Wednesday, October 25th, 2000
2130 hrs.
34F
clear skies; slight breeze from the northwest
Jackowo Gorne, 6.5km west of Wyszkow, Poland
The sun has set, leaving darkness and renewed cold in its stead.
With the general anxious to return to his men, especially in light of the increased risk of desertion created by the Baron's latest gambit, the party climbs aboard the Ural (the general and his party piles into a civilian sedan) and the tiny convoy heads for Wyzckow, with the general's motorcycle riding messenger on point. The Serock contingent heads the opposite direction, back to their homes after having established a tentative agreement to reconvene the planning conference- either in Serock, Wyszkow, or Jackowo Gorne- in the morning.
You drive about 6km east down the 62, rolling through fallow fields, mostly denuded of snow, and passing a few abandoned homes.
It occurs to you that this dark stretch of straight rural road, just a few kilometers north of the Baron's fiefdom, would make a pretty good place for an ambush.
It's at that moment that gunfire rakes the three-vehicle column. Green tracers leap from the darkness to the south and streak past you in a pyrotechnic display of supersonic death metal. The steady hum of the Ural's old engine is drowned out by the staccato snare drumbeat of automatic weapon's fire. It's all you can do not to loose your bowels. The evening's hot meal feels like a lump of iron dropping suddenly from your belly down to your genitals.
The tracers are blazing past from south to north. Up ahead, the motorcycle is down in a shower of sparks, its rider lost in the darkness somewhere on the side of the road. The general's sedan swerves into the ditch on the north side of the road, where it clumsily crashes to a halt.
In the cargo bed of the Ural, several of you are showered with blood and bits of skull and brain matter as someone on the right side bench is struck in the head. You're pretty sure it's one of the new guys- Lech or Teo or Janek- but it's hard to remember with all of the incoming gunfire. You estimate that at least 10 men are lighting you up with at least one LMG and several automatic rifles. The dead man lurches forward and falls face-first on to the deck, his ass sticking up in the air. Bullets punch through the Ural's thin skin or ricochet off into the darkness.
It occurs to you that this is how the Spider relief detail must have felt as you cut them to pieces just 24 hours ago.
Vita [NPC'ed] is driving.
Next Moves?
Updated Tac-map: http://maps.google.com/maps/ms...38,0.016469&z=17
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:48, Wed 02 Feb 2011.