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drewkittyGWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Locked Ward
I promptly got lost.
It's not the hospital's fault. There was marked signage everywhere and friendly ambassadors at confusing intersecions. There were many buildings, a few connected by tunnels, most connected by covered walkways.
The impression I gathered was that the enormous hospital complex - "Northern Medical City" - was something that had kind of just happened, and then been added to and revitalized as demands and resources permitted.
Helipad 3, where I'd been dropped off, was at the top of a relatively modern six story building, an office tower that had been absorbed into NMC as it expanded.
I found a cafeteria. This immediately ran me into a hurdle I hadn't been expecting.
There was no cash register. The employees and guests swiped a card to pay. A dim but well meaning volunteer led me to the card machine, which would take my money and load a guest card.
My California dollars. Of which I had none. I had a pocket full of Euros but the machine had no idea what they were. There were no currency exchanges in a hospital not meant for tourists.
The volunteer somehow became a security guard, who then became a hospital police officer, who was then replaced by several very polite people in white clothes.
I decided to throw myself on their mercy. I identified myself as a reporter for the BBC.
They smiled kindly. One got me a meal from the cafeteria, on his card. They walked me to a side room to eat. They listened to my questions but didn't say much.
Then they explained that we needed to go back to the Ward now.
Two were female. They asked the others to turn their backs. They did.
"We have to search you now."
My protests became strident but it became clear that if I resorted to violence, they were experienced and would clearly win.
Seething, I saw my Euros, my phone and my satellite communicator zipped into a bag labeled 'Patient Property' with my name on it. I was escorted from there to a control desk, one of an innumerable series of security control points, where the bag was sealed and stored.
"It's OK, it will be in Central Property and you will get it all back," I was soothed.
Then the group - which had been six, now was eight - buzzed through several pairs of secure doors and welcomed me to the Ward.
I was asked to wait on a bench. Others were also waiting. Some for appointments, some for interviews. Apparently I was scheduled for an intake interview.
I decided to be patient. I would give the practitioner an earful but until then, I would talk to the other patients.
Some played along. Others wouldn't talk to me - either they didn't believe I was a reporter, or they didn't care either way.
Most had clear and unmistakable signs of serious mental health problems. I had visited locked wards in the UK.
Finally, a harried young woman whose badge identified her as Psych Jones walked me into an interview room. I noticed it was clean, comfortable, sterile and devoid of objects that could be used as weapons.
"I am a reporter for the BBC. I demand to speak to my country's Special Interest Section in Sacramento."
The Psych nodded abstractly.
"We've been unable to find your file. I have a note that you were wandering in the corridor, which is a neat trick. I don't suppose you'd mind giving me your name."
"I gave it." So I gave it again.
"Your real name. Your California name."
She felt that I had come up with a particularly detailed and vivid escapist fantasy, and assured me that it was not her job today to deprive me of my 'comfort.'
"Your guards took my money, my phone and my satellite communicator!"
"Your personal effects will be returned to you on your release."
Preliminary interview over, I was referred for a physical examination.
I was provided with patient clothing.
I refused to wear it.
After discussion, they decided that they would not make me wear it, but that I needed to carry it.
It helped pad the benches under me where I waited.
The physical examination was by a thorough nurse practitioner. She looked me in the eyes, the ears, asked me questions.
"We would normally do blood work, Ms. Jones. And ask you for a urine sample. However, your story has caught up with you. Your camera operator and bodyguard are waiting for you down the hall."
I sighed with relief.
They handed me the bag containing my items, took the patient clothing back, and buzzed me out.
I grew certain I would hate the sight of that leather jacket, because it would always be associated with the smirk from the agent wearing it.
"Thank you for a very useful penetration test of the hospital complex. We've interviewed numerous people about your unexpected journey. Several security defects will be corrected.
"You have had a stressful day. Would you like to continue your tour or go back to the hotel?"
He gave me a hospital badge. It listed my name, my photo (I hadn't posed for one!). My agency was listed as British Broadcasting Corporation, my title as Journalist.
"We also dropped a couple hundred bucks for drinks and snacks on it. Only fair because that's how we caught you."
My bodyguard and camera operator already had theirs.
My bodyguard's badge had a little picture of a firearm on it.
"While you were exploring, we satisfied ourselves that he was qualified to carry a firearm in California. I bent a point and gave him a waiver for the legal element of the training; it's online anyway and he has seven days to click through it."
Jay exposed his jacket very slightly and I saw just the edge of a handgun.
!!!, my face said.
"We would look very foolish requiring a SAS operative to qualify on the pistol range."
"How is he doing?" I parried.
"Huh?"
"The prisoner I flew with."
"Oh." He blinked. "I can put in a request for you to interview him. But he's likely still in surgery based on the injuries as reported. Can we give it a couple days? Pretty sure he's not dead." Click, click. "Nope, still in surgery."
"Who has to approve that?"
Now it was the Collections Agent's turn to look surprised.
"He does."
"Yes, I would like to interview him. And I'm sorry if I interupted your day, but I would also like to interview _you_."
He turned thoughtful.
"That ... I can do. As a convenience to all of us, let's do that interview here. It will give the hospital PIO time to stop pulling her hair out and hyperventilating. Then we can come up with a plan.
"Your request to visit the Air National Guard base is approved as well. That's very straightforward. They did ask for a couple days so they can sanitize classified materials. And they will not be taking you on any flights."
"Will Red Lion get in trouble?"
"You folks are really amazing." He shook his head. "No. Red Lion can do whatever the fuck they want, anywhere the fuck they want. If they dropped you off in a forestry operations zone, as long as you didn't actually get kidnapped or killed, they still wouldn't get in trouble. I'd get my hand slapped. They are Red Lion."
###
"You can call me Fred. Everything about my real last name, my past, my life, all that is no longer mine. It is the property of the California Republic.
"I was a lecturer at a community college somewhere or another during the Firecracker. It was a living and a chance to meet people. Then we were all overwhelmed by an influx of refugees from San Francisco and points north of same. Still are. Just different sources.
"I made myself useful, I solved problems. Soon I was a Redding police officer. Then Homeland asked me to work for them.
"I said no. That was."
He paused.
"I was hiding in the woods for nearly a year after that. Lost some weight. Learned some skills. Led a Resistance cell. When we took Redding, we had a lot of problems. 'Turned once will turn again.' All sorts of issues.
"Then someone came to me, handed me this," he took out and held up his credential, the one it was death to take a picture of, "told me how to use it. His touchstone was 'Do what's right.'"
"How do you know what's right?" I asked.
"Be fair. Be consistent with similar situations. Be kind, but remember that mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent. Give people a chance. Not two. When time permits, check in with other Agents. We did a lot of working in pairs, trying to figure out what we were doing. A lot of anti-corruption work. A lot of counterinsurgency. American partisans. Still some of that."
"Up by Clear Lake," I asked.
He nodded. "Yes. Among many other places. There's no point now, we will expel them when we catch them, and execute them if they come back. But they're being supported by Special Forces A teams. The war continues even if there is technically an armistice. Just means no tank battles and no air strikes. Although that was bad enough.
"This hospital was expanded three major times. Once right after the Firecracker, once by Homeland as a processing center, and then by us as soon as we took over - and we never stopped. Under constant construction.
"California is her people. Everything else is just noise. Concrete, steel, forestry, roads, that's nice. But people are the ones who do anything good in this world. We take care of each other.
"My job as a Collections Agent is to solve problems and catch bad people. Peculation of funds, misuse of power."
"I've heard that Collections has power of summary execution."
"Used to. Not so much anymore, although we don't advertise it. The Governor takes a personal interest now. Every case. If I shoot someone, I just might be asked to fly up to Sacramento and have a face-to-face with Pat about it. And I might end up breaking rocks and I might end up taking a transfer to Bear Force.
"But you don't let things like that get in the way of doing the job. I kind of see it as somewhere between a cop and a judge. Elements of both, but not really either. I can refer someone on criminal charges, but I don't _have_ to. I can give civil orders and I can expend public funds. I can fire pretty much anyone, private or public, and demand a court martial if they're in the military. But that's not the job and that's not a perk of the job.
"The job is to solve problems that can't be solved at lower levels in other ways. We have cops and judges and public investigators. In the old days, if a judge was dirty, shrug, what can you do? Nowadays, someone like me. Check it out. Judge becomes dog catcher. If they can be trusted with dogs.
"I'm told that I only have to do this for another year. Then I can rotate out to help run the new Integrity Academy. Then figure out what I want to do next. Maybe get back on the regular pipe, policing.
"This work is corrosive. I can feel it eating away at me," he gestures to his stomach. "I think of it kind of like caring for an adopted child. One that gets in trouble a lot. But if I don't, who will?"
I promptly got lost.
It's not the hospital's fault. There was marked signage everywhere and friendly ambassadors at confusing intersecions. There were many buildings, a few connected by tunnels, most connected by covered walkways.
The impression I gathered was that the enormous hospital complex - "Northern Medical City" - was something that had kind of just happened, and then been added to and revitalized as demands and resources permitted.
Helipad 3, where I'd been dropped off, was at the top of a relatively modern six story building, an office tower that had been absorbed into NMC as it expanded.
I found a cafeteria. This immediately ran me into a hurdle I hadn't been expecting.
There was no cash register. The employees and guests swiped a card to pay. A dim but well meaning volunteer led me to the card machine, which would take my money and load a guest card.
My California dollars. Of which I had none. I had a pocket full of Euros but the machine had no idea what they were. There were no currency exchanges in a hospital not meant for tourists.
The volunteer somehow became a security guard, who then became a hospital police officer, who was then replaced by several very polite people in white clothes.
I decided to throw myself on their mercy. I identified myself as a reporter for the BBC.
They smiled kindly. One got me a meal from the cafeteria, on his card. They walked me to a side room to eat. They listened to my questions but didn't say much.
Then they explained that we needed to go back to the Ward now.
Two were female. They asked the others to turn their backs. They did.
"We have to search you now."
My protests became strident but it became clear that if I resorted to violence, they were experienced and would clearly win.
Seething, I saw my Euros, my phone and my satellite communicator zipped into a bag labeled 'Patient Property' with my name on it. I was escorted from there to a control desk, one of an innumerable series of security control points, where the bag was sealed and stored.
"It's OK, it will be in Central Property and you will get it all back," I was soothed.
Then the group - which had been six, now was eight - buzzed through several pairs of secure doors and welcomed me to the Ward.
I was asked to wait on a bench. Others were also waiting. Some for appointments, some for interviews. Apparently I was scheduled for an intake interview.
I decided to be patient. I would give the practitioner an earful but until then, I would talk to the other patients.
Some played along. Others wouldn't talk to me - either they didn't believe I was a reporter, or they didn't care either way.
Most had clear and unmistakable signs of serious mental health problems. I had visited locked wards in the UK.
Finally, a harried young woman whose badge identified her as Psych Jones walked me into an interview room. I noticed it was clean, comfortable, sterile and devoid of objects that could be used as weapons.
"I am a reporter for the BBC. I demand to speak to my country's Special Interest Section in Sacramento."
The Psych nodded abstractly.
"We've been unable to find your file. I have a note that you were wandering in the corridor, which is a neat trick. I don't suppose you'd mind giving me your name."
"I gave it." So I gave it again.
"Your real name. Your California name."
She felt that I had come up with a particularly detailed and vivid escapist fantasy, and assured me that it was not her job today to deprive me of my 'comfort.'
"Your guards took my money, my phone and my satellite communicator!"
"Your personal effects will be returned to you on your release."
Preliminary interview over, I was referred for a physical examination.
I was provided with patient clothing.
I refused to wear it.
After discussion, they decided that they would not make me wear it, but that I needed to carry it.
It helped pad the benches under me where I waited.
The physical examination was by a thorough nurse practitioner. She looked me in the eyes, the ears, asked me questions.
"We would normally do blood work, Ms. Jones. And ask you for a urine sample. However, your story has caught up with you. Your camera operator and bodyguard are waiting for you down the hall."
I sighed with relief.
They handed me the bag containing my items, took the patient clothing back, and buzzed me out.
I grew certain I would hate the sight of that leather jacket, because it would always be associated with the smirk from the agent wearing it.
"Thank you for a very useful penetration test of the hospital complex. We've interviewed numerous people about your unexpected journey. Several security defects will be corrected.
"You have had a stressful day. Would you like to continue your tour or go back to the hotel?"
He gave me a hospital badge. It listed my name, my photo (I hadn't posed for one!). My agency was listed as British Broadcasting Corporation, my title as Journalist.
"We also dropped a couple hundred bucks for drinks and snacks on it. Only fair because that's how we caught you."
My bodyguard and camera operator already had theirs.
My bodyguard's badge had a little picture of a firearm on it.
"While you were exploring, we satisfied ourselves that he was qualified to carry a firearm in California. I bent a point and gave him a waiver for the legal element of the training; it's online anyway and he has seven days to click through it."
Jay exposed his jacket very slightly and I saw just the edge of a handgun.
!!!, my face said.
"We would look very foolish requiring a SAS operative to qualify on the pistol range."
"How is he doing?" I parried.
"Huh?"
"The prisoner I flew with."
"Oh." He blinked. "I can put in a request for you to interview him. But he's likely still in surgery based on the injuries as reported. Can we give it a couple days? Pretty sure he's not dead." Click, click. "Nope, still in surgery."
"Who has to approve that?"
Now it was the Collections Agent's turn to look surprised.
"He does."
"Yes, I would like to interview him. And I'm sorry if I interupted your day, but I would also like to interview _you_."
He turned thoughtful.
"That ... I can do. As a convenience to all of us, let's do that interview here. It will give the hospital PIO time to stop pulling her hair out and hyperventilating. Then we can come up with a plan.
"Your request to visit the Air National Guard base is approved as well. That's very straightforward. They did ask for a couple days so they can sanitize classified materials. And they will not be taking you on any flights."
"Will Red Lion get in trouble?"
"You folks are really amazing." He shook his head. "No. Red Lion can do whatever the fuck they want, anywhere the fuck they want. If they dropped you off in a forestry operations zone, as long as you didn't actually get kidnapped or killed, they still wouldn't get in trouble. I'd get my hand slapped. They are Red Lion."
###
"You can call me Fred. Everything about my real last name, my past, my life, all that is no longer mine. It is the property of the California Republic.
"I was a lecturer at a community college somewhere or another during the Firecracker. It was a living and a chance to meet people. Then we were all overwhelmed by an influx of refugees from San Francisco and points north of same. Still are. Just different sources.
"I made myself useful, I solved problems. Soon I was a Redding police officer. Then Homeland asked me to work for them.
"I said no. That was."
He paused.
"I was hiding in the woods for nearly a year after that. Lost some weight. Learned some skills. Led a Resistance cell. When we took Redding, we had a lot of problems. 'Turned once will turn again.' All sorts of issues.
"Then someone came to me, handed me this," he took out and held up his credential, the one it was death to take a picture of, "told me how to use it. His touchstone was 'Do what's right.'"
"How do you know what's right?" I asked.
"Be fair. Be consistent with similar situations. Be kind, but remember that mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent. Give people a chance. Not two. When time permits, check in with other Agents. We did a lot of working in pairs, trying to figure out what we were doing. A lot of anti-corruption work. A lot of counterinsurgency. American partisans. Still some of that."
"Up by Clear Lake," I asked.
He nodded. "Yes. Among many other places. There's no point now, we will expel them when we catch them, and execute them if they come back. But they're being supported by Special Forces A teams. The war continues even if there is technically an armistice. Just means no tank battles and no air strikes. Although that was bad enough.
"This hospital was expanded three major times. Once right after the Firecracker, once by Homeland as a processing center, and then by us as soon as we took over - and we never stopped. Under constant construction.
"California is her people. Everything else is just noise. Concrete, steel, forestry, roads, that's nice. But people are the ones who do anything good in this world. We take care of each other.
"My job as a Collections Agent is to solve problems and catch bad people. Peculation of funds, misuse of power."
"I've heard that Collections has power of summary execution."
"Used to. Not so much anymore, although we don't advertise it. The Governor takes a personal interest now. Every case. If I shoot someone, I just might be asked to fly up to Sacramento and have a face-to-face with Pat about it. And I might end up breaking rocks and I might end up taking a transfer to Bear Force.
"But you don't let things like that get in the way of doing the job. I kind of see it as somewhere between a cop and a judge. Elements of both, but not really either. I can refer someone on criminal charges, but I don't _have_ to. I can give civil orders and I can expend public funds. I can fire pretty much anyone, private or public, and demand a court martial if they're in the military. But that's not the job and that's not a perk of the job.
"The job is to solve problems that can't be solved at lower levels in other ways. We have cops and judges and public investigators. In the old days, if a judge was dirty, shrug, what can you do? Nowadays, someone like me. Check it out. Judge becomes dog catcher. If they can be trusted with dogs.
"I'm told that I only have to do this for another year. Then I can rotate out to help run the new Integrity Academy. Then figure out what I want to do next. Maybe get back on the regular pipe, policing.
"This work is corrosive. I can feel it eating away at me," he gestures to his stomach. "I think of it kind of like caring for an adopted child. One that gets in trouble a lot. But if I don't, who will?"
