Global War of Terror: Solicitors

[drewkitty]

I have briefly stopped by the Security Control Center, after a shower but before dinner, when the dispatcher beckons me to look over his shoulder.

As he sits in a wheelchair now, this is easy to do.

One of our long range cameras is zoomed in on two young men changing clothes on a street corner. Unusual before the Firecracker. Very unusual now.

They finish dressing, pick up their bicycles, and start pedaling towards our South Gate.

"Weird," I say, and the dispatcher nods then winces. The doctor has cleared him for only four hours of work at a time. He needed surgery. It wasn't available on site. But he could still think.

The gate called in the contact and we shifted cameras. The outer gate guard called out with his bullhorn and they stopped, both dismounting. One obediently took off his backpack and walked forward. After a short talk, the outer gate guard keyed up his radio.

"Echo 18, we've got Mormons. They are asking for you by name."

I grabbed a mike. "Swap out and hold what we've got."

The countersniper nest above H5 Executive had sights on, I noted from the monitor repeating their dedicated long range camera.

I bicycled to the gate. I had just one question for the gate guard, out of earshot.

"How exactly did they introduce themselves."

"Elder so-and-so of the Church of Latter Day Saints."

"And they gave my name."

"Yes."

"Search 'em and clear them to here."

The solicitors patiently endured the wanding and pat down at gunpoint. They opted to have their backpacks searched instead of being left in the blast pit.

I introduced myself, gave my title and position, and asked what I could do for the LDS today.

They were wearing white shirts with Church nametags and black pants. Clean and neat but only because they had changed. They bore a letter of introduction from the Watsonville Ward.

I offered water, which they accepted, while I read the letter. The letter was a generic 'all assistance' letter with names added in pen and asked for help in gathering names of survivors and dead.

I debriefed them.

No, the ward had no Internet access. Yes, there was amateur radio contact with Utah. No, they were unsure how the Ward President had obtained my name.

I told them that an effort to gather the information they sought was ongoing through Stanford and Red Cross, showed them the site on the gate laptop, and OK'd them to surf it for names.

One thanked me for helping and asked if I knew of other members of the faith.

"No, I am apostate," I said and watched for their reaction.

They blinked. Not many people know what that means, to a Mormon.

Then they appreciated the number and intensity of the armed people quietly watching them.

I knew how they had obtained my name - I'd sent an E-mail requesting biographical data on a murdered survivor. But how it had reached the Watsonville ward worried me. Unencrypted radio? I expressed my concern.

They shook their heads, they said they did not know. I shrugged.

I was not about to have two uncleared persons further enter the site and have the opportunity to survey our situation and defenses, or leave with what they now knew of our defenses and get captured.

So I explained their options as the sun fell in the sky.

They could accept blindfolding, a room for the night, and a partial ride home with the convoy in the morning - or they could go away and not come back, ever.

Elder Matt and Elder Saul - neither over college age - accepted Plan A. I put them up in an interior VIP suite - formerly a storage closet - and had a PA announcement made that any LDS members who cared to talk to visitors could do so and where.

I briefed my boss, Legal 1, and he concurred. We would pump them for intel - of course our VIP suite was bugged - and could afford them for one night.

People were so scared in those days. Any hint of normalcy was desperately clung to. So it did not surprise me in the least that Elders Matt and Saul conducted impromptu services. I assigned one of my sharper guards, Samir, to keep his eyes on them. Samir had steadfastly refused to carry a firearm but in the last breach had given an intruder the full LAPD "We treat you like a King" with his baton. An armed intruder, and shortly thereafter a dead one.

The cafeteria sent them up dinner, which I charged to the Security - Investigations account. Samir showed them how to use the bucket system - two buckets, one with a scoop and shredded sawdust, paper and duff "fines", and the other with a pool noodle around the rim and an oversized wood lid.

I let them have access to another laptop with greater Internet access. I would go through the browser history and keyboard logger tomorrow.

Legal 1 stuck his head in and talked to them for twenty minutes. Then the Site Executive breezed in and out. I was impressed - my schedule and Legal 1's was in 15 minute intervals but his was in 3 minute intervals. He had a secretary, a personal assistant, and a bodyguard - all Company employees and all discreetly but heavily armed.

When the PA chimed for lights out, they got ready for bed. After a brief site check from the control room cameras, I did the same - but in the small office, with a small bedroll from my locker and the furniture folded against the wall. Surprisingly comfortable.

# # #

The next morning was routine, except that when I went out to lead the convoy, the Mormons were there. With their bicycles, dressed once again in their travel clothes.

I had put together a route to give them a good start on getting home. I put them in the truck bed of my vehicle with Brooke driving. I trusted my life to her driving and shooting every day.

One of the Elders was unwise enough to offer to shake hands with her. She turned her head and spat instead. I said nothing until the moment stretched, then said, "Mount up." and did so.

Brooke had no one in the dependent camp. Her wife hadn't made it, and we knew for sure, and why, and how.

My biggest problem with Brooke - and one that I could work with - was that I could never, ever leave her alone with prisoners.

# # #

The route had us punching down the Almaden Valley, via McKean Road, through to Uvas Road and towards Hecker Pass. The Mormons had made it in via Mount Madonna, and that gave them the best odds of getting out the same way - or Hecker if it was open, or half a dozen other routes. I did not ask and they would not have told me.

San Jose PD had a control point at Camden Avenue and Almaden Expressway. They waved us through.

Santa Clara Sheriff had a control point at Almaden and McKean. They halted us. I gave the triple mike click that canceled standing orders to point the technical at the commanding officer of any checkpoint that halted us. That would have been very bloody and somewhat brief.

[To Be Continued]

Comments

[drewkitty]

[Of course we helped the stranded S units out. And of course they drove off. There is no gratitude in apocalypse.] [Note: this middle section of the story is on my small notepad.]

"Echo 18 on dismount to Site. Do you copy?" I transmitted.

I repeated three times with no joy.

"Echo 18 dismount, no contact, Condition Green, out."

There was always the chance they could hear me even if I could not hear them.

Perkins and I shared a look. We were hiking. This was not a good contingency scenario. I would get my butt chewed if not roasted by Legal One for allowing myself to be endangered in this way. Something to look forward to if we made it back.

"Straight back or high up?" Perkins asked.

I took a long look at him, sizing him up, as he immediately did back to me. Regardless of the supervisor-subordinate nonsense, our lives would depend on each other utterly until we returned.

I have no idea what he saw.

I saw a short, stocky man in his late 30s, with the standard security industry inferiority complex, salt and pepper closely trimmed beard, and well kept uniform including good boots. I'd directed him to dismount because he was the convoy's medic and we'd had to rehydrate the deputies, but I'd also had in the back of my mind that we might be in a contingency situation and that he was in excellent shape for his age.

He had asked a fair question. Do we walk ten miles in a relatively straight, flat line with only one turn to get around the nearby hills, probably just before nightfall, or go up on a hill and get verified radio contact with Site? Then Site would have to send someone to come back for us, but at additional risk.

"Flank the ridge," I decided as I led the way off the deathtrap formerly known as Almaden Expressway. The good news is that the S units had stolen the car jumper (indelibly marked "[Client] Security") and Purcell's IV bags were empty. Made for less to carry.

Once we were clear and into a suburban neighborhood, I filled my canteen from the half empty jug, drained it and refilled it again. Purcell did the same. Water is best carried inside the body, especially if you are thirsty and/or plan to walk any distance.

We shrugged, checked our pockets and bags, tightened our harnesses and belts and boot laces, and began our walk at a slow amble, picking up the pace slightly as we warmed up and stretched out. A twisted ankle or hamstring cramp would kill us both. I tied the now empty jug to my jump bag, which I wore as a backpack.

Both of us were armed only with pistols. This had both pros and cons. We weren't a threat but we weren't a threat.

Up ahead a group of mixed age men sat around several cars parked as to block the street. A small revetment of sandbags rested on a nearby front yard.

One man saw us and told his buddies, and they sat up and started watching us. So we changed our route. The next road north had a roadblock too, and the next after it. Both were alert before we came into sight. At the third, a tall older man wearing a fishing vest hefted a long stick to his shoulder.

Half expecting the shot, Perkins and I broke into a zig-zag run to the next corner and broke contact. The bullet pinged dust from the street. Maybe aimed to miss. Maybe.

We got our breath back.

"Back yards?" Perkins asked.

"Too dangerous. Drainage channel?"

"Like an alley. Trap."

There were no good answers. Streets were out, back yards had residents and dogs and hazards, the streams - paved with concrete - were linear shooting galleries.

We also had to worry about what the obviously defended neighborhood had for a reaction force. If they were willing to expend a round to see two strays on their way, they were either stupid or rich.

"Drainage," I ordered. We hopped the head high chain link fence and clambered carefully down the concrete slope.

Fortunately it was mostly dry. Unfortunately it now served as an open sewer.

Wordlessly we tied gauze masks over our faces. This is as developed a reflex post-Firecracker as putting nitrile gloves on for a medical was before the War. The masks helped a lot when we passed the first flyblown corpse.

We heard loud rap music echoing off the concrete and froze, then squatted slowly. The eye is drawn to movement but especially rapid movement.

Looter convoy. Not that we had any moral standing to judge by. We looted too. But they would run or gun us down, strip our bodies and rape our corpses. No promises that it would be in that order.

A single shot distantly echoed, the engines roared and the music, while still distant, got much louder. Not aimed to miss.

I stood and started walking again. Hopefully they would be too busy with each other.

At the next street overcrossing a low snarl echoed out of the dark. I ignored my pistol and flicked out my folding knife.

Something was living under the road, on the path we had to take.

A shot would kill us both.

Purcell shone his flashlight on a crouching shape that leapt forward as he did so. I prepared to stab it and a wet cough from behind me caused the feral dog to flop bonelessly.

After a moment I put my knife away. Purcell reloaded and holstered on his harness his single shot silenced pistol.

We half crawled under the low overhang and kept walking. Every now and again one of us would pass the other, and the one passed would do a slow 360 degree scan.

Being first in line or 'point' is exhausting and tense. You feel like every sound is magnified, any little movement ahead is an ambush. Your sense of time speeds up and slows down like an acid head playing with a cassette tape deck.

You start to be able to sense people and animals. You start to know if you are being watched. If you live long enough.

In the midst of a long open stretch we rested, made personal contributions to the sewage, and drank the rest of our water.

Then we continued until the concrete stream reached a long underground tunnel.

"No," I said, and we took off our gauze masks and climbed up the concrete slope.

[drewkitty]

To find a tall thick wall. Freeway undercrossing. Back yard fences on either side.

I took a compass bearing, twice to be safe, and we boosted each other over the east wall.

To find a woman hoing her well tended garden, frozen in silence by our sudden appearance.

I put my hadnds up at waist height.

"Sorry, ma'am, just passing through."

She stayed frozen as we walked across, careful not to step on the plants - her food - and boosted over the next fence.

One glance had shown me the shotgun lying on the ground within her easy reach.

The scraping of the ho(e) behind us resumed.

The third house was a burned out shell, which gave us a somewhat safe access to the front yard.

We resumed walking down the residential street. It almost seemed normal. Packs of kids at play scavenging, people gardening in their front yards, little old ladies with bulky handpack radios glaring at us and calling in our location.

Almost.

Four men on bicycles came up from behind us in an obvious pack. Two passed us then all four dismounted.

The leader had a metal badge, shaped like a star, cut from stock with tin snips. He wore two black powder revolvers in hip holsters with replacement cylinders handy.

Cowboy action shooter. Shit. He could fill us full of holes before we cleared leather.

"Where y'all going?" he introduced himself. His crew had a lever action rifle, a break open shotgun and a length of pipe. Good discipline, none pointed at us.

"Back to Site," I replied. "We got separated from our team at Almaden."

"Good answer. Stay away from houses. Do you need water?"

"We're OK."

"If you change your mind, let me know. We'll escort you to Blossom Hill."

I compared notes with our escort, a team leader in the Neighborhood Defense Alliance. Once everyone had figured out that 911 was even more of a joke than usual, they'd held a block party, eaten all the fridge items before they went bad, and elected leadership.

I let him think I was a team leader. Saved the temptation to hold us for ransom.

The conversation circled around to trade. They, like us, were barely scraping by on food and had doctors but few medicines or equipment. But they had X-ray and a Geiger counter, salvaged from a dental office and a fire station. That made them rich.

We worked out a meeting point and a time (noon) for future trades, then commpared threats. A disturbingly long list of former and current government agencies, criminal street gangs, new syndicates and just plain crazies. They (like us) paid 'taxes' to the first, scared off the second and third and disposed of the fourth whenever opportunity allowed.

A recent innovation was military press gangs. A wheeled APC such as an MRAP leading two or three military trucks, all marked with a chalk number. I knew what that meant - an authorized movement. The press gang was commanded by a commissioned officer. They drove to addresses with a list of names. They took no shit from roadblocks, rarely opened fire but always returned it, and inducted lucky winners into America's greatly expanded armed forces on the spot.

You wouldn't get shot for running away until they had you at arm's length. Then running away was desertion punishable by death.

But Uncle Sam would feed you, clothe you, send you to China and make vague promises about sending pay to your family. So most people did not run and a few even walked up to volunteer.

I made mental note to prepare for a site visit from same.

The cowboy action shooter - who gave his name as 'Joe' - radioed ahead to the roadblock. They let us pass out to the main road.

We took another break and I tried to radio in again.

"Site to Echo 18 actual, we copy. What is your twenty?"

[drewkitty]

I got out my grid map and read off coordinates in our coded system -- not the military or Thomas Brothers system.

"Copy. Can you hold one hour?"

"Affirm."

"Be advised, sending Unit 18 with two to pick you up."

So Brooke was OK.

"Status on convoy?"

"10-19 with snacks."

That meant OK looting but nothing special. The better the loot, the better the hypothetical meal.

The ultrasound rig which had saved so many lives had been a "Three Course Dinner."

We chattedly idly with the roadblock crew - part of a rotation - as we waited.

If it weren't for the occasional distant POP, the absence of any traffic on the road and the haunted looks on the faces of the occasional stragglers wandering past, it could almost be mistaken for a normal afternoon.

Finally Brooke showed up with the same truck I had climbed out of on Alamden and we hopped aboard, Perkins in the back at a gesture from me.

In the cab I asked, "The Mormons?"

"I gave them a lift to just past Cinnabar Hills."

Her eyes glittered.

I hesitated but I had to know. Brooke took me off the hook.

"I told them all about Cathy. How she lived. How she died."

Oh shit.

"The cab was a lot warmer than the back."

And despite my hike and the aroma I'd picked up, I could still smell heavy male fear sweat in the cab.

"I sent them on their way home, bikes and all. I asked them what they would have done for Cathy. Then I told them the only reason they were walking away was because Cathy would have wanted me to."

I said nothing.

Then I had to say one thing.

"I'm glad I could trust you with their lives." Pause. "And Cathy."

Brooke nodded once and returned her full attention to the road.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

But when He calls in with the flu, I know one woman who steps up.

[drewkitty]

I dismounted to talk to the checkpoint lead, a sheriff's sergeant.

I was at first very unimpressed, by his poor uniform and -- how do I say it -- outhouse smell. And a poorly kept outhouse at that.

Three other deputies watched, one with his rifle tightly held and a thousand yard stare. I introduced myself, my employer and client, and ended with "What can we do for the Sheriff's Office today?"

Other than heat water for a hot bath.

He looked feverish. Then he talked crazy.

"We need your vehicles and your equipment. Dismount and present for inspection."

Oh shit. That was just not going to happen. We were going to have a big problem, right here and right now.

"OK," I said to buy time. I went back to the truck and got out my jump bag. Then I fiddled in the back, getting my portable battery pack. Jump bag, jumper pack ... but not a single parachute to be seen. And it was quite the fall if I fucked this up.

As I did, I said calmly, "Brooke, pass me the 3 gallon water jug. As soon as you can, take off south. Direct order. Leave me behind."

Her grip tightened on the wheel because she was holding so hard. She got it.

There's a reason I have my one mostly abled Marine as my driver.

I went next to the Hate Truck. "Perkins, dismount now, grab the IV kit. The convoy will break contact north. When Brooke goes south. Pass the word on radio. Direct order."

As Perkins and I lumbered up, hands full of non weapons, Brooke spun out south, hitting the (exceptionally loud pair of) horn. The deputies tensed and took aim, but did not fire. This allowed the Hate Truck, technical and the other pickup to flee north.

Perkins and I had already set down our burdens and put our hands up before the rifles settled on us. That's when he earned his pay for the day.

"I'm a medic, you're dehydrated and sick. When did you drink water last?"

Between the two of us, we managed to talk them down enough to get them hydrated and get their story. Sure enough, we had to run an IV on the Sergeant.

They hadn't been relieved for two days, and they'd had no radio contact with their base (downtown San Jose) for three. They'd let their cruiser batteries run down and couldn't get their units started. They were out of food and water, short on fuel and even low on ammo.

They'd managed to run out of water with a creek 300 yards away. The Sergeant had drunk from it, and predictably picked up the shits.

It was time to get these wayward S units home.

Properly hydrated, I used my battery pack to jump one of the three cruisers, then jumped the other two from the first with a cable from their trunk.

They promptly punched it and drove off northbound -- adding insult to injury, carrying away the battery pack. They hadn't even bothered closing the trunk lid.

I didn't bother with swear words.



Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.