Not My Home
By Ed Hurst
Copyright 2012 by Ed Hurst
Copyright notice: People of honor need no copyright laws; they are only too happy to give credit where credit is due. Others will ignore copyright laws whenever they please. If you are of the latter, please note what Moses said about dishonorable behavior – “be sure your sin will find you out” (Numbers 32:23)
Permission is granted to copy, reproduce and distribute for non-commercial reasons, provided the book remains in its original form.
Cover art image: Vardo Camper – image graciously provided by Tumbleweed Tiny House Company (https://www.tumbleweedhouses.com/). Used by permission of Tumbleweed Tiny House Company.
Table of Contents
Part 1: Not So Random
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 2: Coming Home
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part 3: Epilogue
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part 1: Not So Random
Chapter 1
It was probably the oldest house standing in the city, aside from the two preserved landmarks downtown. The Realtor had listed it as “antebellum” – in this case, built before World War I. Older folks called it a “shot-gun house.” That is, you could open the front and back doors, fire a shotgun through either one, and no pellets would hit any part of the interior before exiting the other door. The interior walls were like bulkheads between rooms, but each was a small open area in series, with a straight doorway alignment through the middle. However, sometime after Word War II, the owners had added a room on the back, then a screened-in porch. While the abstract at city hall showed a permit for building the room, the lean-to porch was simply acknowledged and taxed accordingly. This add-on meant the front and rear doors no longer aligned.
This was an important detail to the SWAT Team. A covert survey of the back porch from the alleyway indicated the newer back door opened outward. So while the front assault team would carry a steel ram, the rear entry team would use a crowbar if entry was needed. Both doors were relatively new, but cheap, with deadbolts and no windows. All exterior windows had been kept covered by cheap roll-up blinds. Interior lights had always been dim, and below the window level. SWAT believed there were only two terrorists. The wet clothing they found a half-mile from the house indicated one was rather large and the other fairly small. It was unlikely they had heavy weapons, but there may have been grenades in their possession. Still, they could not take anything for granted. Thus, they planned to mobilize the entire SWAT Team in full gear, with Level III body armor, helmets and goggles. They had rehearsed this kind of thing so often, two hours of planning time between warning order and execution was plenty.
There would be eight men in the front, the primary assault team. The other six would serve as backup from the rear. As soon as dynamic entry had been achieved, the rear team would wait to catch anyone trying to flee out the back. The sides of the house were a mere eighteen inches from the high steel panel fences on each side. These narrow zones would be watched by uniformed officers from the street and alleyway using vehicle-mounted spotlights; no need for them to expose themselves to unnecessary risk in getting too close to the house. If there was no resistance from inside, one of the front entry team would open the back door within 30 seconds. If there were signs of resistance, or it took longer than 30 seconds, the rear team was to enter using the crowbar.
The entire task force included the SWAT van carrying the front assault team, their extra SUV for the rear team, six marked patrol vehicles, and the Chief’s pickup. A block away there would be two ambulances and three fire trucks. After some debate, they decided not to alert any residents. With steel fences to separate them, and moving in at 3 AM, there was little to gain and too much to loose by making the whole operation anything less than a complete surprise. If they captured the terrorists, they could call in the local TV and newspaper reporters. Each media outlet kept people on standby just for stuff like this. If they turned up empty handed, there was no point advertising the attempt. Their targets would know the house was compromised, but not before investigators had a chance to go over the place thoroughly. Thus, the vehicles approached silently from different directions. The rest held back until the rear security team signaled they were two houses away in the alleyway.
The van driver shut off his lights and engine at the corner, and rolled silently to a quick stop just past the corner of the house lot. Even before the vehicle stopped rolling, the rear doors swung open, and caught on latches covered in thick foam padding. The men came streaming out, slightly staggered, in two lines. The two men leading carried the ram between them, weapons holstered. The actual first entry pair was right behind them, running at port arms with their shotguns. The other four, including the driver who was only a few yards behind, carried MP-5s or handguns as well as various tools. Had you been standing across the street with your back turned, by the time you heard anything and could turn around, the ram was already drawn back for the first blow.
The door was much more solid in the frame than they anticipated, but the door itself began to yield immediately. Seeing this, the entry pair jumped from either side of the doorway and grabbed the extra handles of the ram with a free hand and gave it more momentum to break through the door with the second strike. It almost worked, as the door buckled inward, yet somehow still stuck in the frame. However, with all the adrenaline and focused effort, they had not heard the wooden thunk of a frame dropping down from the ceiling 20 feet from the door inside the house. In this wooden frame was cradled a modified LAW rocket launcher, rigged to fire as soon as it dropped. The timing was perfect, for when the ram struck the second time, the missile hit the door on the opposite side at the same instant.
They could not have known about the legal-pad sized, quarter-inch steel plate attached to the door on the inside face. Its purpose was not to bolster the door, but to enhance the shrapnel yield from the shaped-charge warhead on the old anti-tank missile. The plate had been deeply scored in one-inch squares. The force of the blast drove the ram back into the four men who had made the mistake of clustering behind those swinging it. The force of the blast, the fragments of the plate, and the molten jet of metal produced by the warhead were mostly absorbed by the four men swinging the ram. Standard tactical body armor was no match for such weaponry, or the large, heavy steel ram, now with jagged edges, flying fast as a bullet. The ram spun across the lawn and embedded in the door of a cruiser on the street. For a short time, a few of the SWAT Team were semi-conscious, wondering what had happened, as they lay bleeding in a pile of splinters from what had been the front door and frame.
The security team outside the back porch heard what sounded like a double explosion. The old LAW rockets had solid propellant motors which ignited in such a way as to burn almost completely at launch, with a fairly loud boom itself. The wa
rhead detonation was muffled somewhat by being inside the house, and also by being aimed out the front door. Still, the force of the blast broke out the windows in the front, and the rear team took it for a concussion grenade, a sign of resistance inside.
Charging onto the back porch, they forgot all the rules and clustered almost too close to the man wielding the crowbar. The lead man stepped to the far side of the door, turning his right side toward it. He planted his right foot on the back step below the door, reared back with the crowbar over his left shoulder, and slammed it into the crack between the door and frame level with the lock. Switching his grip while in motion, he swung is body around the other side of the door, brushing against two of his partners in the cramped space on the back porch. His body slammed to a stop as arms strained against the leverage. It held just an instant, and then suddenly the door burst open.
It’s not likely any of them saw the claymore mine mounted at waist level on the inside face of the door. Stopped suddenly by the wall behind it, the door caught on a latch mounted in the wall just as the mine exploded. Even the steel fence outside the porch was perforated by some of the steel ball-bearings projected by the claymore. Later on, it required some careful DNA testing to determine what lump belonged to whom, scattered from the door, through the gaping hole in the porch wall, all the way to the fence.
To the neighbors on both sides, the whole thing sounded like three quick explosions, the first two in rapid succession, all entirely too close to their homes. Those three were followed by sirens clearly audible through now-cracked windows on the side facing the little old house. But that was not the worst of it, for there were a series of smaller muffled explosions, followed by choking fumes from burning plastic. There was another loud explosion, later determined to be from gas leaking under the house. Within minutes everyone was being evacuated, as the shattered wood structure was totally involved in flames. The black smoke and heat made it clear parts of the interior had been coated with highly flammable accelerants. It looked as if the stuff had been applied in long, thick patches from ceiling to floor, about a foot wide, puffed out like foam. Each patch was a column of blazing heat which could not be easily extinguished. Also, there were continuing small explosions from inside the home. This kept the firemen at a distance; all they could do was keep the fire from spreading by hosing down drifting sparks. They considered it good fortune the temperature had not yet dropped to freezing.
As the sun rose, all that was left was a low smoking heap. The outer layer of the roof survived from the sheer volume of water, but little of it had run down inside. Much of the spray directed from a safe distance at the open windows was evaporated by the intensity of the heat. Even the steel panel fences had buckled some from it. Residents on the entire block and the one opposite had been hustled out, some violently. A few had carried luggage, wisely reading the situation and packing for an enforced vacation. News crews were kept back. The remains of the rear security team were a little easier to find, because the back porch had somehow partially survived the flames. The front entry team was covered by a portion of the roof, as the house had collapsed forward into the front yard. What was found was badly charred.
The chief was still sweating in spite of the cold morning air. He was also covered in smoke and small cuts from the explosions, even though he had been standing on the far side of the street during the assault. There were gashes in his palms and a tear in one pants leg from trying to pull burnt splinters off the bodies of his SWAT crew. To one of his captains he said, “The Feds will be here, I’m sure. They can have it. Give them what they demand, if you can, and stay out of their way.” He stood up from where he half-sat against the tailgate of his pickup. As he walked around to get in the driver’s door, he turned and spoke back over his shoulder. “We’re going to have all we can do with the City. They’re gonna want our heads. Fourteen of the highest paid, best trained tactical officers in the state – gone in one operation, along with nearly all their equipment. Five million dollars in matching federal grants and we might have enough left to put in three caskets.” With a choking laugh, he said, “Wonder what the City will tell the Feds.” The tears in his eyes mixed with the sweat, cooling his face as he drove away in the crisp winter morning.
The Feds did, indeed, come. It was an assortment of FBI, BATFE, Homeland Security Officers and who knew what else. They arrived to find the municipal crime scene investigators had just finished locating and marking, but not removing, any of the human remains. Having been warned, the local police simply surrendered everything and tried to get out of the way. All the notes, cameras with pictures, drawings, etc., were seized. Some had quickly made copies, and already hidden them. It might now be a federal investigation, but it was their friends and comrades who had died. They had learned from the law enforcement grapevine if they complied with federal demands in an obvious way, no one would search them for copies of things, as long as no physical evidence was removed from the site.
In keeping with the new federal mandates, the city and county supplied the heavy equipment as “federalized assets” until further notification. The city government was too busy to argue much, trying to calm the residents after telling them the Feds would not allow them back into their homes until the scene was cleared. Everyone with a municipal paycheck who could be spared was assigned to help these new refugees keep their lives under control, and liaised with the Feds to evacuate pets, turn off appliances, and retrieve wallets and purses. Nothing else was allowed out of the secured zone. This meant giving them bus passes, loaning bicycles from the unclaimed property lot, opening retired unused buildings as shelters – the City did a lot better job than most. The churches pitched in with various kinds of help. The big Charismatic church opened their recreation building for emergency housing, and mobilized their Sunday School bus fleet. The mayor made it a point to ensure the news crews knew all about it, too. He was up for re-election soon.
By sunset the first day, the Feds had finished removing the human remains, and made requisitions of heavy equipment for the next morning. It started with backhoes and trucks, breaking up and hauling away the roof and charred scraps of wood. By mid-day, they discovered the old house had a half-basement, made of poured concrete. It was several inches deep in water from the fire hoses, and had to be pumped out. They also discovered there was a manhole cover in the lowest part, where one might normally expect a drain. Once it was cleared, the heavy equipment was idled. This cast iron cover had been welded in place, as it were, by what appeared to be molten lead. Given the age of the house, they decided the fire had melted whatever original lead pipe plumbing remained in the house, and it pooled in the lowest part, sealing the manhole cover in place. Tracks of molten lead across the floor seemed to bear this out.
They called for a cutting torch, and then visited a retired plumber who would know how to remove it. When he balked because of arthritis, they threatened to jail him and promised he’d have even more physical discomfort from an “accident” on the way to prison. Gone were the days of offering more money. With burly security officers breathing down his neck, he managed to clear the lead and lever up the edge of the plate just as the sun was setting. The officers drug him out of the way as others swarmed over the plate, lifting it quickly off the opening.
What they found was what appeared to be a vertical shaft filled with sand, very fresh sand with recently used cigarette butts and other trash. Ordering in flood lights, they called in City Water Department crewman and demanded they remove the sand, making sure to put it in buckets to be sifted for evidence later. Bailing and shoveling the fine grit, they found a second iron plate at the bottom of a four foot cast iron shaft. There were two climbing rungs on one side. The workmen couldn’t climb out fast enough to avoid some rough treatment from the Feds, and the rest was cleared with a shop vacuum. They were ordered to stand by, then released conditionally when it was discovered this second manhole cover was welded in place by the more typical method.
They waited imp
atiently for daylight before the FBI Special Agent in Charge (SAC) could get hold of a bottled gas supplier to provide fresh tanks for the cutting torch. This would require an industrial gas, since the weld appeared to have been done quite professionally with heavy welding equipment. For the hundredth time, the SAC wondered how all this could be done without anyone seeing the equipment coming and going. Even with severe threats, the neighbors around the house remained truculent when questioned about the activity of the two men who had rented the place for the past month. The SAC had the most resentful neighbors arrested and questioned as terrorist sympathizers. Citizens had to learn not to question their government.
By mid-morning, the plate had been opened, and the worker chased out of the shaft by an overwhelming foul odor. Just below the plate was an old but still active municipal sewer line, running half full at that moment. Donning a full protective suit and mask, it took the worker another hour to finish removing the plate in sections. Then similarly suited investigators descended to check for any useful evidence. Finding none, they proceeded to put a plastic cover over the hole.
Barely controlling his heaving stomach, the SAC demanded over his cell phone the City send a Works Engineer with drawings. Meanwhile, the backhoes continued more carefully, removing the rest of the debris from the half basement, while avoiding knocking anything onto the opening. The smell had dissipated rather quickly in the cold air by the time the engineer arrived. The SAC scorned bitterly the “amateurs” in City Engineering who had no precise locations of these older sewer lines. Consulting ancient drawings, some of which split in places when unrolled, the engineer and his helpers finally discerned this was indeed an active sewer, still draining a significant number of houses and shops, but no others in this block. This was apparently the only house still standing old enough to be using the older lines. There was an old policy requiring new or remodeled homes to connect to the new line under the street. This older line also carried some overflow, directed by automated pumps which waited for low use times at night to empty holding lagoons a mile away. These pipes had not been empty in the past ten years.
This was obviously not an escape route.