“So that in the nature of man,
we find three principal causes of quarrel:

First, Competition;
Secondly, Dissidence;
Thirdly, Glory.

The first, maketh men invade for Gain;
the second, for Safety;
and the third, for Reputation.

The first use Violence, to make themselves Masters of other men's persons, wives, children and cattle;
the second, to defend them;
the third, for trifles, as a word, a smile, a different opinion, and any other sign of undervalue, either direct in their Persons, or by reflexion in their Kindred, their Friends, their Nation, their Profession, or their Name.”

-Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (1651)

---

Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak
Somewhere in the town
Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak
So don't you be around

-Thin Lizzy, Jailbreak (1976)

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This message was last edited by the GM at 00:15, Sat 21 Sept 2019.

July 9th, 2030
1300 hours
85F, 80% humidity
Wind 9mph out of the south


The sun rises into a clear sky, the first in nearly a week. Arkansas' been ungently handled by the tailings of yet another Gulf hurricane landfall- like others since late 2027, unnamed except in its victims' bitter curses.  A week of heavy rains and high winds temporarily forgotten in the sense of relief and hope that comes with an unoccluded sunrise. Memories of the storm are nearly everywhere, though- in the moisture-darkened, freshly-chuckholed asphalt, the heavy green smell of rain-dampened vegetation, the fallen limbs and old telephone poles that occasionally intrude on the road.

It's been about two weeks since STAR Team Sierra (STS or just Sierra, for short) was assembled- a week of briefings, PT, gathering supplies, zeroing and test firing weapons, checking coms, and practicing immediate action drills (both mounted and dismounted). The unexpected storm- these days, in the absence of radar and weather satellites, most storms are unexpected, the only reliable warning a stark drop in barometric pressure not long before arrival- delayed departure by about a week, giving the team plenty of down time in soggy Little Rock. The first leg of the journey, from the state capital south to Pine Bluff, was routine and uneventful, the interstitial between cities relatively stable and secure.

The three-vehicle ASDF convoy rolls out of Pine Bluff shortly before noon. State Route 65 stretches out, wide open, in front of them. For the time being, the convoy has the road all to itself. The only other vehicles visible are long-abandoned, a pathetic honor guard of derelict cars and trucks, stripped and resting forlorn on either shoulder. Coincidentally, VOAR's Hot Lunch show plays Rhianna's 2007 hit, Shut Up and Drive.

Just outside the city, State Route 65 shadows the line of the Arkansas River, both bearing roughly southeast until they almost reach the convergence of the Arkansas-Mississippi-Louisiana state lines. The river is bordered by mile after mile of farm fields, some fallow, others active. In the latter, large swaths of crops pressed down by the past few days of unrelenting rain. A few of the fields are alive with motion, dotted with swarming workers- like pent-up ants emerging after the rain- bent at the waste trying to rescue spinach, beans, alfalfa.

There's an irony there, one not lost on most of the team. Many of these fields used to be worked by migrant farm hands, refugees fleeing abject poverty and gang violence in Mexico and Central America,  doing jobs that very few native-born American citizens would deign to accept, often for pennies on the dollar. Today, these fields are being worked by many of those same citizens, now refugees themselves, some originally from out of state,  others from the cities, their store shelves long-bare. Lawyers, accountants, and regional managers, now tending crops for room and board, a new generation of Oakies, modern-day Ma and Pa Joads. Some of them probably now call the refugee camp set up around the Arkansas DOT District 2 facility just east of the city home; others have been taken in by sympathetic locals, farm families with soft hearts and/or an urgent need for labor.

The convoy rolls through several small towns, some barely dots on the map- Glenlake, Linwood, Moscow (some wit had spray-painted "Please don't nuke" in white below the town marker), and Tamo, until reaching their first planned stop, the farming village of Grady, pre-war population: 550. It's grown (refugees) and shrunk (dysentery) since the war began. At the moment, the population has achieved a sort of equilibrium, hovering around 550 souls.

The convoy exits on Business 65, then turns south on to Main, before pulling into the parking lot of the Grady Police Station- a white building the shape and size of a modest single-family home. An officer, middle-aged, somehow still carrying a bit of paunch, steps out to meet the visitors.

"Welcome to Grady.  Name's Franks. How was the ride down? Y'all get hit pretty hard up north too?"

Captain Franks is a chatty fellow. He probably hasn't had a whole lot to do around town for the past week or so.

"We don't get too many visitors down from the state capital, these days."

The members of STAR Team Sierra dismount, stretch their legs, starting developing a pit-stop routine. Kabua unloads a banker's box labelled 'Grady' from Ace Hardware's cargo bed and carries it towards the station.

"Thank ya kindly, soldier. I got a few letters for y'all inside. I can offer y'all some coffee- not the real thing, o' course- chicory. It's not half bad, though."

Another officer, a younger man, mid-to-late twenties maybe, short, prematurely thinning hair, wearing thick prescription lenses set in over-sized frames, emerges from the station. His nametag reads 'LT. OFFUTT'.

"Hey, y'all." he says, by way of greeting. His glasses make his eyes appear cartoonishly large. "What else ya got in that truck there?" he asks, hooking his thumbs in his duty belt.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:59, Thu 26 July 2018.

Lauren Cao had paused for a moment after Razorback came to a halt in the parking lot of Grady Police Station, let eyes that were hidden behind the polarized lenses of her Wiley X Valor ballistic sunglasses slowly move over the lot, looking for anything that appeared out of the ordinary.

All clear the Air Force Captain decided after a moment. Which made it Scott Guillory's show. The civil side of the mission was his responsibility, so he'd take the lead. Lauren was cool with that. "OK, let's take the chance to stretch our legs." she announced to the other members of the JLTV's crew, hitting the quick release on her five point harness as she did so. "But stay in the vicinity and at least one of us stays with the vehicle at all times." They'd covered that during their drills, everyone knew what they were doing but this was their first deployment together - her first deployment since she'd volunteered for this assignment - so she wasn't taking any chances, although  she was more concerned about theft from the vehicle - the contents of her own ruck would likely fetch a good price in barter, and then there was the bail out gear which was designed to be grabbed in a rush - than theft of the actual vehicle itself.

Opening her armored door, Lauren stepped down onto the blacktop, felt both the heat and humidity immediately as she put her own words into practice, taking up a position next to the door in what she thought was a non threatening stance, her carbine slung over her back - no way was she leaving it in the JLTV - her feet slightly apart and her arms folded in front of her. She was wearing her body armor, but was bareheaded, her helmet secured to a MOLLE loop on her vest.

Happy to stand there for the moment, Lauren called over to her driver while Kabua started unloading the mail. She'd leave Anderson to stretch his legs if he wanted. "Do you know anyone here, Skillins?" Anderson, she knew, like her wasn't an Arkansas native, but Skillins was, might know people in the town.

As she spoke her eyes, still hidden behind her sunglasses, flicked to the younger cop, her head bobbing in reply when he called out, smiling briefly though his question went unanswered. She'd let the Civil Affairs people engage with the locals.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:45, Mon 16 July 2018.

Duane Skillins looks over at his new CO. Better her than a PO*, he muses. The ex-con still can't quite believe that he's in the army now.

"Heh. This place? Naw. I mean, no Ma'am. Down the road a bit, maybe." He doesn't elaborate. Duane won't admit it, but he's a bit embarrassed about his somewhat checkered past.

Remaining seated, the Arkansas country boy does his best to stretch, cracking his knuckles, pushing against the wheel as he arches his back. "Hey Sergeant," he calls up to Razorback's gunner, "I'm gonna stay here, if you wanna take a look around."

*Parole Officer

-
This message was last edited by the player at 15:54, Tue 17 July 2018.

Scott Guillory also pauses for a moment as the convoy eases to a halt.  He leans forward and checks Bourbon Street's wing mirror until he sees Captain Cao's head swing toward him and give him a slight nod.  That puts him on point for engaging with the locals, so he pops his door and steps down from the Suburban.  He leaves his rifle clamped into the rack between the front seats and pulls apart the Velcro of his plate carrier's left cummerbund with a loud rip.  He pulls the plate carrier over his head and drops it into his seat, then tugs at his sweat-soaked shirt in a futile attempt to diffuse some of the moisture.  "Okay, guys, yellow zone protocol," he says, sticking his head back into the vehicle.  "Mike, stay with the G-ride, please."

"Scott Guillory," he introduces himself, shaking Captain Franks' hand.  "We rode it out all right.  Lots of trees down but that was kinda predictable.  The ground was already saturated from the last round of storms.  We pulled a couple of big ones out of Sixty-Five with the truck."  He flicks a hand toward Ace Hardware.

"We're not just a mail run," he goes on in response to Franks' implied question.  "You got the memo on the STAR program?"  When the older man (not that much older, Scott's inner imp whispers) nods in affirmation, he continues.  "We're STAR Sierra.  Captain Cao," he indicates the ASDF officer, "and I are running the show.  There's some places down south that haven't checked in since the storm, so we're headed there to get eyes on.  Figure we might be able to do some good along the way, even though we're from the government."  He grins lopsidedly.

"Tell ya what.  Let's go back in the shade and you can tell us what you're dealing with here.  If you've got anything we can handle, we'll see what we can do, and if it's beyond our capabilities, we'll call it in to the SEOC for a follow-on mission."  He catches Cao's eye and tilts his head toward the local captain and the station behind him.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:10, Tue 17 July 2018.

Tori stepped out of the driver's seat and left the door open.  A few feet away from Bourbon Street, she stretched, arching her back before moving right ear over right should, then left ear over left shoulder as he stretched her neck.  Rios still had her sunglasses on and had no intention of taking them off.  Instead, she watched as Guillory moved to yap with the local Police Chief.  Tori studied Franks carefully from behind her shades.  She looked over his weapon, how it was holstered and what else the Captain carried.  Rios noted his mannerisms, his stance, and how he carried himself.  Her gaze next shifted to the Lieutenant Offutt.

Anderson hadn't quite made up his mind about Skillins.  Was he a dumbass redneck just sucking at the teat of the Arkansas State Guard, or was Duane just another flawed man, trying to make it through World War 3?  With a name like Skillins, Cole was inclined to believe the former.

"Thanks.  Once Kabua's back, I'll see if they have some squirrel jerky to trade or something," Cole said in a flat-affect tone.

Saul releases a soft sigh of relief at the prospect of moving.  At least a little.  He pops open the heavy door of the armored SUV and slowly uses his hands to move his right leg out of the passenger compartment and to the ground.  Muscles cry in protest at the movement after their time in the vehicle.  His hip doesn't like being immobile for too long.  It doesn't really like moving for too long, either, which does can put the former Marine and Cop in quite a pickle.

Another few grunts and Saul leverages himself out of the seat and into the wet heat of Arkansas in the summer.  He's been walking streets meaner than this one for over 30 years, and they still haven't managed to build body armor that breathes.  Maybe that's the trade off you need to make sure you're still breathing, he muses.  A weathered hand rubs and even more weathered bald scalp, and Saul smiles widely, leans heavily on his walking stick and takes a few tentative steps to push blood back into the hip joint a bullet so helpfully rearranged for him a few years ago.

The smile isn't just for the people Saul knows are watching.  It's also because he genuinely happy that the world down here is still operating at level that approaches functional.  At least what passes for functional in 2030.

Instead of walking towards the law enforcement and the upcoming pow-wow between Guillory and Franks, Saul heads away from the vehicles, not far, just to the shade of a tree that's fronting the road.  The view isn't bad, if you like small towns, and the shade relieves some of the heat already building in his ceramic cocoon.  He wants a lay-of-the-land, to watch the people watching him and to gauge the mood of the community.  Another wide grin crosses his face as he leans against the tree.  Smiles tend to draw people, and people like to talk about themselves the most.  Saul is more than willing to listen.

Let's see what the day brings.

"Well, that's mighty kind of you Mr. Guillory, but I don't rightly know. We haven't been able to get out much at all these past few day, on account of the storm."

Captain Franks leads Guillory (and any other Sierras who'd care to join them) inside. The interior of the station is just as unassuming as the exterior, a paragon of homey functionality creeping slowly towards decrepitude. Franks pours himself a cup of chicory coffee, holds the pot up in a non-verbal reiteration of his earlier offer.

Franks takes a sip from his novelty mug- 'Grumpy Old Man', it reads. "It's pretty good," he reports enthusiastically. Maybe he owns stock. The neighborly captain waves Kabua towards a desk at the back of the room. "Just set it over there, son. Thanks. Here's Grady's little contribution," he says, handing the returning Kabua a small stack of letters rubber-banded together. Turning back to Guillory, he squints, trying to catch his earlier train of thought. "Oh, yes. Old Mrs. Elkins came by here a couple of mornings ago, pretty upset- have to be to go outside in that mess. Said her son didn't come home from work the night before. He's a guard down at the Varner Unit, 'bout 6 miles south o' here, just off the 65. I told her he probably just got held up by the weather. I mean, it was really comin' down, at that point. I drove her home, but I haven't had a chance to follow up on it. I'm sure he'll be back soon, now that the sun is shinin'- might be back already, for all I know."

The captain tops off his cup, sits on the edge of a desk, rubs the back of his neck.

"Other than that, I'm sure there're a few leaky roofs, busted windows, that sort of thing. I don't know if that's what you meant, but I'm going to make my afternoon rounds here shortly, so if y'all are going to stay in town for a bit, I can ask around. If you're not, though... well, we're pretty good at takin' care of ourselves around here."

Kabua returns from the station with the outgoing mail, Lt. Offut tagging along. The Lieutenant stops at Razorback. "This some kinda tank or something?" he asks no one in particular, indicating the J-LTV with a bug-eyed look.

From the shade of a tree just across the road from the station, Saul looks to his left (south). He observes man up on his roof, perhaps searching for the source of a leak. The man removes his hat, wipes his brow, notices that he's being watched. He gives Saul a curt wave, then gets back to the task at hand. Looking to his right, Saul sees a woman, a child on either side, holding her hands, walking east down Business 65. He doesn't remember passing them on the way into town.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:36, Sun 23 Dec 2018.

”You got it boss.” Mike Carswell acknowledged Scott Guillory with a brief nod of his head a thumbs up as he stepped out of the seat that he had occupied in the rear of Suburban. The team medic had spent most of the journey with his window rolled down, air con being a bitch on fuel consumption, a tanned arm holding the door rim as he’d watched the terrain outside alternate between fields and small towns. Once or twice he’d thought that some of the people in the fields had waved to the passing convoy. Maybe the workers had seen the JLTV, figured that it represented the protection of the State Government, maybe they didn’t know who they’d been waving to. Maybe they hadn’t even been waving at all, had just been trying to shade themselves from the hot southern Sun. Carswell had waved back anyway.

The medic took a slow circuit around the vehicle. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, his eyes hidden behind his Oakleys. He’d left his OD fatigue jacket was in the Suburban, the one with the MEMS patch on the shoulder that was the only thing that might have marked him out as a medic, was wearing a black tee shirt under his plate carrier vest.

His circuit complete, Mike took up a position leaning against the SUV’s hood, his stance intentionally casual, one booted foot resting on the rim of the tire, his nomex gloved hands slipping inside his vest, his eyes looking about, following Guillory and Cao as they disappeared into the police station with the Captain, what was his name, Frank, Franks?

Franks, that was it. There wasn’t anything about the dude that made Mike’s internal threat radar start buzzing but the paunch had caught his attention. It wasn’t like he was the only overweight dude in Arkansas but it was noteworthy enough to make Carswell wonder if the dude was using his position to skim from the locals. Or maybe the medic was just being cynical.  Shrugging inwardly, the medic leaned back against the SUV, felt the Sun on his face and bare arms as he watched Kabua and the other cop walk over to the JLTV.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:47, Tue 17 July 2018.

Still standing with her arms folded, Cao acknowledged Skillins' reply with a brief nod then turned her attention back to the parking lot, watching as Guillory walked forward and made his manners with the local cop. When Scott looked over in her direction and inclined his head in the direction of the police station the Air Force Captain nodded.

"Looks like we're having a pow wow." She remarked to Cole Anderson. "I'll go see what Captain Grady has to say for himself. You're in charge here, Sergeant Anderson. If you want to engage with the locals or make any trades go ahead, there's no need to check with me." It was stating the obvious. Anderson had the rank and the experience, including combat experience – in fact both him and Kabua probably had more combat experience than her, certainly against the Russians. Still, Allianza bullets were just as lethal as Russian ones.

That was then though, this is now. Their mission here isn’t to kill people, it was to help people. The dark haired officer made her way across the lot, felt the humidity hanging in the air, particularly unpleasant given that the interior of the JLTV had been pleasantly cool, their air con switched on to try and protect the vehicle’s working electronics.

Stepping into the office behind Scott, Lauren removed her sunglasses and clipped them to the front of her plate carrier vest before offering her hand to Franks. ”Good afternoon, Captain Franks. I’m Captain Lauren Cao, United States Air Force, presently attached to the Arkansas State Guard.” She smiled. ”And coffee would be great, thanks.”

When Franks handed the coffee to her Lauren smiled again, took the mug in her hands and then stepped to one side, glancing around the room for a moment before turning her attention to Franks, taking the odd sip of coffee as she listened to him describe some of the challenges that the town was facing. She'd wait for Guillroy to open things from their side rather than jump in though.

Tori made her mental notes about Offutt, then decided to engage him.

"Happy to give you a tour of our little convoy, one Lieutenant to another," Rios said with a smile as she approached him.  "I'm Victoria Rios, pleased to meet you Lieutenant Offutt... did I say that correctly?" Tori asked by way of introduction.

"As you can see, this little tank is the heart of our convoy.  We'll, it's not really a tank, more like an armored car.  I'm not sure the gun up there works anymore, but the armor will stop pistol rounds, so that's something.  These days, you take what you can get."  Special Agent Rios patted the side of Razorback as she went by.

"The cargo truck is the most impressive vehicle really," she said as she motioned to it.  "Let's take a walk and I'll show you the back of it." 

"So tell me Lieutenant, how long have you been with Grady PD?" Tori asked, making conversation on their way to the backside of the cargo vehicle.  Follow on questions included 'how do you like it,' and 'how many officers do you have on the force.'

"Alright, reach up and pull yourself up so you can see into the back of the trailer.  You will have to use both hands, but it's worth it.  Some clever bastard put a moonshine still back there and a hot water heater like you use for taking a shower," Tori said, channeling a bit of feigned excitement.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:14, Tue 17 July 2018.

Cole manned the turret and though of more subtle digs he might take at redneck that Captain Cao had left him with.  As the pondered sick burns based on cousin love, he watched the various members of the civil affairs mission go about their respective 'win friends and influence people' activities.  As Tori moved to corral the local that Cole had mentally labeled 'Coke Bottles', Anderson snorted, then leaned down.

"Hey, D-dot-Skill... Check out this guy.  Looks like he's never seen a military vehicle before," Cole said, leaning down and forward to speak directly to Duane.  Anderson's nick name for Duane was based on an old brand of RAM that Anderson used to build all his own PCs.  It was more of a complement than he'd naturally be inclined to give Skillins, but Cole was feeling generous.  Skillins was at least competent behind the wheel and under the hood.

https://www.gskill.com/en/
This message was last edited by the player at 00:01, Wed 18 July 2018.

Scott nods, pulls a notepad out of a cargo pocket, jots notes with a pencil stub as Franks talks.  Tries not to think about the amount of industry required to produce something as simple as a No.2 pencil.  "You got a first name and description for the Elkins kid?  We'll do a wellness check when we roll through there and call it in to you."

He takes a sip of the ersatz coffee and considers Franks' statement.  "Yeah, everyone's gotten pretty self-sufficient the last couple of years."  Or gotten dead, goes his internal subtext.  "What do you think?" he asks, turning to Cao.  "We're due for a lunch break anyway.  After that, if Captain Franks is on board, maybe have a couple of our people ride along with him on rounds while the rest of us do a storm damage assessment and top off the vehicles?"

Duane frowned at the nickname. He didn't get the reference, but the delivery didn't sound like it was intended to provoke, so he let it slide. Besides, Anderson's assessment of the dippy police lieutenant seemed to closely match his own. Might as well try and relate to his teammate.

"Yeah, I think he's a couple Bud Lights short of a six-pack."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:35, Wed 18 July 2018.

"Thank heavens we've got Five-O along to deal with these civilians.  Man, I'm not sure I could do it.  Hell, it was all I could do not to open up with the fifty and blow the shit out of Moscow as we drove through," Cole said with a hearty and sinister laugh.  "I mean, who names some bum fuck town in Arkansas, Moscow anyway?" Anderson asked.  "Only Russians, that's who," he added, in response to his own question.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 02:43, Wed 18 July 2018.

"Yes, ma'am." Offutt answers, blushing beet red.


"Ah. Looks kinda like a tank." the Lieutenant says a little defensively, perhaps trying to save face.


Offut follows her to the cargo truck, patting the J-LTV in the same spot as Rios as he passes by.


"Uh, 'bout two years, I think." Offut replies. "I like it a lot. I always wanted to be a policeman. I like helpin' people. It's just me an' Franks now. Ruiz and Jonesy were in the National Guard; they had to go off to some other country to fight the Russians or the Chi-nese or something.  Bremmer got sick and shot himself. He's dead."


Rios moves around behind Offutt as he hoists himself up. She's been surreptitiously studying him the entire time. Although Lieutenant Offutt is clearly some kind of simpleton, Rios' finely-tuned cop's gut detects nothing nefarious about him.

"Whoa! You folks have a lot of stuff in here." Offutt exclaims, genuinely impressed. He surveys the contents of the trailer carefully. After nearly a minute of silent perusal, he reveals the object of his search. "Y'all got any candy?"

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This message was last edited by the GM at 05:21, Wed 18 July 2018.

"Sure. Bob Elkins- Robert, actually, but he goes by Bob. He's around 35, I think. Little taller than you. Brown hair, bald on top, mustache. Nice guy, quiet. I can't imagine him workin' at a prison, but he's been there at least 10 years. Kept him outta the war!"

When Guillory expresses interest in a tour of the town, Franks welcomes the company.

"I'd be happy to take one or two o' you along on my afternoon rounds. It's kinda cramped in the back, though, so, if you'd rather, you can follow me in your vehicle. The rest of your people are welcome to stay here with Offutt."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:25, Thu 19 July 2018.

”Hold on a second, Captain.” Lauren said. ”The Varner Unit is a prison?” The look of surprise on her face was evident. When the local cop had first mentioned that the missing man was a guard the Air Force officer – and out of Stater - had presumed he was protecting some sort of local community asset. Like a farm or something.

”How many prisoners are down there? And how many Guards?” And why didn’t it occur to anyone up in Little Rock to mention it before we set out? ”How secure is it? You have any problems with them before?”

Tori smiled and relaxed a bit when Offutt asked about candy.  She hadn't seen any prison tattoos on his hands or neck when he hauled himself into the trailer.  And being a relatively new officer lined up with one of her two suspicions about the Grady Police Lieutenant... suspicions borne of knowing the strict vision acuity limits placed on pre-war Arkansas law enforcement officers.

"If we've got anything, our cook would know where it's kept.  He's the guy that took the mail in.  Let's go find him.  In the mean time, what you can tell me about the Supermax Prison down the road?  Is it still operating?" Tori asked, as she escorted Lt. Offutt back to find Kabua.

Franks returns Cao's look of surprise. "Yes, ma'am. There's actually two prisons- the Varner Unit and the Cummins Unit." He pauses a second to let that sink in. "I don't exactly know how many prisoners each one's holdin' these days, but I'd reckon it's around 250 between 'em, with about two-dozen or so full-time guards. A lot of the staff lives right outside the Cummins Unit- got their own little neighborhood just north of the prison."

The Captain finishes his cup of chicory coffee, sets the mug down with a satisfied sigh.

"Most of the non-violent offenders were released a while back, although I heard some of 'em stayed on to help run the place. What's left inside is the worst of the worst. We haven't really had any trouble with them here in Grady, though. We keep a lookout on top of one of the grain silos at the east end of town, just in case. Had to bring him down, though, on a account of the storm, but someone's back up there now."

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This message was last edited by the GM at 01:43, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

Offutt followed Rios like a duckling, walking right behind her instead of beside her. The Lieutenant was clearly relishing the attention, especially attention paid by an attractive woman. "The prison? Yeah. Gotta put the bad guys somewhere. Ya can't just kill 'em all, right?" He laughed awkwardly at his own little stab at humor.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 04:24, Thu 19 July 2018.

"Yes, Ma'am," Jackson replied to Rios' query. "We got some saltwater taffy." Noting Offutt's eager grin, the young Marshallese-American leans in close to Rios and whispers, "It's for the kids."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:02, Thu 19 July 2018.

Carissa walks easily up behind her father, watching him watch the street.  Her foot falls are quiet, hands tucked into the top of her armored vest.  A blond pony-tail bounces out of the back of her black Armadillo Armor baseball hat.  She once punched a guy for suggesting that the rodeo armor hat must have been a gift from a boyfriend.  Like everyone else, she's left the longarm in the car.

"Hi girl," Saul says without turning around.  Carissa sighs inside.  Never could sneak up on the old man. "What do you see?"

At the question, Carissa takes a deep breath and lets it out slow between pursed lips.  Eyes hidden behind Oakley's sweep up and down the street.  "Civilization," she says after maybe ten seconds.  She's been answering the question, (the question, the one her sisters hated and Carissa secretly loved) since she was eight.

"Explain."  Saul still hasn't turned around.  Carissa moves up and stands next to the former Marine, tries to ignore the fact that he's rubbing his thigh more than usual.

"There's no trash, windows are intact, the streets are clean.  Home-skillet on the roof is fixing his problems, not just moving next door.  Mom and the two juniors are walking down the street without an armed escort.  Civilization," she pronounces.

Saul does turn at that, takes in his daughter, the Born to Ride patch on the front of her armor that probably refers to a Harley, but in her case refers to horses.  Just below the patch, her 6" folding Spider-Co is sitting snug in its holster.  "Good," he says, "any chance your remember seeing them on the way in?"  A tilt of the head indicates mom and the family.

Carissa's eyes scrunch up behind her frames.  "Nope," she admits, sounding a little guilty.  "What does it mean?"

"Probably nothing," Saul allows, "but maybe everything.  We're gonna stand here a minute and see."
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:02, Thu 19 July 2018.

Scott blinks, momentarily taken aback, and a look of chagrin flickers across his face.  "They didn't cover that in your briefing?"  He asks Cao.  He shakes his head and answers his own question.  "No, because they assumed everyone getting the briefing was prior cop or Arkansas Guard or at least used to read local news.  Shit.  I'm sorry, Captain."  His expression returns to its usual mild interest as he scribbles a note with the three chevrons in the margin that indicate action item, on fire.

"I'm familiar with the complex.  Put a bunch of guys in there in a past life," he drawls, deliberately loosening the reins on his accent and watching for Franks' reaction.  For Cao's benefit, he adds, "Varner has a supermax wing and the state's death row for men.  Cummins has a prison farm.  With the inmate population down to five hundred, the place is pretty much agriculturally self-sufficient these days."

There's a queasy feeling starting to build in the pit of his stomach that has nothing to do with lunch being late.

Xandra Murray stays in the truck's cab as long as she can, savoring the air conditioning, but when Chevelle heaves a long-suffering sigh and shuts down the engine to save fuel, she figures it's about to turn into a solar oven.  The two women swing their doors open simultaneously.  Xandra's hand flashes a challenge, which the younger woman accepts with a grin, then a groan as she loses the rock-paper-scissors throw.

Taking her cue from the members of the team who've already dismounted, Xandra leaves her rifle in the cab's rack and her helmet clipped to the oh-shit handle, but keeps her plate carrier on.  The weight is still unfamiliar but it's better-balanced than what used to be her usual business attire, so she eases down to the scorching asphalt with some semblance of grace and balance.  She leaves her door open to give Chevelle a bit of airflow through the cab and pads up behind the Nobles.  She's in Saul's peripheral vision, which means she's not really eavesdropping, so she stands there and takes in the oddity of a familial relationship that's not adversarial.

She turns in a slow circle, rolling her head from shoulder to shoulder and trying to see whatever it is Saul wants Carissa to notice.  She could ask but that seems like cheating.

”Not your fault Mr Guillory” Lauren replied with a tight smile. Had she known about it she would have been more wary as they rolled into the ville but they could park that one for now, take it offline to discuss later. Captain. Mister. This sort of work was new territory for Lauren. It would doubtless take time for her and Scott to get to know each other, get a feel for how the other rolled, push back the formality.

Still, that didn’t affect the news about the prison. The prison was the here and the now, today’s problem, not tomorrow's. And a dilemma of sorts for the dark haired Air Force officer. What did you do with violent offenders when society teetered on the brink? Execute them without due process? Where did that leave you in relation to them? Or let them live, perhaps drawing on a community’s resources, resources that might already be reduced to a bare minimum? As the saying went, that one was above Lauren’s pay grade. Thankfully. And at least this particular group seemed to be self sufficient.

”I think we should check and see if Mr Elkins has made it back and if not we should go take a look at the prison.” she said to Scott after a moment’s thought, her hands cradling the cooling mug. Her Air Force Academy ring was visible on the fourth finger of her right hand. ”Just to make sure that everything’s OK down there.” It was just a suggestion of course. This wasn’t a military matter. Yet. But if they were going she wanted to be on the road soon, make the most of the daylight.

As she spoke she tried to push thoughts of five hundred men, all of them violent offenders, breaking out of a prison out of her head.

Still leaning against the hood of the SUV, Mike watched the various comings and goings, his eyes hidden behind the polarized lenses of his Oakleys as the rest of the team dismounted, did their thing. Chances were Gabby was doing something similar right about now. The one positive thing about the hurricane from his point of view was that it had delayed both of their departures, giving them an extra couple of days together in Little Rock before they'd headed out in different directions.

The medic removed his ball cap, ran a gloved hand through dark hair before putting his cap back on, folding his arms again. It didn't look as though trouble was going to break out any time soon. And if it did the Air Force dude, Anderson, was on the Ma Deuce. But given how close they were to the Supermax Mike wasn't relaxing. Taking your eye off the ball could get you killed. So he continued to watch the people of Grady going about their business, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But then again, what was ordinary these days?

"Hey Kabua.. if you are done playing mailman, come relieve me.  I'm gonna go get a Raven, in case the Captain wants eyes in the sky when we push south," Anderson said from the gunner's station of Razorback.  Cole wasn't big on leaving the big gun unmanned, though he knew at some point, it would be impractical to keep someone on it at all times.  For right now however, it seemed prudent to have it ready.  Besides, it looked like it might provide the Islander an excuse to escape Candy-Creeper-Cop.  Taco-Five-O would have to arrange her own extract however.

Grady is so small that, if Captain Franks didn't stop to chat with some of the out-and-about locals, the cardinal-points-circuit of the town wouldn't have taken more than 15 minutes to complete. As it is, Frank's rounds last just over a half-an-hour. The small town grapevine kicks into motion. Word spreads quickly of STAR Sierra's arrival. Between the tour and the townsfolk who arrive at the station upon Frank's return, Sierra learns of the following needs:

• Mr. Prior has a bad tooth. It needs to be extracted.
  
• Lesley Markum cut her hand on some broken glass. She needs 5-10 stiches to close the otherwise clean wound.
  
• Little Devin Taylor has a pretty soupy cough. It sounds, to the untrained ear, like a pretty bad case of bronchitis.
  
• Two of the Davidson's horses have gone missing- both bolted from the barn during the storm. One- Lemondrop- has been recovered. The other, Junebug, is still missing.
  
• The storm knocked a mature oak down and into the Roarke's house, coming to rest in their front room. The hole in the roof caused by the collision resulted in some water damage as well. With a working chainsaw, removing the tree shouldn't take more than an hour. With proper tools and some lumber, repairs to the roof will probably take several more.

Individually, none of these project benefits a significant number of Grady citizens. Only those with health concerns have directly asked the STAR team for assistance.

During his rounds, Franks makes contact with the silo-top lookout, a citizen answering to the callsign Hawkeye, over the radio. Today, Hawkeye is a 50-something civilian named Leon, who's sitting in  a lawn chair, under a porch umbrella, .30-06 hunting rifle across his lap, behind a simple sandbagged revetment atop one of the grain silos on the east edge of town.  Hawkeye reports seeing nothing out of the ordinary since he climbed the silo at about 7am this morning.

When he's not conversing with Grady citizens, Franks describes the town's security situation. Franks is the only pre-war police officer remaining in the town. Offut is, technically speaking, mildly retarded. Franks explains that the young man works at the station only. His one job is to radio Franks if someone comes looking for him when he's out on his rounds. Offut's gun isn't loaded.

Franks counts on 10 trusty citizens to act as his deputies, in case of emergency. The only criteria to become a part-time deputy is to be sound of mind and body, own your own longarm, and agree to follow Franks' orders without question. If the Hawkeye lookout atop the grain silo notices strangers approaching the town from the SE, he radios it in over the police band, then fires two warning shots, one in the air, the other in the vicinity of the interlopers. A volunteer stationed at all times at the nearby Church of God then rings a bell until Franks and his ten "deputies" come a-runnin', Minuteman style. The town's other armed citizens bunker down in their homes. If it's a job that 11 well-armed men can't handle, Franks will attempt to muster more of the townsfolk. So far, the plan has worked flawlessly. The closest call the Grady militia has had was with a persistent band of bikers, but Gradyites prevailed without sustaining (or likely causing) any casualties.

As soon as Guillory and Noble Senior return from the tour, a two-vehicle recon team, led by Captain Cao, departs to scout the prison complex southeast of town. Not quite 2 miles outside of Grady, the convoy is approaching the Choctaw Farms administrative complex, the operational headquarters of what, before the war, was a fairly sizeable livestock operation. Rows of long animal pens can be seen a bit further on, on the opposite (south) side of the 65, nestled among groves of nut or fruit-bearing trees.

A man steps out of the dense vegetation that shadows the railroad tracks running parallel to the 65's eastbound lanes. He's clad in what, from a distance, appear to be civilian clothes, the kind not uncommonly seen in this part of the country. He walks towards the pavement, waving his hands above his head in an obvious attempt to signal the approaching vehicles. Rios, behind the wheel of the team's armored suburban, notices another man crouching in the bushes near the other. If the second man is hiding, he's not very good at it. More likely, he's reluctant to reveal himself.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:51, Mon 23 July 2018.

Grady:

"Well, it's just tree surgery, not rocket surgery," Xandra tells Saul.  She pushes her sunglasses up on her head and squints at the oak - she's been told it's an oak, anyway, but fucked if she's an arborist - atop the Roarke place.  "As long as we don't get any wind, I can section it in about an hour.  I'll need a partner on the ground, all the climbing rope and rigging gear, the Husqvarna," she shoots him a glance to see if he's paying attention, "and a shot of tequila."

She takes a drag off her water bottle.  "Once that's done it's pretty much carpentry."  She checks her shoulder to make sure no locals are in earshot.  "I know we're out here being your tax dollars at work, but they have enough grown-ass rural adults here to be able to sort that for themselves.  They probably could handle the tree removal but I'll give 'em that 'cause they're still flapping and squawking over, 'holy balls, Martha, there's a sycamore on the couch!'"
This message was last edited by the player at 11:39, Sun 22 July 2018.

Choctaw Farms:

From the front seat of the Suburban, Scott keys up.  "Sexton checking Falcon.  We've got subjects times two on foot on the right side of the road.  Subject one, black male, gray t-shirt, jeans, no visible weapons.  Appears to be flagging us down.  Further."  He waits for Cao's acknowledgement, then continues.  "Subject two, white male, tan ball cap, blue t-shirt.  In the bushes by the rail line at our two o'clock.  Unless otherwise directed, I'll be out making contact with subject one."

He unlatches his carbine from the rack mounted between the front seats and switches on his portable radio.  He waffles over his helmet but decides to leave it in the vehicle despite the strongly-worded advisory Cao issued before setting out.  Even after a few years of high-intensity civil unrest that's occasionally crossed the line into low-intensity warfare, he feels like being fully SWATted up sets an overly-militaristic tone for contacting citizens, and in his observation, headgear has always been the most aggressive part of that uniform.  The long gun would have been the same, once, but these days, Arkansas may as well be the frontier again.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:41, Sun 22 July 2018.

"Sexton, Falcon." The call sign had no connection to the F16 Fighting Falcon that was still in USAF service despite the introduction of the F35 Lightning II. Its origin came from the fact that Lauren had spent two years playing for the USAF Falcon's women's soccer team while she had been at the AF Academy. "All copied. Proceed with caution. Out." Her tone was terse as her eyes shifted towards the first subject.

The Air Force Captain shook her head softly when she saw Guillory emerge helmetless. She could advise the former DA but she couldn't order him to follow her advice. Unlike him, Lauren was wearing her Enhanced Combat Helmet, even though she was inside the armored JLTV. "OK, people, let's keep eyes on both sides of the road." The two men could be a diversion, intended to draw attention away from the left hand side of the road.

As she was sitting on the right hand side of the vehicle,  Lauren then reached for her M22 field binos and began to sweep the right hand side of the road from her seat, looking to see if anyone else was hiding there and making a better job of it than the man in the tan ball cap.

Tori stopped the Suburban, keeping the vehicle in drive and her foot on the break.  She kept her hands at ten and two.  "Fifty-fifty the second subject in the bushes is going to bolt if I step out," Tori said to Scott, cognizant that she was wearing police markings on her OD uniform.  "Carissa might be better to take up slack while you sort this out," Rios offered.  "I can stay with Bourbon Street and use it for pursuit or move it forward to block fire, if it comes to that."  Ballistic cover showing up half a minute after you've already started taking fire wasn't optimal, but it beat the alternative.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:04, Sun 22 July 2018.

Cole brought the M2HB into Condition 1 but he didn't reorient the weapon, as much as he wanted to.  Hearts and minds were rarely won over when one party was forced to look down the barrel of a heavy machine gun.  Don't matter though, he thought to himself.  If something went down, he'd quickly swing the gun on target and open up a full rate.  These dudes would get just a few shots off before Anderson would turn them into a fine red mist.

"So what did you do before all of this?" Mike Carswell asked as he put the needle through Lesley Markum's skin. He'd already checked that the local anaesthesia that he had applied to her hand had taken effect so that she wouldn't feel anything as he sewed up her hand wound. She was his second patient of the day, the first having been Devin Taylor.

"I worked for Tyson Foods, in Pine Bluff." Her accent was strong. They were sitting in Captain Franks' office, Mike having turned it into an ad hoc Doctor's office for the afternoon. Gene Prior was waiting his turn in another room. Mike wasn't looking forward to that one. Dentistry wasn't his strong suit. The medic's plate carrier vest and rifle were both propped against one wall, a fresh pair of latex gloves on his hand as he worked.

"Yeah? One of our guys worked for them. The Marshall Islander, Kabua. Don't know where though. You should talk to him when they get back. You might know some of the same people." His head was down, his eyes focused on her hand as he tied off the sutures. He presumed that she had a fair idea where Kabua and the others had gone. Captain Franks didn't look like the type to keep things to himself and in a small town like this news probably spread fast.

"OK, I'm nearly done. The anaesthetic will wear off shortly and the sutures will dissolve by themselves over time, so you don't need to worry about getting them out later, OK?" Mike looked up, smiled. "So, how's life here? You ever get any trouble from anyone?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:29, Mon 23 July 2018.

Scott glances over his shoulder at the medic, who's alone in the SUV's rear seat for this run and, from all appearances, enjoying the extra elbow room.  "Good point, Lieutenant.  I hate to pull the medic out from under armor, but I'm not going to turn down a second set of eyes outside.  Carissa, your call."

He swings open the Suburban's heavy door and steps out, settling the carbine's sling over his neck.  Despite the sun's glare, he removes his Oakleys and slides one temple through a vacant MOLLE loop on his plate carrier, giving himself a moment to scan the area and Carissa to dismount if she so chooses.  "Afternoon," he calls, taking a few steps toward the first subject and raising a hand.  "Governor's Task Force.  What's happening?"

"Don't shoot! I ain't got no weapon! Don't shoot!" the signaler calls, hands raised high, his voice transmitting fear. "We came for help!"

Guillory approaches the men cautiously, carbine pointed unthreateningly at the ground. This seems to reassure the signaler. Keeping his hands up, he gestures to his companion. The second man, Hispanic, emerges from the brush.

"We came from down the road. Things are out of control there, man. We barely got out alive."

Guillory studies the two civilians as the spokesmen- he gives his name as Tyron (pronounced Tie-run) expands upon his cursory explanation. Tyron's shirt is too small. He's tall- over six feet- and thin; his sleeves, unrolled, stop a couple of inches short of his wrists. His dark skin are peppered with darker scrawls of crude ink- prison tats. He cops to it as soon as he's challenged.

"Yeah, we inmates, but we ain't tryin' to escape- we came to get help. You gotta believe us, man. It's fuckin' crazy in there."

From his elevated perch in the J-LTV's armored turret, Anderson scans the area, looking for signs of an ambush. After a minute or so, he's fairly confident that the two strangers are alone.

Tyron recounts a tale of violent revolt, and a bloody aftermath that could be summarized as Lord of the Flies on bath salts. Apparently, almost a week ago, at the height of the storm, there was a disagreement between inmates and the administration at the Varner Supermax unit. The inmates wanted to leave their barracks to save their crops planted in the yard, but the admin wouldn't allow them outside in the heavy weather. After several days of fruitless negotiations, cooped up in their humid, leaky prison accommodations, the hungry prisoners snapped and started rioting. Giving no quarter, the inmates quickly overwhelmed the guards and broke out of the prison buildings. After settling old scores with the guards, and other inmates, some of the rioters, now armed with prison weaponry, set off from the conquered Varner unit to liberate their fellow cons incarcerated at the nearby Cummings unit (Tyron claims that he and Luis were inmates at the latter).

This time, the guards, assisted by some of the Cummings prisoners, were able to hold off the attackers- for a time. After a two-day siege, the prison administrator called for negotiations with the besiegers. The Varner rioters' leadership promised to allow Cumming's guards to leave, with their lives, weapons, and loved ones (from the nearby housing area), if they surrendered the prison. Naively, it turned out, the guard contingent agreed to the arrangement, only to be massacred once out in the open. Tyron claims that, when he and his companion (Luis) escaped the savagery the previous morning, some of the guards and their families were still holding out in Cummings village, just north of the prison. The citizens of tiny Varner, however, were not so fortunate. According to Tyron, they were all but wiped out in a two-day orgy of rape, torture, and murder. Some of the prisoners ("mostly white-boys", Tyron describes them) took all of the working prison vehicles and headed south on the 65 to look for some rumored "Peckerwood Homeland" (this is Tyron's name for it; perhaps reading his audience, he immediately apologizes for using the racially-charged, segregation-era term for white people). Tryon estimates that there are probably about 150 "rebel" inmates spread between Varner and Cummings, maybe half of them armed with captured guns (most of the rest have improvised edged weapons and clubs). Inmates that refused to participate in the violent bacchanalia were tortured and killed. If Tyron's tale is to believed, this would have been his and Luis' fate had they not escaped.  If things are indeed as Tyron has described them, the situation at the prison complex is as bad, maybe even worse, than What Guillory and Cao suspected.

Meanwhile, back in Grady, Mike Carswell treats the town's sick and injured. His preliminary examination of the boy suggests that Devin is suffering not from simple bronchitis, but double pneumonia. Something particularly strong, from the former EMT's modest stock of antibiotics, may be able to halt the infection, but it will take a couple of days to know whether the boy's condition is on an upward trajectory. If it gets much worse, the boy will probably need oxygen, maybe even a ventilator, to be able to breath, and neither STAR Team Sierra nor the tiny town of Grady have access to either of those items. Having done all that he can for now, Carswell moves on to his next patient.

The sutures Carswell completes quickly and smoothly. In a few days, the stiches can come out, and Carswell reckons the patient won't even have much of a scar to show for it. As for the medic's first stab (pun intended) at field dentistry, the results are mixed. He gets the tooth out easily enough, but there's signs of infection in the socket. He can administer yet more of his precious supply of antibiotics, but the old man really needs to be seen by an experienced dentist.

While Carswell is with his patients, Murray gets to work on the fallen oak. She proves handy with a chainsaw, quickly segmenting the hard word into more manageable chucks. Ace Hardware, freed from its trailer, should be able to drag the massive, heavy truck out of the property owners' parlor.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:34, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

Grady:

Saul watches Murray work, helps out where he can and tries to keep the locals far enough away that nobody gets smacked with flying debris or heavier bits of wood.  More than anything, he tries to radiate an official stance of "here we are, we're here to help," to the local towns people. he did have to shoot a couple dirty looks at a few locals who were making jabs about a woman working a chainsaw.  Even the Apocalypse contains yokels, it seems.  When Xandra finally climbs down from the zone of kinetic wood destruction shes's been working in, Saul hands her a fresh water bottle.

"Seems like enough work to me," he tells the younger woman who is covered in sawdust.  "After all, there's a fine line between 'let's get you back on your feet,' and 'why don't I sit here complaining about saw technique while you do all the work.'"

It's not much of an exaggeration.  People want to know that someone has their back and while they think they want to be coddled, it usually turns out sideways and less than ideal.

With a limp, he moves over to start backing Watkins into position to haul the trunk away.

Carissa doesn't blanch, exactly, at the story the inmates are spinning.  She's heard enough horror stories over the last several years that it doesn't exactly surprise her that a bunch of formerly cooped up, former meth-heads would go on a rampage, but she does question the point of it.

Some people just want to watch the world burn, she can hear her dad quote that ancient Batman movie.  Yeah dad, or they don't want to be in jail and other people's opinions aren't really that important.  Or their lives.

"Rabid dogs," she mutters from her guard position behind Guillory.  It's not an insult.  It's an observation and a suggestion how to deal with the problem.  The cowgirl side-eyes the self-proclaimed inmates of good and tries to get a read.  What would dad say?  They're here, they could have run.  It could be a trap, but these guys are dead if it is.  Might be dead anyway.

All in all, Carissa is sure that most road-trips have started off better than this one.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:51, Sun 22 July 2018.

Scott chuckles at "Peckerwood Homeland."  "Shitkicker heaven," he offers, not really expecting Tyron to get the reference.  "Okay, Tyron.  I'm gonna pat you guys down.  If you've got anything in your pockets that's gonna make my day worse, tell me now.  You know the drill.  If I don't have a problem here, I'm not gonna cuff you."  He looks at Luis.  "¿Comprende?  ¿Se habla inglés?"

Once he's certain Tyron and Luis aren't holding anything unpleasant, he directs them to the shoulder of the road and tosses them a couple of water bottles and a packet of homemade trail mix.  "Hang out there, guys.  If anyone from Varner shows up, we'll deal with them.  Stay out of the fight and run that way."  He points northeast, across the overgrown median.

"Shit, man."  Tyron looks as if he isn't sure whether or not he's being insulted.  "You got guns to spare."  It's not inflected as a question.

Scott chuckles.  "Yeah, and I'm pretty sure you know how to use 'em.  Vice Lord."  He points at Tyron's ink.  "Geyer Springs Crew, am I right?"

"Not anymore," Tyron responds warily.  "When I was younger.  How you know that?"

Scott flashes a hand sign and a hard grin.  "I worked Southwest Division nights when I was younger.  I don't think I ever caught you, though."

"Hell, naw, old man, you ain't never catch me.  I's too fast then."  The convict laughs.  "Okay, okay.  Damn.  I knew I shoulda signed up when the recruiter came around.  Mama always said the cops and the army was just the biggest gangs."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:02, Mon 23 July 2018.

"What country do you think this is?" Luis responds in an Arkansas twang. Although he seems genuinely offended, he cooperates fully. Tyron cops to having a shiv in his back pocket. Guillory relieves him of the prison knife and has a look. Its short, thin blade is made of shaved or melted plastic, with a rubber band grip. It contains traces of blood. Tyron notices Guillory noticing the dried blood.

"Had to stab a motherfucker to get away," Tyron confesses with a mixture of guilt and pride (60-40). "Self defense," he adds, without a wink.

-

Xandra gratefully accepts the water.  She pours a handful of it into the purple paisley bandana that's been tied over her hair and replaces it on her head before taking a long pull at the bottle.  "I'm about done abusing this little guy anyway."  She hefts the 28" Husqvarna by way of emphasis.  "God didn't intend two-strokes to burn alcohol.  I need to tear the engine down and clean the seals before they disintegrate."

She brushes ineffectually at her T-shirt, upon which a green-faced Medusa proclaims, No Sugar, No Spice, Not Particularly Nice from behind a veil of sawdust.  "It's just axe work now.  I think Uncle Oglesme over there can take care of that himself."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:03, Mon 23 July 2018.

"A country without the ACLU now," Scott replies dryly.  "No offense.  You hadn't said much."

"Self-defense it is," he agrees.  "Nobody's gonna prosecute you for that shit.  Okay.  Sit tight.  I'll be back in a few."

Scott closes out the pleasantries, leaves the ex-inmates under Carissa and Tori's watchful eyes, and walks back to where Cao waits with the JLTV.  He passes on the take from Tyron, his face back to its usual impassivity.  "This is looking like it's about to blow up into a regional insurgency," he concludes.  "And we are definitely outnumbered beyond any reasonable chance of winning a gunfight.  Not to dodge responsibility, but I think that puts it in your court.  What are you thinking?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:59, Mon 23 July 2018.

Once Scott had patted down the two prisoners, Tori parked the Suburban and moved to assist the former Prosecutor.  After hearing a bit of the story, she made a few notes.  When Guillory left to brief Captain Cao, Tori shifted into detective mode.  First she cuffed both prisoners. Then she separated them, taking Luis back to the Suburban.  She grilled each separately, on several details.  Who had Tyron stabbed?  Who started the revolt?  Which click/gangs had they run with back in prison?  Who were the leaders?  Tori re-questioned each on information they'd already provided, to see if they story changed, either from the first iteration, or between them.  Discrepancies were noted.  Corroborating information flagged.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:23, Mon 23 July 2018.

Lauren Cao stepped down out of the JLTV as Guillroy approached, her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of her Wiley X ballistic sunglasses. The Air Force officer was making no attempt to appear unthreatening other, perhaps, than the fact that her carbine was held at the low ready rather than pointed directly at the two escaped felons who, for all she knew, could be the local equivalents of Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer.

Relaxing slightly – but only slightly – when Rios cuffed the pair, she looked over her shoulder at Anderson, up in the JLTV’s gun ring. ”Sergeant, if you see anyone coming down the road put a warning burst over their head. If they keep coming...” she paused, realized that she wasn’t ready to declare guns hot on unidentified targets. Yet. But nor could she put responsibility to fire on Anderson. ”If they keep coming hold your fire until I give the word.” She then slapped a gloved palm against the JLTV. ”Kabua, dismount and cover the road ahead.” She wanted more eyes on the road. And more weapons.

The dark haired Air Force officer then considered Guillroy’s question. This was like Carthage. Carthage, Texas. Where her unit had almost been overrun by the Allianza. Only worse. At least in Carthage the enemy had worn uniforms. Most of them anyway. ”You’re right.” She said after a moment. ”We don’t have the resources to deal with a mass uprising on our own. We need to call this in to Little Rock.” If she remembered correctly the State Guard had some mortars.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:05, Mon 23 July 2018.

Tyron and Luis bristle at being cuffed, complaining loudly that "that other guy" (Guillory) had said they wouldn't be, but they don't resist. Separately, they corroborate the account delivered to Guillory. Taken separately, their stories line up perfectly. Both claim not to have run with a prison gang. Apparently, there was a group of openly gay prisoners at Varner who looked out for one another but, unlike other prison gangs, there was no hierarchy, no one giving orders, and "members" were allowed to associate with anyone outside the group that they pleased. Tryon and Luis were part of this clique. Once the inmates controlled both prisons, the gays, who didn't participate en bloc in the revolt and vengeance killings were targeted for victimization. The man Tryon stabbed had tried to rape him.

They claim that the biggest Latino set, Los Diablos, instigated the riot at Varner. The African-American (Gangsta Lords, mostly) and white (Arkansas Aryan Alliance) prison gangs* assisted in overwhelming the guards there. Once Varner was in gang hands, fighting broke out between the Diablos and Gangsta Lords on one side, the AAA on the other. That may be why the whites left en-masse. According to both men, the Diablos-Gangsta alliance is tenuous at best and cracks have already appeared. Most of the inmates are still wearing their orange (Varner) or white (Cummings) prison jumpsuits, although some, like Tyron and Luis, have managed to change into civilian clothing.

Neither man is sure about which sets currently control which parts of the prison complex (From nearest the 65 to furthest from it: Varner village, Varner Prison, Cummings Prison, Cummings village), but if the gangs are attempting to control all of these individual sites simultaneously, they must be divided into four groups. Tyron and Luis reiterate that at least part of Cummings village may still be in guard hands but probably won't be for much longer, unless the gangs just give up and cease their attempts to take it.

*Leaders:
Diablos: "Panchito" Villa
Gangsta Lords: King Loc
AAA: Blond Sam

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:36, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

"Take it easy gentlemen, this for your safety," Tori said as she finished cuffing both.

Once she finished interrogating them, she escorted Tyron back to the Suburban where Luis was.  She tersely explained the situation.

"You are being taken into protective custody.  You two are prime witnesses to multiple homicides.  I'm going to ask the State to remand you to witness protection.  Which is probably going to look a lot like house arrest in nearby Grady, but it'll certainly be better than jail.  More importantly, you'll be safe there until we can get this situation under control.  If any of those gangs find out you just spilled your guts to a former Prosecuting Attorney, you'll be at the top of all of their hit lists."

"Hey man." Mike Carswell nodded to Saul as he eased his way through the crowd of onlookers who had gathered to watch the repair work on the roof, eyes that were hidden behind Oakleys thn turning in Ms Murray's direction. "Xandra. Lookin' good." He nodded towards the ongoing repair work, as if to make clear he was talking about the roof. His hands were in his pockets, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

"So, clinic's done." the paramedic said, turning back to Saul. Carswell oozed casual informality, his accent still that of his native New York State despite the fact he'd lived in Arkansas for nigh on twenty years. "The kid's got pneumonia. I've given him some drugs but if they don't work we'll probably need to think about getting him up to UAMS in Little Rock." He didn't elaborate on what treatments would be needed. Saul didn't need micro details. He just needed to know that the kid might need medevac'd.

"And if we're sending the kid back I'd send the dude with the bad tooth as well so a proper dentist can have a look at him." Carswell caught Saul's look, shrugged, grinned. "Hey dude, I always said I was a shit dentist. But do you know how many kids I've delivered in the last couple of years? We all have our talents."

Saul chuckles, somewhat darkly, at Mike's last statement.  "Yeah, I think we're all in different wheelhouses now." His eyes unfocus for a second at that, the faces of his two surviving children flashing in  his mind.  This certainly wasn't the life he'd envisioned for them.  "Mike if you say medevac, I'm going to say medevac so we'll get the ball rolling on that one.  People need to know that there's still people who care."  Or at least people who aren't going to sit by idly and watch a kid die because it's too hard to do something about it.

"We'll see what our people find out about the prison and get our report set up.  Meantime, let's see what we can find out about our missing Junebug and maybe Carissa can track her down while we wait for the medevac.  That girl has a way with horses..."

”OK,” Lauren said after Tori had passed on the results of her interrogation of the prisoners. They were hardly the most reliable of witnesses as far as the dark haired Air Force officer was concerned, but they were all that they had. ”We can call this in to Little Rock but by the time help gets here the guards that are holding out might be dead.” And then what? The prisoners spread out across the countryside razing a community to the ground and then moving on to the next one?

She looked over at Scott. They wouldn’t be recovering Robert Elkins right now. Either he was with the hold outs or he was already dead. ”I don’t see any point in going further down the road. We might lose the element of surprise.” Or drive into an ambush was left unsaid. And pressing on now meant the possibility of the inmates spotting them, which Lauren would rather avoid. If they were going to try and rescue the guards surprise would be one of their force multipliers.

”Let’s get everyone back in the vehicles and back to Grady.” Her tone was such that it just hovered on the side of being a suggestion rather than an instruction. Just. This was a military problem as far as she was concerned, requiring a military led solution but she didn’t want to throw her weight around, so for now was simply offering the civilian team leader ‘advice’. ”Once we’re there we can tell Captain Franks to alert his Deputies and plan a rescue mission to get the guards out. Today.”

When everyone began to move Lauren stepped towards Scott, lowered her voice so that no one else could hear them, her eyes still on the road ahead of her. ”And Mr Guillory, the next time you get out of the vehicle in a threat situation I’d prefer if you kept your helmet on, Sir. I’m responsible for your safety and I wouldn’t want to have to explain to the Governor how you got shot in the head on my watch.” Her lips curled into a brief smile.

Scott returns Cao's brief smile in equal measure while he sorts through possible responses.  He settles on the one that's most likely to not further complicate his working relationship with the Air Force officer while having the added virtue of being honest.  "At this point, Captain, I think the mission is more in your wheelhouse than mine.  This is hostage rescue and counter-insurgency.  Cop policy for the former involves enveloping the suspects and talking them to death, which obviously isn't feasible here, and I've got no clue how to go about the latter."  Though his expedition to New Orleans did generate several ideas well outside the approved use of force continuum...

He scans the roadside over Cao's shoulder before returning his gaze to hers.  "As for the other, you don't have to worry about explaining anything to Steve.  He's well aware I'm likely to do a lot of things you'll consider," he edits the "stupid" he was about to use - probably accurate but it might come across as passive-aggressive - and settles on, "unadvisable, and one of those might be terminal.  But I've found that the more I'm SWATted up, the less likely people are to trust me.  There was some research before the war that suggested it's particularly provocative and depersonalizing with anything that obscures the face.  You're right from a threat assessment perspective but I'm looking at the civil affairs part of our job.  So I'm probably going to have to keep expanding your ulcers when I've gotta get out for contacts."  He quirks his mouth and half-shrugs in apology.  "Having said that, I think I did just say something about us being in insurgent country..."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:08, Sat 28 July 2018.

Lauren nodded, her own eyes still hidden behind her polarized lenses, the use of the Governor's first name not escaping her as she turned her attention back to the problem at hand. "I think the military policy for our current situation would be to use shock and awe, Mr Guillory." Her voice had returned to its normal tone, signifying that their private conversation was concluded. For now. She had little doubt that there would be others. She presumed that her use of shock and awe would give him a clue as to what she was thinking.

Taking a step away from Scott, Lauren then called out to the others. "OK, everyone mount up! We're headed back to Grady."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:59, Sat 28 July 2018.

Captain Franks' initial response to the unwelcome news of the prisoner uprising is, understandably, alarm. As if to underline the seriousness of the situation, he whispers to the nearby Sierras, "Reckon it's time to put some bullets in Offut's service piece." Despite his obvious discomfiture, Franks doesn't lose his grip. He seems reassured, bolstered even, by the promise of the STAR team's continued presence and assistance- their air of cool, competence, and their firepower. Their can-do attitude rubs off on the veteran police officer. After radioing his counterpart in Gould (the next town south of Varner) to apprise the neighboring town of the worrying situation at the prison complex*, Franks immediately begins rounding up the Grady militia, assembling them in the shadow of the silo-top lookout at the east end of town. Standing on an old tractor tire, he addresses the assembly.

"So that's the situation. I want y'all to meet back here in half-an-hour. Lock your doors when you leave. If your loved ones know how to handle firearms, make sure they've got one. Come up with a password and response, and make sure all your family knows 'em. We [the activated militia] could use some more people. I'll deputize anyone else who wants in on this, as long as they are ready and willing to follow my orders. Pete, I know I said 15 is too young, but if your son's still willing. Now, I need a couple of volunteers to go along with Sierra Team- to help bring back any survivors. This is a support role; the professionals here be at the tip of the spear. Your job will be to drive- that's it. You'll need to provide your own vehicles, though, and, of course, your guns, just in case."

Two Gradyites volunteer. Ed Armstrong, a former tanker who saw some action in Desert Storm, and Tom Beasley, a former Marine (with no combat experience). Both pre-computer, multifuel-converted pickup trucks. Ed brings along his AK-47, Tom a tricked-out AR-15 platform. Franks assures Sierra command that the two are solid.

While Franks rallies the locals, Cao and Guillory deliver a SITREP to ASDF HQ in Little Rock, describing the reported situation at the Varner-Cummings prison complex. HQ returns with with the promise of a company-sized reaction force, with the caveat that it will take at least 24 hours to assemble, equip, and get on the road to Grady. The ASDF's quick reaction capabilities are, at present, still developing.

With the Sierras, Franks maps out a route to approach Cummings Village- where the last of the prison guards and their families are reported to be holding out- along infrequently used back roads, most just glorified farm tracks. With the recent heavy rains, they might be a bit muddy (this could mean slippery and/or sticky driving conditions in places), but the damp should significantly reduce the amount of dust thrown up by the rescue convoy's passage.

It's about 3pm, the hottest hour of the day- the humidity is like a warm, wet blanket draped over everything. 4-5 hours of daylight remain. If it is to carry passengers, Ace Hardware will need to be at least partially unloaded. Sierra's vehicles all have blackout lights (Bourbon Street's, improvised). Unfortunately, there aren't enough NODs to go around, and Beasley has ever driven while using them before.

*Gould's Police chief is not unaware of the trouble to his town's northwest. Two days prior, a prison bus and several other DOC vehicles drove through Gould. One of the vehicles stopped. Shots were exchanged. Two Gouldites and four inmates were killed in the confrontations. The Gould militia has been on high alert ever since.

Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:11, Fri 31 Aug 2018.

Saul sits in on the sitrep call, leaning on his walking stick and nodding his head along like a the wise adviser he figures he's supposed to be.  That or just the resident old man, he think with a silent grin.  The situation doesn't rate an actual smile, even if it is at his own expense.  Things are bad out there.  Escaped prisoners, massacres, and growing chaos and mayhem.  It's like Afghanistan, only this time the country folk speak English and spout racist gibberish instead of corrupted Islamic gibberish.

He wonders what he would have done in the locals place when it came to dealing with the prison.  Left the inmates locked up?  Decided that violent crimes wouldn't be tolerated?  Or naively let them go in the hopes that they would reform on their own?  Probably somewhere in the middle, just like had happened here.  Try and make do and hope it didn't blow up.  Shame the psycho's overpowered the poor-life-decision-ers and decided to make with the ultra-violence.  A lot of innocent people paid for that choice, it sounds like.  Hell of a choice.  Safety or your soul.

"Far be it for me to interrupt on lesser matters," Saul says gently at a break in the radio report. "But we do have a couple townsfolk who could use a medevac back to civilization.  And that's assuming we don't gin up a few more injuries in the next twelve hours.  If HQ can send a doc that would be great, otherwise let's make sure they can haul our priorities back to where they can get some help.  That'll help the Grady folks understand we're trying to deal with all of it."

Scott nods.  "By the time the QRF is here, we'll be done with tonight's operation.  We'll probably have some rescuees who need a higher level of care, too."  He scrawls a note on his legal pad.  "MEMS has a mass casualty ambulance bus.  Let's see if they can get it running and include it in the convoy."

Lauren nodded when Saul interjected into the conversation. Even with her jacket off she was still sweating, some darker patches visible on her coyote t shirt, others concealed by the plate carrier vest that she was still wearing. Her helmet was with her jacket, in the JLTV. She was counting on Captain Franks' advance warning system to give her enough time to grab the helmet if she needed it.

If this plan doesn't work it might all be a moot point. People were counting on her team but they were also counting on her, for this was a military problem, it was her responsibility to offer solutions. That's why she was on the team. And if her solution went south the people of Grady might suffer the same fate as those in Varner Village. Lauren could feel the weight of that particular responsibility bearing down on her shoulders as the radio exchange continued.

When Little Rock had signed off she took a sip of water from her camelback before she spoke. "I need to clarify one thing. Little Rock said as the people on the ground they would back our calls." Which really means my calls. "When we launch the operation I intend to treat all escaped inmates as unlawful combatants. That means we will be operating a shoot on sight policy regardless of whether or not they are openly carrying a weapon. If they attempt to surrender after being engaged we will accept their surrender but I do not intend to issue any warnings before we open fire. Mr Guillory, I think you have our only suppressed weapons so I may be asking -" she really meant 'telling' - "- you to shoot potentially unarmed men without any warning."

"If anyone -" the comment was addressed to all of them, not just Guillory "- has a problem with that, now's the time to say." Her tone was level, no challenge intended. The blood would be on her hands, not theirs, but she knew that they came from various backgrounds, that for some of them what she had just said might be contrary to years of experience, training, and instinct.

Scott nods in acceptance and clears his throat.  "I think Tennessee versus Garner supports you on the case law side.  Based on their actions to date, I find," he unconsciously slips into DA lecture mode, "probable cause to believe that the escapees represent imminent threats to the lives of citizens in the surrounding communities.  That justifies the use of lethal force in apprehending them.  Particularly in exigent circumstances such as a hostage rescue where we can't establish the dominant position necessary for the usual law enforcement tactics."

He nods to Cao.  "This being as close to a state of insurrection as we've seen in Arkansas this year, the State Defense Force has primary jurisdiction now.  Which places us under military rules of engagement anyway.  But, for the record," he glances at Franks, "I fully agree with Captain Cao's assessment of the situation."

He doesn't directly answer Cao's implied question about his own readiness to pull the trigger, but in his mind's eye, he's replaying New Orleans.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:54, Sun 29 July 2018.

To her knowledge, Chevelle has never killed anyone before. Yes, she's been in a couple of minor firefights- shootouts, really- before, and fired her weapon in anger, but she rarely had a human being in her sights and, even when she did, she didn't know if she'd actually hit them or not. She is entering unchartered territory here. But the cause seems just, and she trusts Guillory's grasp of the law, so the USAF security force noncom resigns herself to very likely having to use deadly force.

"If what those two inmates you picked up told us is the truth, then I don't have any problems with that, ma'am."

She'll be carrying her M4A1 and the M79 grenade launcher on this op. She's used a teargas launcher before, and gotten pretty good with it; she figures the Blooper isn't all that different. A little part of her is excited to try it out. Another part of her feels guilty that she can actually look forward to blowing up other people, even violent convicts.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:14, Sun 29 July 2018.

After depositing Ace Hardware's cargo and trailer at the Grady Police station (under Lt. Offut's watchful eye), STAR Team Sierra, with two civilian pickups in train, leaves town at dusk, the setting sun at its back, traversing farm tracks towards the prison farm northeast of Cummings Village. Depressions are pretty muddy and, one separate occasions, both Bourbon Street and Ace Hardware nearly get stuck. The roads lack any signage, and the procession has to stop a couple of times for Cao to confer with the locals regarding the route.

The convoy arrives at the jump-off point, a causeway about 1.5 miles from the first of the prison farm buildings, just as the sun disappears beyond the western horizon- near perfect timing. The culvert that runs underneath the causeway is clogged with detritus deposited there by the recent heavy rains. Fortunately, the causeway itself wasn't washed out. The road over the culvert sags in a way that seems somewhat unnatural. Murray inspects it (without the benefit of artificial light) and reports that, in her professional opinion, it should be able to take the weight of the J-LTV.

Anderson dismounts to deploy one of the team's two UAVs, returning to the J-LTV's turret* once the drone is loitering aloft. The small UAV rises into the gloaming, the tinny pitch of its powerful little engines rising as it gains altitude and speed. It flies east, towards the prison farm north of Cummings Village, thermal imagers reaching down through the gathering darkness.

Anderson notes two human heat signatures atop a large roll of hay (Target 1) just east of another causeway- a natural chokepoint about 1.75 miles from the Sierra laager. Proceeding east, the drone's camera is foiled by a cluster of farm buildings, their tin roofs still reflecting the fleeting heat of the retired summer sun (Target 2). Anderson thinks he spots movement, but it's here and gone so fast that he can't be sure. From there, Anderson steers the drone south, along the road into Cummings Village. The drone drifts over a row of simple, one-story, metal-roofed single-family houses (roughly the same size and shape as double wide trailer homes). Again, the stored thermal energy in the roofs make picking out human heat signatures difficult, but one particular house, larger than most of the others, stands out (Focal Point). It appears to be the center of attention- a gas giant orbited by at least dozen tiny moons. As he studies the immediate area, Anderson notes a few flickers around the building, tiny strobing pinpricks of light that indicate muzzle flashes. If there's a potential Alamo in Cummings Village, this structure is likely to be it. Bringing the drone back, Anderson charts a curling return course: south to the Cummings Unit (relatively buzzing with activity), then northeast to complete the circuit to the laager. On the last leg, he spies two static heat signatures behind a small causeway (Target 3) west of the building designated "The Alamo".

Leaving Ace Hardware and the two civie trucks on the west side of the canal culvert (a natural defensive position), the rescue team's direct action element successfully crosses the causeway in its armored vehicles and advances cautiously along the east-bound farm road towards the next causeway/hay rolls (Target 1). At low speeds, the vehicle engines don't make much noise but, in the still of the young night, the sound seems to stand out. The inmate sentries ahead (this is an assumption, but a fairly safe one under the circumstances) are probably not focusing their attention towards the approaching rescue force but, at a distance (3/4 mile), in the dark, it's nearly impossible to tell. From time to time, the sharp pop of gunfire carries across the open farm fields. None of it is directed towards Sierra.

*Anderson won't be able to effectively operate both the drone and the HMG simultaneously.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:30, Mon 30 July 2018.

Xandra dismounts, slings her rifle, and walks to the canal's edge.  She kneels for a minute, appraising the terrain.

"Okay," she says at length.  "Here's what I'm thinking.  Spike strip on the far side of the bridge, right in the curve so they'll be turning when they hit it.  We lay it in the grass at the end of a climbing line, wrapped around one of these trees," she points, "so it goes the right direction when we pull it across the road from here.  If we've got time, we rig a spool of the concertina the same way."

She points east-southeast, along the farm road Ace Hardware is currently parked on that parallels the canal.  "Once the gunfight starts, I'll fire up the chainsaw and drop a couple of those big-ass trees across this road."  She indicates a pair of elderly river birches of appropriate height and girth, about two hundred meters away.  "That'll keep anyone from running up on us from the farms."

She looks at Saul.  "I've got a little bit of demo but I'd rather not drop the bridge unless you say so.  Eventually, someone's gonna have to live here again."

Saul steps gingerly to the ground and tries not to think about what a rapid drop would feel like.  He reaches back into the vehicle and pulls out his shotgun, years of muscle memory has him check the chamber and the safety before he settles the weapon across his chest.

"Careful out there old man," Carissa, his youngest and probably favorite (even though you're not supposed to have favorites) daughter is standing behind him.  She nods at him with a half grin.

A thousand thoughts go through the man's mind, each a memory of his family.  Carissa is telling him to be careful and she's the one going out to where the bullets are flying.  He'd repeat the message, but a thousand teenage fights replay come out of the dark.  She always hated being told to be careful so he settles on the phrase they compromised a decade ago.  "Be aware of what's going on out there, kiddo.  React appropriately."

He still gets an eye roll, but it's friendly one.  A shared joke.

A substandard hug ensues, made difficult due to body armor and weapons taking up most of the space between father and daughter.  Carissa turns and starts to walk back to her vehicle.

"Just like shooting deer," he says levelly.  "They just might shoot back."

That causes her to turn, eyes hardening.  "No it's not.  And you know it."

Saul smiles sadly.  "No girl, no it's not." Carissa lips draw tight and she spins in place, walking away again.  "Be careful," he whispers low enough to make sure that she can't hear.

After a moment or two, Saul joins his newest partner in crime at the edge of the canal, looking over the landscape with her and nodding at Xandra's suggestions.  "I like it.  It's temporary enough to break contact without the post-apocalyptic permanence of blowing the bridge.  That's a commitment I don't think we want to make.  If we get kicked out of here, it's still our best route back in.  And the locals aren't going to forget optional infrastructure destruction.  Not unless we really mean it."

He speaks to the younger woman as an equal.  She's got her skill set, he's got his.  And he's used to strong women.

Lauren Cao's expression is a pensive one as Skillins eases Razorback forward along the causeway while Sergeant Anderson calls out potential targets as well as what appears to be the location where the guards are making their last stand. Her thoughts drift as she wonders what's going through their heads. And those of their loved ones. There was no way to warn them, no way to let them know that help was on its way. If all went according to plan the first they would know that a rescue force - albeit a modest one - was incoming was when they started cutting down the savages that were surrounding them.

A sudden bump draws her focus back to the present as she feels the JLTV lurch for a moment, jerking her against her five point harness before the vehicle resumes its forward progress. A pothole in the surface of the causeway probably. Her eyes flick to Skillins but his attention is fixed solely on the road in front of him as he peers through his borrowed - from her - NVG's. A voice behind her is calling the first potential targets to her attention.

Two men. And where they're situated Lauren can't see any way that their two vehicle column is going to be able to get past them unseen. "Sexton from Falcon. Two hostiles identified, approx three quarters of a mile ahead. Two others due south of their location." She's glad they have the drone. It's a force multiplier. Without it they would be going in blind. It's just a pity they don't have a Reaper on station, will have to do this the hard way, by dismounting. The question in the dark haired Air Force officer's mind is how much farther they can risk taking the vehicles before the two sentries potentially hear them and they lose the element of surprise.

The answer, she judges, is not far, but maybe they can make another few hundred yards. The further the vehicles can take them the less distance they have to cover on foot in bandit country. "Tell Loba to be ready to stop when we do. I need you and Rawhide to prepare for dismounted operations. Over." The drone hasn't identified any other threats and if they do get into a contact while they are dismounted the inmates will soon discover that unlike the beleaguered guards Sierra has no ammunition supply issues. And armored vehicles on call.

Having communicated her intent to Guillory in the trailing Suburban she turns to Skillins. "Stand by to stop on my word. I'll lead a dismount team forward on foot to neutralize the threat." Lauren Cao is big on buzzwords. Neutralize the threat. It's more sanitized than kill the murdering raping mother fuckers. Given the right resources she would have probably given a powerpoint briefing before they set out. She's not big on taking a back seat though.  It's not her style to sit back in Razorback. She intends to lead the dismounts herself. "But be ready to move forward quickly to support us." If the shit does hit the fan she wants three tons of armored muscle inbound as quickly as possible.

As her driver acknowledges her instructions Cao's head leans backwards, to the rear of the vehicle. "Sergeant Anderson, I need you or Kabua with me. The other one stays here and mans the fifty cal in case we need it."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:21, Mon 30 July 2018.

Mike had gone quiet as the small convoy had pulled out of Grady, his attention focused on the task at hand. He’d checked and rechecked his gear before the off, both the things that he needed to save lives and the things that he needed to take them. It seems fairly obvious that the latter will be needed before the former. Maybe if he’s lucky the former won’t be needed at all, although he doubts that.

He’s loaded for bear, his carbine between his knees s he sits in the back of the Chevy, the butt resting against the floor. His ball cap is tucked in one of the cargo pockets of his pants, its place taken by his MICH TC-2002 Helmet. And his baseball bat is on his back, held in place by loops that a Mexican lady called Dolores had sewn to his plate carrier vest in Little Rock. The bat served two purposes on this trip. On the good days there might be a chance for an impromptu game of baseball when they passed through a small town, a sign that the life they had known before the War wasn’t totally lost. On a bad day it was a weapon. In a way it was like its owner. On the good days he was a healer. Or at least tried to be. On the bad days he was a killer.

And today was a bad day.

"Alright Chicken Killer, you're with the Captain," Anderson said, lookin up and flashing a grin as he tasked out Kabua to back up Cao.  Cole's face returned to the Raven DDL's controller, as he started to work up a series of waypoints, to return the drone to Ace Hardware's location.  Once the waypoints were set, Cole keyed his radio.

"Ace Hardware, this is Drauger.  I'm sending a little bird back to your location.  It'll drop to the ground after stalling out about ten to fifteen feet AGL.  The waypoint will be about 30 feet in front of the MTV.  It is designed to break apart into four pieces, to distribute the energy of landing, so don't freak out if it comes apart.  Please recover all components and store them for now.  I will rebuild it later.  Drauger, out."

"Our eyes in the skies are terminat," Cole said, using the Romanian word for finished.  "Time to get the job done," he added as he pulled the charging handle on the M2HB.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDXoVf1p1b0
This message was last edited by the player at 23:15, Wed 01 Aug 2018.

Tori left the SUV idling, though she did put it in park so she wouldn't have to keep one foot on the break.  "Good luck and good hunting," she said as the other started leaving the vehicle.  As they did so, Tori checked her hand-held radio, making sure it was on the team's frequency.  She then turned her attention to the P25 compatible digital Kenwood system in the center console of the Suburban.

"Arkansas Highway Patrol calling any available Department of Corrections Officers.  Do you read me, over?" she said, keying the radio on channel one.  After waiting a minute, she shifted to channel two, and repeated the call.  Slowly, Rios worked her way through all the pre-programmed frequencies, hoping to raise one of the holdouts.

Xandra nods at Saul.  "Y'know, 'post-apocalyptic permanence' used to be an aesthetic statement.  If we're gonna go there, I think you need a dog and a motorcycle jacket with one sleeve cut off."  She pauses.  "And I guess I need a mechanical arm."

She tilts her head toward the truck's cab as Cole's call crackles over the speaker.  "Snake-eater holding for you on Line One, Mister Noble."  With that, she trots toward the back of the truck, pulling on a pair of rigger's gloves and whistling the Halestorm cover of "We Don't Need Another Hero."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:18, Thu 02 Aug 2018.

Scott runs a hand around the Suburban's dome light to make sure the switch is set to OFF before he swings his door open.  For now, he leaves his AR in the rack, though his plate carrier is set up to feed it.  Instead, he lifts the SUV's rear hatch and extracts his long rifle from its case, slipping a nylon-and-elastic cartridge loop strip into an admin pouch.

He moves forward about twenty yards to a black walnut that wasn't quite sturdy enough to withstand the storm and settles into position behind its trunk  He flips up the caps on the rifle's scope, rests the Remington on the tree, and begins scanning the nearest group of presumed felons.

"How lovely to be of service...Mizz Murray," Saul says, digging deep into his country roots.  There's a bit of guilt that he's not good for much more than picking up break-away drone pieces, but just a little.  He's here for his brain, not his limp.  And, Saul figures, he'd just stress Carissa out, make her think about trying to impress him.  As if she needed to.  "Just glad we're not eating dog-food yet."

Saul sighs and begins limping towards the designated drop zone.  "Drauger, Gimp.  I've got your little bird."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:23, Thu 02 Aug 2018.

Carissa walks, holding her Remington across her body like it's another stroll in the woods.  Like Guillory, she's elected to leave her assault rifle behind, but not the ammo in her vest.  Wouldn't make a lot of sense to need the weapon and then scramble for mags.  Chances are good if she needs it, there's going to be one lying on the ground anyway.

Just like shooting deer.  Carissa looks to see where the others are stretched out in their thin, ragged, line.  No cover to be had.  They're hiding in the non-bulletproof dark.

Like hell shooting people is like shooting deer.

She checks to make sure her helmet is tight and tries to will some kind of cover into existence without success.

Years ago, right when things got bad, Saul had given her a book to read.  The Dog Stars.  It took place in some dreamy-eyed Colorado wilderness Disneyland that was probably too good to be true after some sort of virus apocalypse.  Dad hadn't cared about the overall plot (which was quite enjoyable, really), he cared about one of the characters: a sniper who had decided that the only way to protect his life was to kill every interloper into the airfield he called home.  No exceptions made, too risky.  See, Saul had said, this is what we don't want.  This is how we know things have gone to far.  When this looks like a good option.  This is what we must avoid.  This is the end of civilization and isn't living.  It was why they had gone to Little Rock, where they could rebuild instead of fighting off waves of two-legged parasites and scavengers.

"Hey dad," Carissa mutters, "look at me.  Half way to the stars."  She shifts the rifle in her arms and blows out a quiet sigh.

* https://www.amazon.com/Dog-Sta...ywords=the+dog+stars
This message was last edited by the player at 22:55, Fri 03 Aug 2018.

Rios cycles through the available channels, pausing after each transmission in hope of a response from the besieged prison guards. On channel 5, someone finally does respond. The transmission is faint but clear.

"Uh, this is... officer Lopez. What's this call about? Over."

Cao, Guillory, Noble, and Kabua move east, down the farm road. The canal running alongside the road would offer good cover and concealment, weren't it full of muddy, stagnant water. Other than that rather unattractive option, there's little to mask the team's approach, save some overgrown weeds at roadside. The darkness offers a modicum of concealment, however- the waxing crescent moon providing very little natural light. The dismounts move steadily, those with NVGs setting the pace for those without. The sentries are not yet visible from the road. As the advance team draws even with the prison farm outbuildings, its hit by an almost physical wall of smell. Shit. Pig shit, to be more precise, and lots of it. They move forward, trying not to gag as they move through the thick miasma. A moat of liquified hog feces, nearly brimming over due to the recent rains, forms a sort of putrescent moat between the east-west road and the hog farm. The team passes an access road that branches away (north) from the main road, entering the complex over a causeway that bisects the moat.

At this point, each of the dismounts hears a distant shout, followed by raucous laughter, coming from one of the dozen or so farm buildings north of the main road. A pig squeals, eliciting another short bout of hysterics. The advance team is about 370m, as the crow flies, from the center of the farm compound, and about 420m west of the sentries (Target 1). It does not appear that either party is aware of the dismounts' presence.

Meanwhile, Murray and Saul Noble make good progress towards transforming the natural chokepoint just east of the laager into a bonafide strongpoint. If the rescue attempt is successful, and there is a pursuit, the pursuers could be held up here by a small, determined, and well-armed party, for quite some time.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:20, Fri 03 Aug 2018.

"Officer Lopez this is Highway Patrol Trooper Rios.  I'm south of your location, just a few minutes outside of Gould and my cruiser has blown a tire.  I have a spare, but my jack is rusted closed and I was wondering if either of your facilities could offer assistance, over?" Tori said over channel cinco.  It was an innocuous request designed to elicit either a truthful or untruthful response.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:40, Sat 04 Aug 2018.

Cao takes a knee as the sound of laughter fades, holding up her left hand to signal to the rest of her small fire team to halt. Clearly in addition to the sentries just ahead of them there’s also activity to their left, north of their current location.

The dark haired Air Force officer tries to ignore the stench that’s assailing her nostrils as she takes a moment to assess their options. If they investigate what’s happening north of them it delays their efforts to relieve the besieged guards. But if they press on they are leaving an unknown number of likely enemies on their flank, one that could interfere with their egress. She also can’t rule out the possibility that whatever is causing the laughter involves captured guards. Maybe. Or maybe not. There’s no way of knowing. Whereas she’s as certain as she can be that there are guards in the building that has been dubbed ‘the Alamo’.

It’s a judgement call. Go north and they could end up bogged down in combat with an unknown number of enemy in a cluster of farm buildings. Any hope they have of a surprise attack to relieve the guards is going to be gone. And they have no way of knowing if the causeway will support Razorback’s weight. Having their armored fire support platform ending up nose first in a ditch full of pig shit doesn’t feature on any of the bullet points that Lauren had noted down when she briefed the plan this afternoon.

The gloved hand that had signalled them to halt reaches into the utility pouch attached to her plate carrier vest, pulls out an IR chemlight and cracks it into life before placing it on the ground. It will serve as a way point for the vehicles later. Lauren then clenches her hand into a fist, index finger extended, and points towards the sentries that are due east of them. She intends to stick to the plan, press on, focus on their original target. They can deal with the threat to the north of them later. And if they do try and interfere with their exfil the fifty cal should rip through those farm buildings.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:57, Fri 03 Aug 2018.

Carswell leans back in his seat while Rios handles comms with the dude on the radio that’s maybe a guard or maybe not guard and watches the fields warily through the Suburban’s window, looking out for any sign of movement. There’s nothing the paramedic can do right now except wait. That will probably change soon enough, he knows that, relative inactivity will probably be replaced by frantic action. Mike would rather they were at that stage now, would rather be occupied, be too busy to think about all of the different possible outcomes.

His eyes flick over to the other person sitting in the back of the Chevy. ”You OK Chevelle?” His voice is low. He doesn’t know the Air Force non com well, just a few brief conversations during the time they'd had to work up in Little Rock. He’s heard through the grapevine that was her first rodeo, or at least her first proper one. If that’s the case Mike knows how she might be feeling right about now. He can remember his first active shooter call with MEMS STAR before the War, his first anti marauder operation after the bombs had dropped, way up near Fayettevelle, when they’d been up against some neo Nazi rednecks. He could remember them but he chose not to dwell on them. After all, everyone had their own way of dealing with shit.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:58, Fri 03 Aug 2018.

It takes Carissa a moment to figure out what to do when Cao raises a clenched fist.  Then years of movies come crashing into her brain and the cowgirl takes a knee.  Or maybe she's just mimicking the people around her.

The smell of pig waste hangs so heavy in the air that she can basically taste it.  The smell isn't the clean smelling waste of free-range animals, it's the heavy, oily stench from too many critters cooped up for too long.  And now somebody out there is laughing about something to do with the animals.  That can't be good.  She doesn't take the time to imagine the different games that could be being played away from them in the dark.  None of the outcomes would end well.

Instead, she sweeps her head left and right, taking in the world through the night-vision monocle strapped to her helmet.  It has the absurd effect of making her feel even more vulnerable, as if someone just staring across the fields could see their little group moving in the dark.

Suddenly, a light source flares, but only in one eye, her right.  It takes a second to piece together that Cao just cracked a chem-light, another second to process that only their little group can see the light emitted by the stick.  Then they're moving again, and now Carissa has three places to watch.

Like she'd let anyone know she's nervous.

"Looks good from my house." Saul gives one of the fallen logs a light kick with his good leg before turning to his new partner in crime.  "All we need now is a deck of cards, a bottle of whiskey, and a tune to hum."

The tone is light, but his eyes track into the dark, off towards the enemy.

Nothing to be done.  No sense in worrying.

Scott also catches Cao's hand sign from the corner of his scope, processes for a second, and then belatedly sinks to one knee.  "Patrol" has a somewhat different definition for the captain than it did for Little Rock Metro, and he's devoting more attention than he'd like to ensuring he doesn't fuck up this evolution.

He dials up the gain on his Sordin headset and listens to the ruckus to the north for a moment, trying to pick out any voices that aren't in accordance with the sounds of violent felons celebrating unexpected freedom.  Then they're moving again, continuing with the original plan.  Scott straightens under the weight of armor and moves out, finger indexed on the Wilson's magazine well, thumb ready to press the selector off safe.

"Yessir," she answers quietly, adding, "Just a bit nervous. I guess I wasn't expecting this much trouble so close to Pine Bluff."

-

There's a long pause before the voice responds, "Trooper Rios, we're a little shorthanded at the moment, and our generator's out, so I'm afraid we can't be of assistance right now. Over."


Meanwhile, the dismounts bypass the farm buildings, apparently without being detected by its current occupants. The Sierras continue to close the distance to the two sentries, pausing at one point when Carissa spots movement against the pale bulk of the hay roll. The team has crept close enough to the suspected sentries to be able to hear bits and pieces of their muted banter (although they can't make out anything that's being said). In the deepening dark, none of the Sierras have a very good view of the two male subjects (their voices belying their gender). It's hard to judge distance in the dark, but the Sierras agree that they are now about 150m from the sentries, near the edge of where the liquified pig shit moat curls sout to abut the road.

Back at the laager, Murray and S. Noble hear the distinct hoot of a night owl. It too is likely out hunting tonight. Unlike most of the Sierra's, however, it can clearly see its prey.


Your Turn.

-

Lauren can't quite silence the nagging whisper of doubt as she move away from IR chemlight. She doesn't know if she's made the right decision or not. Maybe there are guards being held prisoner a few hundred metres away from them. Maybe they're being tortured, murdered right now and she's leading her fire team away from them, towards guards that are holding out, can maybe hold out for a little while longer. If that's the case she'll need to live with her decision later. It's not on anyone else, not on Guillory. It's on her.

When the inmate sentries come into earshot the dark haired Air Force officer raises her hand again, sinks down to one knee in the muck, feels the a dampness permeating her camo pants. Knee pads would be helpful but she didn't have any. More NVG's would be even more helpful. And more men. But she doesn't have any of those things, just like she doesn't have a Predator on call. So they'll have to roll with what they have.

"Mr Guillory, Ms Noble." The words are whispered as softly as she can. They still sound loud to her. And formal. Mr, Ms. Go ahead and kill someone. Please. "Take your shots on Mr Guillory's mark." She'll leave it to them to decide who takes which one. This is their show now. "Kabua, back up Mr Guillory, I'll back up Ms Noble. We only fire if the alarm is raised. OK, if everyone is set let's do this."

Having set things in motion Lauren will then move to support Carissa, aiming at whichever sentry the other woman designates and ready to backstop her if needed.

Lauren Cao
Organizing / moving to aim at whichever target Carissa chooses
Holding fire unless the shit hits the fan* in which case she'll fire at designated target with 3 single shots
M4A1 (30/30)

*Primary definitions of shit hitting the fan are any non suppressed weapon fire or inmates loudly shouting that they are under attack.

"Roger that."  Scott eases into a prone shooting position on a slightly raised patch of farm road, trying to ignore the unique combination of gravel biting into his elbows and muddy water wicking its way under his plate carrier.  He studies the sentries for a few more moments through the NOD over his left eye before flipping the irreplaceable device up on its mount and sliding his right eye behind the Wilson's Kahles scope.

The moon has been up since midafternoon, and it's now approximately at its zenith.  With the memory of the scene as viewed through his NOD, the two-thirds disk casts enough light for him to acquire the felons.  He dials up the magnification to the scope's maximum 6x.  "I'll take the guy on the left," he states, flipping a mental coin.  He waits for Carissa to take her own shooting position and acknowledge the target assignment.

Scott steadies the faintly-glowing illuminated reticle on the upper thorax of his chosen target.  "Shooter ready... stand by... on three.  One.  Two.  Three..."

Scott Guillory
Prone in roadway
Aimed fire on sentry on the left, follow-up shots as needed
Wilson Recon SR [30/30] - suppressed, 6x optic

In reply to Good Ol' Rae (msg # 79):

"Solid Copy Officer Lopez.  I'm going to leave my cruiser and walk back to Gould.  Hopefully they have some W D forty or some baby oil I can borrow.  Take care and have a great evening.  Rios, out," Tori said in response.  She was now convinced that whomever was in control of that ARDOC radio was not a fellow LEO.

Tori opened her door and walked up to Razorback and knocked on the side of the vehicle.  "Hey, I made contact with some asshole, who calls himself Lopez, but I'm sure he's just a jerk-off convict with a radio.  Make sure your folks are strapped for encryption or just stick to military channels and avoid any police bands,"  she offered to Skillins and Anderson.  Barring any follow-up, she returned to Bourbon Street.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 02:15, Sun 05 Aug 2018.

'Well, Officer Taco paid attention in radio class,' Anderson thought to himself when Rios mentioned radio encryption and channels.  He didn't have the heart to tell her that 90% of his gear was VHF, running NSA issued COMSEC type 1 encryption protocols, which he had personally loaded with a crazy ten before they departed.  Where as her civilian radio gear was UHF, running commercial AES encryption; which was being monitored in Razorback using a beat up TK5310 series handheld.

It made perfect sense to Cole.  Lower frequency radio waves traveled further than higher frequency waves.  VHF also had ground wave propagation characteristics, which allowed it to transmit further than simple line of sight transmission would allow.  For a cop though, UHF was the bees-knees.  In an urban environment, the smaller UHF waves could travel inside a building, through doorways and halls, something VHF had a much harder time doing, since the wavelength of VHF was typically 2 meters or larger.

"Got it.  I think we are good," Anderson offered, knowing that his comms to Cao and the other USAF members weren't going to be intercepted by some fuck-nugget escapee from what passed for Arkansas' Alcatraz.

'Fuck, I hope something kicks off soon.  I either need to blow someone away, or get laid,' Cole thought as he watched Rios walk way under the moonlight.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:53, Sun 05 Aug 2018.

"Mike's fine." Carswell replies when Watkins says yessir. The Albany, New York native has never been big on formality, preferring a relaxed first name environment whenever that's possible. "And if it makes you feel any better, neither was I." He grins. "It'll be cool. You just keep watching your side for now, and yell out if you see anyone moving around out there, OK?"

The paramedic then lapses into silence when the voice claiming to be Officer Lopez comes back on the radio and Rios deals with it. Mike's assessment matches with Tori's. If that guy is who he claims to be he'd be screaming for help. Even if he really was a CO and was talking with a gun to his head Carswell figures the cons would have tried to lure a cop - particularly a female cop - into an ambush rather than effectively telling her to get lost. Enjoy your fun while you can asshole. We're comin' for you.

Well tra-la-la, Carissa thinks, as she settles down onto the ground to the right of Guillory.  Instead of going prone, the cow girl sits and pulls herself into a modified pretzel, ankles linked together, rifle resting across her forearms and knees.  Her shoulder faces the the line of fire.  Moisture seeps into her jeans and she tries to focus more on the targets than the discomfort located at butt level.

"I've got right," she whispers back in confirmation.  The weapon itself is both familiar and unfamiliar.  A Remington in different caliber than her beloved .30-06, but the purpose is the same.  To reach and touch someone.  Terminally.  Hands find the scope covers, flipping them open.  Dials are turned to let the light in, as much as it can.  A final sweep with the NOD over her eye and that particular distraction is switched away, the memory of the target area filling into her shot selection.

Say goodbye, she thinks as the crosshair finds its target.  One less of you in the world.  The thought is half-bravado, half-self justification.

"Shooter ready," she confirms.  Her breath comes in and is held for the count.  Pressure is applied to the trigger.  The weapon kicks in her hand.


Carissa Noble
Engaging sentry on right
Kneeling with weapon supported
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
5/5, 40 rounds remaining

Guillory studies the figure on the left (the man sitting atop the hay roll) through his night vision monocular. He can make out detail to be confident that the man in the sight picture isn't just some hapless pig farmer. The subject appears to be wearing a jumpsuit, open almost to the waist, and he's got a rifle cradled in his lap. Guillory lines up the shot and squeezes the trigger. His target appears to flinch (or is this an effect of the recoil of the lawman's rifle), but remains otherwise nonplussed.

A split second later, Noble's borrowed bolt-action rifle bucks against her shoulder. Her target's left arm leaps away from his body; the man executes a clumsy half-spin, then falls to the ground close to the roadside canal, where he starts screaming in agony.

At this, the man atop the hay roll starts moving in earnest; Guillory's already lined him up for a second attempt. This time, the man lurches, then tumbles off the hay roll. His pained cries soon rise to join those of his wounded companion. Both sentries have been hit, but neither has been killed outright. They're making a lot of noise but it's possible that their cries can't be heard inside the farm compound, above the din of its porcine tenants.

Meanwhile, neither the Sierras waiting in the rescue vehicles, nor those back at the laager, sense anything out of the ordinary.

Guillory -2 rounds 5.56mm; C. Noble (c/o Guillory) -1 round 7mm-08


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:23, Mon 06 Aug 2018.

Lacking her NVG’s – she’d judged that Skillins’ need was greater than hers, for now at least - Lauren’s ears are telling her more than her eyes. The inmates have taken hits and now they’re making noise. But there’s a lot of background noise already going on. If anyone hears it maybe they’ll think it’s related to whatever’s going on at the pig farm. That’s what she hopes anyway.

”Good shot!” She hisses to Carissa Noble, in what’s intended to be motivational, encouraging. The Air Force officer is on one knee next to the younger woman. The thought crosses her mind that she has no clue whether or not Ms Noble has actually killed another human being before. She presumes yes, that it’s unlikely that she’s got this far into the War and is on the Governor’s Task Force without having been in a position where she has had to take a life, but Cao doesn’t know that for sure.

”Guillory, Noble finish them off!” The Mr and the Ms are dropped in favour of conciseness. ”Kabua! Watch our six. I’ve got the front!” All of them are wearing body armor and carrying weapons. And two of them don’t have NVG’s. The cons are going to have a lot of time to scream or yell out an alarm in the time it would take them to close on them. In Lauren’s mind finishing them off is legitimate. This isn’t a law enforcement operation where the aim is to capture the perps alive so they can stand trial. This is a military operation against armed enemy combatants.

Still on one knee the dark haired Air Force officer’s head moves from side to side as she peers into the moonlit night, watching for any movement or any obvious signs that anyone is aware of what’s going on down by the hay bales. She’ll leave it to the marksmen – correction, marksman and markswoman – to finish the job that they’ve started while she and Kabua shift their focus to watching for any sign that they’ve been discovered.

Lauren Cao
On one knee next to Ms Noble
Observing area in front of her / holding fire unless it’s obvious they’ve been spotted*, at which point she’ll engage any hostiles with multiple single shots
M4A1 (30/30)

*e.g. taking incoming fire, inmate pointing / raising the alarm
This message was last edited by the player at 09:01, Mon 06 Aug 2018.

Carissa wants to swear.  Watching the man's arm jerk away, knowing he's been wounded, possibly even fatally in this world, she still she's failed to make the mark she needed.  And that makes her angry.  That doubles when she has to stand up to re-acquire her target.

That anger isn't going to get you anywhere, kid. She's twelve and angry that she got thrown from a horse for the second time.  Saul is looking down at her, patient.  He prods her with a boot.  Get it together, Car.

A deep breath in, hunt for the squirming silhouette, aim, exhale, hold.

Squeeze.


Carissa Noble
Engaging sentry on right
Standing
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
4/5, 40 rounds remaining
This message was last edited by the player at 02:07, Tue 07 Aug 2018.

Scott lets his breath hiss out between his teeth as he pushes to a kneeling position.  No shot.  He rises to his feet, takes a target stance - ignores the D3 sling, it's lousy for supported shooting - finds the downed guard by his motions.  Clamps down on an unexpected surge of sympathy for the guy who's not bleeding out quickly enough.  He's made his choice.  This is finishing off a wounded animal now.

Stance, grip, sight picture.

Trigger control.

Scott Guillory
Standing in roadway
Aimed fire on sentry on the left, follow-up shots as needed
Wilson Recon SR [28/30] - suppressed, 1-6x variable optic

Rising to their feet in unison, the two Sierras with supressed weapons attempt to silence the screaming sentries. Noble squeezes the trigger, absorbs the recoil, hears a sound like a melon hitting the ground after being dropped from a great height. Her target stops moving, screaming.

Guillory needs three rounds to achieve a similar result.

Guillory -3 rounds 5.56mm; C. Noble (c/o Guillory) -1 round 7mm-08

The first obstacle has been eliminated. Silence returns, slow and heavy, interrupted only by intermittent pig squeals. There's no overt sign that the ruckus has been heard. Only time will tell.


Your Turn.

-

Lauren remains on one knee, the barrel of her M4 sweeping from left to right, watching her arcs as the sharpshooters finish the job. Her senses are heightened, adrenaline buzzing through her system as she watches for a counter attack that ultimately fails to materialise as the screaming is replaced by the grunting of pigs, the buzzing of some unseen insect somewhere to her left. The path to what's been dubbed the Alamo isn't open yet. But it's maybe slightly more ajar than it was a few minutes ago. Maybe.

The question is what to do next. The slim Air Force officer is painfully aware of the maxim that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Her plan hadn't factored in whatever was happening in the buildings north of them. If they pushed on to the Alamo they were leaving whoever was up there on their flank. Based on the intel they have - the source of which, two escaped cons, is admittedly shaky - she's reasonably confident that the JLTV would be able to brush off any threats coming from that direction. But the rest of their small convoy is another matter. If they come under fire they're likely to take casualties. Or run the risk of a vehicle being disabled.

"I want to check out that pig farm." She says quietly. It wasn't part of the original plan. But the plan has to evolve. And besides, maybe they can take out more of these murdering bastards. Memories of Carthage momentarily bob unbidden into her mind. That plan had evolved. She'd thought that she'd had a chance to cut off an entire Company of Allianza infantry. The Texas Guard Colonel had said afterwards that she had been reckless. Only he hadn't been quite as polite as that.

But this is different. Or at least so she thinks. A gloved finger keys her radio, the signal going over the VHF military network. "Drauger from Falcon. SITREP. Two enemy sentries kilo india alpha."  Enemy. Killed in action. It kind of legitimizes them in a way that she doesn't really want to do. "Moving to investigate suspected enemy presence north of our current position. Hold station for now. If you do need to move to support us tell -" what was Skillin's call sign? She can't remember. Fuck. Way to go Lauren. "- our driver to watch out for an IR chemlight in the road. Enemy believed to due north of that point. Over."

Once she's updated Anderson she turns back to the others, points to their north. "OK, let's go." There's a brief pause, no more than a second. "Mr Guillory, I need you to take point." Her voice is terse. She'd rather be on point herself. Leading from the front. Not asking / telling the Governor's right hand man to put himself into harm's way. But the civilians have better night vision, had the benefit of bringing their own privately acquired gear. The military in Arkansas, both the Air Force and State Guard components, have had to scrounge whatever they can find that hasn't been sent to Europe or the Far East, as evidenced by the fact that Cao, Watkins, Skillins, and Kabua have one set of NVG’s between them, hers, which she's had to loan to Skillins.

"I'll go next, then Kabua. Ms Noble, you're bringing up the rear. If we have to pull back Mr Guillory and I will put down suppressive fire then front pair fall back through the rear pair until we're out of contact." It sandwiched the two people without NOD's between the two people who had them. And if they had to fall back in a hurry Guillory could put down more rounds with his rifle than Ms Noble could with the Remington.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 22:15, Tue 07 Aug 2018.

The wet thump of a man dying replays over and over in Carissa's mind.  It's not the first man she's killed.  It is the first time she's considered herself on the offense instead of the defense.  Does that even matter?

The cowgirl shakes her head and concentrates on sliding two fresh bullets from the pouch attached to her vest and into the rifle, bringing its killing power back up to the maximum setting.  Rapist, she dubs the man that she "killed in action."  Murderer.  She can live with those labels.  She can life with the decision.

The wetness seeping into her pants seems like a very far away problem to deal with.  Thankfully, Cao's orders give her something else to think about.

"I've got the rear," she repeats.  "No problem."  This is where the big girls play, best get used to it.  Carissa clicks the NOD back down over her eye and lets out a sigh.  The green world feels less real.

"Two subjects down," Scott reports - unnecessarily, as Cao's SITREP hisses through his Sordins a moment after her spoken words, but he knows better than to assume.  He looks over at Carissa and gives her a curt nod as he swaps in a fresh magazine.  Five rounds down probably won't make a difference.  Probably.  Now would be a good time for a proactive reload, growls the ghost of his first defensive tactics instructor as he tucks the partial into his leftmost mag pouch.

"Roger that.  I've got point," he acknowledges.  As he turns and flips his NOD back down, he catches sight of the IR chemlight in his peripheral vision.  Belatedly, he checks his tac light by touch to ensure it's on its infrared setting.  At the time, it had seemed like an unnecessary extravagance, but he'd just been starting to play with night vision and had been trying to figure out his options.  Now he wishes he'd bought another three or four of them - along with an IR laser for the shots he just had to make.

Satisfied that he's not about to white out two sets of NVGs and flag the team's position to anyone with a pulse and three brain cells, he clicks on the invisible light and begins scanning the terrain ahead.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:11, Wed 08 Aug 2018.

The dismount team advances to the downed inmates. Guillory's target is still clinging to life, but just barely. It won't be much longer. Guillory finds the inmates' antiquated, prison-issued Mini-14 at the base of the hay bale a couple of meters from its most recent owner. The man whimpers something in Spanish while Guillory pats him down. There's nothing else on the man's person but a pornographic playing card and a plastic comb. Noble's target is dead beyond doubt, his head shattered into several glistening pieces. The young woman retrieves a Smith & Wesson M&P 40 semi-automatic pistol from the dead man's waistband. Neither of the recovered weapons has a spare magazine. The team then cuts north, skirting the moat of liquified pig shit, roughly following the packed dirt driveway that enters the compound from the east. The approach to the first of the farm outbuildings is dangerously exposed, the only cover available the contours of the earth or, for those unconcerned about their health, the "lake" of watery feces to the left of the road*.

The dismounts move cautiously into the compound, the guttural susurrus of restless live pigs growing with each footstep. The air temperature seems to rise a few degrees, the metal roofs of the livestock pens still radiating the day's stored solar energy. Ahead, they see the flickering orange glow of an open fire, hear brief snatches of speech. The pervasive smell of unwashed swine is now tinged with tantalizing hints of wood smoke and roasting pork. It's a mélange at turns both appetizing and sickening (mostly the latter).

The Sierras creep closer to the source. This seems to agitate some of the nearby livestock. Some snort nervously, others shuffle around their pens. In the tension of the situation, every sound, every movement screams of potential danger. The ability to differentiate, in the dark, between man and pig could spell the difference between life and death. The team moves into a position- the corner of a large shed- from which they have a decent view of the campfire. Four or five men surround it, two or three squatting, two standing. Beyond the fire, motion- others milling around. The nearby buildings might contain more. The compound is big- several acres, with over a dozen free-standing structures of various sizes. Someone laughs loud, others join in. The men seem blissfully unaware of what just befell the two sentries 500m (as the crow flies) to the southeast, or that the people responsible for their deaths are just over 100m away, lurking in the dark beyond the flames.

The dismounts don't see any firearms among the inmates, although if one were lying on the ground at their feet, it would be difficult to pick out. A blade or two glints in the firelight.

+1 Mini-14 rifle w/ one (??/30-round) magazine
+1 S&W M&P 40 pistol w/ one (??/15-round) magazine

*OOC: I read a story in Rolling Stone, some time in the last year, I think, about animal waste from some industrial farms in the south (I can't remember where). I do remember reading that several people had fallen into pools of animal waste and died, including a father who jumped in to rescue his son. Apparently, the fumes get you first, then you drown in it.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:46, Fri 10 Aug 2018.

Beads of sweat are trickling down Lauren Cao's forehead. She tries to ignore them, just like she's trying to ignore the humidity. And the stink. The occasional whiff of roast pork that drifts past her nostrils does nothing to assuage the other smells. If anything it's just serving to tease her. It's also pissing her off that there are people living in refugee camps elsewhere in Arkansas trying to eke out an existence while these convict scum have been sitting on top of all of this meat. In the harsh calculus of the post Apocalyptic United States they seem to have come out all right. Hopefully that's about to change.

The moment she sees the group gathered around the fire she realizes that she should have brought the M79, should have had Watkins hand it to her. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Her grandfather had probably used one when he'd fought the Communists. Next time she would make sure she had it. Even without the blooper they have a chance to drop more of the inmates, sow some confusion.

So far everything has gone according to plan. Cao is feeling confident right now. She looks to Guillory, points with her right index towards the standing man on their right. Her finger then draws an imaginary line across her own throat. He should see her finger clearly through his NVG's, the intent behind the gesture unmistakeable. A moment later she repeats the same signals with Carissa Noble, this time pointing towards the figure standing on their left. Then she pats Kabua on the shoulder, points to him and them then indicates the group of figures clustered around the fire before hissing to Scott. "We go on your mark."

Lauren takes a deep breath. Her heart is beating faster. She's committed them. They're approaching the PNR, point of no return. And it's all on her. Guillory might be setting it in motion but it was her decision to open fire. The dark haired Air Force officer steps out from behind the cover of the shed, takes several paces to her right before going down prone in the mud - or at least she hopes it's mud - and bringing her carbine up, seeking out the group of squatting figures gathered around the flames.

Lauren Cao
Taking a couple of steps north of current location and going prone
Aiming at figures squatting around fire / opening fire with multiple single shots on Guillory's mark
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (30/30)

Kabua nods. This is it, he thinks. His M4A1 isn't suppressed. He trusts that Cao knows this, has factored it into her plan. START Sierra is about to reveal itself to the neighborhood. And he's about to get his hands bloody. The young Marshallese-American has shot men before, but that was different. They were actively trying to kill him, and they weren't Americans. As he makes sure his rifle is set to auto fire, takes aim, he tells himself that the men around the campfire deserve to die, must have raped or murdered to be stuck in prison in the first place, probably killed again to get out. They're animals, worse -much worse- than the pigs whose shit stink fills his nostrils.

He doesn't quite believe it.

Jackson Kabua
Kneeling
Aiming at inmates squatting around the fire
Preparing to fire bursts into the assemblage

-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:52, Thu 09 Aug 2018.

"Understood.  Moving up."  The next outbuilding in line is crumpled at its eastern edge, the damage looking too old to be from the recent storm.  Whatever the original cause, it's an angular mass of roofing, 2x4s, and other material that should provide some degree of concealment and possibly even cover.  Scott eases forward into its shadow and takes a knee.

With his carbine resting on the juncture of two chunks of lumber, he settles in.  The firelight is enough for aiming cues once his eyes adjust to the jumping shadows.  He grinds a mental bootheel down on a flicker of unease.  He's already gone over this with Cao, given her his endorsement and, implicitly, Steve's.  There's no realistic way to take these guys into custody again.  Doesn't matter to his inner prosecutor.  Residual prewar legality and morality say this is murder.

On the other hand, lessons learned in New Orleans and since strongly suggest that a lot of prewar legal precedent is inapplicable to a civilization operating in survival mode.  Frontier justice obtains.  I'm your huckleberry.  His lips curl into an unwilling smirk.

"Sexton checking Falcon.  Initiate on my mark.  Stand by... mark."

Scott Guillory
kneeling in euphemistically-termed cover of outbuilding
aimed fire on standing subject to the right of the fire
Wilson Recon SR [31/30] - suppressed, 1-6x variable optic

Guess we're going to war.  That's a new experience for the cowgirl/cop-wannabe.  Still, it's not a big step from gunning down a sentry to shooting his buddies around a campfire.  The stench of pig waste still hangs in the humid air and the young woman is sweating under the weight of everything she's carrying.  At least most of the weight is physical.  For now.

Carissa steps to the side, finding a spot at the corner of the outbuilding.  Kneeling, she pushes her left hand hard against the wall and rests the barrel of her borrowed rifle on her thumb for a makeshift bi-pod.  The fire the men are enjoying illuminates her target nicely, although she tries not to look at her target's face when the cross-hairs land on his chest.

Okay, dump this guy, then sweep in.  Keep runners from getting away.  You got this. Carissa's heart is pounding in her ears and she has to slow her breathing down all over again.  It reminds her of those few seconds right before the shoot opens and you're left holding on to a mustang for eight seconds.  Eight thousand heartbeats.

Her right hand reaches down briefly and touches the ammo pouch on her vest, sealing in the muscle memory, then she's back on the rifle, finger resting lightly on the trigger as Scott starts his call.

You don't get to kill anyone else, she tells her target.  And pulls the trigger.

Carissa Noble
Engaging inmate on the left
kneeling supported
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
5/5, 38 rounds remaining
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 23:49, Thu 09 Aug 2018.

The Sierra dismount team steps out of cover, taking aim at the firelit inmate assemblage. One of the inmates spots them, movement in the dark beyond the edge of the campfire's useful illumination. But he hesitates, perhaps unsure of himself. It's too late, anyway. Almost as one, the Sierras open fire.

Guillory's second shot elicits a spray of blood and brain-matter, his target goes limp, falls hard. Cao produces almost identical results with her first shot. Her primary target's head snaps back and he drops to the ground. Through the scope of her borrowed bolt-action rifle, Carissa Noble sees a puff of atomized fabric and blood erupt from the left hip of her target. The inmate stumbles and falls, clutching at the ugly wound. At least one or two rounds of Kabua's first burst find a target. One of the inmates squatting between the Sierras and the campfire pitches over, face-first, into the flames. One or two more inmates fall, as the Sierras pour more rounds into the seething mass. In the popular idiom, it's a fucking massacre.

At this point, everything gets fuzzy. Somewhere, an inmate, presumably outside the ring of firelight, shouts a tardy alarm. One of the wounded inmates screams, overcome by the agony of multiple bullet wounds. A few agitated pigs join in, creating an eerie syncopated chorus. Through his NVGs, Guillory spots movement in the darkness beyond the bright green glow of the campfire. At least one inmate is sprinting away from the kill zone, heading south. The lawman tries to bring the runner down, but the inmate outruns the shots, makes it to cover. The trouble with the NVGs is their relatively narrow fields of view. Those operating without the benefit of NODs note hints of movement in their peripheral vision. Whether the source be inmates or pigs, it's hard to know.

Back on board Razorback and Bourbon Street, the vehicle crews clearly hear the chatter of rapid gunfire. Anderson, up in the J-LTV's turret, spots a light to the east. The single light gradually resolves into two- a single pair of headlights- about a mile-and-a quarter down the road. The two bright glows seem set unusually close to one another, and they're getting brighter. The airman strains to hear anything other than the gunfire from the [relatively] nearby farm complex. He can't just barely make out a high-pitched growl (it becomes clearly audible if/when the Sierra dismounts cease firing). Based on the available evidence, Anderson guesses that the vehicle is some sort of ATV (like a utility side-by-side). It's too soon for any sort of organized inmate reaction force; the timing of the vehicle's appearance is likely coincidental. It's possible that whoever is operating the vehicle didn't/hasn't heard the gunfire from the pig pens yet.

Guillory -9 rounds 5.56mm; Cao -6 rounds 5.56mm; C. Noble -2 rounds 7mm-08; Kabua -10 rounds 5.56mm


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 18:45, Sat 11 Aug 2018.

Lauren isn’t thinking of it as a massacre as the shooting starts and inmates start going down. These are the same murderers and rapists who – presuming the story they got from the two other inmates under custody in Grady is true – told the guards that they and their families would be able to leave unharmed if they surrendered the prison then slaughtered them. The same animals – she can’t think of them as people – who went through Varner village like a pack of locusts, destroying whatever was in their path. So as far as Lauren Cao is concerned this is most certainly not a massacre. It’s justice. Her only regret is that there aren’t more of them in her sights.

”Arkansas State Guard!” The Air Force Captain scrambles up to one knee and yells at the top of her voice as the shooting momentarily halts. Her eyes continue to search the darkness for any sign of movement as she continues. ”You are surrounded!” That wasn’t even close to being accurate, but the inmates couldn’t know that. ”You have one chance to surrender! Come out now, with your hands in the air.” The words almost stick in her throat. But if they do give themselves up it’s easier than hunting them down in the dark. But there’s a large part of her hopes that they don’t. ”Any Correction Officers here, make yourselves known!” And be prepared to have a gun pointed at you until we verify that you really are a CO...

While she waits for any responses her left hand moves from the foregrip of her carbine to key her radio. Her right hand stays on the trigger guard, her finger poised to fire at any movement that isn’t quite clearly a surrendering inmate. The tie here most certainly does not go to the runner. ”Drauger, Falcon. Enemy engaged. Start moving towards our position. Engage any enemy you see. No warning shots. We are guns hot. Over.”

Lauren Cao
On one knee
Communicating / firing on any movement that’s not clearly a surrendering* inmate with multiple single shots
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (24/30)

*Definition of surrendering is hands high in the air. Any inmates who do not have their hands high in the air get one chance to comply unless they’re within fifteen feet of her, in which case they get zero chance to comply

Duane had been growing increasingly restless by the time the call to move up comes in. His body wants to sleep, but the adrenaline percolating through his system has him on edge. "What the hell's a Drauger, anyway?" Skillins says out loud. Duane wonders if the Captain's forgotten his own call sign, Rebel.

He doesn't wait for Anderson to repeat the order. Military horseshit, he considers that sort of senselessly redundant protocol-for-its-own-sake. He pops Razorback into gear and applies gentle pressure to the accelerator, easing the armored beast forward.

Here comes the cavalry.

Duane Skillins
Razorback (driver's seat), using borrowed NVGs
[Holstered] Remington 1911 R1 Enhanced Double Stack (16/15)
Advancing to the first chem light

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:59, Sat 11 Aug 2018.

Jackson is almost positively certain that he's just shot a man- possibly unarmed- in the back. At the moment, he's too busy scanning the darkness for danger to continue mulling it over, but the thought is there, gestating in the back of his mind like an alien parasite, patiently preparing to consume him from the inside out.

There could be more of them out there, armed like the sentries back at the causeway. He spots sudden movement in (or behind) the pen to the northwest, fires another 5-round burst in that direction.

Jackson Kabua
Kneeling
M4A1 (15/30)
Firing a burst at movement to the northwest

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This message was last edited by the player at 03:17, Sat 11 Aug 2018.

"It's an undead nordic warrior.  And before you ask, nordic refers to people from the north.  Like Vikings.  Or any kind of baddassery coming down from the north.  Like Union Troops.  You know, the dudes who put down your little rebellion," Anderson said, ending with a snort.

"Drauger to Falcon, solid copy.  Cletus McSisterBanger has us Buster to your position, Break," Cole secretly hoped that Cletus McSisterBanger would now become Skillins de facto callsign.  After a breath and without releasing the PTT button, he continued.

"Drauger to all stations, I have visual on a small vehicle, probable ATV, one mile out, heading toward our last location.  Loba, if you aren't following us in, then you guys might have to deal with it.  Drauger, out."

With that, Cole turned the H2HB toward the farm house and started searching for targets.

Cole Anderson
Turret Gunner Position
M2HB [105/105]
1x5-rd burst at any armed target seen near/on/by the house.

"Anyone ever seen Con Air?" Carswell asks the occupants of the Chevy as he watches for any sign of movement outside. "Great movie. Old but great. Almost as good as The Rock. The movie, not the guy that ran to be Governor of California in 2024."

Any further conversation about the merits of various Nicolas Cage movies is interrupted by Anderson's radio message. When the Tech Sergeant's transmission has ended Carswell leans back, looks at Tori. "Maybe Officer Lopez decided to send some of his buddies to help out the chica with the flat after all." The medic very much doubts that it's a Cameron Poe type headed their way. He very much doubts that there are any Cameron Poes left in the Arkansas penal system given the Governor's 2027 amnesty that had paroled non violent felons. "I'm game if you want to take them out."

Bit late for that ma'am, Carissa thinks with a tiny bit of humor.  The blackest humor she can muster given the screams coming at them.  Besides, she has no illusions what they'd do to her if she surrendered.  Death would be far better.  The screams of the injured and pigs she's pretty sure she'll remember for the rest of her life.  Because that sound is fucked.

"I can hold this point and cover if you want to advance," she says to Cao.  "This rifle is going to be crap in close." And with the enemy help still a mile out, they should have some time before she needs to shift fire to the rear.

The farm girl risks pulling her eye away from the scope and sweeps the NOD across her field of vision, trying to make sure they're not about to have any uninvited guests to the hose-down.  Then she starts looking for targets again, trying to block out the noise.

Carissa Noble
Engaging any targets spotted, flankers first.
kneeling supported
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
3/5, 38 rounds remaining

"Alright, we're doing this. Check your seatbelts and remember, once we pull them over, they're our problem until they're not.  I'm gonna flip a bitch, so hang on, here we go," Tori said.  Simultaneously, she reached for the column shifter and selected drive as she rapidly palmed the steering wheel to the left until it couldn't go any further.  With her heel planted in the floorboard, she pivoted her toes from the brake peddle to the accelerator.  Rios pressed forward deliberately and smoothly with her right foot.  The 14,000 pound SUV slowly started to pick up speed as it made a U-turn then accelerated out to follow the road.

"Bourbon Street's moving to deal with the vehicle, out," Tori said after grabbing the radio handset.  She quickly returned it to the center dash, letting her hands take up 10 and 2 positions again.  As the vehicle covered the distance to the ATV, Rios was careful not to get too focused on the target vehicle, instead she glanced between it and where she wanted to the Suburban to go, spending a bit more time on the later, as she knew that if she kept her eyes trained toward the route, her hands would be inclined to take her there.  Developing tunnel vision on a vehicle or threat was a good way to end up driving directly toward that vehicle or threat.  Instead, Rios had been taught to focus primarily on drivable terrain and where she wanted her vehicle to go.

"Don't be afraid to call out if you see a weapon," she said to the others in the Black SUV.  "When we get close, we're going Code 3 with lights and sirens," she added.

Tori Rios
Driver's Seat of Bourbon Street
Driving toward the ATV.  Kicking on lights and sirens 150 meters out.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:39, Sun 12 Aug 2018.

"Stop or we'll shoot some more," escapes Scott's lips, too low for anyone else to hear without electronic ear pro.  His own Sordins have notched out the gunfire while leaving lower volumes unimpeded, so he can hear the screaming better than the rest of the team.  Thankfully, it doesn't sound like anyone's trying to organize a response over there - yet.

"Sexton checking Falcon and Drauger.  We've got at least one runner heading south.  I do not have eyes on."

Scott Guillory
kneeling in euphemistically-termed cover of outbuilding
aimed fire on anyone visibly armed
Wilson Recon SR [22/30] - suppressed, 1-6x variable optic

"Copy that." Carswell replies, drawing his own seat belt over and rattling it home as the vehicle begins to turn. He'd had it undone in case he needed to get out in a hurry, or move over to let someone else get in quickly. He then turns his head towards Watkins. "Probably better with your carbine rather than the blooper for this, Chevelle."

As they speed up the medic raises his right hand above the door and grabs the oh shit handle above it, his left hand holding onto the carbine that rests across his lap, the selector set to SAFE. For the moment.

Carswell
Aboard Bourbon Street, first row of passenger seats, right hand side
Watching headlights getting closer

"Falcon copies all. Out." Lauren releases her PTT switch, nods to Carissa. "Make sure you keep me in sight at all times." The Air Force officer is wary about splitting up her already small team. At least the IR National flag on her upper left sleeve and the twin IR tabs on the back of her Enhanced Combat Helmet should show up as clear as day in Ms Noble's - and Mr Guillory's - NVG's, allowing the other woman to keep track of her movements but be invisible to the naked eye.

"Falcon moving forward!" Calling out to alert the others, Cao rises to her feet and begins to move forward, cautiously, her carbine sweeping from left to right ahead of her as she moves, finger poised on the trigger, ready to engage anyone coming out of the darkness.

Lauren Cao
Rising and slowly moving forward (due west of current position)
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (24/30)
Firing on any movement that’s not clearly a surrendering inmate and / or self identifies as a CO with multiple single shots

Razorback rolls forward, on a delayed collision course with the oncoming UTV. Bourban Street is close behind the J-LTV. Anderson looks left, sees a human figure scurrying around one of the massive livestock pens. The subject does not appear to be armed, but it's hard to be sure. The .50 should have no problem reaching out and taking the presumed inmate apart but, from a moving platform (range, 300-400m), it won't be an easy shot- any long or through rounds could carry dangerously, jeopardizing the Sierra dismounts downrange.

The approaching UTV is just about to start its turn on to the road leading into the farm complex. Bourban Street's pursuit path is currently blocked by the hulking J-LTV. Something appears to catch the UTV driver's eye. He stops abruptly, then edges forward a bit(just bypassing the turnoff), headlights illuminating the large roll of hay.

Covered by Guillory, Noble, and Kabua, Cao moves forward in the general direction of the sputtering campfire. Four inmates are down and laying still (one half-in the campfire), a fifth is on his side and screaming in agony. Looking right, Cao sees pigs darting about nervously within their pens. To her left is a slab-sided, enclosed shed, beyond it, another long building with a semi-exposed interior. In the dark, this compound is like a maze, many of its walls grunting and undulating eerily (an effect of the milling swine). An inmate laying in the muck of the pigpens will be very difficult to pick out.

Back at the laager, the remaining Sierra's and their Gradyite auxiliaries hear the distant pop of gunfire from their teammates' assault. If they can hear it from almost two miles away, it's likely at least a few of the inmates in and around Cummings Village can too.


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 20:53, Sun 12 Aug 2018.

Booted feet carry Lauren forward until she's within a few feet of the screaming inmate. Training her carbine on him, she looks for any weapons that may be within his reach, or at least any that she can see in the dark before speaking to him. "Answer my questions and I get you a medic. Don't answer them and I leave you here. How many of you are there here? How many firearms? Any guards being held prisoner?" The barrel of the carbine hasn't wavered.

Lauren Cao
Advancing towards wounded inmate / covering him / questioning him
Any suspicious movements will get him 2 x doses of 5.56mm instantaneous pain relief to the temple
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (24/30)
This message was last edited by the player at 18:13, Sun 12 Aug 2018.

The wounded inmate's eyes dart and roll, his face screwed into a rictus of pain. He looks vaguely Hispanic, his neck and face dotted with small tattoos. Blood is pouring from his shattered pelvis, his clutching hands failing to staunch the flow. The stink of his companion's roasting flesh rises to stick in Cao's nostrils. There's a knife on the ground next to the wounded man. Another glints on the far side of the smoking fire. What looks like pieces of a butchered pig spill out of an upended plastic bucket. A hunk of meat skewered by a metal rod of some sort dangles precariously over the campfire. Cao repeats her questions.

"Argh!"

The USAF officer repeats herself, again.

"What? I don't know, like eight or nine? Please, help me!"

Again.

"I ain't got no guns. I'm bleeding! Argh!"

And again.

"Guards? In the town! Come on lady, I'm dying!"

The inmate's voice is getting weaker, color draining from his face. He's rapidly going into shock.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:27, Mon 13 Aug 2018.

Lauren bends down while the prisoner is talking, scoops up the knife next to the him in a gloved hand, secures it - carefully - to a vacant loop on her plate carrier vest.  When he's finished speaking there's a pause. It probably only lasts a few seconds although it feels like longer to her as she looks at the man, sees the consequences of her orders while her nostrils are filled with the smell of burning flesh.

She's no expert but it looks unlikely to her that her single IFAK is going to make much impression on his wound. Maybe Carswell can stabilize him. If he lasts until the medic gets here. Whenever that might be. Any whiff of sympathy is rapidly suppressed by the thought that maybe this motherfucker killed and raped defenseless people in Varner when the escaped inmates had went on their orgy of destruction. Lauren shakes her head. This is a fucking mess. Guillory and the others probably think she's a homicidal maniac. That's not who she is. But their lives are her responsibility. Fuck it, if she gets out of this she's requesting a transfer to the Texas Front.

Her hand reaches for her radio. "All callsigns from Falcon. Estimated enemy strength eight or nine, say again eight or nine. Five accounted for." It's a sterile way of saying they're dead. Or soon will be. "No firearms recovered." She could just imagine that being picked over in Little Rock when they read the After Action Reports. "Cannot confirm whether the others are armed or not. Prisoner says there are no guards here. Out."

Releasing the PTT switch, she looks down at her prisoner, slings her rifle and reaches to her vest. "The medic is on his way." Cao says, extracting a set of flex cuffs from her LBE. It's what she'd promised. "You fuck with me before he gets here and you won't need to worry about him. Am I clear?" The dark haired Air Force officer then goes down to one knee, reaches for the inmate's hands so that she can cuff him.

Lauren Cao
On one knee next to prisoner
Securing his hands with flex cuffs (preferably behind his back, in front of his body if that's the only option)
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (24/30) (slung)

+1 Knife
-1 Zip Tie
This message was last edited by the player at 22:07, Sun 12 Aug 2018.

"Eight or nine, huh?" Carissa mumbles.  That's most of them bleeding in the dirt or running.  Her ears are ringing, the pigs are screaming, and roast pork is making her stomach rumble.  Not really combat from any book she's read.  Or maybe it's combat from them all.  She continues with her head on a swivel, peering into the dark, looking for threats or targets.

Carissa Noble
Engaging any targets spotted, flankers first.
kneeling supported
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
3/5, 38 rounds remaining

Saul's guts tighten at the sound of gunfire.  He's youngest is out there, probably in the thick of it, and he can't do anything to protect her.  By now, he muses, he should be used to the sensation.  Carissa has always danced to the beat of her own drum, trying to prove something to the world, or herself, or maybe just him (if he's being honest with himself).  She's never been aware that she didn't have to prove anything to anyone.

While she was growing up, Saul watched her ride horses, lift weights, shoot guns, ride rodeo, play sports, and try to follow in his footsteps.  Maybe most dangerously, she dated cowboys.  And that he really did hate.  But she was going to do what she was going to do.  And she'd been in gunfights before.  Heck of a father, I am, he smiles grimly.   But when the world goes to shit, it kinda throws your other plans off.  And she would have been a cop anyway.

Now he was facing another moment of soul searching, having to trust that he'd done everything he could to prepare her for these moments.  So he stands in the dark, wiping the sweat off his palms, one hand at a time, on his pants leg and grips his shotgun mutely.

Anderson calls out the lone pig pen contact on the radio, but he doesn't engage.  The 50 cal weapon system is for groups, vehicles, ripping up houses, and the like.  Wasting it on a single person, unless they were a high value target would be, well, a waste.

"Draguer to all stations, I've got one target moving near the livestock pens to our north.  The JTLV will be a better backstop for your small arms fire than your plate carriers will be for my fifty-cal fire, so feel free to engage.  Draguer, out.

Cole Anderson
Turret Gunner Position
M2HB [105/105]
1x5-rd burst at any armed target seen near/on/by the house.

Tori stayed behind the JTLV for now, keeping about two vehicle lengths between them.  Since they were both headed toward the ATV, there was no sense in performing even a low-risk overtake, as there was no need to at this point.

Tori Rios
Driving FAV SUV
Driving safely behind the JTLV

Scott's internal prewar prosecutor winces internally when Cao reports she hasn't recovered any guns from the campfire scene.  On the other hand, escapees, etc., etc., and if four of them are still out there...

"Yeah, that math sucks," he says in response to Carissa's comment.  He does a quick mental inventory of suppressed weapons, NODs, and radios and makes a decision.  "Hey, Kabua.  Watch Miz Noble's back.  I'm gonna give the captain some coverage."  He waits for an acknowledgement, then stands and moves forward, keying up as he goes.

"Sexton checking Falcon.  I'm moving up to your location.  Rawhide and Chef have our backs."

Scott Guillory
moving to Cao's position, watching the shadows
snap shots on any aggressors
Wilson Recon SR [22/30] - suppressed, 1-6x variable optic

Xandra stands with her arms crossed across her plate carrier, trying not to twitch.  She's dealt with felons before - hell, she's dated felons before - but this is different.  In her mind's eye, the night is crawling with guys who she imagines would like to, as the old show used to say, rape her to death, eat her flesh, and sew her skin into their clothing.  "And if we're very, very lucky, they'll do it in that order," she mutters.

She shivers despite the night's oppressive humid heat, then reluctantly pulls a packet of her diminishing supply of Nicorette from her cargo pocket and pops a piece out of the foil.  The nicotine hit is enough to return focus, and she's reminded that she's not exactly defenseless out here.  She hefts her Colt and walks over to Saul, who looks like he could use some distraction anyway.

"Hey," she says as the distant gunfire trickles off without an urgent medic call on the radio.  "So this may be a bad time to ask, but what do I need to know about gunfights?  'cause I know how this thing works," she'd had to demonstrate that skill on a controlled range before being allowed into the Task Force, "but I kinda get the feeling that OJT isn't the best option here."

The Sierra AV's maintain their course and speed, moving towards the intersection marked by the large round hay bales. The UTV remains stationary for a few more seconds, until the J-LTV rolls to within about 200m. At that point, the UTV executes a sudden, tight, noisy U-turn, and begins racing back towards the cluster of farm buildings due north of Grady town, the pitch of its engine rising with the exertion (current range from Razorback: 200-250m and opening). If it hasn't been already, the alarm looks likely to be raised.

Meanwhile, Cao secures the wounded prisoner. Moaning, he swats at her hands feebly, splattering the USAF officer with his blood, but he doesn't have the strength to resist long or hard. As Cao cuffs him, she can see, in the flickering orange light of the sputtering campfire, bright red blood pulsing out of the jagged hole in his upper thigh- a strong indication that his femoral artery has been severed. At the pace he's losing blood, he probably won't make it to Carswell's arrival. Guillory arrives at the campfire kill zone, with Carissa Noble and Kabua hanging back to provide cover. Anderson pipes in over the team net, reporting a probable inmate hiding behind a structure roughly southwest of the campfire, but the airman couldn't confirm whether the subject is armed. As of yet, the individual has taken no aggressive action.

Back at the laager, Ed Armstrong, the former U.S. Army tanker and current Grady militiaman looks at the M1078A1 LMTV and says, "No offense, but I wish I had my old M1A1 right about now."


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 01:34, Wed 15 Aug 2018.

Cao wipes a hand on her multicam pants to try and get rid of some of the blood that is on her combat gloves as she rises to her feet. Unslinging her rifle, the barrel moves to point in the general direction of the runner that Anderson had called in. Whether the wounded inmate at her feet survives or not – and she judges it highly unlikely – is out of her control so it’s time to move on to the next problem.

With Guillory backing her up they could probably outflank the unseen figure, try and take him down. He could try and make a run for it but he wouldn’t out run a bullet. Shoot a possibly unarmed man in the back as he tries to make a run for it? She would. She knows that. And live with the consequences later. They’d probably all have to live with the consequences of what they’ve done this evening. What she’s told them to do. And what they’ll probably still have to do before they come out on the other side. But hey, you have to be alive to live with the consequences.

Going after the runner is going to take time though. Time that they don’t really have. The vehicles are inbound and the Alamo is the big picture. This is a distraction, Albeit a potentially useful one. Her plan is still evolving. Click on File, Save As, Version 1.4. Maybe 1.5. If they can make the enemy think they’re under attack in this area rather than around the Alamo that’s a win. If they can make the enemy think they are under attack in multiple locations simultaneously that’s a win win.

The dark haired Air Force officer raises her voice, calls out to the darkness, in the direction of the reported runner. ”You there! Come out with your hands up and you will not be harmed! If we have to come after you then you will be shot. You have my word.” He won’t. She doesn’t plan on going after him. There isn’t time. He doesn’t know that though. Neither does Guillory for that matter. Her eyes flick to the Governor’s right hand man, her head shaking quickly to try and verbally communicate her intent to him. If the man stays where he is he lives to fight another day. But if he does give himself up then they have another prisoner to interrogate back in Grady.

And if he runs she already knows what she’ll do.

Lauren Cao
Standing, next to wounded prisoner
Trying to Persuade (3/8) unseen figure to give himself up
• If he surrenders will search him then restrain him with handcuffs (not zip ties) in anticipation of getting him into Bourbon Street
• If he runs opening fire with multiple single shots if she has LOS but will not give pursuit
• If he doesn’t do anything at all will hold position until vehicles arrive (or another situation develops)
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (24/30)

"Firefight 101?" Saul asks Murray.  He takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh.  His eyes don't really leave their focus on the horizon for a few seconds after he registers the woman's presence.  Finally, he does turn and take in the Colt pistol being casually carried in the punk's hands.  "Well, better now than when the bullets start."

The older man shifts his weight and breathes again, like he's trying to come up with something profound.  "Your world is going to get screwy.  Sounds will be weird, time will shift.  Expect it, accept it.  It's normal."  Saul looks hard at Murray again, really searching.  "You'll probably move through that part quick.  You've got the look.  But look, I'm not a Navy SEAL or anything, either.

"You're best bet is probably to stay out of the way and let the pro's around here do most of the work.  It's a young...person's game," he's obviously thinking about his daughter with those words.  "That's why I'm back here, too." A smile at that.

"Everybody is scared.  Use your opportunities to scare the other guy worse, so he'll freeze or panic.  Move to cover.  Let your people know what you're doing.  Follow their orders. Shoot to kill."  He pauses again, this time tapping his hip, the source of his damn limp.  "And if you get hit, keep fighting.  You can keep fighting, even if it hurts like nothing you've felt before. Except for maybe some of your piercings."  There's a sparkle in his eye at the last.

Saul rolls his shoulders to relax his muscles a bit and release the tension in his jaw.  "Well, Ed my man," he says to Armstrong, "the good news is most of these folks can't tell the difference anyway.  But, yeah, sitting behind three feet of steel would be a warm fuzzy wouldn't it." 

Anderson decides not to expend any of the STAR team's supply of hard-to-get .50 rounds attempting to shut down the rapidly fleeing UTV. Besides, the distinctive jackhammer report of the heavy machine gun will likely announce the state government's arrival just about as well as the panicked UTV driver. The UTV's brake lights fade into the distance, along with the whiny growl of its engine.

Behind the wheel of the J-LTV, Skillins passes the phosphorescent green glow of the IR stick waypoint, turning left on to the farm compound's crushed gravel drive. Rios follows in Bourbon Street.

Meanwhile, Cao's attempt to flush the hiding inmate with diplomacy is met with silence, interrupted weakly by the fast-fading moans of the dying prisoner; Guillory doesn't spot the runner through his NOD. The Sierra armored vehicles roll into the compound, stopping just shy of Noble and Kabua. By the time Carswell dismounts and gets to the wounded inmate, the dying man is breathing his last. The inmate who'd been shot into the fire is burning slowly from the sternum up, the stink of singed hair and roasting man-flesh rising to mix with the pervasive stench of dozens, if not hundreds, of frightened pigs.

The Sierra rescue team has used surprise, speed, and its night-vision capability to eliminate two firearm-equipped sentries*, and kill five additional inmates, at least two of which were armed with knives (a cursory search of the other corpses will produce an assortment of shivs and shanks). Assuming that the spooked UTV driver is acting as an inmate Paul Revere, the convicted violent offenders in and around Cummings Village will soon know that the long arm of the law is reaching out to smite them.

*Captured firearms added to team inventory.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:11, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

"Alright." Lauren Cao announces when the vehicles have rolled to a halt. "Everybody mount up and let's get moving." There's nothing more to see here. Her attempts to persuade the hiding inmate to give himself up have apparently fallen on deaf ears and there's still over a hundred other inmates running wild out there somewhere.

"Mr Guillory, Razorback will take point for the run down to where the guards are, have Ms Rios stay close to us. When we get in close I need one of you to get on the PA and tell those guards that it's friendlies that are inbound." She doubts that the guards are armed with anything that will cause serious damage to either of their vehicles but there's no point in taking chances. Or wasting ammunition. "Make sure everyone in your vehicle is accounted for before we leave." She'll apologize later for stating the obvious but this is her first firefight with these civilians so she's taking nothing for granted.

The Air Force Captain then moves to the JLTV, climbs up into the front passenger seat, looking back and up towards Anderson as she buckles herself in. "Nice to see you, Sergeant. Next stop is the house where we believe the guards are holding out. We're on point. If you see any movement anywhere except around that house open fire. No need to wait for me to confirm. And shoot to kill. My responsibility." In other words if Anderson shoots an unarmed man - or a guard, although she judges it unlikely that any guards will be sneaking around in the fields - she's picking up the check. "You got that Skillins? Make for the house the guards are at. If anyone gets in our way do not stop. That's an order." If anyone tries to flag them down the way the two perps back at Grady did they had better be ready to get out of the way before three tons of JLTV hits them.

Following her own advice her head then swivels to make sure that Kabua has retaken her seat before she reaches for her radio. "Sexton from Falcon. Ready to go? Over." Once Guillory gives the word Cao will nod to Skillins. "Let's roll."

Cao
Giving the order to move when Guillory confirms everyone is aboard his vehicle (that presumes Kabua has boarded Razorback)
Instructing driver not to stop for any attempted diversions

"Not much I can do for this dude." Mike Carswell remarks, standing over the cuffed inmate as he draws his last breaths. Sure, he can probably give him something to send him on his way with no pain. But hey, shit like that is in short supply, and the paramedic fully expects to encounter more deserving cases before the night is out. And besides, it's probably only going to save the motherfucker a few minutes of suffering. Idly Carswell wonders what he did to end up in Varner. Almost certainly something unpleasant. The dude is probably more like Cyrus the virus than Cameron Poe.

GI Jane is already yelling for everyone to get back in the vehicles. That's fine with Mike. His nostrils are being assailed with the smell of roasting meat - and it's not just pork - and in his ears there's a cacophony of squealing pigs. The medic is briefly tempted to suggest that they try and grab one for later - can you taser a pig? - but he gets the feeling that the Air Force chick  probably won't appreciate the humor so lets it slide. He has a checkered past with military officers as it is.

"Vaya con Dios, motherfucker." The medic says quietly before turning on his heel, and moving back to the Ford, climbing back into his seat.

Scott looks at the collection of improvised blades laid out on the ground around the expired convicts and shrugs profoundly.  "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," he tells Cao softly as he changes magazines.  "They had their chance to do something other than play viking."

He swings back into the Suburban and glances over his shoulder to verify that the two thuds of armored doors indicate that Carswell and the younger Noble are back aboard.  "Hey, guys," he says, ignoring the fact that three-quarters of his audience is not, in fact, guys in the literal sense.  "Just so everyone's up to speed: seven subjects down, no damage to the visiting team.  We had four more runners from the campfire.  The game plan is for us to roll in behind the mil folks and ID ourselves when we're close enough."

He taps the controller box for the vehicle's lights and siren/PA for emphasis, then picks up the vehicle's radio mic at Cao's hail.  "Sexton's 10-4.  Standing by."  He releases the key, then frowns as he thinks ahead to the next steps.  "Falcon, further.  We may need to make direct contact to verify IDs and assess medical conditions.  Recommend contact team as myself, Doc, Rawhide."

"Sexton, copy all." Cao's disembodied voice crackles over the airwaves in response. "Appro -" she bites off what she had been about to say, replaces it with something more appropriate for the nature of their hierarchy. "Agreed. Razorback will take up position to put down suppressive fire on any enemy concentrations. I'll dismount with Chef to provide additional security. Tell Cleveland to join me when we're on the scene. Over."

Beside her Skillins already has the JLTV moving forward. Leaning back, Lauren calls out an update to the other occupants as the pig farm begins to pass by the window. "OK, Skillins, when we get on scene pull over and give Bourbon Street room to move up to the house. I'll dismount with Kabua. Watkins will join us and we'll engage targets of opportunity. Sergeant Anderson, you're in charge of the vehicle. Choose your own targets. Skillins, manouever as the Sergeant directs. Everyone clear?" She's hoping that when they come under fire from a combination of the M2 and the M79 that Watkins is carrying the inmates will rapidly lose the will to put up a fight and disappear into the night.

"Yes, ma'am," Duane responds, a little hurt that he didn't receive the same friendly greeting from the captain as Anderson did. The fit of pique passes quickly, replaced by anticipation. This is startin' to get good, he thinks. The ex-con already consideres the J-LTV as his own- lord knows he put in the man-hours to get her up and running again; he's eager to see what she can do when the lead starts flying.

With all of the Sierra dismounts accounted for and back on board either of the armored vehicles, Duane executes a tight U-turn, reverse leapfrogs Bourbon Street, and exits the farm compound via the same crushed gravel drive he rolled in on. He turns left at the intersection, back on to the east-west road leading towards the north end Cummings village. The native-Arkansan hasn't seen the drone-cam footage so, when he arrives at the first turn, he slows down and calls up to the gunner,

"Yo, Zombie Viking, this our turn?"

See map.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 20:12, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

Cole nodded when the Cao laid out her plan.  "Understood Captain," he responded to the ROE.

As the two vehicle convoy started to make their way toward the house, Anderson kept a keen out for any one moving.  When Skillins called up about the route, he swung the M2HB toward the southern field.

"We can turn right or go straight.  We spotted five suspected hostiles straight though, so if we want to maximize the element of surprise, we should turn here," he replied.  It was a response designed to give Cao the final say, if she wanted the team to engage the group ahead of them.

Cole Anderson
JLTV Turret
M2HB [105/105]
While in transit, engaging any group of 2 or more armed hostiles with 1x5-rd burst, unless it would jeopardize the friendly house/personnel inside, or any dismounted friendlies.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:12, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

"Take the first right." Cao says without hesitation, endorsing Anderson's suggestion. The Air Force Captain then sits tight, adrenalin rushing through her system as Skillins takes the indicated turn and they head straight into harm's way, knowing that in a few short minutes she'll be getting out of the armored protection that the JLTV offers.

Jackson thinks to eject the partially-emptied magazine from his carbine and replace it with a fresh one. He'd been pretty well rattled earlier, but he feels a bit better now, in the close, well-armored confines of Razorback, surrounded by competent, seemingly confident people. The discovery of the assorted prison blades on the dead escapees also mitigated his guilt about shooting a man in the back. If the team's intel is good, the remaining inmates were all rapists and killers before the prison break. Add to that what they'd done during and after breaking out...

Fuck 'em.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 20:41, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

Skillins turns right on to the dirt road, the two-vehicle convoy proceeding south-southeast. As they near the first intersection, a sharp metallic clang on the other side of the front passenger door gets Cao's attention. She spots the brief flare of a muzzle flash to the west, calls it out. Anderson rotates the J-LTV's turret, follows the rutted track to the reported source of the incoming rounds, and squeezes off a five-round burst. A pair of red tracers lases out into the darkness, disappearing in the suspected vicinity of the inmate outpost (Target 3). Hopefully, the brief demonstration of the STAR team's impressive firepower has forced the shooters to think better of taking another potshot at the Sierra vehicles.

-5 rounds .50-caliber

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:46, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

"Motherfuckers," Duane mutters as the hit on Razorback's armored flank echoes around the cabin. "Better not have scuffed the paintjob," he adds.

The J-LTV is coming up on another turn. Duane can see Cummings village through his borrowed NVGs. If he remembers correctly, the besieged guard's building is a little bit further south.

"This left or the next one?" he shouts in the aftermath of the M2HBs brief but loud hammering.

See map.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 20:40, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

"Second left." Cao replies tersely, wishing that EMP hadn't fried the vast majority of pre War sat navs. That should bring them in at the rear of the Alamo thus minimizing the risk of incoming fire.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:48, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

Skillins complies, takes the second left. This dirt road runs roughly east, directly into Cummings village. The suspected Alamo should be just to the right of where the road enters the settlement proper.

Yellow lights blink at the approaching Sierra vehicles from the houses on either side of the Alamo, more or less confirming the redoubt's identity. Another shooter joins in from near the base of a large tree at the edge of the Alamo's back yard (between the Sierras and the building), somewhat confusing matters. At the moment, the J-LTV, with its heavier armor, is effectively screening the more lightly-armored Suburban from most of the incoming rounds. Anderson, up in the J-LTV's armored machinegun cupola, has a couple of targets to choose from. At present, the range from the Sierra vehicles to the shooters is approximately 300m and closing.

See map for target locations.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:34, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

"Aw, shit," Duane exclaims, his eyes drawn to a warning light on the dashboard. "Front, left tire's been hit. Hope we don't gotta get outta here in a big hurry." The J-LTV's equipped with run-flat tires, so Razorback should still be able to maneuver, albeit at a reduced speed.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:02, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

"Duane, go ahead and stop us with a slight right turn, so that the left bumper is pointing down the road," Cole yelled down from the gunner turret.

"Kabua, get ready to come up here and take over the duce.  I'm about to unass this bitch and engage with the SAW."  Cole didn't finish the rest of what he had to say, instead traversing the M2HB and firing off a short burst.  At 300 meters out, Anderson knew that most of the small arms they were encountering were firing at their maximum effective range.  Whereas the effective range of his M249 SAW against point targets was 600 meters.  More importantly, firing it from prone would create grazing fire, that might be more effective than engaging from the elevated position of the M2HB.

After he was done firing, Cole keyed the radio briefly.

"Drauger to all stations.  Razorback's stopping at an angle to the MSR.  I'm disembarking with the M249.  Bourbon Street if you want to pull up close behind us to get some cover, feel free.  Also, if you anyone wants to dismount and follow us in on foot, the more the merrier.  Drauger, out,"

"Alright, let's do this.  Don't blow through all my ammo, but if you can put any of these fuckers in the ground, you do that.  I'm exiting via the right rear door.  I'll set up beside the right front tire.  I'll engage from there.  Once I'm done, I'll pound twice on the hood, then fall in behind Razorback.  We're gonna stop every 50 or so meters and engage anything firing on us.  Same deal D; slight turn left so I can setup beside the front right wheel." Anderson motioned for Jackson to head his way, as he ducked down and out of the hatch, heading toward the back right-rear door.

Cole Anderson
Operating the M2HB, then moving to leave via the right rear door, which should be shielded from direct fire if the JTLV turns just a bit.
1x5-round burst at any tracers coming from areas not near suspected friendlies.  Then grabbing SAW, heading out, and going prone beside the front right tire to setup the M249

"Loba copies.  I'll pull in behind you now and once you start moving forward, I'll Y-turn and put more distance between the enemy fire and the FAV.  Loba out," Tori said in response to Anderson's radio call.

"Alright, if anyone wants to play infantry, now is your chance," Tori said to her passengers as she stopped Bourbon Street behind the J-LTV.  "Otherwise, when they pull up, I'm turning around and putting some distance between us and that incoming fire."  Rios knew that getting the FAV's windshield ballistic armor repaired would be nigh impossible in the field.  And it would be far better to lose the rear glass than the main windshield.

Tori Rios
Driving SUV
Pulling behind the J-LTV for protection, then turning around and driving away once they pull forward. 

"Noted." Cao replies when Skillins updates them on the damage to the vehicle. Her voice sounds calm, although inwardly her frustration is mounting. It's a reminder that even at this range and in the dark the convicts can still get lucky.

There's no time to dwell on it though. Anderson is already moving, the JLTV is manoeuvring. These scum are messing with the wrong people. "I'm coming with you." She calls out to the Technical Sergeant as he disappears out of the door behind her. She knows that it's still long range for her carbine but she's not going to sit in the vehicle while one of her team is out there. First she reaches for the radio handset though. "Bourbon Street, this is Falcon. Am dismounting to support Drauger. I need Watkins to also dismount and move forward to my position. Out." Lauren wants every weapon in their arsenal brought to bear and that includes the M79.

Replacing the handset, the Air Force Captain hits the quick release on her harness, pushes open her own armored door and clambers out. Stepping down on to the dirt road and seeing Anderson going prone Lauren steps towards Razorback's hood, takes up a stance crouched behind it, her carbine resting on it, the hood shielding most of her body as she picks out muzzle flashes to her right and begins to return fire with a series of short, controlled bursts. She's not really expecting to hit anyone at this range but she's hoping that the added weight of incoming fire might discourage the inmates from shooting back. When Watkins joins her Cao will direct the airman to target the same spot.

Lauren Cao
Disembarking via right passenger door
Using front of vehicle for cover
Firing 3 x 3 round bursts at shooter 3
Will direct Watkins to target shooter 3 with M79 when she (Watkins) joins her
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (24/30)
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:31, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

"I guess I'll stretch my legs as well." Carswell remarks. He doesn't plan on letting Anderson take on these mother fuckers by himself. Even if they might not realize what's about to hit them. Mike can remember another old movie he's watched one with a scene where John Travolta uses a SAW to shoot up some traffic.  He can't remember the name of it. He does remember Halle Berry was in it as well. When she was younger and really hot.

His head turns towards Guillory as he releases his seat belt."Hey, Scott, we getting hazard pay for this gig, man?" Opening the door, the medic swings his legs out, feels his boots touch the surface of the dirt road. Ahead of him he can see the muzzle flashes indicating the source of the incoming fire, hear rounds pinging off the JLTV. Shit. His instincts are screaming at him to keep his head down. But instead he's moving forward.

"It's Doc!" he yells so that the military team aren't spooked by his sudden appearance behind them. Seeing the way that the JLTV is angling itself and noting that there are already several figures at the front behind the hood, he weighs up the option of moving to the rear of the vehicle, on the other side, or trying to find cover in the field.

Deciding that the risk of getting shot is less than the risk of Skillins accidentally running him over the medic opts for the first option, moving up behind the JLTV. Taking up a position on the left hand side, he warily sticks his head round Razorback's armored hull, brings up his rifle and aims at the muzzle flashes that he can see on the other side of the field.

Mike Carswell
Dismounting
Moving forward to left rear side of JLTV
Firing on Shooter 1 (3 x 3 rnd bursts)
HK416 w/ Aimpoint Comp M4 red dot sight (30/30

"We're already living in a socialist paradise, what more do you want?" Scott responds as Carswell and Watkins bail out.  He considers joining them but the dismounts already in play are stretching the limits of available cover.  Instead, he stays on his sector, watching for muzzle flashes or movement to the right of the vehicle.

On impulse, he clicks his personal radio over to the primary statewide mutual aid channel that was used for interagency coordination before the war and now serves much the same purpose for what's left.  "Task Force Sierra checking any Corrections personnel on MAC CALL."  There's no guarantee that any response isn't another escapee playing radio games, but it's less likely that one of the inmates will know how to change a P25 radio's talkgroup from the Varner Unit's default.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:04, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

"Got it," Watkins replies, in reference to Cao's last transmission. She's opens the door, grabs her shotgun and trots, hunched over, to Razorback's right side. When she gets there, she slings her Remington on her back and takes a knee just behind Anderson. The USAF MP then lifts the M79's ladder leaf sight and removes its safety; the stubby grenade launcher is already loaded with a 40mm HE round. Cao and Anderson are already firing away at something roughly to the southeast. Chevelle follows Anderson's tracers to the target, judges it to be just about maximum range for the grenade launcher. Relying on the Blooper's ladder leaf sight, she raises its barrel and squeezes the trigger.

Cleveland
Bourbon Street (Dismount)
M79 (HE 1/1); Remington 870 (6/5)
Moving to Razorback; aimed shot at Shooter 2

-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:24, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

Kabua clambers forward, exchanging places with Anderson in a tight, pseudo-Chinese Fire Drill. He climbs up into the vacated turret and situates himself. The young man's adrenaline is really going now. Encased in the cupola's wrap-around armor, behind the imposing bulk of the big Browning, Jackson feels a sense of power and confidence that's almost intoxicating. He looks down the barrel of the Ma Deuce, sees a muzzle flash a little to the left of its current alignment. He rotates the turret just a bit, to bring the big gun to bear, adjusts his aim, and squeezes off a five-round burst.

Chef
M4A1 (31/30)
Razorback, A-gunner position (M2HB 95/105)
Aimed burst(s) at Shooter 1

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:12, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

As Duane stops Razorback at an angle, providing a wider screen for Bourbon Street and the dismounts, Anderson fires a burst of .50-caliber rounds at the muzzle flash to the left of the road. The simultaneous movement of the J-LTV conspires to send the heavy machinegun's outgoing rounds slightly high and wide. The near miss still has the desired effect of stopping the shooter's fire, if only temporarily.

Cao is the first to dismount. Leaning  her carbine against the J-LTV's tall nose, she relocates her intended target (Target 3) by its weapon's firing signature, fixes the dark bulk of the shooter behind it in her weapon sight. She squeezes the trigger and sees the silhouette flop down.  It's a remarkable shot. Anderson sets up beside her, spots lateral movement a little south of Cao's target (marked as Target 4). He squeezes off a burst, missing, but forcing the running man to go immediately to ground, and marking him for Watkins, who's just arrived off his right shoulder. As Anderson keeps the man pinned down with another burst of 5.56mm, Watkins lobs a 40mm HE round in the direction indicated by the flight of her teammate's tracers. A few moments later, the grenade explodes about 15m to the left of where she intended it to.

Almost simultaneously, Kabua and Carswell open fire at the rooftop shooter just northeast (Target 1) of the road. The incandescent red streak of a big tracer round from the .50 intersects with the tiny muzzle flash. Said muzzle flash does not reappear. In fact, all incoming fire from the east has ceased, at least for the time being.

Rios turns Bourbon Street around to face west, hopefully sparing its windshield potentially blinding damage. As the Suburban pulls away from the J-LTV, its occupants note a flash about 600m east-northeast of their parking spot. It's probably the same shooter (Target 3) that Anderson tried to hose with .50-caliber rounds earlier, on the run in. The inmate rifleman seems to have rediscovered his courage, perhaps because the fire from the J-LTV is now focused in the direction opposite his distant position.  It's a low percentage shot, though, and the Suburban's occupants detect no evidence of a hit; it could just as well have been aimed at the bigger J-LTV, though.

Guillory's about to give up on the MAC channel  when a voice crackles over the airwaves. Its tone is at once urgent, exhausted, scared, and… hopeful. "Sierra, this is Lieutenant Reeves, ADOC. We're surrounded by armed inmates. In Cummings. Is that you to the west, on the road? We can hear your fire. Be advised, we are in a house just south of that road. Over."

At this point, Carswell spots another muzzle flash as someone opens fire on the convoy from the farm buildings located about 250m to the northeast (Target 5).

M2HB -10 rounds .50 BMG
Cao -3 rounds 5.56mm
Anderson -10 rounds 5.56mm
Carswell -3 rounds 5.56mm
M79 -1 round 40mm HE


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:10, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

"Yo! Kabua!" Carswell's ears are ringing from being so close to the M2. He's yelling at the top of his voice to try and attract the gunner's attention and direct him towards the fresh source of incoming fire, not knowing if the Pacific Islander has seen the muzzle flashes or not. "New target at eleven o'clock! Blow the fucker away!"

The Ma Deuce can reach out at greater range and with more power than his HK, but Carswell goes down to one knee anyway, points his carbine towards where he thinks the muzzle flashes are coming from and begins squeezing off a series of bursts.

Mike Carswell
Left rear side of JLTV, going to one knee
Calling Kabua's attention to Target 5 then firing on Target 5 (3 x 3 rnd bursts)
HK416 w/ Aimpoint Comp M4 red dot sight (27/30)

"One target down." Lauren Cao isn't even trying to keep the sense of satisfaction out of her voice. Her only thing that she regrets about her last shot is that her grandfather was not present to witness it. She hopes that former Captain Cao Văn Thanh of the ARVN 81st Ranger Group would be pleased with his granddaughter's skill with a rifle, even if she was not killing godless Communists.

There's still a threat to be dealt with though. One of the shooters is danger close to the Alamo, although presumably the people inside the Alamo are aware he is there and are taking some sort of precautions against incoming fire in that part of the house. But it's still a risk, so for the moment Lauren turns her attention to the same target that Anderson and Watkins had fired at.

"Watkins! Put another forty mike mike down! Same target area!" The Air Force Captain yells as she shifts her carbine in that direction, watching for any sign of movement or incoming fire that she can use as an aiming point. It's time for the inmates to experience Shock and Awe.

Lauren Cao
Using front of JLTV for cover
Directing Watkins to target shooter 4
Firing 3 x 3 round bursts at shooter 4 if she can eyeball him
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (21/30)
This message was last edited by the player at 22:17, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

"We're pulling chocks in 30 seconds," Anderson yelled out.  He shifted his weapon system on to target #2 and opened up with two 5 round bursts.  Given its proximity to the friendly location, it was a target he was unwilling to engage with the heavy .50 caliber M2HB earlier.  He has no such reservations with the SAW however.  It was likely the Corrections Officers were already in cover against 5.56mm rounds already.  Otherwise they wouldn't have lasted this long.

"BRRRRRRRRRRRRT some fuckers and be ready to fall in behind the vehicle," Cole added between bursts, using the sound of the venerable Fairchild Republic A-10's main weapon system to indicate it was time to put maximum lead downrange.

Cole Anderson
Prone, engaging target #2
M-249 SAW [90/100 belt]
2x5-round bursts at Shooter #2.  Will signal Skillins to move the J-LTV foward 50 meters next round.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:34, Sun 19 Aug 2018.

Victoria pulled the SUV forward until the road to the south appeared to her left.  She took the turn, driving slowly down another 100 or so meters, paralleling the row of houses down highway 388 far across the fields.  As Scott dealt with the ADOC contact on the radio, she kept the vehicle rolling forward slowly.

"That does not sound like the Lopez shitbag from earlier," Scott comments to Victoria.  "Lieutenant, we're about three hundred yards east of your 20.  We're gonna try to pull you guys out once we plow the road.  Say your numbers and transport needs, over."

"Got it!" Jackson shouts back, grateful for another pair of eyes. He hadn't seen whatever the team medic's spotted. The Army cook hits the turret traverse and brings the .50-cal around to bear on the farm buildings to the northeast. He spots a brief flash, keys in on it, takes aim and squeezes off another five-round burst.

Chef
M4A1 (31/30)
Razorback, A-gunner position (M2HB 90/105)
Aimed burst(s) at Shooter 5

-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:16, Mon 20 Aug 2018.

Chevelle's already sliding the smoking 40mm case from the M79's open breach. "Yes, Captain!" she responds, tugging another HE round from the bandolier across her chest, and pushing it into the waiting breach. Closing the action, Chevelle takes aim at the approximate impact point of her first shot, correcting just a bit to the right of it (based on the result of her first attempt), and lets fly.

Cleveland
Bourbon Street (Dismount)
M79 (HE 1/1): 4 rounds remaining in bandolier; Remington 870 (6/5)
Aimed shot at Shooter 2's last known position

-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:23, Mon 20 Aug 2018.

Lt. Reeves' delivery is rushed, but his voice is dripping with relief, "There's a baker's dozen of us in here, mostly women and kids. We have three wounded too, GSW's; one of 'em can't walk. My God, you don't know how glad I am to hear your voice right now. We weren't gonna last much longer. Over."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:45, Mon 20 Aug 2018.

As Carissa Noble arrives to lend a hand, Carswell plinks away at the corner of the farm building where he'd spotted the muzzle flash just a few moments earlier (Shooter 5). At this range (between 250-300m), the medic can't really see the shooter without a firing signature to zero in on (the reverse is also true). As directed, Kabua joins in and absolutely pastes the indicated spot with .50 rounds. The corner of the farm building comes apart in a series of flashes as high velocity steel-jacketed rounds strike its corrugated metal siding. If anyone was standing within a meter of the impact area, he's probably leaking like a sieve right about now.

Meanwhile, Cao searches for the pinned down Shooter #4, ready to put the perp down should he reveal himself. The inmate wisely stays down. In the end, it probably doesn't matter. Watkins lobs another HE round over the USAF captain's head. Two-and-a-half seconds later, it explodes right on top of the gunman's last known position. Assuming that he hadn't crawled out of the blast radius in the brief interim, the armed inmate surely soaked up an unhealthy dose of blast and shrapnel from the modest explosion.

Anderson focuses on the shooter directly in front of- relative the Sierras' position- the Alamo (Shooter 2). His first burst laces the tree beneath/behind which the gunman is currently sheltering. At this point, the panicked inmate makes a fatal mistake: he rises from the weeds and sprints to Anderson's right. The airman's second burst knocks the runner down. The way the man dropped, Anderson's fairly certain that he won't be getting back up again.

Enemy firing from the east abruptly stops, the sharp popping of gunshots replaced by the screams of a man overwhelmed by pain.

Shock and awe.

Nevertheless, a round buzzes by Carswell and Noble, followed a split second later by the sound of a relatively distant gunshot. Neither saw a muzzle flash, and the report did not seem to emanate from the direction in which they are currently facing. Both Sierras are experienced enough to realize that had the miss been nearer, they would have heard a snap instead of a buzz.

M2HB -5 rounds .50 BMG
Anderson -10 rounds 5.56mm
Carswell -3 rounds 5.56mm
M79 -1 round 40mm HE


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:06, Mon 20 Aug 2018.

Cole moved up to one knee, hammer fisted the JLTV's hood twice, then shifted quickly behind the vehicle.

Cole Anderson
Moving from Prone to keeling, then behind the JLTV.
M-249 [80/100]
Signalling to move the next 50 meters up the road.

"Cease fire!" Lauren yells, her ears ringing  from her relative proximity to the M2 as it had hammered out its rounds. "Good work everyone!" she adds a moment later as Anderson rises up next to her and thumps on the JLTV's hood twice.

"Watkins, on me." The Air Force Captain says to the enlisted woman as she moves to join the Technical Sergeant behind the vehicle, ready to shelter behind it as it rolls forward. "Reload the M79 but hold your fire unless I give the word."

Lauren Cao
Moving behind the JLTV and getting ready to moving forward behind it on foot
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (21/30)

"We still got at least one active shooter." Carswell says as the Air Force dudes begin to join him and Carissa at the rear of Razorback. The medic's head is moving from left to right as he tries to spot any muzzle flashes in the darkness. "I don't have eyes on them but I reckon they're pretty far out." Not that that counted for much. For all they knew the inmates might have got their hands on some decent rifles as well as the M14's they'd taken from the guards.

Carswell is still watching their left flank as the JLTV begins to move forward. His carbine is raised but if he does see a muzzle flash anywhere he'll yell out a heads up so that Kabua and Anderson can bring their belt fed weapons to bear before he puts down any suppressive fire himself.

Mike Carswell
Advancing behind JLTV
Observing
If any enemy spotted will 1) call out a warning so people with heavier weapons can engage before 2) if time permits firing 1 x 5 rnd burst
HK416 w/ Aimpoint Comp M4 red dot sight (24/30)

"Rollin'!" Duane responds, slipping the J-LTV into gear. He turns the wheel to reorient Razorback's nose down the road, towards the western entrance to Cummings village, then gives her a little gas, bringing the big armored truck up to a brisk walking speed.

-

Scott absorbs the mixed news with a slight frown.  "Sierra copies.  We have a medic and we can get you out but it's probably going to be under harassing fire.  How many shooters do you have who can contribute on the way out?"

Keeping his portable on the MAC channel, he picks up the Suburban's hand mic.  "Sexton checking Falcon. Break for status of the objective."  He waits patiently for Cao to acknowledge - the woman is managing a gunfight, no need to rush her - then keys up again.  "Falcon, be advised, I have radio contact with a subject representing himself as ADOC.  His information is consistent with current intel.  He reports thirteen, that's one-three, in his party, mostly noncombatants.  That includes three injured, two triaged as yellow, one red non-ambulatory."

There's a bit of hesitation in Reeves' voice, like he's afraid to tell his potential saviors the whole truth lest they judge a rescue too much trouble and turn around.

"Sierra, we got five, six people who can shoot, but a couple of 'em are just kids. I mean, we'll do whatever it takes to get outta here but, uh, only a couple of us have any kind of tactical training. Over."

The corrections officer makes a fair point. It's one thing to defend a fixed position, another to shoot and maneuver in the dark, especially whilst under fire.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:50, Wed 22 Aug 2018.

”Falcon copies your last Sexton. Stand by.” Cao replies as she moves forward behind the slowly advancing JLTV. The next part of the operation is likely to be the most dangerous. First they have to get the rest of their vehicles in to the Alamo. Then they have to withdraw, probably under fire.

There’s a pause of nearly ten seconds before she speaks again, each passing second bringing their objective just a little bit closer. ”Sexton, recommend we leave Sierra Three in place and bring in Golf One and Golf Two now. Over.” G for Grady. Radio shorthand for the SUV’s driven by the two Grady volunteers had been discussed earlier. The two SUV’s would have enough seats to take everyone out. And if one of them is taken out by enemy fire on the way in the other one could pick up the driver. It’s splitting their already small teams even further but if all three vehicles move in that increases the risk of one of them being hit. And it would leave their exfil route unguarded.

But it’s clearly phrased as a recommendation. Not an instruction. So while she waits for Guillory to respond Cao calls out to Carswell. ”Three wounded in the Alamo. One serious and unable to walk.” A moment later she sees the medic’s thumb raise in silent acknowledgement.

Razorback rolls forward approximately 50m, the dismounts advancing in time behind its armored bulk. As Skillins pulls up to a gentle stop, he again cants the nose right of center, creating a slightly larger screen for the dismounts.

A smattering of gunfire still echoes across the field, but it's somewhat muffled now, suggesting that the source is currently somewhere on the far side of the Alamo (now approximately 280m away, as the crow flies). Those with combat experience can make this distinction; to those without, the gunshots are still loud enough to be unnerving, to say the least. The pitiful, disembodied howls of a wounded inmate lying concealed somewhere in the weeds ahead only add to the unsettling ambiance. However, no muzzle flashes are visible across the frontal arc, nor do the dismounted Sierras detect the tell-tale buzz or whip-crack of near miss incoming rounds. At least for the time being, it appears that the surviving inmates lack the temerity required to challenge the firepower of the approaching rescue force.

Sitting behind the wheel of the armored, ex-Arkansas State Police SUV, Rios notices movement to the southeast. The eagle-eyed policewoman somehow picks out several figures running north, up the road from the Cummings unit, towards a tree-hemmed residential structure almost due south Razorback's position. A low, flat-roofed concrete building stands between said structure and the J-LTV. The figures must have been at least 1000m away, when Rios spotted them. It's truly a remarkable feet of night-time observation.


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 02:30, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

"Falcon, it's your show, but for what it's worth: agreed.  Do you still want me to take the contact team in?"  Let's split up, we can do more damage that way! runs through Scott's head, but he's doing the same math as Cao, albeit not as quickly as the military professional.  Leaving the heavy truck in place to hold the door open looks like the least-bad option.

He switches radios again.  "Understood, Lieutenant.  Stay down for a few minutes but get your people ready to move.  We're rolling the evac vehicles now.  There's room for everyone but it'll be tight.  Ammo, radios, medical, and intelligence come out.  Leave everything else."

With salvation so tantalizingly close at hand, Reeves' tone is approaching giddy now, "Will do, Sierra. We ain't got much left so we'll be ready to roll soon as you get here. Be advised, we're still taking incoming from the houses to the east of us. Far as I know, we're the only good guys left in the neighborhood. Everything else around us is hostile. Over."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:31, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

”Sergeant Anderson, keep us moving!” Cao says to Anderson. ”Let’s try and push all the way up to the house.” The clock is ticking now. They need to press the advantage while they can. She’d briefly considered mounting up again but there are more of them now than there are seats in the JLTV.

That done, the Air Force Captain tries to ignore the sound of gunfire coming from the other side of the building for a moment. The people around her are more than capable of dealing with any threats still lurking on this side, don’t need her to micromanage them. That’s sometimes a challenge for a woman who was described by one of the instructors on her CRO course as a quote fucking control freak unquote.

But right now she needs to focus on the big picture, think about how to get the guards and their families out. And not put the two Grady volunteers at any more risk than they already are. A gloved finger keys her radio. ”Sexton, Falcon. Negative. Get Golf One and Two rolling then hold your current position provided it’s safe to do so. We need someone to guide them in. When they RV with you all three of come in to the Alamo in convoy. We’ll prep the friendlies to be ready to move whenever you’re on scene. Tell them to expect friendlies at their back porch in -‘” there’s a momentary pause. In her running gear she could sprint the distance between their current location and the Alamo in less than half a minute. But this isn’t the running track at the Cadet Field House in Colorado Springs. ”- approx nine zero seconds. Oh, and be advised Razorback has taken a hit. Left front tire. We can still run but may be a little slower. Over.”

It’s a case of weighing up scenarios. The volunteers know the roads but they’re driving in hostile territory without the benefit of lights or NVG’s. If they miss a turn and end up lost the whole mission goes south.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:18, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

Cole couldn't see any targets at this point, but he let off a short bursts at grazing fire level straight down the road, just for good measure.  The goal was to ensure that the enemy knew that sustained, automatic weapons fire was still on the menu for anyone who was dumb enough to engage the Sierra Team.

Once the handfull of rounds cleared the barrel, Anderson shifted to one knee, then banged Razorback's hood.

"Give me one hundred meters this time, Skiller," Anderson said, making a portmanteau of 'Killer' and 'Skillins'.  Once again he shifted behind the armored vehicle and followed it forward.


Cole Anderson
Shooting, Moving
M-249 [75/100]
1x5-rd burst straight down the road ahead.  Then up and moving behind the vehicle.

"Pendejos!" Tori said as she stopped the SUV immediately and put it park.  She grabbed the radio handset.  "Loba to Razorback, five assholes on foot, on your right, at least a kick out, over."  She didn't wait for a response however.  Instead she ensured the interior light was set for off/off, then opened the 400 lbs. armored door and walked to the back of the SUV, where she popped open the trunk.  She grabbed her long gun case, opening it and pulling out a long barreled .308 semi-automatic rifle.  After stuffing several magazines into her pockets, she returned to the open driver's door of the SUV.

"I'm going to give these clowns something to think about," she said to Guillory, as she stood first on the running board, before placing the rifle on the roof of the Suburban.  She was under no illusions that she would was likely to hit anyone at this distance, even with a professional grade sniper rifle.  But since it was a semi-automatic weapon system, she was confident that she could put enough lead down range to force them to react to her fire, either seeking cover, concealment, or otherwise slowing their advance.

Planting a combat boot in the door hinge of the SUV, Tori grabbed the roof and hauled herself onto the top of the Chevy SUV.  The large roof area provided plenty of space to assume a prone firing position, which had the benefit of being an elevated and smooth surface.  Rios setup her bipod and rifle and sought to reacquire the five targets.

Tori Rios
Stopping SUV, mounting it as a sniper position
Wilson Combat .308 Super Sniper [10/10]
Readying weapon and re-locating targets via the sight
This message was last edited by the player at 22:59, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

Preceded by a burst of fire from Anderson's SAW, Razorback rolls forward another 100m, stopping approximately 120m, as the crow flies, from the Alamo. During the move, the Sierra dismounts detect no incoming fire, nor does the vehicle's skeleton crew. In fits and starts, a wounded inmate continues to wail and moan from somewhere just out of sight, but his cries are starting to lose strength. It appears that none of his comrades within earshot are willing to come to his aid.

The trio of houses marching north from the dirt road are bordered by a high hedge, its western length broken at irregular intervals by small, jagged openings. Only the roofs of the northern houses are visible from the near side. The Alamo lacks such a barrier, but there is a large tree, and a pair of outbuildings- a large shed, and a guesthouse- cluttering up its back yard. A hedge separates the Alamo from its southern neighbor. The neighborhood is a warren of sorts- little room for maneuver, numerous angles, lots of blind corners, plenty of concealment.

Rios goes prone atop Bourbon Street, lines up her long rifle on its bipod. By the time she looks through the scope, the runners are no longer out in the open. They probably made it to the trees. She thinks she sees a flicker of movement in the shadows beneath their sprawling boughs. That's good enough for what she has in mind. Rios fires a trio of evenly-spaced shots into the dark copse, and a fourth down the road to the Cummings unit. Her intention is to give the presumed reinforcements a reason to stop and, hopefully, turn around.

Inside the SUV, Guillory looks out the passenger window while he monitors the radio. He spots one or two figures jogging south, about a half-a-klick west of where he now sits. They appear to be following a farm track, on the far side of a small body of water (given away by the glint of moonlight on its dark, mirror-like surface) that runs parallel to the path. When Rios opens fire, the figures (he's sure there's two now) go to ground. Perhaps they think the shots are directed at them. They're currently concealed by the thick vegetation that borders the narrow pond.

Anderson -5 rounds 5.56mm
Rios -4 rounds .308


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 02:14, Mon 27 Aug 2018.

"Keep pushing forward." Cao says to Anderson. One more move forward like that and they'll be at their objective. "Once we're at the house I'll take Carswell and we'll get them organized to bug out, you handle the defense as you see fit, OK?" Six months ago, when she was fighting the Allianza, she would have probably tried to manage everything herself. But she's learned the hard way that sometimes that's not possible and there occasions where you have to delegate. It's still hard for her to let go though.

She then peeks her head round the side of Razorback, looks at the ground ahead of her. Even without NVG's she can make out the roofs of the houses ahead of them,  the buildings themselves concealed behind the hedge. Maybe they're occupied by hostile shooters, maybe they're not, there's no way of telling. "Kabua! You see those houses between eleven and twelve o'clock? Walk the Ma Deuce up and down them! Put a burst into each one." Maybe there' s no one there and she's wasting ammunition but she'd rather be wasteful of ammo than take chances with people's lives. And if there are hostiles in there they're about to have reason to consider whether they want to stay there or not.

With her heart pounding in her chest, Carissa trots along with the others behind Razorback, ducking and moving with the vehicle's twists and turns.  Her ears are ringing, aching from the heavy thump of the machine gun above their heads.  She's been shot at by a sniper, taken sporadic, if inaccurate, fire from the village in front of them, and it looks like they will be gearing up for some straight up urban combat in the next minute or so to pull some kids out of the fire.  Friendly small arms fire pops all around, reaching out at targets she can't see.

Well...looks like you're in combat now.  Her father's voice in her mind is kind, if not a bit sarcastic.  All the years of shoot and move classes are coming home to roost.  It's going to be game time real soon.  The other shoot-outs she's been a part of have been nothing like this, and truth be told, nothing quite like this exciting.  In a horrible way.

Carissa breathes, trying not to look nervous.  She knows better than to show weakness.

At the next pause, she glances around Razorback's bumper looking for targets in her NVG monocle.  Gloved hands squeeze the grip of her rifle, exchanged for the bolt action killer she'd used before.

Carissa Noble
Looking for targets w/NVGs
M4 w/reflex sight and foregrip
30/30 6 mags remaining

Jackson doesn't bother with a shouted reply, letting his actions confirm the CO's orders instead. In anticipation of Razorback's continued forward movement, the young B-gunner rotates the turret left to engage the furthest target first. From his elevated vantage in the armored cupola, he can see more of the houses above the tops of the hedges than those on the ground, but not much more. The tall shrubbery might conceal the bulk of the structures, but the Marshallese-American knows that the seemingly solid wall of vegetation won't even slow down the heavy .50 BMG rounds. Aiming at the area just below the roof-line, he squeezes off the first burst, sending a spurt of rounds through the top of the hedge and [hopefully] into the house beyond, repeats the process on the next furthest house, and finally, doses the one just north of the road in a similar fashion. He's aware that the likelihood of taking out any inmates with these bursts is low, but blasting rounds downrange from the heavy machinegun is satisfying nonetheless. Hopefully, Jackson muses, the roar of the Ma Deuce proves as disheartening to the bad guys as it is reassuring to himself.

Chef
Razorback gun turret
M2HB (90/105)
Firing 5-round bursts at 3 houses, north to south

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This message was last edited by the player at 05:41, Sun 26 Aug 2018.

Overhearing Cao's instructions to Kabua, Chevelle asks, "Captain, do you want me to put a grenade into the building at 1 o'clock?" She points at the house just south of the Alamo to clarify her targeting suggestion. She's already reloaded the M79 grenade launcher with another 40mm round, her confidence with the weapon boosted by the near bullseye of her last shot.

Cleveland
Dismount
M79 (3/6 HE, bandolier #1)
Covering from 1 to 2 o'clock

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This message was last edited by the player at 05:42, Sun 26 Aug 2018.

"Copy all."  Scott pauses at the flicker of motion.  "Shit.  Falcon, be advised we've got movers to the south and west, and ADOC advises they're still taking fire from the east.  Break for Golf units, we're in position but the clock is running before the other side re-forms.  Start rolling this way to form up on us but stay alert."

He swings the door open.  "Rios!  Targets west by the pond, five hundred meters!"

Back on the other radio, and he has to focus for a moment to manage three conversations now.  "Understood, Lieutenant.  Our people should be at your door in a minute.  They'll assess your wounded while your ride gets here."

Her ears ringing as the M2 spits out heavy caliber rounds above her, Lauren takes a moment to process the information that's receiving from Scott before replying to Watkins. There doesn't appear to be any fire coming from the house to the south - or the ones to the north that she's just ordered Kabua to fire on for that matter - but that doesn't mean that there aren't inmates hunkered down in it.

"Do it!" She says to Watkins, before adding. "And make sure you get another bandolier out of the JLTV when we reach the house!" The Captain thinks Watkins only drew one bandolier, wants to make sure she has plenty of rounds. She'll think about replenishment later.

Cao then keys her radio. "Sexton, Falcon. All copied. Out." Hostiles to the east, south, and west. Getting out of here might be a lot more difficult than getting in.

Anderson shifted up once more to one knee and banged on the hood of Razorback.  "Alright Rebel, take us all the way this time," Cole said.

Cole Anderson was spending a lot more time in the prone position these days than he ever thought he would when he signed up as an Aerial Gunner.  He'd spent much of the Global War on Terror seated and strapped in to an M134 weapon station on board HH-60s, before shifting to AC-130 work.  Câmpia Turzii was the first time he'd had to fight as an infantryman and he much preferred having the mobility of any airframe to that of his feet.  Over the last year however, he'd spent more and more time as a ground pounder than an airman.  Trading his last fifth of bourbon for a set of knee and elbow pads had been an act of resignation to this new fate.  Those Protec pads were earning their keep tonight.


Cole Anderson
Moving Forward with the JTLV.
M-247 [70/100]
Engaging any armed enemy target near the objective with underarmed fired 5-rnd bursts (1 burst per target with a follow up burst if they don't go down).

https://www.armystudyguide.com...sl1-engage-tar.shtml

"On it," Tori said when Scott called out contacts to the west.  She shifted on the roof of the SUV, lining up her rifle and sighting in on the pond.  Rios settled in and searched for the new targets.  Even if she couldn't scope any of the prisoners, she'd be putting rounds down range, hoping to rattle them and perhaps flush someone into the open.

Tori Rios
Shifting to a new prone position
Wilson Combat .308 Super Sniper [6/10]
1x Aimed shot at any armed target.  If no targets are noticed, then 3x snap shots into the any areas of concealment/cover/defilade in the pond area.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxAtgoVDim8

"Shit, man," Duane mutters. He knew this moment would come, but he's reluctant to take Razorback into a tight confines of the village. He's never experienced MOUT before- he doesn't even know what the acronym means (or what that word means either)- but he doesn't like the idea of losing room to maneuver the big J-LTV, and the relatively built-up area ahead looks like it could conceal a horde of inmates lurking in the shadows with firebombs in hand, ready to swarm the hemmed-in AFV.

"Y'all better keep these motherfuckers off me," he says, under his breath. Resigned to the task at hand, Duane puts Razorback into drive and gives her enough gas to getting her rolling forward again at a brisk walking pace.

-

While Kabua paints the roofs to the north with .50 BMG rounds, Watkins drops a 40mm HE grenade in the backyard of the house to the south. If nothing else, this display of military-grade firepower will hopefully dissuade any remaining inmates from attacking the Alamo defenders or their rescuers during the tricky process of the impending withdrawal.

Razorback rolls forward, Skillins executing a truncated U-turn when he passes the tractor shed in the Alamo's backyard. This puts the J-LTV's nose roughly perpendicular to the road, its rump protruding into the objective building's side yard. Making sure not to move too fast- he doesn't want to run over any of his teammates- Skillins puts Razorback in reverse and slowly backs up a few meters. The J-LTV is now in position to both give the dismount evac team a bit of cover as they move to the Alamo's back door, and to exit the premises in hurry when the time comes.

With a loud metallic ping, a round pancakes on Razorback's machinegun cupola. The Sierras once again come under fire, this time from the thin-walled manufactured homes on the far side of Cummings Village's main north-south main street. A muzzle flash winks at the rescue force from the house directly east of the Alamo, another incoming round snaps overhead. Anderson immediately counters with a burst of 5.56mm, fired from the hip, silencing the hostile shooter, at least temporarily. Someone else is shooting in Razorback's direction, but none of the dismounts can see the source.

Cao and Carswell sprint the short distance from the J-LTV to the Alamo's rear entrance. A dead inmate lies crumpled at the foot of the door, pistol in hand. Another is heaped on the path to the guest house. "Sierra rescue team coming in! Hold your fire!" Cao shouts, cautiously approaching the back door. She can smell the corpse there from several meters away. Someone unbolts the barred metal security door; it swings out, slowly. The two Sierras step inside and are immediately assailed by the stinging scent of cordite mingled with the funk unwashed humanity. "Thank God you're here," a woman says from the darkness. A man ducks into the room, greets his rescuers with situationally incongruous Southern hospitality,  "Dan Reeves. Pleased to meet you." Passing a sheet-covered corpse in the hallway, he leads Carswell to an interior bathroom where the holdouts are keeping their non-ambulatory wounded. The medic has to use his flashlight to see anything. Its filtered beam reveals a young woman, shot through the collarbone. She's pale, weak, in a lot of pain. A hand towel has been duct-taped over the wound. It's soaked through with blood. Cao takes stock. Reeves tells her that his remaining shooters include himself, his wife Betty (the woman who first greeted the Sierras), another prison guard's wife, an ex-con turned CO auxiliary, and two teenaged boys (one aged 17, one 13).

Meanwhile, Rios rotates on her belly to face west. She searches for the two men that Guillory reported, but can't find them with her rifle scope. Sudden movement catches her eye. Two shadows appear on the pale strip of road, up and running again, moving south. She leads the point man, squeezes off a shot. A second or two later, the man goes down, followed by his partner, disappearing from Rios' scope. Rios has a feeling that she missed. It's a bit like playing whack-a-mole.

Leaving Noble senior and Murray to guard Ace Hardware, Armstrong and Y depart in their civilian pickup trucks...

M2HB -15 rounds .50 BMG
M79 -1 round HE
Anderson -5 rounds 5.56mm belted


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:16, Mon 27 Aug 2018.

"Lauren Cao." Cao is still a little breathless from the sprint across the yard when she introduces herself to Reeves. Unlike the Corrections Officer she doesn't tag on any pleasantries. Those could come later, once they were all safely away from this place. "We'll get you all out of here as quickly as we can." There's a multitude of different scents assailing her nostrils. Sweaty bodies. Fear. Death.

"We've got vehicles inbound now. They're probably around ten to fifteen minutes out." The Air Force Captain is hopeful that they'll be there sooner but better to underpromise then overdeliver. "So we just need to hold out until they get here. We're United States Air Force, attached to the State Guard." Well, most of them are. She's not trying to undermine the State Guard, but she does want to make it clear that it's a mostly active duty military team that's here, not some fifty year olds armed with pre Vietnam War weapons they found in storage. It's intended to be reassuring. Hi there. We're the Varsity Team. How can we help?

Mentally she does a head count. Six shooters. The fact that one's an ex con causes her to do a mental double take although her face remains impassive. She rationalizes that with the fact that if he was going to turn on them he'd have probably done it by now. To be fair, she's never seen Con Air, has never heard of Cameron Poe. Plus one non walking wounded that Carswell is dealing with. That makes seven. "So six non combatants including two walking wounded?" She asks Reeves to confirm, just to make sure.

Once she's got the numbers clear in her head she keys her radio to speak to Guillory. "Sexton, Falcon. Have reached objective and established contact with ADOC personnel. Will send update when able. Out."

Lauren then turns to Reeves, briefs the CO on her intentions. "I can squeeze three people into my armored vehicle. Maybe more if you have small children." Her tone is calm, measured. She doesn't mention that her own team will have to give up their seats to accommodate the civilian passengers. It's a no brainer for Lauren.  She and her people have helmets, armor, weapons. "Your non walking wounded can have one of those seats. Do you have women or kids that can take the others? Your shooters can go in our other vehicles when they get here. When we pull out it will be with all guns blazing. Do you have any idea how many convicts are in the vicinity?" She knows the answer to her last question is likely to be no but she has to ask.

Stepping over the dead convict on his way to the house Carswell bends down, retrieves the pistol that is in the corpse's hand, makes the weapon safe before jamming it between two pouches on his plate carrier vest. There's no chance that dead mother fucker is ever going to use it again but it's one less weapon to leave lying around for another piece of shit to pick up later.

Once he's inside the house he nods briefly to Reeves when the CO introduces himself. "Hi, I'm Mike." He then follows the Lieutenant when he leads him to the bathroom, sees his patient. "Thanks man, I'll take it from here." he says quietly, stepping forward into the bathroom, placing his rifle against one wall before crouching down next to his patient.

"I'm Mike. I'm a paramedic, Little Rock EMS. We'll get you out of here real soon, I just want to have a look at that wound first, OK?" His voice low, trying to make her feel at ease. He sees her nod her head,  slowly plays the flashlight over the wound, trying to get an initial idea of how bad it is. Clearly he's going to need both hands to treat her properly though, so he leans over, opens the bathroom door, yells. "I need someone to give me a hand here and hold my flashlight."

While he's waiting for someone to come and hold the flashlight he turns to the woman, grins. "Don't worry honey, we'll have you in hospital in Little Rock before you know it. Hey, what's your name?"

+1 Pistol (?/?)

"Soooo...this is fucked," Carissa drawls from a spot jammed up against the west wall on the exterior of the Alamo near Razorback.  The relief of making the transfer across open ground to the village was short lived.  Maybe about ten seconds all told.  She's not exactly thrilled with the spot she's chosen, but doesn't want to get hemmed up inside the building yet.  Flashbacks from Black Hawk Down keep spinning through her brain.  Old movie, sure, but one that demonstrates the need to hold a little more real estate that just the target building.

With fire coming from the direct east, she ducks a bit and hopes that the shooter that she can't see is enjoying the same problem with her silhouette.

"Anybody want to go asshole hunting with me?" she calls to the others and pointing at the east building that is the nearest source of fire.  Staying put here is just going to get her killed.


Rawhide
In cover, prepping to attack east building if she can get some help
NVGs
M4 SOPMOD with Reflex sight and foregrip
30/30 6 mags remaining

"Yes, ma'am," Mr. Reeves answers, "Two women, four kids, all grade-school age."



Reeves looks distracted. There's shooting going on outside. Cao notices a strip of duct tape wrapped around the CO's head, and one of the prescription lenses in the eyeglasses he wears has been blacked out (this, clearly a preexisting condition).  "All our walkin' wounded can still fight. The other ladies can take the kids." More gunfire, some of it coming from inside the house. "It feels like there's a hundred of the bastards out there, but it's probably less than half that many. I know we got a few of 'em. Look, I gotta get back to the front windows. Sounds like they're fixin' to rush us again." Mr. Reeves rushes off in a crouch, leaving Cao in the back room with his wife, Betty.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:03, Tue 28 Aug 2018.

A young boy, eight or nine years old- way too young for the thousand-yard stare he gives the Sierra medic- arrives. He takes the proffered flashlight without a word, points it where directed.

The wounded girl (aged around 15) is barely conscious, her pale face glistening with a sheen of sweat. "Jamie," she replies, weakly. She whinces and whimpers when Carswell uncovers the wound. Lucky for the girl, her blood's loosened the tape's strong adhesive. The wound entrance wound is small but jagged- Carswell can see bone. The bullet's shattered her clavicle. There's no exit wound, meaning that the bullet probably caromed around inside her torso, doing additional internal damage. Both of her lungs appear to be working, though- a heartening sign.

-

"Sexton copies all. I'll be out with Loba for overwatch."  Scott matches action to words as he swings the Suburban's door open (and leaves it open - no sense in delaying re-entry) and steps out.  As he does so, he flips his AV/PVS-7 down again and does a slow 360º scan for movement or muzzle flashes.

"Shee-it!" Watkins curses the short round under her breath. Dropping the spent 40mm casing as she moves, she trots over to the parked J-LTV and rummages around in the cargo space for another banolier of 40 mike-mike, as directed. Slinging a full one, she calls over to Anderson, "Where do you want me, Sergeant?"

Cleveland
Razorback dismount team
M79 (0/1 + 9 HE rounds in bandoliers); M870 combat shotgun
Picking up more ammo, checking in with the tactical commander

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:03, Mon 27 Aug 2018.

Jackson hears the resounding clang of the round impacting against the right side of the J-LTV's turret armor. He's more irritated than startled by the sound. He rotates the turret to bring it roughly in line with the road, searching for the source of the incoming fire. If/when he spots it, he intends to blast it with a short burst from the Ma Deuce.

Chef
Razorback turret
M2HB 75/105 .50 BMG
Searching for targets, preparing to return fire (aimed 5-round burst)

-
This message was last edited by the player at 22:07, Sun 26 Aug 2018.

Shit. Mike’s expression is grim when he sees the look on the face of the kid that’s been sent to help him. The medic would sorely like to get his hands on one of the bastards outside that’s responsible for this fucking mess and beat him to death with the baseball bat that’s secured to the back of his plate carrier vest. Slowly.

”OK, Jamie.” he says with a smile as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Somewhere in the distance he can hear the sound of outgoing fire. ”I’m going to clean this up then put a proper dressing on it for you. You just lie back and take it easy, and we’ll get you out of here as quickly as we can, OK?” Carswell exhales, opens up one of his MLBE pouches and begins to extract a wound dressing. He can clean her up, administer something for the pain, but he reckons that she really needs surgery to get the bullet out and he’s not sure that she can wait the time it’s going to take for the relief force to get here and evacuate her back up to Little Rock.

Carswell
Administering first aid to Jamie
Glock 22 Autompatic Pistol (15/15) holstered on right thigh
Unknown pistol (?/?) in plate carrier vest
HK416 (24/30) propped against wall

Whatever Lauren is about to say to Lieutenant Reeves dies off in her throat as the Corrections Officer hurries back to the front of the house. Instead the Air Force officer turns to the Lieutenant’s wife. ”OK, Mrs Reeves, I need you to get the women and kids ready to move. If you can, get one of the ladies who’s not got a gun to organize them. If not I’ll need you to do it. We’ll go out the door that we just came in.” In other words, if one of the women who’s not shooting is able to take charge of the others do it. If they’ve both lost it then Mrs Reeves will need to do it.

The next part is harder. In its own way it’s a form of triage. ”I can try and fit all four kids in the JLTV, along with the wounded woman that my medic is treating. It will be a tight squeeze.” Maybe too tight. They’d find out soon enough. She’s judging that inside the JLTV protected by its armor is the safest place to be. The youngest kids get those seats. The adults will have to take their chances in one of the other vehicles. Somewhere outside she can hear another rattle of gunfire. ”Everyone else goes in one of the other vehicles. Non combatants and the wounded girl* first, then your shooters, then my team. Make sure you do a headcount as your people leave, OK? That is critical.” Accidentally leaving someone behind doesn’t bear thinking about.

Provided Mrs Reeves is happy to take charge of organizing her own people Lauren will then key her radio. ”Sexton, Falcon. We’re prepping for evac here. Let me know when you’re six zero seconds out. Over.”

*Jamie
This message was last edited by the player at 14:10, Mon 27 Aug 2018.

"Alright, I'm tired of reacting to these assholes.  We need to regain the initiative and force them to react to us," Cole said.  He was already near the back of Razorback when Watkins asked where she needed him.  "With me and with these,"  Anderson said, grabbing the ammo can that was spray painted with the words: "40MM UTILITY".

Anderson took a knee, sat the SAW down briefly, then opened the can and pulled out two 40mm CS gas grenades passing one to Chevelle.  "Load,' he said as he pulled his own M320 he carried and replaced the APER round in it with a CS grenade.  When Watkins was ready, he passed her the remaining three from the ammo can, along with one IR paraflare.

"I want a CS grenade through the window of every house next to this one.  We'll start with the ones across the street.  IR is for when we pull out, so we can blast anyone who wants to run after us.  Let's make it happen!"

Cole grabbed the SAW handle with one hand, carried his M320 in the other, and made for the best available cover that allowed them to engage the houses across the road.  With hand signals, he communicated that he wanted Watkins to aim for Shooter 7's house, while he'd be putting his round through a window in Shooter 6's.

Anderson knew the grenades would take a few seconds to activate and start penetrating the houses with significant gas.  He'd sling his M320 and revert to the SAW once his one round went down range, so he could watch for targets emerging.

Cole Anderson
Moving between Razorback's cargo area and Cover
M-320 GL [1/1 CS] & M-249 [65/100]
Distributing 40mm Utility grenades, loading one and firing it into shooter 6 house.  Shifting to M-249 afterward
This message was last edited by the player at 19:43, Mon 27 Aug 2018.

Tori waited briefly, then fired a probing shot toward the most likely concealment in the area where the two runners disappeared at.  She was ready to follow that up if any target presented itself.

Tori Rios
Top of the SUV, prone
Wilson Combat Super Sniper .308 [5/10]
1 shot at likely cover, 1 follow up if any target emerges nearby

"Yes, ma'am. Can do, will do. I'll get right on that," When Cao is finished with her, Betty Reeves immediately gets down to work completing her taskings, "Alright ladies, listen up..."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:10, Tue 28 Aug 2018.

Chevelle loaded the M79 with a CS round. When Anderson indicates that her target is the house to the northeast, Chevelle immediately notes that a high hedge is blocking her LOS from her current position (NW corner of the Alamo). From where she now stands (next to Razorback) she could easily lob the CS grenade over the high hedge and into the target house's front yard, but putting it through a window- firing blind- would be nearly impossible. She needs a better angle. To get it, she's either going to have to crawl down the road about 40m, climb on top of the J-LTV, or circle around to the southeast corner of Alamo. Under the current circumstances, none of these options is particularly appealing- it's really a matter of picking the least bad one.

"Hey girl," she says, addressing Carissa Noble, "care to give a sister some covering fire? I'm about to climb up on top of this thing."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 03:10, Tue 28 Aug 2018.

"Ask and you shall receive," Carissa says to Chevelle, quoting her father.  Rawhide moves to her feet and shoulders her M4.  Eyeing the situation, she faces the same decision and evaluation as Watkins.  Namely, where to be to lay down effective fire.  She probably doesn't need to be as high as the roof of the J-LTV, maybe sandwhiched into an open door would suffice to lay down some cover.  "Okay, I'll go on three.  Once I open up, make your move."

With a grunt and deep breath, Carissa spits out a quick "1-2-3" and breaks what cover she has, climbing only as high on the J-LTV as she needs.  As soon as her rifle is up, she begins to lay bursts of fire into the target building windows, taking volume over accuracy.

Rawhide
Cover fire (bursts) from the J-LTV
NVGs
M4 with Reflex sight and foregrip
30/30 6 mags remaining

While Anderson distributes CS rounds, another round pings harmlessly off of Razorback's thick hide. This time, the Ma Deuce thunders a curt reply. Taking advantage of the HMG's fire, Anderson moves quickly forward, taking cover behind a smallish tree at the northeast corner of the Alamo. Meanwhile, Carissa Noble and Watkins both climb atop the J-LTV. Crouching behind its armored turret, they can see over the hedge that blocks LOS- at ground level- from the Alamo to its northeast neighbor (across the street). Carissa opens up first, laying down a burst of suppressive fire; Watkins takes her cue, lobbing a 40mm CS grenade towards the house's right, front window. As Carissa squeezes off a follow-up burst, Watkins watches the smokey trail of the gas grenade disappear into the darkness. Her gut instinct the moment it leaves the barrel is that she aimed too high. Moments later, she hears the thunk of the grenade's impact, but she doesn't he see where it landed. As she waits and watches, no tell-tale plume of pale gas appears, suggesting either that the grenade came to rest in the target house's backyard, or that the round was a dud. Whatever the case, there's no reply from the northeast house. Perhaps C. Noble's fire did some damage.

Anderson watches as his grenade sails cleanly through the open window of his target. In a few seconds, the house will start filling with the caustic, irritant gas.

Inside the Alamo, Carswell dresses Jamie's wound. While he's cleaning it, he notices a distinct, roughly bullet-shaped lump protruding from the posterior trapezius muscle near the base of the girl's neck. Gently, the medic presses against it with his finger.  Carswell's found the bullet. It's so close to the surface of the skin that he could probably remove it relatively quickly with little more than a small incision.

Betty Reeves efficiently gathers the Alamo's non-combatant women and children in the back room. Her calm competence seems to rub off on them. Although they're clearly very scared, and quite eager to leave their predicament, there's no panic or hysterics. "The women and children are assembled and ready to move," she reports to the Sierra Captain.

Grady militia volunteer Ed Armstrong's rural Arkansas drawl breaks in over the team net. "Sierra Six Actual, this is Golf One. We're comin' up on the pig farm. I want to make sure we don't miss our turn. Is it the first or second right after crossing the causeway? Also, did y'all light a signal fire or something? I see flames at the north end of Cummings Village. Over."

In the open field to the southwest of the Alamo, Rios hunts the inmates on the road to the west. She sights in on a likely bush, aims low, and squeezes the trigger. Flash, bang, delay. The bush slowly falls over. This does not provoke any additional movement. Guillory, scanning the surrounds through his NVGs, notices the flickering glow of a fire at the north end of Cummings Village, he also spots the headlights of the two Grady pickup trucks to the northwest; he sees nothing else of note.


Carswell +1 S&W M&P 40 pistol (magazine x/15)
-5 rounds .50 BMG
C. Noble -10 rounds 5.56mm
-2 rounds 40mm CS
Rios -1 round 7.62mmN


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:19, Wed 29 Aug 2018.

The kid’s got the flashlight trained on the lump where the bullet is. Outside the light it’s casting the bathroom is dark, shadowy. It’s scarcely ideal conditions to be removing a bullet. Granted the whole thing is fucked up. He’s treating a teenage kid for a gunshot wound while a pre teen who has every chance of ending up mentally scarred for the rest of his life acts as his ‘assistant’. The medic shakes his head softly. At least the morphine seems to be kicking in.

”Captain Cao!” Carswell turns his head, yells in the direction of the hall to attract the Air Force Captain’s attention. Once he’s got it he continues. ”Kid still has a bullet inside her. I can try and get it out now. Probably take about five minutes. Your call.” If he gets it now it’s done. If they move her with it still inside there’s no saying what might happen. Maybe nothing. Or maybe it might move, which might make it harder to get later. Or it might end up pressing against something.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:55, Wed 29 Aug 2018.

”Thank you.” Lauren smiles briefly in Betty Reeves’ direction as the Lieutenant’s wife assembles the first people to be evacuated. Even the experienced Air Force Captain is reassured by her calmness.

With that job under control and Anderson managing the defense outside Cao is about to move to the front of the house and check in with Mr Reeves when her radio crackles to life with the Grady volunteer driver’s transmission. There’s a brief moment of confusion as she realizes that she’s not sure whether it’s her or Guillory that’s Sierra Six Actual. She swiftly decides that this is a military operation and she’s the Commanding Officer. If there’s a problem they can discuss at the debrief. Worst case scenario two people are going to reply.

There’s another pause as she visualizes the roads in her head before a gloved finger depresses the PTT switch on the PRC148. ”Golf One from Sierra Six Actual. Take the first right after you pass the pig farm. I say again first right. Head down that road until you rendezvous with Sierra Two. They’ll guide you in. Over.”

She can hear Carswell yelling her name, sticks her head round the bathroom door after she’s finished the radio conversation with Armstrong. Another decision to make. There’s a lot of balls in the air. Maybe too many. And there’s still a battle going on outside.  Five minutes. It will probably take that long for the vehicles to get here. She nods decisively. ”Do it. But she needs to be ready to move in five minutes.”

”You got it.” The medic replies with a nod.

Carswell
Attempting to remove bullet
This message was last edited by the player at 11:16, Wed 29 Aug 2018.

Cole stayed kneeling at the small tree, bracing his left forearm against his knee as he pulled the M249 into his shoulder.  He scanned for targets emerging from the house he'd just gassed, along with any that might be moving through the side yards on either side.

Cole Anderson
Kneeling beside small tree
M249 [65/100]
1x5-rd burst at each enemy target spotted near houses #6 & #7

"Coming down," Tori called.  She couldn't spend all night trying to shoot at scrubs (both literally and figuratively).  She pulled the mag from the precision rifle, cleared the chamber, collapsed the folding stock and put the weapon on safe.  The long dashboard of the Suburban wasn't going to be the best place to store the rifle, but with knuckleheads somewhere out there in the dark, she wasn't going to screw around with putting it back in its case in the trunk.

"Should we head back and get the civilians out of here?" she asked Guillory as she returned to the driver's seat.

"Dud round," Carissa hears Watkins say at a volume loud enough to be heard over the barking M4 in Rawhide's hands.  The Arkansas native can hear the agitation in the driver's voice.

Well yeah, we're up here strutting around like a horny rooster, bullseyed for any jag-bag who comes around and wants to shoot us.  Decision time.  Stay or go?  The exposed duo hasn't drawn any fire yet.  That could be luck, that could be damn fine shooting.  Hard telling, not knowing.

"If you can reload, do it," Carissa says grimly, "I do not want to come back up here."  She starts looking for likely spots for someone to shoot her country ass and begins dropping bursts into them.


Rawhide
Kneeling on Razorback
NVGs
M4 SOPMOD with reflex sight and foregrip
20/30 6 mags remaining.

Scott pauses, fairly certain that anyone checking for Sierra Six Actual is watching Cao rather than his own unranked self.  The silence stretches just long enough that he's about to key up anyway when he hears the captain respond.  He releases the radio's hand mic and returns his support hand to his rifle.

"The local guys' trucks are on the way in," he says to Rios, still facing out rather than turning toward her.  "Let's get ready to mount up and guide them in.  If we take any fire, let's be the obvious target.  They're squishier."

"Shit, I only had the one gas round," Chevelle confesses. "Let's get our damn-fool butts down off of this big-ass target." She bangs on the turret and yells, "Kabua, cover us!" then climb-slides down just far enough so that she can safely jump to the ground.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 03:22, Thu 30 Aug 2018.

Using a sterile razorblade, Carswell cuts into Jamie's flesh, just above the trapped bullet. A rivulet of blood runs from the incision, but the bullet doesn't budge. Jamie moans in pain, but the morphine precludes any serious struggle. Placing his fingers on either side of the lump, Carswell gently squeezes. Like a massive, lead blackhead, the bullet pops out, followed by a brief pulse of blood and a trickle of puss. The medic examines the bullet- it looks like a .40 FMJ round, slightly deformed by its impact with teenaged flesh and bone. After administering a dose of antibiotic and cleaning the incision site, Carswell quickly sews up the small incision, then expertly bandages both entry and exit wounds. The whole procedure takes just under 5 minutes.

-1 dose morphine
-1 PMK (bandages, local anticeptic)
-1 dose intravenous antibiotic
-1 length of suture thread
(razorblade and suture needle can be sterilized and reused)

While the Sierra medic is successfully completing minor surgery, Rios and Guillory mount up, and head north to meet the Grady trucks. A flash of Bourbon Street's police lights confirms the Sierra SUV's identity. The armored Chevy Suburban leads the way, guiding the civilian pickups to the Alamo's backyard. The fire at the north end of Cummings Village is growing- flames are leaping up above the roof line. Arriving at their destination, Rios pulls Bourbon Street around into a position to take up the rear of the rescue convoy when it rolls out.

Whisps of CS gas are languidly leaking from the shattered windows of the house directly east of the Alamo. At the northeast corner of the Alamo, Anderson is waiting behind his M249 PIP, in anticipation of catching any runners evacuating the structure, but none appear.

As Watkins and Carissa climb down off of the L-LTV, the M2HB thunders again as Kabua fires a preventative burst into the house to the northeast. A faint halo of pale gas is slowly forming right above said structure. Apparently, Watkins' round was just long, not a dud.

With the entirety of the rescue convoy now on site, Cao (assisted by Betty Reeves) directs the evacuation of the Alamo. As the non-combatant women and children are herded out the back door and towards the idling J-LTV, a string of bullets-seven or eight- tears through the hedge separating the homestead from its neighbor to the south. It sounds like rapid pistol fire. Most of it goes high, evidenced by the jarring metallic sound of rounds impacting the tin roof of the tractor shed. No one is hit. (All of this indicates that the shooter is likely firing blind; he can't really see the defenders, and they can't currently see him.) A shotgun blast answers from the Alamo's south-facing window.

As the nearby gunshots ring out, the lead woman and her two children, now shrieking in fear, pick up the tempo and keep moving towards the promised safety of the armored J-LTV. The trailing woman gasps, stops short, and reverses hard into the house, bulldozing the two kids backwards into cover with her ample rump, and blocking the way for Carswell, who's currently holding Jamie in his arms, waiting his turn.  All of the Alamo's shooters are still inside the house, holding their positions while the non-combatants are evacuated.

M2HB -5 rounds .50 BMG


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:56, Thu 30 Aug 2018.

When bullets fly over her head and rattle off the tin roof of the nearby shed Cao turns towards the direction the shots came from, bringing her rifle up to her shoulder as she goes down to one knee. ”Shooter at six o’clock, behind the hedge! I need suppressive fire now!” The chances of hitting the shooter are probably fairly remote but hopefully they can discourage further aggression.

”Keep moving! I’ll cover you!” Her finger is already squeezing the trigger of her own weapon, the barrel of the carbine arcing from left to right to a succession of short bursts into different parts of the hedge as she yells to the woman that has gone back into the house. Lauren reckons that the inmates have probably realized that their prize is in danger of eluding them so may well decide to stage one last full on assault. They don’t have time for any hold ups. They have to get out of here. Now.

Lauren Cao
On one knee in backyard
Calling for suppressive fire / firing 3 x 3 round bursts into different parts of the hedge
M4A1 w/ reflex sight (21/30)

”Shit.” The expletive slips from Carswell’s lips as the civilian heads back into the house in a hurry, making an already chaotic situation feel even more so. His teenaged patient stirs fitfully in his arms, a morphine induced stupor descending on her. ”Lady, you gotta keep moving!” Southern manners are noticeably absent as the Albany, New York native tries to encourage the woman to move forward.

"Darla, get your ass out here and into that armored car RIGHT NOW!" Betty Reeves hollers, punctuating the imperative with a string of single shots from her semi-automatic civilian AR-15 (fired through the southern hedge).

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:31, Thu 30 Aug 2018.

Cole laid down two bursts toward the hedges as he shifted to adjust to enemy fire.

Cole Anderson
Moving to engage
M249 [65/100]
2x5-rd bursts at the source of enemy fire.

Darla, prompted by the insistence of Cao, Carswell, and her AR-toting neighbor, pulls her kids out the door and runs as fast as she can towards the waiting J-LTV. Carswell, carrying the very drowsy Jamie, is next. He exits the house and moves as quickly as he can to the J-LTV without jostling the wounded teenager too roughly. From the backyard, the Captain and Mrs. Reeves provide the remaining evacuees with covering fire, Anderson joining in with a five-round burst from the northeast corner of the house. This fusillade of 5.56mm/.223 Remington rounds seems to discourage the formerly brash pistolero from interfering further in the evacuation, at least for the time being.

Next up are the Alamo's six shooters. The teens exit first, then the adult female,  the ex-con/volunteer C.O., and last, appropriately, the Alamo defenders' erstwhile leader, ADOC Sergeant Dan Reeves.

At the back door, Sgt. Reeves pauses, slings his AR, and removes a traffic flare from his [unarmored] tactical vest. Igniting it, he tosses it back inside. The accelerant he'd just splashed around the central hallway ignites with a throaty whoosh.  "They ain't getting' nothin'!" he says, turning on his heel and running to the waiting pickups. Cao, joined by Anderson, brings up the rear. The former aerial gunner fires a parting burst through the hedge before jogging to the waiting vehicles.

Razorback, packed to the gills with women and children (Jamie wouldn't fit without being painfully contorted) is already pulling out of the yard and on to the road out of town. Jamie, Carswell, and three of the Alamo's six shooters occupy the bed of one of the civilian pickup trucks (a fifth rides shotgun). This leaves the bed of the second truck and the rear passenger seats and cargo area of the armored Suburban for the Sierra dismounts and the Reeves. The Sierras pile on board, their heaviest firepower bringing up the rear. Headcounts completed, everyone accounted for, the rescue convoy rolls away from Cummings Village, now unevenly lit by several burning buildings.

Flames are already emerge from the Alamo's shot-out windows and open back door.  Its neighbor across the street to the northeast is even further along. The house at the northwest  end of the village is fully engulfed, on the verge of collapse.

The convoy's speed is somewhat limited by the J-LTVs punctured run-flat tire. As Razorback approaches the first turn, the convoy receives some desultory fire from several points east, none of it particularly accurate. The  gout of return fire* from the moving vehicles probably isn't any more effective, but it's good for passenger morale. The convoy makes the next turn (southeast of the pig farm) without coming under attack.

Cao -9 rounds 5.56mm
Anderson -10 rounds 5.56mm
*I'll let you decide if your PC contributed to this, and how many rounds he or she fired.

Saul Noble and Xandra Murray (in Ace Hardware) meet the returning rescue force just west of the fortified causeway. The rest of the drive back to Grady is quiet and uneventful. The reunited convoy pulls into the Grady police station parking lot just before 2300 hours. Captain Franks is there to greet them. After inquiring as to its mission status and individual wellbeing, he gives the returning rescue team a quick rundown of recent events.

"Been pretty quiet here. Sent a team down to Choctaw Farms just after you left- to check in on the folks down there. The property manager told 'em a couple of strangers came looking for help late last night; wife ran 'em off with shotgun. Found two prison jumpsuits hidden in a tractor shed the next morning- I reckon it was the two jokers you brought in. They've been behavin' themselves. Team's still down there. Other than that..."

Franks turns to Guillory, "Governor's office called, left a message for you. Wants you to call his direct line soon as you get in… guess that means now."

Guillory calls Governor Ralford on the Grady PD's landline telephone, is reassured that the ASDF reaction force will be rolling out of Little Rock by 9am. Steve (the governor and Guillory have always been on a first-name basis) then confides in his longtime friend.

"Scott, when the reaction force goes in, you know that the inmates who don't get killed or run away are going to start surrendering. I'm struggling with what we're gonna to do with recaptures. We can't spare ASDF people to guard them- the Guard's spread too thin as it is. From what you're telling me, ADOC's been gutted, and  I don't see many folks volunteering to become corrections officers after word of this mess gets out. On the other hand, I'm not comfortable signing 100, 200 death warrants. The legal system, as it stands now, is just not equipped to deal with this scale of incident. In terms of precedent, 'grey area' seems a rather generous description. This sort of thing didn't even cross my mind back in '26 [the last gubernatorial election year]. I'm not trying to put this on you ol' buddy- the buck stops here with me- but I've got a meeting with the company commander in the morning to go over the ROEs and I'm not sure what to tell him. I could use your advice."

The local Methodist church has been prepped to house the Cummings survivors. The STAR Team is put up in the Post Office just off Business 65. The furnishings are spartan, to put it generously, but someone set up a camp shower out back, and there's a plastic 50-gallon barrel of clean water there to fill it with. An ad hoc committee of town ladies lays out a late dinner of barbecued chicken, corn bread, and sun tea (with or without mint).


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 23:41, Fri 31 Aug 2018.

Scott pins the handset between chin and shoulder while he tries to open his water bottle with one hand and scrawl notes with the other.  "Chain gangs," he suggests, the thought half-formed.

On the other end of the line, Ralford, accustomed to Scott's conversational gambits, makes a prompting noise.

Scott looks up as Cao passes through the room, apparently heading for the cleaning bench in the weapons locker with her M4 in hand.  "Captain.  Your timing is impeccable.  Hang on a second."  He mouths the word governor in response to Cao's interrogative look.  "Steve, Captain Cao just walked in.  I'm gonna drag her under the bus with us because this looks more like a military POW problem than a civilian arrest problem, and I think she's got some training along those lines.  Hang on, lemme put ya on conference."

He sketches the problem for Cao while he hunts for the appropriate button, then kicks the door closed and puts Ralford on speaker.  "Okay.  Couple of things here.  First, we have a workable solution for the first couple of days.  We sketched that out as soon as we realized the scope of the problem."  He scrawls open field, .50 on his notepad in case Cao needs a reminder.  "As soon as we start processing them, we start getting IDs.  Note to you, send me a bunch more fingerprint cards and see if anyone up there has a working laptop with a copy of Identi-Kit.  Realistically, we have no way to prosecute anything they might have done during the breakout, and it sounds like most of the ringleaders are already in the wind anyway.  So we pull the copies of their records that are in cold storage in the basement of the old courthouse.  That gives us enough to do a first sort."

"Classifyin' them on the basis of prior convictions rubs up against double jeopardy," Ralford says in a neutral tone.

"Yeah, but prior behavior is a strong predictor of future actions.  So the guys who were in for repeat non-violent or drug offenses," Scott makes a face at the wall, "are probably not the biggest threats to society.  They get first crack at work-release on reconstruction and salvage crews.  Deputize the ArDOT supervisors and tell them to bring their guns to work if they don't already.  After a year, anyone who hasn't been shot while escaping gets a parole hearing, with his boss sitting on the board."

"You realize the end result of that is putting a bunch of former drug dealers on state payroll if they turn out to be good workers."  The governor's tone is considering now.  "On the other hand, it's not actually worse than some of our legislators, and the North Texas-Southern Oklahoma crystal methamphetamine industry ain't what it used to be, so rehabilitation through vo-tech may be a better option than it was Before.  Okay.  What about the ones who don't make the cut?"

Scott winces.  "Yeah, the violent offenders.  I'll be surprised if we recapture any of the actual death row inmates but the guys we do pick up will be the ones we don't really want to put back on the street.  I'm with you on the unfeasibility of mass executions, generally," he pauses and the specter of New Orleans hangs in the air between them, "But I'm not sure what else to do with guys who are too dangerous to keep or let go.  Captain?  Any thoughts?"

Lauren had felt some tension ease out when Grady had come into sight. Some, but not all. The mission had been a success. Not even a scratch amongst the Sierra team and all of the ADOC staff and dependents safely evacuated. All at the cost of one punctured tire. And a few footsteps down an uncharted path.

The killings in and around the Alamo had been justified. Of that she had not a shadow of doubt. The shooting of the two sentries that had preceded events at the pig farm was probably justified. If they hadn't been taken out of the equation they could have raised the alarm. And besides, they had been armed.

The slaughter at the pig farm. That was probably another matter. The ride back to Grady had give the dark haired Air Force Captain time to reflect on that. Not much time, just enough to self analyze her decision making process. With the benefit of hindsight. It was easy to be wise after the fact of course. Easy to look back and say that there had been no Corrections Officers being held prisoner, beaten, tortured. Nor had their brief search revealed any serious threats that might have jeopardised their mission. She had no way of knowing that at the time, had acted as she thought necessary against a dangerous and unpredictable enemy. And brought all of her people back safely. That was what she told herself as their small convoy pulled into Grady and she stepped down from rear seat of the Suburban and began to throw herself into the tasks that needed dealt with. In a moment or so she planned to be too busy to think about the pig farm.

"Good work everyone." It's the first thing she says as they call clamber down, getting it in before Franks brings them up to speed. Once they've spoken to the Grady Police Captain she goes round all of her team, offering each an individual thanks, making sure that she speaks to every single person, military or civilian, retrieving her NVG's from Skillins in the process.

When she reaches Sergeant Anderson she stands next to him for a moment, her carbine cradled in her arms. "We need to be ready for a counter attack tonight." Hopefully it won't happen. Hopefully the inmates have learned the hard way not to mess with the United States Air Force - the Governor can and probably will spin this a State Guard operation but as far as Captain Lauren Cao, USAF, is concerned her service was on point, something that she is quietly proud of - but it's still going to be a long night for many of them. At least the JLTV is still manoeuvrable so a tire change can wait until morning.

After she's gone round everyone Lauren makes her way into police station, intending to take the chance to attend to her weapon. She'd heard there was food. And a shower. She'd get some of the former shortly. The latter might have to wait a bit. Before she can make it past the desk where Scott Guillory is sitting on the phone the Governor's aide has motioned for her to join him.

Cao places her carbine on the table next to the phone, her helmet joining it a moment later, a hand running through her dark hair as she listens to the conversation going backwards and forwards until Scott asks for her input and she leans forward, closer to the speaker phone, her fingers lacing together. Her face is still smeared with the camo cream that she applied before they departed. "Good evening Governor, it's Captain Cao." Unlike Mr Guillory she's nowhere near being on a first name basis with the State Governor.

"Sir, the inmates brutally murdered and raped a number of people during their breakout. They didn't give the people of Varner a chance." Clearly Cao doubts that many of the inmates can be rehabilitated. Or trusted."We do have a number of witnesses -" She's referring to the ADOC people that they've just rescued. Granted, how much they actually seen was debatable "- who could potentially give evidence in any trials. But in general I agree with Mr Guillory, I'm not sure what other options we really have."
This message was last edited by the player at 13:42, Sat 01 Sept 2018.

Saul walks as easily as he can around their little group, checking in with the team, making sure everyone is okay and has what they need: mainly a spot to decompress and process that action that just went down. With Guillory and Cao otherwise occupied, the former lawman takes over the concerned parent role for the rest of the team, getting water down throats, food into stomachs, and gear secured. Words of encouragement offered. This part of gig is easy, compared with going downrange, but there is a delicate balancing act between patronizing and supporting.  One he is very aware of not crossing.  He saves Carissa for last.  Experience with his daughter has taught him that much.  He finds her sitting outside, staring at the punctured tire of the J-LTV and shoving chicken into her mouth.  A mint iced-tea sits next to one of her boots, a bottle of bourbon sitting behind her leg with maybe one shot poured off the top.

"Hey girl," Saul says, ignoring the bourbon.  "How'd it go?" How are you?  He wouldn't ask that question directly.  She'd just lie anyway.

"About as well as could be expected," she shrugs. I'm alive.

"A few less bad guys in the world?" Did you kill anyone?

"Two or three?" Two or three.

"Clean shots?" You okay with that?  Saul's not sure he is.  This really is the first time she's been asked to go on the offense when not defending their home and people.  It's a lot to carry.  He knows from Afghanistan.

"Winged one, dumped one," she answers calmly.  "The first one was a bit of a screamer. For a dipshit." More or less.

"Might stick..." he offers.  It's okay if you're not.

Carissa looks up at her dad, eyes tight like she's been through the last round of a nasty rodeo.  "Could have done without the screaming pigs.  Glad this isn't pork," she says, digging at the chicken with a metal fork.  The last is delivered with a hint of a smile. Part of this is going to.  Should be okay, though.

Saul nods and eases himself down next to his daughter, debrief over. "Mind if I have a sip of that tea?"

"Help yourself, old man.  Try not to break a hip, though."

A dry chuckle escapes, only to be stopped when he takes a drink of Carissa iced-tea.  There is a burn of bourbon in the back, but not as much as he feared.  Enough to take the edge off.  He smiles at that, too.

"Did you have fun with punk-rock-girl?"

Saul nods. "She's good.  Reminds me of your mom a bit.  In her wilder years.  Before y'all turned her into a respectful woman."  Carissa snorts at that.  He doesn't say anything else for a bit. "Girl knows her wheelhouse and knows what not to step into without help.  Good people all in all."

"You want some chicken, dad?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Duane pops his head in to the closed conference call, interjecting, "Ask 'em to bring another tire for the M1278." He intentionally neglects to mention that Razorback already carries a perfectly good spare, and that initial inspection of the bullet-pierced run-flat has indicated no damage to the side-wall, meaning that the tire can probably be fully repaired. In Duane's mind, two spares are better than one, and there's still plenty of unused cargo space aboard Ace Hardware. He withdraws quickly, hopefully before either of the officers can yell at him for interrupting.

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This message was last edited by the player at 22:49, Sat 01 Sept 2018.

"Thank you, Captian Cao, Scott. I'll get the clerks to work pulling whatever hardcopy files we've got for the Varner and Cummings inmates. Not sure what we can recover from the digital archives- a lot of it got stir-fried*. I'll also make sure to send plenty of fingerprint cards and ink; I feel a bit guilty saying this, but I hope we won't be needing them. Well, I've got a long night in the legal libary ahead of me. Sounds like y'all earned a good long rest today, but I'm probably going to need you back at the sharp end tomorrow. Get as much rest as you can and I'll call you right after I brief the task force commander in the morning, say at 9. I want you to hear my decision directly. 'Night."

*A reference to the effects of PLA cyber-attacks.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 18:06, Mon 03 Sept 2018.

"Shit," Cole said, holding a half-eaten chicken leg.  "What we need here are some of those fortified churches I saw in Romania.  Because this town has fuck-all for useful natural choke points and other defensive features," he said, looking at a map of Grady.

"We could try to situate a few LP/OPs along mainly the eastern side of town, with one in the north and south just to cover our bases.  Use Razorback as a QRF to respond to any contact reports.  We're going to be spread thin through," he said as he pointed out a few key houses and locations that might work as observation posts.  The Tech Sergeant finished his chicken and picked up a pice of cornbread.  "Each will need two armed pax with a radio and one set of NVGs at a minimum."

”Yes, Sir” Lauren replies to the Governor. ”We do have one request, Sir. Our -“ she’s about to say JLTV, stops herself, not sure if he will know what she means ”- armoured vehicle took some damage and needs a spare tire so if you can send one down with the relief column that would be appreciated.” She omits to mention that the vehicle is still operational - she’s been in the military long enough to be more than familiar with the concept of ‘make do.’

Once the call is over Cao looks over the table at Guillory. ”Can you talk to the people we got out of the Alamo, see if they can add anything to what we already know about the situation?”It’s clearly a suggestion rather than an instruction. ”I’ll go see how we’re doing about preparing for a possible counter attack.”The Governor’s sentiments about getting as much rest as possible notwithstanding it was likely to be a long night for them as well as him.

She rejoins the rest of the team in time to catch most of Anderson’s suggestions. Picking up a piece of chicken, she nods agreement. ”Sergeant Anderson, how about you lead the QRF with Skillins, Watkins, and Carswell aboard Razorback? Ms Murray and Ms Noble can form one OP, Mr Noble and Lieutenant Rios the other? Split up radios and NVG’s as required. I’ll stay with Captain Franks to coordinate any response. I’d also like one local with each OP. They know the ground. We’ll stand down at sunrise, let the locals take over so we can get some rest before the relief force arrives. I’m sorry, I know it’s going to be a long night.”
This message was last edited by the player at 10:32, Tue 04 Sept 2018.

Carswell has a handshake ready for Saul Noble when the older man moves about the group, answering enquiries about his welfare with a clap on the shoulder and a brief shrug. All things being equal Mike’s probably seen worse but the that’s primarily because he was distanced from a lot of what went down tonight. Especially the pig farm. By the time he had got there all that had been left were corpses. So the medic’s secure behind the combination of cynicism and irreverence that forms a semi permanent defensive layer.

He doubts the same could be said of everyone though. And a burden shared is a burden halved. Or some shit like that. ”I’m good Saul, but some of the people we pulled out of the Alamo -“ he shrugs ”- I dunno man, I’m gonna check them out but I don’t know what sort of state their heads are likely to be in, ya know?”

The medic then calls over to Rios. ”Hey, Tori, save me some chicken. I gotta do some Doc stuff before I eat.” Carswell then makes his way to the Church where the Alamo survivors have been billeted, easing his way past a couple of Grady volunteers who are trying to make their unexpected guests comfortable, seeks out Betty Reeves, figuring she’s the de facto go to person. ”Hi Mrs Reeves, I just wanted to give all of your people a check up, make sure everyone is Ok. Can you give me a hand? It’s probably best if someone they know sits in.”

"Yeah, I can do that."  Scott runs a hand through his hair, smug in the knowledge that he still has more than the guy he just got off the phone with.  "I won't expect much but maybe we'll get lucky."

He follows Cao to the dinner table, frowns at the water, and refreshes his tea.  He'll need what little caffeine it has to offer and he's not yet to the point of sticking a wad of MRE coffee grounds inside his cheek.  "Doc, let me know when you're done and if any of them are up for talking about the last couple of days.  We need to keep building the," he almost says "case" but that's not really an issue after that ohone call, "picture of what happened and what we're still up against."

In the relative cool of the late, Arkansas summer night, Guillory and Carswell walk the block or so to the Methodist church in which the Cummings Village survivors are currently being lodged. They find the pastor, John Oakes, and a couple of female lay ministers doing their best to care for traumatized men, women, and children of the Alamo. Carswell examines each of the wounded in turn. His cursory findings are:

• Jamie Walker: serious gunshot wound to left clavicle (possible internal damage)
• Luis Para (volunteer corrections officer auxiliary): first and second degree burns on both hands, superficial gunshot wound to left side of neck
• Ronny Gilbert (aged 17): tips of left pinky and ring fingers shot off
• Dan Reeves: superficial gunshot wound to the side of the head
• Betty Reeves: shrapnel (glass and wood splinters) wound to left forearm

The survivors are exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Dan and Betty do their best to brief Guillory, but the couple's window to the last 48 hours' events was narrow- essentially a 50m radius around their house. What they saw in that little nightmare world will very likely haunt them for the rest of their lives.

The day of the initial riot at Varner was Dan's first day off of work in seven straight days. He usually worked at Cummings. When it became apparent that something had gone very wrong at the neighboring Varner Supermax, the alarm was sounded. Dan and another co-worker headed for the Cummings unit, arriving just in time to join the besieged. In a fortuitous mix-up, when the warden surrendered the prison to the surrounding inmates, four guards including Dan and Luis, were not informed. Consequently, they were able to avoid the treacherous massacre that followed. They snuck out of the prison under the cover of darkness and evaded rampaging inmates to join Betty and the rest of the family in the family home the Sierra Team later dubbed the Alamo. One of the four men got separated on the way and hasn't been since. Another was killed defending the homestead (his body was under the sheet in the Reeves' hallway).

While Dan was trapped in the prison, Betty tried to gather as many of her neighbors together- strength in numbers- as possible in her sturdy brick home (this was a contingency plan that the Reeves had worked out long before, pre-dating even the war) but quite a few prefered to hunker down in their own homes or try to escape on foot. As far as the couple knows, most, if not all, of these neighbors were killed, either overrun in their homes or hunted down in the fields just outside of town. One woman- a next-door neighbor- was tortured in the street in front of the Reeves' residence- a crude and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to guilt the holdouts into surrendering. She didn't survive the ordeal. None of the survivors seem particularly confident that they could positively identify any of the culprits of this, or any other crime committed during the inmates' 72-four rampage. It becomes apparent that in survivors' minds, all of the inmates are equally responsible for everything. Dan, however, is quite familiar with the prison gangs' chain of command and will gladly point the ringleaders and their various lieutenants out, if any of them happen to be captured alive.

The rest of the night passes quietly. The feared inmate counterattack never materializes. Each of the Sierras is able to grab a quick cat-nap or two here and there, but all greet the sunrise bone tired. At least the Grady townsfolk could sleep well, literally resting assured as a result of their ASDF protectors' vigilance. Like clockwork, Captain Franks' phone rings at 0900 sharp, Governor Ralford on the line.

"Scott? Task force should be rolling out shortly. I just briefed the commander. He's an Iraq vet- should know his stuff. I consulted the brain trust, such as it is, and the consensus here is that the inmates are effectively insurrectionists. Unless they surrender, they are to be treated just like any unlawful, enemy combatant in an active warzone. That means the use of deadly force is authorized. No need to wait for them to point a weapon at you. They're armed, take 'em down. They run, take 'em down. If, however, an inmate surrenders, he's to be taken into custody and treated just like any other EPW. We'll deal with them up here.

The STAR team has about three hours until the ASDF task force arrives. Franks assures the Sierras that the Grady militia is on the job, the guests can stand down. This down time is spent breaking the fast (eggs bacon, and something called corn pudding, all you can eat, juice, and chickory coffee for anyone that wants it), cleaning personal weapons, showering, and/or sleeping. Skillins replaces Razorback's damaged tire with the spare. The patch will have to wait until after he's had some more sleep.

The ASDF task force (TF Cougar) rolls into Grady just before noon. It consists of a motley assortment Humvees (two armored, three not; some still sporing desert tan paint jobs), a few old M35 cargo trucks, a former-State Police BAE Caiman MRAP commandeered by the Guard, an ASP mobile command unit, and a mass casualty transport. The task force's heavy weapons include a couple of infantry mortars and a recoilless rifle.

TF Cougar's CO is Major Bill Simonton, who saw combat with the 1st Infantry Division during the Iraq War. He's in his fifties, slim, fairly fit, with an impressive, barely-regulation moustache and rapidly thinning grey hair, cut close. A Ranger tab graces one shoulder of his multicam combat fatigues. Introductions are made, Simonton is briefed by Cao and Guillory. Franks sits in in his capacity as the Grady militia leader.

"Alright. Here's what I'm thinking. Feedback is welcome. I'd like to send a reinforced platoon around behind Varner, using the 11 south and 114 east to Gould, then swing northwest on State Route 65 to about here." He points to a spot on State Route 65 about midway between Gould and Varner. "I expect most of these inmates are will run when we show up on their doorstep, and I want a firewall between them and the next town [Gould]. You're familiar with the ground north of Cummings. The river's a natural obstacle, but its not impassable. I'd feel better with a unit in position north of the town, both to act as a backstop and, if the main attack force gets held up too long, as a potential flanking element. You up for the job?"

OOC: If you'd like to go back and handle anything covered in this turn IC, please feel free.


Your Turn

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This message was last edited by the GM at 04:03, Wed 12 Sept 2018.

”Yes, Sir, we can handle that.” Cao replies without hesitation. ”My unit is just over squad sized though, half of whom are civilians -“ that warrants a semi apologetic glance in Guillory’s direction. It’s not that she doesn’t think the civilians on the team are up to the job - she’s confident that they are or they wouldn’t be on the team -  but she feels slightly hesitant to order them into further harm’s way now that the relief force has arrived. ”- so if you can spare a few men that would be helpful. Say a single fire team, four men?”

She turns to Guillory. ”Scott, I can’t order your people to take part in this but you’re all more than welcome to join us.” Lauren smiles briefly. And she just called him Scott. Not Mr Guillory. We killed people together so now we can first name each other. They’d be making friends on Facebook next. Or what was left of it after the cyberattacks earlier in the War. She looks over at Franks. ”Likewise if Mr Armstrong or Mr Beasley would come with us again it would be really helpful to have people who know the local area but they’re obviously free to say no.”

The Air Force Captain then shifts her attention back to Simonton. ”We can give you a drone overflight before you launch the assault if you want it. Tech Sergeant Anderson can brief you on that.”
This message was last edited by the player at 13:08, Fri 07 Sept 2018.

"Absolutely," Simonton responds. He gestures to his XO to go make it happen.



"I'll take you up on that. We brought the ASDF air force along, but I'd prefer not to risk an aircrew if we can help it." Simonton explains that the Task Force includes a militarized civilian ultra-light aircraft. Its two-man aircrew includes a pilot and an observer/gunner. The aircraft is being unloaded [from a truck] and reassembled as they speak.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 21:37, Fri 07 Sept 2018.

"Not to overstep my bounds," Saul interjects into the conversation between Cao and Simonton, "but we should try to find an active role for the Grady population in this op.  Likewise any of the survivors from the Alamo that want a job.  We want to install some more agency here, not make them feel dependent on Little Rock any time there's a problem.  Yes, they were overwhelmed this time and we're happy to help, but long term, they need to stand strong."  He turns to Franks with kind eyes.  "I want to be real clear here: this isn't a slight on you and yours.  You did amazingly well and should be proud of yourselves.  We want to help you deal with the next situation before it even arrives."

Flashbacks to Afghanistan as much as the streets of Memphis slide through Saul's mind.  When people feel helpless, they act helpless.  Give a man (or woman) the chance to stand, and they'll stand again.  And feel connected to their homes.

"If Grady has even five or six folks to attach to an active combat unit, it'll help.  For the Cummings survivors, standing back up will help them heal."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:24, Sun 09 Sept 2018.

Carissa elects to stay busy until she can't keep her eyes open.  Otherwise she knows she'll be listening to squealing pigs.  Her rifle, and the borrowed one, are meticulously cleaned.  Ammo is replaced.  She breaks a sweat helping Skillins replace the tire on Razorback and generally tries to make herself useful to the team and survivors.

Finally, she just can't keep her eyes open any more, and after telling Xandra where to find her, she curls up on a church pew, jacket over her head, and just manages to keep the sound memory out of her head long enough to fall asleep.

As soon as he's off the phone with the governor and has passed the word to Cao, Scott puts his hat over his face and grabs about two hours of fitful sleep.  That does little to restore any sense of humanity, but the subsequent shower and shave clear some of the fog from his brain.  When the ASDF task force pulls into town, he's able to greet it wearing his professional face and a clean shirt.  He still defers to Cao, though - Steve's decision leaves the operation in military territory today.

He suppresses a blink of surprise at Cao's unexpected use of his given name.  It's a not-unwelcome sign of collaboration and maybe a little bit of a thaw, but the etiquette of such things was a bit tricky when he was a street cop and he doesn't imagine it's any less complicated in the post-nuclear military.  For public consumption in front of someone who's nominally Cao's superior, if not quite in her current chain of command, he chooses to keep acknowledging her rank without being overly stuffy about it.  "Sure, I'll ride along, Cap," he says, returning her smile.  "I'll check with the rest."

He nods at Saul.  "Yeah.  If I may, Major?"  He swivels the thin sheaf of briefing documents around on the table between them and extracts the ICS Form 203 (Organization Assignment List) sheet.  "If we can link Chief Franks up with yourself or your operations chief, that'll put him in a position to advise on local conditions and capabilities."  Not incidentally, it'll give the local top cop a chance to watch a large operation being run, something that largely seems to be outside his experience.  "Medical volunteers under your paramedics on the MAB for casualty collection, triage, and treatment.  Assume we are going to have some prisoners, so spin up a field processing unit like we used to do for Razorbacks tournament games."

Shit, Cole thought to himself.  He was eager to get back to the weapon station of Razorback but with the assembled forces, he was forced to acknowledge an ugly truth.  That real-time aerial surveillance and intelligence would far more valuable for a force this large than having any particular individual on the .50 cal.

"Alright, my first thought is to set up both Raven Ground Control Stations and put two Ravens up just before the assault, 15 minute apart.  First on a north/south racetrack, followed by an east/west track for the second bird.  Waypoints can be preprogramed, so I'd just need to switch between them for observation and to react to contact or adjust angles.  Two birds will help make their flyovers unpredictable as well.  Major, if you can get me on your command or S3 net, I can update you on the location of any enemy forces spotted."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:10, Mon 10 Sept 2018.

Having managed to catch a couple of hours worth of sleep in the back of the JLTV when the night had turned out - thankfully - to be uneventful, Carswell had returned to the Church Hall after breakfast, checked up on the Cummings survivors, at least with regard to their physical well being. Their mental states were another matter altogether, which was more than understandable given everything that they had been through.

When the relief column rolls into town Mike goes to make his manners with their medical team, grins as he sees a dark haired woman in OD fatigues disembarking, recognising her as a fellow pre War Little Rock paramedic. "Hey Becky, good to see you. Might have known you'd show up."

Becky Chan offers up a grin of her own as she fist bumps her colleague. "Hey, Mike. Word is it's pretty bad?" her head cocks inquisitively, the unspoken question left hanging. Is it that bad?

Carswell nods. "It's bad."

Franks tries to hide a frown. He's half-sitting, half-leaning against a desk, arms folded across his chest.

"No offense taken, Mr. Noble. Grady always has been a bootstraps kind o' place, not the kind to take advantage of other peoples' hard work. But, with all due respect, defending hearth and home and taking part in a military offensive are two different animals- snakes and toads. Now, I can probably find five or six competent volunteers to go along with you, help you out, but most of my people would probably only get in the way. I would like any Grady volunteers to be attached to your STAR team, though, instead of Task Force what was it? Cougar? They know you, they trust you, and it sounds like you won't be the tip of the spear on this operation.

"As for the folks from Cummings. I stopped by the church last night. In my professional opinion, those people are in no shape to go back to the scene of the crime. They've been up for 72 hours straight, scared out of their minds the whole time, going on nothin' but adrenaline and instinct. Most of 'em are hurt, physically. What they need right now is rest. Can't stand up for yourself if you can't stay awake."

Simonton pays attention during the exchange, turns to Cao once Franks has said his piece. "If Grady can provide you with a fire-team, will you still be needing one of mine?"

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This message was last edited by the GM at 03:42, Tue 11 Sept 2018.

Lauren tries to keep her expression neutral. She's a career military officer. Granted, the State Guard aren't regular military and their experience and training varies, but she'd still rather have a squad of Simonton's people than half a dozen civilians. Correction, half a dozen more civilians. She's probably being unfair, even harsh. But to say so is likely to be interpreted as disrespecting Franks and his neighbours. Politics she muses.

There's a brief pause before she replies to the State Guard Major. "I'm sure we'll be fine with the Grady volunteers, Sir." She turns to Franks, smiles. "Thank you, Captain Franks, I appreciate the help. If you can assemble any volunteers after this meeting is over we can make sure they are fully briefed." She looks back over at Simonton. "Sir, can the Grady volunteers draw any ammo that they need from your supplies?" She'll agree to Franks' request that the Grady people be attached to her team but she'd prefer if the Task Force could take care of any supply needs that they might have.

"That's fine," Simonton answers. "I'm sending out the end-around platoon as soon as this meeting is adjourned. The rest of the company will move out at 1300 hours sharp- I presume your squad will be ready. Let me know when you get those drones up in the air." [It's noon, CGT]

Simonton gives Cao and Guillory the frequencies to the company net, then steps outside to brief his subordinates.

The "end-around" force consists of a two unarmored Humvees (one mounting an M60 machinegun behind a rudimentary gun-shield), one M35 truck carrying the bulk of the platoon, and one M939 flatbed (the ultra-light carrier). The two-man ultralight, "Buzzard 2", will be accompanying the small force in the air, acting as scout and close air-support, should the platoon need it (its spotter/gunner carries a SAW and four 60mm HE mortar rounds modified to serve as aerial-dropped bombs).

The rest of TF Cougar (two armored Humvees, both with GPMGs, the BAE Caiman, and two M1078s, one carrying the weapons section's two 60mm mortars and single M67 recoilless rifle) is going to advance straight down State Route 65, counting on brute force to brush aside any potential roadblocks. Its first objective is to secure Varner village; then Simonton intends to move against the eponymous prison.

The Grady militia at Choctaw farms reports spotting a small group of men earlier in the day, two of them clad in the distinctive orange jumpsuits of prisoners. Warning shot were fired. When the men broke and ran east, a couple of the more gung ho militiamen took them under fire. One body was recovered, and blood trails indicated that another inmate was wounded.

Franks returns with four Grady volunteers- the familiar faces of Ed Armstrong and Tom Beasley, plus Vicky "Mama" Lawrence, a hard-faced, 50-something widow toting a scoped, lever-action rifle, and Billy Swift, a young man who claims to have spent some time in the Coast Guard (an AR-15 is slung over his shoulder, a semiautomatic pistol rests on his hip).

After Franks makes the introductions, he adds, "Offut practically begged me to let him come too, but I convinced him that manning the radios is a much more important duty."

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This message was last edited by the GM at 19:52, Sat 15 Sept 2018.

The siege of the prisons lasts two-and-a-half days. The prisoners were prepared and determined, hunkered down behind the fences that were meant to keep them confined. Both Varner and Cummings Villages were burned to the ground, either to eliminate evidence of additional crimes or as a crude diversion of sorts.Either way, the ploy doesn't slow down TF Cougar.

The smoke from the burning settlements hampers Anderson's drone reconnaissance, but he's still able to provide real-time aerial surveillance of both Cougar's and Sierra's march routes, as well as fly-overs of the both prisons. The Varner Supermax appears abandoned. It's approached first, swept quickly, proves empty of living inmates. The bulk of the task force moves on to the Cummings Unit. This latter proves to be the inmates' own Alamo. Ersatz snipers in the guard towers are eliminated by machinegun and recoilless rifle fire. Gaps are blown in the fences, and armored vehicles push through to deposit assault teams. Several direct assaults on the main buildings get bogged down in the close confines of the cell blocks, and numerous ASDF casualties are sustained, so Simonton orders his men out and the structures bombarded with mortars (white phosphorous rounds proving particularly effective). Mortar bombs are also dropped by Vulture II, the ASDF ultra-light, in its proof-of-concept combat debut. Several of the prison buildings start to burn. In the end, very few inmates are taken prisoner. Those not killed in the fires started by the WP rounds are cut down by machinegun and rifle fire as they attempt to shift positions (or flee, it's hard to tell which), or cornered and killed by hand grenades as they make their last stands in various nooks of the surviving structures.

The southern blocking force arrives in position just in time to scoop up six inmates who've decided they've had enough fun and manage to get away from their more determined brethren. In total, 39 inmates are recaptured. Somewhat suspiciously, there are very few wounded among them. 113 bodies have been counted so far, but some parts of the Cummings Unit are still smoldering and too hot to enter. About a dozen more inmate corpses are found during sweeps of the Varner Unit, some of them clearly having been dead for several days- likely the victims of prisoner in-fighting. Four more inmates are found hiding out there. No one much wants to search amongst the ashes of the two villages. A later sweep of Cummings Village will turn up close to fifty corpses, most of them burned beyond recognition. Ten are found lying out in the open, unburned. Of these, seven are clearly inmates (killed by the Alamo defenders or the Sierras during their earlier rescue op). 27 corpses, likely all civilian, are found in Varner Village.

During aerial patrols of the area around the prisons, the Vulture II crew spots a couple of small groups of inmates on the run, strafing them with uncertain results.

The wounded, mostly ASDF personnel, are loaded on board the Mobile Ambulance Bus, along with Jamie (the teenaged gunshot victim) and the Gradyites requiring more medical care than Carswell can provide, and sent to Little Rock via Pine Bluff.

The rest of Task Force Cougar- plus the prisoners, minus a platoon stationed temporarily at Varner Supermax to continue mopping up operations in the area- prepares to return to Little Rock.

Sierra returns to Grady...

To Be Continued...

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This message was last edited by the GM at 05:09, Mon 17 Sept 2018.

Before...

"Brody.  Hold up."

At Scott's order, the Guardsman about to search the latest recaptured convict halts in mid-step.  "Sir?"

Scott's been using Bourbon Street's rear hatch as a makeshift office for prisoner processing.  Now he steps forward, one hand resting on the retention hood of his Safariland holster.  "Howya doin', Axel?" he rhetorically asks the prisoner, who's only semiconscious thanks to the imprint of a rifle butt on his forehead.  "Be extra careful with Asshole here," he tells Brody.  "He likes to keep a handcuff shim taped to the back of his belt and a razor blade in those greasy-ass viking braids."

Axel Vigels awakens himself enough to snarl inarticulately at Scott as Brody and his partner strip him down.  True to form, there's an ugly shiv in his hair and a couple of hairpins tucked into a seam of his ratty jeans.  Scott gives him the same thin, infuriating smirk that he's calibrated to fly under most judges' radar in the courtroom.  "Got any messages for Eugen?  I guarantee we'll see him before you do."

"Asshole and his asshole brother used to steal heavy equipment and sell it across the border, he explains to Brody's questioning look once Axel is out of the way.  "They shot a Hot Springs cop when he caught them loading an excavator onto a flatbed.  We might not have gotten them, but their girlfriend flipped after they got in a three-way domestic over which asshole had knocked her up."

Scott glances at the angle of the sun.  "It's gonna be a long fuckin' day.  Could be shorter if the major would let me shoot a few more."  He smiles insincerely at the next prisoner in line.  "Why, as I live and breathe!  Scotty Reynolds!  It's like a goddamn district court reunion down here!"

The Aftermath

The Sun is sinking towards the western horizon by the time Lauren Cao emerges from Grady Police Station. Simonton had turned it into a temporary TOC for the duration of the operation against the Varner inmates, and Lauren had spent most of the afternoon inside, taking part in what seemed like an endless series of meetings and debriefs as each element had checked in and Task Force Cougar's combat operations had begun to wind down. Somewhere overhead she was vaguely aware of the sound of an engine, no doubt Vulture II returning from another reconnaissance sortie.

She's tired. Actually, she's beyond tired, she's exhausted. She's not sure how much sleep she's had in the last three days but she knows it hasn't been much, just a cat nap here and there, keeping going on a mixture of adrenalin and ersatz coffee. But at least it was over. Grady Main Street looks like she imagines some towns in eastern Europe must have looked in 2027 or 2028, with military vehicles parked outside the police station, men and women milling about wearing an assortment of uniforms. From where she's standing she can see multicam, OCP, and woodland BDU's as well as various styles of civilian hunting gear.

Lauren removes her helmet, runs a hand through her hair, still scraped back into a tight bun, her fingers straying to her neck, massaging the aches and pains as she moves her head from side to side. Further down the street she can see Bourbon Street parked next to a Humvee, notices Scott Guillory running the prisoner processing. That's fine by her. The military part of this operation is more or less over. What happens to the recaptured prisoners is someone else's problem. Not that many had been recaptured. She really doesn't know how she feels about that. Just like she doesn't know how she feels about events at the pig farm three nights ago. That was all on her. She had been the one that had issued the orders to fire on unarmed men.

Unarmed. Sure, they had been unarmed. And maybe the inmates that had tortured a woman to death in front of the Alamo hadn't been carrying guns either. Fuck, for all she knows it was the torturers that her patrol had killed. She hopes it was, although it's unlikely she'll ever know for sure.

Nobody had mentioned the pig farm since that night. Maybe they're all dealing with it in different ways. It doesn't feel as though there's anyone that she could talk to about it, other than maybe Guillory. She's not even sure she wants to talk about it. Before she would have probably spoke to Jess. Captain Jessica Sawyer USAF had been Lauren's best friend. Based at Barksdale, she had been a pilot with the 20th Bomb Squadron, flying a B52H Stratofortress, had failed to return from a mission two years ago. Jess wouldn't have judged, would have just listened, let Lauren pour it all out. Lauren knew that people had talked about her and Jess, that there had been scuttlebutt. That hadn't been her problem either. But she missed Jess.

Pushing that thought out of her head she walks down the street until she finds Saul Noble. "Saul, If anyone's looking for me I'll be back at the Post Office." She announces, the fatigue evident in her voice. Fuck, they're all tired. But maybe she'll finally be able to grab a shower. And an hour's sleep. Just an hour.

"Hey." Mike Carswell grins as he pulls a chair up next to the cot that Jamie Walker is lying on in the Methodist Church.

"Hey, Mike." Her own grin is weak but at least it's there.

"So, they're going to take you up to Little Rock. They'll take good care of you." The medic hopes that she doesn't ask what happens when it's time for her to be discharged from hospital for he doesn't have the answer to that one. Neither of her parents had been amongst the survivors. How fucked up was this, really? Survive a goddamn nuclear fucking war then get slaughtered by a bunch of cons that should have been put down when the first bombs had started falling.

One thing at a time. "This is my buddy Becky." A gloved thumb indicates the petite woman with Chinese features standing behind him. Becky Chan flashes Jamie a quick grin. "She'll look after you on the way up there."

Jamie just nods. Carswell squeezes her hand gently. "You take care of yourself kid, yeah?"