GWOT 2 - Consequence Arena
Aug. 31st, 2023 10:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT II - Consequence Arena
That day I remember mostly in snippets. It started with a mutual aid activation from Homeland to come to the rescue of another high tech company in Santa Clara.
###
"Breacher!"
One of our two surviving firefighters (I'd started the day with four) snuck up on the door from the side, applied hooligan tool, and started whaling on it.
Sad that I didn't have Mo with me. He'd have this door off its hinges before you could say 'detocord.' But rubbing my Islamic bomb tech in Homeland's face did not seem survival positive.
Also he'd have run out of charges by now.
This entire entry reminded me of a text adventure game from my horrific youth. "You are in a twisty maze of passages, all alike."
But the intruders were already inside. We had to go in and root them out, the hard way.
The door flew aside and the firefighter paused to allow enemy fire to fill the fatal funnel.
A moment later, I entered through that fatal funnel without the luxury of distraction devices, a shield, heavy body armor or hope.
I did have a SBR. Longer than a submachine gun, shorter than an assault rifle, it was perfect for this sort of work. An officer's weapon, lightweight enough to carry all the time but effective enough to do the job in a twisty maze of passages, all alike. Poor range didn't matter. Legality especially didn't matter. "In time of war the laws are silent."
The people on the other side were a technical intelligence team.
They were armed. One was fumbling with a magazine reload, having emptied their mag into the doorway just before I came through it. One was furiously typing on a laptop connected to the site's network by a length of cable, presumably Ethernet. One was reaching for something on their LBE, Load Bearing Equipment.
Burst. Burst. Burst. In the inverted triangle formed by the neck and lower face.
And that was them, dead as chivalry.
The one reaching for her LBE was still moaning, so I fired once more with the barrel tip touching her forehead. The anemic round would bounce round inside her helmet and skull, so I wasn't worried about a ricochet.
"That's the last of them," I heard in my headset.
We had friends in high places. Notably the cameras. This door had a manual deadbolt, which is why we'd had to breach it. The other doors were opened for us.
Hackers. Never, ever leave your perimeter without them.
I had just murdered three Resistance soldiers.
That was the mission. Mutual aid to Homeland. Or they would do the same to us.
I used the radio frequency selector on the rifle first to change to the support net, then to transmit. "Unplug the laptop?" I asked.
"Negative, we're in it."
I quickly went over the bodies for intel.
They all three wore rugged, practical long sleeve shirts and pants, with captured Homeland helmets and body armor with the logos removed. No identification or documents. Each had an access card on a lanyard, which they had used to freely move around the site before we'd remotely clobbered their accesses. Bandanas across their faces. Not just for their identity, but to protect from the Homeland Friends & Family Plan.
The last had been reaching for a grenade. Not a bad idea. You don't want to get captured by Homeland.
Normally, crime scene preservation and care for the wounded took precedence over moving bodies.
There would be no crime scene workup. They hadn't left any wounded behind them alive to treat.
So we made a pile of them outside near the parking garage. We didn't bother with biometrics. Homeland sent us here to take the site back, not gather forensic data.
Nearly a platoon of them. Twenty eight. But against us they were cold meat. Despite captured equipment they had little chance to train and no way to put in range time.
I walked back to our control point, changing nets and reconciling resources on the fly. The people I'd brought minus dead and wounded.
"Sitrep," I asked our medic.
"Four expectant, two immediate, four delayed."
"Ambo?"
"Off to Valley Med with the immediates and one expectant."
Normally closed to us hoi polloi, perhaps Valley Med would treat those wounded in Homeland's service. Pardon the expression, it was worth a shot. They had no hope otherwise.
I held the hand of each of our expectants. Praised them. Told them they had done a good job. One died as I did so. I finished anyway. I knew hearing is the last sense to go and I wanted the last thought in that dying brain to be a good one.
The delayeds and our dead would go back to Site with us.
One last chore.
A woman executive in the battered, bloody remains of her business suit asked me, "What do we do now?"
I didn't reply, so she thought I cared.
"Our Security staff are all dead! We have dozens of people hurt, some badly. There's some sort of unknown chemical in the air ducts. We don't have power and the only water we have is from that hydrant. Aren't you going to stay and help us?"
I checked my watch. Three and a half hours from dispatch time.
"No."
I circled an arm. We're out of here.
Homeland could technically demand our services for free for twelve hours. I wanted to leave before four hours. The minimum billing under my Company's contract with Client.
I also wanted to leave before Homeland reaction forces arrived.
She looked like she wanted to cling to my harness. Then met my eyes and backed away hastily.
I had already spent nine dead on these fools. No desire at all to lose any more.
The ride back to Site was silent, except for the moaning of the wounded.
###
Our Motor Pool was a minature compound of its own, with forty foot containers in a wall surrounding two acres of parking.
By doctrine we should have pulled in, serviced our vehicles, reloaded and emptied bladder and bowels and drank water, ready to go out again at a moment's notice.
We didn't. We drove directly to D dock and offloaded wounded, then to H dock.
Many, many things would have been different had we followed SOP.
###
I was tired. This one time, I knew it wouldn't matter if I took the elevator instead of the five flights of stairs I had come to hate.
I have regretted that elevator ride every day of my life.
###
*DING*
The H4 elevator faces a window with a panoramic view of the Site parking, but particularly the Motor Pool.
The first office facing the H4 elevator door had been heavily modified by the late, unlamented Major Cartwright. He'd had a mirrored, bullet resistant window cut in the office wall and replaced the door with an armored one. The furniture within was hardened as well, and ceiling mounted monitors in the corners played the camera views of the entire building.
The H4 executive office suite door beyond was propped open, a thing that should never be. And a pair of legs parallel to the carpet occupied the line of sight just beyond it.
I had left the SBR in the truck. Second biggest regret, every day of my life.
As I rushed forward and drew my pistol left handed, I had one thought in my mind.
Chess. Protect the King.
The legs belonged to Supervisor Arturo. He had no further use for them.
The H4 executive office door was also open, and someone in what appeared to be suit and tie was sitting behind it, wearing a blue campaign hat with a gold badge on it. He was flanked by two players who started clearing leather instantly.
I turned and ran through the side connecting door to the Human Resources suite.
Queen.
The VP of HR was arguing with two men. What looked like suits and ties was body armor carriers that looked like uniform shirts, with decorative ties and huge gold badges and open credential pouches.
They turned towards me, and also started to draw.
I stopped.
Thought about it in a brief instant, as the VP-HR reached into her desk drawer.
I could have opened fire. I could have holstered. Instead I dropped my handgun to low ready.
Third regret.
I was tackled to the side by men I hadn't even seen, lurking in nearby offices.
A knee pressed my face to the carpet, boots stepped on me, but especially the one that stomped on my left hand, breaking it against the handgun.
I heard a single pistol shot.
My brain processed two images in that moment of pain.
A short term memory.
The Motor Pool had been full. Of MRAPs and buses in Homeland markings.
An immediate event.
A geyser of blood shooting sideways - actually up - from the VP of HR's neck. Where her head had been.
"What's all this, then?" complained a familiar, plainitive voice.
Shane Shreve.
A second pistol shot and a heavy sodden thump.
The last answer he would ever get to a stupid question.
The Homeland team spread my arms and legs and cut off all my clothes. Just in case I had ideas, two or three knees were kept on me at all times. The boot kept grinding my broken hand even after the handgun was removed. I was rolled to finish stripping and even the hideout derringer I kept in my groin was found and taken.
I was handcuffed behind my back and hobbled, then hobbles attached to the cuffs with a belly chain.
I didn't need the brief formal recital.
I got it anyway.
"Echo 18, you are under Homeland arrest for treasonous conspiracy and murder of Homeland personnel."
They hustled me back to the elevator.
Yup, MRAPs and buses. Goddamn it!
In the elevator, they put a bag over my head. So that brief glimpse out the window was my last view of Site.
I was loaded into an MRAP. I could tell because they banged my head into the hatch coaming as they loaded me in, and I recognized the rumble of the idling Diesel.
So I wasn't to be sidewalked.
I had a date. With electrified clamps and unethical dentistry.
And they would get me to my appointment on time.
That day I remember mostly in snippets. It started with a mutual aid activation from Homeland to come to the rescue of another high tech company in Santa Clara.
###
"Breacher!"
One of our two surviving firefighters (I'd started the day with four) snuck up on the door from the side, applied hooligan tool, and started whaling on it.
Sad that I didn't have Mo with me. He'd have this door off its hinges before you could say 'detocord.' But rubbing my Islamic bomb tech in Homeland's face did not seem survival positive.
Also he'd have run out of charges by now.
This entire entry reminded me of a text adventure game from my horrific youth. "You are in a twisty maze of passages, all alike."
But the intruders were already inside. We had to go in and root them out, the hard way.
The door flew aside and the firefighter paused to allow enemy fire to fill the fatal funnel.
A moment later, I entered through that fatal funnel without the luxury of distraction devices, a shield, heavy body armor or hope.
I did have a SBR. Longer than a submachine gun, shorter than an assault rifle, it was perfect for this sort of work. An officer's weapon, lightweight enough to carry all the time but effective enough to do the job in a twisty maze of passages, all alike. Poor range didn't matter. Legality especially didn't matter. "In time of war the laws are silent."
The people on the other side were a technical intelligence team.
They were armed. One was fumbling with a magazine reload, having emptied their mag into the doorway just before I came through it. One was furiously typing on a laptop connected to the site's network by a length of cable, presumably Ethernet. One was reaching for something on their LBE, Load Bearing Equipment.
Burst. Burst. Burst. In the inverted triangle formed by the neck and lower face.
And that was them, dead as chivalry.
The one reaching for her LBE was still moaning, so I fired once more with the barrel tip touching her forehead. The anemic round would bounce round inside her helmet and skull, so I wasn't worried about a ricochet.
"That's the last of them," I heard in my headset.
We had friends in high places. Notably the cameras. This door had a manual deadbolt, which is why we'd had to breach it. The other doors were opened for us.
Hackers. Never, ever leave your perimeter without them.
I had just murdered three Resistance soldiers.
That was the mission. Mutual aid to Homeland. Or they would do the same to us.
I used the radio frequency selector on the rifle first to change to the support net, then to transmit. "Unplug the laptop?" I asked.
"Negative, we're in it."
I quickly went over the bodies for intel.
They all three wore rugged, practical long sleeve shirts and pants, with captured Homeland helmets and body armor with the logos removed. No identification or documents. Each had an access card on a lanyard, which they had used to freely move around the site before we'd remotely clobbered their accesses. Bandanas across their faces. Not just for their identity, but to protect from the Homeland Friends & Family Plan.
The last had been reaching for a grenade. Not a bad idea. You don't want to get captured by Homeland.
Normally, crime scene preservation and care for the wounded took precedence over moving bodies.
There would be no crime scene workup. They hadn't left any wounded behind them alive to treat.
So we made a pile of them outside near the parking garage. We didn't bother with biometrics. Homeland sent us here to take the site back, not gather forensic data.
Nearly a platoon of them. Twenty eight. But against us they were cold meat. Despite captured equipment they had little chance to train and no way to put in range time.
I walked back to our control point, changing nets and reconciling resources on the fly. The people I'd brought minus dead and wounded.
"Sitrep," I asked our medic.
"Four expectant, two immediate, four delayed."
"Ambo?"
"Off to Valley Med with the immediates and one expectant."
Normally closed to us hoi polloi, perhaps Valley Med would treat those wounded in Homeland's service. Pardon the expression, it was worth a shot. They had no hope otherwise.
I held the hand of each of our expectants. Praised them. Told them they had done a good job. One died as I did so. I finished anyway. I knew hearing is the last sense to go and I wanted the last thought in that dying brain to be a good one.
The delayeds and our dead would go back to Site with us.
One last chore.
A woman executive in the battered, bloody remains of her business suit asked me, "What do we do now?"
I didn't reply, so she thought I cared.
"Our Security staff are all dead! We have dozens of people hurt, some badly. There's some sort of unknown chemical in the air ducts. We don't have power and the only water we have is from that hydrant. Aren't you going to stay and help us?"
I checked my watch. Three and a half hours from dispatch time.
"No."
I circled an arm. We're out of here.
Homeland could technically demand our services for free for twelve hours. I wanted to leave before four hours. The minimum billing under my Company's contract with Client.
I also wanted to leave before Homeland reaction forces arrived.
She looked like she wanted to cling to my harness. Then met my eyes and backed away hastily.
I had already spent nine dead on these fools. No desire at all to lose any more.
The ride back to Site was silent, except for the moaning of the wounded.
###
Our Motor Pool was a minature compound of its own, with forty foot containers in a wall surrounding two acres of parking.
By doctrine we should have pulled in, serviced our vehicles, reloaded and emptied bladder and bowels and drank water, ready to go out again at a moment's notice.
We didn't. We drove directly to D dock and offloaded wounded, then to H dock.
Many, many things would have been different had we followed SOP.
###
I was tired. This one time, I knew it wouldn't matter if I took the elevator instead of the five flights of stairs I had come to hate.
I have regretted that elevator ride every day of my life.
###
*DING*
The H4 elevator faces a window with a panoramic view of the Site parking, but particularly the Motor Pool.
The first office facing the H4 elevator door had been heavily modified by the late, unlamented Major Cartwright. He'd had a mirrored, bullet resistant window cut in the office wall and replaced the door with an armored one. The furniture within was hardened as well, and ceiling mounted monitors in the corners played the camera views of the entire building.
The H4 executive office suite door beyond was propped open, a thing that should never be. And a pair of legs parallel to the carpet occupied the line of sight just beyond it.
I had left the SBR in the truck. Second biggest regret, every day of my life.
As I rushed forward and drew my pistol left handed, I had one thought in my mind.
Chess. Protect the King.
The legs belonged to Supervisor Arturo. He had no further use for them.
The H4 executive office door was also open, and someone in what appeared to be suit and tie was sitting behind it, wearing a blue campaign hat with a gold badge on it. He was flanked by two players who started clearing leather instantly.
I turned and ran through the side connecting door to the Human Resources suite.
Queen.
The VP of HR was arguing with two men. What looked like suits and ties was body armor carriers that looked like uniform shirts, with decorative ties and huge gold badges and open credential pouches.
They turned towards me, and also started to draw.
I stopped.
Thought about it in a brief instant, as the VP-HR reached into her desk drawer.
I could have opened fire. I could have holstered. Instead I dropped my handgun to low ready.
Third regret.
I was tackled to the side by men I hadn't even seen, lurking in nearby offices.
A knee pressed my face to the carpet, boots stepped on me, but especially the one that stomped on my left hand, breaking it against the handgun.
I heard a single pistol shot.
My brain processed two images in that moment of pain.
A short term memory.
The Motor Pool had been full. Of MRAPs and buses in Homeland markings.
An immediate event.
A geyser of blood shooting sideways - actually up - from the VP of HR's neck. Where her head had been.
"What's all this, then?" complained a familiar, plainitive voice.
Shane Shreve.
A second pistol shot and a heavy sodden thump.
The last answer he would ever get to a stupid question.
The Homeland team spread my arms and legs and cut off all my clothes. Just in case I had ideas, two or three knees were kept on me at all times. The boot kept grinding my broken hand even after the handgun was removed. I was rolled to finish stripping and even the hideout derringer I kept in my groin was found and taken.
I was handcuffed behind my back and hobbled, then hobbles attached to the cuffs with a belly chain.
I didn't need the brief formal recital.
I got it anyway.
"Echo 18, you are under Homeland arrest for treasonous conspiracy and murder of Homeland personnel."
They hustled me back to the elevator.
Yup, MRAPs and buses. Goddamn it!
In the elevator, they put a bag over my head. So that brief glimpse out the window was my last view of Site.
I was loaded into an MRAP. I could tell because they banged my head into the hatch coaming as they loaded me in, and I recognized the rumble of the idling Diesel.
So I wasn't to be sidewalked.
I had a date. With electrified clamps and unethical dentistry.
And they would get me to my appointment on time.
