protocol for a Homeland visit, a Condition Blue, as soon as I could get to it after returning to site. The expectation had been explained forcibly in Utah, by a Homeland officer who had punctuated his explanation with slaps to the duty supervisor's face.
The notifications went out just as fast, so the VPs of HR and Facilities were both ready in severe dress and expensive suit respectively when the gun truck pulled up.
I hope you've never seen a gun truck. I wish I would never see one again.
Imagine a military truck with the bed replaced by a big hard point mount, a pole welded to the frame. Now attach to that hard point a seat that swivels with the mounts on the other side. Now start mounting machine guns. Don't stop. Keep going.
This particular gun truck mounted twelve, count them, twelve heavy machine guns in three quad mounts of four each. The endless belts of ammunition led to hoppers welded to the base of the spinning mount.
It moved quick. Electrified mount, more a turret with an open top and a little shielding for the gunner.
I found out later that the entire shebang could be controlled by a second gunner in the back of the truck cab. The gunner on display was useful, but not essential... so sniping him out would not take the mount out of service.
Meanwhile, that one truck carried more focused firepower than a World War I trench line.
Behind the gun truck were two MRAPs, armored mine protected vehicles. In the tail was a dually, a six wheeled pickup truck painted a drab black to match the others and towing what looked like an amusement park ride trailer. Rows of seats, designed to be gotten into from the sides, overhead cover an afterthought.
Only Disneyland didn't chain you to your seat to make sure you stayed on the ride.
Homeland did.
They pulled up in the obvious spot, adjacent to C dock and the access to Logistics and the backup battle dressing area. I stood waiting with the rest of the reception committee.
Under the cover of the gun truck, twenty
odd Homeland troopers in their battle gear dismounted in clumps, covering two auditors in cheap government business suits and their officer.
The Homeland officer wore an honest to Goodness broad brimmed trooper's hat, the kind you would see on a state trooper (we call them Highway Patrol in California), except black in color with gold trim.
He looked ... dapper. Very alert, well groomed. He was not armed except for a small box that looked like a remote control. I looked closer. A presentation remote, with laser pointer.
He demonstrated the laser pointer by aiming it at the VP of Facilities and pressing the button.
Instantly, the gun truck turret swiveled to point every motherfucking gun at him, and audible clicks as the safeties came off.
The VP did exactly what I would have done, raised his hands up as high as they would go and pissed and shat himself.
"I am in charge here," the Homeland officer asserted as the fluids ran down the VP's leg, to an ignored chorus of "Yes sir!" from all present.
"I have a list of names. Bring them out."
He handed a printed list to the nearest person, who happened to be an admin. She passed it to the VP of HR. The VP of Human Resources opened her laptop. I reached for my radio mike.
There were two ways this could go. They could take some or they could kill everyone.
That said, I could probably wipe them out. The gun truck was not proof against several improvised anti armor tools, most of which were discreetly deployed. The troopers and the officer would give us some trouble, but REACT outnumbered them eight to one.
The problem was what Homeland would send next. A mechanized platoon of National Guardsmen in Bradley armored fighting vehicles with anti-tank missiles, 25mm chain guns and enough machine guns to give the gun truck a case of barrel droop.
That would kill us all.
You might be wondering, where is all this military equipment coming from? Aren't we fighting a war with China?
Yes, we are, and a lot of stuff has been pushed forward, but we've always been a nation of bullets not bodies. Most units have as many as three complete 'unit sets' of equipment, and the extras were seeing use keeping domestic affairs tranquil.
"Echo 18," the VP called me over.
I checked the names. She had already sorted on her laptop.
It was the H1Bs. Homeland had arrived to pick them up, well after I had removed them.
I checked again. It was all the H1Bs. Oh, and [Oliver].
I approached the Homeland officer and introduced myself, then continued.
"All these persons were removed from the site three weeks ago. By me."
This caught his attention.
"Where are they now?"
"I was informed that they were a threat to national security."
I lowered my voice and came closer.
"I sent them home. Homeward Bound to be exact," I said very quietly.
He looked hard at me, and at my equipment.
"You are the site security here?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you sent them Homeward Bound."
"Yes, sir."
"Not to internment."
"No, sir. I was informed they were not eligible for internment."
"Quite correct." He paused. "And Mr. [Stone]?"
"Resting peacefully, sir."
His eyes narrowed.
"He went missing, sir. The fact was reported. I am certain that his rest will not be disturbed."
The Homeland officer chuckled and clapped me on the back, walking me away from the group and to the other side of the gun truck.
"Very good. Can you prove it?"
I took out my phone. I opened the gallery I had prepared for this moment, with selected photos from our Utah trip. And from my rendition of [Oliver Stone]. I swiped right like a horny teen first discovering Tinder, or maybe Grindr. He watched carefully.
"Sorry sir, no geolocation data."
He laughed, full and loud.
"Good work! Would you like a job with Homeland?"
"I have certain perks here, sir. The VP there. The psychologist. I have a business, [Echo 18] Sundries. And it's fun being a big fish in a small pond."
"As long as you deliver. Remember that."
He walked away, waving his arms.
"Rally up!"
The convoy made a sweeping turn and departed.
The VP of Facilities matter of factly unshipped the garden hose intended for decontamination and opened his pants, hosing himself from the waist down. He didn't even flinch when the cold water hit his junk.
The VP of Human Resources was still staring at me shocked. Any HR person has to be a skilled manipulator. But she'd seen a totally different side of me.
The side that could have cheerfully gunned that truck, or been that officer. The side that I had shown off to convince the Homeland officer that I had murdered over a hundred civilians. And enjoyed myself immensely.
She turned on her heel and walked away in long smooth strides. Her sensible shoes clacked on the concrete walkway.
Her laptop remained where she had put it down on the grass.
I waited until the South Gate reported a secure condition. Then I sent a runner to return the laptop, and adjourned to H5 Observation Post. For once I took the elevator. I didn't trust my legs.
I stood at the edge of the building, no guardrail, well outside the 6' safety line beyond which one had to wear a harness and be secured to an anchor point. A fifty foot fall we knew for certain to be fatal. Especially if I followed the example of a long-dead psychological casualty of the Firecracker and led proudly with my head.
My helmet was on the asphalt shingles beside me. I had no rifle.
I was nerving myself to take the final step to protect those poor people.
A footstep sounded behind me.
A voice spoke.
"Sir," Mo said.
Oh Goddamn it.
I could save over a hundred lives, but damn two thousand more.
"I have promises to keep, and far to go before I sleep."
My own eternal rest would have to wait.
Even if it meant my certain death by torture.
Homeland would figure out that I'd fooled them. And they would have their revenge.
So be it.
When you are surrounded by death, you still don't get to choose how you die.
