Do not fuck around in a national security area.
Do not stand close to a man with a gun.
Never, ever walk quickly up to an armed officer and try to walk behind
him on his gun side.
Is this self-evident ? Do these seem like stupid things to do? They
should.
There are so many travelers in a self-centered oblivious rush that I
almost knocked half a dozen on their butts today for doing just these
things. But I should back up:
When you fly into the international terminals in San Francisco there’s
a series of zones and processes you go through. Each one of these has
rules with very good reasons for each, even if they’re not immediately
evident. First, you exit the plane and walk down the jetway. You may not
wait in the jetway, because it will get congested if you do, and you may
not return to the plane. If you forget something on the plane, ask an
airline representative to go get it for you. Next you walk down the
Sterile Corridor. It is “sterile” because the only people in it are
employees and people leaving flights that have recently arrived. Sweeps
are done by the Rovers to ensure nobody is hiding in the bathroom or any
of that nonsense. YOU may not see a reason to hid in a bathroom, but
that’s because you’re not up to mischief. Those who up to no good think
it’s a great idea. The Rovers are also specially trained to recognize
mischief makers as they get off the plane. Don’t even ask.
Next you enter the Immigration Inspection Area. Choose your side (U.S.
citizens & Residents or Other) and wait in line. Don’t get uppity when you
have to wait 15 minutes to get inspected – you’re one of thousands
passengers off of dozens of flights. Get over it. There are five classes
of people who try to intimidate Inspectors: smugglers, illegal immigrants,
terrorists, felons and idiots. We’re not intimidated, so don’t behave like
one. The Inspector will mark your Customs Declaration with a series of
marks which tell others what should happen to you. Some mean the INS, US
Customs Service or Agriculture Department want to take a closer look. Some
mean you’re free to go. Some tell how many people are in your party. Keep
this form out: it’s your ticket out of the airport. No, we won’t let you
out if you don’t have one. And no, we don’t care if you’re an American
Citizen, just in transit or don’t speak English.
The next officer you meet is the Document Checker. He’s there to make
sure you didn’t leave anything at the inspection booth, that you have a
Customs Declaration (without which you will be escorted back by armed
guard) and to make sure bad guys don’t escape (and they do try). Then you
get your baggage and go to Customs/Agriculture who sniff you with beagles
and black labs, search your bags if you’re interesting and point you our
of the airport.
Today I was assigned the Doc Check, which I generally don’t mind.
Except for the oblivious souls who think that whatever I’ve asked of the
last 300 passengers on their flight doesn’t apply to them and try to push
right by. The Command gets them to stop in their tracks and back up
apologetically. Then there are the idiots, who seeing a small crowd
waiting think it’s a good idea to push behind me. On my gun side.
I hate that.
No. I really, really hate that. I catch them moving quickly
towards my gun out of the corner of my eye and I feel a needle of
adrenaline pierce my heart. There’s no thought, just reaction. I Command – I flash right with a block – I shield my gun – I am coiled to attack. The
first joker with too much momentum is going to get knocked on his ass. I’m
not looking at their face for intention: I’m looking at their hands to
defend and their center-of-mass to strike. The Power Voice freezes them,
at least it has so far. But that leave me with fight-or-flight juice
running through me and neither as appropriate responses. This causes
stress. Stress makes me angry. From pleasant to evil in 0.5 seconds.
The first one had the curtesy of saying “Excuse me” as he tried to push
past.
NO!!
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” he says.
“You should be,” I snarl. “NEVER walk behind me on my gun side.”
“Yes. yes.”
“It’s really good way to get hurt.”
“Yes sir. I understand.”
15 second later he and everyone else there was gone and my pulse was
returning to normal.
I wasn’t so civil with the next guy.
——————
P.S. I got this reply: You take your job way too seriously. Chill out,
it will all be okay in the end.”
I do take my job seriously. I guess if I’m going to do it, I might as
well do it right. I figure any day I make it home alive is a good day.
It’s just those moments when it seems possible I won’t that… yeah. It’s
one of the definite downsides to being armed. Statistically, I’m more
likely to be shot with my own gun than someone else’s. So much for a gun
making you feel safe.
Though to put things in perspective, that’s what I had to write about
that day.