Globall War of Terror: Perimeter Raid
Dec. 21st, 2017 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyToday was Thursday. So it was time , I decided, to visit our next door neighbors.
Under our benign protection, a shantytown had developed along our east fence line, equidistant between our north and south perimeter. We had a path from the shantytown to the site, which could be used during limited daytime hours by authorized persons with special permission. But you could not enter (or exit) the shantytown from outside the site under any conditions. We enforced this with night vision and by sniper rifle.
Its residents were dependents of contractors and other site workers, what an earlier age had called "camp followers," and the occasional distant relative of an Employee who did not meet conventional entry criteria. While we could in theory exile someone to "the Perimeter Encampment" or simply "Camp" for misconduct, I considered it both wiser and safer to eject them from the site to grim odds and likely death. For one, if they did not get away from site fast enough, enraged locals would torture them to death for formerly being one of us.
It was still a horrible security exposure, and other exposures as well. Their water system was filtered creek water. Their power system, where it existed, was batteries and bicycle alternators and scrounged small solar panels. Their sanitation system was the same bucket system we used.
Today we would be conducting a patrol of Camp. Functionally it was a raid, a cross between a search warrant and a Code Enforcement inspection, if the inspectors carried rifles.
Every day we geared up for a convoy operation. But about one day in six, we did not leave the wire and suddenly turned our vehicles and heads inward, and arrived in Camp about two minutes later. That was enough time to hide some things from us, but not all. The longest I had let Camp go was eight days. But we had searched three times in a row, and more than once on successive days.
Today was just a little different. The convoy operation had been short and stilted -- skunked, all three objectives impossible for one good reason or another. So I wanted to kill two birds with one stone.
As we ran in with our weapons, casually shouting "[COMPANY] Security, freeze and keep your hands visible!" I could immediately see a difference.
We were going to find something today.
The Camp layout was a circle compressed against our fence line, more of an oval. The outside of the racetrack was housing. The inside was those services that were needed or permitted to exist - administration, clinic, fire house, classrooms, etc. Both the outer ring and the race track were kept scrupulously clear.
We also used a drag three times a day on the outer perimeter, which circled around the Camp. This was to detect footprints.
Authorized foraging parties had several routes of entry and exit from the campus. None were near the Camp. Less authorized personnel could only enter or exit from the South Gate. The former North Gate had been permanently closed to vehicles.
The last time we had found footprints (inbound) we had counted the Camp residents six times before finding the interloper.
Unfortunately, she had escaped. But rumor had it that she had escaped to fall to her death from one of the towers.
Aside from quibbling details (such as the actual timing of her heart stopping), rumor was correct.
One of our biggest concerns was infiltration. Either getting an outsider in to assess our defenses, or corrupting an insider and somehow providing them false assurances that they would survive the site's fall.
I had little interest in investigating the death of someone whose survival would have endangered us all. Besides, I already knew what had happened.
This made me, on paper at least, an accessory after the fact to murder most foul. But after the thermonuclear annihilation of San Francisco and lesser cities to her south, I found myself having great difficulty giving a shit.
Speaking of which ... my nose wrinkled. Someone had apparently knocked over a bucket, and it was even more rank than ordinary sewage.
I sniffed again.
"Medic!" I shouted. Then got on the radio. I needed one of our public health folks and I needed them now.
I suppose that in civilization, diarrhea is merely a nuisance. But when hundreds of people are crowded together in substandard housing, it's a killer. Just like a wire noose tightened around an infiltrator's neck.
We investigated. Someone had concealed a child's illness, afraid that they would be expelled. There was a language barrier, we obtained translation. The child and one parent were transported to our infirmary. The other parent was detained.
Under the supervision of our one public health nurse, worth much more than his weight in gold, the questionable areas and buckets were detail scrubbed to gleaming with a heavy stink of chemicals.
We continued to turn up technically stolen cafeteria food. We tracked this but did not confiscate it. What's the point? But it was a constant low grade arm's race between serving what food we could and hungry workers sneaking some out to their loved ones. Not even a race we wanted to win, merely control.
I had to look away in time to avoid learning that the 'diner' was actually a speakeasy that served alcohol. Unlike during Prohibition, the vile brew was relatively safe to drink. But I had to work to not officially learn about this essential safety valve. One reason I had to leave my usual bodyguard behind: Shane Shreve would insist on dragging me to the keg and rubbing his wet fingers under my nose, disregarding any clues from me or from anyone else.
The center racetrack was to guarantee rapid reaction, that we could access any point in the Camp in under two minutes, and that the Camp could be defended from the outside but never, ever from us. The "no firearms" policy was for the same reason. But we did permit bows and melee weapons.
It was no accident that we had recreated feudalism, in only a few months of desperation. But this was corporate feudalism, and benign, and the worst abuses mitigated.
Or so I told myself when I walked in on one of my guards -- my guards! -- fucking a clearly frightened survivor, bent over her own bed.
Well, actually, raping. During an inspection raid. A friendly.
I turned to Sharon, who was standing next to me with her mouth open and hand tightening on her pistol grip until it turned white.
"Is this what it looks like?" I asked very quietly.
She nodded.
I thought about what I should do. Subdue him. Separate them. Investigate. Take statements. Try him. Strip him naked and kick him out -- with a guard's knowledge of our defenses.
I glanced around. Only Betty and I were witnesses. I signaled her with a palm. _Stay_.
I drew my knife.
###
"Hands up! Hands up!" I screamed at the terrified woman. "React! React!"
The guard teams came running with their weapons. What they saw:
- Sharon covering us with her pistol.
- The guard with his throat cut neatly from ear to ear, and his blood all over a screaming woman.
- Me, tossing the knife away from her and putting her in a control hold, also covered in blood.
- An obvious crime scene.
I gave orders. Take her into custody. Don't talk to her, don't let her talk. Take pictures. Remove his body. Did we have any HIV tests left? No. Damn.
Rough decontamination of my face and hands with a few precious wet wipes, give a verbal statement. Much later it would be an E-mailed report.
As Sharon and I made entry, we had seen the guard attempting to rape the woman. She had defended herself, using a small serrated knife. I had been splattered with blood trying to save the guard, but had failed.
We would have to adjudicate but it looked like clear cut self defense. Emphasis on cut.
I made my way back to site with Betty about ten feet from me the entire time. I pushed a point of personal privilege and helped myself to the motor pool mechanic's hot shower. It would need to be decontaminated afterwards. I brought my gear in with me.
I again used hand signal, not trusting myself to speak, to have Betty cover the door.
I did not expect her to lock the door with her on the inside.
I continued stripping down, but first held my knife and sheath under the flowing shower water until it ran clear.
She looked at me, I looked at her.
I don't know how to explain what happened next.
But we both took off all our clothes and showered together. Nothing more, nothing less. No sex. But very sexually charged. I will spare the gentle reader specifics, assuming that he has been raised in Western society where a naked knife is less obscene than a naked person, and murder less obscene than arousal.
Sharon whispered as she scrubbed my back, the only time either of us spoke.
"Thank you," she said.
Only she and I knew the truth of what had happened in that room.
By the time we were done with the victim, she herself would be convinced that she had defended herself.
I could not tolerate rot in the security force. Especially not during Apocalypse.
Under our benign protection, a shantytown had developed along our east fence line, equidistant between our north and south perimeter. We had a path from the shantytown to the site, which could be used during limited daytime hours by authorized persons with special permission. But you could not enter (or exit) the shantytown from outside the site under any conditions. We enforced this with night vision and by sniper rifle.
Its residents were dependents of contractors and other site workers, what an earlier age had called "camp followers," and the occasional distant relative of an Employee who did not meet conventional entry criteria. While we could in theory exile someone to "the Perimeter Encampment" or simply "Camp" for misconduct, I considered it both wiser and safer to eject them from the site to grim odds and likely death. For one, if they did not get away from site fast enough, enraged locals would torture them to death for formerly being one of us.
It was still a horrible security exposure, and other exposures as well. Their water system was filtered creek water. Their power system, where it existed, was batteries and bicycle alternators and scrounged small solar panels. Their sanitation system was the same bucket system we used.
Today we would be conducting a patrol of Camp. Functionally it was a raid, a cross between a search warrant and a Code Enforcement inspection, if the inspectors carried rifles.
Every day we geared up for a convoy operation. But about one day in six, we did not leave the wire and suddenly turned our vehicles and heads inward, and arrived in Camp about two minutes later. That was enough time to hide some things from us, but not all. The longest I had let Camp go was eight days. But we had searched three times in a row, and more than once on successive days.
Today was just a little different. The convoy operation had been short and stilted -- skunked, all three objectives impossible for one good reason or another. So I wanted to kill two birds with one stone.
As we ran in with our weapons, casually shouting "[COMPANY] Security, freeze and keep your hands visible!" I could immediately see a difference.
We were going to find something today.
The Camp layout was a circle compressed against our fence line, more of an oval. The outside of the racetrack was housing. The inside was those services that were needed or permitted to exist - administration, clinic, fire house, classrooms, etc. Both the outer ring and the race track were kept scrupulously clear.
We also used a drag three times a day on the outer perimeter, which circled around the Camp. This was to detect footprints.
Authorized foraging parties had several routes of entry and exit from the campus. None were near the Camp. Less authorized personnel could only enter or exit from the South Gate. The former North Gate had been permanently closed to vehicles.
The last time we had found footprints (inbound) we had counted the Camp residents six times before finding the interloper.
Unfortunately, she had escaped. But rumor had it that she had escaped to fall to her death from one of the towers.
Aside from quibbling details (such as the actual timing of her heart stopping), rumor was correct.
One of our biggest concerns was infiltration. Either getting an outsider in to assess our defenses, or corrupting an insider and somehow providing them false assurances that they would survive the site's fall.
I had little interest in investigating the death of someone whose survival would have endangered us all. Besides, I already knew what had happened.
This made me, on paper at least, an accessory after the fact to murder most foul. But after the thermonuclear annihilation of San Francisco and lesser cities to her south, I found myself having great difficulty giving a shit.
Speaking of which ... my nose wrinkled. Someone had apparently knocked over a bucket, and it was even more rank than ordinary sewage.
I sniffed again.
"Medic!" I shouted. Then got on the radio. I needed one of our public health folks and I needed them now.
I suppose that in civilization, diarrhea is merely a nuisance. But when hundreds of people are crowded together in substandard housing, it's a killer. Just like a wire noose tightened around an infiltrator's neck.
We investigated. Someone had concealed a child's illness, afraid that they would be expelled. There was a language barrier, we obtained translation. The child and one parent were transported to our infirmary. The other parent was detained.
Under the supervision of our one public health nurse, worth much more than his weight in gold, the questionable areas and buckets were detail scrubbed to gleaming with a heavy stink of chemicals.
We continued to turn up technically stolen cafeteria food. We tracked this but did not confiscate it. What's the point? But it was a constant low grade arm's race between serving what food we could and hungry workers sneaking some out to their loved ones. Not even a race we wanted to win, merely control.
I had to look away in time to avoid learning that the 'diner' was actually a speakeasy that served alcohol. Unlike during Prohibition, the vile brew was relatively safe to drink. But I had to work to not officially learn about this essential safety valve. One reason I had to leave my usual bodyguard behind: Shane Shreve would insist on dragging me to the keg and rubbing his wet fingers under my nose, disregarding any clues from me or from anyone else.
The center racetrack was to guarantee rapid reaction, that we could access any point in the Camp in under two minutes, and that the Camp could be defended from the outside but never, ever from us. The "no firearms" policy was for the same reason. But we did permit bows and melee weapons.
It was no accident that we had recreated feudalism, in only a few months of desperation. But this was corporate feudalism, and benign, and the worst abuses mitigated.
Or so I told myself when I walked in on one of my guards -- my guards! -- fucking a clearly frightened survivor, bent over her own bed.
Well, actually, raping. During an inspection raid. A friendly.
I turned to Sharon, who was standing next to me with her mouth open and hand tightening on her pistol grip until it turned white.
"Is this what it looks like?" I asked very quietly.
She nodded.
I thought about what I should do. Subdue him. Separate them. Investigate. Take statements. Try him. Strip him naked and kick him out -- with a guard's knowledge of our defenses.
I glanced around. Only Betty and I were witnesses. I signaled her with a palm. _Stay_.
I drew my knife.
###
"Hands up! Hands up!" I screamed at the terrified woman. "React! React!"
The guard teams came running with their weapons. What they saw:
- Sharon covering us with her pistol.
- The guard with his throat cut neatly from ear to ear, and his blood all over a screaming woman.
- Me, tossing the knife away from her and putting her in a control hold, also covered in blood.
- An obvious crime scene.
I gave orders. Take her into custody. Don't talk to her, don't let her talk. Take pictures. Remove his body. Did we have any HIV tests left? No. Damn.
Rough decontamination of my face and hands with a few precious wet wipes, give a verbal statement. Much later it would be an E-mailed report.
As Sharon and I made entry, we had seen the guard attempting to rape the woman. She had defended herself, using a small serrated knife. I had been splattered with blood trying to save the guard, but had failed.
We would have to adjudicate but it looked like clear cut self defense. Emphasis on cut.
I made my way back to site with Betty about ten feet from me the entire time. I pushed a point of personal privilege and helped myself to the motor pool mechanic's hot shower. It would need to be decontaminated afterwards. I brought my gear in with me.
I again used hand signal, not trusting myself to speak, to have Betty cover the door.
I did not expect her to lock the door with her on the inside.
I continued stripping down, but first held my knife and sheath under the flowing shower water until it ran clear.
She looked at me, I looked at her.
I don't know how to explain what happened next.
But we both took off all our clothes and showered together. Nothing more, nothing less. No sex. But very sexually charged. I will spare the gentle reader specifics, assuming that he has been raised in Western society where a naked knife is less obscene than a naked person, and murder less obscene than arousal.
Sharon whispered as she scrubbed my back, the only time either of us spoke.
"Thank you," she said.
Only she and I knew the truth of what had happened in that room.
By the time we were done with the victim, she herself would be convinced that she had defended herself.
I could not tolerate rot in the security force. Especially not during Apocalypse.
