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.
