Globall War of Terror - Vapor Lock

[drewkitty]

Globall War of Terror - Vapor Lock


Just about dawn, it was time for the convoy to fuel up.

We'd bypassed several large truck stops. What I needed was a gas station - a place that sold fuel but wasn't busy, didn't have a lot of witnesses and most importantly didn't have an official presence.

We found what we were looking for, a Chevron station with just one car outside in the parking area.

We pulled in and I took a stack of bills from the briefcase to talk to the station owner.

He was happy to take bluebacks and I was happy to pay in bluebacks.

Signs of the times - his shop was sold out of nearly all food, all liquor and all tobacco. The rest of the sundries had a fine layer of dust on them.

My eye caught on the tiny medications and first aid section such stores have. It was empty.

As I returned to the flatbed, one of the guards waved from the bus. I ignored him and got on board, then gave the "Roll Out" motion with my hand out the window.

We therefore rolled out.

Whatever problem was on the bus, either the guards could handle it or they could not. We were not going to dick around at a known location for any reason.

I heard two mike clicks on Tactical. We had a simple code. Your order in the convoy was your mike click. The bus was second in line thus two mike clicks.

I opened up my wifi cell and saw a message.

"2. Man restrained, tried to leave. Instructions?"

Idiots.

I sent a single character in reply.

"N"

As in No or Negative or Nincompoop.

Knowing there was a problem - actually two problems - on the bus was helpful, as it affected our route.

I picked more local roads and a curve that would hook us out into the real Northern California. Not the Bay Area, not Sacramento, not the 101 and 5 corridors ... the real deal, which has a lot more in common with Idaho than Lake Tahoe.

It was coming up on mid morning and I was hungry. I had a couple granola bars tucked away in a pocket, but I'd brought a hundred sixty people with me and no plans for serving them breakfast. Or lunch or dinner for that matter.

So my stomach would serve as their alarm clock. If I needed food real bad, _so did they_.

In practice, it would take a very stupid person not to carry food on them in preparation for a trip, in these troubled times. But I'd had a three month crash course in just how stupid these people could be.

A little after noon we reached National Forest area, and I breathed just that little bit easier.

The US Forest Service had been activated and deployed, _as an agency_ to China. Their responsibilities had been handed off to local sheriff's offices, who were far too busy trying to keep the peace with half their staff (all the ex-military ones...) deployed to China as well.

I told Buddy to pull off down a side road into what I fervently hoped was an empty campground. It was. Then I checked a water faucet for flow. It worked.

Then and only then did I give the signal for dismount, and walked over to check on the bus.

The prisoner strapped into a seat had fouled himself and was drooling.

"Runner. Get a medic from the ambo, now," I snapped to one of the men.

"What happened?"

"He started yelling about how he had to get out of here, he was off the bus, he just wanted to go home."

Psychological casualty. Dammit. We manhandled the prisoner, as gently as we could given his struggles, to a vandalized picnic table. The medic started checking him over.

"Ten minute piss break. Stay close. Then everyone come back, I need to talk to all of you."

The medic reported.

"No drugs or alcohol, no pre-existing conditions, blood sugar is good. He just lost his shit."

So to speak.

"Will physical restraint do? Or do we need to go chemical?"

I had two doses of Halidol left, on my body, but those were for emergencies. I would have to use sativa drops.

"He's calmer now. I'll try talking him down."

While the medic did so, I had everyone gather around. Brooke was on overwatch with her rifle at the ready. She didn't need to participate, and would let me know if we had company.

It was time for a class.

First I taught them a trick from the Occupy movement called "Mic Check."

You say something, a sentence or two. Then you say "Mic Check." Then people who just barely heard you, repeat to the people around you the sentence you just said. A very poor man's PA system. But unlike a conventional PA, it could not be heard at a distance beyond that of the crowd.

Communication established, I started with my next point.

During the next leg, I needed the bus and the shuttle bus to elect a leader and a deputy leader. The guards would observe to prevent fraud but not participate or interfere.

I needed the leader and deputy leader and senior guard on the bus and shuttle bus to elect five people (the bus) and two people (the shuttle) to help keep order, especially at rest stops. These seven would be posted in a circle around the group and be supervised by one of my guards. No wandering off. No missing kids. Or adults for that matter.

Then I launched into the meat of the discussion, in short form amenable to Mic Check format.

"All of you were subject to being interned or killed. The Client is paying to take you somewhere safe. For obvious reasons I can't tell you where yet. I know you're hungry, we couldn't bring enough food. We are working on it. Meanwhile do the best you can to feed the kids from what little you have."

The nursery had both food and formula, but that was for nursing mothers and babes in arms only. That was a subject I would kill over.

"Another twenty minute break. Drink water. Refill the water containers. Stretch. We have to leave soon."

We started mounting up again. I really wanted to have a huddle with my guards, to check on them, but I didn't dare take the time until the passengers could keep a little order on their own.

The upset passenger now had his hands tied in front of him. He stared fixedly at the back of the seat in front of him.

"He's trying, guys," the medic said to the bus crew. We'd swapped out - drivers to sleep in the barracks van, guards to take over as drivers. As planned. "But he doesn't himself know if he's going to lose it again. If he asks you to tie him up, don't give him shit, just do it. OK?"

They nodded after I did.

I briefly checked the shuttle bus (OK) and the ambulance (patients asleep). Then returned to the cab.

My eyes were starting to hurt. It was time.

I opened the package from the infirmary and gave myself two stimulant tablets.

We left the campground as we had found it. Leave only piss and shit, take only tap water and no memories.

An hour later we reached an open truck stop. We really didn't have a choice, given my choice for the next leg. But we could maximize the odds.

Buddy pulled in to the farthest line of pumps. I got out and swiped fuel cards instead of talking to people inside.

The moment between entering my authorization code and that blessed, blessed word APPROVED was music to my ears. Because I wasn't using any of the client provided plastic. I was using Company plastic, intended to fuel a single patrol car. Not intended to fuel a convoy movement.

In the long run it wouldn't matter, we would bill the Client at a tiny markup. But in the moment it meant someone looking for us would have to sort through hundreds of Company transactions instead of a single Client one.

Buddy blearily got out of the truck and lurched to the back, then up to the barracks van.

Brooke - with her rifle down by her leg - came to take his place as the lead driver.

As we finished fueling up, a single Sheriff's Office patrol car, driving fast, pulled into the lot.

Damn.

It pulled in front of the store area and a deputy got out, completely uninterested in us. He seemed to be focused on getting inside the door as soon as possible.

I recognized the power walk.

Restroom response, Code 2.

I gave the "Move Out" circular hand signal and we immediately departed.

Now we turned sharp east. Our local road took us towards northern Nevada.

We'd had to tank. Because we wouldn't be seeing another gas station for at least three hundred miles.

This would be flat terrain with no skilful driving required.

We were literally going to Burning Man. Black Rock Desert, Gerlach Nevada.

Under normal conditions we'd have been jacked up at least three different ways by the California Highway Patrol. Not stopping at weigh stations, gross violations of commercial vehicle and passenger transport regulations, and enough contraband to qualify as our own entry in 21st Century Criminal Street Gangs.

But these conditions were not normal and what was left of CHP was focused on much more serious issues than roadway enforcement in rural parts of the state. After sending all veterans to China.

We were going far away from civilization. No gas stations, no grocery stores, a briefcase of cash and credit no good where neither is accepted.

We weren't the only ones. A lot of people who'd made it out of the Bay Area had simply ... kept going. And Burning Man was a place they knew they could drive to.

But it had no infrastructure and it had been three months.

This was terrain where a jack rabbit not carrying rations could starve to death.

But there were ranches and farms. I had a short list of places to check.

We had almost one hundred and seventy five mouths to feed. We would work something out; we would pay for our food.

The first farm was a burned out shell. No point in going closer, I closed my binocular case and gestured Brooke to keep going.

The second ranch had cattle. And a man on horseback watching them, with a rifle.

I briefly keyed the radio.

"Convoy halt."

"OK, pass the word, 5 minute piss break, be ready to move."

"What are you doing?" Brooke asked as I started to get out.

"Going to go see a man aboard a horse."

It took her a moment to get it. Then she was torn between the need to stay with the lead vehicle and the need to take out her baton and beat me to death for stupidity.

Meanwhile I was halfway to the man on the horse, empty handed, waving.

He sidled up. I knew Brooke was watching with the binoculars, cursing that she dared not bring her rifle up.

"Howdy. You folks passing through?"

"Yes," I said, taking some effort to avoid saying Yup. "My passengers are getting a bit hungry, though. We'd like to buy some food."

"Hard times," the man replied.

"We'll be on our way, then." I bowed slightly and turned.

"Hold up. You can pay?"

"We can pay."

He looked me over, looked us over.

"We bring it out to you. Keep your folks here. About two hundred meals? Three thousand blues, take it or leave it."

"Done."

He came with me to the truck. He saw the money in the briefcase. He saw Brooke's rifle close enough for his eyes to narrow at the three position "happy switch."

Then he rode off, leaving his cattle unprotected, to the ranch house in the middle distance.

We extended the piss break, woke everyone up, guards in full gear with rifles, newly elected 'monitors' holding a perimeter. The tarps we'd brought became shade from the increasing heat.

An hour later, a cloud of dust. The man came back. I wordlessly gave him $1500. He signaled the cloud closer. A pickup truck towing a small trailer. Four men visible, all armed. One woman, also armed.

The small trailer was a towable barbeque. The cowboys brought over two cattle. I gave the man the other $1500. They shot the cattle and one man and woman started to work butchering while another started the grill.

Over the very freshest tri tip it was possible to have, the rancher and I talked. Around us everyone ate, except the rancher's men and half my guards at a time.

"My boy's Army. Thought maybe I'd not see the next Great War. Hard times though. Hard times."

I told him what I'd seen in San Francisco and San Mateo. And at Stanford.

"Hard times. The brave boys off fighting... the cowards here making the best, I suppose."

There's an art to talking rancher, farmer, cowboy or fisherman. Let them talk. Listen hard. Realize that every word has three or more meanings.

"You're not going to Reno?"

I shook my head.

"Wise man. I'd keep 'er going down the old Jungo trail. Know it?"

Only from maps, but I said "Not recently."

He gave detailed route information. And two hundred pounds of beef jerky.

I supplied him with two hundred rounds of 5.56, ten gallons gasoline, a pound of cannabis and two grenades. His eyes flickered at the last.

"Hard times, son. Where you taking these folks? Because there ain't no where safe, you know that."

It was not an actual question, nor would I have answered it.

"A man's got to do what's right," I said.

"That he does. Good luck to you and yours."

It had been three hours in the heat of the day. But well worth every moment.

Buddy took over again as driver. A few hour's sleep had been enough for him.

As we pulled out, I rested my eyes for a moment.

When I opened them, the sun lay low in the sky and a sign said "Gerlach 8."