GWOT I - Portion Control
Oct. 30th, 2021 01:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT I - Portion Control
About once every other week, typically on a Tuesday, I just had to say 'fuck this' and get an actual night of sleep.
That meant missing night checks, shift change, the morning briefing, not going out with a convoy, not observing the morning screen-and-search of those brave, reckless and/or suicidal employees who still chose to commute in.
It also meant that I had to early-in one of the two people who could actually command the Site during an attack. Arturo of course, and rather to my surprise, Sharon.
This still wasn't a day off. I still had to go do a lot of work. But instead of the three hours of sleep often interrupted, a solid seven. It made a difference.
I could also take my time cleaning up. Little things like a decent shower and fresh underwear. We'd established the simplest possible laundry system - bags and tags - and someone on patrol took the duty of running them through a washer-dryer. Company uniforms had to be kept secure; underclothes were rapidly becoming a commodity.
It still raised eyebrows when I came out of the Data Center at 7 AM in sweats and shorts. In clean uniform and proper gear, cruised into Ops about 9 to briefly check the pulse, see where the convoy(s) were. Then about 10 AM, hit the tail end of the cafeteria breakfast instead of the five minute run through for the piece of toast and weak coffee that was my typical 6 AM start-of-day.
I sat down, alone at a table, with a piece of toast and a mug of soaked burnt crumbs - and splurging for me, a single boiled egg. A woman trying to hold back her tears sat across from me immediately.
The cafeteria manager.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I really need your help."
My eyes flicked across the room and my hand checked my sidearm. "Now?" I asked mildly while I considered the EMER button on my radio.
"Not that kind of help. But that important, yes."
I nodded. "I'm loitering over my breakfast this morning. I have time. Get yourself something and let's talk about it."
She came back with a bowl of oatmeal and a single forlorn dried apricot in the center of it. And water to drink that had been lightly powdered with some pre-War sugar free something, that the cafeteria sold as 'punch.'
She looked around. Large dining room, mostly empty, with only a few off shift workers and none of hers. Acoustics in the high ceiling intended to prevent conversations being overheard. This had been built at the height of the Cold War and, to quote the internal security publications, "Paranoia is in our [Client] DNA."
One reason I got along so well here.
"We're having a LOT of issues in and around the cafeteria. I mean, a lot. Much more than we've previously asked for Security's help with."
I held up my phone. Remoted into the client video network. Dug until I found the cafeteria cashier view. Camera angled into the register area, to deter money theft. But also showing a good view of employees and their plates.
Watched ten minutes of the rush.
Oh shit.
"Do you want to post a guard?"
That would technically be charged to her internal budget if she said yes. But then there was the problem of what the guard would be able to do. Sometimes a heavy hand is not the right way.
"It's worse than that. Both on stage and off stage. Food keeps shrinking, and people keep fighting about it."
I nodded.
To be clear, we weren't talking about the food actually getting smaller. 'Shrinkage' is the polite way of talking about internal theft. And since everyone here was authorized to be here, it was _all_ internal theft.
The other issue was that everyone in the line - employees, cafeteria staff, vendors - were deeply unhappy. Their plates were shall we say, the opposite of loaded. And there was wide variance not apparently accounted for by the amount being charged.
In prisons and wartime military bases, cook and cook's helper become a prized job. In exchange for some stress, you get to 1) make sure you eat well, 2) feed your friends better, and 3) if necessary, steal to feed your friends and family elsewhere. Then you can also steal for sale and exchange of favors.
Without strict controls, it rapidly gets to the point where more food is going out the back door than the front.
In peacetime this is an operating cost thing.
Post-Firecracker, it could get us all killed unless nipped in the bud.
I finished my toast in two bites.
"Give me a tour of the kitchen and storerooms, please," I asked without really asking. In passing, I picked up a house phone and called Control.
"Have a runner bring me a clipboard and letter size notepad. I'll be in the front of the cafeteria."
The cafeteria front was still technically open but only a couple of cafeteria workers were in the area.
The first thing I noticed, really noticed now that my duty required me to look, is that all the displays had been moved behind the counters. You could not help yourself. You had to ask for everything, except for the blue water tap, the weak 'coffee' and the 'punch.'
The next thing I noticed was no disposables at all. Mugs, cups, plates. Mixed. Salvage from homes, during the convoy operations, pressed into service.
"I'm also losing dishes. Some people are eating at their desks to avoid drama, but I'm not getting the dishes back unless I send a runner."
"Don't do that," I murmured.
"Huh?"
"Perfect opportunity to drop off stolen food to customers."
The look on her face spoke volumes.
The runner handed me the clipboard and started to flee.
"Hold up. I need you to do a tower check. Count the number of trays and approximately the number of dishes in each center tower break area. Run me back the count. Should take you about an hour. Go."
I started taking notes, and asking questions, as the cafeteria manager accompanied me.
Then we went backstage.
All the employees had that guilty, hangdog look. Except the assistant chef. He picked up a cleaver and looked around for something he could justify cutting.
I thought about it. He might be a good chef, but he was a lousy thief, and I could probably put two in his ten-ring and solve six problems at once.
Instead I walked past him with my back open for the ceremonial blow, if he had the gumption to go for it.
He didn't.
As I suspected, the internal controls of the kitchen were not set up for adequate control under these new conditions.
Then we inspected the overflow kitchen, what had been the Executive Dining Room before I'd 1) stolen the booze for the infirmary, for lack of other pain meds, 2) started dumping convoy-procured food in it, and 3) the cafeteria manager had re-piped the bar sink and set it up as a food processing area. "Prep" to take what we had brought in and make it into food that she could safely use in her kitchen.
The shoe marks on the floor told me the entire story. I followed them through the service door into the hallway, to the emergency exit stair that was propped. This was OK in theory, it was all internal to the cafe building. I followed it down one level.
This area was electrical room overflow, elevator room vestibule and equipment, and led eventually to the trash door and thus outside.
I keyed my radio.
"Echo 18 Actual and one in K1 lower. Send me two."
We proceeded down the narrow stairs. Again, only intended as a fire exit, but this was not a place the janitors cleaned often - much less often since I'd retasked them to frequently cleaning the much-expanded Infirmary.
There were crumbs, and rat droppings. The cafeteria manager's eyes narrowed.
"I'm sorry, I should have..."
I lifted a hand to interrupt her. My left hand. My right hand had already drawn my firearm to low ready.
"Walk down the stairs normally," I spoke very quietly. Carries less far than a whisper.
She did, opened the door, stopped. Had the courage and presence of mind to step through as someone said something.
"... upstairs and you didn't see a thing."
I stepped through and brought my firearm up to point at the speaker.
"Didn't see what? [Client] Security. Be calm. I am armed."
He let the broom handle slide out of his hands and rest against the wall.
"Shit."
The light was dim, as tubes had been removed. The hallway, supposedly kept clear for fire access, had artfully piled cardboard boxes along one side. The top ones were empty. But I could tell from how they sat that the bottom ones were full.
"People know where we are," I said in the same calm, loud tone. "Nothing has happened that I have to officially notice. Yet. But we do need to talk."
After a moment, I holstered. It was only courtesy, he'd put down his weapon. And I was confident in my combative skills. High retention holster meant they couldn't take it off me easily. Second concealed handgun meant I could draw even faster than they might suspect.
He nodded. Others were behind him, in the gloom.
"We're trying to feed thousands of people here. I only need to know one thing. Just one. Are you trading any of this off the Site?"
He looked horrified.
"No!"
"That's the thing I can't tolerate. That would be a killing matter. This is just ... accounting. Poor accounting. Until someone needs food and can't get it."
The cafeteria manager looked at me, looked at her formerly trusted employee, realized there were more of her employees behind him.
"Go back upstairs, ma'am. Call Security when you get up there, just to let them know you're OK. I'll handle this."
She did.
The tension noticeably lessened.
"Cut you in," someone said from the shadows.
I shook my head.
"No. Not how this works." I fumbled around until I found a nice solid box, full of canned food, that could take my weight. Sat on it. Technically this was still in my time off.
"So, here's the issue. Waste. Hoarding. We have a lot of people who are scared out of their minds. Some of them are handling this by over-eating. That's not OK. Others are hiding food because they don't trust the Site to provide. That's not OK either. Then we have the potential for unsafe food handling.
"So the trade needs to be in shelf stable stuff." I held up a #10 can of ketchup. "You tell me. Who is going to handle this much ketchup most efficiently? Some scared Employee and his family, spooning it a few spoons at a time and letting most of it go bad? Or upstairs in the cafe?"
A general murmur of agreement.
"You're food service workers. You know how this works. I almost couldn't give a shit about cake icing, hazelnut syrup, even chocolates. But food that isn't just empty calories needs to be handled better. I've had complaints about vector control. Bugs and rodents. Now we know why.
"What you don't see is what we go through to go get this stuff for you. Or what it costs. Not in money. In the Infirmary. Or up on Boot Hill. Not looking for a cut. Looking for fair for everyone.
"What do you want?"
A pause.
"Contractors can't have families on site," someone said from deeper in the gloom.
"Thus the dependent camp. Which is part of Site, as far as I am concerned. Do any of you need help getting your families? I can do that. What I can't do is get them in here without a good reason. Like, you know, getting them hired on. I need guards. She needs cooks. Landscaping and janitorial need people too. And right now, the only place we have to hire from is the dependent camp."
A general rumble of approval.
"I'm not stupid. There's a limit. We're not bringing in cousins of cousins of cousins. And 'Security Considerations Override,'" I warned. "Loyalty to family, loyalty to the Site and to the mission.
"No names. No punishment. Much respect. It starts by carrying these boxes back up to Prep and then putting them away. We'll work out better arrangements for diversion. This is too obvious, and no good for anyone."
Two guards entered the far corridor. We all heard them by their booted footsteps echoing on the concrete.
By the time the guards reached me, there was a conga line of workers carrying the food back upstairs.
"Sir?"
"Post on the far end, and up at the top. No questions. No paper. Not a word to anyone. Oh, and take a box up with you."
###
A lot of work to do. A _lot_ of work to do.
It started with the badge database, as it always does. And the list of persons in the dependent camp. And a third list, of people who should be in the dependent camp, if we could find them, and if they were alive, and if they could be trusted.
The internal controls for the cafeteria were simple and straightforward. Two person rule for freezer access. Counts and checklists. Food portion scales at each control point. No more half a ladle for Joe, two ladles for Joseph. I walked the cafeteria manager through the easy part.
The man with the broom handle - anonymous to protect the guilty - was promoted to food logistics clerk. One of three. We would audit. Trust but verify. And I hastily taught him, using the language of "don't do this, don't do that, and especially don't do _that_" how to steal a fixed percentage instead of on an ad-hoc basis.
The runner came back to me in the middle of this with the count.
"Eight hundred seventy one trays. About three thousand dishes."
"Sweet," I said, and dismissed him. That would be my excuse.
I went into my phone and requested a meeting with the VP Facilities and VP HR. Within minutes both agreed. They weren't slow learners.
###
"Attention please. Today is a general amnesty. Each department and space owner is required to cause all cafeteria trays, all dishes, all utensils and mugs and cups to be brought to the Cafeteria Dish Room prior to 1500 hours.
"Should it be that there are any unauthorized food storages, please bring these to the Executive Dining Room prior to 1500 hours. Any unauthorized stashes of alcohol or other substances can be brought to the Infirmary Conference Room until 1500.
"The Armory has extra staff today to accomodate the registration of unauthorized firearms. Security staff has been instructed to discreetly ignore any firearms brought to the Armory area for registration. Please put them in a bag or container or wrap them in a blanket. As this is a general amnesty, no questions will be asked.
"This message will repeat in five minutes. Also check your E-mail. Thank you."
We'd staffed up two client-provided Reaction Teams just in case, but I didn't expect trouble.
Tomorrow would be another story. Because a committee consisting of a building manager from another building, one of my security supervisors, a representative from Facilities and another from HR, would be conducting an absolutely hair-fine detail search of every space on Site starting at 0700 tomorrow morning, rotating through everywhere and everyone. No exceptions. Even Security Control. Especially Dormitory Housing.
I would be accompanying the search personally. And I would be signing out a submachine gun from the Armory before I did. I hoped I wouldn't need it. I hoped the mere fact of me having it, on a sling, would keep me from having to use it.
But hope is a weak and feeble reed.
About once every other week, typically on a Tuesday, I just had to say 'fuck this' and get an actual night of sleep.
That meant missing night checks, shift change, the morning briefing, not going out with a convoy, not observing the morning screen-and-search of those brave, reckless and/or suicidal employees who still chose to commute in.
It also meant that I had to early-in one of the two people who could actually command the Site during an attack. Arturo of course, and rather to my surprise, Sharon.
This still wasn't a day off. I still had to go do a lot of work. But instead of the three hours of sleep often interrupted, a solid seven. It made a difference.
I could also take my time cleaning up. Little things like a decent shower and fresh underwear. We'd established the simplest possible laundry system - bags and tags - and someone on patrol took the duty of running them through a washer-dryer. Company uniforms had to be kept secure; underclothes were rapidly becoming a commodity.
It still raised eyebrows when I came out of the Data Center at 7 AM in sweats and shorts. In clean uniform and proper gear, cruised into Ops about 9 to briefly check the pulse, see where the convoy(s) were. Then about 10 AM, hit the tail end of the cafeteria breakfast instead of the five minute run through for the piece of toast and weak coffee that was my typical 6 AM start-of-day.
I sat down, alone at a table, with a piece of toast and a mug of soaked burnt crumbs - and splurging for me, a single boiled egg. A woman trying to hold back her tears sat across from me immediately.
The cafeteria manager.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I really need your help."
My eyes flicked across the room and my hand checked my sidearm. "Now?" I asked mildly while I considered the EMER button on my radio.
"Not that kind of help. But that important, yes."
I nodded. "I'm loitering over my breakfast this morning. I have time. Get yourself something and let's talk about it."
She came back with a bowl of oatmeal and a single forlorn dried apricot in the center of it. And water to drink that had been lightly powdered with some pre-War sugar free something, that the cafeteria sold as 'punch.'
She looked around. Large dining room, mostly empty, with only a few off shift workers and none of hers. Acoustics in the high ceiling intended to prevent conversations being overheard. This had been built at the height of the Cold War and, to quote the internal security publications, "Paranoia is in our [Client] DNA."
One reason I got along so well here.
"We're having a LOT of issues in and around the cafeteria. I mean, a lot. Much more than we've previously asked for Security's help with."
I held up my phone. Remoted into the client video network. Dug until I found the cafeteria cashier view. Camera angled into the register area, to deter money theft. But also showing a good view of employees and their plates.
Watched ten minutes of the rush.
Oh shit.
"Do you want to post a guard?"
That would technically be charged to her internal budget if she said yes. But then there was the problem of what the guard would be able to do. Sometimes a heavy hand is not the right way.
"It's worse than that. Both on stage and off stage. Food keeps shrinking, and people keep fighting about it."
I nodded.
To be clear, we weren't talking about the food actually getting smaller. 'Shrinkage' is the polite way of talking about internal theft. And since everyone here was authorized to be here, it was _all_ internal theft.
The other issue was that everyone in the line - employees, cafeteria staff, vendors - were deeply unhappy. Their plates were shall we say, the opposite of loaded. And there was wide variance not apparently accounted for by the amount being charged.
In prisons and wartime military bases, cook and cook's helper become a prized job. In exchange for some stress, you get to 1) make sure you eat well, 2) feed your friends better, and 3) if necessary, steal to feed your friends and family elsewhere. Then you can also steal for sale and exchange of favors.
Without strict controls, it rapidly gets to the point where more food is going out the back door than the front.
In peacetime this is an operating cost thing.
Post-Firecracker, it could get us all killed unless nipped in the bud.
I finished my toast in two bites.
"Give me a tour of the kitchen and storerooms, please," I asked without really asking. In passing, I picked up a house phone and called Control.
"Have a runner bring me a clipboard and letter size notepad. I'll be in the front of the cafeteria."
The cafeteria front was still technically open but only a couple of cafeteria workers were in the area.
The first thing I noticed, really noticed now that my duty required me to look, is that all the displays had been moved behind the counters. You could not help yourself. You had to ask for everything, except for the blue water tap, the weak 'coffee' and the 'punch.'
The next thing I noticed was no disposables at all. Mugs, cups, plates. Mixed. Salvage from homes, during the convoy operations, pressed into service.
"I'm also losing dishes. Some people are eating at their desks to avoid drama, but I'm not getting the dishes back unless I send a runner."
"Don't do that," I murmured.
"Huh?"
"Perfect opportunity to drop off stolen food to customers."
The look on her face spoke volumes.
The runner handed me the clipboard and started to flee.
"Hold up. I need you to do a tower check. Count the number of trays and approximately the number of dishes in each center tower break area. Run me back the count. Should take you about an hour. Go."
I started taking notes, and asking questions, as the cafeteria manager accompanied me.
Then we went backstage.
All the employees had that guilty, hangdog look. Except the assistant chef. He picked up a cleaver and looked around for something he could justify cutting.
I thought about it. He might be a good chef, but he was a lousy thief, and I could probably put two in his ten-ring and solve six problems at once.
Instead I walked past him with my back open for the ceremonial blow, if he had the gumption to go for it.
He didn't.
As I suspected, the internal controls of the kitchen were not set up for adequate control under these new conditions.
Then we inspected the overflow kitchen, what had been the Executive Dining Room before I'd 1) stolen the booze for the infirmary, for lack of other pain meds, 2) started dumping convoy-procured food in it, and 3) the cafeteria manager had re-piped the bar sink and set it up as a food processing area. "Prep" to take what we had brought in and make it into food that she could safely use in her kitchen.
The shoe marks on the floor told me the entire story. I followed them through the service door into the hallway, to the emergency exit stair that was propped. This was OK in theory, it was all internal to the cafe building. I followed it down one level.
This area was electrical room overflow, elevator room vestibule and equipment, and led eventually to the trash door and thus outside.
I keyed my radio.
"Echo 18 Actual and one in K1 lower. Send me two."
We proceeded down the narrow stairs. Again, only intended as a fire exit, but this was not a place the janitors cleaned often - much less often since I'd retasked them to frequently cleaning the much-expanded Infirmary.
There were crumbs, and rat droppings. The cafeteria manager's eyes narrowed.
"I'm sorry, I should have..."
I lifted a hand to interrupt her. My left hand. My right hand had already drawn my firearm to low ready.
"Walk down the stairs normally," I spoke very quietly. Carries less far than a whisper.
She did, opened the door, stopped. Had the courage and presence of mind to step through as someone said something.
"... upstairs and you didn't see a thing."
I stepped through and brought my firearm up to point at the speaker.
"Didn't see what? [Client] Security. Be calm. I am armed."
He let the broom handle slide out of his hands and rest against the wall.
"Shit."
The light was dim, as tubes had been removed. The hallway, supposedly kept clear for fire access, had artfully piled cardboard boxes along one side. The top ones were empty. But I could tell from how they sat that the bottom ones were full.
"People know where we are," I said in the same calm, loud tone. "Nothing has happened that I have to officially notice. Yet. But we do need to talk."
After a moment, I holstered. It was only courtesy, he'd put down his weapon. And I was confident in my combative skills. High retention holster meant they couldn't take it off me easily. Second concealed handgun meant I could draw even faster than they might suspect.
He nodded. Others were behind him, in the gloom.
"We're trying to feed thousands of people here. I only need to know one thing. Just one. Are you trading any of this off the Site?"
He looked horrified.
"No!"
"That's the thing I can't tolerate. That would be a killing matter. This is just ... accounting. Poor accounting. Until someone needs food and can't get it."
The cafeteria manager looked at me, looked at her formerly trusted employee, realized there were more of her employees behind him.
"Go back upstairs, ma'am. Call Security when you get up there, just to let them know you're OK. I'll handle this."
She did.
The tension noticeably lessened.
"Cut you in," someone said from the shadows.
I shook my head.
"No. Not how this works." I fumbled around until I found a nice solid box, full of canned food, that could take my weight. Sat on it. Technically this was still in my time off.
"So, here's the issue. Waste. Hoarding. We have a lot of people who are scared out of their minds. Some of them are handling this by over-eating. That's not OK. Others are hiding food because they don't trust the Site to provide. That's not OK either. Then we have the potential for unsafe food handling.
"So the trade needs to be in shelf stable stuff." I held up a #10 can of ketchup. "You tell me. Who is going to handle this much ketchup most efficiently? Some scared Employee and his family, spooning it a few spoons at a time and letting most of it go bad? Or upstairs in the cafe?"
A general murmur of agreement.
"You're food service workers. You know how this works. I almost couldn't give a shit about cake icing, hazelnut syrup, even chocolates. But food that isn't just empty calories needs to be handled better. I've had complaints about vector control. Bugs and rodents. Now we know why.
"What you don't see is what we go through to go get this stuff for you. Or what it costs. Not in money. In the Infirmary. Or up on Boot Hill. Not looking for a cut. Looking for fair for everyone.
"What do you want?"
A pause.
"Contractors can't have families on site," someone said from deeper in the gloom.
"Thus the dependent camp. Which is part of Site, as far as I am concerned. Do any of you need help getting your families? I can do that. What I can't do is get them in here without a good reason. Like, you know, getting them hired on. I need guards. She needs cooks. Landscaping and janitorial need people too. And right now, the only place we have to hire from is the dependent camp."
A general rumble of approval.
"I'm not stupid. There's a limit. We're not bringing in cousins of cousins of cousins. And 'Security Considerations Override,'" I warned. "Loyalty to family, loyalty to the Site and to the mission.
"No names. No punishment. Much respect. It starts by carrying these boxes back up to Prep and then putting them away. We'll work out better arrangements for diversion. This is too obvious, and no good for anyone."
Two guards entered the far corridor. We all heard them by their booted footsteps echoing on the concrete.
By the time the guards reached me, there was a conga line of workers carrying the food back upstairs.
"Sir?"
"Post on the far end, and up at the top. No questions. No paper. Not a word to anyone. Oh, and take a box up with you."
###
A lot of work to do. A _lot_ of work to do.
It started with the badge database, as it always does. And the list of persons in the dependent camp. And a third list, of people who should be in the dependent camp, if we could find them, and if they were alive, and if they could be trusted.
The internal controls for the cafeteria were simple and straightforward. Two person rule for freezer access. Counts and checklists. Food portion scales at each control point. No more half a ladle for Joe, two ladles for Joseph. I walked the cafeteria manager through the easy part.
The man with the broom handle - anonymous to protect the guilty - was promoted to food logistics clerk. One of three. We would audit. Trust but verify. And I hastily taught him, using the language of "don't do this, don't do that, and especially don't do _that_" how to steal a fixed percentage instead of on an ad-hoc basis.
The runner came back to me in the middle of this with the count.
"Eight hundred seventy one trays. About three thousand dishes."
"Sweet," I said, and dismissed him. That would be my excuse.
I went into my phone and requested a meeting with the VP Facilities and VP HR. Within minutes both agreed. They weren't slow learners.
###
"Attention please. Today is a general amnesty. Each department and space owner is required to cause all cafeteria trays, all dishes, all utensils and mugs and cups to be brought to the Cafeteria Dish Room prior to 1500 hours.
"Should it be that there are any unauthorized food storages, please bring these to the Executive Dining Room prior to 1500 hours. Any unauthorized stashes of alcohol or other substances can be brought to the Infirmary Conference Room until 1500.
"The Armory has extra staff today to accomodate the registration of unauthorized firearms. Security staff has been instructed to discreetly ignore any firearms brought to the Armory area for registration. Please put them in a bag or container or wrap them in a blanket. As this is a general amnesty, no questions will be asked.
"This message will repeat in five minutes. Also check your E-mail. Thank you."
We'd staffed up two client-provided Reaction Teams just in case, but I didn't expect trouble.
Tomorrow would be another story. Because a committee consisting of a building manager from another building, one of my security supervisors, a representative from Facilities and another from HR, would be conducting an absolutely hair-fine detail search of every space on Site starting at 0700 tomorrow morning, rotating through everywhere and everyone. No exceptions. Even Security Control. Especially Dormitory Housing.
I would be accompanying the search personally. And I would be signing out a submachine gun from the Armory before I did. I hoped I wouldn't need it. I hoped the mere fact of me having it, on a sling, would keep me from having to use it.
But hope is a weak and feeble reed.
