GWOT A Hard Call
Jul. 19th, 2018 03:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT A Hard Call
You may remember our perky Deputy Sheriffs, last seen abandoning my co-worker and I along Almaden Expressway - and taking with them (I won't say _stealing_) our battery jumper.
I will give the SO this. They were _trying_. Much like the fire department, which had backed off 90% of its pre-Firecracker work to focus on actual fire fighting, the sheriff was now cheerfully oblivious to many, many things in their focus on what the FBI calls Part I crimes. You know, murder, rape, kidnapping, robbery, murder, more murder.
So I was a little surprised when a single SO squad car came up to the gate and asked for me by name. "Just who is in charge around here?"
Sulking, Shreve gave me a lift to the gate. I limped the last fifty feet to the entry point.
"Good afternoon, Deputy, what can we do for you?"
I recognized him. He recognized me. Last seen headed northbound on Almaden at a high rate of speed, completely unnecessarily, and giving me an unpleasant walk home.
"I'm investigating murder charges. Apparently a convoy of white trucks, and one with barbed wire, shot four men at the 101 underpass."
"It's shocking how things are nowadays. I seem to recall uniformed sheriff's deputies attempting to commit armed robbery in broad daylight."
He blinked.
"You know, we would like our charger back if you're quite done with it."
It was indelibly marked [CLIENT] SECURITY in melted plastic letters on the case.
"About the shootings."
"Terrible things keep happening, just terrible. What I hear is that the men tried to barricade a rescue convoy and charge it a "toll," which I believe is all the elements for armed robbery. The convoy tried to leave, and they wouldn't allow that. False imprisonment, perhaps attempted kidnapping. At least, that's what I hear."
"Would any of these terrible things be perhaps video recorded?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Depends."
"There's no statute of limitations on murder," the deputy pointed out. The suicidally brave deputy, if we were the little least bit less than fully law abiding.
I sighed, wrestling with the urge to say "Tell that to Homeland!"
But it wouldn't be healthy, in any sense. A good touchstone for this business: if it felt good to say it, you probably shouldn't have.
"Are the courts back up? Because there's a process."
"No. Suspects are interned."
I let my eyes do the rolling.
"Yes, I know, but we have to do _something_."
"You see my position," I agreed. "Here's what I'll do. Ride along on our next convoy. I will give you the opportunity to directly observe and comment on our actions. We might even follow your directions, if they make sense and aren't too crazy."
"When?"
"About twenty minutes. You can park that rig inside, I'm assuming you won't want to lend official color to our activities. I can spot you a cover jacket, or roll in khaki if you want."
"You're crazy."
"You want to see how it rolls out here? It'll have to be a short run, have to get you back here in time to get you back to Younger Street before dusk."
###
And that's the true story of how I invited a deputy sheriff along on a convoy run.
###
Pre convoy briefing. A huddle of drivers, guards and a few contract workers. And a deputy sheriff, wearing his armor and helmet.
"Mission: check our underground electrical connection from here to substation, check our east side water supply main, verify route clearance. Recon and clear culvert and drainage at [redacted] street crossing.
"Per standard SOP, we will stop at each manhole cover access and check our seals for tampering. We will deploy twice - once to check the pump house structure, once to clear the culvert. We will not stay stopped for more than ten (10) minutes.
"Hate Truck in the lead. Command truck second - our guest will ride with me. Flatbed with wire framing and Facilities crew third. Van carrying personnel fourth. Tail gunner truck fifth.
"Primary rally point is Point One. Secondary rally point is the next major intersection. Tertiary rally point is the former perimeter camp.
"Questions?"
None. This was a milk run.
We broke up and proceeded to our vehicles. The deputy was surprised when I gave him the shotgun position and rode behind him. He shouldn't have been. I wanted to avoid being the subject of a dreadful accident. If one had to happen, I preferred to be the cause.
The East Gate rolled the kick-out barriers out of our way. These were concrete Jersey barriers precariously balanced on welded metal rollers made from shopping carts. If the rollers were removed, the Jersey barrier wasn't going anywhere until we moved it with heavy equipment.
We rolled out.
"Hate to Lead, observing personnel gathered at major intersection."
And indeed there were. A loose crowd of people, from clothing and appearance scavengers.
The Hate Truck's siren gave a squawk and they scattered out of the road. We followed in order.
Following doctrine, the tail gunner truck - with her machine gun mounted in a center pedestal rather than a forward pedestal mount for this exact reason - swiveled to not quite point at them.
"Does that happen much?" the deputy asked.
"Does what happen much?"
"People blocking the road."
"They were just hanging out. Not much traffic, you see."
"Oh.
We suddenly went into herringbone formation, Hate Truck to the left, us to the right, following vehicles alternating with the tailgunner truck staying center but ready to go in any direction.
"Dismount!"
Suddenly the street was full of guards and our weapons; workers and their tools. We didn't have Mo with us today, but we had one of his apprentices. Just in case. The only people who stayed aboard vehicles were the drivers.
"What are we doing?" asked the deputy.
In answer we moved to a small, half-height building surrounded by a waist high plastic fence wired to garden stakes. Not worth stealing, just a symbol of ownership. Every fifty feet along it, a printed sign in laminated plastic, "PRIVATE KEEP OUT NO TRESPASSING" bearing a skull and crossbones.
The flanking team confirmed the back of the building was clear. Then and only then did we open the incongruous wooden gate - not locked, but wired with a single twist of wire - and enter.
Our bomb tech inspected the padlock and hasp, gave a thumbs up. A guard approached and used a key to open it. Then both went inside.
Only when one walked out some distance away, and gave a thumbs up, were they then joined by a Facilities person.
Anti hostage precaution. If someone had tried to hold them at gunpoint, that someone wouldn't allow a hostage to escape.
When the Facilities man completed his brief inspection, mostly to check for leaks, I motioned the deputy forward.
We entered. It was an ugly cinder block building with a concrete floor, containing large diameter metal pipes and valves. It had a (non-working) alarm system and a few (also non-working) power outlets. The metal roll up door, meant for long-term replacement of parts, was covered on the outside with sandbags and inside with plywood over 2x4s. Actually, it was double plywood, but the sandbags concealed the plywood from the outside.
Painted on the wall was a message.
"Life Support System. This system directly supports human life. Vandalism or damage to this system will not be tolerated. [CLIENT] Security." Our phone number, as it was not working, had been spray painted out.
"What is this?"
"Half of our water supply from the municipal mains."
The deputy idly kicked at the floor where there were some darker stains.
"What happened here?"
"Huh?"
"The stains."
I looked. The Facilities person volunteered, "That's where the fire pump was. We pulled it and took it back to site. Doesn't have the run time to be useful out here."
Well lied, I thought. There were no bolts or brackets for the anti-vibration mount. Just a large spreading stain which we could blame on leaking oil.
"Huh," the deputy echoed, and we clambered out to the vehicles.
A few people watched, from a good fifty yards of distance. There weren't enough of them for either the Hate Truck or tailgunner to muzzle them.
We mounted up and kept going.
This had been a mixed use neighborhood, some light industrial, some single family homes, some apartment complexes. It was now almost entirely residential, much of it shantytown housing.
We circled around and took, as planned, a different route back towards the site.
As the road crossed the creek, we followed an unusual maneuver to get over the culvert. The Hate Truck punched it. Then it was our turn in the lead vehicle.
With the convoy divided on either side, we suddenly dismounted, no herringbone, and converged on the sides of the road and the culvert angrily, shouting, weapons up. This time gunners stayed with their weapons and drivers kept their engines running.
"[COMPANY] Security! [COMPANY] Security!" we shouted as we rushed both sides of the culvert, bomb tech in the lead with his pistol out.
But we were strangely spaced -- each team member at least five yards from each other team member, except that the deputy was next to me.
One of the Facilities people, otherwise unarmed, was carrying an extremely powerful battery powered spotlight. He lit up the culvert from one side.
"Hey!" shouted someone inside it.
"Come out with your hands up!" a guard ordered.
"What the fuck?"
"[COMPANY] Security! Come out with your hands up! Now!"
The deputy watched as the man came out. Very ragged, layers of filthy clothing. Possibly homeless before the Firecracker. Definitely homeless now.
"What do you fuckers want?"
The guard clearly considered several replies, then answered carefully.
"It's very dangerous in there. The radiation."
"Huh?"
One of the other guards advanced with our literally priceless Geiger counter.
Fallout is concentrated by drainage. Whether he knew it or not, the homeless man had been sleeping in and among radioactive particles.
The man held still as the wand swept over him, and the counter clicked wildly.
Meanwhile our bomb tech and Facilities tech were inspecting the culvert interior.
"Have him go get his stuff," the bomb tech said quietly.
A few minutes later, the homeless man was walking away, grumbling, carrying the two plastic trash bags that were his life's possessions.
He would be dead soon. Not only had the drainage concentrated the radiation, but being in the culvert had assured that he had breathed some of the radioactive particles in. He was already starting to cough up blood.
We didn't care. That was all his problem. What we cared about is that the culvert not be plugged up with stuff. Or his body. We needed this route to be clear.
We also didn't want the culvert rigged with an Improvised Explosive Device - an IED - to kill passing vehicles. These frequent checks, while hazardous, posed a risk to potential bombers who might be caught while placing a device.
A body is an excellent place to conceal an IED.
We mounted back up.
"Aren't you going to decontaminate?" the deputy asked.
"We'll wash our boots, shoes and feet when we get back. But you notice we all have particle masks and wear them when it gets dusty. We also have dosimeters for the convoy's exposure and certain key staff have film badges." I showed mine as an example - one of three in the convoy. One was taped to the windshield of the Hate Truck and one was taped to the windshield of the personnel carrier. I was the only Essential Site Person on the convoy.
We mounted up again and trundled back to the site almost without incident.
Someone threw a rock at the Hate Truck. Both the Hate Truck gunner and the tail gunner swiveled their guns to point at him. He ran. They did not fire.
The deputy noticed, as he noticed everything else.
On our return, he saw how we decontaminated our feet, did so as well, shook my hand, retrieved his vehicle and left the site.
Hopefully he'd learned something.
I found out much later that he had. But that was after two deputy sheriffs had died from accumulated radiation exposure.
You may remember our perky Deputy Sheriffs, last seen abandoning my co-worker and I along Almaden Expressway - and taking with them (I won't say _stealing_) our battery jumper.
I will give the SO this. They were _trying_. Much like the fire department, which had backed off 90% of its pre-Firecracker work to focus on actual fire fighting, the sheriff was now cheerfully oblivious to many, many things in their focus on what the FBI calls Part I crimes. You know, murder, rape, kidnapping, robbery, murder, more murder.
So I was a little surprised when a single SO squad car came up to the gate and asked for me by name. "Just who is in charge around here?"
Sulking, Shreve gave me a lift to the gate. I limped the last fifty feet to the entry point.
"Good afternoon, Deputy, what can we do for you?"
I recognized him. He recognized me. Last seen headed northbound on Almaden at a high rate of speed, completely unnecessarily, and giving me an unpleasant walk home.
"I'm investigating murder charges. Apparently a convoy of white trucks, and one with barbed wire, shot four men at the 101 underpass."
"It's shocking how things are nowadays. I seem to recall uniformed sheriff's deputies attempting to commit armed robbery in broad daylight."
He blinked.
"You know, we would like our charger back if you're quite done with it."
It was indelibly marked [CLIENT] SECURITY in melted plastic letters on the case.
"About the shootings."
"Terrible things keep happening, just terrible. What I hear is that the men tried to barricade a rescue convoy and charge it a "toll," which I believe is all the elements for armed robbery. The convoy tried to leave, and they wouldn't allow that. False imprisonment, perhaps attempted kidnapping. At least, that's what I hear."
"Would any of these terrible things be perhaps video recorded?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Depends."
"There's no statute of limitations on murder," the deputy pointed out. The suicidally brave deputy, if we were the little least bit less than fully law abiding.
I sighed, wrestling with the urge to say "Tell that to Homeland!"
But it wouldn't be healthy, in any sense. A good touchstone for this business: if it felt good to say it, you probably shouldn't have.
"Are the courts back up? Because there's a process."
"No. Suspects are interned."
I let my eyes do the rolling.
"Yes, I know, but we have to do _something_."
"You see my position," I agreed. "Here's what I'll do. Ride along on our next convoy. I will give you the opportunity to directly observe and comment on our actions. We might even follow your directions, if they make sense and aren't too crazy."
"When?"
"About twenty minutes. You can park that rig inside, I'm assuming you won't want to lend official color to our activities. I can spot you a cover jacket, or roll in khaki if you want."
"You're crazy."
"You want to see how it rolls out here? It'll have to be a short run, have to get you back here in time to get you back to Younger Street before dusk."
###
And that's the true story of how I invited a deputy sheriff along on a convoy run.
###
Pre convoy briefing. A huddle of drivers, guards and a few contract workers. And a deputy sheriff, wearing his armor and helmet.
"Mission: check our underground electrical connection from here to substation, check our east side water supply main, verify route clearance. Recon and clear culvert and drainage at [redacted] street crossing.
"Per standard SOP, we will stop at each manhole cover access and check our seals for tampering. We will deploy twice - once to check the pump house structure, once to clear the culvert. We will not stay stopped for more than ten (10) minutes.
"Hate Truck in the lead. Command truck second - our guest will ride with me. Flatbed with wire framing and Facilities crew third. Van carrying personnel fourth. Tail gunner truck fifth.
"Primary rally point is Point One. Secondary rally point is the next major intersection. Tertiary rally point is the former perimeter camp.
"Questions?"
None. This was a milk run.
We broke up and proceeded to our vehicles. The deputy was surprised when I gave him the shotgun position and rode behind him. He shouldn't have been. I wanted to avoid being the subject of a dreadful accident. If one had to happen, I preferred to be the cause.
The East Gate rolled the kick-out barriers out of our way. These were concrete Jersey barriers precariously balanced on welded metal rollers made from shopping carts. If the rollers were removed, the Jersey barrier wasn't going anywhere until we moved it with heavy equipment.
We rolled out.
"Hate to Lead, observing personnel gathered at major intersection."
And indeed there were. A loose crowd of people, from clothing and appearance scavengers.
The Hate Truck's siren gave a squawk and they scattered out of the road. We followed in order.
Following doctrine, the tail gunner truck - with her machine gun mounted in a center pedestal rather than a forward pedestal mount for this exact reason - swiveled to not quite point at them.
"Does that happen much?" the deputy asked.
"Does what happen much?"
"People blocking the road."
"They were just hanging out. Not much traffic, you see."
"Oh.
We suddenly went into herringbone formation, Hate Truck to the left, us to the right, following vehicles alternating with the tailgunner truck staying center but ready to go in any direction.
"Dismount!"
Suddenly the street was full of guards and our weapons; workers and their tools. We didn't have Mo with us today, but we had one of his apprentices. Just in case. The only people who stayed aboard vehicles were the drivers.
"What are we doing?" asked the deputy.
In answer we moved to a small, half-height building surrounded by a waist high plastic fence wired to garden stakes. Not worth stealing, just a symbol of ownership. Every fifty feet along it, a printed sign in laminated plastic, "PRIVATE KEEP OUT NO TRESPASSING" bearing a skull and crossbones.
The flanking team confirmed the back of the building was clear. Then and only then did we open the incongruous wooden gate - not locked, but wired with a single twist of wire - and enter.
Our bomb tech inspected the padlock and hasp, gave a thumbs up. A guard approached and used a key to open it. Then both went inside.
Only when one walked out some distance away, and gave a thumbs up, were they then joined by a Facilities person.
Anti hostage precaution. If someone had tried to hold them at gunpoint, that someone wouldn't allow a hostage to escape.
When the Facilities man completed his brief inspection, mostly to check for leaks, I motioned the deputy forward.
We entered. It was an ugly cinder block building with a concrete floor, containing large diameter metal pipes and valves. It had a (non-working) alarm system and a few (also non-working) power outlets. The metal roll up door, meant for long-term replacement of parts, was covered on the outside with sandbags and inside with plywood over 2x4s. Actually, it was double plywood, but the sandbags concealed the plywood from the outside.
Painted on the wall was a message.
"Life Support System. This system directly supports human life. Vandalism or damage to this system will not be tolerated. [CLIENT] Security." Our phone number, as it was not working, had been spray painted out.
"What is this?"
"Half of our water supply from the municipal mains."
The deputy idly kicked at the floor where there were some darker stains.
"What happened here?"
"Huh?"
"The stains."
I looked. The Facilities person volunteered, "That's where the fire pump was. We pulled it and took it back to site. Doesn't have the run time to be useful out here."
Well lied, I thought. There were no bolts or brackets for the anti-vibration mount. Just a large spreading stain which we could blame on leaking oil.
"Huh," the deputy echoed, and we clambered out to the vehicles.
A few people watched, from a good fifty yards of distance. There weren't enough of them for either the Hate Truck or tailgunner to muzzle them.
We mounted up and kept going.
This had been a mixed use neighborhood, some light industrial, some single family homes, some apartment complexes. It was now almost entirely residential, much of it shantytown housing.
We circled around and took, as planned, a different route back towards the site.
As the road crossed the creek, we followed an unusual maneuver to get over the culvert. The Hate Truck punched it. Then it was our turn in the lead vehicle.
With the convoy divided on either side, we suddenly dismounted, no herringbone, and converged on the sides of the road and the culvert angrily, shouting, weapons up. This time gunners stayed with their weapons and drivers kept their engines running.
"[COMPANY] Security! [COMPANY] Security!" we shouted as we rushed both sides of the culvert, bomb tech in the lead with his pistol out.
But we were strangely spaced -- each team member at least five yards from each other team member, except that the deputy was next to me.
One of the Facilities people, otherwise unarmed, was carrying an extremely powerful battery powered spotlight. He lit up the culvert from one side.
"Hey!" shouted someone inside it.
"Come out with your hands up!" a guard ordered.
"What the fuck?"
"[COMPANY] Security! Come out with your hands up! Now!"
The deputy watched as the man came out. Very ragged, layers of filthy clothing. Possibly homeless before the Firecracker. Definitely homeless now.
"What do you fuckers want?"
The guard clearly considered several replies, then answered carefully.
"It's very dangerous in there. The radiation."
"Huh?"
One of the other guards advanced with our literally priceless Geiger counter.
Fallout is concentrated by drainage. Whether he knew it or not, the homeless man had been sleeping in and among radioactive particles.
The man held still as the wand swept over him, and the counter clicked wildly.
Meanwhile our bomb tech and Facilities tech were inspecting the culvert interior.
"Have him go get his stuff," the bomb tech said quietly.
A few minutes later, the homeless man was walking away, grumbling, carrying the two plastic trash bags that were his life's possessions.
He would be dead soon. Not only had the drainage concentrated the radiation, but being in the culvert had assured that he had breathed some of the radioactive particles in. He was already starting to cough up blood.
We didn't care. That was all his problem. What we cared about is that the culvert not be plugged up with stuff. Or his body. We needed this route to be clear.
We also didn't want the culvert rigged with an Improvised Explosive Device - an IED - to kill passing vehicles. These frequent checks, while hazardous, posed a risk to potential bombers who might be caught while placing a device.
A body is an excellent place to conceal an IED.
We mounted back up.
"Aren't you going to decontaminate?" the deputy asked.
"We'll wash our boots, shoes and feet when we get back. But you notice we all have particle masks and wear them when it gets dusty. We also have dosimeters for the convoy's exposure and certain key staff have film badges." I showed mine as an example - one of three in the convoy. One was taped to the windshield of the Hate Truck and one was taped to the windshield of the personnel carrier. I was the only Essential Site Person on the convoy.
We mounted up again and trundled back to the site almost without incident.
Someone threw a rock at the Hate Truck. Both the Hate Truck gunner and the tail gunner swiveled their guns to point at him. He ran. They did not fire.
The deputy noticed, as he noticed everything else.
On our return, he saw how we decontaminated our feet, did so as well, shook my hand, retrieved his vehicle and left the site.
Hopefully he'd learned something.
I found out much later that he had. But that was after two deputy sheriffs had died from accumulated radiation exposure.
