After the Fall

Jed admired the stately procession of unmarked, beautiful black vans, led by two police cars, light bars blazing. As the tactical commander, he was in the lead van of the entire Cohort, charged with guiding them to their destinations this first Saturday of work in Los Angeles. Like the other three in his crew - Billie, Josh, Zeke - he was a stranger to California, a land of myth, bikinis and surf up to now. He'd been a Mississippi boy, oil rig worker and sometime jailbird.

The heads-up guidance systems in the vans would speed them to their destinations, one each for the forty vans in his detachment. The police cars would remain with the lead cars in case there was trouble, which no one expected. Most likely, the suspects would be rounded up before they could even know what was happening, softly, easily. It had been just hours since the Friday attack on the Congress, just as they had been debating the ongoing conflict with the Executive branch. Served them right, Jed ruminated, bunch of old sissies, well, nothing left of them now. Just fitting that the terrorists they had been so soft on had chosen them for their attack.

It was Saturday morning, time for the President's newscast, where he would announce the catastrophe, explain why the internet had been disabled, and set out the emergency procedures, a small part of which Jed was in humble command of. Rumors had it that there were 100 Cohorts, Homeland Security's new name for a Company, assigned to round up troublemakers in L.A.

It was almost 10 AM as the column passed the Highway Patrol emergency checkpoint at the entrance to the Pasadena Freeway. Three cruisers and one command vehicle from HS, positioned to enforce last night's Martial Law declaration and keep traffic off the freeways. The on-board FOE system green-lighted them forward without even slowing down. Speed was of the essence; the list of dissidents was more than 12,000 families. With the 4000 vans in today's raids, that would be about three families in each van. They were large enough to do the job, Jed thought proudly.

These vans were a complete surprise. They had been contracted for using Black funds, under the theory that people could be rounded up more quietly with intimidating, impressive shiny new paddy wagons.

The police cars led them past the Golden State Freeway, past Dodger Stadium - Jed was a Houston fan, but had always fervently followed the Dodgers - past downtown, and onto the maze of South Central at Adams Street. Vans started dropping off, guided by their on-board GPS routing. Jed wondered vaguely how one got on that list, but it was of little interest to getting his job done. He'd been rescued from a very serious situation by this job offer, and he was not about to blow it.

The cop cars joined a line of their fellows down the middle of Adams Street, ready to assist if needed. Jed's van was guided automatically to an address on 23^rd St., a small frame house with fenced flowers and bars on the windows. Shock tactics, for which they had been trained: all his troopers, like Jed himself, were large and muscular, but looked even larger in their body armor and storm boots. The machine pistols were enough to induce nightmares, just by how they looked; but even more frightening, they used exploding DU shells, which could pierce armor or explode inside a body, a car, a home or even bring down a small plane. They were designed to terrify, to induce shock, dismay and helplessness.

One trooper stood by the rear of the van, two marched to each side of the home, and Jed had the honor of striding up to the front door, iron-shod shock boots clanging on the cement, perhaps striking sparks where Jed emphasized his steps. He wanted the ground to shake, and imagined it did.

Jed knocked on the front door, firmly but politely. A skinny young Black man opened the door a crack, and Jed announced, "Mr. James A. Smith? Please open the door. I'm an officer of Homeland Security and we're operating under the emergency procedures of Martial Law." Worried, the youth's eyes slid to Jed's shiny gold badge, emblazoned with the Presidential Seal and "SPECIAL SECURITY SERVICE". Slowly, the door slid open. Jed didn't enter. "Mr. Smith, I have to ask you and your family" -- Jed looked down - to the paper in his hand - "Mrs. Sally Smith, two minors, and Mr. George Smith, to accompany me under special authorization by the President."

An old man entered from the rear of the home. "Just who are you", he demanded. "I'm not authorized to explain. You will not be harmed, and you will probably be released within the hour. I'm just following orders. Please cooperate, we don't want any trouble". The old man looked like he was about to get riled up, but a woman came out of the kitchen. "The phone's dead," she said. "I was talking to the Armstrongs, and it just died. Like the internet. I'm scared." Jed reassured her, following his instructions. "Nothing to be frightened of, Ma'am, this is just an order they handed down. Nothing's gonna happen." Jed's southern accent did not reassure the old man, but the woman, who was White, seemed mollified. The five members were soon escorted into the van, peacefully. The back of the van opened into a sort of fantail, where guards could ride, protected by waist-high armor plate. There was a small door, just large enough for single-file entry of the family. Jed knew that once inside the windowless van, the occupants would be able to watch TV on the front wall. There were five rows of four seats, all facing front, and a small commode. Jed, as instructed, left the front door of the modest home unlocked. Other cadres would see to stir up looters, and soon, this home would be broken, open, empty, perhaps burned down. Nothing for them to come back to, that's for sure, Jed thought.

As they drove down the street, a shot rang out, and a bullet clanged against the side of the van. The tires, of course, were protected, and the bullet just bounced off. Jed had three more pickups, on 25^th St. and two on Figueroa.

Reforming his column, he was pleased to see that all forty HS vans were present and accounted for, and all lights on his heads-up were green. Over 120 pickups, without incident. These were the dangerous ones, the ones who might influence others, who might demonstrate, riot or agitate. Dissidents, and best disposed of, Jed thought.

The column went into cruise mode, up the Golden State Freeway to the Palmdale cutoff, then to their destination, a converted former air base. The subjects were unloaded without incident, secure and safe behind multiple barbed wire fences, guard dogs, machine guns and helicopter patrols. By the end of the day, almost all 12,000 suspect families would be safely interned, eliminating the heart of the terrorist supporters, as Jed had been indoctrinated to believe. A good day's work, one he could be proud of.

Frank Armstrong

What to do, he thought. The radio was only active for the Emergency Broadcast System, and the television was showing only cartoons and replays of the Emergency Declaration. Due to the "terrorist attack", all movement would be restricted to local traffic, assets frozen, and Martial Law in force until further notice. The internet was down, supposedly because the terrorists had used it to attack the Congress just as it was about to vote indictments against the President. Would anyone stand for this, Frank wondered. But what could anyone do? Who could he even find?

Frank's only chance to reach his wife was to simulate local traffic. How he'd get across the Cordon would be a problem for later. There were four choices: a bicycle, his pickup, the BMW, and his small dirt bike. Gathering emergency supplies, and packing his small arsenal, he added a gallon can of gas to the saddlebags, started it up, and slowly, quietly drove down the dirt road to join Coast Highway just behind the golf course. Frank didn't see the large black van making its swift way up the main road, arriving at his house just a few minutes after he'd left. But he imagined it, and carefully used city streets to approach Western Avenue, then zig-zagged though several cities, quietly, ambling slowly so as not to attract the attention of the few police cars he spotted watching the very light traffic. Apparently, people were staying home, as ordered, with few exceptions...and the police were not interested in tracking Frank to see how local his ambling was.

With grim satisfaction at his own surprising skill, he finally arrived at the Cordon, and the River. There was a long line of cars on his side of the bridge, but no cars on the other side. Just camo-clad Army troops, stiffened by black-clad Homeland Security forces. Frank spotted several chain-guns, one AA, and a few half-tracks, even one tank. Along the side of the river, dozens of troops were spread out in small groups on the jogging path. The cars, perhaps two hundred, seemed trapped, none wanted to back up, and there was no way to go forward. "What are these guys doing", he asked a fierce-looking young man in cutoff shirt and long, greasy hair, driving a beat-up truck with shovels and rakes hanging from hooks on the sides. "They just won't let us through," he was told. "They shot at one guy, who tried it. They ain't fooling around. Them's real bullets, and they is serious. I gotta job in Cypress, ain't no use in sittin' here."

Frank had one chance. He worked his way down to the ocean. One of their friends had a small boat, and he'd ask to borrow it, sneak around the river, hugging the breakwater and slip down the coast. It was almost dark by the time he reached their home, on the waterfront, running quiet and apparently aimlessly down the maze of local streets, looking like he knew just where he was going, and that it wasn't far.

Almost as he'd feared, they were not at home; unexpectedly, their front door was wide open. There were no signs of a struggle, and not much chance of looters on this wealthy street. Frank went to the familiar key cabinet, transferred his small kit to the 14 foot speedboat, and reluctantly parked his bike around the corner, feeling paranoid but unable to avoid following some primordial instinct. He threw some fishing gear into the boat, along with some blankets and clothes from the boat locker.

Frank changed to swim suit and slicker, and headed out. It was nine PM, fully dark. Moving slowly, feeling odd, but unable to still his fear, he slowly worked his way around the County Line - and the Cordon - and down the coast, sticking to the surf zone and avoiding dark shapes of Coast Guard and Navy ships in the distance.

Frank had to use the last of his gas to land the boat on the sand in Huntington Beach, then quietly pushing it back out to sea, hoping that the current would carry it some distance. Harkening to some instinct or other, he worked his way up the beach, crawling slowly on his belly, until he could make out the line of troopers along Coast Highway. They were local cops, so he had a chance. Boldly, he stood up, and walked confidently to the crosswalk, nodding to the two officers on duty. "Sir," the largest said, "What are you doing on the sand? The beach is closed." Frank said, "Closed? What? I've been sleeping on the sand, and just woke up. Cold got me. What's going on?". The other cop said, "Big things, sir. Have you got any ID?". Frank patted his bathings suit. "Not with me, but I just live up there on 7^th Street, I can get it for you," he said demurely, hoping. The cops, not wanting to get involved, just waved him on, and he walked briskly across deserted Coast Highway, disappearing down the next street. Those poor cops would pay for their mistake, if his boat were found, he thought. But then, they'd be after him, and he had to move swiftly.

Three blocks in, he found the house, approaching with bated breath, hoping for a miracle. Apparently, they hadn't started on Orange County yet; Frank imagined that they had limited forces, and would tackle one city at a time, knowing that no one could give the warning to the next city. But what would they do now?

Two hours later, Winnie and their hosts, the Sturmers, were no closer to an answer. Mr. Sturmer pointed out that if they were really on the list, they were making things worse for themselves by fleeing and hiding out. Certainly, the Sturmers were not on the list, they were distant relatives and not much in sympathy with Frank. But they had no answer for why Frank and Winnie would be on the list, or why people were being rounded up. Mrs. Sturmer expressed the desire to not be in their place, and that they would not want to be considered accomplices. But Frank and Winnie received no answer when they pondered what to do, or where to go, or how to get there. Airlines were clearly out, and the many police, troops and Homeland Security forces would soon be on the lookout for them, once their escape had been noted. In fact, the longer they stayed, the more certain that a dragnet would be put around the area to catch them, which would also net the Sturmers.

Suddenly the TV burst forth with a loud announcement of an important message from the President. It was 11:30 on Saturday night. The pinched, blank face appeared, flanked by the gnomelike Vice President and three medal-bedecked generals, backed by a huge American flag. His whiny, angry voice cranked up, reading, as usual, five words at a time from some hidden teleprompter... slammed down the phone in disgust. It had gone dead just as the Smiths had apparently been arrested. Arrested! For what. They were Sierra Club members, and had written some letters, had worked for some off-beat politicians, and had been the leaders of a few anti-war demonstrations. Is that a crime, Frank thought, then they are coming here, too. Frank's home, on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific, was inside what he knew to be "the Cordon". The military had emergency plans to cordon off the population centers in the event of emergency; it made some sense, because you wouldn't want streaming hordes of refugees from Los Angeles to spread out over the country side, looting, spreading disease and chaos. Now, he knew, he was trapped far from the edges of the Cordon. His wife, Winnie, had been visiting in Huntington Beach, just the other side of the invisible boundary of the Cordon, which followed the San Gabriel River, sealing Long Beach, Lakewood, Bellflower, and other dense cities on one side of the river. Troops, he knew, would be lined up along the river, massed on each bridge, charged with keeping down panic and stopping anyone from leaving.