"They're moving in line," Dacovetti says.  "Geographically."  He scribbles on a piece of paper that will go into a sealed burn box when the conversation is finished, then holds it up to the camera.  A poor but workable silhouette of the state of Florida is sketched with lots of little marks for deaths and survivors. "This is approximate, of course, but they started here on the panhandle, worked their way East, and then started south when they hit the Atlantic.  If they hold to the pattern, we should be able to form a reasonable hypothesis about who is next.  The good news is our nuclear anomaly is the farthest removed."

He taps his fingers on the desk. "If our actions did initiate this slaughter, that would mean our enemy wants to stop of us from acquiring something from these men or stop them from confirming something we already suspect."

Hannah saw that glance from Caradoc and smiled slightly, she was already nodding curtly to Mewes' announcement about the availability of the MH-60, "Thank you, Group Captain.  I'm much obliged."

It was a genuine, heartfelt acknowledgement that the army aviatrix appreciated the vote of confidence given by Mewes to her and the fact that the Group Captain had kept his promise that he made to her before she'd joined that he'd try to get her time on the Sikorsky frames to keep up her certifications.  Hannah knew that he didn't have to do it - this mission didn't seem to warrant air support.  Over the sovereign ground of the US, she'd have to think twice about swooping in on an armed Navy gunboat.

She tapped her fingers idly on the lacquered oaken table of the Washington DC Bureau's conference room that they'd been sequestered in.  The FBI helicopters had loaded them and their two motorcycles up before making the 400 mile return trip to the nation's capital.  She'd never gotten that type of VIP treatment before, it probably would have made her a bit wary - and was only mitigated by the fact that Double Down knew that the Lizard King was a g-man.  She figured that his touch might be in there somewhere.

The auburn-haired pilot seconded Painter's concern about suspect pattern of the causes of death, "The three and then three pattern is way too suspect."  The road trip with Grey Cell's medic had had the fortunate side-effect that Hannah had been able to brush up on her medical terms and techniques.  And had gotten a chance to know the way that the Irishman thought a bit better.

Double Down also agreed with Dealer's assessment, "We need to get to those survivors as quickly as possible."  She pursed her burgundy lips thin, until they were almost just a white line, "We need to know what they know."

"Choi." Hannah addressed Grey Cell's lone FBI gunman, "Can we expect that we should be able to hitch a fast ride down to Florida on an FBI flight at this point?  If so, we should be able to get to Canaveral in just about an hour or so..."

”If they stick to the pattern that Dealer has identified the next target would be the guy in Pembroke Pines, Albinson.” Durand muses, having pulled up a Google map of Florida on his laptop. ”We should get someone on him asap as a precaution, even if it’s just a case of local law enforcement sitting on him until some of our people can get on scene.” He shoots a glance to Kowalska. ”Local cops would need to have some idea of the capabilities of their opponents. Without going into detail of course. But it would not be right not to give them some sort of warning as to what they might be up against.”

The Frenchman looks over his notes again. ”It seems to me that they other potential red flags are the crypto guy and the nuc. Especially the nuc, Paddon, who apparently should not have been in that Squadron, so I think we need to talk to him first, try and find out what his story is. Afterwards perhaps we can speak to the crypto guy, Hawkins.”

He turns to Mewes. ”Like Hannah said, how quickly can the guys in the States get to Florida? Can the FBI provide a plane? As for Dancer and I, do we have to go into Canaveral? Most of the activity seems to be further south. Can you get us clearance to fly into Miami? Or a military base in that area? Also, can we get a back up location for the chopper further south?”

"We can divert your flight to Homestead," Mewes tells Sébastien.  "It's an Air Force Reserve base south of Miami.  Once you're on the ground, you can stage out of there or the Coast Guard station in Miami.  Homestead will be more covert and offers better facilities for setting up the Cave.  The Coast Guard's site has better support for the Knighthawk and is closer to Miami proper."
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:02, Tue 02 Feb 2016.

"Homestead then," Lina said with a nod.  "Crad, Hannah, James, and Mike will proceed to Pembroke Pines.  If the FBI can't provide transportation, then by charter or commercial air.  Albinson is in a nursing home, so it may be worth while to get his medical records and identify any specialized care he might need during transport to Homestead or at an appropriate safe house."

"Seb and I will fly to Homestead and make our way to Key West to meet Paddon.  Once Amber is setup in Homestead, we'll hopefully converge there with our two protectees.  Hawkins lives in Homestead, so the first team back gets dibs on him.  No plan survives contact with the enemy, but if we make it that far, we'll move forward based on what we've learned," Kowalska said, looking down frequently at her notes regarding Florida geography.

"Does that sound viable?" Lina asked, looking up at the SDVC unit, then over to Mewes, Bannon, and Durand.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:28, Tue 02 Feb 2016.

Durand nods to Kowalska. ”Sounds like a plan to me.”

"I'll make a phone call about transportation but I can't promise anything so be prepared to scramble plan B. You guys want me to ask someone to look into the mystery squadron too?"

-

Nininger State Veterans' Nursing Home
Pembroke Pines, Florida
09 June 2015
1312 hrs local (1812 hrs Zulu)

With his colleagues in tow, Special Agent James Choi strides into the blissfully air-conditioned lobby of Nininger State Veterans' Nursing Home.  The receptionist offers him a smile on the sunny side of professional - one which slumps only fractionally when he displays his FBI credentials.  It's a universal constant: introduce oneself as a federal agent and ordinary citizens develop hyperconscience, searching their memories for whatever they might have done to incur the federal government's wrath.  In the face of the things James has seen and done in the last few months, it's welcomingly prosaic.

The receptionist's face doesn't truly cool until James inquires into the whereabouts of Dana Albinson.  There's a wince behind eyes that go suddenly shuttered, and a diversion to higher authority.  She picks up her phone, speaks softly into it, her eyes flicking between James and his teammates.  "The charge nurse will be right out to speak to you," she finally says, replacing the handset.

It's a couple of minutes before an older woman in blue-green scrubs emerges from a door marked STAFF ONLY.  Her professional mask is more firmly in place.  "Special Agents," she says with a brusque nod, picking up the assumption that James slid onto the desk with his ambiguous introductions.  "I'm afraid Captain Albinson suffered a stroke about three hours ago.  He's in surgery at Mercy now."

---

Key West International Airport
Key West, Florida
09 June 2015
1825 hrs local (2325 hrs Zulu)

The Gulfstream comes to a halt on the ramp between a haze gray C-130 and a trio of orange-and-white T-6Bs.  The copilot - a taciturn blonde in contractor chic garb that barely masquerades as civilian attire - cracks the hatch and drops the stairs.  A wave of hot, humid air rolls in, heavy with the aromas of seashore and jet exhaust.

Karolina Kowalska and Sébastien Durand emerge into the late-afternoon sun, gratefully stretching their legs and backs after the eleven-hour endurance flight.  As soon as they've off-loaded their go-bags, the stairs retract and the jet begins rolling again.  It's bound for Miami to deliver Barbrak Tarabi, Marie Kohl, and four French air commandos.  The Amber Cell advance party will prepare another loaned hangar and helicopter for the rest of the support element's arrival the following morning.  At least, that's the plan.

A Chevrolet Malibu sedan in Official Motor Pool White and a dark green Ford Explorer are parked at the edge of the tarmac.  As the G650 taxis away, the cars roll slowly toward the agents.  They come to a stop a comfortable ten meters away and two men emerge.  The Chevy's driver is a soft-looking twenty-something in tailored business casual, with close-cropped red hair and a complexion that's probably pallid when it's not sunburnt.  The Explorer's pilot is ambiguously thirtyish and balding, wearing khaki hiking pants, a blasé expression, and a monochrome Hawaiian shirt bearing a photonegative image of palm trees bending in the wind of the Bikini Atoll nuclear test.

The younger man squints at the duo, then peers at the contents of a manila folder.  Apparently satisfied, he puts on a smile, steps forward, and extends a hand.  His grip isn't as limp as his appearance suggests.  "Captain Kowalska, Mister Durand?  Welcome to America.  I'm Lieutenant Spencer, NCIS.  This is Petty Officer Gutierrez."  Gutierrez contents himself with a noncommittal nod.  "Ah... Commander Vest with ONI arranged for us to meet you here and clear you through entry.  If I can see your passports, travel orders, and military IDs, I'll get that started."

He accepts the documents in question and retreats to the Chevy, where he busies himself with a laptop computer.  PO Gutierrez offers a faint smile but does not initiate conversation.  After about ten minutes, Spencer re-emerges and returns the agents' paperwork.  "All good."  He pauses and quirks his mouth.  "Um.  We're to assist you while you're in the Keys but I'm a bit hazy on the reason for your visit.  Commander Vest arranged a rental car for you," he gestures toward the Explorer, "and we're at your disposal if you need guides or on-base escorts.  Or I can recommend some restaurants...?"

---

Mercy Hospital
Miami, Florida
09 June 2015
1548 hrs local (2048 hrs Zulu)

The waiting room occupies the ambiguous time-space continuum common to all places of its sort, a location where there's nowhere to walk, all the magazines are from an alternate universe skewed four degrees off the familiar, and clocks reverse their motion when unobserved.  At length, a short, broad-shouldered physician inserts herself into the room.  "Agent Choi."  It's almost command voice, not the diffident inquiry which James half-expects.  She tilts her head toward the hall.

In the corridor, the air is thinner and cooler, the lights are brighter, and the doctor - her ID reads Monica Adessi, M.D. and Neurology - carries a thick cloak of fatigue.  "Agent," she begins, then blinks heavily.   "I'm able to report that the thrombectomy was successful.  Mostly.  We've removed the," there's a hitch in her speech, "clot and he's stable.  But there's likely to be significant long-term impairment.

"Now.  What's the FBI's interest in an eighty-two-year-old veteran?  And please don't tell me it's classified but you need me to wake him up so you can extract the vital clue to catch the terrorists," she adds dryly.

---

Map (not tactical): https://www.google.com/maps/d/...Z750&usp=sharing
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:41, Sat 06 Feb 2016.

It's an interminable stay in waiting room hell, sanitized floors, the smell of bleach and Cavicide.  Not a locale that lends itself particularly easy to deep thinking and an electronic offense, but Dacovetti does his best. The airman has put himself in a corner, pulled a cushion off a chair to sit on the floor with, and is using the now barren body of the chair to support his laptop. All in all, he probably looks like quite the asshole building himself a little kingdom in a shared waiting room to work in, complete with empty coffee cups and at least two Power Bar wrappers stacked carefully to one side.

On the screen, sheltered from view from any nosy bystanders, is a feed of several of the entrances to the hospital and the parking garage.  His efforts to pierce the system that utilize the thermal cameras have been unsuccessful, but it's possible that those systems are isolated and used more for diagnostics than any actual security purpose.  Or at least, that what Crewe had mentioned.  Michael didn't stop to think about whether the medic had been trying to soothe his bruised ego or just plugging holes in his knowledge.  A little facial recognition software tuned for Attar or Charlie Sheen would go a long way here, he thinks.

Staring at monitor feeds is numbing, so he's trying to stay active, composing an encrypted email to Green Cell about the possibility of the Attar's tuning their devices to induce strokes from a distance and how that would work or possibly be detected, when the doctor comes into the room, and starts briefing the team.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:06, Fri 05 Feb 2016.

Hannah hung back, letting James do most of the talking.  After all, she didn't have anything but a military ID to flash.  It was nice that people assumed that she was FBI as well at this point; Double Down was hardly going to attempt to dissuade them of that assumption.

Her weight shifted slightly causing her leathers to creak softly.  She was still in her leather jacket (to be honest, she simply liked the cut, even if it did potentially restrict her choice of sidearm when actually zipped up), though she'd traded in the chaps for simple black denim jeans.  Her custom Oakley were conspicuously placed over her eyes to shade them as Hannah scanned about the hospital.  She glanced in the direction of the waiting room and then at her companions.  Apparently, there was little to do but wait.

---

When the operating surgeon appeared, Hannah pushed off of the wall where she been standing idly.  She capped the water bottle that she'd just taken a swig from and immediately stowed it back in her slingbag.  Once her pack was back over her shoulder, she approached along with the others to hear what the doctor had to say.

When the woman had proclaimed her prognosis, which Hannah had to admit didn't bode well for their investigation; no quite dead, but pretty close.  But then, the auburn-haired aviatrix quirked her head to side slightly.  Double Down pulled her Oakleys down a smidgen so that she might view the doctor over the top edge, deadpanning even, "What terrorists are you referring to, Doctor Adessi?"  She waited expectantly for the neurosurgeon to respond; if the doctor's remark had been made in jest, it wasn't a very good joke.  Perhaps the investigation really wasn't dead yet.

Flying commercial would never be the same again Durand had thought to himself as he descended the Gulfstream's stairs. The flight had definitely rated as one of the better ones that the Frenchman had taken. There had been time to catch up with Kowalska and Barfly as well as sharing some war stories - or at least the non classified parts - with the Air Commandos. There had even been a moment of light relief when the co pilot had come back into the cabin for some crew rest and one of the Commandos had tried to make a move on her. Well, it had been amusing for the rest of them, probably not so amusing for the amorous Commando when she had shot him down in flames, Durand readily joining in the barrage of good natured abuse in French that the unfortunate individual had had to endure after the blonde aviator had returned to the flight deck.

When Spencer returns their documentation and asks what their plans are Durand takes that as his cue, moves to the side, nods to Gutierrez. The Frenchman is casually dressed, wearing khaki cargo pants, a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, well worn tan desert boots. A pair of ray ban sunglasses are pushed up on top of his head, and a layer of stubble adorns his chin.

"Good to meet you Chief. I'm Seb. E6 in the French Marines in a past life." It's an attempt to define nascent relationships, leaving Kapitan Kowalska to make her manners with Spencer, officer to officer, whilst Durand plays the former Naval Service enlisted card to try and find common ground with Gutierrez. "Nice shirt." he remarks with a grin before switching to business, although his tone remains light, casual. "So, much going on for you guys around here?"

Adessi tilts her head and squints at Hannah.  "Whatever terrorists you're hunting, young lady," she says, ignoring the fact that the pilot is no more than five years her junior.  "Isn't that how this script usually plays out?  Federal agents don't tend to show up while the critical witness is in surgery unless they're on a time-critical hunt for a nuclear device or a drum of methyl-ethyl-death."

Long term exposure to confident professionals blowing smoke due to frustration has rendered Michael Dacovetti immune, or simply unaware due to refusal to process, statements such as those the doctor just made.  "Doctor, you paused for a moment before discussing the clot.  Was there anything unusual about the stroke?"

In reply to Tegyrius (msg # 18):

Karolina gave Barfight and the others a nod before she stepped out of the G650, luggage and daypack in tow.  Florida was hot, but not as hot as it would be later into June and into the summer.  Still, the heavy humid air took a moment to adjust to.  Fortunately Lina had prepared as best as time would allow.  She was clad in light weight khaki cargo pants, a light blue wicking polo, and black trainers.  She wore a blue CamelBak pack in a shade of niebieski that almost matched the nearby water.  A small black waist pack kept her essentials in easy reach.  Lina looked a little too sporty to be a typical American tourist, but she could pass for an action sports enthusiast, taking a day between diving and wing suit flying.

”Pleased to meet you Lieutenant, Petty Officer,” Lina said, introducing herself to the NCIS Officer and his NCO.  She produced her documents as requested, grateful that they would avoid customs formalities thanks to Vest’s intercession.  When the Lieutenant returned with the green light, Lina nodded and thanked him.

”Lieutenant, Commander Vest may not have told you, but Mr. Durand and I are here to interview retired and former members of a Air Development Squadron One, a US Navy test squadron that, among other things, tested and developed anti-submarine warfare capabilities.  I’m sure you are aware that with the events in the Ukraine, relations between NATO and the Russian Federation have significantly deteriorated.  Russian submarine activity is set to top Cold War levels this year.  Our Task Force is conducting interviews with Air Development Squadron One members to ensure that our files on their activities are complete.  As you can imagine, many of these service members are older, and we want to ensure our records are correct before they… how can I put this delicately… pass on,” Lina paused for a second, then continued.

”You’ll recall the FOGBANK issue from a few years back, where Oak Ridge lost the ability to make the interstage material for US nuclear warheads due to insufficient documentation and the retirement of nearly all staff members who had expertise in its production?  NATO wants to make sure that doesn’t happen to our anti-submarine warfare tactics, techniques, doctrine, and procedures.  Especially given the re-emerging threat.”  Lina didn’t know if Spencer would have any clue what FOGBANK was, but it didn’t really matter.  At the very least, it was the kind of thing the Navy LT could Google and then feel better about the role he was about to play in today’s activities.

”What we need from you is act as counter-surveillance while we meet and interview a member of ADS-One today.  I believe the NCIS mission is to investigate and defeat criminal, terrorist, and foreign intelligence threats to the United States Navy and Marine Corp, yes?  It’s the later that NATO is concerned about; the Foreign Intelligence threat.  That Lieutenant, is the reason Commander Vest in the Office of Naval Intelligence asked you to accompany us,” Lina said matter of factly.

”Personally I don’t anticipate any problems, but we are very grateful for your assistance,” Lina said, shifting from officer briefing voice to a more genuine tone.  ”After we are done, I’d love to know what restaurants you’d recommend.”  Kowalska wasn’t flirting, but she her demeanor had certainly shifted toward friendly.

Lina secured his black duffle in the back of the Ford Explorer as Spenser chewed on the information he had been provided.

”Here is the address we have on file for our first interviewee,” Lina said, returning to business after stowing her gear.  Poles being Poles, she transposed two numbers in the address she gave them however, as she was convinced that grand conspires were alway afoot and that few people could truly be trusted.  Lina did a quick comms correlation, getting Spencer and his partner's cell and radio information.  She asked Spencer and Gutierrez to follow behind them en route to the first location, as if they were tailing a suspect, and to pass them and pull up a full block ahead after she and Seb stopped outside of the house.  From there they should pull counter-surveillance, and alert Lina and Seb if they noticed anything suspicious.  If they followed these directions, they would end up at the correct location, even with the transposed numbers.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:10, Sat 06 Feb 2016.

The news takes the wind right out of James' proverbial sails. This is statistically impossible, he thinks, in what barely qualifies as hyperbole. Foul play, absolutely no doubt.

"Tell us more about this stroke. Where was Captain Albinson and what was he doing when it happened?"

He holds up his hand to preempt the solicited response. "Those things working?" he asks, pointing to an antiquated video camera mounted in the junction near the nurses station. It looked at least 15 years old, definitely not digital. "We'll need to see the tapes, of course."

---

James waits for Dr. Sassy's response to his colleague's querry, then follows up one of his own. "I know that it's still probably too soon to say, but what type of impairment are you anticipating, Doctor?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:09, Sat 06 Feb 2016.

"I'll drive" Durand says to Kowalska after he has placed his own gear in the Ford. Amongst the various bags placed in the back of the vehicle are two matching hardshell black cases, of the sort that would be familiar to road warriors in Europe of North America. The contents of the cases would be less familiar to the average corporate executive however, for inside each case a sits a submachine gun together with ammunition and various peripherals, all snugly cushioned in foam.

Once he's in the vehicle and the doors are closed the Frenchman reaches over into a duffle bag in the seat behind him, extracts a Glock 21 pistol in a kydex holster, attaching it to his belt then adjusting his shirt, already worn outside his trousers anyway, so that it conceals the pistol.

"Americans and their automatics." he mutters with a faint tut of Gallic disapproval as he looks over the Explorer, familiarising himself with it, tinkering with the air conditioning before he looks over at the Pole. "We all set?" Assuming they are good to go he puts the SUV into drive, sets off towards the address that they have been given. Other than their new friends from NCIS he's not expecting any sort of a tail, but he checks his mirrors every now and then for anyway as a matter of course.

"It's so they can hold the steering wheel in one hand and their McDonalds in the other," Lina says without a trace of sarcasm.  She had been told such things growing up in Communist Poland and unlike much of the disinformation and propaganda of the times, she had no reason to doubt this particular 'fact'.



"Ready if you are," Kowalska said, pulling our her tablet from the daypack.  She typed out a few quick messages, letting HQ, Vest, Amber, and the other Grey Cell members know that she and Sebastian were on the ground, had made contact with the NCIS team, and were now en route to the address they had for Paddon.  She pulled up a nearby address on Google maps and panned over to their target location, giving the terrain and urban features a quick once over.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:16, Sat 06 Feb 2016.

Homestead, 1348 hrs local:

"Give me just a moment, please."  The charge nurse steps behind the reception desk and flips pages on a clipboard.  "We serve breakfast in the 'mess deck' at 0800."  Her airquotes are evident despite her hands' preoccupation with the clipboard, as is her slight emphasis on the "zero" in the military time.  "Captain Albinson ate, and there's no note that he was off his routine.  He's not listed as being on any activity rosters today, so he most likely returned to his room after that.  The 0930 bed check has him listed as there - he was mobile and reading.  At 1022, one of his neighbors, Staff Sergeant Fischer, hit the call button and reported hearing Captain Albinson cry out and fall."  She looks up.  "From there, it's pretty much SOP.  The floor nurse found the captain unconscious between his chair and his bed, observed stroke-like symptoms, and issued the alert.  The ambulance arrived at 1034, packaged him, and transported him to Mercy."

At James' polite/professional insistence, several other members of the facility staff corroborate the official account.  The only other details of note are fragments of Albinson's medical history, teased out by leading statements.  The captain has leukemia, which first manifested in 2008 and has been in remission for about a year.  He's also being observed for possible early-stage Parkinson's.

Staff Sergeant Fischer has a couple more items to add.  "I heard him say 'who the fuck?' right before he fell," he rasps.  He rolls his head toward Hannah and grins widely.  "Pardon my language, miss, but it's inoperable at this stage.  Anyway.  I heard that, then a couple of meaty thumps and about thirty seconds of flailing.  He was makin' some muffled noises through all that, and I heard him hit the floor."

He squints at Hannah.  "Somethin' familiar about you, miss.  You related to him?  Granddaughter?"

---

Key West, 1901 hrs local:

Gutierrez cracks an expression that's probably as close as his perpetual weightlifter's scowl can get to a smile.  "Thanks, Seb.  It gives the brass fits but the pattern helps keep the gun from printing."  He glances over at Lieutenant Spencer and Karolina.  "This ain't a bad station.  About the worst we usually get is na-val a-vi-a-tors," he drawls the job title out into an epithet, "getting themselves in trouble when they're on TAD down here.  And the occasional false alarm about Cuban espionage, but they're our friends now, ya know?"  His face crinkles into what's probably his best attempt at a cynical smile shared between NCO insiders.

A few meters away, Spencer nods at Karolina's explanation.  "Thank you for the brief, ma'am.  I'm afraid this was a snap-kick tasking.  All the commander told me was to expect visiting NATO, ah, officers," the pause is probably a mental substitution for "spies," "and to make sure you got around town all right."  His expression is a guileless placidity that's either well-practiced or sadly genuine.

With a quick shuffle of bags and precautions, the small convoy is in motion.  Paddon's residence is about 30 minutes from the base, a quick hop down US Highway 1 to the island of Key West proper.  No surveillance or tail is in evidence during the trip.

Stump Lane is a narrow one-way, one-land street, shaded on the left by a three-story wall of tropical vegetation growing over a row of whitewashed backyard fences.  On-street parking, aggressively marked RESIDENTIAL ONLY, takes up the right side of the pavement.  Paddon's home is typical for the block, a two-story white structure with dark blue shutters and a narrow red brick sidewalk.

Karolina's phone buzzes once: a text from Spencer indicates that the NCIS team is in position at the White Street end of the lane.  Sébastien eases the Explorer into one of the two spaces in front of the house, behind a canary-yellow Triumph TR4.

The two agents exit the rental vehicle and mount the three steps to the low porch.  An immense black cat with white tuxedo markings abandons its stalk of an anole to vault atop a tattered wicker couch.  It stares wide-eyed at the agents before emitting a friendly chirrup.

A plaque affixed beside the front door reads Marmell Consulting, LLC • Appointment Only, though this is the address on file for Paddon.  Glancing around the front of the house, Sébastien detects a faint sheen to the windows, indicating that they're equipped with anti-hurricane - or anti-burglar - film.  The small boxes of intrusion sensors are affixed to each frame, and a discreet security camera is angled to catch not only the door but most of the blind spots.

---

Miami, 1551 hrs local:

Doctor Adessi narrows her eyes and bobs her head once, sharply, to Michael's question.  "Yes.  There was."  She glances down the corridor.  "This is not the sort of conversation we should have in the hall."

With that, she turns and strides away, clearly assuming the presumptive FBI agents are following her without further questions.  After two turns, the group arrives at a small conference room.  Adessi flicks her hands in a be seated gesture and plops herself into a chair.

"In response to your question, Agent Choi, the stroke was on the brain's right hemisphere.  I expect significant paralysis to Mister Albinson's left side, including - if he regains consciousness - speech impairment.  All of this will require extensive therapy to overcome.  He'll also suffer diminished vision.  There may be loss of short-term memory.  Behaviorally, he'll be emotionally labile and easily distracted."

She pivots to face Michael.  "There were complications during the thrombectomy.  The clot was," she pauses, frowning in frustration, "aggressively lodged.  There was some tearing of blood vessels during removal which exacerbated the primary effects.  When extracted, the clot contained a," she almost spits the next words, "foreign body around which the clot material had accreted.  I've sent it to the pathology lab for analysis."

"Bonjour monsieur le chat." Turning away from the cat, Durand speaks softly to Kowalska as the two of them step on to the porch. "We're on camera. Whoever fitted it looks like they knew what they were doing. And the windows have anti burglar film and intrusion sensors. It looks like this guy takes his home security seriously. Maybe a little too seriously for an average senior citizen?" The Frenchman nods towards the door. "After you."
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 18:39, Sat 06 Feb 2016.

After packing up his makeshift work station, Dacovetti tosses his trash away and follows the doctor and the others to the conference room, happy to take a seat in an actual seat, not the poor imitation of the form that was occupying space in the waiting room.

"Would you please let your pathology lab know that I will be down there in a few minutes to observe what they have," Michael returns to the doctor, making sure to highlight the observe part of the statement.  Without a warrant, they probably won't be walking out of here with the sample, but he wants to know what it is.  The medical talk is going to be over his head anyway.  "And then point me in the direction of pathology," he adds.

Lina nods slightly as they march up the steps.  "It's not paranoia if they are really out to get you," she said as he raised her left arm to knock.  She mentally pictured an old man with an oxygen tank and a shotgun sitting on a couch on the other side of the door.  Lina instinctively did a half-side step to the right, putting most of her body behind the door frame, as she rapped thrice on the door.

Key West, 1902 hrs local:

The cat considers Karolina for a moment before hopping down from the couch and rubbing against Sébastien's leg, purring happily.

After a delay of perhaps twenty seconds, a cleverly-concealed outdoor speaker - it's in a potted plant on the far side of the couch - crackles with an elderly male voice.  "Honey, I see you're all posted up there.  I'd appreciate if you'd just hold on a minute before kicking the door.  I'm on the way but I ain't as fast as I used to be."

The agents hear slowly-approaching footsteps, then the sound of two deadbolts being drawn back.  The door opens to reveal a wiry, gnomish figure clad in cut-off BDU shorts and an oil-stained gray t-shirt.  His frame, never tall to begin with, is stooped with age, putting his bald head several inches below Karolina's.  A pair of glasses with side eye-shields dangles from a strap around his neck.  Both agents note that his right hand is out of sight behind the doorframe.

He looks down at the cat's attention to Sébastien's leg for several seconds before transferring his gaze to Karolina.  "Everyone looks young to me these days but I think you're too old to be sellin' Girl Scout cookies.  What can I do for ya, ma'am?"

"Sorry to disturb you," Lina said, keeping her hands visible as she spoke.  "We are looking for retired Senior Chief Petty Officer Robert Paddon.  We are part of a NATO Task Force that very much needs his assistance."  Karolina hoped that she was speaking with Paddon, but on the off chance she wasn't, there she thought it best not to provide too many details here at the doorway.

"We certainly understand if you'd like to see our IDs," Kowalska added, though she kept her hands still and in plain sight.

Under the table, Caradoc bumps Michael's knee and nods emphatically when the airman glances at him.  He's keeping his mouth shut lest his accent dispel the assumption that all four of the quartet are FBI agents, but he's practically vibrating with his interest in the "foreign body."

Key West, 1913 hrs local:

The man scrutinizes Karolina for a few seconds, then looks down at the cat again.  "Well," he says, "Ricky, if you've got no gripes?"

The cat yowls emphatically and abandons Sébastien's leg to twine around the man's ankles.  "Robert Paddon at your service," the man states.  "If you don't mind, I'll need to see those iDs now."  He slips on his reading glasses, then collects the offered ID folders in his left hand, still keeping his right behind the door.  It's not just a pro forma sweep without seeing - he actually checks the photos, glancing up at the agents' faces.  "Have a seat," he says, indicating the wicker couch.  "It's a nice evening.  I'll be right out."

Paddon disappears into the house and the deadbolts engage again.  There's a wait just long enough to leave the agents listening for a door closing or a car starting before he reappears.  "Sorry about that," he says without a hint of apology in his voice.  "I needed to make a phone call.  You checked out faster than usual.  Come on in."

Inside, the house is cool and dry, smelling faintly of metal, oil, and solvent.  Ricky darts through the door at the last moment and hunkers down over a food bowl in the kitchen, purring thunderously.  Paddon follows the cat at his own pace and opens the refrigerator, extracting a glass pitcher full of a faintly green substance.  "Limeade?" he asks, pouring himself a tall glass.  He settles into one of the four chairs around the small table.  "So what does a counter-terrorism task force need with a retarded CPO?" he asks.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:04, Mon 08 Feb 2016.