GWOT 2 - Do The Right Thing

GWOT 2 - Do The Right Thing

This was not going to be pretty.

The only reason we were here was to forestall Homeland making even more of an issue than they already had of the Client having a militia.

That meant that when they begged for help ... and make no mistake, a mutual aid request from Homeland was begging ... the absolutely worst thing we could do was to send nothing. The next worst thing would be to send a token force.

Instead we had sent everything we could spare.

A clump of sheriff's deputies with rifles were guarding the gate -- but immediately I could see that they were pointing their rifles both ways, and doing the slow random back and not quite forth walk that meant "under sniper observation."

They moved a marked unit and waved us in. I rolled down the window and asked.

"Detention Ops?"

"Main drive. We swept what was left of the parade into the building area. It's a fucking mess."

We rolled through.

It looked a lot like staging for a parade. Except that normally after a parade, you do what is called dispersal. The people go back on the sidewalk, the vehicles go out on the street to go home.

Instead everyone had been swept up in a gaggle, wounded thrown on floats, and shoved as a mass into a fenced off area to be processed.

The first thing I saw was that the people were mad. The second thing I saw is that they were mostly elderly. The third thing I saw is that some of them were armed.

What's the difference between a white parade rifle and the real thing?

Look closely. If you dare.

Oh holy shit. Some of the bayonets have blood on them.

I leaned over to the 'gunner' of the Hate Truck.

"Quaker Gun! Travel position, now, or we're all dead."

'Travel position' was up at a 45 degree angle, secured that way by a strap.

The entire point of the Quaker Gun was that at a distance, it looked like a machine gun. Up close, it didn't.

We were at the rough midpoint of the gaggle, a three block long line of upset people and fucked up former parade floats. Some of the people were obviously wounded and had been given improvised first aid.

The perimeter of the line was a disorganized mass of police officers from several agencies. They'd been given simple instructions, of the form "keep them here." Then nothing else. No command, no control. Probably not even a common radio frequency.

I dismounted and did a roof check. No snipers, friendly or enemy. So far.

"Element will dismount by sections."

Our assigned medic-guard started to heft his trauma bag and go into the crowd.

"Eric, stand fast or I will shoot you dead," I called out on our radio net.

He looked at me horrified. I put my hand on my pistol.

I knew what it was to be a trained medic and ignore wounded. It's truly horrible. But we could get a lot of people killed by mixing in with that crowd.

I walked over to the nearest deputy wearing a reflective vest. He at least had a radio. But from the puzzled way he kept holding it up to his ear, he wasn't in touch with anyone on it.

"Looking for Detention Ops?"

"That's me. Oh, thank God," he added. "See this crowd?" He leaned in close and lowered his voice, "Incident Command says disarm and process for internment."

"Really?"

Let's start with the fact that they'd been trusted to participate in the parade. Then let's add that they were all veterans - that's what the parade is for, right? And that they hadn't been sent to China, which meant they were disabled and/or elderly. But they were trained and wicked pissed.

I could see why no one was moving forward with those particular orders.

There was another variable.

"Is that the Supervisor?"

An incandescently angry man in a very expensive business suit splashed with blood was standing next to two bodyguards with lesser suits both openly carrying automatic weapons.

Supervisor as in County Board Of Supervisors. As in senior public official. As in one of the most powerful local officials in California.

Ain't interning him. Just not happening. Even before we consider the weapons.

"Incident Command hasn't given us the resources for that. We need to calm these folks the fuck down. Permission to act freely?"

The cops he had on the perimeter were barely enough to define the perimeter. Not enough to do anything.

My twenty-odd guards and three vehicles were potentially enough to do something. But we had to be very careful exactly what.

I was asking for a blank check.

Be careful what you ask for. You might get it.

"Do it."

I looked around the scene. We were mid block. That meant we had space, if we were careful how we backed in, to park the two armored trucks side by side and give us some cover in between.

I ordered that.

"Eric, set up a triage point between the two trucks. You will stay in that area. No exceptions at all. Odds fall out, under Eric's control, assist with first aid but maintain immediate local security.

"Evens with me."

I was going for a walk, surveying what we have.

A lot of angry people in the heat.

But fortunately the second group I saw was a blessing.

Wearing the battered and bloody remnants of ornate uniforms. But still carrying the tools of their art.

"Band leader!" I called.

He sat up wearily. He had been resting in the shade. Waiting.

"I need music. Slow. Funeral. Now."

He blinked. Looked at me again.

"This could get even uglier real quick. Need something to calm this down. _Titanic_."

The last word galvanized him to action.

He started going to his people, picking out people who could still play their instruments.

He picked up his baton. They started playing a dirge.

I moved to the next group - the one with bloody bayonets on their rifles.

They were clumped around their leader. He looked askance at me.

"Who the fuck are you and who the fuck put you in charge?"

This was not the time to give my callsign.

"Just some asshole," I replied. "Anyone badly hurt? I have a medic in between the two trucks."

Without giving him a chance to answer, my team of ten and I swept past and down the line.

I was counting and surveying. I paused to address my team.

"Huddle. Look for heavy weapons. Look for IEDs. Tap my shoulder HARD if you see that. Otherwise stay chill. Do NOT, I say again, do NOT muzzle anyone if you want any of us to see campus again. Break."

There was starting to be a milling motion in the direction of the trucks. I'd counted on that.

My eye picked out someone wearing a clean brown shirt that said MIKE and matching pants. He had a huge set of keys on a carrier at his belt, and a radio that was squawking incoherently.

"Mike! I'm [Echo]. Are you fairgrounds staff?"

"Yes," he said warily.

"These people need water. We need to rig a garden hose. Quick."

"They said don't open the doors, people will go through them."

"OK, you open the door, we keep people from following you. Where can we find a hose?"

So it was that one Facilities guy was escorted by ten gun-toting guards as he rigged up a garden hose. It was immediately put to use as people filled bottles and canteens and passed it around to drink from.

I wanted to keep Mike by me.

Always, always look for the asshole with the keys.

"Mike, is there a PA system?"

"Yes."

"I need access to it. Right now."

I left half my guards at the door as he took me inside a building, to a fire alarm panel, with a microphone attached. The microphone had enough length on the cord that I could stand back in the street as I spoke.

I went hot.

"Folks," I started. It was nearly inaudible. I adjusted the volume control.

"FOLKS" boomed out over the street.

"My name is Security Captain [Echo 18]. We've established a triage point mid-block. We've got a water hose further in. We're working on restrooms and food. You all deserve better for your service. I will be going around to hear everyone's complaints.

"Let an officer know _immediately_ if you see something we need to know about. We don't know who might have joined the parade. Group and float leaders, get a headcount of your people."

I put the mike down and drew my pistol.

A mixed crowd of good people and bad people.

What's going to happen when the good people are told to point out the bad people?

I started breathing deeply, loosening up my muscles and getting ready to sprint. My team saw this and did the same.

"Mike, lock yourself in the building, I'll need you later," I said with an exhalation.

He promptly did so.

We started walking the line briskly, headed for the entry side of the parade line. That would be where the problem would start.

People who are trapped panic, and try to break out.

I'm sure Homeland had something already rigged. Probably machine gun crews.

Just one of the reason I had my pistol actually drawn, low down by my leg.

I saw the knot form at the tail of the crowd and started jogging. My team kept up.

When people start to behave oddly in a crowd, you can see the clumping from a distance.

A knot means they're getting closer to each other than most people like. That can mean something of interest, like a medical. It can also mean a fight.

"Open the gate!" someone cried.

i started sprinting.

That person needed to shut the fuck up, at once.

As I ran in, I had ten seconds to see what I was running into.

- A Homeland MRAP parked sideways across the gate with machine gunner muzzling the crowd.

- Angry men in uniform remnants, of all ages, shaking their fists and yelling.

- Cops starting to back away from the gate area, with those backward glances that say 'shaky, about to break' in a historical military context. And a modern crowd control one.

- A heavily armed team of ... oh shit, the Dirty Mercs, and with grenades!

I ran into the angry crowd, looking for that shouting idiot.

Mr. Open The Gate needed to shut the fuck up, at any cost, right the fuck now.

The way I saw it, no matter what, he was absolutely a dead man, now or later.

The only question was how many innocent people he would take with him.

GWOT 2 - Compliments

GWOT 2 - Compliments

You never know until it happens if your people will run in after you.

As it happens, they did. Two of them took up aggressive overwatch with their rifles, shouting "Stand down! Stand down!" as if at the crowd and being careful who they muzzled. The other seven slung their rifles and shotguns, took out their batons, and administered vigorous beatings in my wake.

I was headed right for Mr. Open The Gate like a seeking missile. Well, actually, hittile ... not missile.

I ended up holstering about two seconds before I pile drived into him. Fortunately for all of us, my muscle memory held and so did my high retention holster.

His breath was knocked out of him. So I immediately slugged him in the gut a few times, elbowed him in the face (costing him some teeth) and started searching him briskly.

I had the common sense not to shout "GUN" when I found his handgun. Deep conceal 2" revolver in his groin.

Player. Winner, winner chicken dinner.

That earned him a couple stunning slaps across his face while I reached into his brisket and removed it from his basket.

Then and only then did I flip him over and zip-tie his wrists across each other. Hard enough that his hands started turning purple.

While I was doing this, my team surrounded me doing short jabs with their straight sticks. Making room.

At a gesture, two of them slid their sticks back into their rings and picked him up, perforce to drag him over to the watching cops.

In another context, say the San Francisco Folsom Street Fair, a good if extremely homosexua[ time would have been had by all.

Then I saw the other item that had fallen out of his pocket.

A small and very expensive secure radio. A Motorola to be exact.

That is when I said loudly, but did not shout, "GUN." In the press of the crowd, I tapped one of my guards behind the elbow. He looked around frantically, saw what I meant and dove on it. It disappeared into one of his BDU pockets. A loose end I'd better not forget.

Then we expanded the bubble to get out of the crowd, dragged our prisoner and dumped him at the feet of ...

The Colonel.

He watched with a grin on his face until he recognized me.

"What the fuck are you doing here, sonny?" he growled.

We had last parted ways over a mass casualty incident. His people called it partying.

"Same as you, Homeland scraping the bottom of the barrel."

The shorter half of his female murder pair put her grenades away, pouting. Clearly she'd been looking forward to flinging them into the crowd.

The Dirty Mercs had full battle armor, including state of the art helmets and neck guards. They could engage in close range grenade work with impunity, ducking to take it on the armor while making everyone around them bleed like leaky colanders.

I was not presently wearing a helmet. I had left it in the truck, choosing my own visibility over dubious protection.

The crowd muttered now, and shrunk back from the gates. The cops stepped forward.

Then we all heard the sharp banging of sticks on shields and heavy boots.

Riot squad. And not before time, either.

They formed line across the gate and grounded shields.

My team and I melted into one side of the gate area, and headed back to our vehicles.

The Colonel walked with me, alone.

He's not a coward. He's a monster. One of his men had eaten the severed fingers of the sex worker who had offended him by asking to be paid for her work.

In that context, the Colonel put a hearty arm around my shoulders.

His touch stank. Not as an odor. As cold death and evil, laced with sadism and malice.

Oh, hey, Dad, I almost said out loud.

"I hear you think we owe you something,' he murmured under the crowd noise. "I think we're even."

I wanted the seven of them dead. That wasn't a debt. That was an ambition.

"You fucked up my mission," he said quietly, as his arm tightened.

That's when the point of my punch dagger lightly touched him just above the hole in his side armor, at the arm pit.

A little gift I'd picked up from a dead biker in Utah.

He immediately let go and pushed me back, squaring off. I made the punch dagger disappear.

"Even, we are. Evenly matched, we are not. Stay the fuck away from my campus. You of all people know defense is stronger, Colonel."

"Yes, play with yourselves in your little fortress while we work the hills and hunt insurgents and zhongui. Flashlight cop."

Jesus, Colonel, I've heard better insults from strung out junkies stealing copper wire.

Only when his face locked up did I realize that i'd said it out loud.

If it felt good to say it, I probably shouldn't have.

He thought about doing a quick draw and shooting me dead. His hand touched his pistol grip.

Then he looked at my people.

They saved my life once again.

If they'd looked like they would freeze, or hesitate, or move away slightly, he'd have done it and trusted his earned reputation with Homeland to see things through.

But every single one of them put hand to weapon.

So he turned and walked away.

The rest was anticlimactic. Water, first aid, food, shade tarps. Tactful processing which allowed any parade leader to vouch for his group, including the wild eyed ones with the bayonets who were American Legion.

I don't like people who bomb crowds with IEDs. Even as a tactic. It's outside the laws of war. It's an atrocity.

This time, the bomber had been hunted down and stabbed to death in the street many times.

If I kept not being able to make up my mind what side I was on, I'd probably be killed by one or the other, IED or bayonet.

Six hours later, we were released from the incident. We proceeded on empty streets to Valley Medical Center.

The Employee teams and ambulance had had a quiet afternoon providing security for the wave of mass casualties. At one point a lost out of county ambulance hadn't stopped and they'd almost lit it up, but after some yelling it was established that the driver was a firefighter-idiot not a homicide bomber.

I'd have lost my fucking mind on that evolution. Stanford, redux.

But if that had been the assignment, I would have done it. Apocalypse doesn't let you choose your sanity over other people's lives.

Two hours later, they were released and we all returned to site.

There was nothing in the propaganda. Not just that day. Ever.