GWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Mission
Jul. 2nd, 2022 10:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Mission
I was strapped in the jump seat, wearing the helmet. My camera operator and my bodyguard were watching as the helicopter lifted. I'd had only a moment to decide, and I'd decided.
No minders, no censors, I was about to go and see the real California.
Also no blood chit. I had my wits and what Jay was pleased to call my survival kit - some Euros, a mobile phone that we hadn't had time to get to work on California networks, a satellite communicator. But no one was going to pay one hundred thousand Euros for my safe return.
The helicopter banked smoothly and the pilot poured on the power.
"Motomedic on scene requires air medevac. Patient has major injury to left leg, possible amputation, chainsaw injury, life threatening bleeding, control status unknown. Austere LZ, caution on security conditions, no details."
I could overhear radio traffic by switching channels on my headset.
"Lion Flight you are cleared to the outer marker. Warning on continued insurgent activity near Clear Lake. Do not adopt altitude higher than three angels without clearance from tower until you leave controlled airspace. Good luck."
We flew past large fires, one of which clearly was kicking up a huge column of smoke. I pointed them out, wordlessly because I couldn't find the microphone button.
Someone seemed to say something, twice, then reached over and switched frequencies for me.
"Controlled burns. Look at the next one. You'll see the fire equipment if you look closely."
Sure enough, there were a few ant-like vehicles at the heel of the next fire, spreading out left and right with the flames as they advanced.
"Lots of work to do, cleaning up what the 'cans did to the forest," someone else said.
"Cut the chatter. LZ in five minutes. Watch for wires."
There were no wires. We were over dense forest. Ridgetop roads.
Then suddenly we had below us a surreal scene, almost close enough to reach out and touch.
"Tight clearances, watch your flanks."
A motorcycle on its side, the panniers painted white and displaying a single large red cross. Counting the red crosses on the side of the aircraft I was on, only the second time I had seen that in California so far.
A clump of people wearing orange. They had hand tools and small packs.
Closer, one holding his hands together, clasped as if in prayer, on his knees. A chainsaw nearby.
A person in Army uniform wearing a white reflective vest with red cross, bent over someone on the ground. A person in khaki who was wearing red gloves, to the elbows. His back read "CDCR OFFICER." A shotgun lying in the mud, disregarded behind him.
"Landing. You, stay on board!"
As suddenly as a slammed door, a weakly moaning man was carried into the aircraft on a flexible fabric stretcher.
"Lifting," the pilot warned.
The flight medics frantically cut off the remnants of clothing around the ruined leg. "This is going to hurt," someone said, and I heard it through my earphones and realized that someone had slipped earphones over the patient. A scream as the tourniquet was tightened, again and again.
"Two IVs wide open. Intraosseous?"
"No. Let's retard the IV at 500cc. No pain meds yet."
"This will help you breathe," someone said as an oxygen mask was slipped over the patient's face.
"Red Lion Flight, Northern Medical City, how do you copy?"
"Northern Medical City, Lion Flight, go."
"We are inbound ETA 1137 with a major extremity laceration, partial amputation, lower left leg. Compound fracture, vascular injuries, page vascular surgeon and reattachment team. Patient is early 20s, decompensating shock, two IVs wide open, pulse 110 and thready. Rapid infusion 2 units O negative at pad, type and crossmatch."
"Northern Medical City copies all. Clear for Pad Three."
"I changed my mind. Leave it wide open."
An endless time of moaning, of sure work with hands, someone mopping the patient's brow with a gauze pad.
"Landing."
Gentle as a mother's kiss, the skids of the helicopter touched the pad and there was frantic activity.
Literally at the side of the pad, the saline IV was replaced with a blood pack, held above the heart, but not too high.
It was then and only then that I read the black letters stenciled on the orange cloth.
"CDCR PRISONER."
Huh? The patient was wheeled away, to a door above which the sign read "TO EMERGENCY" where in the UK it would have read "CASUALTY."
"Mission. Mission. Air rescue. Landing zone coordinates."
"Get out." Someone pulled on my arm. "Get out. Keep the helmet on. Go over there. We need the lift."
The patient was wheeled away on the gurney, someone walked me over to the side of what I realized was a building rooftop, and the helicopter lifted again.
Someone helped me take the helmet off and put it in a locker alongside other equipment labeled Red Lion.
The name on my helmet had read, all this time. "OCCUPANT."
A Red Lion in-joke. But none of the people around me were Red Lion.
Off script Californians, who had no idea who I was. And apparently didn't care.
I realized that I was splattered in blood only when an orderly helped me over to the nearest of several handwashing sinks.
As I finished washing, I murmured to myself, "All that for a prisoner."
The orderly stopped cold. Stared at me.
"Whoever you are, fuck you. That's my brother."
The orderly stalked off angrily, after deciding not to hit me.
What are the odds? I wondered.
It wasn't physically possible, I decided. Something else about California that was still eluding me.
Meanwhile I was unsupervised, in the middle of one of California's infamous 'Medical City' hospitals.
I had stories to get. But I wanted to finish this story first. So I followed the orderly.
"I'm very sorry, I am not from California," I said humbly at the elevator Outing myself. They turned, anger still on their face.
"Really?"
I nodded.
"'Every Californian is my brother,'" the orderly quoted. "No, I never saw him before, and I'll probably never see him again. I don't care what he did, he's in a uniform so he wasn't shot. So he's my brother now. And if I needed his help, he's my brother too. That's probably why he's on a crew, and probably how he got hurt. You will excuse me, I have work to do."
They took the stairs down. I pushed the button for the elevator. No guards here, no one to stop me.
This might be a fascist state, as the Americans claimed. But so far, every person I'd met was a true believer.
In what country does a prison guard, among a crowd of prisoners, discard his weapon and cover himself in blood to help a prisoner?
In what country is a vascular surgeon paged to treat a prisoner's injuries?
I didn't know this California. Hardly at all.
But I would.
I was strapped in the jump seat, wearing the helmet. My camera operator and my bodyguard were watching as the helicopter lifted. I'd had only a moment to decide, and I'd decided.
No minders, no censors, I was about to go and see the real California.
Also no blood chit. I had my wits and what Jay was pleased to call my survival kit - some Euros, a mobile phone that we hadn't had time to get to work on California networks, a satellite communicator. But no one was going to pay one hundred thousand Euros for my safe return.
The helicopter banked smoothly and the pilot poured on the power.
"Motomedic on scene requires air medevac. Patient has major injury to left leg, possible amputation, chainsaw injury, life threatening bleeding, control status unknown. Austere LZ, caution on security conditions, no details."
I could overhear radio traffic by switching channels on my headset.
"Lion Flight you are cleared to the outer marker. Warning on continued insurgent activity near Clear Lake. Do not adopt altitude higher than three angels without clearance from tower until you leave controlled airspace. Good luck."
We flew past large fires, one of which clearly was kicking up a huge column of smoke. I pointed them out, wordlessly because I couldn't find the microphone button.
Someone seemed to say something, twice, then reached over and switched frequencies for me.
"Controlled burns. Look at the next one. You'll see the fire equipment if you look closely."
Sure enough, there were a few ant-like vehicles at the heel of the next fire, spreading out left and right with the flames as they advanced.
"Lots of work to do, cleaning up what the 'cans did to the forest," someone else said.
"Cut the chatter. LZ in five minutes. Watch for wires."
There were no wires. We were over dense forest. Ridgetop roads.
Then suddenly we had below us a surreal scene, almost close enough to reach out and touch.
"Tight clearances, watch your flanks."
A motorcycle on its side, the panniers painted white and displaying a single large red cross. Counting the red crosses on the side of the aircraft I was on, only the second time I had seen that in California so far.
A clump of people wearing orange. They had hand tools and small packs.
Closer, one holding his hands together, clasped as if in prayer, on his knees. A chainsaw nearby.
A person in Army uniform wearing a white reflective vest with red cross, bent over someone on the ground. A person in khaki who was wearing red gloves, to the elbows. His back read "CDCR OFFICER." A shotgun lying in the mud, disregarded behind him.
"Landing. You, stay on board!"
As suddenly as a slammed door, a weakly moaning man was carried into the aircraft on a flexible fabric stretcher.
"Lifting," the pilot warned.
The flight medics frantically cut off the remnants of clothing around the ruined leg. "This is going to hurt," someone said, and I heard it through my earphones and realized that someone had slipped earphones over the patient. A scream as the tourniquet was tightened, again and again.
"Two IVs wide open. Intraosseous?"
"No. Let's retard the IV at 500cc. No pain meds yet."
"This will help you breathe," someone said as an oxygen mask was slipped over the patient's face.
"Red Lion Flight, Northern Medical City, how do you copy?"
"Northern Medical City, Lion Flight, go."
"We are inbound ETA 1137 with a major extremity laceration, partial amputation, lower left leg. Compound fracture, vascular injuries, page vascular surgeon and reattachment team. Patient is early 20s, decompensating shock, two IVs wide open, pulse 110 and thready. Rapid infusion 2 units O negative at pad, type and crossmatch."
"Northern Medical City copies all. Clear for Pad Three."
"I changed my mind. Leave it wide open."
An endless time of moaning, of sure work with hands, someone mopping the patient's brow with a gauze pad.
"Landing."
Gentle as a mother's kiss, the skids of the helicopter touched the pad and there was frantic activity.
Literally at the side of the pad, the saline IV was replaced with a blood pack, held above the heart, but not too high.
It was then and only then that I read the black letters stenciled on the orange cloth.
"CDCR PRISONER."
Huh? The patient was wheeled away, to a door above which the sign read "TO EMERGENCY" where in the UK it would have read "CASUALTY."
"Mission. Mission. Air rescue. Landing zone coordinates."
"Get out." Someone pulled on my arm. "Get out. Keep the helmet on. Go over there. We need the lift."
The patient was wheeled away on the gurney, someone walked me over to the side of what I realized was a building rooftop, and the helicopter lifted again.
Someone helped me take the helmet off and put it in a locker alongside other equipment labeled Red Lion.
The name on my helmet had read, all this time. "OCCUPANT."
A Red Lion in-joke. But none of the people around me were Red Lion.
Off script Californians, who had no idea who I was. And apparently didn't care.
I realized that I was splattered in blood only when an orderly helped me over to the nearest of several handwashing sinks.
As I finished washing, I murmured to myself, "All that for a prisoner."
The orderly stopped cold. Stared at me.
"Whoever you are, fuck you. That's my brother."
The orderly stalked off angrily, after deciding not to hit me.
What are the odds? I wondered.
It wasn't physically possible, I decided. Something else about California that was still eluding me.
Meanwhile I was unsupervised, in the middle of one of California's infamous 'Medical City' hospitals.
I had stories to get. But I wanted to finish this story first. So I followed the orderly.
"I'm very sorry, I am not from California," I said humbly at the elevator Outing myself. They turned, anger still on their face.
"Really?"
I nodded.
"'Every Californian is my brother,'" the orderly quoted. "No, I never saw him before, and I'll probably never see him again. I don't care what he did, he's in a uniform so he wasn't shot. So he's my brother now. And if I needed his help, he's my brother too. That's probably why he's on a crew, and probably how he got hurt. You will excuse me, I have work to do."
They took the stairs down. I pushed the button for the elevator. No guards here, no one to stop me.
This might be a fascist state, as the Americans claimed. But so far, every person I'd met was a true believer.
In what country does a prison guard, among a crowd of prisoners, discard his weapon and cover himself in blood to help a prisoner?
In what country is a vascular surgeon paged to treat a prisoner's injuries?
I didn't know this California. Hardly at all.
But I would.
