GWOT VI - Ministry NI
Mar. 16th, 2024 04:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT VI - Ministry NI
The need had gotten worse.
So many hungry people and not enough food.
The security situation had become very bad.
It was all they could do to keep order in the immediate line of sight.
Keeping order in the line of people waiting for food was becoming difficult.
When it became impossible, they would have to leave.
Langar Aid had not gone into the places where it was easy to feed the starving
Before the Firecracker War, it was a hidden fact that no hunger in the world was accidental. Refugees would be fed unless war forbade.
After ... ah, after ... there was so much war and death. East Asia at first, but it spread and spread and spread.
One of the unsung heroes of fighting poverty in the global South had been China.
Wrecked and fighting for her life, China had nothing left for anywhere else.
Disorder had spread. India had not been spared domestic turmoil, but had so far avoided nuclear conflict. So far.
Langar Aid was one of the few things India could do to help the rest of the world. Like Cuba's barefoot doctors and the very much not barefoot Doctors Without Borders, they were quietly famous if you cared about humanitarian aid, and not otherwise.
Neither Cuba nor MSF were here. They operated in places where medical care mattered. Also where their security procedures could protect their staff.
Langar Aid provided their own security. Their cooks carried iron rods. Some cooked. Some patrolled. And all could fight at need.
They set up their kitchens where food mattered. Where starvation lurked.
So when the American refugees of China's retaliatory strikes on the Midwest had started going hungry, Langar Aid had come.
When it became clear that the hunger was deliberate, it was time to consider leaving.
Now this was war. The small United Nations contingent and the larger but less brave Iowa State Police were swamped by Christian militias.
There was a disturbance at the back of the line. Then people were running. Panicked.
Langar Aid staff stopped serving and retreated, forming a tight circle around their food truck and supply container, nearly empty, with their rods in hand.
Then the jacked up pickup trucks started driving through the crowd towards them. Through. Not going out of their way to hit anyone. Not caring if they did.
A scream and crunch.
Several trucks stopped short and men got out. Carrying weapons. Not just rifles and pistols, but the local sports tool - baseball bat - and blades already rusty with blood.
Langar Aid had stayed too long.
"Who is in charge of your group?" a leader demanded.
A brief scuffle, as a younger man was slapped by an older one. Then the older man stepped forward, beyond the line of useless rods. Enough to protect from refugees in a panic. Useless against paramilitaries.
"I am head cook," he said calmly.
The leader raised his pistol.
The head cook put his hand on the knife at his belt.
"Shall I make this easier for you, and draw?" the cook asked. "Or do you prefer murder of diplomatic personnel to add to all your other sins?"
"Diplomatic?"
"We are all citizens of the United Kingdom as well as of India. We are noncombatants, neutrals. We cook and serve. And every single one of our names is known. Our passports are made out, and crowns in our purse for convoy."
The literary allusion flew over the leader's head.
"You shall leave. Start walking west."
"We take our truck."
"No, you do not."
"So you add stealing vehicles to stealing food and starving children. How brave you are."
The head cook turned his back on the Christian paramilitaries and waved a hand. His group formed a line and started walking west.
One threw a set of keys in the dirt, and spat.
A rifle barked, but a Christian officer had knocked the barrel skyward.
It was notable that the Indian men did not flinch.
The thought crossed the Christian leader's mind that it was fortunate that these men were armed only with iron rods.
"Attention. Once they are well clear, start the separation."
An euphemism.
What they separated, often enough, was heads from bodies.
It was only much later that the Christian leader learned. His actions had been recorded, on video. Uploaded to the world. Condemned, outside Iowa. Quietly praised, by the powerful within it.
###
A hand over his mouth, as he lay asleep in his bed.
First he smelled a heavy copper smell that he knew so very well, but did not belong HERE. Not in his house. Not in his bed.
Blood. A lot of spilled blood.
The hand was leather gloved.
"Remain still," someone whispered in his ear.
He did not, and thrashed in sudden electric agony, biting the leather.
Stun gun. Pressed to his neck.
"Remain still," the voice said quietly again.
This time he did.
"Are you hearing me? If so, nod once."
He nodded.
"Good. When you get up, this we want you to know. What you see is all your fault, for violating the diplomatic immunity of Langar Aid. For murder, we would not do this. For starvation and separation, we would not do this. We do this for your interference in helping the helpless. You didn't just murder. You pissed on hope. That is unworthy. Nod again."
A cold line, wet, rested on his cheek.
"Nod or die."
He nodded.
"Good. Count to sixty and get up."
The hand withdrew.
He knew the trick, having used it himself. Telling the man he would live. Then killing him. Or perhaps the goal was for him to live, and the first twenty seconds was merely escape time for his captor.
He counted to seventy anyway. Then smoothly rolled off the bed, reached under, grabbed his loaded rifle with sling and magazines, came up into triangle stance with stock welded to his shoulder. Bullet time, weapons engagement.
So he saw the body of his dead wife over his sights.
He left swept, the hallway, the children's bedroom. Not empty. No life. More blood.
He continued his sweep, his house as familliar as the inside of his mouth.
Rage and grief would come later. This was the time to kill.
The house was empty. The doors remained locked from inside. The windows closed.
Mindful of enemy observation, he used the escape tunnel - tell tales undisturbed - to come up in the side shed. Sliced the pie of the door with his rifle Scanned the yard.
Patrolled twice around the perimeter of it. First looking outward for threats. Second looking inward for ground sign, tracks, how the invader had entered and/or left.
No findings.
Rounds in the air would draw reaction.
So he fired. Three spaced shots. Emergency. Then moved position and kept scanning, already planning how he would call out to the reaction team and link up.
No one came.
He checked his neighbor's house. Dead.
In horror he stalked the town in which he had grown up, all his life.
Dead, dead, dead. Sentries on watch, families asleep. Dead.
For lack of anything else to do, he returned to his home.
A children's bedroom.
In a room splattered with blood, a pillowcase had been spread out with a little teddy bear - clean - sitting on it.
The teddy bear held a little printed card.
BEAR FORCE.
He would kill and kill and kill. He would kill every refugee in Iowa. Then he would go to California and kill there. He would kill and kill and
He picked up the bear to throw it against the wall.
The instant fuse on the anti tamper tremblor inside the IED disguised as a toy activated.
No one heard the bang but him.
He spun, flailing with his one remaining arm, fumbling at his belt for the tourniquet that was not part of his equipment because he had been undressed for bed.
His face pressed against the carpet, looking at blood soaked dolls as his cold and heavy fate blurred his vision.
No one heard the second bang, from the corner of the room, a few minutes later.
###
RCS Panoptes
"Combat data link destroyed. Video uploaded to Mammoth."
It was grisly viewing. The video techs in California would clean it up, a little.
But not too much.
The point was deterrence, after all.
The need had gotten worse.
So many hungry people and not enough food.
The security situation had become very bad.
It was all they could do to keep order in the immediate line of sight.
Keeping order in the line of people waiting for food was becoming difficult.
When it became impossible, they would have to leave.
Langar Aid had not gone into the places where it was easy to feed the starving
Before the Firecracker War, it was a hidden fact that no hunger in the world was accidental. Refugees would be fed unless war forbade.
After ... ah, after ... there was so much war and death. East Asia at first, but it spread and spread and spread.
One of the unsung heroes of fighting poverty in the global South had been China.
Wrecked and fighting for her life, China had nothing left for anywhere else.
Disorder had spread. India had not been spared domestic turmoil, but had so far avoided nuclear conflict. So far.
Langar Aid was one of the few things India could do to help the rest of the world. Like Cuba's barefoot doctors and the very much not barefoot Doctors Without Borders, they were quietly famous if you cared about humanitarian aid, and not otherwise.
Neither Cuba nor MSF were here. They operated in places where medical care mattered. Also where their security procedures could protect their staff.
Langar Aid provided their own security. Their cooks carried iron rods. Some cooked. Some patrolled. And all could fight at need.
They set up their kitchens where food mattered. Where starvation lurked.
So when the American refugees of China's retaliatory strikes on the Midwest had started going hungry, Langar Aid had come.
When it became clear that the hunger was deliberate, it was time to consider leaving.
Now this was war. The small United Nations contingent and the larger but less brave Iowa State Police were swamped by Christian militias.
There was a disturbance at the back of the line. Then people were running. Panicked.
Langar Aid staff stopped serving and retreated, forming a tight circle around their food truck and supply container, nearly empty, with their rods in hand.
Then the jacked up pickup trucks started driving through the crowd towards them. Through. Not going out of their way to hit anyone. Not caring if they did.
A scream and crunch.
Several trucks stopped short and men got out. Carrying weapons. Not just rifles and pistols, but the local sports tool - baseball bat - and blades already rusty with blood.
Langar Aid had stayed too long.
"Who is in charge of your group?" a leader demanded.
A brief scuffle, as a younger man was slapped by an older one. Then the older man stepped forward, beyond the line of useless rods. Enough to protect from refugees in a panic. Useless against paramilitaries.
"I am head cook," he said calmly.
The leader raised his pistol.
The head cook put his hand on the knife at his belt.
"Shall I make this easier for you, and draw?" the cook asked. "Or do you prefer murder of diplomatic personnel to add to all your other sins?"
"Diplomatic?"
"We are all citizens of the United Kingdom as well as of India. We are noncombatants, neutrals. We cook and serve. And every single one of our names is known. Our passports are made out, and crowns in our purse for convoy."
The literary allusion flew over the leader's head.
"You shall leave. Start walking west."
"We take our truck."
"No, you do not."
"So you add stealing vehicles to stealing food and starving children. How brave you are."
The head cook turned his back on the Christian paramilitaries and waved a hand. His group formed a line and started walking west.
One threw a set of keys in the dirt, and spat.
A rifle barked, but a Christian officer had knocked the barrel skyward.
It was notable that the Indian men did not flinch.
The thought crossed the Christian leader's mind that it was fortunate that these men were armed only with iron rods.
"Attention. Once they are well clear, start the separation."
An euphemism.
What they separated, often enough, was heads from bodies.
It was only much later that the Christian leader learned. His actions had been recorded, on video. Uploaded to the world. Condemned, outside Iowa. Quietly praised, by the powerful within it.
###
A hand over his mouth, as he lay asleep in his bed.
First he smelled a heavy copper smell that he knew so very well, but did not belong HERE. Not in his house. Not in his bed.
Blood. A lot of spilled blood.
The hand was leather gloved.
"Remain still," someone whispered in his ear.
He did not, and thrashed in sudden electric agony, biting the leather.
Stun gun. Pressed to his neck.
"Remain still," the voice said quietly again.
This time he did.
"Are you hearing me? If so, nod once."
He nodded.
"Good. When you get up, this we want you to know. What you see is all your fault, for violating the diplomatic immunity of Langar Aid. For murder, we would not do this. For starvation and separation, we would not do this. We do this for your interference in helping the helpless. You didn't just murder. You pissed on hope. That is unworthy. Nod again."
A cold line, wet, rested on his cheek.
"Nod or die."
He nodded.
"Good. Count to sixty and get up."
The hand withdrew.
He knew the trick, having used it himself. Telling the man he would live. Then killing him. Or perhaps the goal was for him to live, and the first twenty seconds was merely escape time for his captor.
He counted to seventy anyway. Then smoothly rolled off the bed, reached under, grabbed his loaded rifle with sling and magazines, came up into triangle stance with stock welded to his shoulder. Bullet time, weapons engagement.
So he saw the body of his dead wife over his sights.
He left swept, the hallway, the children's bedroom. Not empty. No life. More blood.
He continued his sweep, his house as familliar as the inside of his mouth.
Rage and grief would come later. This was the time to kill.
The house was empty. The doors remained locked from inside. The windows closed.
Mindful of enemy observation, he used the escape tunnel - tell tales undisturbed - to come up in the side shed. Sliced the pie of the door with his rifle Scanned the yard.
Patrolled twice around the perimeter of it. First looking outward for threats. Second looking inward for ground sign, tracks, how the invader had entered and/or left.
No findings.
Rounds in the air would draw reaction.
So he fired. Three spaced shots. Emergency. Then moved position and kept scanning, already planning how he would call out to the reaction team and link up.
No one came.
He checked his neighbor's house. Dead.
In horror he stalked the town in which he had grown up, all his life.
Dead, dead, dead. Sentries on watch, families asleep. Dead.
For lack of anything else to do, he returned to his home.
A children's bedroom.
In a room splattered with blood, a pillowcase had been spread out with a little teddy bear - clean - sitting on it.
The teddy bear held a little printed card.
BEAR FORCE.
He would kill and kill and kill. He would kill every refugee in Iowa. Then he would go to California and kill there. He would kill and kill and
He picked up the bear to throw it against the wall.
The instant fuse on the anti tamper tremblor inside the IED disguised as a toy activated.
No one heard the bang but him.
He spun, flailing with his one remaining arm, fumbling at his belt for the tourniquet that was not part of his equipment because he had been undressed for bed.
His face pressed against the carpet, looking at blood soaked dolls as his cold and heavy fate blurred his vision.
No one heard the second bang, from the corner of the room, a few minutes later.
###
RCS Panoptes
"Combat data link destroyed. Video uploaded to Mammoth."
It was grisly viewing. The video techs in California would clean it up, a little.
But not too much.
The point was deterrence, after all.
