strike

1 -  to try to hit or attack something

2 – Baseball; a pitched ball judged good but missed or not swung at, three of which cause a batter to be out

3 – Collective refusal by employees to work under the conditions set by the employer, a work stoppage

4 – to be unsuccessful in trying to do something

 

out

1 – to a finish or conclusion; the game played out

2 – a means of escape; The window was my only out

3 – used in two-way radio communication to indicate that a transmission is complete and no reply is expected

As the car passes the officer he recognizes the driver as a known felon. They’ve been briefed on this guy – armed and dangerous, two strikes down in a three strike state, gang affiliations with narcotic distribution. The plates on the car come back as stolen and the officer calls for backup before attempting a felony traffic stop. The man in the car knows that he’s been made so he speeds up, trying to outrun the officers. Every officer in this part of the city starts to converge on his location. When he finds himself boxed in he exits the car and starts shooting at the officers in their cars as he runs down the quiet neighborhood street. Seeing another officer blocking his escape route, he realizes that he’s trapped. He makes an abrupt turn and runs up to the nearest house. One kick to the front door and he makes entry into someone’s home. The officers hear screams as he takes a few hostages and yells threats through an open window. The officers surround the house but pull back as they initiate a SWAT call-out for a hostage situation.

The Bear Cat rolls past me and slowly drives up the street to park in front of the house where the suspect has barricaded himself. The six SWAT officers in the armored truck are positioned to report on any changes in the house and they will be used as a rapid reaction force if the suspect does something stupid like killing a hostage. Their job is to hold the scene at a forward position and react as needed to buy the rest of the team some time to formulate a plan.

From my vantage point in the incident command center I can see the SWAT commander setting up his game plan: floor plan of the house on a white board, arrows showing expected direction of attack, frequent radio communication and the occasional cell phone call. The SWAT snipers, dressed in woodland camouflage, begin the long and solitary walk to disappear into the neighborhood, with Remington-700 Police Sniper Rifles slung on their backs and a M4 duty weapons slung in the front. They quickly vanish from sight, undoubtedly taking up overwatch positions from rooftops a few streets away.

The SWAT Medic that is embedded with the team comes up to my rig and we make a game plan on various extrication scenarios and transport options. We’ll work under force protection protocols and enter the warm zone if necessary to initiate prompt treatment and extrication of wounded. If the suspect decides to force the officers into shooting him I’ll go in afterwards and make a field pronouncement. If he’s really stupid and starts shooting the hostages I’ll handle the initial triage and treatment while my partner calls for the appropriate number of units for transport. I’ll utilize the SWAT members to help extricate victims to the curb for the responding units to transport to the hospital.

The police helicopter finally shows up and starts doing lazy orbits of the house from 800 feet in the air. The pilot has the FLIR (forward looking infrared) turned on the house so he can see any movement. It’s sharp enough to pick up a hand on a window and discern our uniforms with the patches on the shoulders or the characteristic lack of heat signature where the ballistic vest insulates the torso. Unfortunately it’s not sharp enough to pinpoint heat signatures in the house. By now the snipers are in their overwatch position and I hear their quiet radio transmissions as they report on activities in the house as seen in their magnified scopes atop the rifles.

The rest of the SWAT officers start showing up to the command center that was hastily carved out of this quiet street in the middle of the hood. Their duffle bags of gear have been laid out like dominoes on the sidewalk. Officers who drove their personal vehicles into the hood stroll up to the duffle bags and begin their transformation from average citizen to door kicking SWAT officers. Black uniforms, heavy ballistic body armor, communication ear buds placed under headphones, and finally weapons loaded and made ready. The SWAT commander walks around to the troops showing a picture of the suspect as they prepare for the final showdown.

Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! The continued noise of the forty-millimeter grenade launcher has been rhythmically pounding the house with tear gas for the last ten minutes. They systematically hit the house room by room – filling the interior with gas – until they have the suspect and hostages pushed to a back bedroom where there is no escape. I count 35 gas grenades before it finally goes silent.

The SWAT officers – who have collectively just heard a dispatch on the radio – turn in unison to walk down the street towards the house for the final assault. The K9 officer falls in with them and someone grabs a Halligan tool for door breaching. I’m going over scenarios in my head for possible outcomes in the next few minutes. I may end up with more patients than I can handle, with trauma that I can’t fix here on the streets. I could end up with wounded SWAT officers or a dead suspect or a random bystander shot in the mix. Maybe an officer twists his ankle on entry or gets a dog bite while going through back yards or a sniper falls off of a roof. Hell, anything could happen, I’ll just have to wait here and deal with the consequences as they come.

The tear gas grenades have been quiet for fifteen minutes now and the bulk of the SWAT officers turned the corner towards the house ten minutes ago – it’s been quiet since then. Out of the darkness from the direction of the house comes a lone patrol car backing slowly towards my rig. The officer steps out and walks up to my window. “Hey, we’ve got the suspect here, can you check him out real quick before we take him downtown?” Really, just like that and it’s over?

I walk around the back of the police cruiser to the back window which is rolled down. I can see a man in his mid-30s, hands cuffed behind his back, calmly siting in the back seat. I can talk to him through the bars on the back window. “Hey, are you hurt?”

“Fuck you!” Not exactly the response I was looking for but okay I guess it’s something.

“Did you get taken down hard or is the tear gas hurting your eyes?” It’s not the first medical assessment I’ve done through the bars of the back of a police cruiser.

“I said FUCK YOU!” Maybe I’m just asking the wrong questions.

“Are you saying that you don’t want any help from the Paramedics and you just want me to go away?” I think they call that a leading question.

“No, I don’t want anything from you. FUCK YOU!” Okay then. Somewhat of a limited vocabulary but he’s made his wishes quite clear.

I stand up from the window and address the officer who has been standing by waiting for me to complete my medical assessment. “He’s all yours.”

 

 

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