Chabo's Journal: A Labor Day Tale

Note: This is a continuation of a series of stories written by a central Texas police officer named "Darth Tang", which are being archived by Chabo, with no editing. Read more about this project.

This story was originally posted on September 4, 2004.

WARNING: This will offend people who are obese, people who are stupid, people who own shotguns, people who own or like chimps, and several posters who don't like me. Which, upon consideration, also qualifies them as stupid. And probably obese.

In honor of Labor Day weekend, I would like to relate the following:

A Labor Day weekend years past, when I was but a patrolman and still carrying a tactical rifle, we had a subject, call him Dippy the Wonder Chimp, who saw fit to hold his estranged wife and children (around two, around one, newborn) on a sort of balcony on a very old three-story house which had once been a very nice house, almost a mansion, but in latter days was now small ratty apartments. Built in the late 1880s.

Anyhow, Dippy is crouched amongst his family with a sawed-off shotgun to the newborn; we respond and set up. In command (Site Commander) was a sergeant, now departed for greener pastures, who was excitable.

(SC) 'Set up with your rifle on the roof, and be ready for a shot.'

(Me) 'OK." I start examining the roofs across the way.

(SC) 'No, on the roof above him.'

(Me) 'Above him? I'm gonna look like a gargoyle. He sees me, he's gonna freak. I might not be set for a shot. How about that place across the street?'

(SC) 'No, on the roof, now!'

(Me) 'Ok.' Thinking, this does not bode well.

(SC) 'Take your tac rifle.'

(Me) "The rifle? Look, its two stories between us-say thirty-five feet with the diagonal. Even cranked back to four power, I'm gonna have a lousy picture. Lemme take my M-4LE.'

(SC) "TAC RIFLE!'

(Me) 'Look, 7.62 NATO isn't even gonna slow down; over penetration is gonna be terrible. 5.56mm would be much, much better."

(SC) "I SAID....'

(Me) 'OK, I'm going."

Ninja the smoke eater had set up on the roof. He set me up with a safety harness which was different than what we usually had; turned out he had borrowed it from a utility truck in the area, because the FD response truck was somewhere else. He explained how it worked, showed me the tie-off on an old, age-pitted chimney, and I crab-walked to the edge of the roof, the heavy damn Remington M-700 not doing me any favors.

As a tactical position, it sucked: I was fully exposed. However, I did have a beautiful shot, and a safe backstop (the ground). However, I was shooting freehand, with an 11lb rifle, kneeling for balance, with four bodies bunched around the target, so close that at 4x all I saw was his ear and hair. To say I was unhappy was an understatement.

Dippy was distracted, at least: a chaplain was standing in the middle of the yard (A for balls, F for brains) trying to talk him down.

I get the whisper mike going, report I'm in position.

SC comes on. "Hold fast, I'm sending you a spotter."

(Me) 'He's thirty feet away. I don't need a spotter. Lemme pull back until you're ready. Ninja might rig me so I can lay down.'

(SC) 'Negative-you're Amber. I've got X on his way to spot.'

(Me) 'I can see the guy. I could do the shot with my Glock. Leave X on the ground.'

(SL) 'Negative. Hold for spotter.'

Fucking wonderful. X is a moron. SC is deliberately trying to get me killed, in my opinion.

I hear X wheezing and clattering across the reverse slope of the roof; all Dippy has to do it hear that, turn around, and I'm perched like a gargoyle in plain view, and too close to take a fast shot. I take a bead on SC a block away, and resolve to blow him away if Dippy turns. They can't prosecute you if you're dead.

I hear X, a three hundred pounder (since induced to depart), slip on the slick, worn shingles. I hear the sound of blubber slapping the roof and the scramble-cursing-gear rattle-tumble as he starts to roll/slide towards the edge.

I snap the covers on the scope and hook the sling around a vent; if Dippy starts to turn, I'll try my Glock. SC is screaming on the radio, but I'm focused on Dippy as I scoot into a flat seat position.

X, screaming, rolls past me and off the roof. He hits the end of his safety rope, which strummms with the tension. Dippy is looking wildly about, but horizontally.

Then I hear mortar creak above me. A mental image of the pitted surface of the old, weathered brick and crumbling, residual mortar of the chimney that anchors my safety line, and X's, flashes through my mind. I hear a cracking rumble behind and above me, and grab the quick-release.

It does not release. I can hear part of the chimney (the part which both our lines are securely anchored to) sliding down the roof, shucking shingles as it goes. The thought of shooting X crosses my mind.

I was Airborne; I know how to land. I holster, and as the mass of crumbling bricks reaches the edge of the roof, I jump, trying to angle away from the bricks so they do not rain death upon me. I try to avoid hitting Dippy's perch on the way down. This is how a clay pigeon must feel.

I execute a PLF which would have won my old jumpmaster's approval; I keep rolling, angling towards the house foundation to avoid bricks and shotgun fire. I figure I'm dead. I hear X screaming to my right; as I roll, I hear something soft hit to my left.

When I come up and look around, I see the second thing I heard land was Dippy; he became so disoriented at the sudden rain of bricks and police officers that he panicked and accidently stepped off the railing-less perch.

Sometimes, things go wrong, but work out, and we can claim it was all part of the plan.

This wasn't one of them.