by Don Shift
Like Rodney Dangerfield, Tennant got no respect from the deputies. Policies changed every five minutes according to some strange wind that blew vaguely from Sacramento. Actual management of the department was left to the chiefs and commanders who governed by consensus rather than looking to their elected leader for guidance. Supervisors actually stopped caring if staff badmouthed the sheriff after he improbably won the election. The vote seemed to have taken Tennant also by surprise.
In the last year, Tennant bought property in Douglas County, Nevada, nestled up in the Sierra foothills. He bought his own Cessna, a 1977 Model 172, telling everyone it was cheaper than continually renting a plane every time he and his wife wanted to fly somewhere. Everyone knew that Tennant had assumed he would not be serving a second term.
Villareal found the sheriff standing alone in the middle of the command post tent-city. Tennant held a Styrofoam cup of coffee with a distracted look on his face. He didn’t seem to recognize his senior chief deputy when Villareal walked up.
“How was the wine country?” Villareal asked.
“Oh, it was nice, while we were there. Went to a wine tasting last night and rode horses all afternoon. Had no idea what happened until we got back to the stable.” The sheriff seemed totally unconcerned about what happened.
“You’ve had the full briefing then?”
“I have. I don’t quite believe it myself, but what else explains it? And I guess if the military says so, who am I to question it?”
“Right. Good thing we had Brad who planned for it.” While you were too busy worrying about deputies with sleeve tattoos and detectives who wear t-shirts.
“Who?”
“Nevermind. Anything specific concerns you have?”
“Who gave the authority for deputies to go out and loot stores?” Tennant snapped.
“I gave the authority, along with consultation of the Board of Supervisors pursuant to the governor’s orders, for deputies to commandeer necessary supplies with the cooperation of local business and the understanding they would be eventually reimbursed,” Villareal replied as coolly as he could manage.
“How you do think it looks for deputies to be out there basically shopping in the middle of a disaster?”
We already had this debate while you were gone. “Sir, a limited number of deputies are gathering critical supplies. They are taking only what’s needed for us to sustain operations.”
Tennant snorted. “I bet they are.” While actual looting was not happening this night (Villareal had made it clear that the most trustworthy deputies were to be sent) it wouldn’t be a surprise to learn that deputies were taking a little extra food and essentials for their own use. “I don’t want to see deputies wearing new watches or pushing TV sets out the front door of Best Buy.” He paused. “Can you explain to me why it’s considered appropriate for the county to help itself while suppressing the same behavior from the public?”
“I’m not sure it is right, Sheriff. What it is, is necessary.” Villareal waved his hand towards the makeshift command post. “We’re running off of portable generators right now. If we had warning of this, we would have sent everyone we could out with a county credit card to stock up on batteries and what not so we wouldn’t have to resort to pulling the commandeering card. The decision we made was a hard one; it’s more important to remain functional for the good of the public than it is to fail because we were afraid of the moral implications. Trust me, this was a hard call. I wouldn’t have done it if the supervisors hadn’t agreed, but what would you have us do? Is the public more likely to criticize us in the future for taking what we need to protect them, or going out of business because we didn’t go out and gather what we could while we were able to?”
Tennant sighed. He saw the quandary and didn’t have a good explanation for why they should stop. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he felt it was necessary. But it was the optics of uniformed deputies carrying things out of stores that bothered him. “I get it, but how does it make us look?”
“What, like people are going to be sharing photos on Facebook? Either we give the orders and can control what gets taken or the guys just go out and do it themselves without our control. What’s better; official sanction or our guys acting like the cops in flooded New Orleans after Katrina?”
Tennant treated the question as rhetorical. “How are we going to pay the stores back?”
“I doubt we will. Dan, I know your concerns. I share them too, but we’re through the looking glass now. What we held as sacred this morning is no longer important. What does matter is honor; that we do what we need to do honorably. That there is a system, that we take care of people, that we do things with justification and some legal underpinning. Otherwise yeah, you’re right, we’re just looting. Our former principles can guide us now, but we can’t play by rules of a game that no longer exists. I say we roll the dice, do what we need to, and pray we get lucky and come through this somehow.”
“I’m sure we’ll get soaked on the invoices when this is all over with.”
“I suppose sir, that the federal government will reimburse all necessary expenses due to the emergency.”
“Good point. We should pick up a few extra things for us,” Tennant joked.
“Good to see lights on in the buildings.”
“Yes, although what they can power up is very limited. A lot of electrical damage, it’s very random. They’ll have to go circuit by circuit. The whole complex will take days to sound out and repair. I think we’ll move everyone to Todd Road and move admin and command to Thousand Oaks.” Tennant himself lived in the bordering community of Oak Park.
“Any issues with the inmate release plans?”
“I can’t say I’m wild about it, but I spoke with Judge Fitz and he was right, can’t hold people without having information to arraign them with. It will lessen our load. I’ve suspended releases until tomorrow morning. Daylight will make it safer for all.”
“Yes.” Villareal wanted it over as soon as possible to free up the deputies and keep the inmates from rioting. Twenty-four hours of lockdown, especially with no water, would agitate even the most docile inmate.
“Seems like you’ve become the undersheriff by default.”
“Yes, it seems so. It is unfortunate that he can’t be with us.”
“Probably better for him. A cabin, a stream. An idyllic way to survive the end of the world. Far enough away to not feel any obligation to try to get back, or any guilt for not trying. Say, I’m disappointed in you for leaving like you did. Something could have happened while you were gone. It is bad optics too. Don’t want anyone to think you were running away.”
Villareal flushed with anger. He was glad that Tennant was staring into the distance instead of looking at him. “It couldn’t be helped sir. I had to check on my wife and get something to eat.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“How was your drive down?”
Tennant scoffed. “Traffic backed up at all the off-ramps, stalled cars here and there. No one seemed to know what to do. Awful. We took the backroads halfway up past Lake Cachuma but had to turn around due to a brush fire. I think a plane went down. You could see a lot of smoke in the mountains. We doubled back and it was total chaos from Goleta to Ventura.” Tennant drank the rest of his coffee and crushed the cup in his hand. “Well, honestly I’m a distraction here. I’ve checked in and everything seems to be in capable hands. I’m going to head home. I’ll see you in the morning. We can make plans to move to Thousand Oaks then.”
Villareal mumbled something and watched the sheriff walk away. To anyone else right now, the man would seem relaxed. Villareal thought the sheriff had totally checked out—complete denial. He was coping with the event by ignoring its magnitude. No, that wasn’t fair. The gravity of the situation hadn’t hit Tennant yet. He was assuming that the whole thing would blow over, just like the earthquakes and brush fires he had dealt with. Normality bias at its finest. Nothing this bad had ever happened
since, well, it started raining on the people laughing at Noah’s ark. So to him, a little power outage couldn’t be that bad.
Though it meant doubling back, Church passed his exit and dropped Raylene off at her in-law’s house. He kept his conversation with her people as brief as possible: EMP, the end of the world, stay safe…all the highpoints Kevin would want him to pass on. Sam got back on the road as quickly as he could without being rude. He was thankful for the rest of the drive remaining uneventful and traffic light. He was too tired to think deeply about anything. Food and stretching his legs were foremost on his mind. It was still hot outside, so he kept the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on, missing the lingering scent of bonfires and barbeques that neighbors, brought outside by the loss of electricity, shared in comradery.
Sam parked on the far-left side of the driveway, his usual spot when he was home, and unloaded the Jeep. Under the abundant starlight it was easy to find the front door and the solar motion spotlight detected him and flashed on, so he didn’t have to fumble for the lock. Sam dumped his bags loudly on the floor. He immediately was blinded by a bright blueish-white spotlight. A red spot was dancing on his face.
“Freeze!”
“Dude! It’s me, Sam.”
“Oh, sorry dude.”
“Auggie, can you get your gun out of my face please?”
“Yeah, sorry.” August Chung, one of Sam’s roommates, lowered his Sig and switched off the flashlight. “I thought you were a burglar.”
“What kind of burglar uses the front door and a key?”
“Sorry man, I went to sleep like an hour ago. Got stuck working an 18-hour shift and had to drive back.” Auggie was a patrol deputy, freshly released from his field training officer, very new to the field and obviously more than little on edge. He was assigned to neighboring Moorpark. He had picked up and overtime shift at the Main Jail. “I thought you weren’t coming back until next Friday.”
“I thought so too, but given the circumstances…”
“I figured you’d join the army,” Auggie said.
“Dude, you know I bleed tan and green.”
“What did they tell you?”
“EMP, apparently we’re at war in Asia. Looks like the East Coast got the worst of it. It’s the real-deal, The End of the World as We Know It.”
“That’s what they said in Ventura too, but I thought they were blowing it out of proportion.”
“What are they doing about this?”
“They’ve got an actual plan. Villareal and Ostrander really pulled it together. I heard the sheriff is MIA, so there is one blessing. Mass inmate releases. We couldn’t even pull up the booking records. Had no idea what guys were in for. I guess the brass browned their shorts when they figured we were screwed without computers. Letting everyone go left and right. It sucked man, but there was no power or water. Jimmy Goldsmith got stuck in an elevator for two hours with an inmate.”
“He okay?”
“Yeah, but the inmate flipped out. Claustrophobic.”
“I can imagine. Any beer still cold?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. Marco moved it all to the freezer before he left for work.”
Marco worked for LAPD. “Tactical Alert. 12 on, 12 off. Must be awful.” They both laughed. LAPD officers only worked twelve hour shifts in emergencies while Ventura deputies did it as default on a 2-2-3 schedule known as Panama shifts, getting seven out of fourteen days off as a result. “We got any food?”
“Leftovers are still good. The girls came over last night, Thursday night or whatever, and I made Chinese.”
“Nice to see you’re still exploiting your white-washed Chinese heritage for all it’s worth.” Church pulled out a Tupperware container that looked like broccoli beef.
“I made way too much chow mein and rice. Throw it on the stove. It needs some siracha.”
When Church swallowed, he asked “You know if the department is calling in extra help?”
“Yeah, they called everyone back in. Told us to pass the word. Consider it passed. Anyhow, enjoy my food. Throw it out in the morning. If you’re asleep when I leave, I’ll be at the station.”
“Night pal, and thanks. Be safe tomorrow.”
“You too. Don’t trip over your meat trying to play cop.”
Sam’s biggest adventure would start at dawn.
Morning
Some time after midnight, a runner knocked on Major Huerta’s door. In the heat and with the worry for his wife on his mind, he was awake.
The runner saluted as Huerta opened the door. “Sir, Colonel Rowell requests you report to the Ops Group building right away.” The soldier pronounced “colonel” in the old Southern way, with out the “r” sound.
“Roger,” Huerta said wearily before dismissing the runner.
Outside, it was pitch black. The Milky Way wouldn’t begin to rise until close to dawn. Even though things were in a strange state of disarray, lights from Humvees and personal vehicles crisscrossed the dark streets of the fort. The dark Ops Building loomed up in front of him. Lanterns, flashlights, and glowsticks shone through the windows. It was a busy place for the middle of the night.
Several people pointed Huerta along to the colonel who was standing over a map table staring at a list of names and units.
Huerta snapped to and saluted. “Major Kevin Huerta, reporting.”
Rowell waved at him without really looking up or taking the pencil out of his mouth. “I’m too tired for formalities. Major, I’m told you’re a Ranger who can drive a Stryker.”
“Yes, sir. Before they left last week, the guardsmen from Bakersfield got us up to speed on them.” The armored vehicles were useful tools for the forces assisting the Kurds and anti-ISIS forces in Syria.
“Good. Well, you’re not going to Bakersfield or Syria either. I need you to shuttle about two-dozen men down to Palmdale and link up with the Guard units down there. As per the President’s orders last night, all federal troops have been placed under the command and authority of their respective state’s National Guard. It’s to avoid Posse Comitatus issues by acting as police.” Federal law dating from the post-Civil War period prohibited regular Army units from enforcing civilian law. The National Guard, as each state’s militia force, was exempt.
“Sir?” Huerta was uncertain about the legality of the orders.
“I know what you’re thinking.” In 1992, during the LA Riots, federal troops were sent in under the “domestic violence” clause of the Insurrection Act to quell the violence. It was felt in today’s circumstances waiting for widespread looting and rioting would be waiting too long. By making the regular Army part of the National Guard, the legal issues could be swept aside. It wasn’t like the ACLU could file a lawsuit to get it stopped.
The colonel tapped the map. “We’ve got vehicles, but no infantryman. Down in Palmdale, they’ve got the opposite problem. Men, but no vehicles. I want you to take the superfluous men in your training class and go down to support the infantry who are shepherding some military policemen. The MPs are nothing more than a detention battalion, a bunch of cops and prison guards meant to be holding enemy POWs behind razor wire.”
“Is the mission still support law and order, Colonel?”
“Yes. Gonna need a lot of bodies standing on street corners and the local boys in blue can’t do that. We can while they chase radio calls.”
“Sir, what about fuel, food, ammo, personal equipment—,”
“Draw what you can here,” he said, cutting Huerta off, “and be quick about it.” Rowell leaned in close. “These boys are gonna get awful protective of their own base soon. Guys like you and me, just rotating through, aren’t part of the tribe.”
“I understand.”
Rowell took a piece of paper and wrote out by hand an operations order. He folded it and gave it to Huerta. “Godspeed Major.” He thrust out his hand.
Huerta took the handshake. “And you too, Colonel.”
Fueling and provisioning of the vehicles took most
of the early morning, but the reservists running the logistics side were earnest and helpful. Huerta’s convoy of Strykers took about two hours to reach the Palmdale Armory, a run-down building with an even more run-down parking area in back where brown weeds created an effective camouflage of the broken asphalt. Only a few people had been on the streets to see the armored vehicles roll past as dawn broke. Palmdale was slightly cooler than Fort Irwin, in the nineties rather than still over one hundred degrees. Huerta was exhausted at this point and fell asleep on a raggedy couch in an armory hallway.
He woke up and saw soldiers resting or sleeping on the cool tile floors. He sat up and checked his watch. It was after noon. Huerta jumped up, put his boots on and headed for the commander’s office. First Sergeant Tran, who had become the major’s senior enlisted man, was playing poker with a National Guard sergeant major. Both stood when Huerta entered the anteroom.
“Where’s your CO?”
“The captain was here earlier, sir. He’s out looking for some fuel,” Sergeant Major Burke said.
“Come again, Sar Major?”
The sergeant explained. Typically, tanker trucks would refuel the Strykers and the Humvees during field operations. If this had been an earthquake, riot, or other disaster, commercial diesel fuel would be available, if necessary, from gas stations. In this case, the Army had to supply its own fuel. The armories were little more than equipment warehouses and training space. Many police and fire stations had better infrastructure.
“So we have no gas?”
“That’s right, other than what’s in the tanks,” the Sergeant Major sighed. “Nobody planned for anything like this, sir.”
Huerta flopped down in a chair. “That’s the problem.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Just one of many. We’re waiting for lock plates to be brought down from Camp Roberts.”
“Lock plates?” Tran asked the Sergeant Major. Huerta didn’t know what those were either.
“To keep the M4s from firing on full-auto. You take off the pistol grip, put on the plate, put the grip back on, and you can only get single shots. Standard for Guard domestic missions.”