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drewkittyGWOT V - A State Of Desperation - Burnout (pt 2)
I hate to admit that I was only half-listening to the crazed home owner whose antics had dragged all of us out here.
His home was a hundred fifty years old. Not impressive to me. I'd grown up among the relics of not centuries but millenia. The cities of America were for the most part wooden villages with occasional modern construction, by European standards.
HIs family had come out here in the 19th century and 'pioneered' their 'homestead.' I knew my American history just well enough to know that they'd taken native lands, mostly at gunpoint, and those natives that had survived had done so by running away.
No one really paid attention to his loaded rifle, not even him. I debated grabbing it and throwing it away. This wasn't my fight. I was a reporter here, an observer.
There are no atheists in foxholes, I'd been told. The intensifying glow from the north and west made me wonder how close the fire was, and how safe we were, even for the moment.
A white passenger van loaded with fire crew and equipment drove up the access road and crunched to a halt near the house. They started unloading.
A man wearing a red helmet walked right up, interrupting us.
"You the owner here?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"Captain Edison, Miwok Crew Four. We've been tasked with structure prep. I understand you have an issue and you don't want to leave. Fine. We are going to do our thing or we are going to get back in our van and _leave_. Got that?"
He didn't wait for an answer but turned and started barking orders.
"Cut those decks off! Wrap the north exposure. Go in the house and get all that shit off the upper deck, then cut that off too."
The law personnel present - of whom there were somehow a number now - waited to see the homeowner's reaction. Clearly they hoped he would overreact and give them justification.
He blinked, then nodded. Decks could be rebuilt.
Houses could be rebuilt. I decided to ask this, as an innocent question.
"I know you all think I'm being selfish and stubborn. But there's a time for selfishness and a time for stubbornness. Yes, you could build me a new gimcrack house, but it would be a new thing, and cheap flimsy modern lumber, nail-gunned together by people who don't care. These timbers," and he knocked with a hand, "are a _hundred fifty years old_."
It was like a mantra. He'd said that several times. 150 years. It was like a blip in the time of the United Kingdom, let alone England. It was a period in _Roman_ history.
I'd learned something here. America was a new child throwing temper-tantrums. California, like an abused grandchild, a child raised poorly by a child, now barely in adolescence and fighting for her life.
That didn't make either nation any less dangerous. But it explained a lot.
The adult thing to do would be to help this man get into a vehicle and escape. He would be angry, but he would survive. Instead, he was throwing a selfish temper tantrum. And because everyone dealing with him was young and inexperienced - not in the sense of actual age, but in the sense of institutions and organizational experience - they were falling for it.
George - our Collections shadow - came to our side.
"It's time to go. The fire is within ten minutes of here."
I looked at him, then the homeowner.
I smiled.
"We are accredited as if we were California news media. Correct?"
"Yes."
"I remember that California news media, even before the Firecracker, had the lawful right to remain in a disaster zone. Even at the risk of their lives."
"That is correct."
"I'll leave when he leaves." I smiled as I said it.
"What?!?" basically everyone said at once.
"Sir, I've heard your story. I understand you are emotionally invested in your home. We both know it is not safe here and that a lot of people are putting themselves at risk for you and for your home. That's a great story, and as a member of the international news media, I'm going to cover that story. Camera operator, just before we are overrun, change cards and give the prior card to that fire captain. I feel sure he'll survive. So the story will get out even if we won't."
"Are you fucking crazy?" said both the homeowner and the Collections agent, simultaneously.
"Why not? I'm only doing what he's doing. Again, sir, I will leave when you leave, and not before."
The Collections agent clearly had visions of the international media headlines - BBC reporter burned covering California 'controlled' burns; stubborn homeowner gets stubborn journalist flash-fried; how many lives for just one house?
The homeowner, however, saw his name and his family's name and his hundred fifty year home, splashed across those same articles - as the cause of all this.
I'd called his bluff. And he could now use me - the reporter - as an out.
"OH GODDAMNIT FINE! LET'S GO!" The homeowner angrily got up from his chair, picked up his backpack and stalked over to the fire van. Without the rifle. We therefore followed, and so did the law personnel not needed to drive their own vehicles.
As we drove away, the Miwok fire crew continued doing what they called structure prep, which looked a lot like de-construction with chain saws.
I sat on one side of the homeowner, my camera operator on the other, and we kept him distracted with questions as the van drove off towards safety.
A roar in the sky as a California fire aircraft passed. The word would spread, they would adapt their tactics. Life over property. Fire crews would survive.
Half an hour later, we were in the fire base camp. The homeowner was passed off to a committee with a Red Cross - not Red Lion - representative, a public information officer and a sheriff's deputy.
George rounded on me.
"What the fuck did you do that for?" he demanded.
"It worked. He wasn't afraid to die. So I had to find something he was afraid of."
And I smiled again.
"You're a reporter. You cover stories. I hoped your presence would help somehow, if only that we weren't trying to hide anything from the world, but I never imagined you'd _involve yourself_ like that."
"Did I do anything a California journalist should not have?" I enquired sweetly.
He sighed.
"No. You did exactly what a California journalist should have. If we had those. And I can now see that we have a crying need to get California news media back up and running. I have no idea how," but his eyes already had the far-away look. Collections would work on it.
Soon enough there would be a California news media corps.
We interviewed a bunch of people, we shot some establishing video, and then caught a ride back to Redding with their police tactics team.
"Off the camera?" one of the Redding police asked.
I shrugged OK.
"That was some smooth shit back there. Ever considered being a police negotiatior?"
###
From: GovCal
To: Collections Office, California University Chancellor, County Offices of Education (for public distribution)
CC: British Broadcasting Corporation, Provost Martial of the Army of the California Republic
Re: actions in and around Weaverville
I order the immediate establishment of a California Press Corps to train and accredit journalists as quickly as possible, with preference for pre-war experience where feasible. I would like the first journalists through this program to be publishing stories within the next two weeks.
Further, immediate measures will be taken to 'embed' journalists, both through this program and through national and international affiliations, with California armed forces units where this will not compromise operational security. In parallel, all educational and scientific and industrial organizations shall create and accredit their own journalistic programs, again respecting operational security.
I respectfully request the assistance of the BBC in these programs and related training efforts.
I have reviewed the reports of a number of witnesses to the Weaverville event. I therefore award the three members of the BBC reporting team at Weaverville, collectively, the Bear Cross, for the saving of human life above and beyond the call of their duties. Their conduct reflects highly on their parent organization and California owes them a debt of gratitude.
###
I looked up from having read the Governor's order, which George had just handed me.
He had some other documents in his hands.
"Here are your press passes. Here are your individual copies of the Bear Cross citations. Here are your identity cards."
He passed them out.
My guard looked at the identity card carefully.
"Citizenship: California and United Kingdom," he said out loud. "Is that a misprint?"
"No. It is not. Bear Cross awardees are automatically conferred California citizenship. Even, or especially, posthumous."
We looked at each other.
"Do you suppose the Governor is trying to bribe us?"
George shook his head.
"Not how this works. You chose to solve the Weaverville problem. We chose to honor you for it. You make your choices, we make ours. Just keep doing what you've been doing."
A half-beat.
"We've a lot to learn, you see."
I hate to admit that I was only half-listening to the crazed home owner whose antics had dragged all of us out here.
His home was a hundred fifty years old. Not impressive to me. I'd grown up among the relics of not centuries but millenia. The cities of America were for the most part wooden villages with occasional modern construction, by European standards.
HIs family had come out here in the 19th century and 'pioneered' their 'homestead.' I knew my American history just well enough to know that they'd taken native lands, mostly at gunpoint, and those natives that had survived had done so by running away.
No one really paid attention to his loaded rifle, not even him. I debated grabbing it and throwing it away. This wasn't my fight. I was a reporter here, an observer.
There are no atheists in foxholes, I'd been told. The intensifying glow from the north and west made me wonder how close the fire was, and how safe we were, even for the moment.
A white passenger van loaded with fire crew and equipment drove up the access road and crunched to a halt near the house. They started unloading.
A man wearing a red helmet walked right up, interrupting us.
"You the owner here?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"Captain Edison, Miwok Crew Four. We've been tasked with structure prep. I understand you have an issue and you don't want to leave. Fine. We are going to do our thing or we are going to get back in our van and _leave_. Got that?"
He didn't wait for an answer but turned and started barking orders.
"Cut those decks off! Wrap the north exposure. Go in the house and get all that shit off the upper deck, then cut that off too."
The law personnel present - of whom there were somehow a number now - waited to see the homeowner's reaction. Clearly they hoped he would overreact and give them justification.
He blinked, then nodded. Decks could be rebuilt.
Houses could be rebuilt. I decided to ask this, as an innocent question.
"I know you all think I'm being selfish and stubborn. But there's a time for selfishness and a time for stubbornness. Yes, you could build me a new gimcrack house, but it would be a new thing, and cheap flimsy modern lumber, nail-gunned together by people who don't care. These timbers," and he knocked with a hand, "are a _hundred fifty years old_."
It was like a mantra. He'd said that several times. 150 years. It was like a blip in the time of the United Kingdom, let alone England. It was a period in _Roman_ history.
I'd learned something here. America was a new child throwing temper-tantrums. California, like an abused grandchild, a child raised poorly by a child, now barely in adolescence and fighting for her life.
That didn't make either nation any less dangerous. But it explained a lot.
The adult thing to do would be to help this man get into a vehicle and escape. He would be angry, but he would survive. Instead, he was throwing a selfish temper tantrum. And because everyone dealing with him was young and inexperienced - not in the sense of actual age, but in the sense of institutions and organizational experience - they were falling for it.
George - our Collections shadow - came to our side.
"It's time to go. The fire is within ten minutes of here."
I looked at him, then the homeowner.
I smiled.
"We are accredited as if we were California news media. Correct?"
"Yes."
"I remember that California news media, even before the Firecracker, had the lawful right to remain in a disaster zone. Even at the risk of their lives."
"That is correct."
"I'll leave when he leaves." I smiled as I said it.
"What?!?" basically everyone said at once.
"Sir, I've heard your story. I understand you are emotionally invested in your home. We both know it is not safe here and that a lot of people are putting themselves at risk for you and for your home. That's a great story, and as a member of the international news media, I'm going to cover that story. Camera operator, just before we are overrun, change cards and give the prior card to that fire captain. I feel sure he'll survive. So the story will get out even if we won't."
"Are you fucking crazy?" said both the homeowner and the Collections agent, simultaneously.
"Why not? I'm only doing what he's doing. Again, sir, I will leave when you leave, and not before."
The Collections agent clearly had visions of the international media headlines - BBC reporter burned covering California 'controlled' burns; stubborn homeowner gets stubborn journalist flash-fried; how many lives for just one house?
The homeowner, however, saw his name and his family's name and his hundred fifty year home, splashed across those same articles - as the cause of all this.
I'd called his bluff. And he could now use me - the reporter - as an out.
"OH GODDAMNIT FINE! LET'S GO!" The homeowner angrily got up from his chair, picked up his backpack and stalked over to the fire van. Without the rifle. We therefore followed, and so did the law personnel not needed to drive their own vehicles.
As we drove away, the Miwok fire crew continued doing what they called structure prep, which looked a lot like de-construction with chain saws.
I sat on one side of the homeowner, my camera operator on the other, and we kept him distracted with questions as the van drove off towards safety.
A roar in the sky as a California fire aircraft passed. The word would spread, they would adapt their tactics. Life over property. Fire crews would survive.
Half an hour later, we were in the fire base camp. The homeowner was passed off to a committee with a Red Cross - not Red Lion - representative, a public information officer and a sheriff's deputy.
George rounded on me.
"What the fuck did you do that for?" he demanded.
"It worked. He wasn't afraid to die. So I had to find something he was afraid of."
And I smiled again.
"You're a reporter. You cover stories. I hoped your presence would help somehow, if only that we weren't trying to hide anything from the world, but I never imagined you'd _involve yourself_ like that."
"Did I do anything a California journalist should not have?" I enquired sweetly.
He sighed.
"No. You did exactly what a California journalist should have. If we had those. And I can now see that we have a crying need to get California news media back up and running. I have no idea how," but his eyes already had the far-away look. Collections would work on it.
Soon enough there would be a California news media corps.
We interviewed a bunch of people, we shot some establishing video, and then caught a ride back to Redding with their police tactics team.
"Off the camera?" one of the Redding police asked.
I shrugged OK.
"That was some smooth shit back there. Ever considered being a police negotiatior?"
###
From: GovCal
To: Collections Office, California University Chancellor, County Offices of Education (for public distribution)
CC: British Broadcasting Corporation, Provost Martial of the Army of the California Republic
Re: actions in and around Weaverville
I order the immediate establishment of a California Press Corps to train and accredit journalists as quickly as possible, with preference for pre-war experience where feasible. I would like the first journalists through this program to be publishing stories within the next two weeks.
Further, immediate measures will be taken to 'embed' journalists, both through this program and through national and international affiliations, with California armed forces units where this will not compromise operational security. In parallel, all educational and scientific and industrial organizations shall create and accredit their own journalistic programs, again respecting operational security.
I respectfully request the assistance of the BBC in these programs and related training efforts.
I have reviewed the reports of a number of witnesses to the Weaverville event. I therefore award the three members of the BBC reporting team at Weaverville, collectively, the Bear Cross, for the saving of human life above and beyond the call of their duties. Their conduct reflects highly on their parent organization and California owes them a debt of gratitude.
###
I looked up from having read the Governor's order, which George had just handed me.
He had some other documents in his hands.
"Here are your press passes. Here are your individual copies of the Bear Cross citations. Here are your identity cards."
He passed them out.
My guard looked at the identity card carefully.
"Citizenship: California and United Kingdom," he said out loud. "Is that a misprint?"
"No. It is not. Bear Cross awardees are automatically conferred California citizenship. Even, or especially, posthumous."
We looked at each other.
"Do you suppose the Governor is trying to bribe us?"
George shook his head.
"Not how this works. You chose to solve the Weaverville problem. We chose to honor you for it. You make your choices, we make ours. Just keep doing what you've been doing."
A half-beat.
"We've a lot to learn, you see."
