The room was dark, with a chemical odor. Not like bleach, though; my nose told me that this was definitely a smell that didn't belong in a residence. As my eyes adjusted, I turned my head to the left—aha! The meth lab, of course. It figures that this piece of shit we were serving a warrant on would have one. Well, just another thing to tack up on his record, along with the pedophilia. I reached for a lamp to help with the lighting situation, my partner's exclamation being the only thing that made me withdraw my hand and spin towards him.
I had no idea how close I had come to death.
(I would later find out that the glass in the lightbulb had been replaced with an inverted medicine bottle filled with a chemical explosive. The filament was left intact and inserted into the mixtures so it would ignite it when the lamp was turned on, and there were a few nails and fishhooks duct-taped around the bottle for good measure.)
As I approached the side of the room where my partner was standing, I didn't feel any pressure on my leg until it was too late. The last thing I heard was the "ping" of a cotter pin coming loose from a pipe bomb, and I saw the tripwire pull it across my field of vision.
—————
The buzzer startled everyone else in the room, and everyone turned around to see who had "died." At this point, damn near everyone in our group had killed the inhabitants of the rooms we were searching several times over. Our instructor, a 20-year bomb technician and police officer, heard the laughter and walked over.
"Ah, you've found the pipe bombs! Too focused on what he's doing to pay any attention to what you're doing, huh? It's easy to get distracted in here. These guys are into some awful shit, and would much rather kill you than have you hauling them off to jail."
As he spoke, he was pointing around the room at the gun magazines, Army explosives manuals, meth lab equipment, household chemicals, kiddie porn, and other collective accoutrements of the insane mind.
All three of the training rooms at the facility were filled with booby traps. Our Scene Survey and Safety class today was essentially about explosive hazards that responders might encounter in someone's house—the scariest part was that they were everywhere. It was of course a training exercise, but since Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) could take on virtually any form, some retired bomb technician I'm sure had a great time turning every single household object into some form of device. There were pressure switches, trembler switches, collapsing circuits (don't cut the wires to the power source!), mercury bulbs, tripwires bombs that were triggered by mousetraps. You name it, you can turn it into a bomb—usually with a little help from Radio Shack, or "Bombs 'r Us," as the instructor referred to it.
Everyone had said that today was the best of the classes we've taken thus far, and I'm inclined to agree with them. The class, while extremely macho and cool, gave us an insight into just how creative people can be when they want to incite terror and fear. We discussed major attacks throughout the world, from the IRA to McVeigh to Al-Qaeda, and he had inert examples of everything posted around the room.
However, I believe the high point of my day was finding this:
This is what every bomb ever made looks like.
—————
Wile E. Coyote and his antics aside, the remainder of the day was spent on triage techniques. Given an inordinate amount of patients (say at a plane crash in a field), each person you encounter in your search receives a maximum of thirty seconds in determining if they're able to be saved or not. They can be tagged green, yellow, or red; respectively, these colors are usually the walking wounded, those that can be delayed for a bit but still require medical attention, and those who need medical attention right now. As time goes on, each color can degrade into the next, increasing their acuity and decreasing their chances of survival. Additionally, patients found in the field can be "black-tagged,&quo
t; which means that they're a) already dead or b) the resuscitation effort required would take too many resources away from those who would benefit the most.
t; which means that they're a) already dead or b) the resuscitation effort required would take too many resources away from those who would benefit the most.
Remember, in a Mass Casualty Incident, it's a simple numbers game. Yes, you're still breathing right now—but you can't protect your own airway, and we don't have the time or the manpower to sit here and hold it open for you. There's 300 patients lying out there, and we have to do the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people.
It's very utilitarian, as far as emergency philosophy goes.
My assigned group heads to the COBRA training facility at 0545 tomorrow. It'll be a picture-less post, for sure; but if it's as cool as they say it is, I can only hope that words will do it justice.
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