CAUTION - The following story is for mature
readers. It is a break from my usual shorter stories and the subject
matter reflects similarities to a screenplay/book I have been working on
with a law enforcement theme. For my regular readers, I found that
horse I let go mid-stream a few weeks ago .....
One of my favorite
times in our home is when Theresa hollers from our kid's bedrooms,
"Come say goodnight to the boys". I frequently use a line like, "Bring
this old tugboat to shore" as I hug and wrestle with each of our three
sons, Troy, Raymond, and Ryan. I usually take my time, but tonight was
different. Tonight, I rushed. I skipped the tugboat line, gave them
each a hug, ran my fingers through their hair and gave them each a quick
kiss good night, before sprinting back to the family room. OK, it
really was not a sprint. I walked pretty fast to return to watch one
particular player on Monday Night Football. That player was Peyton
Manning.
Don't get the
wrong idea. San Diego Chargers quarterback Phillip Rivers is a great
quarterback and I will always be a loyal Chargers fan. My problem is I
have always noticed something very special about Peyton Manning. As I
sat back down on our couch, I finally figured it out. Peyton would make
a great Special Weapons and Tactics Sergeant.
If you do not 
believe me, watch him tonight. Three hundred pound plus men are
facing off at a distance of about three feet, wanting nothing more than
to crush their opponent's skull. If a teammate flinches, runs the
wrong route, misses a block, or commits a foul,
everyone on the team looses. Sound? A National Football League player
can barely hear themselves think, with seventy thousand people plus
screaming.
As Peyton stands
over center the three neck surgeries and growing wrinkles around his
bright blue eyes are battle wounds of both time and experience. He
looks his adversaries directly in the eyes, as he drinks in an amazing
amount of information. Peyton is picking up coverages, blitz packages,
and looking for the small indicators like the shifting of an opponents
weight, or the tilt of their helmet indicating their intended plan of
attack. With every second counting, Peyton is the master of the clock.
Like all great SWAT or Military Leaders, the more challenging the
circumstances, the calmer, and even more precise he becomes. I love
that.
As I dozed on the
couch, I began thinking about Peyton Manning and Phillip Rivers facing
off on Monday Night Football this evening. My eyes closed for just a
moment, when I suddenly heard the ominous high pitched beeping sound of
the San Diego Police Department's Citywide Emergency Alert Signal.
Following the customary, two to three beeps, The SDPD dispatcher
announced in a calm, clear voice, "Code 11, Code 11, SWAT personnel
respond code three". The dispatcher added, "Shots fired, officer down.
Multiple armed suspects have forced their way into a private residence
and have taken hostages. This has been upgraded to a code 12. Units
respond code three and stay off the air".
I was momentarily
confused when I looked at my television screen and saw both Charger and
Bronco players lining up. Peyton was directly behind center as he
looked to his left and then his right. As he began barking out signals,
the screen image suddenly split down the middle. On the left side, I
could see a dilapidated home with red and blue lights bouncing off the
worn, brown colored stucco concrete, and countless torn window screens. I
heard someone screaming and glass breaking. I grabbed my TV remote to
figure out what in the world was going on.
As I moved my
remote, different players on the field illuminated and the written
message appeared on the television screen, "Assign player tactical role
in SWAT operation?" I continued hearing the screaming. When Peyton
Manning's figure illuminated on the screen. I didn't hesitate. I
pushed the, "Enter" button. The game suddenly stopped, as a bizarre hush
enveloped San Diego's, Qualcomm Stadium.
I then saw Peyton's Manning's orange Denver Bronco's football
helmet morph into a muted black level three ballistic helmet as his
face mask was replaced with clear Oakley Goggles to protect his eyes and
a black, flame resistant, balaclava hood seemed to melt from his helmet
and cover his face and neck. His bright orange and white, Bronco
football uniform transformed into a black tactical San Diego Police
Department, Special Weapons and Tactics Uniform. Peyton's black boots
were not shiny and new as he was accustomed. They were purposely dulled
to mute the reflection of any light that may place him, his team, or a
hostage in danger. Peyton was about to face the biggest challenge of
his life.
As Peyton stepped out
from under center, he looked at his two freshly glove covered hands. He
reached down and tugged on the bottom right corner of his newly issued
tactical body armor. Peyton felt the unusual tightness and the intense
heat his body was generating being uncomfortably trapped under the
multiple panels of Kevlar protective fabric. Body armor not designed to
soften a blow from a helmet or shoulder pad, but instead to tangle up
and hopefully stop a few hot pieces of jagged, hot metal, traveling
extremely fast, and spinning relentlessly to fulfill their prescribed
duty to severe any artery which provides oxygen to his precious brain.
Peyton realized he was no longer in a game.
Peyton
looked around as the additional tools of his new trade were being
systematically attached to his body while the game was being broadcast
on national television. A fully automatic MP5 9MM close combat style
machine gun rifle with extendable stock, Sure Fire pressure switch
activated high intensity light, silencer, Aim Point sites, a 45 caliber
Glock, semi-automatic handgun on his right hip, gas mask, flash bangs,
smoke grenades, and the so vitally important, tactical communication
gear including, "whisper" microphone technology. Next to his brain, one
of the most important tactical tools needed to survive a combat
operation.
I
watched the television screen as the left side continued to enlarge and
the football game began to disappear. I knew I had to act quickly and
follow my gut, something SDPD Captain, John Madigan taught me so many
years ago. I pointed my TV remote and kept hitting, "enter" as quickly
as possible. I selected the best tactical team members from each team
and the sidelines.
Soon
the game was no longer on the screen. It was now the imperfect and
often unfair world of real life. I could see all the former football
stars and hardworking rookies standing around in the blocked off,
pitted, black roadway, in the type of neighborhood where several of the
professional football players had fought their way out of. The tougher
side of town where desperate moms and dads searched relentlessly to put
some decent food on the kitchen table, Where on very special occasions,
the family meal would include fresh fruit and vegetables for their
beautiful children to eat.
Several
of the football players were looking at each other as their automatic
weapons hung loosely on dark green tactical slings across their chests. I
had to laugh. Several of them looked like they were saying, "What the
&!;?". I saw Charger tight end, Leslie O'Neil carrying around about a
fifty pound metal door knocker. It looked like a toothpick in his over
sized and legendary, Pro Bowl, 'soft hands". From our couch, I began
to hope I would get to see him signaled up to the entry point. I know
Leslie would move quietly, smoothly, and in one amazing swing,
obliterate the door from it's hinges.
The
Incident Commander quickly explained, Alex Spanos, a local shopkeeper,
was being held hostage in the home. Alex a regular working stiff,
stopped by his home to change clothes between jobs when several heavily
armed men kicked in his front door. They obviously thought they were
taking down a drug house which is located around the corner. Uniformed
officers responded and were met with a high volume of gunfire. An SDPD
officer was shot and subsequently rescued by Primary Response Team
Officers. The wounded officers red and blue emergency lights were still
turning like silent lighthouses letting both good and evil people know
that law enforcement officers were taking a stand and they were not
going to leave without Alex.
As
each SWAT Officer arrived they knew this rapidly changing equation was
their problem to solve. After you call SWAT, there is honestly no one
else you can call. It is the end of the line. One of the suspects
sensing he had a loosing hand and obviously, "strung out on dope"
threatened to set a time limit for a van to be delivered in front of the
home or he was going to shoot the hostage. This is commonly referred to
as a, "countdown". A countdown, or when a hostage taker places a hood
over a hostage are both very bad signs. It means all the chips are
being pushed out to the center of the table and for better or worse, the
crisis was likely be coming to an end.
Peyton
and Phillip both looked at each other. Phillip was ready to start
planning the Operation or, "Op" in SWAT talk, but out of respect to his
senior NFL Player, he paused and looked at Peyton Manning. Peyton
looked over at the home as the red and blue lights continued reflecting
an area of town the community should have got involved with and cleaned
up a long time ago. Peyton looked at the battle worn faces of all the
men from both teams. The men who moments earlier were fervent
adversaries. Peyton Manning simply said, "Bring it in".
Peyton then
selected Phillip Rivers to be Entry Team Leader. He knew he needed
Phillip's size, speed, and personality to take on the critical job of
entering the home and rescuing Alex. When Phillip heard his pivotal
role in the operation, he got that good old boy, broad grin on his
face. Like all great leaders, he wanted the pressure and the
responsibility. He quickly moved among both teams selecting men for the
Entry Team. Predictably, he picked his kicker, Nate Keading as the
explosives expert. Anyone who can handle the pressure of kicking a
small leather football between two metal poles from about fifty yards
away as time expires, can obviously handle high explosives.
Phillip noticed
two SWAT Officers who had special dark blue San Diego Fire Department
patches on their uniforms. They were walking away from a San Diego Fire
Department Paramedic Unit as they hoisted large black packs on to their
backs. As they got closer, he noticed neither of them had a single
handgun, flashbang grenade, or rifle. Phillip appeared surprised when
he further noticed one was a tall, female. He hesitantly asked, "Who
are you guys"? The female STAR Paramedic turned towards him and said
with just a hint of disdain, "Well, I'm definitely not one of your
cheerleaders".
After momentarily
enjoying the surprised look on Phillips face she explained, "Our job is
to keep you and your fellow officers alive. We're towards the back of
the entry stick and if you or the suspect get shot, stabbed, or blown
up, we reach into these backpacks and do everything we can to keep you
or the suspect alive". Phillip recognized immediately both paramedics
were very capable. As they moved to the rally point, he kept thinking
how brave they must be since they were going into a potential fire fight
and they had no weapons. He realized their safety was another
responsibility being placed on his shoulders. He was glad to have them.
I then saw Charger
Head Coach, Norv Turner carrying a thirty seven millimeter gas gun as
he walked towards the group. I did not recall selecting him, but I know I
was rushing and I do like the guy. Norv actually looked small and
frail compared to the men around him. That was despite having about
twenty additional silver colored 37 MM CS liquid gas projectile rounds
secured in the Tactical Gas Vest he was wearing. I could not help but
imagine Norv experiencing the long trigger pull and hearing the, "pop"
and "wush" as the gas projectiles left his gun before piercing a window
or wall and releasing their very effective payload of liquid chemical
agents.
I have no doubt
Norv's ruddy complexion would turn even more red and probably sting due
to the microscopic CS gas particles adhering to the hot sweat around his
face, neck, and of course other places where CS particles seem to
pursue the dampness. I also know under the gas mask, Norv would
probably be smiling bigger then the Joker in the latest Batman movie.
Norv, finally getting to be part of the execution of a plan. The best
part is, Norm would not have to face the press in any post mission press
conferences. That responsibility would be up to the SWAT Commanding
Officer Dean Spanos, and SDPD Chief of Police, William Lansdowne.
When selecting a
React Team, Peyton made a great decision. React is usually called into
the "Op" when things go very bad, like the Entry Team meets a problem
they can't overcome, or a SWAT Officer or team member is bleeding out
somewhere and they need to be rescued. Peyton picked the mountain of
men from both teams that frequently have the biggest hearts of gold,
lineman. The warriors in the trenches who often do not get the big
money, the celebrity status. or the hottest women. Those perks are
normally reserved for running backs and quarterbacks. As I said
earlier, life is not fair. But if you really need men that will
shoulder the burden, perform and execute an order, lineman is who you
would want to call. Entry, Perimeter, PRT, Snipers, and Gas Team
Leaders nodded towards the React Team with a sense of appreciation and
respect. Every cop wants good back-up.
As the teams
deployed to their positions they heard glass break once again as one of
the armed suspects brought Alex to the front window. The countdown had
begun. Emergency Negotiation Team liaison advised via Command Frequency
the armed suspects were demanding a van to be delivered in front of the
home within two minutes. Without saying a word, every SWAT Officer knew
there was no van coming. This problem would not be allowed to go
mobile. The football players in each of them also realized they could
not call a, "time-out".
As the seconds
clicked down, the pressure was felt by everyone. Heavily armed SWAT
officers preparing to confront their armed opponents and thoughts of the
approaching gun battle. Tap ups, and touches very similar to a goal
line stand with time running out. Each man thinking about his role in
the upcoming battle.
The screams of the
lead suspect as he stood with a gun to Alex echoed through the tense,
damp, San Diego air. All radio chatter stopped. Fingers rubbing along
the top of trigger guards as Nate Keading stepped softly down the side
of the home. His hands deftly holding the high explosive det cord backed
by a water charge as he attached it to the rear of the home. Nate
re-ran the math calculations through his head one last time reminding
himself he had enough explosive charge to vaporize a clean rectangle cut
on the side of the stucco home without over pressurizing the home and
killing the entry team members, Alex, or his captors.
I could hear over
the television, Peyton's calm and almost soft voice advising all units
it would be a sniper initiated assault. With only a few seconds left on
the countdown he advised, ... stand by, stand by ..., sniper one you
have control. There was a brief pause and then the deep throaty sound
of the 168 grain Tactical Response Unit bullet leaving the barrel of the
308 rifle as it spun towards it's target at about 2,800 feet per
second. The accompanying "sonic crack" and concussion caused by the
incredible force of the copper bullet leaving the steel barrel was felt
and heard by everyone.
Phillip River's
glanced at Nate, and his left thumb as it began to depress the
detonator. Phillip and the entry team momentarily closed their eyes to
maintain their night vision as the side of the home erupted with a fury
of flames as the pulverized concrete stucco, paint, nails, and old
insulation showered them with debris. For a split second they paused
recovering from the explosion and sonic wave, before leaning into their
fears.
As time seemed to
slow down they bravely faced the danger and entered the chaos of
screaming, smoke, and critical decision making where there are no second
chances. No do overs, and no red rags to be thrown on the pristine
green grass of an NFL stadium. Their high intensity lights under the
barrel of their entry weapons cut through the thick air and smoke
looking desperately for both suspects and victims. The sudden bursts of
gunfire sounded like toy caps exploding due to the adrenalin that raced
though their veins. Adrenalin that reduces audio sensitivity and
focuses on keeping their own blood to vital organs such as their hearts,
brains, eyes, and hands.
As the smoke
settled and the call for additional paramedics was broadcast, SWAT
turned the suspects and crime scene over to investigators and uniformed
police officers. The Broncos and Chargers walked out of the home the
same way they went in. One team. There was no cheering crowds for their
heroics. No highlights to be repeatedly shown on ESPN. In years to come,
this evening would only be talked about in private conversations in
darkened bars or backyards when family and children were not within
earshot.
They were
fortunate. Every team member had made it out and a few of them even got,
"the gift". "The gift" is something that cops frequently do not get to
see. But when you do, you never forget it. It was when Alex, who could
barely hear and was covered with dust, insulation, and smelled like
sweat and gun powder, was turned over to the uniformed SDPD Officers.
Peyton, Phillip and a few other team members saw the eyes of Alex's
children's as they rushed to their father. As Alex rubbed one of heir
heads with his heavy calloused hands he looked past his family into the
eyes of each of the SWAT Officers. In his native language he said
something. The language did not need to be understood. It did not have
to be said. Everyone could see both his and his families eyes. It was
the deepest and most sincerest thanks any of the NFL players had ever
experienced.
As the former
adversaries began removing their police equipment they felt they had
changed in some way. They were maybe a bit more humble and thankful for
what God and their hard work had provided them. Several of them, former
World Champions, now realized how challenging and difficult a real
Special Weapon and Tactics operation really is and how fortunate they
were to have law enforcement officers across this great country, ready
to risk everything for them and their families. I heard one of them
softly say, "winning a game never felt like this".
The sound of a
commercial for the, "clapper" suddenly woke me up. I immediately
thought, "I think I could use one of those". The sound of clapping also
reminded me that in tonight's Monday Night Football game when the
Chargers lineman with their hearts of gold, sack one of my favorite
players, I hope they slip Peyton the following URL. It is SDPD recruiting. I know they are hiring and I'll put in a good word for him. He would be a great cop.
Enjoy your week and Go Chargers!
Ray & Theresa Shay
Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved. No duplication of this material without written consent of Shay Realtors.
He went on, "4S Ranch is the County of San Diego's
ATM. You provide cash 24/7 to the County and you never complain or
speak up. When I lived in Pacific Beach at least there was a Town
Council. 
I then thought about Ben Franklin and Karl Strauss. Both very smart
people and both beer drinkers. I am not sure if it is due to the beer,
but since announcing there will be a free Karl Strauss post race beer
garden following the 10K, 5K and kids walk/run, registrations have
jumped up 
A few years later, SDSO opened a new Substation in 4S Ranch near
Rancho Bernardo Rd and Camino Del Norte Rd. It opened with lots of
fanfare and speeches. We met the Patrol Deputies, Investigative
staff, office staff, the Sergeants, and Lt. Mark Elvin. All of them
were great people. The San Diego Sheriff's Department and our elected
officials including County Supervisor, Pam Slater-Price, had kept their
promise. It seemed like a time to relax a bit, as we were safe on our
streets and in our homes. 
