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Globall War of Terror: Audit
"People don't do what you expect. They do what you _inspect_."
Inspections and auditing are a routine part of competent security practices. Most people are accustomed to yearly fire drills. Facilities people know that certain fire systems need to be checked quarterly. Some items are checked monthly, such as AEDs -- and others daily, such as doors.
In our brave post apocalyptic world, in which San Francisco is a glowing memory and the Bay Area's broken streets are crowded with undocumented and in some cases starving survivors, I have set up a slightly more aggressive audit schedule to fit the conditions.
Hourly patrols. Inspections every shift. Convoys planned not only for resupply (read: loot) but to check key points off property. Frequent and drastic drills, not only for Security but for Site Ops, the Reaction Team (read: corporate militia), the Fire Brigade and various other departments.
I have literally physically beaten people for failing to live up to minimal expectations during drills and live events. Some have even thanked me for it. I still have my job - must be doing something right.
But now we have to undergo a very different audit, an external audit. We knew it was coming and were given a checklist to prepare to.
But it is ... different ... to see an armored MRAP (Mine Resistant, Armored Personnel) lumber up to the South Gate and be granted entry after interior inspection and verification of occupants. It is flying a huge US flag but is otherwise unescorted.
Homeland is here. As in Homeland Security. As in detention, rendition, internment and ... dark rumor has it ... interrogation and execution.
I am standing with the Vice President of Human Resources. She is trying hard not to let her knees knock together. She is terrified.
I have already gamed it out. If we resist, however briefly, the next arrival will be a convoy of Homeland with the power to kill lavishly and intern the survivors. So that's not going to happen. I have left the strictest instructions on this point.
So this is just another government agency inspection. They want to see our I-9s. Forms that prove the right to work in the United States.
We've already sent over detailed, comprehensive spreadsheets - both the living and the dead clearly outlined. Also the missing. Security has been heavily involved in verifying these spreadsheets.
The last time we had a person unaccounted for on site, it cost us three dead.
So we've been relatively low on the priority list for Homeland - neither desperately screaming for help nor shooting at uniforms.
The inspection team of three is wearing black Velcro body armor with "HOMELAND" displayed prominently on front and back. Their heavily armed security detail of four splits into two pairs of two - two with the vehicle, two with the inspectors. To my pleased surprise, the driver and gunner of the MRAP are Company employees. I recognize them. Contractors, from before the Firecracker.
They don't even shiver an eyelid in my direction. There is an unwritten rule in the law enforcement community. If someone doesn't acknowledge you, ignore them. They may be undercover, on the job, or not wanting the person with them to know too much about who they are or what they are doing.
So I ignore them. They remain blank, automations.
I follow the VP-HR as she leads them to her offices. Files are spread out for perusal.
The audit team goes to work, unfolding laptops like samurai drawing swords.
I wait in the corridor with the security team. We eyeball each other.
Their contempt is obvious. I am obviously a guard, one of the hired help, and my failure to put on rank insignia this morning has aided their underestimation.
I see details of their gear that chill my blood. To be specific, they are carrying not Tasers but cattle prods. They are carrying four pairs of handcuffs each, in double holsters, and their leather has brown rust colored stains here and there. In tactical equipment they of course have the best - full automatic MP-5 submachine guns, many magazines, H&K pistols, flash bangs, ad nauseum - but their gear is optimized for controlling large numbers of scared people.
I could kill them both before they twitched. But I would not survive the hour and an ocean of blood would follow.
The VP-HR calls out, "[Echo 18], could you come in for a moment?"
I do so, and neither Homeland agent follows. "How can I help?" I ask.
"They need verification on each of the H1-Bs."
The spreadsheets are sorted by "US Citizen" and by "Nationality." They are sorted by "VISA TYPE" for the latter group. But we have carefully failed to create a column for Race, Ethnicity or any other genetic criterion.
I am familiar with the intimate details of the Rwandan genocide. And I will blow my own fucking brains out before I will help it happen here.
"We can verify if they have been on campus since the Firecracker. In a few cases we can verify that they are dead based on field observations. But there's a chunk tagged 'MISSING' that we just don't know."
The discussion becomes technical. The auditors are very pleased that our card access system is running and that we have reconciled card access entries against the personnel files.
The MRAP has room for maybe two or three prisoners. The odds of Homeland only being interested in two or three persons approaches zero. So either they don't want them today, or they're going to expend some of that lavish supply of ammunition helping perceived enemies of America lie down and be good.
The auditors appear very happy. They are carefully taking in information like armored black Velcro sponges, but they are not giving us anything - lists of names, say, or criteria, or instructions not to let Certain People leave campus.
We had 381 H1-Bs working prior to the Firecracker. About typical for the campus, half are missing - they haven't reported in, we haven't heard from them. A handful are "KNOWN TO BE DEAD" - we found their bodies, they died under circumstances where their death was reported (such as surviving to be transported to Stanford or other hospitals before they shut down), or their deaths were witnessed by credible persons. A few are alive but not under our control - quit (more about this in a moment), left to go to other offices, etc. But well over a third are alive and well and working here.
It is my job to keep them that way. But if Homeland wants any of them, all they have to do is slap cuffs on. An H1-B is only in the US to do work. If they do not do work for us, they are illegally in the US. But an H1-B only has a security clearance at the pleasure of Homeland. Without a security clearance, they cannot work here. So yank the clearance, which loses the job, which makes them an illegal alien, which makes them immediately liable to arrest. And no one is putting monitoring bracelets on people.
I know for a fact that Homeland teams without sufficient transport have shot H1-B detainees to avoid the bother of calling in for additional vehicles.
One hundred and fourteen decent hard working folks at the mercy of bureaucrats. Bureaucrats with cattle prods.
The audit team finishes up. They are impressed with their review. Then they provide a slip of paper with a name on it to the VP-HR, who passes it to me.
"[Oliver Stone]"
Of course.
"He is recently missing. Left on a food gathering expedition three weeks ago..." notably before the Homeland audit began "... and never returned. I have a current photo and physical description. If we find him again, what disposition would you prefer?"
"He is wanted for treason and spreading malicious rumors. If you find him alive, hold him incommunicado and notify us immediately. We'll send someone to pick him up."
"Copy."
And if picked up by helicopter, he might get dropped on the way back to base. Half a helicopter ride, which costly in avgas, is a relatively cheap method of body disposal.
The audit team returns to their vehicle. My coworkers in contract government service are still staring straight ahead, like zombies. They have recognized me. And they feel it is far safer for all of us if they do not show it.
The auditors board. The security team starts to board.
One stops. "Your name?"
I give it, on a card, with my E-mail.
He pockets it carefully without glancing at it.
"Take care, [Echo 18]. Your country is depending on you."
My face is wooden and my stance respectfully. But my bowels turn to water.
I have been noticed.
They mount up and the MRAP rumbles to the South Gate, where it is passed out without further inspection.
The VP-HR excuses herself hastily. I believe the polite term is to "compose herself."
I wait until I see the MRAP make the turn to the public road before I let my face change.
I walk briskly around the corner and throw up bile.
Inspections and auditing are a routine part of competent security practices. Most people are accustomed to yearly fire drills. Facilities people know that certain fire systems need to be checked quarterly. Some items are checked monthly, such as AEDs -- and others daily, such as doors.
In our brave post apocalyptic world, in which San Francisco is a glowing memory and the Bay Area's broken streets are crowded with undocumented and in some cases starving survivors, I have set up a slightly more aggressive audit schedule to fit the conditions.
Hourly patrols. Inspections every shift. Convoys planned not only for resupply (read: loot) but to check key points off property. Frequent and drastic drills, not only for Security but for Site Ops, the Reaction Team (read: corporate militia), the Fire Brigade and various other departments.
I have literally physically beaten people for failing to live up to minimal expectations during drills and live events. Some have even thanked me for it. I still have my job - must be doing something right.
But now we have to undergo a very different audit, an external audit. We knew it was coming and were given a checklist to prepare to.
But it is ... different ... to see an armored MRAP (Mine Resistant, Armored Personnel) lumber up to the South Gate and be granted entry after interior inspection and verification of occupants. It is flying a huge US flag but is otherwise unescorted.
Homeland is here. As in Homeland Security. As in detention, rendition, internment and ... dark rumor has it ... interrogation and execution.
I am standing with the Vice President of Human Resources. She is trying hard not to let her knees knock together. She is terrified.
I have already gamed it out. If we resist, however briefly, the next arrival will be a convoy of Homeland with the power to kill lavishly and intern the survivors. So that's not going to happen. I have left the strictest instructions on this point.
So this is just another government agency inspection. They want to see our I-9s. Forms that prove the right to work in the United States.
We've already sent over detailed, comprehensive spreadsheets - both the living and the dead clearly outlined. Also the missing. Security has been heavily involved in verifying these spreadsheets.
The last time we had a person unaccounted for on site, it cost us three dead.
So we've been relatively low on the priority list for Homeland - neither desperately screaming for help nor shooting at uniforms.
The inspection team of three is wearing black Velcro body armor with "HOMELAND" displayed prominently on front and back. Their heavily armed security detail of four splits into two pairs of two - two with the vehicle, two with the inspectors. To my pleased surprise, the driver and gunner of the MRAP are Company employees. I recognize them. Contractors, from before the Firecracker.
They don't even shiver an eyelid in my direction. There is an unwritten rule in the law enforcement community. If someone doesn't acknowledge you, ignore them. They may be undercover, on the job, or not wanting the person with them to know too much about who they are or what they are doing.
So I ignore them. They remain blank, automations.
I follow the VP-HR as she leads them to her offices. Files are spread out for perusal.
The audit team goes to work, unfolding laptops like samurai drawing swords.
I wait in the corridor with the security team. We eyeball each other.
Their contempt is obvious. I am obviously a guard, one of the hired help, and my failure to put on rank insignia this morning has aided their underestimation.
I see details of their gear that chill my blood. To be specific, they are carrying not Tasers but cattle prods. They are carrying four pairs of handcuffs each, in double holsters, and their leather has brown rust colored stains here and there. In tactical equipment they of course have the best - full automatic MP-5 submachine guns, many magazines, H&K pistols, flash bangs, ad nauseum - but their gear is optimized for controlling large numbers of scared people.
I could kill them both before they twitched. But I would not survive the hour and an ocean of blood would follow.
The VP-HR calls out, "[Echo 18], could you come in for a moment?"
I do so, and neither Homeland agent follows. "How can I help?" I ask.
"They need verification on each of the H1-Bs."
The spreadsheets are sorted by "US Citizen" and by "Nationality." They are sorted by "VISA TYPE" for the latter group. But we have carefully failed to create a column for Race, Ethnicity or any other genetic criterion.
I am familiar with the intimate details of the Rwandan genocide. And I will blow my own fucking brains out before I will help it happen here.
"We can verify if they have been on campus since the Firecracker. In a few cases we can verify that they are dead based on field observations. But there's a chunk tagged 'MISSING' that we just don't know."
The discussion becomes technical. The auditors are very pleased that our card access system is running and that we have reconciled card access entries against the personnel files.
The MRAP has room for maybe two or three prisoners. The odds of Homeland only being interested in two or three persons approaches zero. So either they don't want them today, or they're going to expend some of that lavish supply of ammunition helping perceived enemies of America lie down and be good.
The auditors appear very happy. They are carefully taking in information like armored black Velcro sponges, but they are not giving us anything - lists of names, say, or criteria, or instructions not to let Certain People leave campus.
We had 381 H1-Bs working prior to the Firecracker. About typical for the campus, half are missing - they haven't reported in, we haven't heard from them. A handful are "KNOWN TO BE DEAD" - we found their bodies, they died under circumstances where their death was reported (such as surviving to be transported to Stanford or other hospitals before they shut down), or their deaths were witnessed by credible persons. A few are alive but not under our control - quit (more about this in a moment), left to go to other offices, etc. But well over a third are alive and well and working here.
It is my job to keep them that way. But if Homeland wants any of them, all they have to do is slap cuffs on. An H1-B is only in the US to do work. If they do not do work for us, they are illegally in the US. But an H1-B only has a security clearance at the pleasure of Homeland. Without a security clearance, they cannot work here. So yank the clearance, which loses the job, which makes them an illegal alien, which makes them immediately liable to arrest. And no one is putting monitoring bracelets on people.
I know for a fact that Homeland teams without sufficient transport have shot H1-B detainees to avoid the bother of calling in for additional vehicles.
One hundred and fourteen decent hard working folks at the mercy of bureaucrats. Bureaucrats with cattle prods.
The audit team finishes up. They are impressed with their review. Then they provide a slip of paper with a name on it to the VP-HR, who passes it to me.
"[Oliver Stone]"
Of course.
"He is recently missing. Left on a food gathering expedition three weeks ago..." notably before the Homeland audit began "... and never returned. I have a current photo and physical description. If we find him again, what disposition would you prefer?"
"He is wanted for treason and spreading malicious rumors. If you find him alive, hold him incommunicado and notify us immediately. We'll send someone to pick him up."
"Copy."
And if picked up by helicopter, he might get dropped on the way back to base. Half a helicopter ride, which costly in avgas, is a relatively cheap method of body disposal.
The audit team returns to their vehicle. My coworkers in contract government service are still staring straight ahead, like zombies. They have recognized me. And they feel it is far safer for all of us if they do not show it.
The auditors board. The security team starts to board.
One stops. "Your name?"
I give it, on a card, with my E-mail.
He pockets it carefully without glancing at it.
"Take care, [Echo 18]. Your country is depending on you."
My face is wooden and my stance respectfully. But my bowels turn to water.
I have been noticed.
They mount up and the MRAP rumbles to the South Gate, where it is passed out without further inspection.
The VP-HR excuses herself hastily. I believe the polite term is to "compose herself."
I wait until I see the MRAP make the turn to the public road before I let my face change.
I walk briskly around the corner and throw up bile.