”Signs of habitation at twelve o’clock.” Kessler uses his radio to relay the results of the spotlight’s sweep to those Mad Dogs that lacked NVG’s or anyone that might not have seen it. ”Looks like a lifeboat turned on its side and turned into a shelter. Can’t see any movement but that doesn’t mean it isn’t occupied. Buildings at three o’clock look to be abandoned. Stand by”

The German releases the PTT switch on his radio, muses aloud to those still in the BTR. ”Why make your shelter a boat on the beach when there are buildings you can use instead?” It’s a largely rhetorical question, no answer really expected, at least not a profound one.

Either way, it’s made his mind up as to which of the two locations warrants a closer look first. He keys down on his radio again. ”Sergeant Babicevs, take Rodriguez, Walsh, and Ward and go check the lifeboat out. If they’re civilians try and make nice with them, see what they know, what they’ve seen. Hearts and minds Varis, hearts and minds. But be careful. We’ll give you overwatch from the Krok.”

“Sergeant Kolstrup, you’re primary overwatch. Cover the recon party as they approach the boat. If we need to extract them in a hurry we’ll use sniper fire and the coax. Ferro, be ready to move  on my word, Corporal Lines, stand by on the coax but don’t fire unless I give the order.”

“Sergeant Czerny, you and Alexander watch our six and the buildings at three o’clock. If you see any movement call out on the radio. Everyone clear?”

If everyone’s happy Kessler will swap his helmet for a Soviet Ushanka hat, pull his black and green checkered shemagh up over his nose and stick his head back out of the commander’s hatch so that he can watch the upturned boat while the recon team advance towards it and call out anything that they need to be aware of.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:26, Sat 24 Feb.

”Ya hear that Varis?” Chris Walsh chuckles from where he’s crouched down in the lee of the BTR, the lower part of his face hidden behind a scarf. He has no clue how many layers of clothing he’s wearing - he’s got over whites on top of a combat jacket on top of a fleece, woollen gloves that leave the tip of the finger that hovers close to - but not on - the trigger of his newly acquired RPD exposed to the elements. Even his stetson has been left back at barracks, its place taken by a black wool cap that’s pulled down over his ears, an East German Army helmet sitting semi awkwardly on top of it. And he’s still fucking cold.

”The man said it was a lifeboat…this could be it buddy. You might be about to meet the Polish version of Pamela.”

He takes a look in the general direction of the objective, but being one of those who doesn’t have any NVG’s, he can’t really see much. ”So what’s the plan?”

"Yes, sir," Per responds, fixing the lean-to in the reticle of his night vision-enhanced telescopic sight. The BTR's hull supports the long-gun's weight, providing a steady platform for observation and, if need be, precision shooting.

-

Varis chuckles. It's so dark and cold that, despite the sound of the crashing waves, try as he might, he can't imagine C.J. Parker in her natural habitat.

"Let's advance along the beach, just outside... what do you can hills of sand? Dunes, yes. Varis does not want to be seen from those buildings," he points to the dark, seemingly abandoned structures inland. "But if we need cover, the dunes will serve. Sound good?* Okay, let's go meet Pamski."

*Pause for feedback.

-

Feeling the cold come through the open air guard hatches, Jake took off his helmet once the vehicle stopped, quickly donned his olive drab balaclava, then put his helmet back on.

After, unassed the Soviet APC and assembled with the other dismounts outside.  As he unfolded the stock on his AK-74M, Walsh asked about the plan.  When Varis replied, Jake added, "Seems good to me." The sand dune shielded approach to the objective seemed good for several reasons.  It might shield them a bit from the wind.  Also, it was good concealment from observation and cover if needed.  Hell, sand was such a great substance for cover that the Army often gave you small bags to collect it, stack it, and share it with your foxhole friends.

"Everyone good for cold weather gear?" Jake asked, pulling his own black leather D3A gloves over the glove liners he'd worn in the BTR.  "In these temps and wind, you might have 20 minutes before frostbite, if you are lucky," he added.  And no one in this unit possessed an abundance of luck from what Ward could tell.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:25, Sat 24 Feb.

Tosh begins to position his guns where Kessler wanted them.  "Right sir.  On your call!"

Jose exits the Krok with a shiver, the biting, humid Baltic air seeming to pass right through his skin to gnaw directly on his bones. He looks toward the beach and the ... surf? He's never seen ice pushed up on a beach before and based on how cold it is outside, is comfortable with never seeing it again. He thanks his lucky stars for his thermal underwear and matching fatigues, and the overwhites thrown on top. A pair of woolen gloves doesn't feel enough to keep his hands warm, and rather than a scarf, Jose had simply grabbed some ripped linen back at the kaserne to wrap around his head and face. He looked a bit like a floral print mummy under his Kevlar helmet at the moment, but it was better than losing his nose.



Jose lets another shiver pass through him, then responds, his voice shaking just a bit with his chattering teeth. "Aye, tengo mucho frio. Why the fuck do people even live here, ehh? No amount of cold weather gear would keep us warm in this. Let's get moving." He smiles, then quickly closes his mouth as the cold air hits his teeth. Eager to get his blood pumping to warm him up, Jose starts moving along the dunes with the others.

Ferro leans forward and peers into her forward most facing vision block to observe the path that the dismounts are taking. If the Krok needs to advance quickly she wants to know where everyone is beforehand. Everyone that she doesn't want to run over that is. Recalling what she had seen when the IR spotlight was oriented on the shelter. The Krok could probably plow straight through that, she thinks. Not that it will probably come to that. Hopefully...

After the dismounts move beyond the visual limit of the vision block's awful NOD attachment, she glances through a side facing block. With no NOD available for that one she's basically looking at some dull white snow and then an endless blackness. But in her mind she is imagining and wondering about the vessel, whether it's out there in the dark waiting, maybe even watching the shore and the Krokodil. Or is it still out on the open water and still a ways away?

Four Mad Dogs separate from the idling BTR-80. They cut a path around the patches of scraggy brush, Varis in front. The LOS to the distant buildings becomes largely blocked by the forest in between. On the other hand, their white cammo clashes with the dark backdrop of trees when viewed from the beach. Wind and surf overwhelm most other sounds.

Back in the Krokodil, the remaining Mad Dogs observe their departing comrades and the surrounding landscape. Czerny and Aleksandar are oriented to cover the rear, but they remain mounted, in the event that the vehicle needs to move immediately.

The dismounted Mad Dogs cover the distance in no time and with no incidents. They stand a few meters from the large makeshift shelter. Now up close, they now see that there's also a flat bottom boat sitting in the sand (on the other side of the shelter). The racks, presumably for salting or drying fish, are empty. Crisscrossing footprints are imprinted throughout the snow and sand. Over the ambient noise, the Mad Dogs can hear occasional sounds from within the makeshift shelter.

Time to rendezvous is now 37 minutes.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:50, Fri 01 Mar.

"Make nice," Kessler said...

That's what commanders do- delegate. Now Varis is in charge. Calling "his" squad into a huddle, the Latvian speaks just loudly enough to be heard over the rolling surf. "Varis' Polish is for shit," he claims, exaggerating a bit. Then Varis delegates. "Walsh, you speak like native, no? Call to them. Say that we are soldiers, but friendly- just want to talk a bit." Trying to sound helpful, Varis speaks for the others, "We will cover you."

-
This message was last edited by a game editor at 04:33, Fri 01 Mar.

Walsh nods, calls out in Polish towards from where he is towards the shelter.

"Hey there! We are Gdansk soldiers! We come in peace. Just want to talk, maybe trade a bit?" Fuck knows what they have to trade but it seems like a good opening gambit.

Walsh's voice triggers a creaking sound from within the large makeshift shelter. A sliver of light, probably from a fire, vanishes from a hairline crack between the tarps. Wind and surf may conceal quieter sounds. A few more crashes of ice and waves follow before a male occupant answers the American. "Nie mam nic na handel." I have nothing to trade. The unseen speaker's response carries forced emotion as if worried that he won't be convincing enough.

The Polish occupant can be heard moving about the shelter a little. When he speaks again his tone is softer, "Odejdź w spokoju, W porządku?" Go away in peace, alright?

Jose listens as a response comes from the tent, and winces as it feels like his fingertips go numb from the cold. Despite the soft glow of light bathing the exterior and highlighting a few of the Mad Dogs, its clear that there will be no warmth for the fire team this evening.

He makes out what sounds like a fairly benign response from inside the tent. Figuring that probably isn't the group's missing contact, he turns to Ward and Varis. "Hey, weren't we supposed to pop a glowstick or some shit?"

Ferro eases back in her seat and hopelessly taps at the heater controls a little. She then peers into her front facing vision block and toggles her radio. "You guys need help out there?"

"We are just passing through friend.  We aren't looking to trade but we would like to get out of the wind for a few minutes... to warm up.  Maybe trade stories or news.  We've heard of heavy fighting in Gdansk," Jake said calmly and evenly in Polish, responding to the occupant of the tent.

"We've got some cigarette to share in exchange for your hospitality.  Also, I'm a medic if anyone needs something examined or tended to," Jake added.  He was regretting leaving his Wyborowa and Kashubian snuff behind at the compound, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:04, Wed 06 Mar.

Varis shrugs. He doesn't remember Kessler saying anything about a glowstick, but maybe his mind had wandered...

While Ward engages the occupant of the lean-to in a dialogue, Varis eavesdrops, tries to make sense of the exchange. Ferro's static-laced voice breaks in over the team net.



"Er, not yet... stand by,"

The Latvian doesn't really have anything to report yet, except that the beach-dweller seems reluctant to welcome visitors. Varis can't really blame the man.

-
This message was last edited by a game editor at 01:44, Fri 08 Mar.

   "We are just passing through friend."

"Zatem kontynuuj przejazd!" the unseen and agitated man snaps. Then keep on passing through! There's some subtle sound of movement from inside the makeshift shelter a moment later. A fold in one of the tarps then moves slightly and it isn't difficult to imagine the occupant pulling at it a little to peer out, although nobody is actually seen. "Tak w ogóle, ilu z was tam jest?" How many of you are out there, anyway? Then before Ward or another Mad Dog can answer, the Pole quickly announces, "Jest nas tutaj jakieś... dziesięciu." There are like... ten, of us in here.

Some quiet and hard to understand speech follows. At first it seems as though the beach dweller is conversing with someone, but he may just be mumbling to himself. The only words which manage to escape the roar of the surf and flapping of tarps, is "curious" and "ghosts".

Ward then mentions cigarettes...

"Końskie gówno! Ty głupcze! Teraz wiem, że to pułapka!" Horse shit! You fool! Now I know it is a trap! The closed split between tarps, which serves as a door, shakes erratically, with it opening and closing a little each time, as the occupant roughly unties a cord that's keeping them together. As this is happening, something is mumbled about fish being stolen. A raggedly clothed and thickly bearded man then emerges out into the cold darkness. He almost fits the look a shipwrecked inhabitant on a deserted island. He glances sideways towards the vacant racks (which seem to be for drying or salting fish), before turning back to Ward (who is nearest). The unkempt beach dweller raises a fist. "Głupcy. Moje oczy nie kłamią. Ty..." Fools. My eyes do not lie. You... His clench hand lowers as his voice trails off. By now, one can see that there are sores and strange dots, from bites or a rash, on his exposed skin. The man stares at Jake strangely for a moment, before reaching out towards the American's face, or perhaps the night vision goggles fitted down over his eyes, taking a step forward. "Co jest... co ty..." What is... what do you... He then takes another step before lunging at the medic.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:30, Sat 09 Mar.

"Kurwa!" Jake said as he stepped back, pivoted on a heel, and pushed the man away with both hands.  Both remained standing, with Jake rapidly backing off.

"Nie dotykaj mnie, dupku. Jeśli nie chcesz pomocy, odejdziemy," Jake said, as he continued to back away, keeping his hands up, and eyes on the pox ridden bastard who just attacked him.  Don't touch me asshole.  If you do not want help, then we will leave.

"I need to wash my hands," Jake said to the others, still keep them up and outstretch.  If you've never tried not touching your face because you might have picked up a disease... well... it's a lot harder than you think*.  Jake purposefully ignored his suddenly itchy nose.  "Cover me and keep this diseased idiot at a distance," he said as he made his way to the seashore, giving this mad fool’s encampment a wide berth.

Once at the ocean (technically a sea), Jake washed his hands carefully and throughly in the briny water.  He spent almost two full minutes, scrubbing his hands in the water, using the same technique he might use to prepare for surgery, sans soap and scrub brush.

*This might be the best world-wide inside joke I've ever embedded in a post.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:01, Sat 09 Mar.

Ward rinses off his hands and face in the icy surf. It's painful, but he's compelled, and afterward feels better. By the time he's finished the beach dweller has stopped yelling and withdrawn back into the makeshift shelter. The dismounted Mad Dogs then return to the Krokodil.

Time to rendezvous is now 30 minutes.

"Why you have to shove that old guy? He just wanted to give you big hug," Varis jokes with Ward.

Arriving back at Der Krok, the Latvian briefs Kessler, "Looks like old crazy guy, living alone in shack on beach. He didn't want to talk."

-

"For that, I'm going to explain cellular membrane composition, osmosis and osmotic pressure, and why salt water has antiseptic properties," Jake replied to Varis.  He spoke on the topic all the way back to the Krok.

"There will be a test when we get back," he added, while warming up in the vehicle.

Back in the BTR, Jake took off his gloves, which were a bit damp inside after scrubbing his hands in the ocean (technically a sea.. and in an alternate universe.. a NATO lake).  He crossed his arms and held his hands under his armpits, hoping to hold frostbite at bay.

"If I can't get these delicate fingers warmed up quickly, we're going to need to find a large furry animal to kill and cut open, so I can shove them in those guts.." Ward said, making a very obtuse Empire Strikes Back reference...
This message was last edited by the player at 01:00, Thu 14 Mar.

In reply to Jake Ward (msg # 76):

Jose clambers back into the BTR along with the others, and keeps his eyes on Ward. "Aye, that guy looked pretty messed up." A deep memory suddenly rises unbidden from the depths of Jose's subconscious. 'Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleans those who have leprosy, drive out demons.' No doubt the memory stems from some long forgotten sermon in Sunday School from when Jose was very young. "Maybe some kind of leprosy camp on the beach? Lucky they aren't freezing to death out here in this. That was good of you to offer to help though."

When Ward makes the oblique reference to Star Wars, Jose picks up on it and gives a light chuckle while shaking his head. "It's good that you're a nerd so that you know what to do to get leprosy off your hands." With that, he gives a heavy guffaw and slaps Ward on the back to show that he's only joking around. After he's done laughing, he looks around at the others. "So, what do we do now? How do we find this contact?"

Ferro glances at the luminous hands on the watch she inherited from Riedel. She then turns in her seat to face the passenger compartment. "Twenty five, thirty minute wait. And then you can be the beacon." Straining, she reaches back towards him with a length of paracord from her webbing for him to take. "When it's time stand up on the vehicle. Tie one end of that cord the IR glowstick, crack it, and then spin it in a wide arc while facing the sea." She knew that's how they often did it with helicopters so it probably wasn't any different now. "I need to cord back."

Ferro then shuts down the Krokodil's engine. She'll start it up again in about fifteen or twenty minutes for the heater. Once there is a return signal or sign of their pickup, Ferro will drive closer to the surf.

2345hrs, January 20th, 2001
Stogi Beach, NE of Gdansk
Light Flurries, -7^oC

The next half hour is uneventful, spent in the Krokodil as scattered snowflakes blew and swirled across the beach. Cautious watch on the strange inhabitant, or rather his shelter, further down the stretch, reveals nothing alarming. It's unpleasantly cold. Eventually, Ferro restarts the engine and Rodriguez climbs up to stand on the hull of the vehicle. He cracks the IR glowstick, which reveals no light visible to the naked eye, and begins swinging it wide through the air as a beacon. This is done for a couple minutes, with the American listening to the crash of the surf and staring out at the seemingly empty sea. If there's a boat out there it isn't close to shore or running any external lights.

"They're here." Kessler, motioning from where he's propped himself up through the commander's hatch to help observe. An inflatable boat has just emerged from the surf and partway up onto the ice and sand. There are three figures but only one climbs out. The individual making landfall pauses to quickly reach back into the craft to retrieve a pack, and toss back what might've been a life jacket. In mere seconds it's over. He's rushing inland, with the inflatable boat reversing and disappearing back into the concealing darkness and choppy waves.

A moment then follows before the visitor works his way up through the semi-protective dunes and scrub to the beacon (atop the waiting BTR-80).

"Swordfish."

"Mountain."

Even before seeing the arrival up close, Kessler can tell just from the spoken password & challenge, that the visitor is a fellow German. The amphibious operative is brought aboard and Ferro kicks the vehicle into motion. It spins around in the sand, forming deep ruts, and then begins cruising back along the beach. Little of anything is said as the Krok turns into a forested road (now not much more than an overgrown path) and heads inland. The return trip to the riverside compound is uneventful. Arrival is just shortly after midnight. It's now January 21st, 2001.

Upon debussing and entering the athletic club, Karel Janku is found waiting. Most everyone else is asleep, apart from the usual complement or lookouts and sentries. It's quiet, but warm and illuminated inside. Shaking off the cold, the group enters the small cafeteria. Karel, the BND's Czech operative, sits next to Kessler and the newly arrived German. They've never met but they seem to be well aware who the other is. Janku begins by outlining what might be a complication to the situation south of Gdansk. "There has been large troop movements of Soviet forces. Probability is high that they are elements of 42nd Guard Motorized Rifle Division, units previously deployed west to help contain US 11th Corps pocket." The Mad Dogs have tangled with this unit before so that's nothing new. What is a relevant development is that the division, deployed with half of its forces elsewhere, may now be consolidating. Unfortunately, Karel is unable to provide a reason. Possibilities include the 42nd GMRD may be finally dealing with the troublesome (NATO allied) Polish Home Army/Green Berets who're holding out in the Osiek area, an internal mutiny has occurred, upcoming renewed action against Gdansk, and many others. But it almost certainly means the upcoming Malbork AO will be more challenging. Highlighting this, Janku announces a recent setback for "Olympic", "We sent a reliable asset out to gather information but he has disappeared." Pausing, the Czech defector also mentions something else that he's learned. "There is severe food rationing in Malbork right now. May be relevant."

Msg #17 in the INTEL thread will provide last know information on the 42nd GMRD.