Down The Rabbit Hole: Front Line
Jan. 29th, 2010 06:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyThis is my yearly "Down The Rabbit Hole" post. Most of them are fairly dark. This one is no exception.
Previous years:
2005: GlobAll War Of Terror
2006: Security & Space
2007: In The Hole, Spectacularly Not Winning
2008: nonfiction break "The Power of Nightmares," a censored film about Islamic and Christian fundamentalism
2009: America Back To Work
I get out of my battered patrol truck carefully after scanning nearby. No immediate threats. I leave the reaction bag in the truck. My driver is resting at home with the all-too-typical aftereffects of blast: concussion, blown-out eardrums, shrapnel injuries. He'll be up in a few days, I hope. The hospital sent him home; they are quite busy and extremely unsafe for anyone who wears a uniform.
I will have to remote start the truck from a distance and behind some nice safe cover upon my return. Even though there are cameras and I am parked in sight of two guards, this BART parking lot has to be considered unsecure. This is my third truck. This is also why I am here.
Commuters eye me warily. They do not talk, they scurry. The less time they are exposed, the better. The homeless no longer hang out near mass transit stations. Even the suicidal will promptly get their wish, and much more quickly than ever before.
Two of my guards are stationed along the curb. Their sole objective is to provoke a suicide bomber into detonating before attempting the turnstile. Their armor, like mine, is heavy. We call them 'corpse vests' because they are rarely life-saving. Helmets are optional, there is a trade-off between increased head protection and dehumanization which we have left up to the individual. Mine is in the reaction bag. Both guards are wearing theirs.
Large signs in English, Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese and French all bear the same message.
"SECURITY CHECKPOINT. NO BAGS, PARCELS, BACKPACKS, BRIEFCASES OR OTHER HAND-CARRIED ITEMS. TRANSPARENT BAGS EXCEPTED. KEEP HANDS IN SIGHT AT ALL TIMES. COMPLY WITH COMMANDS FROM UNIFORMED PERSONNEL. DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED BY ORDER OF THE FEDERAL COURT, 9TH CIRCUIT. REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR IMMEDIATELY BY CALLING 1-866-SURVIVE OR TXT TO 99111."
As per procedure, one of them retreats behind a conveniently placed K-rail as the other brings her rifle to the challenge position. "Who goes there!" she shouts, seeing that I am uniformed and carrying a slung shotgun.
"Friend!" I shout back.
"Approach and be recognized, friend!" There is nothing at all friendly about our exchange. I know I am a good guy, and she does not.
Ten paces away, I quietly give the password. She gives the countersign.
We both relax, myself because I am no longer in danger of being shot and her because she is no longer tensed to empty a magazine into me quickly enough to save her life.
I am in blue BDU fatigues with name tape and unit affiliation, the latter the name of my Employer. I wear two patches on each arm -- the almost ridiculous Private Security and the very, very real In Service To Santa Clara County. I have exactly eight of those Velcro patches, and if I cannot account for all eight in random inspections, I would be lucky to merely join the ranks of the Unemployed. I keep those I am not wearing at the office in my safe.
"Sir, I'm really glad you're here."
"Thanks, I think. The report said something about a Station Agent."
"Yes, she's a slacker. Bad. She has a paperback."
I involuntarily snarl.
"I'm going to go find out. How are you holding up?"
"It's another day. We're homeschooling my son, not safe to send him to school. My husband picks me up from here and we head up to Fremont."
"Be careful about being followed."
"Hear that."
A very bad sign, that a guard working the system would rather expose herself and her husband to the random uncertainness of the freeways -- despite all that the CHP and the CHP Emergency Reserve can do, any overpass can be a random source of bottles and rocks, if not Molotovs and grenades.
I stalk past the second guard. His eyes follow me. Thousand yard stare, I should talk to him when I come out. Nasty bandage on his left forearm, encrusted black. That's right, San Leandro last week. Thank Goddess they finally closed BayFair to the public and made it a transfer point only.
The close-in guard at this side's turnstiles has his submachine gun at the ready. Good man. His dog starts to snarl at me and he gives the collar a token tug.
I look past him to the Station Agent. She is looking down, ostensibly at the security camera console, although as I watch, her eyes track from right to left, from right to left, from right to left. Goddamn it!
I key my radio mike. Spread spectrum stuff, very hard to detect and encrypt. We still keep it short.
"Security Control, K-22, Procedures Book."
"K-22, copy." I am about to violate security operations procedure, which requires me to announce myself to the Station Agent on entry. She can hear the traffic but it is just another random blast of calls on a busy net. Richmond is still working an active shooter on the tracks southeast on Tac 2, plus the usual ins and outs of keeping at least a dozen guards per station moving and alive.
The Station Agent has not looked up. I carefully remove my digital camera from its BDU pocket and take three photographs without flash. I walk up to the rear entry door, which is of course locked. The Agent is behind military-grade transparent polycarbonate, eight inches thick, where it is not sandwiched Kevlar with an inch of facing blast ceramic. What I see causes me to take two more photos.
"K22, Milpitas Agent, Open Your Door," I transmit coldly on the Control net.
She drops her paperback book, a trashy romance novel, and spins her head to look at me. She kicks the book as if she is going to kick it under the console, then fumbles to open the security door.
I gesture for her to come outside. She does.
I pick her up and throw her into the nearest concrete pillar.
"What are you doing!" she shouts, reaching for her belt.
The guard on the turnstile lazily turns his submachine gun vaguely in her direction and she freezes.
"K22, Control, I need a relief Station Agent, a union representative and a BART peace officer immediately to Milpitas Station."
"Copy."
"Hands off the belt. Stand up!" I order to the Agent, who appears stricken. She limps to her feet.
"I will NOT have my guards GET KILLED because some lazy good-for-nothing SHIT FOR BRAINS has something BETTER to do with her time than WATCH THE CAMERAS. Shut up! Stand fast! You may still have a job with BART, Goddess alone knows why, but you WILL NEVER work a control point or train again. EVER. You want to get your ass killed, you do it on your own time. NOT MINE. NOT MY PEOPLE'S."
All close-in guards are cross-trained on the Station Agent's security duties in case they are killed or disabled. I gesture with one hand and the guard, with his dog, immediately takes over the console. The difference is obvious even to a layperson. He is watching the cameras, scanning for threats.
The PA system starts to bark overhead, then I hear the howling whine of the Attack Alarm and I immediately unsling my shotgun in instant, drilled reflex. "The Attack Alarm shall not be employed except when resisting an attack. Testing will be conducted while stations are closed."
"YOU THERE, YOU MAN ON THE CONCOURSE. YOU MAN STOP! DROP THE BAG OR YOU DIE!"
I rack the first round loaded. In violation of all sane pre-Collapse procedures and in fact the manufacturer's recommendations, the first round is an electronic incapacitation device. The next seven rounds alternate buckshot and slug.
The few commuters in sight throw themselves to the ground, hands wrapped above their heads in the approved position and leaning their bodies into any cover offered by walls or curbs.
Disregarding all sane considerations of concealment, cover or tactical movement, I rush to and up the stairs, well aware that I am running full-tilt towards what is most likely a Improvised Explosive Device or IED.
As I rush up the stairs, I see the problem. Black duffel bag, lying on the concourse, man running headlong north out of the concourse area. All that is up there is empty trackway, forbidden to the public, and we mean Verboten as in we shoot trespassers and everyone knows it including the police, courts, judges and news media. And heartily approves. Officially.
He wants a bullet in the back. The precision marksman on the tower above the station roof (fondly called Vulture's Nest due to the usual condition of those caught dead up there) can certainly give him what he wants.
"K22, Milpitas overhead, CHECK FIRE!" I snap on the command net. As I rush past, the concourse guard is already running towards the duffel. Its fate: one of the two blast pits, a thirty feet deep open hole with five feet of sand and another five feet of water, if we can get it there quickly enough. Insanely, I think "OSHA would have had a conniption fit with a workplace like this."
I snap the shotgun up to my shoulder and take careful aim. If I miss with this round, I'm going to have to blow his legs off with the next.
The running man stops like someone hit him in the spine with a sledge. He falls face first with nothing to break his fall, not even his own hands. I rush right after him, letting the shotgun fall into its sling without racking the next round, and throw myself on top of him.
I get a piece of the dart, contact stun, and ignore the rippling pain across my stomach as I zip-tie his hands together behind his back, then take out my EMT shears and start frantically cutting off all his clothes. He starts to say something and I casually bang his head against the concrete, then jam a piece of his own clothing into his mouth between his teeth. He tries to bite and is unsuccessful.
"K22, I need Reaction forthwith to Milpitas concourse for a live prisoner and possible IED event!"
I hear sharp cracks above as the precision marksman engages something. What feels at first like a strong hand plucks across my shoulder blades as I throw myself flat across the prisoner. I feel winded and bruised.
An enormous heavy BOOM rips out and a spray of water geysers up out of the east blast pit. The guard is firing blind, short controlled bursts, hopefully in the direction of the threat.
Time to go. I see the guard's position and hear the cracks. I drag us both across the opposite side of the concourse and throw us over the edge. You know, the train edge. The rail edge.
If I am wrong about the sniper's position, I have just trapped us. If I am right, we are safe.
I roll the prisoner ahead of me into the safety lip under the rail. Few passengers know it is here (and fewer now because it is no longer advertised) but it is big enough for two people to huddle away from an entering train.
"K-22, Control, I am under the safety rail west with one prisoner. Please advise rescue train to halt before platform if feasible." I am panting, my voice is jittery.
The prisoner's fear sweat is a palpable force, a heavy thing. I make sure he can breathe despite my improvised gag, then reach down to my BDU pocket for my roll of duct tape. I augment his bonds by duct-taping his fingers together, then several wraps around his wrists. He kicks once and I jab him under the kidney. "None of that!" I growl as he mewls into the gag. I reach to tape his ankles. It hurts more than a little to reach down that far.
Many sirens are approaching. Milpitas PD reaction, my Employer's reaction, followed soon by County Special Operations and Army.
"Milpitas reaction, Tac 3, all Milpitas reaction go to Tac 3." Control changing nets. A pause as I try to catch my breath. Something I am supposed to do now.
"Control, K22, status check."
It is a good day out. Removed an incompetent Station Agent, prevented a bombing, survived a sniper engagement, and I've got a live terrorist prisoner for Army interrogation. With any luck we can track back to whoever it is who is planning and training these Unemployed numbskulls and take them out of the equation.
"Control, K22, RESPOND."
Even the spreading warm stain on my back is comfortable in its own way, I think as I pass out from blood loss.
Previous years:
2005: GlobAll War Of Terror
2006: Security & Space
2007: In The Hole, Spectacularly Not Winning
2008: nonfiction break "The Power of Nightmares," a censored film about Islamic and Christian fundamentalism
2009: America Back To Work
I get out of my battered patrol truck carefully after scanning nearby. No immediate threats. I leave the reaction bag in the truck. My driver is resting at home with the all-too-typical aftereffects of blast: concussion, blown-out eardrums, shrapnel injuries. He'll be up in a few days, I hope. The hospital sent him home; they are quite busy and extremely unsafe for anyone who wears a uniform.
I will have to remote start the truck from a distance and behind some nice safe cover upon my return. Even though there are cameras and I am parked in sight of two guards, this BART parking lot has to be considered unsecure. This is my third truck. This is also why I am here.
Commuters eye me warily. They do not talk, they scurry. The less time they are exposed, the better. The homeless no longer hang out near mass transit stations. Even the suicidal will promptly get their wish, and much more quickly than ever before.
Two of my guards are stationed along the curb. Their sole objective is to provoke a suicide bomber into detonating before attempting the turnstile. Their armor, like mine, is heavy. We call them 'corpse vests' because they are rarely life-saving. Helmets are optional, there is a trade-off between increased head protection and dehumanization which we have left up to the individual. Mine is in the reaction bag. Both guards are wearing theirs.
Large signs in English, Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese and French all bear the same message.
"SECURITY CHECKPOINT. NO BAGS, PARCELS, BACKPACKS, BRIEFCASES OR OTHER HAND-CARRIED ITEMS. TRANSPARENT BAGS EXCEPTED. KEEP HANDS IN SIGHT AT ALL TIMES. COMPLY WITH COMMANDS FROM UNIFORMED PERSONNEL. DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED BY ORDER OF THE FEDERAL COURT, 9TH CIRCUIT. REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR IMMEDIATELY BY CALLING 1-866-SURVIVE OR TXT TO 99111."
As per procedure, one of them retreats behind a conveniently placed K-rail as the other brings her rifle to the challenge position. "Who goes there!" she shouts, seeing that I am uniformed and carrying a slung shotgun.
"Friend!" I shout back.
"Approach and be recognized, friend!" There is nothing at all friendly about our exchange. I know I am a good guy, and she does not.
Ten paces away, I quietly give the password. She gives the countersign.
We both relax, myself because I am no longer in danger of being shot and her because she is no longer tensed to empty a magazine into me quickly enough to save her life.
I am in blue BDU fatigues with name tape and unit affiliation, the latter the name of my Employer. I wear two patches on each arm -- the almost ridiculous Private Security and the very, very real In Service To Santa Clara County. I have exactly eight of those Velcro patches, and if I cannot account for all eight in random inspections, I would be lucky to merely join the ranks of the Unemployed. I keep those I am not wearing at the office in my safe.
"Sir, I'm really glad you're here."
"Thanks, I think. The report said something about a Station Agent."
"Yes, she's a slacker. Bad. She has a paperback."
I involuntarily snarl.
"I'm going to go find out. How are you holding up?"
"It's another day. We're homeschooling my son, not safe to send him to school. My husband picks me up from here and we head up to Fremont."
"Be careful about being followed."
"Hear that."
A very bad sign, that a guard working the system would rather expose herself and her husband to the random uncertainness of the freeways -- despite all that the CHP and the CHP Emergency Reserve can do, any overpass can be a random source of bottles and rocks, if not Molotovs and grenades.
I stalk past the second guard. His eyes follow me. Thousand yard stare, I should talk to him when I come out. Nasty bandage on his left forearm, encrusted black. That's right, San Leandro last week. Thank Goddess they finally closed BayFair to the public and made it a transfer point only.
The close-in guard at this side's turnstiles has his submachine gun at the ready. Good man. His dog starts to snarl at me and he gives the collar a token tug.
I look past him to the Station Agent. She is looking down, ostensibly at the security camera console, although as I watch, her eyes track from right to left, from right to left, from right to left. Goddamn it!
I key my radio mike. Spread spectrum stuff, very hard to detect and encrypt. We still keep it short.
"Security Control, K-22, Procedures Book."
"K-22, copy." I am about to violate security operations procedure, which requires me to announce myself to the Station Agent on entry. She can hear the traffic but it is just another random blast of calls on a busy net. Richmond is still working an active shooter on the tracks southeast on Tac 2, plus the usual ins and outs of keeping at least a dozen guards per station moving and alive.
The Station Agent has not looked up. I carefully remove my digital camera from its BDU pocket and take three photographs without flash. I walk up to the rear entry door, which is of course locked. The Agent is behind military-grade transparent polycarbonate, eight inches thick, where it is not sandwiched Kevlar with an inch of facing blast ceramic. What I see causes me to take two more photos.
"K22, Milpitas Agent, Open Your Door," I transmit coldly on the Control net.
She drops her paperback book, a trashy romance novel, and spins her head to look at me. She kicks the book as if she is going to kick it under the console, then fumbles to open the security door.
I gesture for her to come outside. She does.
I pick her up and throw her into the nearest concrete pillar.
"What are you doing!" she shouts, reaching for her belt.
The guard on the turnstile lazily turns his submachine gun vaguely in her direction and she freezes.
"K22, Control, I need a relief Station Agent, a union representative and a BART peace officer immediately to Milpitas Station."
"Copy."
"Hands off the belt. Stand up!" I order to the Agent, who appears stricken. She limps to her feet.
"I will NOT have my guards GET KILLED because some lazy good-for-nothing SHIT FOR BRAINS has something BETTER to do with her time than WATCH THE CAMERAS. Shut up! Stand fast! You may still have a job with BART, Goddess alone knows why, but you WILL NEVER work a control point or train again. EVER. You want to get your ass killed, you do it on your own time. NOT MINE. NOT MY PEOPLE'S."
All close-in guards are cross-trained on the Station Agent's security duties in case they are killed or disabled. I gesture with one hand and the guard, with his dog, immediately takes over the console. The difference is obvious even to a layperson. He is watching the cameras, scanning for threats.
The PA system starts to bark overhead, then I hear the howling whine of the Attack Alarm and I immediately unsling my shotgun in instant, drilled reflex. "The Attack Alarm shall not be employed except when resisting an attack. Testing will be conducted while stations are closed."
"YOU THERE, YOU MAN ON THE CONCOURSE. YOU MAN STOP! DROP THE BAG OR YOU DIE!"
I rack the first round loaded. In violation of all sane pre-Collapse procedures and in fact the manufacturer's recommendations, the first round is an electronic incapacitation device. The next seven rounds alternate buckshot and slug.
The few commuters in sight throw themselves to the ground, hands wrapped above their heads in the approved position and leaning their bodies into any cover offered by walls or curbs.
Disregarding all sane considerations of concealment, cover or tactical movement, I rush to and up the stairs, well aware that I am running full-tilt towards what is most likely a Improvised Explosive Device or IED.
As I rush up the stairs, I see the problem. Black duffel bag, lying on the concourse, man running headlong north out of the concourse area. All that is up there is empty trackway, forbidden to the public, and we mean Verboten as in we shoot trespassers and everyone knows it including the police, courts, judges and news media. And heartily approves. Officially.
He wants a bullet in the back. The precision marksman on the tower above the station roof (fondly called Vulture's Nest due to the usual condition of those caught dead up there) can certainly give him what he wants.
"K22, Milpitas overhead, CHECK FIRE!" I snap on the command net. As I rush past, the concourse guard is already running towards the duffel. Its fate: one of the two blast pits, a thirty feet deep open hole with five feet of sand and another five feet of water, if we can get it there quickly enough. Insanely, I think "OSHA would have had a conniption fit with a workplace like this."
I snap the shotgun up to my shoulder and take careful aim. If I miss with this round, I'm going to have to blow his legs off with the next.
The running man stops like someone hit him in the spine with a sledge. He falls face first with nothing to break his fall, not even his own hands. I rush right after him, letting the shotgun fall into its sling without racking the next round, and throw myself on top of him.
I get a piece of the dart, contact stun, and ignore the rippling pain across my stomach as I zip-tie his hands together behind his back, then take out my EMT shears and start frantically cutting off all his clothes. He starts to say something and I casually bang his head against the concrete, then jam a piece of his own clothing into his mouth between his teeth. He tries to bite and is unsuccessful.
"K22, I need Reaction forthwith to Milpitas concourse for a live prisoner and possible IED event!"
I hear sharp cracks above as the precision marksman engages something. What feels at first like a strong hand plucks across my shoulder blades as I throw myself flat across the prisoner. I feel winded and bruised.
An enormous heavy BOOM rips out and a spray of water geysers up out of the east blast pit. The guard is firing blind, short controlled bursts, hopefully in the direction of the threat.
Time to go. I see the guard's position and hear the cracks. I drag us both across the opposite side of the concourse and throw us over the edge. You know, the train edge. The rail edge.
If I am wrong about the sniper's position, I have just trapped us. If I am right, we are safe.
I roll the prisoner ahead of me into the safety lip under the rail. Few passengers know it is here (and fewer now because it is no longer advertised) but it is big enough for two people to huddle away from an entering train.
"K-22, Control, I am under the safety rail west with one prisoner. Please advise rescue train to halt before platform if feasible." I am panting, my voice is jittery.
The prisoner's fear sweat is a palpable force, a heavy thing. I make sure he can breathe despite my improvised gag, then reach down to my BDU pocket for my roll of duct tape. I augment his bonds by duct-taping his fingers together, then several wraps around his wrists. He kicks once and I jab him under the kidney. "None of that!" I growl as he mewls into the gag. I reach to tape his ankles. It hurts more than a little to reach down that far.
Many sirens are approaching. Milpitas PD reaction, my Employer's reaction, followed soon by County Special Operations and Army.
"Milpitas reaction, Tac 3, all Milpitas reaction go to Tac 3." Control changing nets. A pause as I try to catch my breath. Something I am supposed to do now.
"Control, K22, status check."
It is a good day out. Removed an incompetent Station Agent, prevented a bombing, survived a sniper engagement, and I've got a live terrorist prisoner for Army interrogation. With any luck we can track back to whoever it is who is planning and training these Unemployed numbskulls and take them out of the equation.
"Control, K22, RESPOND."
Even the spreading warm stain on my back is comfortable in its own way, I think as I pass out from blood loss.
