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drewkittyGWOT V - San Francisco Rescue and Recovery Project
"And it's go [folks] go
They'll time your every breath
And every day you're in this place
You're two days nearer death
But you go...."
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition, original version titled The Chemical Worker's Song at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GzcGOgxDoEk, altered lyrics in [brackets]
There are two notes with the orders assigning me to visit the San Francisco Rescue & Recovery Project.
One states that the uniform is undress, and that the decon process will damage Class A uniform items.
The other states that the wearing of a firearm is 'discouraged.'
I don't want to be here, and literally thousands of people want me dead, so I dress (with difficulty, as I no longer can lean on my orderly, because I don't have one) a little less than accordingly.
The bus picks us up in front of the hotel. I am one of two officers wearing a handgun. Her eyes meet mine, and we nod.
It's a tour group, I suppose. A third of us are in business suits with IDs. California Republic managers. I suppose something's going to damage all those nice suits, or our briefing pack was crap. A third of us are in undress military uniforms. The last third are in jeans and T-shirts. Guessing they got a better briefing pack.
The tour guide stops the female armed officer.
"No guns."
She gets off the bus. I don't bother to board.
It leaves.
We look at each other.
"Captain Larson. Infantry."
"Captain 18. Border Ops."
"Lucky you. Which sector?"
"Don't know yet. You?"
"Sierras. Truckee Sector now."
We've both seen the elephant. Although I haven't come any closer to the Border than Sacramento. Yet.
I matter of factly hail a cab.
"Follow that bus," I order, and the oddly colored toilet paper in my hand motivates the driver to do so.
###
The bus drives through a security control point. Big sign. "San Francisco Rescue & Recovery Project. John Daly Gate."
We pull into the passenger drop off and the taxi driver leaves, with some of my colored paper.
We check in with the sentry. We both show our orders.
He gets his sergeant. The sergeant gets his lieutenant.
The lieutenant sighs.
"This is legally part of the City and County of San Francisco. And they are big on the no guns thing. I am guessing that neither of you will voluntarily disarm, and that you have what you think are good reasons, even though we have gun lockers and a nice chain of custody form."
We nod.
"Shit."
"And you don't mind having your handguns deconned. Because you're not carrying for fun or for show."
We nod again.
"I'll call Sergeant Alvarez, San Francisco PD. And it's not going to go well."
###
Sergeant Alvarez was in full uniform as a San Francisco Police Officer. Immaculate. Class A in every detail. No Taser. They didn't have Tasers on Firecracker Day, so they don't carry Tasers now.
It doesn't go well. But in me he's met his match.
I point out that under the California Penal Code, we are lawfully armed as sworn members of the California Military Department. He points out that we're not PC 832 and that no classes are presently held. I call bullshit twice; that I am PC 832 pre-war and that classes are being held at the CA MP Academy.
Soon there is a small crowd as we talk the language of pre-Firecracker firearms laws. In detail.
We both dimly realize that no one present has any idea what the hell we are talking about. It is ancient history, as ancient as whether the Spirit proceeds from the Father, or the Father from the Son.
Somewhere between arguing PC 830.2 and the legal definition of a peace officer, he goes over to the computer and punches our names in.
"You've been here before," he accuses.
"Not that I recall."
"Right here, entry authorized at I-280 SCP, Day 86."
"Oh."
Yes, I took a day off from the hell that was Site to come up to look for a friend and her family. I found them.
"OK. Put up your right hands."
And that is how we were both sworn in as auxiliary members of the San Francisco County Sheriff's Department, for the duration of our visit. Our one duty was to keep our firearms under our personal control.
Not SFPD. That's a different thing now.
###
We were duly delivered to join the tour group in the San Francisco Museum.
A big sign by the door states "DOSE 0.000 SIEVERTS/HR"
Every building has to have that sign now, for centuries at least.
A brief history of the City by the Bay, the City That Never Sleeps, from the missions through the '49ers through the Committees of Vigilance, World Wars and tourism and peace and war, the Sixties ... and the events of Firecracker Day.
A brilliant flash, widespread fires, a devastating wind.
And radiation, an initial burst and long term fallout. Both killers.
Many died. The City was evacuated.
But not abandoned.
Never abandoned.
###
"I'm a [Process Manager One] and I'm tellin' you no lie
I work and breathe among the fumes that trail across the sky
There's thunder all around me and there's poison in the air
There's a lousy smell that smacks of hell and dust all in [my] hair."
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition
We go through medical screening. Two people are dismissed; they've already taken radiation doses that make this tour unhealthy.
That's what the Museum is for, to give them a place to wait.
The rest of us are given a dosimeter to wear, pinning it to our clothes.
Think of a Geiger counter as a speedometer and a dosimeter as an odometer. Counter says how fast you're being killed, dosimeter says how much killing you got.
The expected dosage from the tour is zero.
But shit happens.
###
"Attention. The shift change operational briefing is in ten minutes. Please follow me to the first room."
We are all standing, facing a projection screen.
The other end of the screen is on the wall of an auditorium. The auditorium is full of people already dressed in radiation scrubs with booties, face masks and shields, and caps.
"Morning. This is Operational Period B of Day One Thousand Two Hundred Forty Three. Rescue Operations ended on Day Ninety One. Recovery Operations Continue."
The briefer is wearing the same clothing, except that he has a bright purple armband on his right arm.
It is a script, a chant that carries enormous power by repetition.
"The Survivor of the Day ..." is never named. But he tells the story of someone who lived, who got out. What they had to do on that day to get out.
"The Fatality of the Day ..." is always named, with birth date when known and date of death if it was after Firecracker Day. The story of someone who died from a Firecracker related event or condition.
If the Project lasts one hundred years, the project will be less than one sixth of the way through the number of fatalities, at one per day.
The "Safety Moment" is a reminder of a safety procedure or practice. Today it is a reminder to always tuck one's hair under one's cap, or risk having it cut off in decon.
Then today's work areas. The Project is organized like a wildfire, in Divisions and Groups and Strike Teams.
"Division YB will continue removing books from San Francisco State. Division WD will continue removing plumbing from Stonestown Galleria..."
They are taking San Francisco apart, taking the pieces out to use elsewhere.
The briefing always ends the same way. We've been cautioned to remain silent, we are not part of the Project.
But I still whisper it.
"San Francisco Lives!"
###
We board the bus. There is a new tour guide. He speaks into his microphone as we drive past work sites in our different bus. Shielded by lead, polarized windows.
"Over ten million Californians are still inadequately housed. We need plumbing parts very badly. PVC and vitreous china do not absorb radiation, but still need to be decontaminated. Every toilet we salvage is a toilet that is needed to prevent disease and provide health."
I remember when a toilet was something you bought at Home Depot.
Not anymore.
###
"The decon workers are scavenging metals, carefully. This area has been swept by Survey, hot spots removed, but there is still risk."
Hand tools to take concrete apart. Sledge hammers and bolt cutters, to remove valuable rebar.
###
"The workers come from all over the world..."
I start paying attention.
Transnational flow of labor.
Border ops.
It is my duty to control that flow.
###
"Well I've worked among [cremation] and I breathed the oily smoke
I've shovelled up the gypsum and it nigh on makes you choke
I've stood knee deep in [chloride], got sick with an [alpha] burn
Been workin' rough, I've seen enough to make your stomach turn"
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition
###
Recovery has a special meaning for search and rescue.
You've searched. But you can't rescue. Because they're dead.
So you recover.
It's a hideously complicated project.
At this point, it's bones. But whose bones?
Personal effects tell a story. So do addresses. But so do records and paperwork.
Demographics, archeology, zoning, salvage, radiation survey, rights group, land title group, heirs and assigns task force...
Each their own department. They generate little packages, mailed using the CA Mail to the survivors. Mostly photos and papers.
But that's important.
###
Once DNA samples are taken, and heirs task determines that there are no heirs to the bones, cremation is the next step.
And I come face to face with yet another fucking Homeland crematorium.
This is what they were bought for. But so many of them were horribly misused.
I tune out the lecture on how it works, because I know quite well.
Having used them myself.
###
The tour ends on a note of hope. The first housing project in what had been the City is being built, in the Outer Sunset where the wind is always off the ocean, and radiation expsure.
It is hospice housing. People with a sufficiently high radiation dosage don't need perfectly safe housing; their conditions will kill them before the extra microdose will.
###
Some people get the one day tour. That's enough.
But the military officers, we get to come back tomorrow.
Personalized tours.
Specific details.
And for me, it's understanding how California uses immigrant labor, so that I can be better at controlling the flow.
I ask only one question.
"What is the median survival rate for Project workers in years?"
The tour guide flinches and says he does not know.
I will before we're done.
Because I'm not at all above opening a homicide investigation if necessary.
California doesn't work people to death.
The Project is part of California.
And I'm not carrying a gun for show.
My orders were in two parts.
The second part was simple.
"Assure yourself by any means required that the Project is making safe and appropriate use of migrant labor. Signed. Pat, Governor."
###
"There's overtime and bonus opportunities galore
The [folks] like their money and they all come back for more
But soon you're knockin' on and you look older than you should
For every [dime] made on the job, you pay with flesh and blood"
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition
"And it's go [folks] go
They'll time your every breath
And every day you're in this place
You're two days nearer death
But you go...."
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition, original version titled The Chemical Worker's Song at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GzcGOgxDoEk, altered lyrics in [brackets]
There are two notes with the orders assigning me to visit the San Francisco Rescue & Recovery Project.
One states that the uniform is undress, and that the decon process will damage Class A uniform items.
The other states that the wearing of a firearm is 'discouraged.'
I don't want to be here, and literally thousands of people want me dead, so I dress (with difficulty, as I no longer can lean on my orderly, because I don't have one) a little less than accordingly.
The bus picks us up in front of the hotel. I am one of two officers wearing a handgun. Her eyes meet mine, and we nod.
It's a tour group, I suppose. A third of us are in business suits with IDs. California Republic managers. I suppose something's going to damage all those nice suits, or our briefing pack was crap. A third of us are in undress military uniforms. The last third are in jeans and T-shirts. Guessing they got a better briefing pack.
The tour guide stops the female armed officer.
"No guns."
She gets off the bus. I don't bother to board.
It leaves.
We look at each other.
"Captain Larson. Infantry."
"Captain 18. Border Ops."
"Lucky you. Which sector?"
"Don't know yet. You?"
"Sierras. Truckee Sector now."
We've both seen the elephant. Although I haven't come any closer to the Border than Sacramento. Yet.
I matter of factly hail a cab.
"Follow that bus," I order, and the oddly colored toilet paper in my hand motivates the driver to do so.
###
The bus drives through a security control point. Big sign. "San Francisco Rescue & Recovery Project. John Daly Gate."
We pull into the passenger drop off and the taxi driver leaves, with some of my colored paper.
We check in with the sentry. We both show our orders.
He gets his sergeant. The sergeant gets his lieutenant.
The lieutenant sighs.
"This is legally part of the City and County of San Francisco. And they are big on the no guns thing. I am guessing that neither of you will voluntarily disarm, and that you have what you think are good reasons, even though we have gun lockers and a nice chain of custody form."
We nod.
"Shit."
"And you don't mind having your handguns deconned. Because you're not carrying for fun or for show."
We nod again.
"I'll call Sergeant Alvarez, San Francisco PD. And it's not going to go well."
###
Sergeant Alvarez was in full uniform as a San Francisco Police Officer. Immaculate. Class A in every detail. No Taser. They didn't have Tasers on Firecracker Day, so they don't carry Tasers now.
It doesn't go well. But in me he's met his match.
I point out that under the California Penal Code, we are lawfully armed as sworn members of the California Military Department. He points out that we're not PC 832 and that no classes are presently held. I call bullshit twice; that I am PC 832 pre-war and that classes are being held at the CA MP Academy.
Soon there is a small crowd as we talk the language of pre-Firecracker firearms laws. In detail.
We both dimly realize that no one present has any idea what the hell we are talking about. It is ancient history, as ancient as whether the Spirit proceeds from the Father, or the Father from the Son.
Somewhere between arguing PC 830.2 and the legal definition of a peace officer, he goes over to the computer and punches our names in.
"You've been here before," he accuses.
"Not that I recall."
"Right here, entry authorized at I-280 SCP, Day 86."
"Oh."
Yes, I took a day off from the hell that was Site to come up to look for a friend and her family. I found them.
"OK. Put up your right hands."
And that is how we were both sworn in as auxiliary members of the San Francisco County Sheriff's Department, for the duration of our visit. Our one duty was to keep our firearms under our personal control.
Not SFPD. That's a different thing now.
###
We were duly delivered to join the tour group in the San Francisco Museum.
A big sign by the door states "DOSE 0.000 SIEVERTS/HR"
Every building has to have that sign now, for centuries at least.
A brief history of the City by the Bay, the City That Never Sleeps, from the missions through the '49ers through the Committees of Vigilance, World Wars and tourism and peace and war, the Sixties ... and the events of Firecracker Day.
A brilliant flash, widespread fires, a devastating wind.
And radiation, an initial burst and long term fallout. Both killers.
Many died. The City was evacuated.
But not abandoned.
Never abandoned.
###
"I'm a [Process Manager One] and I'm tellin' you no lie
I work and breathe among the fumes that trail across the sky
There's thunder all around me and there's poison in the air
There's a lousy smell that smacks of hell and dust all in [my] hair."
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition
We go through medical screening. Two people are dismissed; they've already taken radiation doses that make this tour unhealthy.
That's what the Museum is for, to give them a place to wait.
The rest of us are given a dosimeter to wear, pinning it to our clothes.
Think of a Geiger counter as a speedometer and a dosimeter as an odometer. Counter says how fast you're being killed, dosimeter says how much killing you got.
The expected dosage from the tour is zero.
But shit happens.
###
"Attention. The shift change operational briefing is in ten minutes. Please follow me to the first room."
We are all standing, facing a projection screen.
The other end of the screen is on the wall of an auditorium. The auditorium is full of people already dressed in radiation scrubs with booties, face masks and shields, and caps.
"Morning. This is Operational Period B of Day One Thousand Two Hundred Forty Three. Rescue Operations ended on Day Ninety One. Recovery Operations Continue."
The briefer is wearing the same clothing, except that he has a bright purple armband on his right arm.
It is a script, a chant that carries enormous power by repetition.
"The Survivor of the Day ..." is never named. But he tells the story of someone who lived, who got out. What they had to do on that day to get out.
"The Fatality of the Day ..." is always named, with birth date when known and date of death if it was after Firecracker Day. The story of someone who died from a Firecracker related event or condition.
If the Project lasts one hundred years, the project will be less than one sixth of the way through the number of fatalities, at one per day.
The "Safety Moment" is a reminder of a safety procedure or practice. Today it is a reminder to always tuck one's hair under one's cap, or risk having it cut off in decon.
Then today's work areas. The Project is organized like a wildfire, in Divisions and Groups and Strike Teams.
"Division YB will continue removing books from San Francisco State. Division WD will continue removing plumbing from Stonestown Galleria..."
They are taking San Francisco apart, taking the pieces out to use elsewhere.
The briefing always ends the same way. We've been cautioned to remain silent, we are not part of the Project.
But I still whisper it.
"San Francisco Lives!"
###
We board the bus. There is a new tour guide. He speaks into his microphone as we drive past work sites in our different bus. Shielded by lead, polarized windows.
"Over ten million Californians are still inadequately housed. We need plumbing parts very badly. PVC and vitreous china do not absorb radiation, but still need to be decontaminated. Every toilet we salvage is a toilet that is needed to prevent disease and provide health."
I remember when a toilet was something you bought at Home Depot.
Not anymore.
###
"The decon workers are scavenging metals, carefully. This area has been swept by Survey, hot spots removed, but there is still risk."
Hand tools to take concrete apart. Sledge hammers and bolt cutters, to remove valuable rebar.
###
"The workers come from all over the world..."
I start paying attention.
Transnational flow of labor.
Border ops.
It is my duty to control that flow.
###
"Well I've worked among [cremation] and I breathed the oily smoke
I've shovelled up the gypsum and it nigh on makes you choke
I've stood knee deep in [chloride], got sick with an [alpha] burn
Been workin' rough, I've seen enough to make your stomach turn"
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition
###
Recovery has a special meaning for search and rescue.
You've searched. But you can't rescue. Because they're dead.
So you recover.
It's a hideously complicated project.
At this point, it's bones. But whose bones?
Personal effects tell a story. So do addresses. But so do records and paperwork.
Demographics, archeology, zoning, salvage, radiation survey, rights group, land title group, heirs and assigns task force...
Each their own department. They generate little packages, mailed using the CA Mail to the survivors. Mostly photos and papers.
But that's important.
###
Once DNA samples are taken, and heirs task determines that there are no heirs to the bones, cremation is the next step.
And I come face to face with yet another fucking Homeland crematorium.
This is what they were bought for. But so many of them were horribly misused.
I tune out the lecture on how it works, because I know quite well.
Having used them myself.
###
The tour ends on a note of hope. The first housing project in what had been the City is being built, in the Outer Sunset where the wind is always off the ocean, and radiation expsure.
It is hospice housing. People with a sufficiently high radiation dosage don't need perfectly safe housing; their conditions will kill them before the extra microdose will.
###
Some people get the one day tour. That's enough.
But the military officers, we get to come back tomorrow.
Personalized tours.
Specific details.
And for me, it's understanding how California uses immigrant labor, so that I can be better at controlling the flow.
I ask only one question.
"What is the median survival rate for Project workers in years?"
The tour guide flinches and says he does not know.
I will before we're done.
Because I'm not at all above opening a homicide investigation if necessary.
California doesn't work people to death.
The Project is part of California.
And I'm not carrying a gun for show.
My orders were in two parts.
The second part was simple.
"Assure yourself by any means required that the Project is making safe and appropriate use of migrant labor. Signed. Pat, Governor."
###
"There's overtime and bonus opportunities galore
The [folks] like their money and they all come back for more
But soon you're knockin' on and you look older than you should
For every [dime] made on the job, you pay with flesh and blood"
_The [Recovery] Worker's Song_, San Francisco edition
