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GWOT VI - Repatriation
Feb. 28th, 2020 01:10 pmGWOT VI - Repatriation
No, I hadn't known that the Americans were coming.
I'd had a couple hints. Governor Pat had not ordered, but had verbally told me to stall for time. In my one satphone call with the Governor of Iowa (which he made on a Bear Force supplied burner phone, locked in his own bathroom stall so his own guards wouldn't overhear), he'd begged me to buy time 'any way you can.'
Strictly speaking, we were just another unauthorized combatant. The faster we were out of Iowa and back in California, the better for everyone.
But not everyone gets the memo.
###
"You will have to surrender your firearms."
The tension jumped as every California soldier put their hand to metal. Most to their pistols. A few to the machine pistols they still carried. And the thoughtful, to their hand grenades.
"We don't disarm. National policy," a scout-sergeant spoke up.
It was an uncomfortable tactical situation. A marching column of abouty fifty California troops, who had turned over rifles and machine guns and heavy weapons to the brand new Refuge militia not two hours ago. A US Army military police checkpoint, fifteen troops with two Bradley armored fighting vehicles (essentially tanks, but don't let a tanker hear you say that) equipped not only with machine guns, but a 25mm 'chain gun' that would put paid to anything not a 'real' tank in thousands of meters.
"Our policy is that you disarm."
"Our policy is that we die first. Call your officer."
Firearms were not quite pointing. But grenade spoons were being held down and there was some question as to the position of grenade pins.
After a brief radio conversation, with some emphasis and more than a little profanity …
"OK. New direction. Turn in your grenades. Keep your pistols. And those things, I'm going to say that they're pistols."
"That's fair. We're not taking grenades on a plane anyway."
Some tense and adroit positioning later, there were still California troops in a position to shoot MPs, while other Californians placed their grenades in a hastily abandoned foxhole.
"OK. Now what?"
"We're here to disarm anyone coming through the point. We've done our part. Have a nice day."
Not without repeated backwards glances, the column finished traveling through the MP security control point.
If the situation had been reversed, and the California troops had held the point … but fortunately for both nations, that hadn't been the case.
###
I insisted that we would be inspecting the passenger aircraft prior to boarding. It wasn't a cargo plane.
It took me thirty seconds, because I knew what to look for. Also because of the scratch a person had died making.
"Captain, we have a problem. California forces, maximum alert."
Hands to metal. And this time we not only outnumbered but outgunned our American honor guard.
"What?"
He seemed genuinely puzzled.
"You, me, the flight crew, over there at that table. We talk right now. Or we walk home."
He was grudgingly willing to accommodate the crazy California officer.
With an effort of will, I kept my own hand off my handgun. Because if I were to touch metal, I'd draw and cap all three of the flight crew, and then I'd have a LOT of explaining to do.
I sat. I kept my voice calm with an effort.
"Pilot, co-pilot, flight steward. That aircraft is Homeward Bound equipped."
The co-pilot looked puzzled. The pilot turned pale. The flight steward wasn't equipped to turn pale, but did manage a dusky gray.
"Captain and co-pilot. I see the scratches on the outside of the armored cockpit door, the vinyl seats, the floor drain in the passenger compartment, the gas sensors … and when I broke the lock on the rearmost overhead luggage bin, the Tyvex suits and the two SCBA sets. If we tear down the air conditioning, I have no doubt we'll find the bypass switch to divert the exhaust into the passenger cabin."
"Major, what are you saying?"
"The Homeward Bound atrocity involved the misuse of passenger aircraft to asphyxiate people who were told they were being flown home. This aircraft was used for murder. It is literally a flying murder weapon."
The co-pilot caught on that the pilot and flight steward did not share his surprise. He pushed back from the table and started to reach down for a firearm he did not have. He looked back and forth at his former co-workers in dawning horror.
They looked away. And that said it all.
"I think we're going to need a new flight crew, too. Because I have the discretion not to act in foreign territory, but the moment this plane lands at a California airfield, I _have_ to arrest these two, and they will certainly hang by the neck until dead. And if for some reason I didn't, I'd hang in their place."
I'd already taken note of their names. Bears are everywhere, and so are accidents. They wouldn't escape justice forever.
I stared down the co-pilot.
"Fuel status," I demanded. "Radius."
"Fully fueled, Major. I can fly to anywhere in California."
"Do you need a relief pilot?"
He looked at the former lead pilot, and spat.
"No."
"Medical personnel and ANG personnel to me," I called. "Everyone else start boarding."
I explained briefly to our handful of Air National Guard personnel. Our former Homeland pilot included.
"I would be honored if you help fly us home," I told her.
Her eyes shone.
"Medical staff, I need you to spread out throughout the plane and watch for the first signs of CO poisoning or hypoxia. I don't trust the plane's sensors."
We uninstalled the hinges on the cockpit door -- we couldn't remove it entirely -- and threw the pilot and flight steward's effects from the top of the rolling stairs into the dirt, where they landed with an expensive sounding crunch.
The American captain watched us doing this, but decided not to call anyone or take any particular actions. The dozen or so California scout-soldiers closely surrounding but not actually touching him may have helped him realize his role to play.
We boarded.
I was left alone with the pilot, crew chief, and American officer, as everyone else boarded and the APU powered up.
The American officer looked at them and said four words.
"You are under arrest."
I nodded and turned away, last to go up the stairs.
Last to touch the soil of Iowa.
What would happen next was up to them. In every sense.
Picked California scout-soldiers with machine pistols and folding stocks extended watched from the open door as the portable stairs were trundled away.
We started our taxi movement to the runway.
I went up front to the cabin.
Co-pilot and my pilot were going over a set of controls carefully.
"This is the killer switch," my pilot said. It was labeled 'Passenger Air Heater.'
"We're going to fly at 8,000 feet until we're sure. We've stacked a number of alternate airfields just in case we need to land in a hurry."
I noticed that both SCBA sets were now in the cockpit, one being actually worn by a dead-eyed California scout soldier with a machine pistol.
"I'm not suicidal," volunteered the co-pilot.
"Good to know," I replied mildly, and authorized the doors to be closed.
The plane took off.
I took the PA.
"California soldiers. We are now legally on California national soil. Congratulations on a successful operation."
The cheers shook the plane.
My eye fell on the scratch on the face of the armored cockpit door.
It hadn't been made with a fingernail.
Someone had realized they were dying, crawled forward, probably uselessly banged on the door, found something metal to make a scratch with, and made that scratch as deep as they could while their brain went from hypoxia to anoxia, then death.
I owed that person all of our lives.
And no one would ever know who they were.
###
Satphones work in the air.
I called CA ANG Flight Ops at Mammoth Lakes and advised of our course, heading, situation and intentions.
Our medical staff still working in Iowa would be safe. They would travel commercial air. And also would be warned.
"Major, message from your four eyed friend. Code group seven two four eight five. Message ends."
"Copy message."
I keyed in into what looked like a cell phone, which all this time in Iowa, had never left my body.
The code group. "RCS Panoptes crew safely recovered."
I might or might not ever learn that particular story.
But I mentally added another five lives back to my tally.
###
It took a while. We had to do the homework. Take it slow and sure.
Homeland was officially disbanded. But still had teeth and tentacles. The action had not been directed or approved by either the United States government or the United States Army or Air Force. Fortunately for them.
The pilot was court-martialed and sentenced to death, which was commuted to life imprisonment. Four years later, he was released, and hit by a stolen car outside the front gates of the prison in a hit and run non-accident. The driver was never found. Bears, man, bears.
The steward hung himself before he was sentenced. A careful forensic examination would have discovered several curious things about his hanging. No examination was done. If you never knew a bear was there, you don't look for a bear.
Over half a million people, many of them Californians, lost their lives on Homeland Bound Airlines. And every participant California becomes aware of is marked for justice.
Perhaps the Iowa war would end. I hoped so.
But the war on genocide would not end.
Ever.
No, I hadn't known that the Americans were coming.
I'd had a couple hints. Governor Pat had not ordered, but had verbally told me to stall for time. In my one satphone call with the Governor of Iowa (which he made on a Bear Force supplied burner phone, locked in his own bathroom stall so his own guards wouldn't overhear), he'd begged me to buy time 'any way you can.'
Strictly speaking, we were just another unauthorized combatant. The faster we were out of Iowa and back in California, the better for everyone.
But not everyone gets the memo.
###
"You will have to surrender your firearms."
The tension jumped as every California soldier put their hand to metal. Most to their pistols. A few to the machine pistols they still carried. And the thoughtful, to their hand grenades.
"We don't disarm. National policy," a scout-sergeant spoke up.
It was an uncomfortable tactical situation. A marching column of abouty fifty California troops, who had turned over rifles and machine guns and heavy weapons to the brand new Refuge militia not two hours ago. A US Army military police checkpoint, fifteen troops with two Bradley armored fighting vehicles (essentially tanks, but don't let a tanker hear you say that) equipped not only with machine guns, but a 25mm 'chain gun' that would put paid to anything not a 'real' tank in thousands of meters.
"Our policy is that you disarm."
"Our policy is that we die first. Call your officer."
Firearms were not quite pointing. But grenade spoons were being held down and there was some question as to the position of grenade pins.
After a brief radio conversation, with some emphasis and more than a little profanity …
"OK. New direction. Turn in your grenades. Keep your pistols. And those things, I'm going to say that they're pistols."
"That's fair. We're not taking grenades on a plane anyway."
Some tense and adroit positioning later, there were still California troops in a position to shoot MPs, while other Californians placed their grenades in a hastily abandoned foxhole.
"OK. Now what?"
"We're here to disarm anyone coming through the point. We've done our part. Have a nice day."
Not without repeated backwards glances, the column finished traveling through the MP security control point.
If the situation had been reversed, and the California troops had held the point … but fortunately for both nations, that hadn't been the case.
###
I insisted that we would be inspecting the passenger aircraft prior to boarding. It wasn't a cargo plane.
It took me thirty seconds, because I knew what to look for. Also because of the scratch a person had died making.
"Captain, we have a problem. California forces, maximum alert."
Hands to metal. And this time we not only outnumbered but outgunned our American honor guard.
"What?"
He seemed genuinely puzzled.
"You, me, the flight crew, over there at that table. We talk right now. Or we walk home."
He was grudgingly willing to accommodate the crazy California officer.
With an effort of will, I kept my own hand off my handgun. Because if I were to touch metal, I'd draw and cap all three of the flight crew, and then I'd have a LOT of explaining to do.
I sat. I kept my voice calm with an effort.
"Pilot, co-pilot, flight steward. That aircraft is Homeward Bound equipped."
The co-pilot looked puzzled. The pilot turned pale. The flight steward wasn't equipped to turn pale, but did manage a dusky gray.
"Captain and co-pilot. I see the scratches on the outside of the armored cockpit door, the vinyl seats, the floor drain in the passenger compartment, the gas sensors … and when I broke the lock on the rearmost overhead luggage bin, the Tyvex suits and the two SCBA sets. If we tear down the air conditioning, I have no doubt we'll find the bypass switch to divert the exhaust into the passenger cabin."
"Major, what are you saying?"
"The Homeward Bound atrocity involved the misuse of passenger aircraft to asphyxiate people who were told they were being flown home. This aircraft was used for murder. It is literally a flying murder weapon."
The co-pilot caught on that the pilot and flight steward did not share his surprise. He pushed back from the table and started to reach down for a firearm he did not have. He looked back and forth at his former co-workers in dawning horror.
They looked away. And that said it all.
"I think we're going to need a new flight crew, too. Because I have the discretion not to act in foreign territory, but the moment this plane lands at a California airfield, I _have_ to arrest these two, and they will certainly hang by the neck until dead. And if for some reason I didn't, I'd hang in their place."
I'd already taken note of their names. Bears are everywhere, and so are accidents. They wouldn't escape justice forever.
I stared down the co-pilot.
"Fuel status," I demanded. "Radius."
"Fully fueled, Major. I can fly to anywhere in California."
"Do you need a relief pilot?"
He looked at the former lead pilot, and spat.
"No."
"Medical personnel and ANG personnel to me," I called. "Everyone else start boarding."
I explained briefly to our handful of Air National Guard personnel. Our former Homeland pilot included.
"I would be honored if you help fly us home," I told her.
Her eyes shone.
"Medical staff, I need you to spread out throughout the plane and watch for the first signs of CO poisoning or hypoxia. I don't trust the plane's sensors."
We uninstalled the hinges on the cockpit door -- we couldn't remove it entirely -- and threw the pilot and flight steward's effects from the top of the rolling stairs into the dirt, where they landed with an expensive sounding crunch.
The American captain watched us doing this, but decided not to call anyone or take any particular actions. The dozen or so California scout-soldiers closely surrounding but not actually touching him may have helped him realize his role to play.
We boarded.
I was left alone with the pilot, crew chief, and American officer, as everyone else boarded and the APU powered up.
The American officer looked at them and said four words.
"You are under arrest."
I nodded and turned away, last to go up the stairs.
Last to touch the soil of Iowa.
What would happen next was up to them. In every sense.
Picked California scout-soldiers with machine pistols and folding stocks extended watched from the open door as the portable stairs were trundled away.
We started our taxi movement to the runway.
I went up front to the cabin.
Co-pilot and my pilot were going over a set of controls carefully.
"This is the killer switch," my pilot said. It was labeled 'Passenger Air Heater.'
"We're going to fly at 8,000 feet until we're sure. We've stacked a number of alternate airfields just in case we need to land in a hurry."
I noticed that both SCBA sets were now in the cockpit, one being actually worn by a dead-eyed California scout soldier with a machine pistol.
"I'm not suicidal," volunteered the co-pilot.
"Good to know," I replied mildly, and authorized the doors to be closed.
The plane took off.
I took the PA.
"California soldiers. We are now legally on California national soil. Congratulations on a successful operation."
The cheers shook the plane.
My eye fell on the scratch on the face of the armored cockpit door.
It hadn't been made with a fingernail.
Someone had realized they were dying, crawled forward, probably uselessly banged on the door, found something metal to make a scratch with, and made that scratch as deep as they could while their brain went from hypoxia to anoxia, then death.
I owed that person all of our lives.
And no one would ever know who they were.
###
Satphones work in the air.
I called CA ANG Flight Ops at Mammoth Lakes and advised of our course, heading, situation and intentions.
Our medical staff still working in Iowa would be safe. They would travel commercial air. And also would be warned.
"Major, message from your four eyed friend. Code group seven two four eight five. Message ends."
"Copy message."
I keyed in into what looked like a cell phone, which all this time in Iowa, had never left my body.
The code group. "RCS Panoptes crew safely recovered."
I might or might not ever learn that particular story.
But I mentally added another five lives back to my tally.
###
It took a while. We had to do the homework. Take it slow and sure.
Homeland was officially disbanded. But still had teeth and tentacles. The action had not been directed or approved by either the United States government or the United States Army or Air Force. Fortunately for them.
The pilot was court-martialed and sentenced to death, which was commuted to life imprisonment. Four years later, he was released, and hit by a stolen car outside the front gates of the prison in a hit and run non-accident. The driver was never found. Bears, man, bears.
The steward hung himself before he was sentenced. A careful forensic examination would have discovered several curious things about his hanging. No examination was done. If you never knew a bear was there, you don't look for a bear.
Over half a million people, many of them Californians, lost their lives on Homeland Bound Airlines. And every participant California becomes aware of is marked for justice.
Perhaps the Iowa war would end. I hoped so.
But the war on genocide would not end.
Ever.
