GWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Medevac

GWOT V - A State of Desperation - Medevac

We were still shaken from our meeting with the representative from California's Strategic Defense Forces. We will not be able to write about that until we have left California for the last time. Perhaps not even then. But the SDF troopers had been withdrawn from the hotel and we did not expect to see them again.

Meanwhile, I intend to take full advantage of the offer that had been extended.

"Look at anything you want."

Why not start right where we started, back at the airport? We'd seen two helicopter bases - one military, one civilian.

Jay had spent some friendly time talking to hotel staff, other guests and the occasional taxi driver.

"We can hire a taxi. It works out to about 10 euros per hour. Not bad. We have to get local driver's licenses to rent our own vehicle, which frankly is the way to go. The hotel can't get us a rental, however. They're apparently that rare."

We were staying in the best hotel in Redding. I'd rented cars on five continents.

"The locals all use the bus system. Get this. Intra-city buses are free. Inter-city buses work out to about a euro per mile."

That was _expensive_ for mid range travel, even if one factored in the very high cost of petrol and Diesel.

"The reason we didn't see much traffic from the air... bicycles. They're bicycle fanatics. You can buy an OK bicycle for 20 euros. Hire a bicycle cab for 3 euros per hour. And a lot of people just walk."

So we hired a bicycle cab to take us back to the airport. A quick call by the hotel concierge. Some things are the same no matter where you go.

The pedicab driver was a trim man in extraordinary physical shape. He cheerfully agreed to take us to the airport, put his single-ear headphone back on and pedaled. This gave me a great view of his gluteus maximus, and the camera operator made sure to get a couple action shots.

There were very few traffic signals. What there were instead were roundabouts. Almost like home, except that California hadn't had very many of them prior to the Firecracker. Now, every place there was enough space, a roundabout replaced what had been a traffic signal.

We could see the marks on the ground where pre-War curbs had been cut away where inconvenient. The paving was uneven. Walking paths were as likely to be graveled as paved. Concrete was ... rare.

The pedicab pulled up to the front entrance to the airport. After a quick negotiation, the pedicab driver took off his headphones. He drank a long swallow from one of the several water bottles he had on racks.

"Sorry, folks. Ride ends here."

We paid him, he immediately joined the pedicab waiting line at the airport.

We'd walked perhaps a hundred meters towards the military base gate when two uniformed people on bicycles approached us.

"Good morning, Airport Police," they introduced themselves. Friendly, cheerful. They weren't like either pre-War police, or the paramilitaries we had seen so far.

For one thing, only the senior was armed, and that with a revolver that looked like it must have come from a museum.

They both had radios to go with their bicycle shorts and reflective polo shirts.

Another brief discussion.

"We heard about you in morning briefing. No, don't ever tip a public officer, it's technically a crime but you didn't know. We'd be happy to show you around the parts of the airport we have access to. I'll have to call Flight Ops if you want to see airside. No?"

A frown.

"The military base is under its own rules. We can ask but knowing the Air National Guard, it will take a while to get an answer. How about we show you the Red Lion base first, that gives time for ANG to find its ass."

Red Lion?

We'd heard of California's answer to having a national aid society like the Red Cross. Everyone of course has seen their fundraising and propaganda videos, always with the center of the logo pixelated as if censored.

But Red Lion _base_? That was new.

As we approached, we saw fluttering white flags with a crimson lion, rampant. Not only on flagpoles at each of the four corners, but smaller flags on smaller poles and painted on wooden signs along the perimeter.

The front gate had a large Red Lion and I nearly broke out laughing. The camera operator from habit started to avert the camera, then deliberately panned anyway.

The lion had a raised paw, as if giving the world the finger. Except this lion had no finger, or paw either. Where a paw would have been was ... memorable.

An unerect, uncircumcised human penis.

Below, printed in red letters.

"RED LION AIR OPERATIONS BASE. REDDING, CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC."

Someone came out of the guard kiosk. The airport police waved. The heavily armed guard - much more heavily armed than anyone we had met so far - did not.

"What gives?" this worthy asked with their finger near the trigger of their rifle, pointed at the ground at an angle. His uniform had a picture badge card displayed at the waist that read "AIRPORT CONTRACT ACCESS - RED LION" Otherwise no identifying markings of any kind.

The rifle had a second weapon attached to it. An underbarrel grenade launcher?

"Reporters. They want to see the base."

"They can call the PIO. Oh, wait. Are these the Beebs?"

We nodded and introduced ourselves.

"OK, folks, no weapons." His voice assumed a sing song quality. "This is a humanitarian aid facility operated by the Red Lion Society, which is a protected medical organization under the Geneva Conventions. You are asked to follow posted rules during your visit. Stay behind the red lines. Stay behind the red lines. No violence here, no weapons here. We don't care if you think you are government. No violence here, no weapons here."

The airport police had not entered with us. In fact, they had pedaled away.

An orderly came out to get us. He was in uniform. Dark red pants, a lighter red shirt. The patches on his shoulders also were not pixelated. He also asked that we not share his name, which we realized was a common request in California.

We were walked past a table and benches labeled "Search Area."

"We paged the Public Information Officer. In the meantime, I can give you a quick tour."

A quick tour. Administrative offices, pilot ready room, crew barracks, hangars and warehouse. Fuel depot. The fuel tank was painted a dazzling white and had the international red diamonds as well as the protected Red Lion.

In the pilot ready room, there was on the wall an overhead photo of the base. I could see now that what I had thought was a red-colored walkway was actually a huge red diamond visible from the air. Four red-painted 'corners' indicated the limits of the base from the air.

If you could see well enough to fly an aircraft, you could see well enough that this was a protected facility, under international law never to be attacked.

Something else was framed on the wall. Black bordered frame, a birthdate three decades ago, a death date ... this year.

It was a silk scarf under glass.

The top had a picture of a grinning man with sandy blonde hair. For some reason a recitation of his hair color, eye color, blood type. With a chill, I realized that the two blown-up smaller pictures were his fingerprints and his dental records.

"AFFILIATION: RED LION. RANK: HEALER II. PROTECTED CATEGORY: MEDICAL PERSONNEL. OCCUPATION: FLIGHT PHYSICIAN"

Below were statements in many languages. English of course, but also French and Spanish, Russian and Chinese.

The French matched the English; the others I couldn't tell.

"This person is medical personnel protected under the Geneva Conventions and international humanitarian law. The RED LION SOCIETY will richly reward any person who helps him if he needs help. Because he is non combatant medical personnel, it is illegal under civilian and military law to harm him in any way. He may not carry any firearm and cannot be asked to engage in any warlike act. A reward of up to 100,000 EUROS is offered for his safe return. If he is found, contact any RED LION SOCIETY office or member, or in North America call 800-RED-LION. Give code ..." and the code was blacked out with ink.

Jay shook his head.

"That's a blood chit."

He expanded further.

"Pilots and intelligence personnel who operate over enemy territory carry them. It's a promise and a bribe. Also a veiled threat. If you help this person, we will pay you. If something happens to this person, powerful people will be very angry."

Next to the blood chit, there was a flight helmet hung up on a hook.

It had a neat hole in it on one side. On the other side, it was missing chunks, some of which were stained with rust.

No. Not rust.

The name stenciled on the forehead matched the one on the blood chit.

We silently considered this.

Someone came in.

"And who the fuck are... Good morning. I am Healer II Samuel Perez, I'm a pilot. You must be the reporters."

The orderly was dismissed to his duties, and left with visible relief.

"This is a medevac base. No patient care here, we're just the ambulance drivers. We have four helicopters, one on alert at all times, and two fixed wing patient transports. Pre-War these helicopters would have been scattered further north and east, but that wouldn't be safe nowadays."

Smoothly - as if used to VIPs - he walked us around the base.

The helicopter had the rampant Red Lion logo on both sides. With phallus.

It also had red diamonds and, the first time we had seen one, red crosses.

I asked.

"Fucking Americans," the pilot spat, and wouldn't say more about it.

We looked inside the aircraft. Well equipped, computers and electronics.

Suddenly a siren hooted and a loud crackling voice spoke.

The pilot immediately took a notepad and pen out of his orange jumpsuit pocket.

"MISSION. MISSION. AIR RESCUE. LANDING ZONE COORDINATES."

Two other people started running towards the aircraft. They had orange jumpsuits and helmets.

One carried an extra helmet.

"Do you want to go? We only have the lift for one of you. Decide now."

GWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Mission

GWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Mission

I was strapped in the jump seat, wearing the helmet. My camera operator and my bodyguard were watching as the helicopter lifted. I'd had only a moment to decide, and I'd decided.

No minders, no censors, I was about to go and see the real California.

Also no blood chit. I had my wits and what Jay was pleased to call my survival kit - some Euros, a mobile phone that we hadn't had time to get to work on California networks, a satellite communicator. But no one was going to pay one hundred thousand Euros for my safe return.

The helicopter banked smoothly and the pilot poured on the power.

"Motomedic on scene requires air medevac. Patient has major injury to left leg, possible amputation, chainsaw injury, life threatening bleeding, control status unknown. Austere LZ, caution on security conditions, no details."

I could overhear radio traffic by switching channels on my headset.

"Lion Flight you are cleared to the outer marker. Warning on continued insurgent activity near Clear Lake. Do not adopt altitude higher than three angels without clearance from tower until you leave controlled airspace. Good luck."

We flew past large fires, one of which clearly was kicking up a huge column of smoke. I pointed them out, wordlessly because I couldn't find the microphone button.

Someone seemed to say something, twice, then reached over and switched frequencies for me.

"Controlled burns. Look at the next one. You'll see the fire equipment if you look closely."

Sure enough, there were a few ant-like vehicles at the heel of the next fire, spreading out left and right with the flames as they advanced.

"Lots of work to do, cleaning up what the 'cans did to the forest," someone else said.

"Cut the chatter. LZ in five minutes. Watch for wires."

There were no wires. We were over dense forest. Ridgetop roads.

Then suddenly we had below us a surreal scene, almost close enough to reach out and touch.

"Tight clearances, watch your flanks."

A motorcycle on its side, the panniers painted white and displaying a single large red cross. Counting the red crosses on the side of the aircraft I was on, only the second time I had seen that in California so far.

A clump of people wearing orange. They had hand tools and small packs.

Closer, one holding his hands together, clasped as if in prayer, on his knees. A chainsaw nearby.

A person in Army uniform wearing a white reflective vest with red cross, bent over someone on the ground. A person in khaki who was wearing red gloves, to the elbows. His back read "CDCR OFFICER." A shotgun lying in the mud, disregarded behind him.

"Landing. You, stay on board!"

As suddenly as a slammed door, a weakly moaning man was carried into the aircraft on a flexible fabric stretcher.

"Lifting," the pilot warned.

The flight medics frantically cut off the remnants of clothing around the ruined leg. "This is going to hurt," someone said, and I heard it through my earphones and realized that someone had slipped earphones over the patient. A scream as the tourniquet was tightened, again and again.

"Two IVs wide open. Intraosseous?"

"No. Let's retard the IV at 500cc. No pain meds yet."

"This will help you breathe," someone said as an oxygen mask was slipped over the patient's face.

"Red Lion Flight, Northern Medical City, how do you copy?"

"Northern Medical City, Lion Flight, go."

"We are inbound ETA 1137 with a major extremity laceration, partial amputation, lower left leg. Compound fracture, vascular injuries, page vascular surgeon and reattachment team. Patient is early 20s, decompensating shock, two IVs wide open, pulse 110 and thready. Rapid infusion 2 units O negative at pad, type and crossmatch."

"Northern Medical City copies all. Clear for Pad Three."

"I changed my mind. Leave it wide open."

An endless time of moaning, of sure work with hands, someone mopping the patient's brow with a gauze pad.

"Landing."

Gentle as a mother's kiss, the skids of the helicopter touched the pad and there was frantic activity.

Literally at the side of the pad, the saline IV was replaced with a blood pack, held above the heart, but not too high.

It was then and only then that I read the black letters stenciled on the orange cloth.

"CDCR PRISONER."

Huh? The patient was wheeled away, to a door above which the sign read "TO EMERGENCY" where in the UK it would have read "CASUALTY."

"Mission. Mission. Air rescue. Landing zone coordinates."

"Get out." Someone pulled on my arm. "Get out. Keep the helmet on. Go over there. We need the lift."

The patient was wheeled away on the gurney, someone walked me over to the side of what I realized was a building rooftop, and the helicopter lifted again.

Someone helped me take the helmet off and put it in a locker alongside other equipment labeled Red Lion.

The name on my helmet had read, all this time. "OCCUPANT."

A Red Lion in-joke. But none of the people around me were Red Lion.

Off script Californians, who had no idea who I was. And apparently didn't care.

I realized that I was splattered in blood only when an orderly helped me over to the nearest of several handwashing sinks.

As I finished washing, I murmured to myself, "All that for a prisoner."

The orderly stopped cold. Stared at me.

"Whoever you are, fuck you. That's my brother."

The orderly stalked off angrily, after deciding not to hit me.

What are the odds? I wondered.

It wasn't physically possible, I decided. Something else about California that was still eluding me.

Meanwhile I was unsupervised, in the middle of one of California's infamous 'Medical City' hospitals.

I had stories to get. But I wanted to finish this story first. So I followed the orderly.

"I'm very sorry, I am not from California," I said humbly at the elevator Outing myself. They turned, anger still on their face.

"Really?"

I nodded.

"'Every Californian is my brother,'" the orderly quoted. "No, I never saw him before, and I'll probably never see him again. I don't care what he did, he's in a uniform so he wasn't shot. So he's my brother now. And if I needed his help, he's my brother too. That's probably why he's on a crew, and probably how he got hurt. You will excuse me, I have work to do."

They took the stairs down. I pushed the button for the elevator. No guards here, no one to stop me.

This might be a fascist state, as the Americans claimed. But so far, every person I'd met was a true believer.

In what country does a prison guard, among a crowd of prisoners, discard his weapon and cover himself in blood to help a prisoner?

In what country is a vascular surgeon paged to treat a prisoner's injuries?

I didn't know this California. Hardly at all.

But I would.

GWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Locked Ward

GWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Locked Ward


I promptly got lost.

It's not the hospital's fault. There was marked signage everywhere and friendly ambassadors at confusing intersecions. There were many buildings, a few connected by tunnels, most connected by covered walkways.

The impression I gathered was that the enormous hospital complex - "Northern Medical City" - was something that had kind of just happened, and then been added to and revitalized as demands and resources permitted.

Helipad 3, where I'd been dropped off, was at the top of a relatively modern six story building, an office tower that had been absorbed into NMC as it expanded.

I found a cafeteria. This immediately ran me into a hurdle I hadn't been expecting.

There was no cash register. The employees and guests swiped a card to pay. A dim but well meaning volunteer led me to the card machine, which would take my money and load a guest card.

My California dollars. Of which I had none. I had a pocket full of Euros but the machine had no idea what they were. There were no currency exchanges in a hospital not meant for tourists.

The volunteer somehow became a security guard, who then became a hospital police officer, who was then replaced by several very polite people in white clothes.

I decided to throw myself on their mercy. I identified myself as a reporter for the BBC.

They smiled kindly. One got me a meal from the cafeteria, on his card. They walked me to a side room to eat. They listened to my questions but didn't say much.

Then they explained that we needed to go back to the Ward now.

Two were female. They asked the others to turn their backs. They did.

"We have to search you now."

My protests became strident but it became clear that if I resorted to violence, they were experienced and would clearly win.

Seething, I saw my Euros, my phone and my satellite communicator zipped into a bag labeled 'Patient Property' with my name on it. I was escorted from there to a control desk, one of an innumerable series of security control points, where the bag was sealed and stored.

"It's OK, it will be in Central Property and you will get it all back," I was soothed.

Then the group - which had been six, now was eight - buzzed through several pairs of secure doors and welcomed me to the Ward.

I was asked to wait on a bench. Others were also waiting. Some for appointments, some for interviews. Apparently I was scheduled for an intake interview.

I decided to be patient. I would give the practitioner an earful but until then, I would talk to the other patients.

Some played along. Others wouldn't talk to me - either they didn't believe I was a reporter, or they didn't care either way.

Most had clear and unmistakable signs of serious mental health problems. I had visited locked wards in the UK.

Finally, a harried young woman whose badge identified her as Psych Jones walked me into an interview room. I noticed it was clean, comfortable, sterile and devoid of objects that could be used as weapons.

"I am a reporter for the BBC. I demand to speak to my country's Special Interest Section in Sacramento."

The Psych nodded abstractly.

"We've been unable to find your file. I have a note that you were wandering in the corridor, which is a neat trick. I don't suppose you'd mind giving me your name."

"I gave it." So I gave it again.

"Your real name. Your California name."

She felt that I had come up with a particularly detailed and vivid escapist fantasy, and assured me that it was not her job today to deprive me of my 'comfort.'

"Your guards took my money, my phone and my satellite communicator!"

"Your personal effects will be returned to you on your release."

Preliminary interview over, I was referred for a physical examination.

I was provided with patient clothing.

I refused to wear it.

After discussion, they decided that they would not make me wear it, but that I needed to carry it.

It helped pad the benches under me where I waited.

The physical examination was by a thorough nurse practitioner. She looked me in the eyes, the ears, asked me questions.

"We would normally do blood work, Ms. Jones. And ask you for a urine sample. However, your story has caught up with you. Your camera operator and bodyguard are waiting for you down the hall."

I sighed with relief.

They handed me the bag containing my items, took the patient clothing back, and buzzed me out.

I grew certain I would hate the sight of that leather jacket, because it would always be associated with the smirk from the agent wearing it.

"Thank you for a very useful penetration test of the hospital complex. We've interviewed numerous people about your unexpected journey. Several security defects will be corrected.

"You have had a stressful day. Would you like to continue your tour or go back to the hotel?"

He gave me a hospital badge. It listed my name, my photo (I hadn't posed for one!). My agency was listed as British Broadcasting Corporation, my title as Journalist.

"We also dropped a couple hundred bucks for drinks and snacks on it. Only fair because that's how we caught you."

My bodyguard and camera operator already had theirs.

My bodyguard's badge had a little picture of a firearm on it.

"While you were exploring, we satisfied ourselves that he was qualified to carry a firearm in California. I bent a point and gave him a waiver for the legal element of the training; it's online anyway and he has seven days to click through it."

Jay exposed his jacket very slightly and I saw just the edge of a handgun.

!!!, my face said.

"We would look very foolish requiring a SAS operative to qualify on the pistol range."

"How is he doing?" I parried.

"Huh?"

"The prisoner I flew with."

"Oh." He blinked. "I can put in a request for you to interview him. But he's likely still in surgery based on the injuries as reported. Can we give it a couple days? Pretty sure he's not dead." Click, click. "Nope, still in surgery."

"Who has to approve that?"

Now it was the Collections Agent's turn to look surprised.

"He does."

"Yes, I would like to interview him. And I'm sorry if I interupted your day, but I would also like to interview _you_."

He turned thoughtful.

"That ... I can do. As a convenience to all of us, let's do that interview here. It will give the hospital PIO time to stop pulling her hair out and hyperventilating. Then we can come up with a plan.

"Your request to visit the Air National Guard base is approved as well. That's very straightforward. They did ask for a couple days so they can sanitize classified materials. And they will not be taking you on any flights."

"Will Red Lion get in trouble?"

"You folks are really amazing." He shook his head. "No. Red Lion can do whatever the fuck they want, anywhere the fuck they want. If they dropped you off in a forestry operations zone, as long as you didn't actually get kidnapped or killed, they still wouldn't get in trouble. I'd get my hand slapped. They are Red Lion."

###

"You can call me Fred. Everything about my real last name, my past, my life, all that is no longer mine. It is the property of the California Republic.

"I was a lecturer at a community college somewhere or another during the Firecracker. It was a living and a chance to meet people. Then we were all overwhelmed by an influx of refugees from San Francisco and points north of same. Still are. Just different sources.

"I made myself useful, I solved problems. Soon I was a Redding police officer. Then Homeland asked me to work for them.

"I said no. That was."

He paused.

"I was hiding in the woods for nearly a year after that. Lost some weight. Learned some skills. Led a Resistance cell. When we took Redding, we had a lot of problems. 'Turned once will turn again.' All sorts of issues.

"Then someone came to me, handed me this," he took out and held up his credential, the one it was death to take a picture of, "told me how to use it. His touchstone was 'Do what's right.'"

"How do you know what's right?" I asked.

"Be fair. Be consistent with similar situations. Be kind, but remember that mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent. Give people a chance. Not two. When time permits, check in with other Agents. We did a lot of working in pairs, trying to figure out what we were doing. A lot of anti-corruption work. A lot of counterinsurgency. American partisans. Still some of that."

"Up by Clear Lake," I asked.

He nodded. "Yes. Among many other places. There's no point now, we will expel them when we catch them, and execute them if they come back. But they're being supported by Special Forces A teams. The war continues even if there is technically an armistice. Just means no tank battles and no air strikes. Although that was bad enough.

"This hospital was expanded three major times. Once right after the Firecracker, once by Homeland as a processing center, and then by us as soon as we took over - and we never stopped. Under constant construction.

"California is her people. Everything else is just noise. Concrete, steel, forestry, roads, that's nice. But people are the ones who do anything good in this world. We take care of each other.

"My job as a Collections Agent is to solve problems and catch bad people. Peculation of funds, misuse of power."

"I've heard that Collections has power of summary execution."

"Used to. Not so much anymore, although we don't advertise it. The Governor takes a personal interest now. Every case. If I shoot someone, I just might be asked to fly up to Sacramento and have a face-to-face with Pat about it. And I might end up breaking rocks and I might end up taking a transfer to Bear Force.

"But you don't let things like that get in the way of doing the job. I kind of see it as somewhere between a cop and a judge. Elements of both, but not really either. I can refer someone on criminal charges, but I don't _have_ to. I can give civil orders and I can expend public funds. I can fire pretty much anyone, private or public, and demand a court martial if they're in the military. But that's not the job and that's not a perk of the job.

"The job is to solve problems that can't be solved at lower levels in other ways. We have cops and judges and public investigators. In the old days, if a judge was dirty, shrug, what can you do? Nowadays, someone like me. Check it out. Judge becomes dog catcher. If they can be trusted with dogs.

"I'm told that I only have to do this for another year. Then I can rotate out to help run the new Integrity Academy. Then figure out what I want to do next. Maybe get back on the regular pipe, policing.

"This work is corrosive. I can feel it eating away at me," he gestures to his stomach. "I think of it kind of like caring for an adopted child. One that gets in trouble a lot. But if I don't, who will?"