Globall War of Terror - Street Cleaning
Jun. 29th, 2018 06:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkitty[Between the military visit and the arrival of the Utah convoy.]
I needed to see something for myself. I knew this was an unacceptable risk to the site's security, but with Legal One drafted (literally - as in taken away by military helicopter) and the SLE safely inaccessible in his ivory tower, there was no one to tell me no.
Also, we needed to develop a new capability, and I was the only one whom I could trust to get the ball rolling.
Someone had dropped fliers advertising a protest in downtown San Jose next weekend in several places on campus. In rapid succession, we had recovered several; I had reviewed the microdot code identifying the printer, date and time where it had been printed; Janine and I had gone through the usage logs until we found the print job; traced it back to our own infamous [Oliver Stone]; recovered another dozen or so; then visited him and required him to cough up the remaining four, with a firm warning to Not Do That You Idiot.
Nineteen of twenty had made it into the shredder. I now held the twentieth in my hands, in a dusty abandoned storage room.
I would not be permitting anyone else to attend this event. Especially not our invaluable employees.
But I would go, dressed appropriately for the occasion.
###
My exfiltration from the site was straightforward. I went out with a gathering party and a backpack; left my uniform, all IDs, radio and duty firearm with the other guard in the party; changed into blue jeans, a leather jacket and a T-shirt; and simply walked away from the group, trusting that between the guard and the note I had left for Arturo, my absence would be explained.
This put me alone, on foot, outside the perimeter. A grossly unacceptable risk in itself if it were not utterly necessary.
The protest was to be held outside the Santa Clara County Courthouse (and Jail) just north of downtown San Jose. It was scheduled for 9 AM on a Saturday.
I had left at dusk on Friday. It would be a long night.
As I walked, I took copious mental notes. What did the streets look like. Who took notice of me. The depressingly few vehicles, official or otherwise, and the shantytowns that had grown up.
In past work I had learned the walk of the afraid. This is a subtle thing, involving the opposite of my normal body language and demeanor. Instead of owning the street, I acknowledged that the street in fact owned me. I scurried, looked ahead. When I had to, I faked confidence in such a way that predators could tell I was faking.
This allowed me to blend in with the other scurrying people without attracting attention. Or, as we had found out the hard way, sniper fire.
Street food was for sale. I avoided it. I would not need to eat for the day and a half I planned to be gone.
As intelligence had indicated, there were enough places that the water system was still up that I could resupply the used water bottles in a backpack I was using for a canteen. I filtered through a sock with no real expectation that it would matter much. Fortunately, water does not absorb radiation. My dosimeter film was with my IDs, so only God would know how much dosage I took on this trip.
I had my vantage point all picked out, too. The former Guadalupe Gardens neighborhood, now a park ... but I halted well short when I saw what I saw from the rail overpass.
It was staging. The streets were blocked and a plethora of vehicles, mostly white, were parked along both sides. It was hard to tell at night, but the roadblocks along Coleman were lit - expensively - with gasoline generator powered portable tower lights.
And I could see numerous VTA transit buses in the mix. Just parked, at an angle to maximize space utilization without blocking narrow side streets.
This was not going to be fun. I could not flank north around SJC airport; heavy police patrols and no cover. I did not want to flank south either, as this would cut me through downtown - less well policed, but with its own problems.
So I cut south. The maze of underpasses along 280 east of 87 served me well. So did the hour - after midnight, there was little activity.
I picked a route through the largely abandoned San Jose State, then through Japantown. I needed to get eyeballs on, without putting myself at too much risk. The only answer was to go high. I would need to get fairly close and then get on a roof.
And it nearly cost me my life. I froze in time to see the sniper-observer teams flanking the rooftops on North 1st Street for only one reason. The rifle shot that took the life of the man pushing the shopping cart a hundred yards ahead of me. Probably for no motive other than boredom.
As it echoed and his life's blood sprayed, I froze. Then I very slowly slunk into the bushes. Then I slowly crawled through those bushes to the corner of the business, and around. Out of sight.
I checked the butt of my revolver. Not to shoot back. To make sure that I could still choose whether or not to risk capture.
I sat in those bushes and listened. Was anyone in this building? Dared I force entry? No and yes. The small crowbar allowed me to pry plywood where it had been boarded up. The dust duly informed me it had not been disturbed for some time.
Printing shop. No wonder.
I found access to the single story roof, and climbed up. I slowly shrugged the light gray tarp over my body and shoulders. Only then did I lay out the repurposed rolled yoga mat I had carried all this way, and shifted my weight to it.
I decided not to risk binoculars yet. That could wait for morning.
I slept. No setting alarms; a watch beep could kill me.
###
I woke at gray dawn. I relieved myself in place, getting as little urine on my clothes as I could without shifting my overhead cover.
A crowd had gathered below. The body and cart had disappeared somehow.
I counted a grid and estimated. At least two thousand persons in sight.
The protest was on.
Now I could risk binoculars, briefly, checking for spotters.
I covered the lenses slowly with my hand and lowered them. The sniper observer teams if anything had thickened.
This would be eyes and ears.
I could check my watch. 7 AM. The utterly normal smell of grilling street food from below. Crowd noises. More people gathering. They couldn't approach from west or north any more than I could. So they approached from the east and south.
I carefully counted again. At least five thousand.
At 8 AM exactly, a booming loudspeaker voice echoed over the rumble of engines.
"THIS IS AN UNLAWFUL ASSEMBLY. YOU ARE COMMANDED IN THE NAME OF HOMELAND TO DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY. IF YOU REMAIN YOU WILL BE INTERNED."
The engines were the Homeland armored fighting vehicle, the Mine Resistant Anti Personnel, or MRAP. A quad of big balloon tires surrounding an armored shell.
Two of them. And a line of uniformed men with shields and sticks.
A chant broke out below.
"No Justice, No Peace! No Justice, No Peace!"
This was immediately followed by sirens, shouts and screams.
This was not a protest. This was, however briefly, a riot.
Something told me to check six, to look behind me at the limited angle I could see back down the street to the east.
More vehicles and marching lines of men.
This was no longer a riot. This was a roundup.
The commander's intent was painfully clear. Let them gather to protest. Arrest them all. Shoot those who resist.
I listened in horror as his intent was duly carried out, punctuated by shots as needed.
This is what the transit buses were for. Transport. To the great internment camps being set up in the Central Valley.
All I could do was wait.
I would be a little late getting back to site.
If I did.
I needed to see something for myself. I knew this was an unacceptable risk to the site's security, but with Legal One drafted (literally - as in taken away by military helicopter) and the SLE safely inaccessible in his ivory tower, there was no one to tell me no.
Also, we needed to develop a new capability, and I was the only one whom I could trust to get the ball rolling.
Someone had dropped fliers advertising a protest in downtown San Jose next weekend in several places on campus. In rapid succession, we had recovered several; I had reviewed the microdot code identifying the printer, date and time where it had been printed; Janine and I had gone through the usage logs until we found the print job; traced it back to our own infamous [Oliver Stone]; recovered another dozen or so; then visited him and required him to cough up the remaining four, with a firm warning to Not Do That You Idiot.
Nineteen of twenty had made it into the shredder. I now held the twentieth in my hands, in a dusty abandoned storage room.
I would not be permitting anyone else to attend this event. Especially not our invaluable employees.
But I would go, dressed appropriately for the occasion.
###
My exfiltration from the site was straightforward. I went out with a gathering party and a backpack; left my uniform, all IDs, radio and duty firearm with the other guard in the party; changed into blue jeans, a leather jacket and a T-shirt; and simply walked away from the group, trusting that between the guard and the note I had left for Arturo, my absence would be explained.
This put me alone, on foot, outside the perimeter. A grossly unacceptable risk in itself if it were not utterly necessary.
The protest was to be held outside the Santa Clara County Courthouse (and Jail) just north of downtown San Jose. It was scheduled for 9 AM on a Saturday.
I had left at dusk on Friday. It would be a long night.
As I walked, I took copious mental notes. What did the streets look like. Who took notice of me. The depressingly few vehicles, official or otherwise, and the shantytowns that had grown up.
In past work I had learned the walk of the afraid. This is a subtle thing, involving the opposite of my normal body language and demeanor. Instead of owning the street, I acknowledged that the street in fact owned me. I scurried, looked ahead. When I had to, I faked confidence in such a way that predators could tell I was faking.
This allowed me to blend in with the other scurrying people without attracting attention. Or, as we had found out the hard way, sniper fire.
Street food was for sale. I avoided it. I would not need to eat for the day and a half I planned to be gone.
As intelligence had indicated, there were enough places that the water system was still up that I could resupply the used water bottles in a backpack I was using for a canteen. I filtered through a sock with no real expectation that it would matter much. Fortunately, water does not absorb radiation. My dosimeter film was with my IDs, so only God would know how much dosage I took on this trip.
I had my vantage point all picked out, too. The former Guadalupe Gardens neighborhood, now a park ... but I halted well short when I saw what I saw from the rail overpass.
It was staging. The streets were blocked and a plethora of vehicles, mostly white, were parked along both sides. It was hard to tell at night, but the roadblocks along Coleman were lit - expensively - with gasoline generator powered portable tower lights.
And I could see numerous VTA transit buses in the mix. Just parked, at an angle to maximize space utilization without blocking narrow side streets.
This was not going to be fun. I could not flank north around SJC airport; heavy police patrols and no cover. I did not want to flank south either, as this would cut me through downtown - less well policed, but with its own problems.
So I cut south. The maze of underpasses along 280 east of 87 served me well. So did the hour - after midnight, there was little activity.
I picked a route through the largely abandoned San Jose State, then through Japantown. I needed to get eyeballs on, without putting myself at too much risk. The only answer was to go high. I would need to get fairly close and then get on a roof.
And it nearly cost me my life. I froze in time to see the sniper-observer teams flanking the rooftops on North 1st Street for only one reason. The rifle shot that took the life of the man pushing the shopping cart a hundred yards ahead of me. Probably for no motive other than boredom.
As it echoed and his life's blood sprayed, I froze. Then I very slowly slunk into the bushes. Then I slowly crawled through those bushes to the corner of the business, and around. Out of sight.
I checked the butt of my revolver. Not to shoot back. To make sure that I could still choose whether or not to risk capture.
I sat in those bushes and listened. Was anyone in this building? Dared I force entry? No and yes. The small crowbar allowed me to pry plywood where it had been boarded up. The dust duly informed me it had not been disturbed for some time.
Printing shop. No wonder.
I found access to the single story roof, and climbed up. I slowly shrugged the light gray tarp over my body and shoulders. Only then did I lay out the repurposed rolled yoga mat I had carried all this way, and shifted my weight to it.
I decided not to risk binoculars yet. That could wait for morning.
I slept. No setting alarms; a watch beep could kill me.
###
I woke at gray dawn. I relieved myself in place, getting as little urine on my clothes as I could without shifting my overhead cover.
A crowd had gathered below. The body and cart had disappeared somehow.
I counted a grid and estimated. At least two thousand persons in sight.
The protest was on.
Now I could risk binoculars, briefly, checking for spotters.
I covered the lenses slowly with my hand and lowered them. The sniper observer teams if anything had thickened.
This would be eyes and ears.
I could check my watch. 7 AM. The utterly normal smell of grilling street food from below. Crowd noises. More people gathering. They couldn't approach from west or north any more than I could. So they approached from the east and south.
I carefully counted again. At least five thousand.
At 8 AM exactly, a booming loudspeaker voice echoed over the rumble of engines.
"THIS IS AN UNLAWFUL ASSEMBLY. YOU ARE COMMANDED IN THE NAME OF HOMELAND TO DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY. IF YOU REMAIN YOU WILL BE INTERNED."
The engines were the Homeland armored fighting vehicle, the Mine Resistant Anti Personnel, or MRAP. A quad of big balloon tires surrounding an armored shell.
Two of them. And a line of uniformed men with shields and sticks.
A chant broke out below.
"No Justice, No Peace! No Justice, No Peace!"
This was immediately followed by sirens, shouts and screams.
This was not a protest. This was, however briefly, a riot.
Something told me to check six, to look behind me at the limited angle I could see back down the street to the east.
More vehicles and marching lines of men.
This was no longer a riot. This was a roundup.
The commander's intent was painfully clear. Let them gather to protest. Arrest them all. Shoot those who resist.
I listened in horror as his intent was duly carried out, punctuated by shots as needed.
This is what the transit buses were for. Transport. To the great internment camps being set up in the Central Valley.
All I could do was wait.
I would be a little late getting back to site.
If I did.
no subject
Date: 2018-07-01 08:31 pm (UTC)Ultimately I snake-crawled back to the roof access and back down. I rested in the cool of the abandoned shop, under a desk.
That detail saved my life.
A powerful flashlight shone on the walls as a voice gruffly called out, "Homeland. Come out or we fire."
I did nothing. They'd spotted me and I was dead, or they hadn't spotted me and I'd be dead if I came out. Or some third option, which I would have to play by ear.
A snub nose revolver against helmet and riot armor gave me few good shots. I would have to go for the eyes and nose.
The flashlight turned off and I heard scrabbling noises as the searcher withdrew.
I would have to wait several more hours before it was safe to withdraw ... mid afternoon at least, more likely dusk.
Two of my three potential contacts had hoped to connect with me after the protest. They were gone or they were gone.
The third, I would have to go to her. She'd made it clear that she would go nowhere near a protest. Not paranoia. Not anymore.
GWIT Summit
Date: 2018-07-01 10:07 pm (UTC)Sometimes there is no substitute for a physical meetup.
I was handicapped by recent events ... hiking from South San Jose to downtown, witnessing an attempted protest and its suppression, and evading out of the area in between Homeland and other police patrols.
I was also ravenously hungry but really was not interested in adding alpha or beta radiation to my diet. IF you think food sourcing matters now, just wait until some assholes add aerosol shreds of irradiated San Francisco to the local food chain.
Think of it as fallout. Literally.
I'd heard out [Oliver Stone] and his rants. I'd poo-poohed him, told him to stop spreading rumors, and pointed out (correctly) that he was endangering lives.
I now knew for a fact that he was correct on one point. The 1st Amendment was a dead letter, and the right of the people to peacefully assemble with it.
Now I had to find out how much else he was right about.
The house was buried among many others in the endless grid of streets stretching east of San Jose's downtown. But the density of people was subtly different in the blocks around. Lookouts. And they were switched 100% totally on, and made me long before I made them.
Before I knew it, a nice young man was walking along with me, shaking hands as if he knew me, and then patting me down. He said a word, I said a word. Contact made.
"I'm armed," I volunteered immediately. "Revolver, right front pocket."
"OK," he replied, and kept patting as we walked.
Then he took my arm and led me around a corner where three other men waited.
Out of sight of the street, but still in an alley, they very politely asked me to spread my arms out while they wanded me. The wand wielder was slow, careful and thorough. It would beep for any metallic item, but especially for anything with a battery.
I showed my firearm by the butt to prove that it was indeed a handgun, and not a recorder. Then they crinkle-searched me, a full patdown with no shred of modesty or decency. But very gently and politely.
I expected nothing less.
If I'd been foolish enough to bring electronics, the very best that would have happened would have been being told to get lost and never return. But more likely I'd have been randomly but thoroughly stabbed to death within minutes.
They let me keep the gun. But they blindfolded me. Rather to my surprise, I heard a car pull up, and they seated me in the back.
"Take off the blindfold," she said, and I discovered that I was sitting next to my contact. She was wearing a shapeless black dress with head cover and veil. Almost Islamic, but not quite. I could only see her eyes, which were alert and nuanced.
"The vehicle is safed. We can speak freely. I assume you'd like a ride back to your area when we are done."
I nodded.
"You went to some effort to contact us. What are you in the market for?"
"Information," I said quietly.
"Most people want food. A few want guns. Or more than guns. Everyone wants Geiger counters. You don't want any of these things?"
"Not really. We have other sources, and can cut deals to broker those items some other time. What we need most, only you can get safely."
"We can't get you information safely. It's too traceable. Everyone is scared, no one is talking. Rumors are all over the place but the truth, she is blind and with bloodied feet."
The password.
"Fiat lux," I replied. "Bind her wounds," I added, the second part of the expected reply.
"What do you need to know? And what can you trade?"
This was not going to be fun. I squirmed in my seat, reached behind myself, and removed a gloved item from the one place that hadn't been searched. I could see through her veil that her nose twitched at the sudden smell. I peeled the glove and put the clean item in the cupholder on her side. A USB flash stick.
I hadn't thought out this part, so I wiped my hand on my leg. It wasn't like I was going to smell any worse.
"That is our best informed speculation on what really happened in San Francisco, the most recent pre-Firecracker copy of Wikipedia, and a scanned from microfilm copy of all demographic and property ownership records for the SF Bay Area, current to last December. It's sanitized."
As my hand was not.
"And what do you want in trade?"
"A gift. Perhaps an exchange of gifts. But most of all, what really happened in San Francisco."
"Corporate man. How do I know you are not a government man? Homeland is trying hard to dig us out. We have disposed of several of their agents. They would love to get someone as close to me as you are right now."
I considered the problem.
"Government men are cowards. Corporate men take big risks."
"And you have taken a big risk. So, [Echo 18], how long do you think your facility will survive without you? Weeks? Days? Hours? And what if the attacker has the advantage of having _you_?"
I shook my head.
"I've had contingency plans for my death since Day 1. And we are a no hostage facility."
"I can tell you what really happened in San Francisco. I will not, at this time, give you any proof. That awaits the right moment. My price is an exchange of questions."
I nodded.
"It's a costly question. You need to hear it first. What exactly does your site do for the government, that it is so very important?"
I had just been asked to violate not merely NDAs, or Non Disclosure Agreements, but about half of the National Security Act. With felony criminal penalties that would mean years in Federal prison.
Then again, it was now worth an aggravated treason charge to chant "No Justice, No Peace."
I briefly, baldly told her. It took several sentences.
Her eyebrows went up under her head wrap.
"This explains much. We have seen government forces cleaning up other sites in the Valley. Removing documents and computers. Burn barrels. Shipping containers removed under heavy guard. But not yours."
Then she briefly, baldly told me the answer I had been looking for.
I put my head between my legs to avoid passing out.
When I straightened, my voice was shaky.
"How do you know for sure?"
"I said we would not _give_ you any proof. But we will _show_ you proof."
She removed from the seat pocket in front of her a tablet. Entered a password, opened a PDF file, and passed the tablet over to me.
It was a photo type scan from an original, recognizably on red TS/SCI flash paper.
TS/SCI NOFORN NOCRYPT COPY 2 OF 3
PROJECT FIRECRACKER
I read the first two pages.
I fumbled in the seat pocket ahead of me, in which a vomit bag had been thoughtfully provided. I used it, copiously. As I had not eaten in a day, it was mostly bile.
Then I kept reading. Finished the document.
So I read it again. I looked for clues that this was a forgery. Versioning, pattern matching, word choices. I looked hard and did not see any indicators.
It all matched up far too well. Reichstag fire. Homeland in the wings. All the usual agencies withdrawn, crippled, forward deployed or even castrated.
My eyes met hers.
"So, what are you going to do about it?"
"What we always have. Survive. We lost much in the City, but many preparations elsewhere held. It is not yet time to do anything else. What are _you_ going to do about it?"
Fair question.
"Survive. More will need ... consideration. Montrose's Toast requires a chance of victory, and I see none here."
"Nor do we. Yet."
She signaled the driver and we started moving in the same direction, instead of the prior subtle circling. To drop me off.
I handed the tablet - the tablet that had been so light when I first picked it up - back, heavily. It now weighed of millions of souls. Murdered souls.
"When you have considered, contact us again. Personally, only personally. We will always be in the market for information. No other deals with you."
"I will not become your agent," I warned.
"Agreed. And what little capability we have, we must use to pursue Nike. Or perhaps Athena. Not Hermes. That fight is not ours."
The car came to a halt and I got out, taking the vomit bag with me. The car drove off and someone in the crowd immediately reached for the bag. I gave it to him, then punched him in the stomach and put in a few carefully aimed kicks to his arms and legs. Not to kill but to disable. I then poured the bag out over him and tossed it down.
Everyone stayed the fuck away from me after that.
I walked boldly through a bandit checkpoint, the murderous look on my face sufficient to grant me free passage.
Someone tried to mug me with a knife and I left it under his chin.
In a towering red rage I reached the agreed upon pickup point, and kept going.
I would not be making pickup. Not looking and feeling like this.
I would -- actually -- be infiltrating site instead. And if I got killed doing it, so be it.