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GWOT VI - Squatting Slavs
Jan. 5th, 2020 07:35 amGWOT VI - Squatting Slavs
We had a brief operational window during which to plan, make connections, and be ready to do the thing.
Then the ambulance had blown up.
The Churches weren't even going to wait the twenty-four hours for the UN Colonel to fuck me off.
Since I was very likely to have to leave town with my unit tomorrow, that left me only this one window to evaluate the rest of the contingents and see who we would take with, and who we would have to take out.
Once the ringing in my ears wore off, I was hungry. But not stupid. We'd held the surviving Red Lion representatives at not-quite-gunpoint until we'd been able to authenticate them. Once they passed, I invited Attorney Sanchez to lunch at Langar Aid. She declined, pointedly.
I dressed down and wore gloves. I was still in California uniform but with rank tabs indicating corporal. I took two "privates" with me - Mo, who was still pissed at not getting to try to defuse the ambulance, and a soldier as big and as dumb as Shane had been, God rest his soul. He didn't have to trade for a lower rank tab. Mo did, and had to leave most of his kit behind as well.
We walked the town. A small Iowa farming town, you understand, with a lot more people in it between refugees ("G's"), carpetbaggers ("baggers"), various members of the Churches ("the faithful" or "Soldiers of God" depending on who was talking and/or listening) and the UN and relief personnel ("outsiders" or "heathen"). So it didn't take much to walk the entire town, only a couple hours.
Lunch was being served in the town square by Langar Aid.
The perimeter of their work and serving area was being patrolled by pairs of angry Sikh men wearing turbans and carrying long staffs as well as their signature knotted iron rods. Their faces were glacial and they were unfailingly polite, but I could see the anger coming off them in waves.
A bit further out, I saw squads of men in stretch-weave polo shirts that said POLIZEI and what looked awfully like Adidas tracksuits underneath. They had cheap nylon belt gear and revolvers, no long arms. They stuck together in clumps, and milled around as if casually, forming a cloud around the outer perimeter. They seemed bored, maybe even a little happy.
We lined up for the food. Around us were obvious "Gs" … refugees. They eyed our California Republic uniforms but didn't quite summon up the courage to speak to us.
The food was served in bowls, and a carefully lettered sign told us to return them 'WITHOUT FAIL.' I started to take a picture of the sign and suddenly two pairs of Langar Aid materialized.
"No pictures," they said. I started to say something and they interrupted, quite calmly, "No pictures." I had to show my phone to prove I had not taken a picture. Satisfied, they returned to patrol.
The food was bland but good. Rice, hints of veggies, some oil, a little tofu. I suspected that under more normal conditions it would be more flavorful, but they had turned down the volume both to feed more people and to make it more palatable.
Then a woman started choking suddenly.
Once a medic, always a medic. Before I realized what I was doing, I quickly had run up to her, evaluated that she was really honest to God choking to death right now, found my hand placement, done the Heimlich, and the piece of celery flew across the grass and she started breathing again.
The lunk had taken security. Mo had keyed his radio and called for local EMS support.
I checked her pulse with a hand, bounding but OK, and the refugees eyed me dangerously. Langar Aid teams ran up, sidled after by the Moldavians.
"Thank you," she said as soon as she was able to speak. This defused things. I asked the senior Langar Aid man to call an ambulance.
He shook his head no.
On the way to lunch we had walked past a gleaming fire station with apparatus at the ready, two modern ambulances staged, and fire and medics alert. If anything they were overstaffed. They'd even had a deputy sheriff standing overwatch.
I nodded to Mo again.
"Start local EMS for a person recovering from choking," I said unnecessarily.
Mo shook his head. That in turn shook me.
"Operator advises they will not respond. They do not consider us a legitimate caller."
"Fine, start our medic."
"Already done."
A motorbike roared into the edge of the crowd and the Moldavians smoothly drew, pointing a forest of revolvers at it. The rider, a California Republic medic with a large visible Red Cross on his chest and back, as well as the panniers of the rapid-reaction medic motorcycle, raised his hands and submitted to search.
They waved him through, and only then holstered.
The .38 revolver may be obsolete, but it can still kill you deader than chivalry.
Our medic ran through the routine. But he really didn't like the answers he was getting from her, the Langar Aid medic, the Moldavian "POLIZEI MEDICOI" and the refugees nearby.
"She seems fine. According to our SOP, she should be evaluated by a physician. However, I am reliably informed that the local EMS service 'does not treat Gs.' They will walk over to Doctors Without Borders clinic when she can walk, and that's the best any of us can do."
Well, shit.
I walked out of the crowd, followed by the California Republic staff, then dismissed the medic to return to our temporary base. The sharp eyes of the Langar Aid staff knew something was going on with me; I was clearly not a corporal.
I walked directly over to the fire station. On the way, I swapped out my rank tabs for my real ones. I Introduced myself, asked to speak to the battalion chief on duty.
He came out.
I let him have it with both barrels.
"… and if you have so far abandoned the basic principles of human dignity and of emergency medical services as to discriminate in the treatment of human beings, you don't need those ambulances! And we do. So I give you a choice, you agree to treat all persons within the boundaries of this town, right now, or the California Republic will confiscate both your ambulances to replace the one the Churches blew up earlier. You certainly heard the explosion. You didn't respond to it. So if you pick which fires you fight and which lives you save, I feel comfortable classifying you not as neutral disaster service workers, but as enemy combatants. Make your decision. Now."
About that time, a California Republic gun truck showed up and leveled her twin .50 caliber machine guns at the fire station. Reaction troops took the corners and started stacking, helmets and grenades and riot armor. Snipers took up positions.
The deputy sheriff very carefully laid down his rifle and radio and raised his hands high above his head. But his eyes missed nothing, and he would be reporting this warlike act.
Good.
The chief had a lot of tattoos on public display. One was the EMS sigil, another was the Maltese Cross. But others were of crucifixion and of the Passion of Christ. I genuinely didn't know which way he would decide. I was not sure I cared.
"We will provide basic life support to anyone in the town boundaries," he said finally and reluctantly.
"Very good. Element return to quarters," I snapped and the California contingent withdrew as smoothly and violently as it had appeared.
He wouldn't, of course.
But the point had been made.
As I walked away, a particularly tall and amiable Moldavian, the only one I had seen so far with leather belt gear, joined me.
"Captain Somol," he introduced himself. "I see that you do not like how things are done here."
"This is my country," I snapped angrily.
"No, it's not, Californian," he said calmly. "Not any more."
"America has always been a loose confederation of tribes that hate each other," I replied. "But we have certain rules, certain basic standards of civilization and conduct, that are being broken."
"That is true. Choose your battles wisely. There's a reason I haven't had any casualties yet. You've already had one."
That poor Red Lion orderly, who'd unwittingly brought a bomb and saved us all by taking it back out. That the bomb had been an ambulance had it all worse.
"This battle chose me," I said, trying to keep my self control. "California's interest in genocide is strong."
"Are you authorized to take casualties saving refugees?"
"I was sent out with the understanding that my entire force is expendable, and that if we do not stop this genocide, none of us should return."
He stopped, shocked.
Looked at me.
I looked back at him.
"You're not lying…" he said slowly.
"No. Specific reference was made to the UN deployment in Rwanda."
The failed deployment. The one that saved 50,000 lives and lost another 800,000.
Pat had been very very clear. And with the Adjutant General's help, she had put that into my orders in unmistakable if archaic form.
"Hereof you nor any of you may fail, at your very real and personal peril."
That meant that if there was a genocide and I survived it, I would return to court martial. And so would every member of my command, down to the lowliest private. And likely the Red Lion people too.
"Your poor bastard," the Moldavian police captain said slowly. "When the time comes, we are at your orders." And saluted. I returned it and he went back to his duties of the moment.
I returned to our temporary camp.
Steve, our prisoner and an unlawful combatant, had some explaining to do.
While I'd been having lunch, he'd been interrogated.
And California Republic regulations were rather strict on the subject of lawful prisoners of war, but rather looser with respect to UCs and war criminals.
He was both.
I looked … forward … to our upcoming discussions.
We had a brief operational window during which to plan, make connections, and be ready to do the thing.
Then the ambulance had blown up.
The Churches weren't even going to wait the twenty-four hours for the UN Colonel to fuck me off.
Since I was very likely to have to leave town with my unit tomorrow, that left me only this one window to evaluate the rest of the contingents and see who we would take with, and who we would have to take out.
Once the ringing in my ears wore off, I was hungry. But not stupid. We'd held the surviving Red Lion representatives at not-quite-gunpoint until we'd been able to authenticate them. Once they passed, I invited Attorney Sanchez to lunch at Langar Aid. She declined, pointedly.
I dressed down and wore gloves. I was still in California uniform but with rank tabs indicating corporal. I took two "privates" with me - Mo, who was still pissed at not getting to try to defuse the ambulance, and a soldier as big and as dumb as Shane had been, God rest his soul. He didn't have to trade for a lower rank tab. Mo did, and had to leave most of his kit behind as well.
We walked the town. A small Iowa farming town, you understand, with a lot more people in it between refugees ("G's"), carpetbaggers ("baggers"), various members of the Churches ("the faithful" or "Soldiers of God" depending on who was talking and/or listening) and the UN and relief personnel ("outsiders" or "heathen"). So it didn't take much to walk the entire town, only a couple hours.
Lunch was being served in the town square by Langar Aid.
The perimeter of their work and serving area was being patrolled by pairs of angry Sikh men wearing turbans and carrying long staffs as well as their signature knotted iron rods. Their faces were glacial and they were unfailingly polite, but I could see the anger coming off them in waves.
A bit further out, I saw squads of men in stretch-weave polo shirts that said POLIZEI and what looked awfully like Adidas tracksuits underneath. They had cheap nylon belt gear and revolvers, no long arms. They stuck together in clumps, and milled around as if casually, forming a cloud around the outer perimeter. They seemed bored, maybe even a little happy.
We lined up for the food. Around us were obvious "Gs" … refugees. They eyed our California Republic uniforms but didn't quite summon up the courage to speak to us.
The food was served in bowls, and a carefully lettered sign told us to return them 'WITHOUT FAIL.' I started to take a picture of the sign and suddenly two pairs of Langar Aid materialized.
"No pictures," they said. I started to say something and they interrupted, quite calmly, "No pictures." I had to show my phone to prove I had not taken a picture. Satisfied, they returned to patrol.
The food was bland but good. Rice, hints of veggies, some oil, a little tofu. I suspected that under more normal conditions it would be more flavorful, but they had turned down the volume both to feed more people and to make it more palatable.
Then a woman started choking suddenly.
Once a medic, always a medic. Before I realized what I was doing, I quickly had run up to her, evaluated that she was really honest to God choking to death right now, found my hand placement, done the Heimlich, and the piece of celery flew across the grass and she started breathing again.
The lunk had taken security. Mo had keyed his radio and called for local EMS support.
I checked her pulse with a hand, bounding but OK, and the refugees eyed me dangerously. Langar Aid teams ran up, sidled after by the Moldavians.
"Thank you," she said as soon as she was able to speak. This defused things. I asked the senior Langar Aid man to call an ambulance.
He shook his head no.
On the way to lunch we had walked past a gleaming fire station with apparatus at the ready, two modern ambulances staged, and fire and medics alert. If anything they were overstaffed. They'd even had a deputy sheriff standing overwatch.
I nodded to Mo again.
"Start local EMS for a person recovering from choking," I said unnecessarily.
Mo shook his head. That in turn shook me.
"Operator advises they will not respond. They do not consider us a legitimate caller."
"Fine, start our medic."
"Already done."
A motorbike roared into the edge of the crowd and the Moldavians smoothly drew, pointing a forest of revolvers at it. The rider, a California Republic medic with a large visible Red Cross on his chest and back, as well as the panniers of the rapid-reaction medic motorcycle, raised his hands and submitted to search.
They waved him through, and only then holstered.
The .38 revolver may be obsolete, but it can still kill you deader than chivalry.
Our medic ran through the routine. But he really didn't like the answers he was getting from her, the Langar Aid medic, the Moldavian "POLIZEI MEDICOI" and the refugees nearby.
"She seems fine. According to our SOP, she should be evaluated by a physician. However, I am reliably informed that the local EMS service 'does not treat Gs.' They will walk over to Doctors Without Borders clinic when she can walk, and that's the best any of us can do."
Well, shit.
I walked out of the crowd, followed by the California Republic staff, then dismissed the medic to return to our temporary base. The sharp eyes of the Langar Aid staff knew something was going on with me; I was clearly not a corporal.
I walked directly over to the fire station. On the way, I swapped out my rank tabs for my real ones. I Introduced myself, asked to speak to the battalion chief on duty.
He came out.
I let him have it with both barrels.
"… and if you have so far abandoned the basic principles of human dignity and of emergency medical services as to discriminate in the treatment of human beings, you don't need those ambulances! And we do. So I give you a choice, you agree to treat all persons within the boundaries of this town, right now, or the California Republic will confiscate both your ambulances to replace the one the Churches blew up earlier. You certainly heard the explosion. You didn't respond to it. So if you pick which fires you fight and which lives you save, I feel comfortable classifying you not as neutral disaster service workers, but as enemy combatants. Make your decision. Now."
About that time, a California Republic gun truck showed up and leveled her twin .50 caliber machine guns at the fire station. Reaction troops took the corners and started stacking, helmets and grenades and riot armor. Snipers took up positions.
The deputy sheriff very carefully laid down his rifle and radio and raised his hands high above his head. But his eyes missed nothing, and he would be reporting this warlike act.
Good.
The chief had a lot of tattoos on public display. One was the EMS sigil, another was the Maltese Cross. But others were of crucifixion and of the Passion of Christ. I genuinely didn't know which way he would decide. I was not sure I cared.
"We will provide basic life support to anyone in the town boundaries," he said finally and reluctantly.
"Very good. Element return to quarters," I snapped and the California contingent withdrew as smoothly and violently as it had appeared.
He wouldn't, of course.
But the point had been made.
As I walked away, a particularly tall and amiable Moldavian, the only one I had seen so far with leather belt gear, joined me.
"Captain Somol," he introduced himself. "I see that you do not like how things are done here."
"This is my country," I snapped angrily.
"No, it's not, Californian," he said calmly. "Not any more."
"America has always been a loose confederation of tribes that hate each other," I replied. "But we have certain rules, certain basic standards of civilization and conduct, that are being broken."
"That is true. Choose your battles wisely. There's a reason I haven't had any casualties yet. You've already had one."
That poor Red Lion orderly, who'd unwittingly brought a bomb and saved us all by taking it back out. That the bomb had been an ambulance had it all worse.
"This battle chose me," I said, trying to keep my self control. "California's interest in genocide is strong."
"Are you authorized to take casualties saving refugees?"
"I was sent out with the understanding that my entire force is expendable, and that if we do not stop this genocide, none of us should return."
He stopped, shocked.
Looked at me.
I looked back at him.
"You're not lying…" he said slowly.
"No. Specific reference was made to the UN deployment in Rwanda."
The failed deployment. The one that saved 50,000 lives and lost another 800,000.
Pat had been very very clear. And with the Adjutant General's help, she had put that into my orders in unmistakable if archaic form.
"Hereof you nor any of you may fail, at your very real and personal peril."
That meant that if there was a genocide and I survived it, I would return to court martial. And so would every member of my command, down to the lowliest private. And likely the Red Lion people too.
"Your poor bastard," the Moldavian police captain said slowly. "When the time comes, we are at your orders." And saluted. I returned it and he went back to his duties of the moment.
I returned to our temporary camp.
Steve, our prisoner and an unlawful combatant, had some explaining to do.
While I'd been having lunch, he'd been interrogated.
And California Republic regulations were rather strict on the subject of lawful prisoners of war, but rather looser with respect to UCs and war criminals.
He was both.
I looked … forward … to our upcoming discussions.
