Shoot-Out at South Santa Fe Avenue
Posted on Sat Sep 12th, 2026 @ 12:57pm by Crewman Emiliano Echevarria & Sub-Lieutenant Osirin Acainus & Lieutenant Commander Eirly Andersen & Josef Forstinger
2,134 words; about a 11 minute read
Mission:
Shadow in the Static
Location: 19678 South Santa Fe Avenue, Los Angeles County, California
Timeline: April 1944
The ride to Compton was short and mostly silent.
After a good twenty minutes in light traffic, they were now approaching the warehouse Lieutenant Taylor had identified, and it looked like a bad idea that had sprouted legs.
Hank eased the car off the road and let it roll behind a ragged patch of brush and an old shipping container that had rusted down to the colour of dried blood. He killed the engine before they came to a complete stop, and for several seconds nobody said anything.
The warehouse was maybe a hair under a hundred yards away with its rear loading doors wide open in the late-morning California sun. That was the first thing Hank saw, and he exchanged a look with his partner, Wally. Neither of them liked it.
The second thing Hank decided he didn't like was the men.
He lowered himself in the seat and looked through the windshield. There were three of them standing around the loading port. Pinstripe suits, dark ties, and short-brimmed hats. They were the kind of men who believed in a different kind of honour.
One of them was carrying a Thompson.
Hank's eyes narrowed.
To the armed man's immediate right was another man who had one slung beneath his coat, the barrel just visible when he shifted his weight on the loading dock.
"That's certainly friendly," Hank muttered, glancing at Ruthie.
Four more men were working inside. They had shed their suit jackets, leaving white undershirts darkened with sweat beneath their suspenders. They were hauling wooden crates toward the loading dock and lifting them into the back of a big produce truck.
The Akadian squinted and shifted his position slightly, trying to get a better view of the crates. If they weren't facing holograms, he would have been tempted to reach out mentally.
It didn't help. He was still unable to see what was in the crates. "Damn," he muttered under his breath as he slowly pulled out his .45 from its shoulder holster.
"Don't you dare even think about going in there without a backup plan, you two," Ruthie said to the guys up front of the car. "Last thing we need is more trouble than we're able to handle." While she wanted to become the first female detective and not just another dispatcher, Ruthie wanted to do everything by the book.
Hank smiled warmly at Ruthie. "I think we should just watch for now."
"I'm not crazy," Briggs replied. "Well, maybe a little. But I'm not stupid. We'll wait for backup, but they'd better get here fast."
It was a fairly common truck of the era: a 1941 green GMC one-and-a-half ton stake-bed. The long and narrow hood and the rounded front fenders gave it away. Hank--Emiliano--had no idea how he knew this. But now he did.
The truck was parked sideways alongside the dock, its sides painted with the name of some produce company Hank had never heard before.
He reached into the glove compartment and found the binoculars. Apparently, this type of holoprogram had decided that the detectives needed binoculars. And, strangely, it had also decided that the characters did not need to ask where they came from.
Hank turned the focus wheel and brought the warehouse into sharper view.
The first guard was a bull of a man: slicked-back, dark hair protruding from the back and sides of his hat. Broad shoulders. Tommy gun held casually against one thigh.
He shifted the binoculars toward the loading dock itself. Four men were moving slowly but efficiently. There didn't seem to be much conversation. One crate came up, and two men lifted it. They shuffled over to the edge of the loading dock where two other men stood in the stake-bed, carefully accepting the cargo and placing it down.
Hank passed the binoculars to Wally without a word. He looked at Ruthie.
"Can you see what's in there?" Osirin asked.
"Not without cracking one of the crates open," he answered. "The guns alone are enough to make an arrest, but we're outgunned."
Hank glanced at the muted radio hanging below the dashboard and made a quick decision, picking up the bulky handheld device. The set was warm beneath his fingers, humming faintly even with the volume set to minimum. A thick, coiled wire ran directly under the dash. He squeezed the transmit switch.
"KGPL, this is Detective O'Malley. We're at a warehouse off South Santa Fe Avenue, near the river. Address is one-nine-six-seven-eight. We've got several men loading crates into a produce truck. Three men armed with Thompson submachine guns."
He glanced toward the warehouse.
"We need additional men down here. Keep it quiet. We're still holding surveillance."
He released the switch and listened.
Osirin frowned as he watched the men loading the crates. "I could try to sneak around," he suggested. "If I stay in the shadows, I can at least get closer. Then at least we'd know what we're dealing with."
"Your call, partner. If they make us and start shooting, I'd rather we not be separated."
Osirin looked over at Emilano. "Alright then, I'll stay here. How long before backup arrives?"
As the work progressed at the warehouse, Antonio Gamanucci, the big man holding the Thompson submachine gun, continued to scan the area. He was placed in charge of security for this shipment, and he wasn't about to disappoint his boss in any way.
As he continued to scan the area, his eyes landed on a car that had parked in a spot that had been empty a few moments prior. He knew, from knowing the area, that there was no reason for someone to park there. The hairs on the back of his neck started to stand up. "Get a move on, you lazy slobs!" He called out over his shoulder, as he kept the car in his sightline. "I think we got company!"
"Ain't nobody's supposed to be here," muttered Domenico Sciortino, a tall but wafer-thin man equally armed with the same model of gun.
One of the workers hauling crates stepped back and looked at Gamanucci, a concerned look on his face. "What do we do, boss?
"Whaddya think, Genius ?" Antonio replied with a belly-deep growl. Shooting a scowl at the worker, then at the trouble that had appeared. Looking back to the worker, and finding that the answer didn't seem obvious to him or his fellows enraged him, shouting at a volume even those outside could hear.
"BLAST 'EM YA TWO-BIT PALOOKA!"
And as if to lead by example, the brick wall of a man levied his tommy gun, and let a deafening roar of .45 ACP into the direction of the Starfleet personnel turned cops. Most likely louder and more disorienting than the phasers and disruptors they were used to. The Program certainly tried to go for authenticity in that regard.
Only minutes after Hank had placed the radio device back on the dashboard, he noticed several of the armed men pointing toward them. He took a sharp inhale of breath.
[O'Malley, KGPL. Stand by. Units being notified.] Came the voice over the radio.
He turned to Briggs and Ruthie. "We need to get out and get better cover."
There was a sense of uneasiness that had settled into Ruthie's chest with the whole situation. "And how are we going to do that with all of them," she pointed to the men staring right at them, "having their fingers on the trigger, ready to fire at the first sign of movement?"
Hank pushed Ruthie down, nearly tackling her as the bullets peppered the front end of the vehicle. Glass was shattering as the windshield was taken-out and the holographic car was quickly turning to Swiss cheese.
He managed to open the driver's side door and, keeping as low as possible, dragged Ruthie out with him, both hitting the gravel ground hard. In the confusion, he hoped his partner had also managed to scramble to find cover.
Ruthie felt her knees hit the gravel and knew a lot of pain was to follow, all the while shattered glass was raining down on them, and she'd never felt more frightened in her life. Her hands went to cover her head as she stayed down low, and she let out a noise that was indescribable.
Thank god Hank was there with her. "You okay?" she asked him in a serious tone, loud enough for them to hear.
Before he could answer, another hail of bullets hit the ground just feet away from them.
"Get behind the car!" he called.
The Bullets that whizzed out of the Warehouse peppered the car, some penetrating the car door as the projectiles punched through. But luckily, most of them got stuck inside the window rolling mechanism and went no further. They could hear the projectiles zip past now and then.
Grabbing Ruthie by the arm and keeping as low as possible, Hank directed her in front of him as more bullets came sailing overhead. They reached the rear of the car and hunkered down.
Hank had already unholstered his four-inch 38-caliber Smith & Wesson, firing several shots back at the loading dock.
Briggs, keeping a low profile, moved to the other side of the car. He raised his Colt .380 semi-automatic and fired toward the closest man to him. He was trying to hit him, of course, but he would have been satisfied if he just pinned him down.
The gunfire rolled across the yard in hard, ugly bursts. Hank could feel the round striking the front end of the car, each impact making the metal jump and shake. HE and Ruthie were breathing hard, and the smell of hot oil and burned powder assaulted their noses.
At the warehouse, Antonio kept his Thompson trained on the ruined car while one of the loaders crouched behind a crate. Then a voice came from inside the warehouse.
"Gamanucci!"
A man in a dark suit stepped onto the loading platform. He was older than Antonio by perhaps fifteen years, with a narrow face, silver at his temples, and a cigarette between two fingers. His jacket was buttoned despite the April heat, and he carried himself with confidence.
"Get the stuff loaded and get it out of here."
Before Antonio could answer, Domenico began shouting. "Come on! Move your asses! We've got three crates to go!"
Two of the workers scrambled for the remaining crates, casting worried looks over their shoulders. They were frightened now, and fear made anybody clumsy. One nearly dropped his load before another man caught it and shoved him toward the truck.
The Thompson opened up again.
The four workers kept moving. A crate disappeared into the back of the GMC. Then another. The last one was carried between two men who appeared as if they wanted to be anywhere else in the world but under fire on this loading dock. They heaved it into the truck and stumbled backward.
"That's it!" someone yelled.
The older man with the cigarette looked toward Antonio.
"Go."
Antonio backed toward the truck, keeping his Thompson raised until the last possible second. Dom was already climbing into the cab.
"Let's move!"
Dom slammed the driver's door and started the engine. The GMC coughed and sputtered a few times before shooting-out a thick cloud of black exhaust. The engine settled into a deep growl while Antonio climbed into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut.
Three of the armed men climbed into the back among the crates. One crouched near the tailgate with his Thompson across his knees. Another sat with his back against a crate. The third kept his head down until the truck began to move.
The older man stepped away from the loading dock as the truck lurched forward. He watched it cross the yard and disappear toward the old road. Then he looked back toward the warehouse.
The police car was still there, poking out from behind the brush and a rusty old shipping container. The windshield was gone and smoke rose from the hood.
Sub-Lieutenant Osirin Acainus (Detective Wally Briggs)
Mission Advisor
USS Astrea
Crewman Emiliano Echevarria (Detective Hank O'Malley)
Operations Officer
USS Astrea
(NPC of JB Dorsainvil)
Ensign Luciana Aguila (Ruthie Sullivan)
Structural/Environmental Specialist
USS Astrea
(NPC of Eirly Andersen)
Josef Forstinger (Gangsters)
Civilian
USS Astrea
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