Itty Bitty Bigger World – Driving Home
Oct. 18th, 2015 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyItty Bitty Bigger World – Driving Home
(about 7 years earlier)
After my visit to the Middle East to find out if Protocol would really hold up under its acid test (it did), I now had the problem of getting home. I'd taken the train (yes, really, North America was still that underdeveloped back then) to Georgia (the American one), then hopped a freighter to Amsterdam, then taken maglev through Europe to Turkey, followed by local buses and taxis to Kurdistan.
I really did not feel like taking the same route back. Besides, I was halfway around the world already. Why not make it a round trip?
Also, I'd always been really curious about the Trans Siberian Highway. Back when money meant something, a diverse set of multi-billionaires had thrown a lot of it at the problem. When the venture failed, they had completed three of the six legs of the project:
A highway bridge over the Bering Strait.
A gravel road, with bridges and tunnels as needed, from Vladivostok to the Strait.
A military grade metalled road (think “American county road”) from Anchorage to the Strait.
What they had not finished was the rail bridge over the Bering Strait, the rail links on either side, or a paved road on the Russian side.
This did not stop commerce, or crazy tourists. The commercial link was used by “road trains.” These outlandish contraptions are an oversize tractor-trailer cab towing three to five full size 40' trailers or containers. The crazy tourists typically started with an American car – which could be counted on to die along the way - and finished by hitching or buying local (Chinese or Russian) cars or motorcycles.
But it was the wrong time of year to play crazy tourist. Only the road trains would use the route in autumn, and only then until winter finally set in and mostly shut the link down.
So I hitched rides from Kurdistan through Kyrgyzstan and caught the Trans Siberian Highway in central Asia. Along the way, I used my satellite link to surf the Internet, figured out what I wanted to do, and paid my lawyer and travel agent (and a series of subcontractors around the world) to allow me to do it. They came through.
I was now wearing a two piece jumpsuit made of reflective orange over several layers of foil. The lanyard around my neck connected to a smart ID, which was jammed in the console of the vehicle. The ID proclaimed me to be “Alan Anderson, Driver, TelStar Logistics of San Francisco” in three languages. The vehicle was a road train, and I was the driver.
I would even be paid several thousand dollars for the privilege, provided I got my road train full of product from here to there – there being Nome, Alaska. Two trailers would unload (hardware and shelf stable groceries) and three trailers would be transferred to three street-legal American semi trucks.
I had thoughtfully packed for the trip. Two pieces of hand luggage and the backpack which never left me. The luggage was full of trinkets and little things I might find useful along the way. The backpack was packed with gear that could save my life, with one notable exception.
As I was not a Russian national, I could not lawfully possess a firearm. I could however carry a “gas gun,” a single shot cartridge that would release a spray of tear gas into the face of the bandit(s) ambushing me with AK rifles. I declined the opportunity.
The drive would be tedious but easy. The tractor's GPS and inertial tracker and satcom would keep me on the correct track. My job was to watch the road, the sensors, and handle any contingency – as well as occasionally fill up at the truck stops scattered every couple hundred kilometers, themselves supplied either by the Trans Siberian Railway, or further out, other road trains.
All truck stops were equipped with power connectors – the Siberian Air Quality Control District would not have it any other way – but at any other stop, I would never shut down the engine. Ever. To shut down the engine was to risk freezing to death.
Officially, I would drive for eight to ten hours a day. Unofficially, the expectation was to drive at least fourteen hours a day, sleep for six to eight, and then another fourteen, with a rest day every six days. There would be no one checking driver logs.
Emergency services were provided by Russian militia. It was emphasized over and over in driver training to call the militia in the event of any emergency situation, and that the only way they would respond is if they were called. Failing to report certain emergencies, and especially any hazardous materials spill or bandit incident, would be a felony that would result in becoming a long term guest of the Russian government at a Siberian facility of their choice. However, it was quietly pointed out after each training class that militia would make up their own mind whether or not to respond, and if they did, that the trucking company would be billed the costs of the response. Fuel, equipment use, labor charge and surcharge. From bases hundreds of kilometers away.
Border checks were cursory. Trailer cargo was sealed and continuously monitored. The only things a driver might carry that would get border inspectors upset was 1) weapons, explosives, fissiles or biologicals or 2) drugs. So don't.
Imagine the worst road you've ever driven on. Now upsize the vehicle you were driving to a huge monster wheeled, overmuscled semi dragging five forty foot (12 meter) containers behind it. Now cover the road with gravel and subtract any signage or markings. If your worst road did not have a rock wall on one side and a sheer cliff on the other, add these liberally. Then add mud patches big enough to swallow one or two trailers.
That was driving the Highway. And it was the most fun I've ever had in my life.
The first time I got myself into trouble was at a little Siberian fishing village east of Yabrusk. Like a good corporate driver, I'd left the road train parked inside the wire at the rest stop. Like a tourist, I'd changed into warm non-corporate clothing and rented a parka.
The locals were happy to see me. Well, they were happy to see anyone. Especially someone who gave away trinkets (check), was nice to the kids (check), respectful to the elders (check) and did not paw at the ladyfolk (check). I was shopping for hand carved trinkets – and distinguishing between the ones stamped “Made in SanSan” and those made by actual locals – when I heard shouting from the street.
The village was made up of large polyfoam huts. Cheap, durable in the climate, vaguely Igloo like. But one of them was on fire, burning.
I ran towards the burning building where a crowd had gathered to watch. A woman was crying and screaming and two men were holding her back. Obviously someone was still inside.
I activated my satellite link while frantically throwing down my backpack.
“Emergency, structure fire, slug current location, request fire brigade,” I subvocalized as I took a pair of gloves and a respirator with integral hood out. After the Quake, I never travel without them.
“Negative response, no local fire brigade,” the damned satlink replied. But I had seen a firefighting vehicle and bored Russians next to it at the truck stop. I had no time to argue with an expert system so I pressed the EMER button to alert an American human at my travel agency. Then I put on the respirator, followed by the gloves.
Before the locals realized my intentions, I ran into the burning building. They would have stopped me if I had given them a second to think. Dead tourists are bad for business, which merely compounds the loss of whoever was still in there.
The first rule in structural firefighting is “Two In, Two Out.” Two rescuers would make entry with two rescuers outside, to rescue them if things got bad.
The second rule is always to make entry with a fully charged hose line. Whoops, my bad, don't have one.
If I had not put on the respirator, stepping through the door – even at a low crawl – would have killed me instantly. If I had not put on the gloves – rated for heavy rescue – the door handle would have burned my palm off.
But my exposed skin was turning hot and crinkly. My survival time in here was going to be measurable not in minutes – as if I had been wearing full protective gear – but seconds. As in a few beats of my heart.
Kids hide in fires. So I made the fastest search-crawl of my life, banging my burning arm into things until I heard one of the things wail. I wrapped myself around it and ran my ass right back out into the snow, past the rescuers and into a snowbank. I took off my respirator and then and only then screamed.
You see, my hands were protected by gloves and my head and neck by the respirator and hood. My arms and torso were not so lucky.
Dropping whatever I had grabbed at my feet, I rolled it in the snow and then rolled myself in the snow after it.
Then I got a good look at it and subvocalized.
“Emergency, burn victim, young child ...” I hastily did some math in my head, let's see, back of torso, back of both arms, head, rule of 9s... “about 30% partial thickness burns, structure fire environment, unconscious and … breathing, with burned nose hairs and black sputum. Start ALS and air rescue.”
Some of the locals took over cutting the smouldering clothes off the child, and me. They wrapped us both in blankets and someone competent-looking ran up with a kit marked “Emergency Medical” in Cyrillic.
“I am Anton, a village health aide. Who are you?”
“Alan Anderson, paramedic and firefighter. Is anyone else in there? I have called for help by satellite.”
“No one else is inside.” Anton paused, “They won't come. Thank you for trying.” Anton turned to the child and started checking his airway, then opened an RSI kit for intubation. I prepared myself to help. The kid would lose the ability to breathe soon, from superheated gases searing his throat and trachea. He needed first aid – but first aid would only keep him alive until he reached a hospital. If he did.
A huge roar of diesel engines shocked us both as a big Russian military vehicle parked. Then a huge jet of water shot out of a turret on the top and doused the burning building. Two men in silvery firefighting suits grabbed a hose line and advanced it into the fire, low crawling and spraying everything expertly.
Another man wearing spiked boots climbed the side of the foam Igloo and drew a circle with what appeared to be toothpaste. He climbed down and pressed a button on controls on his forearm. The charge blew and white smoke began pouring out of the hole. He then confronted the woman and barked at her. She managed to gasp out a few words. The man looked at her, then at me and the child, then at the house, and nodded.
Ventilation and interior attack.
Less than a minute later, the fire was out. The man with the demolitions walked up to me, boots crunching in the snow.
“Alan Anderson,” he said as if from a script.
I nodded.
“I am Captain Oligov, Russian Militia, under contract to the Trans Siberian Roadway Emergency Service. A medical evacuation aircraft has been dispatched. It will land nearby in ten minutes. Your burns need attention at the regional medical clinic. Your travel agency will be billed.” He then turned to Anton and helped him intubate the child. They exchanged words and Anton blinked back tears, then barked for people to get busy doing things. The village elder signed a piece of paper – ID for someone who never expected to leave her village, someone else shoved a wad of money into the mother's parka, and crates of trinkets appeared next to her. Payment.
“Sir, do you mind if we also transport a local charity patient and his mother with you? Normally we would not, but we have plenty of space in the aircraft.”
I blinked in turn.
“Of course, I insist that the boy be transported. Do I have to go? These burns are not that bad...”
He interrupted, “Sir, I must insist, your burns MUST be looked at by the regional facility and at once. Otherwise I would have to cancel the aircraft..”
I said nothing. Clearly I didn't get how things were done here. But I wasn't going to endanger a boy's life asking for an explanation.
- - -
“And that is how I ended up riding a Russian Militia medical evacuation aircraft with the boy and his mother,” I explained to my employer over the satlink.
“Very well, you are on unpaid leave from now until you return to your road train. Your load is not time sensitive so a replacement driver will not be dispatched. The company will cover your parking fees. Out.”
(about 7 years earlier)
After my visit to the Middle East to find out if Protocol would really hold up under its acid test (it did), I now had the problem of getting home. I'd taken the train (yes, really, North America was still that underdeveloped back then) to Georgia (the American one), then hopped a freighter to Amsterdam, then taken maglev through Europe to Turkey, followed by local buses and taxis to Kurdistan.
I really did not feel like taking the same route back. Besides, I was halfway around the world already. Why not make it a round trip?
Also, I'd always been really curious about the Trans Siberian Highway. Back when money meant something, a diverse set of multi-billionaires had thrown a lot of it at the problem. When the venture failed, they had completed three of the six legs of the project:
A highway bridge over the Bering Strait.
A gravel road, with bridges and tunnels as needed, from Vladivostok to the Strait.
A military grade metalled road (think “American county road”) from Anchorage to the Strait.
What they had not finished was the rail bridge over the Bering Strait, the rail links on either side, or a paved road on the Russian side.
This did not stop commerce, or crazy tourists. The commercial link was used by “road trains.” These outlandish contraptions are an oversize tractor-trailer cab towing three to five full size 40' trailers or containers. The crazy tourists typically started with an American car – which could be counted on to die along the way - and finished by hitching or buying local (Chinese or Russian) cars or motorcycles.
But it was the wrong time of year to play crazy tourist. Only the road trains would use the route in autumn, and only then until winter finally set in and mostly shut the link down.
So I hitched rides from Kurdistan through Kyrgyzstan and caught the Trans Siberian Highway in central Asia. Along the way, I used my satellite link to surf the Internet, figured out what I wanted to do, and paid my lawyer and travel agent (and a series of subcontractors around the world) to allow me to do it. They came through.
I was now wearing a two piece jumpsuit made of reflective orange over several layers of foil. The lanyard around my neck connected to a smart ID, which was jammed in the console of the vehicle. The ID proclaimed me to be “Alan Anderson, Driver, TelStar Logistics of San Francisco” in three languages. The vehicle was a road train, and I was the driver.
I would even be paid several thousand dollars for the privilege, provided I got my road train full of product from here to there – there being Nome, Alaska. Two trailers would unload (hardware and shelf stable groceries) and three trailers would be transferred to three street-legal American semi trucks.
I had thoughtfully packed for the trip. Two pieces of hand luggage and the backpack which never left me. The luggage was full of trinkets and little things I might find useful along the way. The backpack was packed with gear that could save my life, with one notable exception.
As I was not a Russian national, I could not lawfully possess a firearm. I could however carry a “gas gun,” a single shot cartridge that would release a spray of tear gas into the face of the bandit(s) ambushing me with AK rifles. I declined the opportunity.
The drive would be tedious but easy. The tractor's GPS and inertial tracker and satcom would keep me on the correct track. My job was to watch the road, the sensors, and handle any contingency – as well as occasionally fill up at the truck stops scattered every couple hundred kilometers, themselves supplied either by the Trans Siberian Railway, or further out, other road trains.
All truck stops were equipped with power connectors – the Siberian Air Quality Control District would not have it any other way – but at any other stop, I would never shut down the engine. Ever. To shut down the engine was to risk freezing to death.
Officially, I would drive for eight to ten hours a day. Unofficially, the expectation was to drive at least fourteen hours a day, sleep for six to eight, and then another fourteen, with a rest day every six days. There would be no one checking driver logs.
Emergency services were provided by Russian militia. It was emphasized over and over in driver training to call the militia in the event of any emergency situation, and that the only way they would respond is if they were called. Failing to report certain emergencies, and especially any hazardous materials spill or bandit incident, would be a felony that would result in becoming a long term guest of the Russian government at a Siberian facility of their choice. However, it was quietly pointed out after each training class that militia would make up their own mind whether or not to respond, and if they did, that the trucking company would be billed the costs of the response. Fuel, equipment use, labor charge and surcharge. From bases hundreds of kilometers away.
Border checks were cursory. Trailer cargo was sealed and continuously monitored. The only things a driver might carry that would get border inspectors upset was 1) weapons, explosives, fissiles or biologicals or 2) drugs. So don't.
Imagine the worst road you've ever driven on. Now upsize the vehicle you were driving to a huge monster wheeled, overmuscled semi dragging five forty foot (12 meter) containers behind it. Now cover the road with gravel and subtract any signage or markings. If your worst road did not have a rock wall on one side and a sheer cliff on the other, add these liberally. Then add mud patches big enough to swallow one or two trailers.
That was driving the Highway. And it was the most fun I've ever had in my life.
The first time I got myself into trouble was at a little Siberian fishing village east of Yabrusk. Like a good corporate driver, I'd left the road train parked inside the wire at the rest stop. Like a tourist, I'd changed into warm non-corporate clothing and rented a parka.
The locals were happy to see me. Well, they were happy to see anyone. Especially someone who gave away trinkets (check), was nice to the kids (check), respectful to the elders (check) and did not paw at the ladyfolk (check). I was shopping for hand carved trinkets – and distinguishing between the ones stamped “Made in SanSan” and those made by actual locals – when I heard shouting from the street.
The village was made up of large polyfoam huts. Cheap, durable in the climate, vaguely Igloo like. But one of them was on fire, burning.
I ran towards the burning building where a crowd had gathered to watch. A woman was crying and screaming and two men were holding her back. Obviously someone was still inside.
I activated my satellite link while frantically throwing down my backpack.
“Emergency, structure fire, slug current location, request fire brigade,” I subvocalized as I took a pair of gloves and a respirator with integral hood out. After the Quake, I never travel without them.
“Negative response, no local fire brigade,” the damned satlink replied. But I had seen a firefighting vehicle and bored Russians next to it at the truck stop. I had no time to argue with an expert system so I pressed the EMER button to alert an American human at my travel agency. Then I put on the respirator, followed by the gloves.
Before the locals realized my intentions, I ran into the burning building. They would have stopped me if I had given them a second to think. Dead tourists are bad for business, which merely compounds the loss of whoever was still in there.
The first rule in structural firefighting is “Two In, Two Out.” Two rescuers would make entry with two rescuers outside, to rescue them if things got bad.
The second rule is always to make entry with a fully charged hose line. Whoops, my bad, don't have one.
If I had not put on the respirator, stepping through the door – even at a low crawl – would have killed me instantly. If I had not put on the gloves – rated for heavy rescue – the door handle would have burned my palm off.
But my exposed skin was turning hot and crinkly. My survival time in here was going to be measurable not in minutes – as if I had been wearing full protective gear – but seconds. As in a few beats of my heart.
Kids hide in fires. So I made the fastest search-crawl of my life, banging my burning arm into things until I heard one of the things wail. I wrapped myself around it and ran my ass right back out into the snow, past the rescuers and into a snowbank. I took off my respirator and then and only then screamed.
You see, my hands were protected by gloves and my head and neck by the respirator and hood. My arms and torso were not so lucky.
Dropping whatever I had grabbed at my feet, I rolled it in the snow and then rolled myself in the snow after it.
Then I got a good look at it and subvocalized.
“Emergency, burn victim, young child ...” I hastily did some math in my head, let's see, back of torso, back of both arms, head, rule of 9s... “about 30% partial thickness burns, structure fire environment, unconscious and … breathing, with burned nose hairs and black sputum. Start ALS and air rescue.”
Some of the locals took over cutting the smouldering clothes off the child, and me. They wrapped us both in blankets and someone competent-looking ran up with a kit marked “Emergency Medical” in Cyrillic.
“I am Anton, a village health aide. Who are you?”
“Alan Anderson, paramedic and firefighter. Is anyone else in there? I have called for help by satellite.”
“No one else is inside.” Anton paused, “They won't come. Thank you for trying.” Anton turned to the child and started checking his airway, then opened an RSI kit for intubation. I prepared myself to help. The kid would lose the ability to breathe soon, from superheated gases searing his throat and trachea. He needed first aid – but first aid would only keep him alive until he reached a hospital. If he did.
A huge roar of diesel engines shocked us both as a big Russian military vehicle parked. Then a huge jet of water shot out of a turret on the top and doused the burning building. Two men in silvery firefighting suits grabbed a hose line and advanced it into the fire, low crawling and spraying everything expertly.
Another man wearing spiked boots climbed the side of the foam Igloo and drew a circle with what appeared to be toothpaste. He climbed down and pressed a button on controls on his forearm. The charge blew and white smoke began pouring out of the hole. He then confronted the woman and barked at her. She managed to gasp out a few words. The man looked at her, then at me and the child, then at the house, and nodded.
Ventilation and interior attack.
Less than a minute later, the fire was out. The man with the demolitions walked up to me, boots crunching in the snow.
“Alan Anderson,” he said as if from a script.
I nodded.
“I am Captain Oligov, Russian Militia, under contract to the Trans Siberian Roadway Emergency Service. A medical evacuation aircraft has been dispatched. It will land nearby in ten minutes. Your burns need attention at the regional medical clinic. Your travel agency will be billed.” He then turned to Anton and helped him intubate the child. They exchanged words and Anton blinked back tears, then barked for people to get busy doing things. The village elder signed a piece of paper – ID for someone who never expected to leave her village, someone else shoved a wad of money into the mother's parka, and crates of trinkets appeared next to her. Payment.
“Sir, do you mind if we also transport a local charity patient and his mother with you? Normally we would not, but we have plenty of space in the aircraft.”
I blinked in turn.
“Of course, I insist that the boy be transported. Do I have to go? These burns are not that bad...”
He interrupted, “Sir, I must insist, your burns MUST be looked at by the regional facility and at once. Otherwise I would have to cancel the aircraft..”
I said nothing. Clearly I didn't get how things were done here. But I wasn't going to endanger a boy's life asking for an explanation.
- - -
“And that is how I ended up riding a Russian Militia medical evacuation aircraft with the boy and his mother,” I explained to my employer over the satlink.
“Very well, you are on unpaid leave from now until you return to your road train. Your load is not time sensitive so a replacement driver will not be dispatched. The company will cover your parking fees. Out.”
