GWOT Wired Up
Nov. 26th, 2018 03:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT Wired Up
When did I go from full out convoy ops to chairborne meeting whore?
It was a gradual transition. They kept pulling me out of the one seat -- passenger side of a four wheel drive - and into the other -- generally end seat of a long conference table.
Then they started scheduling the meetings before sunup (i.e. before convoy departure) or after dusk (i.e. after we had set the perimeter up for the night).
The usual suspects were at every meeting: Site Operations, Facilities, Logistics, HR, Finance, and the vendors who kept us alive - Cafeteria, Space Planning (read: moving crew), Landscaping, Janitorial and yours truly, Security.
Today we were talking about wire. Facilities had pointed out, correctly, that they maintained the _existing_ physical plant. This made the construction of perimeter defenses New Construction, which required that it fall under Site Ops -- with the stuff to come from Logistics and a new budget line opened by Finance.
In other words, we're all dead soon. Anything owned by three departments was accomplished by none.
i pointed this out. This resulted promptly in the usual punishment - the project was given to Security for immediate implementation. Logistics was reminded that for this purpose, they were the lead department's bitch... meaning that when I requisitioned all the fencing material we had painfully acquired, they had to give it all back.
So what I needed now was person hours. My guards needed to _guard_ which is a very different thing from setting fenceposts and stringing wire.
I was told to "figure it out," a polite way of telling us to pound sand.
After the meeting I cornered the cafeteria manager.
"Give me two cooks and no questions," I muttered. "And we're going to be bringing in less food. Just. Don't. Ask."
That morning, a hearty breakfast (of oats fit for animal consumption, grudgingly passed for human consumption by an enraged vet surgeon after I ate a bowl in front of her) was served out in the perimeter camp. People cried. This was the first food some of them had for three days.
I took care to carry a riot shotgun for the next announcement. A non-rushable fifty yards away, Brooke stared calmly over the barrel of her highly illegal automatic rifle.
"All able bodied adults capable of working will report to the west side of the encampment now. If you are not capable of working, report to the medic for sick call. If you do neither, you will be expelled from the South Gate at noon."
As word spread, some people trickled in the necessary directions. But some gathered in front of me. I unslung and racked the riot shotgun.
"Work or leave," I stated again.
Or die. There was always option three.
The guards supervised our laborers. Logistics grimly brought out rolls of barbed wire and straight wire. And one precious, precious roll of razor wire - concertina wire - formed in a big circle. I immediately pointed it out to Sharon and George.
"Yes!" George shouted triumphantly.
"North gate. Close it," I directed. "And be careful with that shit."
Concertina wire likes to cut people in half. It's under tension at rest... imagine what it's like when you put tension on it. Particularly favored for prison fencing, international borders, and battlefields. In other words, us and now.
For the rest we would run two strands. Top wire, barbed. Bottom wire, straight - i.e. not barbed. Occasional signage. We would run out of wire long before we ran out of perimeter, but it's the thought that counts.
We called a lunch break at noon. Again, food was served in the perimeter camp, by portions. Sick call got watery soup that a chicken had been waved over.
Using wrapped cloth instead of gloves, and inadequate footwear, we had some injuries. But we were on the spot with first aid, and profane advice not to do that ... again.
The convoy went out, under Arturo. I clenched my teeth the entire time they were gone, too. But fledglings gotta fly sometime.
I rode my (stolen, as with pretty much everything else) bicycle over to the electrical substation. It had decent fencing, and a half decent alarm system that would work if it hadn't been vandalized years ago, in that idyllic time before San Francisco's vaporization.
I looked around, I muttered a bit. Then I braced one of the Facilities electricians and explained what I wanted.
He looked like he wanted to piss himself. It wasn't eagerness. It was the desire to physically express his opinion of my abject stupidity.
I explained a bit further.
"So... you _don't_ want it hooked up?" he asked, puzzled. Now we were getting somewhere.
"No. But I want it to look like it is hooked up."
We decoupled our alarm system. A transformer was procured. Some wiring was done. And by the time we were done, it looked like there were two heavy thick cables leading from the step-downs to the transformer, then to the fence, and some plastic signs hastily put up.
"Electric Fence!" they warned. Printed neatly underneath, by a child in the perimeter camp, "6,000 VOLTS AC."
I stood next to the electrician as he installed the rocker switch -- damn near an entire electrical panel by itself -- and wired up one of the cables. I watched carefully as he made the connection inside the live cabinet.
The fence was connected to ground, not to the transformer. This was a necessary precaution against fallen power lines or lightning strikes.
The other line - the hot line, the return line - was carefully wrapped and secured in such a way that it was NOT connected.
I made sure I thoroughly understood the wiring.
People started giving the electrical substation a very wide berth. As I'd intended.
The convoy returned. Arturo briefed me. No casualties. But there'd been a confrontation. As they were approaching one of the sites on our list, a cloud of dust that had caused Arturo to take no chances and give a wide berth. H5's optics had identified them after the fact. Sheriff's Office. Rescue vehicle in the lead, three trucks, six SUVs.
They'd gotten to the chicken farm first. Damn.
So as a poor second best, Arturo had taken the convoy to the South County Animal Shelter and nearly had to put down a riot among his own personnel. On the way back, they'd raided unfenced orchards for lemons and oranges - which had to be run through radiation survey.
But there was meat in the pot tonight for the dependent camp.
You don't get a lot of choices, in Apocalypse.
###
I woke in the dark, in my cage. I checked my watch by pressing the button. 0300. Excellent.
I did not even put on my duty belt. I needed my radio, two keys and a handgun - the rest would just get in my way. And a single tube of dark mascara.
I locked myself out of my cage and made my way to the 2nd nearest emergency exit. In a hideous violation of security procedures, I'd left it bypassed at 2200. That meant it would open without alarms, from the inside.
In the shade between a low wall and the building corner, I applied the mascara to my face, reducing shine. Not an affectation, a necessity.
I slowly, carefully walked across the perimeter parking lot - between patrols, because I set the timings - then back to the electrical substation.
My key opened the perimeter personnel gate to the substation. The camera was pointed off at a weird angle, another detail I'd seen to. The electrician's tools were as he'd left them. I took my otherwise useless phone out, took a photo of them so I could put them back exactly the same way.
Then I got myself a low ladder and touched the fence. Best to get this over with quickly if ... nothing happened.
I double checked the position of the switch on the panel. Twice.
Then, working one handed wearing a heavy insulated asbestos glove that wouldn't matter worth a damn, I unwrapped then wired in the hot line to the switch.
If I fucked this up, the best case was that I would fry myself. The worst case was that I would fry myself and knock down power to the site as well.
I did not fry. I disconnected the ground from the panel and wrapped it, making it look like no work had been done inside the box.
Now if someone flicked the switch - with a breaker bar, because it was too much to do by hand - instant electrified fence. 14,000 volts at an amperage not worth thinking about.
I locked the breaker bar I had hidden nearby earlier down with a padlock keyed only to the site master key. Other breaker bars were kept in the locked substation, but it would take time and knowledge to go get them.
I put the tools back exactly as I had found them.
I would, as time and convenience permitted, train each of the security leads on how to turn the electrical substation into a final defensive redoubt. Unlock this lock, flick this bar - one handed if you please! - and make sure everyone you want to have survive is in a vehicle with tires or a grounded building such as this one.
I'd knowingly violated about half the Fire Code and absolutely everything in the National Electrical Code. In peacetime people go to jail for this kind of shit.
But in an apocalypse you do what you gotta do.
I made it back inside before twilight began, and resigned myself to pretending I'd gotten a night of sleep. Again.
When did I go from full out convoy ops to chairborne meeting whore?
It was a gradual transition. They kept pulling me out of the one seat -- passenger side of a four wheel drive - and into the other -- generally end seat of a long conference table.
Then they started scheduling the meetings before sunup (i.e. before convoy departure) or after dusk (i.e. after we had set the perimeter up for the night).
The usual suspects were at every meeting: Site Operations, Facilities, Logistics, HR, Finance, and the vendors who kept us alive - Cafeteria, Space Planning (read: moving crew), Landscaping, Janitorial and yours truly, Security.
Today we were talking about wire. Facilities had pointed out, correctly, that they maintained the _existing_ physical plant. This made the construction of perimeter defenses New Construction, which required that it fall under Site Ops -- with the stuff to come from Logistics and a new budget line opened by Finance.
In other words, we're all dead soon. Anything owned by three departments was accomplished by none.
i pointed this out. This resulted promptly in the usual punishment - the project was given to Security for immediate implementation. Logistics was reminded that for this purpose, they were the lead department's bitch... meaning that when I requisitioned all the fencing material we had painfully acquired, they had to give it all back.
So what I needed now was person hours. My guards needed to _guard_ which is a very different thing from setting fenceposts and stringing wire.
I was told to "figure it out," a polite way of telling us to pound sand.
After the meeting I cornered the cafeteria manager.
"Give me two cooks and no questions," I muttered. "And we're going to be bringing in less food. Just. Don't. Ask."
That morning, a hearty breakfast (of oats fit for animal consumption, grudgingly passed for human consumption by an enraged vet surgeon after I ate a bowl in front of her) was served out in the perimeter camp. People cried. This was the first food some of them had for three days.
I took care to carry a riot shotgun for the next announcement. A non-rushable fifty yards away, Brooke stared calmly over the barrel of her highly illegal automatic rifle.
"All able bodied adults capable of working will report to the west side of the encampment now. If you are not capable of working, report to the medic for sick call. If you do neither, you will be expelled from the South Gate at noon."
As word spread, some people trickled in the necessary directions. But some gathered in front of me. I unslung and racked the riot shotgun.
"Work or leave," I stated again.
Or die. There was always option three.
The guards supervised our laborers. Logistics grimly brought out rolls of barbed wire and straight wire. And one precious, precious roll of razor wire - concertina wire - formed in a big circle. I immediately pointed it out to Sharon and George.
"Yes!" George shouted triumphantly.
"North gate. Close it," I directed. "And be careful with that shit."
Concertina wire likes to cut people in half. It's under tension at rest... imagine what it's like when you put tension on it. Particularly favored for prison fencing, international borders, and battlefields. In other words, us and now.
For the rest we would run two strands. Top wire, barbed. Bottom wire, straight - i.e. not barbed. Occasional signage. We would run out of wire long before we ran out of perimeter, but it's the thought that counts.
We called a lunch break at noon. Again, food was served in the perimeter camp, by portions. Sick call got watery soup that a chicken had been waved over.
Using wrapped cloth instead of gloves, and inadequate footwear, we had some injuries. But we were on the spot with first aid, and profane advice not to do that ... again.
The convoy went out, under Arturo. I clenched my teeth the entire time they were gone, too. But fledglings gotta fly sometime.
I rode my (stolen, as with pretty much everything else) bicycle over to the electrical substation. It had decent fencing, and a half decent alarm system that would work if it hadn't been vandalized years ago, in that idyllic time before San Francisco's vaporization.
I looked around, I muttered a bit. Then I braced one of the Facilities electricians and explained what I wanted.
He looked like he wanted to piss himself. It wasn't eagerness. It was the desire to physically express his opinion of my abject stupidity.
I explained a bit further.
"So... you _don't_ want it hooked up?" he asked, puzzled. Now we were getting somewhere.
"No. But I want it to look like it is hooked up."
We decoupled our alarm system. A transformer was procured. Some wiring was done. And by the time we were done, it looked like there were two heavy thick cables leading from the step-downs to the transformer, then to the fence, and some plastic signs hastily put up.
"Electric Fence!" they warned. Printed neatly underneath, by a child in the perimeter camp, "6,000 VOLTS AC."
I stood next to the electrician as he installed the rocker switch -- damn near an entire electrical panel by itself -- and wired up one of the cables. I watched carefully as he made the connection inside the live cabinet.
The fence was connected to ground, not to the transformer. This was a necessary precaution against fallen power lines or lightning strikes.
The other line - the hot line, the return line - was carefully wrapped and secured in such a way that it was NOT connected.
I made sure I thoroughly understood the wiring.
People started giving the electrical substation a very wide berth. As I'd intended.
The convoy returned. Arturo briefed me. No casualties. But there'd been a confrontation. As they were approaching one of the sites on our list, a cloud of dust that had caused Arturo to take no chances and give a wide berth. H5's optics had identified them after the fact. Sheriff's Office. Rescue vehicle in the lead, three trucks, six SUVs.
They'd gotten to the chicken farm first. Damn.
So as a poor second best, Arturo had taken the convoy to the South County Animal Shelter and nearly had to put down a riot among his own personnel. On the way back, they'd raided unfenced orchards for lemons and oranges - which had to be run through radiation survey.
But there was meat in the pot tonight for the dependent camp.
You don't get a lot of choices, in Apocalypse.
###
I woke in the dark, in my cage. I checked my watch by pressing the button. 0300. Excellent.
I did not even put on my duty belt. I needed my radio, two keys and a handgun - the rest would just get in my way. And a single tube of dark mascara.
I locked myself out of my cage and made my way to the 2nd nearest emergency exit. In a hideous violation of security procedures, I'd left it bypassed at 2200. That meant it would open without alarms, from the inside.
In the shade between a low wall and the building corner, I applied the mascara to my face, reducing shine. Not an affectation, a necessity.
I slowly, carefully walked across the perimeter parking lot - between patrols, because I set the timings - then back to the electrical substation.
My key opened the perimeter personnel gate to the substation. The camera was pointed off at a weird angle, another detail I'd seen to. The electrician's tools were as he'd left them. I took my otherwise useless phone out, took a photo of them so I could put them back exactly the same way.
Then I got myself a low ladder and touched the fence. Best to get this over with quickly if ... nothing happened.
I double checked the position of the switch on the panel. Twice.
Then, working one handed wearing a heavy insulated asbestos glove that wouldn't matter worth a damn, I unwrapped then wired in the hot line to the switch.
If I fucked this up, the best case was that I would fry myself. The worst case was that I would fry myself and knock down power to the site as well.
I did not fry. I disconnected the ground from the panel and wrapped it, making it look like no work had been done inside the box.
Now if someone flicked the switch - with a breaker bar, because it was too much to do by hand - instant electrified fence. 14,000 volts at an amperage not worth thinking about.
I locked the breaker bar I had hidden nearby earlier down with a padlock keyed only to the site master key. Other breaker bars were kept in the locked substation, but it would take time and knowledge to go get them.
I put the tools back exactly as I had found them.
I would, as time and convenience permitted, train each of the security leads on how to turn the electrical substation into a final defensive redoubt. Unlock this lock, flick this bar - one handed if you please! - and make sure everyone you want to have survive is in a vehicle with tires or a grounded building such as this one.
I'd knowingly violated about half the Fire Code and absolutely everything in the National Electrical Code. In peacetime people go to jail for this kind of shit.
But in an apocalypse you do what you gotta do.
I made it back inside before twilight began, and resigned myself to pretending I'd gotten a night of sleep. Again.
