Kevin Standlee: Fandom Is My Way of Life

GWOT V - A State of Desperation - LIDES Blues

George had been painfully blunt with us.

"You can't possibly see a California Naval Militia submarine. It just cannot happen. I can't even get you into a base."

So we had sighed and planned our visit to the parts of Long Beach we could see - the downtown, still with missing buildings in the skyline that gave the appearance of a man with half his teeth knocked out.

The three of us were about to head down to the taxicab when three men knocked on our door.

"May we help you?" my bodyguard asked.

One was George. His usual suit and tie, but as if he were going to a VIP event.

One wore a camoflauge uniform we had never seen before, a swirling light and dark blue. She had a holstered handgun. Her name tape read CA NAVAL MILITIA and FLETCHER.

One wore the Army of the Republic plain khaki we had come to know so well, with only one exception. CA MARINE and a piece of black tape over the name. He also had a pistol.

"Pat," George said, and it was an entire conversation.

As a party of six we walked downstairs to a white panel van marked MILITIA. Very anonymous. But when we got inside, there was a gun rack under each seat with black rifle and gold trim.

Automatic weapons. Not ordinary militia.

The Marine drove. George was - for him - deeply silent. The sailor introduced herself.

"I'm Ensign Fletcher, California Naval Militia. Please forgive me, I've never done this before. I don't think we've ever allowed press into a base, I mean ever."

She chatted us up. Gleaned our life stories, our roles as BBC journalists. But said not a word about herself other than her name.

We took a freeway drive. The old transportation corridor, now with sparse traffic other than trucks with containers.

The first exit was clearly marked. "MILITARY VEHICLES ONLY DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED"

We stopped at an automated barrier. A barrier behind us rose, the barrier in front of us closed.

Then a security building. We parked. There was no way to drive in further that I could see.

The Marine saluted and returned to his duties.

Ensign Fletcher had a conversation with George.

George shrugged and went into the security control point. As Fletcher walked us into the base, he got himself a cup of coffee.

"There are lines on the ground here. A green line is an evacuation route. Follow the arrows to a point of refuge. If it's a diamond, that's the center, so pick one and hurry. If you see a yellow line, you need permission to cross it. Nobody and I mean nobody not even me can cross a red line. It means they shoot you. Not as a punishment, just at once, and you could be Pat and they would still shoot you."

We duly followed. I could not help but notice, we were neither searched nor badged.

We entered a long low building after what felt like an endless walk on concrete.

There was a large open air locker room. We were each handed a combination padlock. Four lockers awaited us. Each contained a plain light blue jumpsuit, what the Royal Navy calls a poopy. Fletcher's was customized with her name and service - but had her ensign bars on it, where the uniform she was wearing did not.

Instead of name and rank, ours said GUEST and OCCUPANT.

There were four pairs of slip-on safety shoes as well.

"Please leave all your personal items, including jewelry and especially firearms and electronics. You may keep your socks and underwear only, nothing else."

Fletcher matter of factly started changing in front of us.

So we changed as well.

Not surprisingly, all the uniforms and footwear fit perfectly. We locked the lockers and followed as Fletcher approached the real security control point.

An airlock door. It buzzed, she went in, it closed.

After a time, a green light flashed and it opened.

I shrugged and went next.

Inside were two cameras and a drop box.

"Name," demanded the ceiling.

I gave it.

"Occupation?"

"Reporter."

"Your credential is in the drop box. You are on restricted military property in a time of national emergency. If you become separated from your host at any time, stop and ask a passerby to call 911. Never cross a red line you will be shot. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Regulations require a verbal answer."

"Yes, I understand."

The credential was a plastic card on a ribbon with a bright V on both sides.

The exit buzzed.

Ensign Fletcher was no longer carrying a handgun. We had become so accustomed to an armed California that the absence was jarring.

We waited for my photographer and bodyguard.

The four of us then started walking through what semed to be a perfectly normal military base. Numbered buildings, gravel paths between them, empty roads. In the distance a group of troops jogging with someone calling cadence.

"One, two, three, four, Calif -ornia Marine Corps!"

No safety vests, no road lookouts. Also unarmed.

They did not look at us curiously when they passed.

"So, you can't see the docks and you can't see a submarine. But what we can do for you, is to put you through a carefully selected part of new Crew orientation," her emphasis not mine, "and then let you play in a simulator."

We went into a building. From outside unmarked, inside "Fleet Training Center."

The reception desk was empty and the hallways were empty. The only decoration was a sign every so often saying NON DISCUSSION CORRIDOR.

Well within the building, and two airlock doors later, we were seated in a theater-style classroom meant for thirty.

Here there were decorations on the walls.

Six digit numbers and thirty people in our same jumpsuits standing for a class photo, with their eyes covered by black bars.

"Have a seat."

There was a refillable water bottle on four seats.

A clipboard marked FLETCHER with a sticker, a shark with a hockey stick.

A mesh bag filled with plain film disposable cameras.

A reporter's notepad and two pencils.

A white painted baton with leather thong.

This told us where to sit, so we did.

"No photos in here," Fletcher warned. "All notes will be transcribed by censors and you will be given a printout when you leave today."

The lights dimmed and the video came up.

"Module 17, Working Aboard A LIDES."

The tone was cheerful and the content frightening.

You had to wear your respirator bag and be ready at any instant to plug it in.

Cross hatched black and yellow meant a moving ship component.

The overheads were padded. The deck was not.

The video ended, clearly in the middle.

"Follow me with your items."

Again, corridors empty - cleared I realized - we were walked out to a waiting white van, also marked MILITIA and also with weapons in its underseat racks.

This drove us to a larger building surrounded by a bright red line painted on the concrete, except at the one point of entry.

"Ensign Fletcher, party of four, request permission to come aboard," she said to the blank faced Marine in the security kiosk.

The gate buzzed and we went in with no reply.

We entered to find a single steep stairwell waiting for us. We climbed a certain number of flights.

"Welcome aboard RCS Constitution," a voice said. "This is a naval warfare training simulator. Ensign Fletcher will be in operational command. The seats filled with dummies are not available. You with the baton, take Weaps 1. WIth the cameras, Sensor 2, and the notepad, Nav."

Before us was a hatch down into a long pipe with curtains closed to block our view fore and aft.

The ladder down was narrow. Most of the equipment was taped over with blue tarps and duct tape.

As promised, dummies sat in most seats. Weaps - weapons - had three side by side seats up front. Sensor was also one of three seats, with many screens like a dispatch console, but that position was bordered fore and aft by that yellow and black that meant moving equipment. I joined Fletcher in seats a half lever higher.

In between were what appeared to be huge equipment racks. They had thick heavy power cables, many orange but some other colors.

All seats had seatbelts and every seat but ours had a dummy already strapped in.

We put on our seat belts and the lights dimmed.

"Sortie, sortie, sortie," the overhead announced and the room lurched.

The equipment racks moved!

Our displays changed, we were in open water, submerged.

I realized this entire building was a massive simulator system.

After some movement of various types - I cannot be more specific, by request - we were slowly sneaking up on a target.

"Weapons, Load 2 and 4, firing point procedures," Fletcher intoned as we saw a ship. Obviously an oil tanker.

We snuck around to come up behind it.

"MV Blue Star, MV Blue Star, California naval warship," Fletcher spoke into her headset. "You are ordered and directed to abandon your vessel. You have ten minutes to comply, then I will fire into you."

We saw on the Sensor 2 console - the periscope - that the lifeboat at the stern of the notional 'tanker' launc
Only when it was well clear.

"Fire Two," Fletcher intoned.

"AIr contact, enemy aircraft, splash, sonobuoy, splash sonobuoy, HEAVY EEL EEL EEL recommend countermeasures."

"All ahead full, noisemakers, stream it."

I could see dots in motion. Air dropped torpedo. We had fired, they had fired.

"Weaps 3, bird away, track Alpha 4."

The simulator shuddered.

But we were underwater.

"That's a kill," my cameraman reported from his console.

"Enemy aircraft destroyed," Fletcher spoke for the log. "Helm make your depth 30 meters, stand by ..."

"US warship, Los Angeles Class, battlesight, snap shooting 4, reload 2, firing solution 1 and 3, firing! Recommend evasive action!"

"All ahead emergency full!" Fletcher ordered instead.

"Two and four, salvo, continuous fire!"

With each notional launch the simulator rocked.

Then the entire simulator nose dived downward at a sharp angle and flickers pulsed. The equipment racks moved backwards as far as they could, but we still pointed down.

"Ballast tanks failure double bow, can't vent!"

A hard 'BANG' that jarred our bones.

"Gas gas gas," said the simulator next. But we had no masks to wear or to plug into the ports.

I could see my bodyguard frantically trying to unbuckle his seat belt. It wouldn't.

I calmly tried mine. It wouldn't either.

"Damage control, electrolyte breach, racks 2 and 3, H2S alarm, flood space with FM200, FIRE FIRE IN THE BATTERY BAY."

The lights came up and the submarine simulator slowly became level.

"Well, that was fun," Fletcher said cheerfully.

###

We got out of the simulator - still not having seen a soul - and back in the training center we were taken to a different room, with tables, where we debriefed. I took as many notes as I liked while the pictures were processed.

Then my notepad was taken next door, presumably to be scanned.

A short time later, I was instead handed back a typed transcript, from which this article is made.

"Keep the baton, you earned it," the Ensign said to my bodyguard.

"How so?"

"You were going to fight the fire."

Finally our photos arrived. Most were fine, a few were blurry in spots.

"And that is that, my friends. A ride back to your hotel, you must be bruised all over."

We were in fact.

Our extrication was smoother than our entry had been. George joined us.

"Don't you want to know what happened?"

"I do, but I can't. Not my business. I'll read the article. Driver, drop me off at the next corner."

"Sorry, sir, orders. This party goes to the hotel."

George sighed.

At the hotel we were walked to a hotel conference room where my laptop, thoughtfully plugged in AND LOGGED IN, awaited.

"Write your article, take digital camera photos of your film. Then we have to destroy the printout and photos here."

An industrial shredder was already plugged in, for exactly that.

Fletcher excused herself an hour later, blue shred bag in hand.

"Nice meeting you folks. Just a hint, go home by air. Cheers."