It is good to have an end to journey toward, but it is the journey that matters in the end.

Ursula K. Le Guin

-

November 10, 2000
0730 hrs.
Approximately 15km northeast of Bydgoszcz, Poland
26F, cloudy with a steady southerly breeze


"The engine's fucked, Captain." Gryzyech reports, dryly. The engineman is a lot less surly sober; he compensates by being patronizing.

"I could give you the long version, but you probably wouldn't understand half of it. The short version is that I'm not going to be able to fix it without parts, parts we don't have on board. I can give you just enough steam for steerage, going with the current, but that's about it. We need to find a settlement with a boatyard, somewhere I can salvage the parts I need. It's either that or scuttle her and start walking."

Gryzyech glanced out the bridge window at the snowy east bank and shivered histrionically, emphasizing the inadvisability of the latter course of action.

"Grudziaz. That's our best bet. They've got a proper dock, workshops, hopefully spares."


The Wisla Krolowa river tug sways gently at anchor, mid-channel, approximately 24km downriver from the irradiated ruins of Bydgoszcz. Ice creeps down the banks, reaching tentatively into the murky margins of the inexorable Vistula. Thick clouds are rolling in again from the Baltic, promising a continuation of the cold, and possibly more precipitation.

The crew, now reduced by four, stands at its morning watch stations, scanning land and water for dangers both man-made and natural.

No longer on board the tug is USAF pararescueman Daniel Larue and his three Super Jolly Green Giant crewmates. Due to a conflict of conscience and command, the quartet decided to abandon the tug and remain behind, temporarily at least, with the traumatized female refugees dwelling surreptitiously in the radioactive ruins of Bydgoszcz. Joining the American quartet, for reasons of his own not made clear, is Mritjunjay Byanjankar.* After resting and rendering such aid as they could, the four Americans, with the Gurkha in tow, would attempt to find their own way back to NATO lines during what had so far promised to be one of the harshest European winters in living memory.

Having failed to reach a mutually beneficial trade agreement with the residents of Bydgoszcz, the tug's larder is growing alarmingly bare. At most, there's about two day's worth of food on board (at full rations). Fortunately, the current engine trouble doesn't preclude use of the boiler to generate hot water in order to heat the tug's tight cluster of cabins.


Updated Campaign Map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing

*I may have to add to this list if other players drop out or fail to respond. AFAIK, everyone still on the roster intended to continue playing, but that was as of a few weeks ago.


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 02:06, Tue 16 June 2015.

Joszef was being a dick again, Griet thought sourly. Normally that would have drawn a sharp response from her but Joszef was different: being a dick was hard-wired in every fibre of his body, he was an engineer, a man and a Pole. Getting irritated with him for being a dick was like resenting winter for being cold. You could resent it and rail against it as much as you liked but it wasn't going to change anything.

Ever...

"Thank you, Joszef," she said, her voice low and thoughtful, "I'll discuss it with the others and come up with a plan of action to get what you suggest done. We've all sunk too much blood into the old girl to abandon her. You more than most."

Griet turned to look out of the wheel-house window at the grey of the river rimed with a growing fringe of hoary ice and then at the land beyond, dry and leeched of all colour by the sharp cold of winter and dusted prettily with a scattering of old snow. She shivered despite the warmth that the boilers still provided: no Pole found snow romantic, for them it was a fact of life, a fact that would kill the unwary and since civilisation had collapsed, it could kill you even if you were wary.

The familiar gnawning of worry started once more in the pit of her stomach and sent out acidic green tendrils of anxiety throughout her body. The crew was dwindling with barely nine active combatants left and everything was running out: just two days of food, less and less ammunition for the Dushkas and now even the heart of the Queen, her doughty engine, was wearing out.

It was time to give the old girl what the Americans on her would call TLC but, as Griet knew from harsh experience, love for the girl was always paid in blood.

She looked reflexively at the small icon in the corner: Saint Jude smiled down on the wheelhouse, a relic her father had placed there that was symbolic of his quixotic romanticism. Adam Rataj, the reincarnation of Don Quixote, the river boat captain that had helped save Warsaw in the process of saving his own family. She wished he was here, his presence had always had a calming influence on her even when he had visited her as a girl when she hadn't known he was her father. When he had been around all the meaness and worry had faded away.

She sighed, if wishes were fishes they wouldn't be worried about the rations.

She shook her head, it was time to stop naval-gazing and do what she did best: act.

Her hand went to the intercom system and keyed it on, "Captain to all crew. Please assemble in the wheelhouse as soon as possible, we need a conference."

She gazed at the icon as she waited for them to gather, looking with sadness at the brass plaques that Mariusz had screwed underneath it as a memorial to the fallen. There were several and they all bore a litany that was testament to the bloody path the had carved through Poland. The Wistula was regarded as the life blood of the country and the crew of the Queen had done its share to infuse fresh blood to it.

The crew assembled and Griet turned to address them, as usual, she didn't bother with formalities, life was too short, "Joszef has informed me that the engine is seriously damaged and needs immediate repair. He has suggested that we use the last of our power to get to Grudziaz where there are facilities to make good the repairs. I'd like to discuss options we have to achieve that. The floor is open."

"That's forty kilometers." Bayer remarks drly. "The Queen can make that?" He then rubbed his eyes as he listened to any forthcoming reply. He felt strange, like he'd been asleep for years. He didn't ask how Gryzyech knew there were, or rather still were, any facilities there. One way or another the Kommandos would float past there anyway. Somehow.

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
If the Queen can't make it the entire distance, Bayer's follow up question is, "How close can we get on her own power?"

---

Regardless of whether the Queen could make the distance, the standard procedure would eventually apply, "Foot patrol." Bayer then says. Rarely did the Kommandos venture into large settlements like Grudziaz without knowing what was there... at least to some degree. "We get as close as you can get then we put ashore the usual scouting party."

He knew the rather poor state of affairs for the tug's supplies, but hadn't gotten a SITREP on the Kommandos in a while. Giving the faces crowded into the room with him a look, he asks,  "How are we doing for small arms ammunition?"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:43, Thu 28 May 2015.

Remaining on his post at the starboard Dushka until everyone else had filed onto the bridge, Thijs was the last to enter.  He grimly took in Griet's news without comment and replied to Konrad's request for ammunition status:
"I have about 220 rounds of 5.56mm ammunition for my C7, Hauptmann.  One drawn-out firefight could deplete the entire stock.  My pistol has 3 clips -- 39 rounds -- of 9mm Parabellum, and the RPK I have been familiarizing myself with has just 120 rounds of 7.63mm Kalashnikov.  I hate to beat a dead horse, but in the hold, all three ammunition types are in extremely short supply, with the exception of some 7.62mm on belts for the PKMs, and those not in great quantities, either.  We will need much more if we are to continue on for more than a week or two.".

"We can move at the pace of the current and generate just enough steam to steer if we need to," Griet replied, "as for ammunition, I have seven full magazines for my rifle and fifteen HE rounds for my grenade launcher. I also have a bag of grenades with a mix of frag a smoke."

Mariusz squeezed into a corner of the wheel-house and spoke up, "I also have seven magazines for my rifle and ten HE grenades. There's also my G3 in my bunk with six full mags and a HK69 but no grenades. There are 12 AK-74s in the stores and twenty-five full mags if anyone needs to switch out weapons."

"If you find suitable machines, I can manufacture parts for us. It all depends on what we need and resources we have. Used to be a machinist on a big boat before war", the Finn said in his slightly peculiar sounding English. It wasn't exactly the pronounciation, but his choice of words and the lack of some of them that sounded perhaps a bit funny. But then again, if he was half as good a mechanic as he was with the Vasilek on the bow, then he could probably deliver what they needed if provided with tools and materials. "Perhaps you can show me, what is the problem, kumpel." If his English sounded funny, his Polish sounded even more that, but at least he knew a few words of it.

Bayer nods his thanks towards the first few replies regarding personal ammunition, but didn't say anything. He wasn't sure how they'd overcome the issue at the moment, but they'd find a way. They always did.

He then returns his attention to Griet, his mood improving a little upon learning they didn't have to walk the entire distance. "Ok then... the pace of the current. In that case how long do you figure we will cover, ehh, twenty eight kilometers?" By this point Bayer's map was unfolded and laid out before him. It was the same map old Adam had given him and for brief moment he wondered what might have happened to the Kommando's former employer. Before Griet, or someone else quicker at the math, can answer, Bayer leans back so others can view his map, and continues, "I'm asking because there are two bends in the river before Grudziadz. I'd like to go no further than the second to last bend before we know what's there."

He then continues, "What I'm sating is only a tentative course of action... does anyone have anything else?"

"The current is flowing at 2.8 kilometres an hour so it will take ten hours to reach the point you asked about. If you want it to take longer I can rig a drag anchor to cut our speed by up to half." Griet replied.

"If we can find metal of suitable quality, we can fabricate new parts or jury rig a fix," Griet agreed, "we're limited by the availability of metal and our destination seems the best place to find it. We're going to need to think about what we can trade if the place is inhabited. we have some gold but not many people accept that. Unless they want a dozen AK-74s we'll be in trouble."

"No, ten hours is perfect. That will put us on target right before nightfall, and can't continue in the dark anyway." Bayer replies.

Tucker carefully snuffs out half of his cigar so he has it to enjoy after the meeting in the wheelhouse.  He enters and nods to everyone inside as he tries to warm up from the chilly night.

Griet gives her speech and the news isn't good.  One of the only things they had going for them was the Queen and all of the blood that has been spilled because of her to keep her going  would be a shame to not try anything to give those of them that were left something to fight for, to live for.  He looks around inside to catch the reaction of the others and listens as everyone gives their equipment and input.

"I still have quite a bit of Forty Mike-Mike grenades for the NATO launchers and a decent stock of M-16 style mags and some loose ammo.  I've got three handguns, four if you count the Desert Eagle I picked up from the Baron's room.  I've also got the M-14K with seven mags," Robert says as he looks around at the strange looks (he may get) when going on about his post-war gun and ammo collecting.  "What?  I've been frugal with my shit.  Anyways, the closer we can get, the better off we'll be.  We shouldn't just float in and expect to get what we need.  Who knows what the hell we're going to find there and if they're friendly."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:01, Thu 28 May 2015.

With a shake of his jacket Graig dislodges some of the frost and ice that seemed to have accumulated on himself before he enters the wheelhouse. He finds a place to stand before listening to the situation and everyone's dwindling supplies of ammunition.

When it is his turn he speaks up: "I've got about two hundred and ninety five of 7.62mm, twenty three of 12 gauge of various sorts, forty 9mm, twelve 40mm and about thirteen grenades of various sorts."

He then leans against the wall before adding; "If we are going to stop for any reason we should put out some hunting parties."

"Nearly three hundred rounds and a hundred and forty-seven smokes." Quyen answers. Both were equally vital. "I'm good for now Hauptmann. My demo kit is a little thin but I still have some of that too."

Quyen then leans towards Robert standing beside her and sniffs at his jacket. The scent of tobacco lingered from his cigar. "Hey... are you holding out on me?" she whispers.

With a tentative plan in place, the Krolowa weighs anchor and resumes its journey downriver. The tug drifts placidly with the steady, nearly 3kph current, the riverbank gliding slowly by on either flank. The surrounding countryside is empty, the few isolated homesteads dotting the landscape on either bank cold and dark. The crew, eating in shifts, has a spot of warm breakfast (oatmeal porridge) before returning to its duty stations.

After two-and-a-half hours, the tug approaches the twin settlements of Chelmno and Swiecie, the former occupying the east bank of the Vistula, the latter situated on the western side. The road bridge that used to connect the two towns is gone; only two jagged stumps remain, jutting out a few meters from either bank over the cold brown river.

From the Krolowa's bridge, First Mate Walter Matuziak surveys the route ahead through a pair of high-powered German naval binoculars.

"Eh, Captain. Looks like a ferryboat yard on the west bank up ahead." He points at the spot and hands the binoculars to Griet. "Maybe we could find Gryzyech's parts there."

Griet studies the ferryboat yard, a rectangular cutting in the west bank about 700m short of the destroyed road bridge. Several battered, rusty vessels occupy the yard. There's no one around. Griet continues her scan of the west bank, focusing on the town of Swiecie, set back about 3-5 kilometers from the Vistula. The settlement stretches several kilometers from southwest to northeast, bisected across its midsection by the highway that used to cross the river here. The western half of the town appears to consist of damaged industrial buildings; the eastern half appears mostly residential in nature. At the east of town, a blue flag flies above a red brick tower. It's too far away at the moment (about 5km) to make out much detail.

Chelmno, on the opposite bank, is a smaller settlement, lacking a visible industrial component. Griet seems to remember that the village has some sort of recent historical significance, but she can't put her finger on it. Walter, seeming to read her mind, pipes in, "The Nazis built a death camp there. For the Jews."

Updated Tac-map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing

OOC: Is the tug flying a flag? If so, which one? There's an illustrated list of available flags in the Vistula Queen notice.


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 18:00, Fri 29 May 2015.

Griet shuddered inwardly, only the Twentieth Century had managed to industrialise murder and Poland was littered with reminders of the bloody past. She'd salvaged from around Oswicziem, visited Schindler's factory in Krakow and now they were close to another. It all gave her the creeps.

She picked up the intercom handset once more, "Captain to Engineer, come to the bridge please."

Once Joszef was an the bridge Griet handed him the binoculars, "Walter is wondering if the ferry dock might have some parts you need. Survey it and then let us know what you think. If you judge it worth a try we'll stop and scout it out."

"We might find parts or materials there", Anders said looking at the yard. "They might be rusty but serviceable." He scanned the yard with interest, not to mention a professional eye - whatever had been left bend could help them to fix the boat. On top of it, they might find something suitable for improving the protection on the forward mount with the Vasilek or the machinegun mounts on the superstructure.

Gryzyech thumps onto the bridge, looking clear-eyed and put-upon. With a grunt, he takes the binos from Griet and studies the ferryboat park.

"Meh. It's possible. Probably worth a stop, anyways."

-

"We'll stop," Griet decided, "All hands prepare for  shore party."

"I know I won't understand the specifics," she said to Joszef, "but we'll need to have a idea of what we need to look for unless you want to pick through every wreck yourself."

Griet was used to this sort of response from men. A lifetime in the Navy working on the engines of anything from a launch to a destroyer and other engineers still thought she didn't know a sprocket from an oojamaflip. Steam engines were different of course and she respected the man's artistry with them so she didn't let irony or anger creep into her box. The fact that the engineer even accepted that she was something approximating a captain was a massive leap forward for a middle-aged Polish man. Griet took her victories where she could get them.

Mariusz was going over the stores lists when the intercom squawked an dragged him out of his reverie. He'd been trying to work out how they were going to make their supplies stretch to meet their needs and he felt the acid gnaw of anxiety boil in his stomach when none of his schemes made it work.

Food was a constant worry for the young man. Food wasn't just about staying alive although in these days when the dreadful spectre of famine stalked the land that was a primary concern. Food represented love, it represented security and having so little eroded his confidence. He sighed as he made the last of his notes and then went to his bunk before assembling on the bridge.

He pulled out his old battered knapsack, a reminder of the old days when he'd gone on hikes with his family on the weekends. He'd carried it out of Warsaw when they'd fled and it had served him all the way through his time with Brother Stan's partisans.

He solemnly loaded it up with his stash of food, items carefully hoarded since their battle with the Baron. Two cans of caviar, stuffed olives in oil, sun-dried tomatoes, all went in. His hands shook as he added the extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar and tears stung his eyes as the Swiss chocolate went in.

He looked at the tin of coca powder and he left it there. Coco had always been a family favourite and some of his best memories involved drinking it with his parents. Christmas morning, late nights on holidays, cream topped in the zoo. His dreams of the zoo would never be the same again, his parent's smiles and his feelings of joy super-imposed with the stink of the foetid water in the Lion House where he had crouched during a skirmish with the Baron's men and the image of blood dripping onto a small child's skull that still woke him screaming in the night.

Not the coco, not yet, he couldn't part with that. He even had a small screw mixed with powdered milk in his breast pocket, hopefully it would remain there forever as he planned for it to be the last drink he ever took.

He stood and shouldered the knapsack before heading up to the bridge.

As the others assembled he saw the flag flapping in the distance and said, "Captain, if the town is inhabited, they have a clam on salvage around here. I would advise that we try contacting them and get permission to salvage and hunt. We might even be able to set up some trades. I have some personal gear we could use as payment and I'd like to draw some of the gold bullets to try and trade with that."

"I've had a look in the stores and I'd also suggest taking the RPD, some Kalashnikovs the Wz. 91 we found and a G3 and some magazines to trade with if they don't accept gold. It might not work and it definitely lets people know we're here but if we go in without permission we practically guarantee a fight."

Earlier on at the meeting Griet called in the wheelhouse:

Jan listened as the problem with the engine and the potential solutions were outlined.  It was ever the way with vehicles these days: the balance of keeping them maintained against the benefits they gave you.  In the case of the Queen however Jan rather liked sleeping somewhere dry and warm and viewed keeping the boat going as a worthwhile use of time and energy.

“We have much gold and should trade it if we find person who will trade with us.  Gold have no value for us sit in the hold.”

He puffed again on his cigarette and offered it across to Minh for a drag herself as the conversation turned to ammo loads.  “I have eleven mags for my AK and eighteen HE grenades for my launcher but I agree with others.  We need more ammo and food and we must find trader if we no want to be bandits or pirates.”

At one point during a lull in the conversation he commented about the food situation.  “We do more fishing for food for us to eat.  We on the river but take little from river.”

---

Jan glanced at Mariusz.  "I think we need to recce first then trade later.  Just take weapons and ammo and see if friendly or not."

He turned and glanced at Konrad, aware that Griet normally deferred to him when it came to decisions on land.  "Mon Capitaine.  Who goes for recce?  You want me take small team for start with?  Or we sent many now?"

When Jan mentioned fishing from the river, Mariusz had a flashback to the chemical agents they'd set off near Jasna Gora, the ground water should have filtered into the Wistula by now...

The recce was a good idea though, "That's a good point, Jan, he agreed. If we scout out first without taking anything, no one can accuse us of stealing. Than we can either go ahead or make contact depending on what we find."

"Full section." Bayer replies after a moment's though. "The difference between four and eight is hardly a step up to an invasion, and I want some flexibility on the ground." Had it been night he might have thought differently. He then glanced around the room to familiarize himself with the remaining hands. "Jan, you can take Quyen, van Lincklaen, and Mattson." Bayer says, nodding to each Kommando as they're allocated placement in the shore party. "With me will be Robert, Sutherland, and Mariusz." With the weapons that were available, the break down was largely random with the exception of the usual translator.

Bayer then addresses the Czech, "My group will lead and yours are to keep back one tactical bound behind. If we are met with hostility, go to ground, and my group will withdraw though you... and we'll leapfrog it from there back to the water. Understood?"

Next, he addresses their insertion, "Lieutenant Sutherland, if you'll take Quyen and ready the inflatable for launching."

Lastly, Bayer reiterates what's essentially already been discussed, "This is just exploratory. Nobody fires or acts aggressive unless it's in self defense, or takes anything. We're going to go in and look around, make contact if possible, and that's it."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:46, Sat 30 May 2015.

"Oui, mon Capitaine," Jan replied to Konrad.  "We cover you and back you up."

He then turned to the three Kommandos assigned to him.  "If we must pair up Quyen and Thijs will be one pair and Anders and me will be another pair.  Full weapons and ammo.  Quyen, there is spare hand held radio in the stores.  Bring it please."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:45, Sat 30 May 2015.

Slyly smiling and looking Minh in the eyes as he turns, he whispers back, "Never!"  He places the half-smoked cigar in front of her lips, waiting for her to take it.

"Good enough Boss.  If it's all the same, I'll leave my two-oh-three with the ship unless, someone in the support group wants to use it?"

"You want a machinegun along, captain, or should take a rifle?" The Finn could handle both though he was a bit better shot with the rifles. He turned at the Czech. "I suggest you take a lead of our pair - I'm a naval officer rather than infantry. My experience in close quarters is only aboard ships mostly." At least he was man enough to admit, he was not a 'shooter' as some put it. A naval gunnery officer hardly ever had to fight as infantry, with boarding suspected smugglers and pirates an exception.

Craig grabbed his G3 from the wall and with Quyen went to get their small craft ready for transport. He gave his jacket a tug here and there as if he is willing it to work better and then he is out the door.

Once the boat is in the water and they are waiting for the others he takes out his binoculars and gives the shore a scan and then the town itself looking for possible threats and if anyone looks to be waiting for them.

With the Krolowa resting at anchor about 600m upriver of the ferry dock, the recon team sets out on its scouting and, hopefully, trade mission. Gryzyech insists on going along, explaining that he is the only one on board the tug who knows what parts are needed to repair the Krolowa's damaged engine. The recon team carefully boards the River Princess (a large wooden rowboat captured from the Plock militia and fitted with an outboard motor) and sets off for the west bank. It puts ashore near a lightly wooded area about 250m southwest of the primary objective. The team carefully debarks, trying to avoid setting foot in the icy cold water. The boat is dragged halfway up the gently-sloping, partially-frozen bank and made fast to a tree. After staying put for a few minutes, establishing coms and checking out the immediate surrounds, the recon team cautiously approaches the ferry yard.

Several derelict vessels, long, rusty barges mostly, occupy the interior edges of the rectangular cutting. The shallow-draft vessels sit very low in the water- violence, a lack of basic maintenance, or a combination thereof resulting in almost certain leakage. The two or three powered boats that float alongside the partially sunken barges appear to have been thoroughly cannibalized, their innards completely removed, leaving only a few useless scraps lying about. There's no sign of a functioning ferry, on this bank or the other.

It's pretty clear that the yard has been unused and abandoned for some time. The grounds are marred by several shallow shell holes, but then little in this country isn't in some way scarred by war. The damage is old, though, as illustrated by the degree to which the craters have eroded into themselves, partially filling in the bottoms which are now covered in a thin layer of ice. A couple of vessels beached on the west side of the yard have been blasted apart and/or burned, likely also the result of shelling. A few of the nearby work sheds are in similar shape. Everything not destroyed outright has been pretty thoroughly picked over. There are some basic items worth salvaging about, though. Some of the large metal hatches on the barges aren't too badly rusted, and they're thick enough to act as ersatz light armor capable of stopping most small arms rounds. They'll need to be purposed and cut to fit, though.

There are a couple of areas of need on board the Krolowa. Apart from some minor battle damage, the Vasilek auto-mortar's ad hoc barbette is in decent shape. The same goes for the port and starboard HMG gun shields. The ZU-23-2 (mounted on the tug's poop), however, is completely unarmored. Likewise, the aft-facing DShK heavy machinegun on the quarterdeck doesn't have its own  gun shield. A few hours work, much of it involving the Krolowa's metal cutting equipment, will be required to turn the best pieces of available scrap into useable items. Dejected, Gryzyech reports that the parts he needs to repair the Krolowa's damaged engines are not present

As the teams survey the workshops and outbuildings at the northeast end of the complex, Jan spots a pair of riders approaching the ferry yard along a road stretching back in the direction of Swiecie proper. Jan signals his teammates, all of whom quickly settle in behind the nearest available cover. Studying the riders through their sundry optics, the hastily hidden watchers take note of two strange figures approaching. An elderly gentlemen wrapped in a foppish purple, fur-lined cape riding a white horse that looks to be just as old as he is riding side-by-side with what appears to be a dwarf sitting uncomfortably astride a pony or mule scaled to fit. The little man holds a pole to which a blue pennant is affixed near the top. He seems to be having some difficulty simultaneously controlling the horse and holding aloft the standard. The two figures, resembling a Polish Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, ride slowly, yet confidently and, aside from the dwarf's ersatz lance and what appears to be a sword hanging from the old man's hip, neither look to be armed.

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 20:56, Sat 30 May 2015.

Somewhat glad to be on solid ground again Craig was one of the first off the skiff to cover the others as they disembarked. He tried to keep an eye out for trouble as those more skilled in salvage and who knew what to look for went about their work. Once the hatches and other material was identified as possible additions to the armor Craig offered his services as labour if it was needed.

Having been working on the fighting position for the aft-facing DShK he knew the need for additional armor. He also checked the roofs on the workshops looking for whole pieces of roofing tin that he could used to replace the shredded tarp that once covered the rear deck.

With the approach of what he expected were the village elders Craig found some good cover and studied them through the scope on his G3. Keeping then covered as it became apparent that they may not be a threat given that they carried no arms.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:25, Sun 31 May 2015.

Mariusz watched the odd couple advancing toward them and thought about the strange things they'd seen on their journey down the river. The world had gone mad when the bombs had dropped and since then nature and society had been slipping further and further into dementia. In a world gone mad, madness was the sanest option.

"Do you want me to go up and talk to them, Boss?" he asked Bayer.

"Looks like we're in a LARP session," Tucker says after he finds cover and begins to scan around when the riders are moving closer.

"Ja, do it." Bayer replies softly as he keeps himself in cover, eying the approaching locals. "Be careful what you tell them about us. We're here to get information, not the other way around. Keep up your guard." he adds. The later was more of a reminder than something the boy needed to be told.

Bayer then looks around. Jan's team ought to be behind them or at set apart from his group, if they have stuck with the formation. Then toggling his radio, Bayer whispers, "Jan, cover the six and nine. Stay out of sight even if my group moves. Over."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:28, Sun 31 May 2015.

Mariusz nodded to the Captain. Given his propensity to be totally honest in negotiations, reminding him about operational security was a good idea.

He stood up and shouldered his rifle. Making himself visible to the riders he took his hat off to let them see his hair and eyes, counting on his youth being a little disarming despite the arsenal he as carrying.

He waved a hand and called out, "Good day, my name is Mariusz. It's lovely to meet you!"

They had bunched up a little as the prospect of searching for salvage had arisen so Jan's team were only fifty meters behind Konrad's team, less than the Captain had really wanted.  Security was the key still rather than scavenging but there did look to be some good prospects, even though the chances of finding what they needed looked to be non existent.

"Understood.  Out," Jan replied over the radio before turning to his team.

"Ferro.  Thijs.  Set up for cover the south west arc.  Anders.  You and me cover north west arc.  Ferro, radio if see problem.  Riders might be diversion as they have clothes for make us stare at them."  Jan then took a position where he could scan around, placing his rifle beside him and pulling his binoculars out so that he could pick out more details on his assigned arcs.

Anders, having grabbed a PKM (which he had carefully maintenanced aboard) and two 100-round cans for it, nodded at Jan and shifted himself in to the best position he could pick. He might not have been an infantryman, but all conscripts regardless of their branch of service get trained with basic infantry skills in basic training and even if he did not show the most elegant maneuvers, it was quite apparent, he had at least some training. Setting the medium machinegun in to the best firing position he could figure on his arc, he steadied the weapon and flipped the small selector switch from safe to fire. The can was resting solidly against a support and the bipod was firmly set, Anders' legs spread wide with toes down for extra support. He lifted his left hand, showing Jan he was ready.

The old man tugs firmly on the reigns and his horse promptly clops to a halt. His diminutive companion follows suit. "Well met, lad. I am the Duke of Grimislaw's castellan, Sir Petr Cwik, and this is my squire, Norbert. I bid you welcome to Swiecie."

The dwarf is trying hard not to roll his eyes.

"We saw your boat. My squire here thought you might be Vikings, but I told him that if that were the case, you'd have come from the other direction. Nonetheless, your vessel is unfamiliar to me and flies no flag. From whence do you hail?"

Mariusz doesn't remember which flag, if any, is currently flying from the Krolowa's masthead. The tug has stopped at or passed by dozens of towns on its journey so far and Mariusz could pick just about any one and the old man would likely be none the wiser. Given their recent management, neither Warsaw nor Plock seem like particularly good choices. The same could be said for Sandomierz, Tarnobrzeg, and most of the others. This supposed castellan certainly doesn't dress or speak like a communist party functionary. In fact, the old man seems pretty harmless, really, so Mariusz decides to level with his lordship, informing him that the tug set out originally from Krakow.

"Krakow? It has been long since we've had news from Krakow. But I'm afraid that this is not the place to treat. There have been rumors of bandits about and my sheriff is nowhere to be found. Please accept my hospitality and join us at my castle for a feast in your honor. Unfortunately, the castle is a little short-staffed at the moment, so you must accept my apologies- I'm ill prepared to entertain guests. Shall we say six o'clock this evening?"

Being as this is several hours off, Mariusz inquires about potential salvage, specifically materials in and around the ferry yard. Sir Cwik seems flattered that he's been asked permission.

"Certainly. Take whatever you wish. Vikings destroyed our dockyard some years ago and we have no shipwrights in Swiecie so this place hasn't been used since. We shall enjoy the pleasure of your company at six then?"

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:08, Sun 31 May 2015.

"Thank you for your nobleness and largess, Sir Peter," Mariusz said, "rarely in our long journey have we received such a fulsome welcome. We will be honoured to meet you and your Duke at six."

He smiled and continued, "Are you familiar with Mallory's Morte D'Arthur? My mother was an English scholar and read me the tales when I was young. I always liked Sir Gareth best, everyone else ran around being noble and brave but ignoring the commoners. Sir Gareth cared for his squire though, he looked after the little people," Mariusz kept his face straight, "my favourite line in the whole story is where Sir Gareth storms a castle to save his squire, his punch line can loosely be translated as  "I've come for my dwarf"."

"My commanders will attend, Ritter Bayer is a bit like a Teutonic Knight only without the butchering the slaves vibe and Captain Niemadwska has earned herself the title The Queen of the Wistula although she would never claim it for herself. Our boat bears the same title."

"Please, take this token to your Liege," Mariusz handed the dwarf one of the gold bullets, "it is part of the treasure of the evil Black Baron of Warsaw. I'm sure that Ritter Bayer will regale you of the story this evening should you wish to hear it."

The old man beams at Mariusz's mention of King Arthur. One wonders how often Sir Petr's audience plays along with his elaborate medieval fantasy. He's clearly lapping it up. The castellan's companion, on the other hand, shakes his shaggy head and snorts derisively, clearly less than pleased with the punch line.



At the mention of the German, Sir Petr's smile quickly fades. Apparently, Mariusz has touched a nerve. The old man, however, allows the young Pole to continue.



The dwarf cautiously extends his hand and takes the cast-gold 7.62mmS round from Mariusz. He holds it up between two stubby, cocktail-sausage fingers and studies it carefully, cockerel eyes aglimmer, before passing it reluctantly to Sir Petr. The old castellan's smile returns, diminished but genuine, and he puts it into a pocket inside the lining of his purple cloak.

"Such a fine gift, from a fine young man. With such an arrow Eros tormented Apollo. I thank you, my good lad. Now you must excuse us. We have much to do to prepare the feast. The castle is over yonder. Simply follow this road and head towards the tower. You shan't be able to miss it. Farewell."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:01, Mon 01 June 2015.

Mariusz returned to Bayer and reported in, "The old man is Sir Peter, castellan of the local Duke. He's invited us to dinner at his castle at six tonight. He's also given us permission to salvage here. I accepted the invitation on our behalf but if you decide it's too risky we don't have to fulfil the date. He seems really nice if a little unhinged which probably means they're ravening cannibals planning to eat us. I mentioned you were German, I thought it's best as you have a massive Teutonic vibe going on, and he seemed upset. I gave him a gold bullet and that cheered him up a little."

With the attention span of a typical teen-ager he flitted off to another subject, "Do you want me to help getting some hatches off? If we have more gun shields I could try out another heavy weapon."

As the comical duo made their way back to the "castle" Craig slung his weapon and got to work making a small pile of roofing iron from the workshops. He also removed a ridge board and some of the spouting and down-pipe. They had already covered it with wood earlier, but a little added weather protection would not go amiss. Once he had enough he joined the rest of the team removing hatches and spare metal for additional armor.

Bayer scowls for a brief moment, looking off in the direction the two locals went, then allows himself to laugh a little upon hearing of the invitation. He can't remember the last time he laughed. "He did, did he? What kind of trap is that?" Bayer then rises up from the ground where he'd taken cover. It was only conjecture, but the more he thought about the situation the more reinforced the belief became. "People would kill for moldy bread and he's here giving it away to strangers in a land plagued with bandits? That man isn't still alive because he's generous." He wondered if he'd have taken the offer up had it been made somewhere just after setting out from Krakow. The river changed him.

Bayer motions for his group to follow and starts to walk back into the scrapyard a little, to where Jan's group still lay hidden. Once he's in earshot of the others he announces, "We have permission for salvage, but keep up your guard."

He then addresses them individually, starting with the reason they're here, "Mattson, pair up with Gryzyech and find out if that part is anywhere here. Don't leave the yard or let him out of your sight." He didn't really care what the Pole thought of having a minder. Bayer was already pissed that the man insisted on coming along, particularly when he was nearly as important as the engines themselves.

Next, he addresses Mariusz's other query, "Lieutenant Sutherland and Mariuz... the armor plating. Work quickly."

For the others in the shore party they're needed for security. "Quyen and Van Lincklaen, set up here, where you can cover the north and east approaches. Jan, I want you to push out more, go southeast through those trees until you can see the river. You'll be alone so if you see anyone call for backup before you do anything. Robert, alone as well, cover the rear from the northwest corner of the harbor." He'd place himself in the center, to cover the two work parties more closely, just in case anyone slipped through the cordon. "Everyone clear?"

Then, once everyone knew what to do, he activated his radio and relayed the situation to those on the tug. "Queen, King. Contact with locals made, meeting was friendly. We're looking now for salvage. Request someone the queen keep watch the water and riverbank, and alert us to movement. Over" He figured she'd be watching the water anyways, but felt better knowing the shore was under observation as well.

"This is Queen," Griet replied, "Reading you loud and clear, King. Will keep watch as you request. Good work on the salvage rights."

She picked up the heavy binoculars and went outside, resting her arms on the Dushka mount as she surveyed the land beyond the ferry dock.

"On it Captain."

It looked as if they were going to miss out on dinner. Mariusz was a little disappointed, he knew that the invitation was probably a trap but it would have been almost worth it to see how they played it out.

Almost, experiences that left you dead weren't much use...

He went with the others to start removing the hatches from the half-sunken barges. He hoped the hinges weren't so badly rusted that the couldn't get them out.

"Got it, captain", the Finn said, moving to the Polish engineer. He slung the machinegun over his shoulder and made a quick inventory on the yard as to figure out the best places for the part in question. Even if they didn't find an exact match, he'd probably be able to manufacture one from other useful pieces. "Chodźmy", he said to the Pole.

"Oui mon Capitaine," replied Jan at Konrad's instruction.  He then checked his rifle and set off cautiously in a southeasterly direction through the trees until he could see the river.  Finding himself a good overgrown thicket with some solid looking trees, he set himself up where he could keep a watch out.  He then stayed still, letting the natural sounds of wildlife return, watching and listening for anything out of the ordinary, anything beyond the sounds of several of his fellow Kommandos tearing up salvage where it could be found.

He also tried to get a gauge on just how much local wildlife there was as it was an indicator of both how well fed the local human population was, lots of rabbits and so on meant that they didn't need to hunt extensively to feed themselves, and whether it was worth trying some trapping or hunting themselves to ease their food situation.

The Kommando shore party sets to work, with one team pulling security and the other focusing on salvage. The outbuildings that rim the ferry yard are in very poor shape, beaten and worn down by battle, the elements, and a long period of neglect. Rummaging through one of them, Sutherland finds human remains- a single, partially bleached skull and a few scattered bones, some of them split. It looks like animals have had their way with them. In another, smaller shed, Mariusz is startled and forced to retreat by an aggressive she-badger. Persisting in his search, Craig finds several unused, mostly rust-free sheets of corrugated tin that previous scavengers failed to. There's easily enough to make a new covering for the Queen's quarterdeck; he also finds enough metal pipe to build a framework for it.

Despite Anders and Gryzyech's best efforts, the required engine part is not found. It's not for want of looking; it's simply not there to be found. They do, however, find a few minor parts that are worth taking, replacements as insurance against future failures.

Moving on to the barge wrecks, Craig and Mariusz, with Anders' help, pick out and remove several quadrilateral hatches. With a little welding, any two of these hatches would make for a decent gun-shield for the quarterdeck Dishka HMG.

Recovered and awaiting transport:
3 10' x 6' corrugated metal sheets
20' metal pipe (in segments)
6x steel hatch doors
Assorted engine parts

All of these materials will have to be shifted to the Queen, which sits at anchor in the middle of the channel. The Princess is capable of transporting all of the salvage, although it will likely take at least a couple of trips, the tin roofing panels, although not terribly heavy, being awkwardly bulky. Of course, several hours of additional work will be needed to turn the raw construction materials into finished pieces.

On sentry duty, Jan spots several rabbits munching on grass in the bare patches in the snow. He concludes that this wouldn't be a bad spot for a little trapping and/or light game hunting. The other sentries see no traffic on the river, or signs of human activity in the industrial ruins off to the north. Swiecie proper, on the other hand, is haloed by the blue-grey smoke of hearth fires.

At about a quarter past two, Jan is watching a particularly oblivious bunny that's managed to hop its way to within a dozen meters or so of the Czech's position. It bolts off into the underbrush as a smattering of gunshots ring out from somewhere north of the river. After a few seconds, it's clear that the gunfire isn't directed at the Kommando. Jan can't see the source but, from the sound of it, a small firefight- no more than a half-dozen shooters participating- has broken out about a kilometer north of the ferry yard. Thijs and Minh, keeping watch on that side of the perimeter, immediately search for the source of the gunfire. Minh spots it first, a lone figure, about a half-a-klick out, heading south. She points this out to Thijs, who takes a look through the Elcan C79 3.4 x 28 optical sight attached to the receiver of his C7A1 LSW. He watches an armed man clad in Polish Army Pantera pattern combat fatigues sprint across a road and jump feet-first into a shallow creek bed, hastened on by a few more chasing gunshots. There's a patch of trees between the OP and the fugitive, making it hard to see much else, but it appears that this man is on his own. (Tucker has a pretty good LOS to this, also.)

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing


Your Move

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This message was last edited by the GM at 16:57, Tue 02 June 2015.

Eric hit the creek bed and turned around, kneeling to use the bank as partial cover.  "COME ON WOJ!  I KNOW I TAUGHT YOU TO SHOOT BETTER THAN THAT!” he bellowed.  Phillips fired off two three-round bursts from this Tantal at his closest pursuers.

”I DON’T HEAR YOU COMMUNICATING TO YOUR TEAMMATES!  WAR IS NOT AN INDIVIDUAL SPORT WOJ!”  Phillips seemed to use Woj to refer to the Poles as one might use Joe to refer to American soldiers or Tommy to refer to British troops.

SGT Eric Phillips
Taking brief cover in creek bed
Wz.88 Tantal [30/30] – 6 rounds
Yelling plus two quick bursts.

This message was last edited by the player at 19:34, Tue 02 June 2015.

Tucker goes over the sights of his chopped M-14 as he hears the gunfire emerges from somewhere not so far away.  Tucker ques his radio, "CONTACT!  DO WE HAVE CONTACT?  I GOT ONE PERSON ON THE MOVE, NO VISIBLE SHOOTERS.  ANYONE GOT BETTER EYES THAN ME? BREAK, KING, THIS IS TUCK.  WE HAVE SOMETHING GOING ON HERE.  STAND BY FOR SITREP AS I GET IT, COPY?"

Tucker begins to look around the area from where the lone person emerges in the Polish camo to see if he can find where the shooting is coming from and see who is doing it.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:47, Wed 03 June 2015.

Craig was lifting the last of the hatches into a covenant pile for transport when he heard the first gun shots and then Tuckers radio message. He unslings his rifle and using the pile of hatches as cover deploys the bipod of his G3 and looks for the source of the fire through his telescopic sight.

Quyen remains still and watches the difficult to see action north of her position. Until then she just kept low.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:05, Sun 07 June 2015.

It doesn't take long for Bayer to realize that the distant gunfire doesn't involve any of the Kommandos. At least not yet. "Shore party hold." he quickly says into the radio, skipping over normal voice procedure. He peers out from behind one of the derelict boats hauled up from the water, but sees nothing in the direction of the noise. Then turning back to the work crew he was watching over, he waves to get their attention, "Take what salvage you can and fall back to the boat. I need you to setup a tight perimeter around it and hold there." Keep our exit safe.

Bayer then inches his way forward, meandering through the rusty boats and scrap metal in the yard until he can see Quyen and Van Lincklaen's position up ahead. Toggling the transmit button on his radio again, he says, "Queen. King. Small firefight to the north involving unidentified combatants. We are secure but preparing to withdraw. Over."

This message was last edited by the GM at 17:35, Wed 03 June 2015.

"Queen reads your transmission," Griet acknowledged, "I am at the Dushka and can cover your transit to the tug when you need it."

She began to check the machinegun and mount carefully, even with proper maintenance cold and ice could do unexpected things to machinery.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:18, Wed 03 June 2015.

"What shall we take?" Mariusz asked the rest of the work party knowing that he couldn't carry much on his own.

Once they'd decided what to take he would help them cart the salvage back to the boat and then took up a defensive position facing the shore, his AK and grenade launcher ready to use.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:02, Thu 04 June 2015.

Eric squeezes off another burst at a pair of partisans attempting to sweep around his right flank. They immediately dive behind a low fold in the ground.

"THAT'S MORE LIKE IT, WOJ!"

Eric ducks down behind the bank of the creek and quickly preps a CS grenade. He tosses the canister out of the depression, and moves laterally, west, along the creek bed, trying not to slip on the icy bottom. Twenty meters away from where he'd last shown himself, he leaps up the bank and sprints south, trusting the thin white cloud of the spreading CS gas to screen his sudden movement. There's cover ahead - a slightly raised roadbed and a thin screen of trees. Beyond that, there's a small wood, and then the boat he'd spotted from the town.

He stops near a large tree and looks back, breathing hard but unaffected by the irritant gas.

"THAT'S WHY YOU ALWAYS HUMP YOUR MASKS, BOYS!", he shouts, firing another burst at the flankers, who are on the move again. "QUIT BUNCHING UP, WOJ!"

SGT Eric Phillips
North of the river
Wz.88 Tantal [24/30 rds] -6 rounds & 1 CS grenade
Heading fast towards the tug

The salvage team (Anders, Mariusz, Sutherland, & Gryzyech) can't carry everything in one load so they have to prioritize. The steel hatch covers aren't bulky, but they're very heavy. Fortunately, the salvagers brought along the tug's dolly (hand truck); unfortunately, when weighed down by the heavy hatch covers, the dolly's small rubber tires tend to sink into the earth, making it difficult to maneuver. The first load, split between the dolly and porters, consists of three hatch covers, one large sheet of corrugated metal, and a length of pipe. It's not far to the Princess, but it's slow going, especially over the soft ground where some of the ice and snow have melted beneath the trees, exposing a soggy, slick mulch of decomposing leaves.

Meanwhile, the fugitive continues making his way quickly towards the riverside, bounding from cover to cover and occasionally exchanging gunfire with his pursuers. His speed and endurance are quite impressive. The Kommando perimeter guards can now pick out and observe the two small groups giving chase. They appear to number no more than half-a-dozen men, combined. They wear a mish-mash of various styles of civilian and military clothing and gear and carry AK-type rifles. None of them appear to be armed with anything heavier than an assault rifle. Their marksmanship is pretty poor, but they're disciplined enough not to resort to fully automatic fire. Their movement isn't particularly smooth or well coordinated either, but they are experienced and/or well-trained enough to use fire and movement, one group suppressing while the other dashes ahead to the next bit of cover. Their quarry, working alone, is able to move faster.

Time and the laws of motion dictate that the stranger will arrive before the entire Kommando shore party can board the Princess with the salvage and set off for the tug. The runner, equipped like a frontline Polish army soldier, reaches the relative safety of the woods less than 200m from Thijs and Minh. His tormentors still haven't given up the chase, though. The westernmost group is about 475m north of Tucker's OP. The eastern group is about 650m north-northeast of Thijs and Minh's position. It's unclear whether either of the approaching parties is aware of the Kommando's presence around the ferry yard.

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing


Your Move.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 04:15, Fri 05 June 2015.

"Not exactly amateurs but, certainly not Spetsnaz," Tucker thinks to himself as he watches the pursuit of the lone man running from the group of what he can make out as six.  Hoping everyone (Minh & Thjis included) has their radio(s) on.  "King.  Secuirty, it's Tuck.  I got zero-six in pursuit bounding after this guy they're chasing.

ETA on exfil with the scrap?  Over."

Rob goes back to his sights and watching the pursuit.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:28, Sat 06 June 2015.

Craig again slings his rifle, letting the others deal with whatever they face. Instead, he helps move the hatches and then the roofing iron, leaving the pipes until last. He works as fast as possible in the circumstances, mindful of loading the dolly too much or moving too fast and spilling the load.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:28, Sat 06 June 2015.

Bayer hears and waits on Tucker's transmission for a moment as he inches forward, closing up behind his center security. He wished away the ongoing chase and gunfire... but it didn't seem to be effective. "Tuck, King. Put three rounds over the larger group on the left. Make them close so but it is just a deterrent... don't kill anyone. Over."

He then aims towards the group on the right and fires a trio of shots in their general direction, intentionally missing. The lone combatant could interpret that as he wanted.

Phillips dashed forward, sprinting the next available cover.  When the shots rang out from the area ahead of him, he went prone earlier than he would like, then began low crawling toward the nearest tree.  Once setup to avoid fire from the 2nd PFL elements following him, Eric reached down and set his PRC-139 to 243 MHz, the MAD UHF Guard Frequency.

”Break, Break.  This is Titan One Three Bravo Two transmitting on NATO Guard 243.  I require immediate assistance from allied forces, over.”

Phillips waited a moment for any response, then repeated his message on 121.5 MHz followed by 156.8 MHz.

Walter stuck his head out of the bridge door and said, "Griet, there's a Titan One Three Bravo Two transmitting on one of the channels that Milk used to have us monitor. He's requesting NATO assistance."

Well, Griet thought to herself, that was interesting, technically they weren't NATO forces but the Captain would definitely want to help if he could.

"Thanks," she replied, "I'll get on to it."

She returned to the warmth of the bridge and picked up the receiver of on of the bank of radios they had, "We read you Titan One Three Bravo Two, this is Queen Actual. We are not a NATO unit but willing to render assistance. We are tied to the river though and can't offer much help outside of our engagement envelope, how copy? Over."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:01, Sat 06 June 2015.

Eric felt an immense sense of relief that someone had picked up his call.  I didn't mean he wasn't headed straight for a boat full of pirates, but beggars can't be choosers.  He knew the guys behind him were bad news.  Phillips keyed his mic.

"Queen Actual, this is Titan.  I appreciate your willingness to help.  I'll continue toward your position.  Be aware, the units on my six are rogue elements of the 2nd Polish Free Legion.  Titan inbound, out."

The short pause had given his muscles a chance to purge the lactic acid that had been building up during his earlier sprints between cover.  With surprising speed, Eric popped up from prone, his rifle slung across his back.  He started to run flat out toward the shore nearest the tug.

Griet checked her frequency chart and said, "Queen Actual rogers your last, switch to following channel to access shore party net. Give me two to tell Callsign King to switch to alternate, over." She gave him the frequency of alternate channel three.

She switched over to a second set, "Queen to King, I have Titan on the net, I have given him Alternate Channel Three's freq. Please switch to alternate to communicate with him. He appears to be a NATO straggler fleeing from rougue elements of the 2nd Polish Free Legion, over."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:01, Sat 06 June 2015.

From his vantage point in the upper storey of what had once been an office in some sort of  industrial unit the lean, muscular figure has been watching the comings and goings on the riverbank for some time through his high powered binoculars, looking out through a jagged hole made by a large calibre weapon of some description.

He's wearing a well worn black fleece, under it an olive drab fleece shirt of the type issued by the Norwegian and British Armies amongst others, U.S. woodland camo BDU trousers tucked into his jump boots. He wears a kevlar vest over the fleece, over the kevlar an assault vest, although he is absent a helmet, its place taken by a black baseball cap, in its center a white circle that contains three star like shapes in gold, red, and blue.  A U.S. woodland camo jacket lies on the floor, devoid of any sort of identifying insignia save a lo visibility United States flag velcro'd to the upper left sleeve, a PASGT helmet with matching camo cover resting on top of it.

He and his two comrades had selected the factory as a laying up point for its distance from the river, close enough that they could observe it, far enough away that they would not be disturbed by anyone travelling on it. And if anyone did approach his G3 rifle lies a mere arm's reach away, against a filing cabinet, the rifle and the grenade launcher attached to it both ready to reach out and bring death to anyone who came too close.

The building had long since been abandoned  of course. The office he was in had clearly been ransacked, probably more than once, plundered for anything that might be deemed useful. Evidently the looters had not counted photographs in that category, for several framed photos still sat on the dust covered desk that occupies the center of the room, different combinations of a man, a woman, and three children staring out mutely from behind shattered glass, nameless strangers, their fate unknown and of no particular concern to the watcher.

He's been watching the gunfight unfolding, a mildly disinterested spectator as the solitary man in Polish camo exchanged fire with what appeared to be another group of Poles. An irreverent thought had gone through his mind as he observed the fugitive trying to evade his pursuers. Run, Forrest, run. The watcher is not overly concerned by the events unfolding. It's not his fight and if the armed man keeps going in the same direction, he is going to run into the group by the ferry yard anyway, so he is content to simply keep them under observation when the earpiece in his right ear crackles into life without warning. It's attached to a AN/PRC 139 tactical radio that nestles in one of his vest's multitude of pouches.

Shit.

The man being pursued is transmitting a valid NATO Special Forces code. And he was asking for help. He continues to listen as another voice responds.

Mark Scully turns his head slightly, lets out a low whistle to attract the attention of his two comrades. They are in the next office, but the wall between the two has a hole roughly four feet wide and five feet high blown in it, making passage between the two easy. "We got trouble." the Navy SEAL says quietly.

The Sun is up and she's swimming in the Annapolis pool.  Lap after lap, windows in the building letting through the Massachusetts morning sun in even, regular, shafts of light.  Six shafts, six crossings of a window equal fifty meters.  She turns, flips, kicks, and repeats.

Trouble.

The sun in occluded and the water temperature drops twenty degrees.  Still she swims.

Small pops of sound reach her and her swim suit is shredded by something in the water.  She collides with the wall and rises to the surface, spitting out blood and teeth, thrashing and looking for the pursuer she knows is there...somewhere.

Trouble, this time an echo.

Shit.  The same nightmare.

It is less a stirring and more a gasp.  A body in an office goes rigid as consciousness is wedged back into place.  She's isn't stiff enough to have been asleep for long, not in this position with her back against the wall and her feet resting on top of a rucksack that if it weighed six more ounces would break her spine.  A sleeping bag is draped over her supine body, unzipped, more of a heavy olive green blanket that does nothing for the cold seeping up from the floor below.  A hand reaches up and pushes back the black watch cap that is blocking the sun from her eyes. The sun that is stabbing into the room in irregular shafts, six to the side of the factory.  Stray strands of brown hair escape from the cap.  A second figure remains covered, trying to sleep as well.

She moves, crawling through the first large hole, then hugging the floor, around to where Mark crouches near her own pile of protective armor and weapons.  His frame doesn't move as she eases her body slightly behind his to better follow his line of sight.

When she inhales to speak, she can smell the sweat and grime coming off the SEAL.  And that other, heavy, smell of combat and danger.  "Tell me," she says.  She wouldn't be awake if it wasn't serious.  That wasn't the way the man in front of her operated.

"Runner," he says pointing.  "Two-three miles out,maybe."

The runner might as well be on Mars without the binos that Mark is using.  She'll take his word for it.  "And?"

"He came up Guard," the SEAL tells her, referring to the emergency channel that UHF radios always monitor.  "NATO call sign.  Titan One Three Bravo something.  Called for help with hostiles in pursuit."

Lizzie Kane thinks for a moment, wracking her brain for the relevant information, other operations.  A runner won't be able to validate with his SOI anytime soon.  If he even has it.  There is a risk, but every thing is risky now.  "Titan One? You're sure?"

"Yeah, you know them ma'am?"

She bristles at the formality, but just barely.  Too much time sleeping in the mud with the SEAL.  Too much familiarity now.  Too many war stories, both lived and heard. "Maybe. Titan One was Army Spec Ops.  At least it was, a year or so ago.  If that guy really is Titan, he's been in the weeds a while."

"He's in contact now with call sign Queen.  Maybe that boat out in the river, there," he says pointing again.  "Self declared non-NATO, but supposedly willing to help.  My radio is on their freq now."  He strips the head set off and hands it to her, her own radio off and tucked into her helmet.

"Titan One Three Bravo, Polaris One Six Actual, how do you read, over?"  It's an old callsign, but one that Titan might recognize for what it is.

Tucker smiles as he hears Konrad's orders come over the radio.  "Tuck copies.  Engage with zero-three rounds.  Not firing for effect.  Rounds to follow.  Out."  Robert then concentrates on the sights of the M-14K he has been using and lines up the sights for three (3) close shots on the group to the left.  He wants to follow orders but, he does want to make them stop in their tracks or at least reconsider their pursuit.

Eric paused just before jumping up.  "Queen Actual, Titan copies.  Switching channel now, out."

Reaching down, Eric switched over to the new frequency.  He was just about to transmit when he headed Polaris transmit.

When it rains it pours, he thought to himself.  He'd been transmitting in the blind twice a day for the last few days, hoping to find someone, anyone, and now he had found not only the river craft, but another unit in the area as well.  A NATO unit none the less and if his recollection was correct, Polaris was an ONI/SpecWar designation.

"Polaris One Six Actual, this is Titan One Three Bravo Two.  Solid copy.  What is _{your loc}...tzrt"

Eric's PRC-139 died in the middle of the transmission.  The battery was expended and now useless until recharged.

'Damn it,' the 18 Bravo muttered under his breath.  He took a moment to consider his options.  The tug ahead of him had offered assistance and they knew he would coming.  There was a NATO unit out there somewhere, but he hadn't coordinated a link up and now his radio was dead.

Devil you know I guess.. he told himself with a sigh.  He popped up and dashed toward the boat.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:06, Sun 07 June 2015.

"There is a unknown NATO call sign on the radio." Quyen quietly informs Thijs. She hasn't moved since the gunfire started and remained low in cover. When the Kommandos open fire she acts quickly "Just some deterrent fire to warn them off... don't shoot." Quyen then resumes watching.

The first target - what Anastasjia Kovac has learned to think of as the point element during the year she's spent in the Navy intelligence team's wake - eases cautiously into the clearing.  He's obviously twitchy, expecting trouble.  His fieldcraft is lax, though.  His eyes skim over Ana's hide without recognition.  She's chosen her position with care and no little help from Mark.  It's shadowed, downwind, and on the factory's second level.  The camo-patterned poncho liner reduces her silhouette to irregular lumps and she's been feigning sleep for over an hour, more hungry than tired.

Two more targets move into the open as the first remains on overwatch.  Ana picks her moment and slowly raises her weapon from the folds of her bedding.  She's twenty meters out, which is stretching her effective range with this gun, but she's confident she can take the shot under these conditions.

"We got trouble," murmurs Mark behind her as a ripple of distant gunfire breaks the afternoon's fragile stillness.

Death passes the rabbits by.  Ana regretfully lowers the little rimfire pistol and sinks back to the floor.  She rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling, listening as Mark and Lizzie converse.  For the moment, it's nothing she can affect.  One hand steals out to brush the worn grip of the Smith & Wesson in the gunbelt coiled atop her rucksack.  Just for reassurance that it's still there.

"Ja," Thijs replies, "I understand."  The Dutch Marine then continues watching his sector, thinking Just once, I would like one of these shore missions to go down without a firefight.  Just once.

Jan kept a watch out from his position while he monitored the radio, waiting for any change of instructions.  Thing were developing on another side of the perimeter so he kept alert in case it was some kind of diversion or whether there was another flanking forces as yet unseen.  Just because it was an American accent using a NATO call sign speaking English on the radio it didn't mean that the man was genuine or someone to be trusted.

Tucker peers over the iron sights of the M-14K, aware that its short barrel makes this sort of shot, pressing 500m, the circus variety. The three men he's watching have just arrived at a depression directly north of his OP and are setting up to act as a base of fire for their counterparts, now out of sight, over on the right flank. Concentrating hard, lest he inadvertently hit the targets that he is trying deliberately to miss, he squeezes the trigger. A second later, the lead figure jumps and ducks his head out of sight, prompting his two companions to do likewise. Tuck follows with two more shots, widely spaced, but he can't be sure what their effect, if any, is on the grounded trio. He hears shouting, in Polish, coming from the depression where his quarry is currently keeping out of sight, but it's so faint, and his Polish so basic, that he can't make out a single word that's being said.

Tucker -3 rounds

As soon as Konrad hears Tucker open fire, he squeezes off three evenly-spaced shots into the sky above him, simply trying to create enough racket to give the two teams on man-hunters the idea that they were up against more than just a lone wolf. He moved towards Thijs and Minh's position as he did so, wanting to be in a better position to coordinate the action and receive the incoming supposed U.S. Special Forces fellow.

Konrad -3 rounds

At roughly the same time that Tucker and Konrad open fire, Phillips makes a break for the ferry yard, trusting to the woods to conceal the move from the two pursuit teams. No bullets chase him, this time. He emerges from the trees into a little clearing (about 80m north of Minh, Thijs, and the recently-arrived Bayer) and is immediately met with a shouted challenge. He spots three people in the treeline on the opposite end of the clearing, two of whom- Thijs and Minh- are pointing weapons directly at him. They have him dead to rights. Phillips reluctantly holds his Tantal overhead with both hands, throwing himself on the mercy of the unknown pair.

Meanwhile, the three scroungers reach the moored Princess and places the first load of salvage aboard. It's tough to be doing this sort of grunt work when there's action afoot, but it's the reason the Kommando set foot on shore here in the first place. With the salvage safely aboard, the trio can either set off for the tug with load one, or leave the Princess moored and instead help out with the developing situation further inshore.

---

From his slightly elevated perch on the upper floor of an abandoned factory office building, Mark Scully loses sight of the eastern pursuit element, hidden now in the woods near the river's edge. The nearer group looks to have stopped moving. The grizzled SEAL recognizes the sharp bark of an M-14 rifle, although something about it seems a bit off.

Hunched over the radio nearby, Lizzie Kane is now in contact with the unidentified shore party from the tug they've been observing since midday. Contact with Titan One Three Bravo Two, however, appears just to have been lost.

Her small game hunt interrupted, Anastasjia Kovac decided to rest while her more-than-competent companions continued to do their jobs. There was indeed a thing called Too Many Cooks.


OOC: Tactical Overview- Tucker's modest show of force appears to have stopped the Western pursuit team, at least temporarily. The Eastern pursuit team is now out of sight, from everyone, in the woods to the NE of the ferry yard. It's unclear what they are currently up to.

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing


Your Turn...

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:46, Mon 08 June 2015.

Bayer moves closer to Quyen and Thijs yet again, so that he's crouching down right behind them. "Still just the one man in front?" he asks the two, finally getting eyes on the solitary figure. His eyes then shift to the rough ground further out, where the larger and possibly hostile force was lurking. "We are going to do this quickly." he explains.

"Alright... I will receive him. Quyen, back me up. I want him secured until we know what this is all about... you keep on him until we're back on the Queen. Van Lincklaen, I need you to anchor the center. You are the rear guard."

"Understood?"

Bayer then toggles his radio, all the while watching the lone American making his way closer to the boat yard. "Sutherland, King. Status on your tasking? We're about to fall back on your position... with one in tow. Over." He'd lost track of their progress upon hearing the initial gunfire.

Bayer then rises a little from the cover he'd been sharing with his fellow Kommando, just enough so that his position is revealed. "Over here! Come to me." he shouts to the American with his weapon raised. "Keep it in the air." Bayer advises next.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:26, Mon 08 June 2015.

Craig wiped the sweet from his forehead before grabbing his radio when Konrads message comes over the net: "King, Sutherland we have the first load in the princess about to move to the queen if you have a handle on the situation, over." He wipes his left hand against the side of the boat to dislodge some of the muck and rust covering it.

He then readies the small boat to head towards the tug hoping if they are needed that it comes across the net soon.

Eric kept his hands up and proceeded forward purposefully, but not aggressively.  He nodded at the instructions, but didn't say much at this point.  He was unsure of the tactical situation regarding the flankers and didn’t want to draw them any closer to this group than he already had.

As he approached Bayer, he glanced down at his sidearm and gave another nod.  He knew they would likely disarm him; it’s exactly what he would do if the roles were reversed.  Phillips complied with any instructions given, hoping to quickly pass into ostensibly friendly lines, without getting shot.

"Understood, Hauptmann," comes Thijs' reply.  He then scans the area for any additional activity or presence of potential hostiles.

Mariusz kept in cover as they finished loading up the Princess. The situation a the docks was a little confusing to him. That wasn't unusual. He waited for the others to decide if they were transiting to the Queen or staying put.

"It'll take about ten minutes or more to get to the Queen and unload. Longer to get back. That's along time in a fire fight." He pointed out.

Scully has shifted over to make room for Kane, settled down into a low crouch and using what's left of the wall for cover as she uses his radio to make contact with the unknown vessel sitting in the river, the man from the Monongahela Valley giving the Commander brief updates, both of them working together, as a team, he the eyes, she the ears and voice. His commentary is terse, concise, passing on the information that she needs with the minimum of words.

"Titan has made contact with the tug's shore party." His head moves slightly, enough to shift from the presumed American to his pursuers. "Eyes on three hostiles, others have gone to ground in the woods." They're all out of range of any of the team's weapons of course, so for the moment at least they are unable to do anything more than observe. There is no notable change in Scully's demeanour, but inwardly he is frustrated. If the man calling himself Titan is who he claims to be then he's one of their own. It's their duty to help him. That's the way it works. So the SEAL has gone from being an uninterested spectator to someone with a vested interest in what's going down by the side of the river.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:03, Mon 08 June 2015.

It looked like Robert had done his part and got the pursuers to stop their advance.  He keys up the radio and transmits before moving. "This is Tuck.  Making my way back to the extraction point unlesss you need me here over?"    If not needed here anymore, Tucker will begin to zig-zag his way back to their extraction point stopping about half way to check on any pursuit.

Bayer reaches for the handset clipped to the vest. He didn't need two hands on his weapon with Quyen and Van Lincklaen with him. "King, roger. Hold in position... we will extract with you. ETA three minutes. Out." he says, acknowledging the update. Bayer then crouches back into cover, having gotten the approaching American's attention.



Bayer replies, "King. Copy your last Tuck, but hold position for one more minute then fall back to the boat. Out." Still holding the handset he then transmits a quick message to the other flank, "Jan, this is King. Fall back to the boat in one minute. Copy that?"



Bayer clips his radio handset back onto his vest and then holds the outstretched hand to Phillips. "Rifle... for now." he explains, accepting the weapon when it's turned over to him. He does the same for the sidearm. Bayer then makes a motion back towards the other party, now out of sight, and asks, "Are they with the town over there? Swiecie? Are they from there?" Following Eric's answer, Bayer gestures for the man to follow him through the boat yard and back to the Princess. "Come on... we have a boat. I am Konrad Bayer."

"Quyen with me... Van Lincklaen, keep to the rear."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:37, Mon 08 June 2015.

"Sergeant Eric Phillips, ODA 043, 10th Special Forces Group," Philips says by way of abbreviated introduction.

"The junior varsity team behind me?  No.  They are 2nd PFL, out of Tleń.  There are no forces in Swiecie.  At least not that our intel shop knew about.  That's why I came here.  It seemed like the best place to lay low and figure out what to do next."  As Eric spoke, he fell in with the others as they made their way back to the boat.

"I really thought I lost these guys back in Bedlinki," he added.  He certainly didn't intend to inflict these six numbnuts on the poor villagers of Swiecie.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:47, Tue 09 June 2015.

When the radio call from Titan fades out, Lizzie does what anyone with little tech training in radio operations trouble shooting does: she looks to make sure her radio is on, checks the battery indicator, and thumps the body of the thing against the desk twice.  Just to be sure.  At least Mark is able to fill her in on what he sees happening in the distance and their Spec Ops "friend" wasn't shot on contact with the shore party.

If their position was precarious as it is, she might have been willing to let the situation go.  If they didn't need to get to the Baltic, she might wish Titan all the best and slide away into the shadows.  But she could see Mark working his grinding teeth in that way that indicates that he wants to do something. And they need to be in the north, soon.  For all of that, Lizzie takes a chance.  After all, they have the operating frequency.

"Queen, this is Polaris, I understand you might be willing to help NATO forces.  Are you interested in meeting for a little negotiation?"

Lizzie turns back to the other two people in the hide.  "Wrack your brain people, surely we have something we can offer up in the UAZ.  Other than two sets of great legs and one beef and brawn invasion."

Griet shook her head, you wait around to meet NATO foces for ages and then two turn up all at once, typical, "Polaris, this is Queen. That depends on the help you require. We can always talk about it though. Hook up with my shore party and we can discuss issues. As a hint, food is always a welcome incentive."

Scully continues to watch the unfolding scene as he listens to Kane. He understands her line of thinking, for despite his best efforts to keep it running, the UAZ that they had appropriated was unlikely to get them much more than another five klicks before it gave up the ghost for good, at which point they would need to either revert back to travelling on foot or try and steal another form of transport, each of which had its own drawbacks. But the SEAL also has reservations about the tug sitting in the river.

”They’ve said they’re not ours. Presuming they’re not Russian either that makes them independent.” He’s still watching the riverbank as he speaks. In a best case scenario independent was just another way of saying stragglers, cut off from their parent units and doing what they had to do to survive. But at worst it could mean deserters. Pirates.

”We’ve got jack in the jeep Ma’am.” He lowers the binos slightly, turns his head towards the Commander, pauses for a moment. ”But if they’re freelancers there is a way that we might be able to trade with them if they need more shooters. We could try and market our skills.” Scully shrugs, nods pointedly at his G3. He’s effectively talking about becoming guns for hire, mercenaries. At least until they get a bit closer to the Baltic. ”And then there’s the matter of our friend upriver. But I reckon we should keep that to ourselves for now. We might need an ace up our sleeve for later. Just in case they’re pirates.”

Quyen remains hidden until Phillips is nearly on top of their position. "Here. Just in case." she says quietly to Thijs (handing him the borrowed radio). She then rises and keeps her rifle trained on the man while Bayer accepts his weapons. Quyen then waits until both step off and then she follows, keeping back several meters.

"King.  Jan copies.  Out," he replied over the radio.  It sounded like things were getting interesting over on the other side of the perimeter but Jan waited the full minute in his position, just in case there was something that had been missed.

Once the minute was up he cautiously moved back to join the others, well aware that there was now a serious risk of a Blue on Blue incident if he wasn't careful.  As he started to get close to the ferryboat yard, where he believed the others might be, he made use of the radio.

"Jan to all station.  Approaching landing now from east.  Out."

In reply to Konrad Bayer (msg # 79):

"Good copy King.  One Mike and exfil.  Continue harassing fire or hold?"  If given the green light to continue harassing fire or holds tight and observes the movement before making his way back to the boat after a sixty count.

About an hour passes. During that time...

Tucker watches as the pursuit team on the left (west) gets up and runs away, heading northeast. A couple of minutes later, the second team, out on the right (east) joins them from the woods. Reunited and out of effective small arms range, they slow to a brisk walk and together move towards Swiecie proper, stopping every so often to glass the woods near the river through a pair of binoculars passed hand-to-hand. Satisfied that this small partisan force is no longer a threat to the tug or its Kommando, Tucker heads back towards the riverbank, as per Konrad's earlier instructions.

With the danger diminished, the scrounging team is released to transport the first load of salvage to the tug. Loaded with scrap, only two passengers/crew (maximum) can be accommodated on the trip back. After unloading the construction materials, the Princess returns to receive the second boatload of hatches, roofing tin, and pipe, which, in the interim, the others have managed to carry, wheel, and drag from the ferry boat yard to the riverbank. Gryzyech remains on board to supervise the unloading on the tug end.

After watching the shore party for a while longer, the three American special operators of Team Polaris decide to take a chance and head for the anchorage for a face-to-face meeting with the tug crew, sparing their rapidly draining radio batteries in the process. Nothing about the party from the tug's behavior has given the Americans cause for alarm but it's still a leap of faith. They collect their gear and pile aboard a dented, mud-spattered, rust streaked UAZ-469 which, thankfully, starts (albeit after much protesting). They have to backtrack a bit, driving southwest, towards the river but away from the tug, for about 3 miles, before doubling back and following the river past barren fields for another 3 miles or so to the ferry yard. The needle on UAZ's fuel gauge dips further past empty on the short trip to the rendezvous. Running on fumes, the UAZ pulls into the dirt lot on the east side of the ferry yard (near Jan's OP).

Present Time (1530 hours):

Three not-yet-acquainted groups stand beneath the trees near the riverbank ferryboat yard, sizing one another up. The most recent arrivals have just climbed out of a battered UAZ, two women and a man, Americans all. Across from them, looking on wearily, the bulk of the Queen's Kommando. Although they no longer self-identify as being part of a NATO unit, over half of them originally hail from NATO armies. There's a German (Bayer), the de facto leader, two Americans (Tuck and Minh), a Brit (Sutherland), and a Dutchman (Thijs). Somewhat surprisingly, there's only one Pole among them, a young man possibly still in his late teens (Mariusz), although there may be more still on board the tug. Most unusual are the other non-Polish, non-former NATO personnel, a Czech (Cerny) and a Finn (Anders). This motley crew, although vaguely piratical in terms of outward appearance, certainly doesn't comport itself like cutthroats, although one never can be too sure in this day and age. Somewhat reassuring, there's one woman present ashore, and at least one aboard the tug. The third party, a not-quite-willing guest of the tug crew, consists of only one man, a U.S. Special Forces weapons sergeant by the name of Eric Phillips, until recently attached to the 2nd Polish Free Legion as a combat advisor.

From the tug, Griet calls ashore to advise her teammates to expect company. Towards the riverside quorum the two horsemen from Swiecie Castle, big and little, ride, this time, at a slightly quicker clip. They're still a little over a kilometer away from the landing. You have a few minutes to get acquainted before they arrive.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:58, Wed 10 June 2015.

Jan, like many of the Kommandos, seemed to be extremely well armed and equipped, carrying an AK-74 rifle with an underslung BG-15 grenade launcher and wearing a kevlar vest under a Lifchik chest harness with a grenade belt fastened to it, all of the pouches apparently full of spare mags and grenades.  Attached to the harness was a personal radio of some kind and this was all rounded out with a kevlar helmet.  He certainly seemed to be someone who had done a good job of gathering gear for himself.

From his position to one side of the ferryboat yard where, though he wasn't pointing a his rifle at the latest group of new arrivals, it was clear he was covering them in case something went wrong, Jan studied them each in turn.  They had met a lot of very strange people in their time travelling on the river and he wasn't about to start taking chances and let his guard drop.  More Americans who were still fighting the war could bring a lot of trouble with them.

"Who you and what you wish?" he called out in accented English.  "If you wish trade we have some for trade.  Need food if you have?"

Lizzie knows what her father would say if he was staring at the assembled poster of multi-cultural militarism.  Instead of lowering herself to his abrasive standards, she settles for humming It's a Small World, just loudly enough for her companions to overhear.  The crew from the tug looks rough and hungry, clearly used and cared for weapons available, but not threatening.  That, at least, is a good sign.  The lack of formal uniforms doesn't bother her.  Her little group doesn't exactly follow military standards either. It's the goddamn United Nations over there. A Mercenary UN, she amended.

Mark's reservations are justified.  She doesn't know what the situation with the tug is.  They could be pawns in someone else's game, marauders in disguise, or like her team, deep in their own private mission.  Maybe it didn't matter.  Titan was still alive, by the looks of the mostly disarmed American that was giving her the same appraising glare everyone else was.  Another vote in that the shore party might be trustworthy.  Against her better judgement, and Mark's silent yet emphatic protests, Lizzie pops her helmet off and raises her mirror shades up onto her brown hair.

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Kane, United States Navy," she says, tone light and a genuine million dollar smile plastered to her face.  "I wish we had food to trade.  As it is, we're going to be chewing on tree bark ourselves pretty soon.  What we do have is reasonably recent intelligence on what lies north on the river.  That and a particular skill set for dark and dangerous missions that we might be willing to share."

Her smile gets even wider. "What we need is a ride."

Craig crouches at the edge of the river to wash his hands and remove some of the grime and old rust caking them. The retrieval of the salvage completed he slings his rifle and joins the others to look over the new arrivals.

He stays silent as they introduce themselves and he lets the others do the talking when it comes to negotiating passage on the tug. Once the conversation begins he keeps watch on the surroundings in case the Polish force tries its luck again.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:18, Wed 10 June 2015.

The other woman with LTC Kane is tall and broad-shouldered, with long blonde hair tucked untidily under a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.  The parts of her face visible under her aviator glasses appear to have been used hard and repaired without great attention to detail.  She's wearing faded jeans, a sage green flight jacket in the style issued to several NATO militaries, and a black plate carrier vest with a mismatched assortment of olive drab and woodland camo pouches.  An M4 carbine is slung across her chest but her right thumb is casually hooked into an ammo pouch, keeping her hand in the vicinity of a long-barreled revolver whose butt protrudes from a chest holster.

At the sound of approaching horses, she pivots to keep the tug's shore party in her field of view while scanning for the source of the noise.  The movement reveals a subdued American flag velcroed to her shoulder.  Upon sighting the two riders, she turns her mirror-lensed face back to Kane and whistles the first bars of All Along the Watchtower.

The slightly untidy Finn watched the new arrivals curiously, keeping the PKM machinegun in his hands ready for surprises. A navy blue sweater had only one epaulette left, but it sported two wide gold bands and a narrow one in between them, indicating an officer rank most likely. The sleeve also sported a national flag, a blue cross on a white background. He watched the newcomers, especially Lizzie, raising a brow slightly at the mention of navy. But despite of the inquisitive observing, the man did not seem willing to harm them without a good reason.

Scully stands by the UAZ. An inch under six feet tall, he’s now wearing standard US woodland BDU’s, having donned his jacket before they’d left the factory, rearranging his gear so that his Kevlar armor and assault vest are both worn over the jacket. The Kevlar is OD in color, the assault vest West German flecktarn. He’s chosen not to wear his PASGT helmet, instead attaching it to his vest, its place taken by a faded black ball cap that carries the logo of the Pittsburgh Steelers football team, his Oakley shades perched atop the cap. Anyone close enough to study his fatigues closely would note that they are utterly devoid of any visible insignia other than a lo visibility U.S. flag on his upper left arm.

His G3 rifle with attached grenade launcher is held in both hands, the various accoutrements that adorn his vest showing that he has ample ammunition for both. An automatic pistol sits snugly in a drop leg holster strapped to right thigh, the hilt of a knife protruding from a sheath attached to his vest. The barrel of his rifle is pointed downwards a fraction, his right index finger resting on receiver rather than trigger, a token attempt to comply with the instruction the Commander had given before they’d set off for this little get together to adopt a non threatening posture, but it’s clear from his general demeanour that Mark Scully is wary, and he’s making no particular attempt to hide the fact.

Unlike Kane he’s silent, unsmiling, his expression impassive, no warmth in his grey eyes as they study the other group, moving from one to the other in turn, feeling their own gaze on him in return. Fair enough, that was to be expected. He wonders if any other members of this group of mercs are lurking elsewhere, out of sight, their weapons trained on him and his two comrades. That was fair enough as well. Again, it’s what he would have done if he could.

There’s one member of the other group he holds eye contact with a fraction longer than any of the others though, the unarmed man in Polish camo, the one he presumes to be Titan. He, and he alone, gets a brief nod, a barely perceptible movement of the Navy SEAL's head before he catches Kovac’s movement in his peripheral vision, turns his head to see the two riders approaching. If he’s curious there’s no visible sign of it as he turns his attention back to the group of men and women opposite him.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:13, Wed 10 June 2015.

In reply to Cap'n Rae (msg # 87):

Tucker watches the six-person group that was in pursuit of the lone runner meet back up and move away from the area, obviously disappointed in their failure to capture their prey.  He waits a couple of more minutes, sets the chopped M-14 back to safe and moves off to meet the others on the river bank.

Right before joining everyone, he keeps his rifle slung in front of him and lights one of his cigars as he moves next to his partner in crime, Minh.  He takes a couple of puffs and passes the stogie off to her.  "Never say I don't, 'Puff-Puff-Pass!'"  He addresses Bayer next, "We're all clear Boss.  Six wanting nothing more to do with us or this guy," he says motioning to Phillips.

Tucker wears the well-worn US Army camouflage pattern that has been sewn back together and mended since his last issue.  There's worn insignia on his uniform that can barely make out his (former) rank and unit designation.  He's also wearing standard US webbing, kevlar vest and helmet with a patrol pack.  Slung across his chest is an M-14K, probably a MK-23 in a drop holster on his right leg.

Tucker listens to the Navy Lieutenant sell her and her crew to Konrad and he can only think, "Special set of skills for dangerous missions?  Special Ops, nice!"  He also eyes up the gear that their using/carrying.

Mariusz smiled at Jan's English. The Czech always sounded like Yoda (Mariusz' father had loved the Star Wars films ad had worn out the bootleg tapes they had of them through thousands of viewings). Mariusz had never trusted the little green guy and had always been waiting for the muppet to leap up and tear Luke's throat out.

It had never happened though and now Mariusz was reluctant to speak with a better fluency that Jan as that would make him the group's equivalent of CP-30, the universe's gayest robot.

He rubbed his chin, hoping to find some stubble to rasp against but there was still just a peachy fuzz.

He grimaced at the mention of pine bark and hoped that their luck in finding food would change soon.

"The pair on horseback are pretty unhinged," he said, "the taller man anyway, I think the dwarf's just playing along. The castellan also seemed unhappy about having a German in our group. It might have been my reference to the Teutonic Knights though. I'm Mariusz, pleased to meet you."

Eric Phillips looked out at the at approaching riders.  For a second he appeared deep in thought before saying “Warszawskim Krzyżem Powstańczym,” in Polish.  ”Warsaw Cross of the Uprising,” Eric repeated in English.

”Our file on Swiecie indicated that one of the residents was a decorated veteran of the Warsaw Uprising.  We sent a local team down to try recruit him to the cause, but our scouts came back and said he wasn’t quite right in the head and unfit for our needs.  I always wondered what they meant.”

The man speaking had been the one running.  He was clad in sanitized Polish fatigues.  Indeed all of his gear was standard Polish issue, with the exception of his radio, his NVGs, and three ostentatious rings on his right hand.


This message was last edited by the player at 18:33, Wed 10 June 2015.

Jan nodded at the American woman's comments.  Intel about what was north on the river would be very useful indeed and would be worth giving this group of Americans a ride as long as they were prepared to pitch in and do their share, which they looked like they were capable of doing.  That was presuming that they didn't bring a whole load of extra trouble with them though - the Kommandos were good enough at finding that themselves and didn't need to get into the middle of some live NATO mission, unless the NATO mission had the chance of a big payoff that could get them back to some form of civilisation where they could spend the gold they had looted from the Black Baron and Jan could drink real expresso again.

It wasn't his decision regarding these new Americans though and he glanced sideways at Konrad, unsure whether the Captain wanted him to continue the discussion or take it over himself.

The Bob Dylan riff pulls Lizzie's attention around to the pair approaching on horseback.  It appears to her appraising eye that someone has read a bit too much Don Quixote and might be looking rather intrepidly for windmills to tilt at.  Her answer to Ana is equally stylized: whistling the intro to Fire Woman.  The meaning: take up security.  Lizzie indicates the upcoming pair with a nod of the head.

The young Pole, Mariusz seems friendly enough. Eager in the way that many of the youth in Poland would be if there country wasn't a flaming shithole argued over by two giant pit bulls.  His explanation, although not comprehensive, completes the theory that the person on horseback is probably bugfuck crazy.  Titan's summation puts the final nail in the coffin of doubt.

"Please to meet you, too, Mariusz," she smiles.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 02:07, Thu 11 June 2015.

Bayer responds with an affirming nod, then gives the approaching riders a glance before turning his attention back to the more immediate issue. "We don't take passengers but we can take on more company." he announces to the unfamiliar faces. "Ours is a free company... Konrad's Kommandos." He then motions to the vessel at anchor behind him and continues, "Our boat... Vistula Queen, under Kaptain Niewiadomska." And then to a pair of the old hands, a brisk wave of his hand, "Sergeant Tucker and Cerny... my NCOs." The rest of the company were equally important of course, but with the approaching riders and missing band of rogues, Bayer pushed to the make the riverside meet short. Some had already been introduced anyway.

The lack of food was disappointing. They'd have to get it one way or another eventually. "Is this all you have?" he asks, motioning to their visible gear. "Any gold? Medicine? Anything like that, or just information and skills?" His tone isn't dismissive of their offer, just matter of fact-like, and open.

Following an answer Bayer notes the progress of the approaching locals and briefly turns to Mariusz, "Meet that man again and see what he wants. Quyen, go with him. Not far."

Bayer then returns his attention to the others, "Right. If you want a ride north and have no issue about falling in with our company, then you are welcome."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:39, Thu 11 June 2015.

Quyen accepts Robert's cigar and takes a long drag. She watches the other group and her own people's discussions with them but doesn't get involved. She then puffs away at the cigar a little more before glancing at Robert "What are we going to do when we run out of these?" Before he can reply she answers for him "Find more."



"Shit... that's me." Quyen says quickly and hands back Tuck's cigar. She exhales the last breath of tobacco smoke slowly as she walks over to Mariusz.

"After you."

When she steps off with Mariusz her weapon is held ready but not in a threatening manner towards Big and Little.

Mariusz rehearsed a couple of short jokes and then decided not to. The dwarf could probably hold his own but wasn't for some reason and pushing the advantage seemed to be near to bullying.

As he walked forward with Mihn he said, "If you get a chance to talk with the women more closely," all the women Mariusz had ever know often went off in huddles to discuss dark mysteries, probably about periods, "try to see if they have any herbs and spices or..."

His lips trembled at the thought, "Any new guns I can try shooting, preferably something big or that shoots lots of bullets."

He smiled and sketched a bow to the approaching pair, "Well met, Sir. This is an unexpected pleasure. Having your company so soon is a wondrous treat. How may we serve you?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:10, Thu 11 June 2015.

A marriage of convenience is tentatively agreed upon, for the time being at least, but it will take time and effort from all parties for the three groups to fully integrate. For the moment, the space between them is filled with curiosity and suspicion, an awkward, somewhat uncomfortable mix, and the question looms, what next?

Mariusz and Minh meet the two riders a little up the road, within earshot of the others.

"I'm afraid I come bearing bad tidings." Sir Petr begins. "I beg your pardon for I must retract my earlier invitation. A knight errant by the name of Sir Anders rules the lands nearby. His men-at-arms are looking for what they call an American. They seem to think that this American might presently be among you." he pauses, looking somewhat embarrassed. A slightly bemused smile crosses the dwarf's lips. "As I mentioned earlier, my sheriff has been missing for quite some time. Furthermore, I have no household knights of my own, and Norbert has not yet received his spurs. Sir Anders, on the other hand, leads a free company of two hundred spears. You see my predicament, I am sure." Norbert seems to be taking some pleasure from Sir Petr's discomfort.

The old castellan continues, "I abhor discourtesy, but with all due respect, I must ask you to leave Swiecie as soon as possible. Only a handful of Anders' men are in town at present, but more are undoubtedly on the way. Swiecie has seen enough suffering as of late and I do not wish to compound it by bringing battle here. Surely, you understand."

"I shall not leave you empty handed, however. Since it would be unwise for you to join me at the castle now, I have brought the feast to you. Norbert?"

The dwarf kicks his mount forward and unshoulders a large leathern sack, which he holds out to Mariusz. As Mariusz opens it to look inside, the dwarf removes a bottle of clear liquid from a saddlebag and hands it to Minh. Inside the sack is a loaf of bread, hard as Birch, a grey sausage, about a foot long, a tin of anchovies, half-a-wheel of waxy cheese, and two somewhat shriveled apples. The vodka, however, is a good Polish mark, the kind usually reserved for foreign visitors and high party functionaries.

"I must return to the castle before Anders' men return. I regret that I can no longer enjoy the pleasure of your company. Norbert here can assist you in your preparations for departure. I must bid you farewell." With that, Sir Petr begins to turn his horse around. It may just be his old, rheumy eyes, but Mariusz thinks he can see tears welling up as the castellan turns away. Norbert sits astride his horse facing the boat's compliment, his smug expression quickly changing to one of nervous discomfort.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:40, Sat 13 June 2015.

"That saddens me," Mariusz said, "the honour of feasting with you and your Lord would have been the highlight of my short life. Of course, though we would never do anything to endanger you. I thank you for your hospitality and ensure you that we will leave as soon as we have transferred the salvage to our craft. I wish you well, good Sir."

He hefted the bag of food, he'd avoid the sausage, it might be made of people like Soylent Green. He returned to Bayer and said, "Hauptman, we've outstayed our welcome. He said a man called Anders has about two hundred soldiers out looking for an American. Only a few are in town but there will be more. We've been asked to leave ASAP."

After focusing on the riders, Eric turned to assembled group.  ”I appreciate your help,” Eric said to Konrad and the Kommandos.  He stepped forward to offer a hand to Bayer and the others in turn.  ”I would have been lucky to get away with only being shot and killed by the PFL troops.  Captured would have been much worse.  Major Anders' behavior has been growing more erratic.  He tortured Porucznik Mazur as an example to others.  He would have done the same to me I’m sure.”

Phillips sighed then closed his eyes.  The last few months had been hard.  Phillips had a front row seat as Anders had grown more controlling and ambitious.  The Air Force officer’s natural charisma lent itself to what the 2nd Polish Free Legion had now effective become - a cult of personality.  Eric had been part of the inner circle, but Mazur’s slow and painful death was the straw that broke the camel's back.  There wasn’t a lot Phillip’s wasn’t prepared to do to win, indeed Eric’s values were his parents values and they were Washington lobbyists, but torturing your own was over the line even for someone raised in a household where winning and success were more important than how you played the game.  Eric open his eyes and focused on the conversation at hand.

”As a soldier, I am not at liberty to agree to the terms you’ve offered,” Eric said.  It was one thing to chart your own course in the absence of leadership.  It was quite another to desert the U.S. Army in a time of war and in the presence of a Navy Lieutenant Commander.  ”Of course if you and the Commander come to some agreement…”  Phillips voice trailed off as he seems to search for the right words.

”…let’s just say that I won’t forget what you or your crew did for me today.  I owe you guys one.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:45, Sat 13 June 2015.

Scully is still standing by the UAZ. Some of the tension has eased out of the Navy SEAL. Some. Not all, far from it. But no one has opened fire on anyone and the indications are that they're not about to. So while he's still watching the other group warily the barrel of his rifle has lowered more noticeably, to something that might be called guardedly cautious rather than openly aggressive as it had been.

He's listening to the conversation between Kane and the guy that hasn't actually introduced himself as such but was presumably 'Konrad' of the eponymous commandos, although he’d given no indication whether that was his first name or his surname. His eyebrow had risen noticeably when the guy had said 'we don't take passengers'. He'd been immediately tempted to come back with a brisk neither do we but instead he remained silent, left it to his boss to do the talking.

After all, her instincts hadn't failed their little group so far.

He just hopes she calls this one right.

In Lizzie Kane we trust.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:11, Sat 13 June 2015.

"Mariusz," Lizzie puts in, "please inform the Duke that when we leave that our jeep will be left behind at his disposal.  Should he wish to keep it for himself or offer it to Anders as a peace offering, it his to decide, but the vehicle has seen much better days."  She smiles one more time at the young Pole before turning back to Konrad.  There are a myriad of social strategies she could put into place.  Hell, she had even considered standing on a conveniently located concrete block before addressing the taller man, but Lizzie Kane was relatively certain the tall German would see right through it.  So it would be politeness couched with directness.

"We don't do dead-weight," she says be way of explanation to the disposal of the UAZ.  "Should you need our assistance, we will be happy to offer what help we can," she continues to Konrad.  "Unfortunately, we cannot place ourselves under your direct command.  I have no problem with your freelancers and make no judgement to your choices, but my companions and I are still active NATO forces.  I can promise you that we will do our best to not unnecessarily bring conflict to your vessel and will do our best to ensure its continued survival.  Should you feel that I violate this promise, we will leave at the first opportunity.  Our skills and intel should suffice in return for transit, I assure you, but if you need more direct financial assistance, we have a little of that, too." 

Lizzie looks over at the American dressed in Polish fatigues.  "Sgt Phillips, should you wish to place yourself under my command and still consider yourself a part of the fighting forces of the United States, we would be happy to have you with us."

It is a risk to take up with the Kommando, not just with the crew of the tug, but within her own ranks.  Mark Scully, for all his gruffness and willingness to engage in the decidedly amoral business of killing, has been her moral compass for the last year.  In a the shadow world of dark dealings and choices between the bad and less bad, his steadying presence has kept her from making the easy but bankrupt choice on more than one occasion.  And while Ana might follow her, there is only so much she can ask of her former roommate. Only so much social capital to burn when the lines between CivGov and MilGov are brought to the fore, even when friendship is counted.  Loyalties are what they are.

Instead of asking if the Hauptman finds these term acceptable, she asks another question: "How can we help you load this salvage?"

Once they were back to the Queen, Craig got to work transferring the salvage to where it was needed and then to trying to get an idea as to how to start the process of using it. If he was needed to help ferry the others back to the boat he went back to the Princess and helped with the transfer.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:45, Sat 13 June 2015.

In other circumstances they would never have known each other. They were from different Worlds. He the son of a Pennsylvania steel worker, as blue collar as they come, she the daughter of Massachusetts money, power, and influence.

But these are not other circumstances. How does Mark Scully define his relationship with Elizabeth Kane? How could he define his relationship with her? They had crossed so many lines during these past twelve months, but there were so many more he would never encroach on. Superior and subordinate didn't even begin to come close to describing it. Brother and sister? Sometimes that's what it felt like to him.

Friends? Yes. Something more than that? Something closer? Yes? No? Maybe? A year spent fighting this War together has brought them close. They've joked together, they've cried together when friends have been lost. And they've killed together, without hesitation, without regret for the lives taken. His sleep is untroubled by remorse. He hopes that in some small way he's helped hers to be the same. They've felt the despair that this War has caused, an almost tangible thing that hangs in the air like an omnipresent cloud. And occasionally, very, very occasionally, they've dared to taste the hope.

They've spent long nights together. Not in that sense. No, the nights they've been together have been spent lying in the mud and dirt, or hiding out in some shithole like the factory that they had just vacated, sometimes with Ivans so close he could almost smell them. So no, not in that sense. He'd thought about it once or twice in the early days, about what it would be like. Who wouldn't? But not any more. Because the relationship that Mark Scully finds so difficult to define is far deeper than that now.

Respect. That's perhaps the word that sums it up best. Ana he doesn't know so well. But she knows Lizzie. That makes her good people as far he's concerned. And they're a team. The three of them. He can be over protective sometimes, he knows that, same as he knows that they are both perfectly capable of looking after themselves. They've got each other's backs. Their fates are intertwined.

So every instinct in Mark Scully's mind may be screaming walk away. Now. Leave these mercs to do their thing, whatever that may be, while his team gets back to the business of fighting the War that is still being waged. No harm, no foul. But if Lizzie Kane says they're getting on that boat then that's it. They're getting on. It's that simple.

Because one thing that they've never, ever done is let each other down.

Jan listened to the American Naval Officer state her position about following orders and then glanced at Konrad, unsure just how much of a sticking point that was.  They had had a lot of trouble previously with soldiers who wouldn't follow orders and letting another group on board the Queen with that kind of set up could well prove problematic.  That said though he had been accepted into the crew with little more than cursory questioning by Anneka, as she had been more concerned with his skills and capabilities rather than his motivations, but then he had never said that he wouldn't necessarily follow the commander's orders.

He left it to Konrad to decide however as he wasn't entirely sure how much of a serving NATO officer Konrad regarded himself as currently.  Life on the river had tended to revolve around day to day survival and it wasn't a subject he had seriously discussed with his commander.

Instead he wandered over to the dwarf Norbert, taking the opportunity to talk to him in the absence of his lord and master.

"Teraz, Panie Petr opuścił nas i można mówić bardziej swobodnie proszę mi powiedzieć, co tu się dzieje? Jaka jest sytuacja tutaj i kim jest ten człowiek nazywa się Anders? Kim są oddziały on prowadzi i jakie są ich lojalność?"

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Now that Sir Petr has left us and you can speak more freely please tell me what is going on here?  What is the situation here and who is this person called Anders?  Who are the troops he leads and what are their loyalties?

---

Despite sitting atop a horse, Jan doesn't have to look up too far to meet the dwarf's eyes.

"'Sir' Petr is crazy." Norbert begins, addressing the proverbial elephant in the room. "But he's a good man. His wife was the curator of the castle museum until she died of cholera about two years ago. Petr came unhinged, after that. He moved up to the castle and fell into this grand medieval fantasy. He never breaks character. I was down on my luck at that time, starving to death, so I started to play along. Now I'm his 'squire'. Heh, it pays the bills, anyway."

With that out of the way, Norbert gets to Jan's questions.

"Anders is a partisan leader. He was an officer in our Air Force but he turned coats and started working with NATO. Now he works for himself. He's got about 250 fighters under his command. We give them some of our food, they give us security. We used to have trouble with marauders, but not so much anymore. It's not a bad arrangement but it's getting more... complicated. Anders wants to establish a toll station on the river here in Swiecie, but Petr's not having it. The old loon's going to end up ex-castellan if he doesn't watch his mouth. This situation," he says, pointing at the gaggle of armed men and women standing nearby, "certainly isn't helping."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:28, Sun 14 June 2015.

Jan nodded at the dwarf's explanation.

"Dlaczego zatrzymać wtedy?  To brzmi jak Anders może skończyć zabijając was wszystkich i utworzenia własnych żołnierzy tutaj.  Nie ma zbyt wiele ruchu rzeka, ale jeśli zwiększa to stacja opłat tutaj może być bardzo opłacalne."

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
"Why do you stay then?  It sounds like Anders is likely to end up killing you all and establishing his own troops here.  There is not much river traffic but if it increases then a toll station here could be quite profitable."

---

The negotiations with the boat's command group are seeming less likely to devolve into gunfire, though Ana hasn't entirely ruled it out yet.  Regardless, the decision tree has three branches of any real import: they get on the boat voluntarily, they stay off the boat voluntarily, or she dies and it stops being her problem.  The latter option renders further investigation irrelevant, but either of the other two will benefit from a better understanding of the local situation.  So...

Ana catches Mark's eye and tilts her head toward the side conversation around the dwarf.  When he acknowledges her intent, she turns away and steps up beside the NCO - Cerny, she reminds herself.  Well, that's something she can work with later.  She nods politely to him but keeps her mouth shut while she waits for Norbert's response.  The back of her mind is assembling a profile of this Anders that's in no way congruent with Petr's continued survival.  There's another piece she's not yet seeing.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:27, Sun 14 June 2015.

Mariusz had a soft spot for desperate causes but even he was reluctant to take on two hundred and fifty troops.

"Norbert," he said, "I'd like to help. We may be mercenaries but we have tried to do good."

He looked down, "That hasn't always worked but we've tried. We have defeated Soviet helicopters and tried to get secrets away from the Communists back to the Americans. That failed but we lost a lot of good men and women trying. We have defeated the Baron of Warsaw's pirate fleet and his troops with the aid of pro-NATO defectors from the Soviet army and we helped to install pro-NATO leaders in Warsaw an Gora Kalawaria. Since then we've taken out a lot of Soviets just trying to survive. We're not capable of helping you be safe here but if you wish, I can get our Captain to take you and your people away from here and settle you somewhere safe as we've done for other displaced persons."

He shrugged, "We've tried to be a force for good although good people have died along the way," he looked wistfully at the knight, "Sometimes we get things wrong."

He shook his head, "Silly me, I forgot I was speaking in English."

He translated his speech into Polish and added, "If you do want to stay, the Americans say you can use the UAZ for whatever you want. It's not much as you could have done that when they left anyway but it is a nice gesture. They seem like good people and I suppose they could have blown it up instead."

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Please remember that Mariusz' partisan training never got to the concept of OPSEC and as a teenage boy he doesnt really understand circumspection.

---

Scully's rifle is pointed downwards now, at a more or less forty five degree angle.  If there was going to be a firefight he figures it would have happened by now. The SEAL catches Kovac's subtle head movement, returns it with one of his own. Message received and understood. He's close enough that he can hear the exchange between the mercs and the horsemen, although as it's conducted in Polish that is a relatively moot point. Mark Scully isn't on the Polaris team for his command of the Polish language.

So he leaves his female colleague to do her thing, and as she moves in one direction he moves in the other, circling around, measured steps, his movements those of a man who is self assured, confident, his eyes in near perpetual motion. If they do meet the gaze of one of Konrad's Kommandos he'll pause a moment, then incline his head in a brief nod.  A gesture? An acknowledgment that things haven't gone south? A courtesy from one man trained in the profession of arms to another? They can make of it what they will, return it if they wish, ignore it if they prefer.

His circling has brought him to within arm's reach of the man in Polish camouflage, Titan. His right hand lifts off his weapon, the first time it's strayed from the trigger guard since he climbed out of the UAZ.  Slowly he extends that hand to the other man. "Forrest Gump?" There's a hint of a wry grin on the weather beaten face that is under the Steelers cap. His jaw is covered in a five o'clock shadow. "Mark Scully. Chief Boatswain's Mate, United States Navy." Naval enlisted rates being as obfuscated as they are He doesn't know if the dude will know that makes him an E7, equivalent to an Army Sergeant First Class.

Once he's made his manners with the Green Beret the SEAL will turn towards the conversation between his boss and Konrad, listen to the ongoing discussions, casting the occasional glance in Kovacs' direction, making sure it's all good with her.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:45, Sun 14 June 2015.

Bayer nods at the final comment, "Good. That's good, because I asked for an important reason. You still have a unit somewhere? A supply chain... cantonment? There is nothing like that on the river. So if you don't have gold or medicine or anything like that, you are going to be faced with hard decisions. Nobody likes hard decisions."

He then glances over towards Mariusz for a moment and adds, "You can tell us about the financial assistance on the boat. Our time here is up. But first, unload your rifles. You may keep your sidearms as they are."

"Salvage goes in the Princess." he adds, motioning to the tigs's launch.

While the Americans are unloading, Bayer says to the Kommandos, " Let's go."

OOC - might have missed something but I'm on my phone and doing my best. Anything missed I can cover later on the boat.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:52, Sun 14 June 2015.

In reply to Mark Scully (msg # 114):

The former quarterback nods when the Navy SEAL mentions Forest Gump.  "Sergeant Eric Philips, 10th Group," the Pantera clad snake-eater said, returning Scully's handshake.  The decidedly un-tactical glint of Eric's hand bling was certainly visible as they exchanged greetings and it was clear that Phillips must have had the rings in his pocket earlier when he was fleeing the Poles behind him.  Of course NCAA rules meant that stones were non-precious as student athletes may only receive $400 worth of gifts for winning a national championship.  Still, the stones gleamed like real diamonds and the polished metals were noticeable against Phillip's tanned hands.

Phillips other gear was almost exclusively Polish issue, though as a trainer and instructor, he was given first pick of what was available for the 2 PFL.  Despite being his only uniform, his wool fatigues were in excellent repair, as was his LCE and rucksack.  The Special Forces NCOs had been treated as honorary officers of the Second Polish Free Legion and had been quartered and provisioned as such.  Phillips pre-war model, Polish Eagle stamped, Wz.35 Vis pistol had, in fact, been a gift from one of the units company commanders; given when Eric saved the man's life almost a year ago to the day.  If the ring were Eric's most prized possession, the pistol was his second.

In reply to Konrad Bayer (msg # 115):

"Roger that," Eric said.  He extended a hand to take back his Vis and Tantal, unloading the later and stuffing the previously loaded magazine into an LCE pouch.  An AKM had replaced Eric's M249 when the SAW ran dry back in 1998.  After the AKM, Eric had an RPK.  Then a PKM.  Hell, for a month in the spring of 99, he humped an LM-60K.  But the Tantal was his favorite weapon system.  Eric had been at the range when Ander's men came for him a few weeks ago.  The six man team  following him had been a nine-man squad originally.  Eric had taken the best of three Wz.88's before he fled, leaving his empty PM-63 Rak on top of the squad leader's corps.  The man had been a fool for not waiting for the rest of his team when he attacked Eric.  The truly terrible part was that Phillips had trained him personally.  It had been like killing a puppy you had raised that eventually turned on you.  Eric loathed the idea of killing more 2nd PFL troops.  But that same feeling didn't apply to Major Anders.  In fact, Phillips very much wanted to cut the head off 2 PFL  and see if the body could be saved.  Of course that might fall to someone else.  For now, simple survival outweighed any expectation of revenge.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:57, Sun 14 June 2015.

Norbert listens to Mariusz with interest, clearly feeling more as ease every minute. The young Pole is considerably less intimidating than the grizzled Czech.

"Leave here? No, this place is my home. Besides, Petr won't leave for anything. He may be batshit crazy, but I love the old guy like he was my very own deranged uncle. He wouldn't last a week without me. It won't be easy, but I'll convince him to go along with Anders' toll station. Anders isn't a bad guy, at least to us folks here in Swiecie. We'll be fine. Thanks for the offer, though."

At Mariusz's mention of the UAZ, the dwarf looks at it and snorts, "You should be the one thanking me for taking that piece of shit off your hands." The Kommando are starting to disperse, collecting their gear and moving towards the riverbank.

"Looks like you're leaving. I haven't left Swiecie in years, but I hear things." Norbert glances knowingly downriver. "Grudziaz- next big town on the Wisla- is crawling with Russian soldiers. Travelers passing through haven't had anything bad to say about them, though. Sounds like they're behaving themselves pretty well- commander's a right gent, they say. It seems like they're content to pretty much mind their own business. 'Go along to get along', and all, I suppose. I wouldn't go advertising that you've got Americans on board, but you keep a low profile, you shouldn't have any trouble getting past. If merchants can come and go without a hassle there, you should be able to as well. Anyway, good luck boy. You all take care. And I'd stay away from that sausage, if I were you."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:31, Mon 15 June 2015.

Ana chuckles and speaks for the first time.  Her voice is a raspy contralto; her Polish, fluent with a strong hint of another Eastern European tongue in the vowels.  "Now that you mention it, yes.  Thank you for taking that piece of shit off our hands.  If I were you, I'd gift it to someone I don't love and watch the fun.  Does 'white elephant' translate to Polish?"  She offers Norbert a thin but genuine smile.  "Thanks for the downstream report, too.  I'll keep my Americans under a basket."

The smile falls away as she turns back to the assembled group in time to hear Konrad's demand.  She waits for Lizzie to confirm that yes, they're getting on this boat under these conditions.  Then she drops her carbine's magazine, clears the chamber, tops off the mag, and stuffs it into her gear.  All the while, she maintains an expression of sullen compliance, flicking suspicious glances at Konrad's shooters.

Sure.  Clear the rifles.  Whatevarrr.

Inside, she's still grinning.  And she's pretty sure Lizzie's acquiescence is, in part, because Lizzie knows that too.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:51, Mon 15 June 2015.

Frank takes in the conversation between the Navy officer and Konrad.  He continues to smoke his cigar (with Minh) and just plainly says, "I like her!  She's got a set of balls on her Boss.  Thought they may a little bit more hospitable for the ride though since they don't have any way to pay for it other than a unique bunch of skills that the Spec Ops community can only provide.

It'll be nice to have some company on the Queen."

Quyen hands Tuck his cigar after drawing in on it one last time. "I can take helm." she says aloud, exhaling the toxic smoke as she speaks. She then walks over to the Princess and boards first, moving to the rear. The others can shove the boat off and climb in afterwards. Quyen will then guide the Princess back over to the Queen... taking it easy on the water considering the added weight of the salvage cargo.

Mariusz waited for his turn on the Princess after wishing Norbert goodbye. He helped gathering up the rest of the salvage and asked the newcomers cheerfully enough, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

He reckoned they'd probably want to haul their own gear, he was a stranger after all, but it was polite to ask.

Griet watched the strangers through her binoculars as they began to assemble at the Princess. It seemed as if the dark haired woman was calling the shots. The others followed her with puppy eyes, letting her make the decisions.

That could be good and it could be bad. She wouldn't have gotten in that position with out being competent but also she'd probably be a bitch. That was fine, Griet recognised the trait because she possessed it in spadesful. She was wary of powerful Western women, they carried themselves with a casual arrogance that made her uncomfortable, Anneka, Boots: they had carried their power and confidence easily, as if what they had earned for themselves was nothing.

Griet knew that couldn't have been right, no woman could have reached that position without being better than the men around her and harder as well. She knew it herself having clawed and butted her way through the chauvinistic ranks of the Polish Navy to become the first female CPO in a technical discipline in its history, most women had been secretaries, medics or communications specialists, being black crew was unheard of.

She shrugged as the Princess put off, hoping they could get along but knowing that alpha women didn't like other alphas around, she certainly didn't.

It would be interesting. the other woman would be riding on the Princess but she'd be meeting the Queen.

It takes about a half-an-hour to ferry the rest of the salvage and all of the shore party, including the four new additions, to the Queen. When the last boots hit the deck, Gryzyech already has a head of steam going in the boilers. With the cargo and crew safely aboard, the tug starts to crawl downriver on its one remaining good screw, letting the Wisla's inexorable current do most of the work.

The newcomers are shown to their quarters on the open poop, around the unarmored ZU-23-2 canon. The raised quarterdeck just forward, with its sandbag and ammo crate revetment, looms over the main deck aft. Anyone stationed on the quarterdeck (and/or working on the new roof or the gun shield for the aft Dishka HMG there) will be able to keep a close eye on the new guests.

Mariusz visits the Queen's pantry. It's looking rather skint. Sir Petr's parting gift won't stretch the dwindling food supply very far at all.

Swiecie drifts by slowly to port; near its east end, the single red brick tower of Swiecie Castle stands like a solitary watchman. Atop its battlements, a lone, forlorn figure stands between two rectangular crenelations, looking out over the brown ribbon of the Vistula. He raises his hand in salute as the tug steams slowly past.

At a leisurely 5kph, the Krolowa proceeds downriver through mostly empty countryside. There are a few homesteads along the banks, mostly on the east side of the river, but few signs of habitation. The light dusting of snow covers any scars left behind by nearly four years of war. It all looks very peaceful, and more than a little bit sad. The new folks are a bit surprised by how cold it is out on the river, in the absence of any sort of cover or windbreak. Mercifully, it's not raining or snowing. Yet.

---

At about 1900 hours, the sun dips beneath the western horizon, and a mantle of darkness quickly descends over the landscape. A few minutes later, lights start to flicker into view up ahead, just a few at first, then growing thicker and brighter as you proceed slowly downriver. You've arrived on the outskirts of Grudziaz. The heart of the city fairly throbs with light about 5km distant. This is the largest occupied settlement that you've seen in quite some time.

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing

OOC: Note, the A1 bridge on the map does not exist in our timeline.

Is the tug flying a flag? If so, which one? (An illustrated list can be found in the Vistula Queen notice.)


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:42, Mon 15 June 2015.

After staring in despair at the pantry, Mariusz headed up to Griet to tell her about what Norbert had said, "The dwarf reckoned that the Russians there were reasonable people and they let merchants travel without much hindrance. He advised keeping people who can't pass for PACT out of sight though."

Griet waited for the newcomers to assemble and felt a shiver run down her spine. She'd forgotten how cold it got out here after so long in a centrally heated cabin.

She listened to Mariusz and said, "Thanks, go and shift people out of aft cabin three, please."

She walked over to Konrad and asked, "What do we have here?"

Craig finished getting the salvage into place before seeking out Konrad; "If you have nothing else that needs doing I will continue with the additions to the quarterdeck, the tin on top of the planks we put up earlier should make the whole deck pretty water tight. So I'll get on with it if there is nothing else ?"

With that Craig returns to the quarter deck and placing his rifle within easy reach he continues with the DIY. He starts by fixing the tin and cutting it to size on top of the wood that now makes up the deck roof. Then if he has time he will move to the hatches and try to work out how to make a gun shield for the rear heavy machine gun.

Before boarding

Scully has just asked Phillips to give him a hand with the gear in the UAZ when the scrawny Polish kid that had been talking to the dude on the horse asked if he could help. "We got it kid" the Navy SEAL had replied, thinking that if the kid tried to pick up one of the rucks in the back of the UAZ he'd likely finish up on his back with his feet in the air like a turtle, such was the weight in each pack. After a second's hesitation the muscular American nods. "But thanks anyway. Djekoiya. Yeah? Thank you." Yep, the Polish language was not Scully's strong point. Other than a mangled attempt at thank you pretty much all his vocabulary was only appropriate for getting a beer or getting laid.

He looks at Phillips, shrugs as they walk over to the UAZ, doesn't say anything. It's as though he's trying to justify being polite to the Polish kid. There are four rucks in the back, clearly one more than their party size. Each one appears to be packed to capacity, suggesting that the Navy team are not down to their last bean or bullet. "We got some spare BDU's if you want to get out of that Polish stuff later. Your call man." the SEAL says as he scoops up one of the rucks, one that has a stockless Mossberg 590 shotgun secured to its straps, begins to walk towards the shoreline. He's already unloaded his rifle, as per the Commander's instruction, slung it over his shoulder.

---

On board

Scully is wearing a Polish Army parka in pantera camo over his fatigues, it pulled from his ruck after they'd come aboard, the collar turned up against the wind blowing in from the Vistula. He can see his breath as he exhales. When he was in the Fleet he served in the Atlantic, so he's not entirely unused to the chill that comes with being on the water in December, but that doesn't make it any less unpleasant. They've rigged up some makeshift protection from the elements with shelter halfs, improvising as best they can, and they've got their sleeping bags, but he knows that it's going to be an uncomfortable night.

He's already had a look around the Zoo 23, is now watching for any activity on or around the quarter deck. Before he'd  gone to BUD/S and learned how to kill people Scully had served as a boatswain's mate, looking after the general maintenance of the ship's external structures, running damage control, shit like that, so he knew his way around a boat. He was also qualified as a coxswain on rigid hull inflatables, so he's not entirely unfamiliar with the sort of work that needs to be done.

His gloved hands are thrust into his pockets, the Steelers cap replaced by a black watch cap that's pulled down low. His rifle, unloaded, is slung over his right shoulder. One magazine is in the right cargo pocket of his pants, eight more in the pouches attached to the assault vest he's now wearing over the parka. His sidearm sits snugly in its holster, an M1911 that most assuredly is loaded,  The shotgun is still secured to his ruck, which sits with the other three on a pile on the deck in their temporary "camp". Had it been down to Scully he would have conveniently forgotten to unload the Mossberg, but Kane had told him to. "Good faith" she'd said as he'd removed the six 12 gauge slugs that it held and slipped them into his left pants pocket. She'd just smiled and shook her head when he'd asked her if she wanted him to rig up a claymore.

Good faith. There had been precious little of that these past six months or so in the shadow world that the Polaris team moved in he thought to himself as he felt the deck move slightly under his feet. He'd spent his entire life in the United States Navy, serving his country, three years with the Atlantic Fleet, thirteen years a Navy SEAL, so he was well accustomed to the motions of a vessel under way, even if this tug was a good bit smaller than he was used to. Yeah, there had been fuck all good faith when the CIA had tried to screw them over a while back.

The Navy SEAL thrusts his hands deeper into his pockets. Every now and then he'll take a glance to port or starboard, watching northern Poland slip by on either side. The sun was off to portside, slowly sinking downwards.

Well, at least they were going in the right direction. No one was shooting at them. And none of these fuckers had tried to slit his throat.

Yet.

OOC I'll do the later part of the day in a separate post
This message was last edited by the player at 22:19, Mon 15 June 2015.

Eric hoisted one of the rucks from the UAZ and helped shuttle it to the boat.  He had lost enough of his own people to know not to ask why the team had an extra ruck.  Instead, nodded toward Mariusz.

”Before all this shit,” he said, generally referring to the state of the world, ”you could take a kid like that and put him on whey, creatine, and a good supplement stack, then have him lift heavy for a few months and he’d end up looking like a lineman not a scarecrow.”  Of course Muscle Milk was hard to come by these days.  Eric had plussed up the protein in the three Polish rations he carried by swapping out crackers for tins of ‘mystery meat’ when he looted food them from dead soldiers.  Still, what he wouldn’t give for a few dozen chicken eggs.

”Yeah, I’d love to back back in a US uniform.  Our logs got fucked early on, even before the nukes flew, so this is what we had when our TA50 wore out.” Logs of course meant logistics.  On the rare occasions when Phillip’s ODA had been paradropped equipment, they had requested critical equipment, such as crypto gear, radios, and night vision gear.

---

On board the boat, Eric sat the Polaris ruck down where it would be secure, but out of the way.  It was their gear, so it wasn’t his place to even look in it.  He did look inside his own, not very full pack, pulling out a heavy wool blanket, poncho, and shelter half.  Against the apparent wind created by the movement of the boat through the air on the river, Eric decided to use the shelter half over the blanket, as the shelter half canvas was thicker and heavier than the Polish poncho.  The latter was folded up and served as a sitting pad.

At 5.5 pounds, the 100% wool blanket provided considerable warmth.  This was a piece of kit that soldiers had been carrying since time immemorial, due mainly to wool’s ability to insulate even when wet.  It was as if the spirt of the sheep it had been sheared from was still present in every strand of the fiber.  A pissed off, zero fucks given spirt, that, despite being separated from its original owner, refused to give in to mother nature and her ‘weather’.  The wool blanket made no apologies for being heavy, smelling funny, or being incredibly good at what it did.

”Got any cards?” Eric asked the others.  It was clearly a joke given the conditions on deck.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:20, Mon 15 June 2015.

Scully turns towards Phillips, grins. "As a matter of fact, I do. Once we get off this barge I'll look forward to taking all that back pay you must have off you." Clearly he's joking too. About the back pay. Not the deck of cards.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:22, Mon 15 June 2015.

The deck of the tug isn't the coldest billet Lizzie Kane has ever taken part in, but it is damn cold.  The wind bites enough that she elects to leave her Kevlar vest on over her over her "Windstopper" Marmot fleece and fatigues.  If it wasn't for the wool hat on her head and gloves on her hands, it would be miserable.  Not 4am swim practice in the Massachusetts winter miserable, but chilly all the same.

Their team, plus the new edition in the form of the Green Beret has built a semblance of a shelter with the packs and shelter halves, but it doesn't catch all the wind, and the steel deck leeches whatever bit of warmth they do generate if uninsulated flesh makes contact.  Her sniper rifle rests easy on her ruck, magazine out, and scope capped.  It didn't make her feel naked from any threats on the boat, the PSG1 would be next to useless in a close quarter fight.  The possibility of threats from shore does leave Lizzie aching a bit.

"Okay, gather up," she says to the people that make up Polaris.  "I recognize that this isn't ideal.  Mark, your objection is noted," she waves down any protest to the contrary that may start to arise.  "You're rubbing your chin," Lizzie adds, pointing out the tell.  "I appreciate the support and for now, this ride is going the same way we are.  Standard rules apply: if you see something, say something."  It's short hand for: if something comes up that materially effects the decisions I am making, please point it out to my attention as I may have been too busy to make note of it.  Subpoint A: Do not follow me into a deathtrap without objection.  The philosophy is easy to use when surrounded with professionals that make the decisions she'd like them to anyway.

Twelve months have passed since she met Scully in the back of a mess tent.  Who the hell decided that was "covert" she'll never know, but the SEAL has been by her side ever since.  Her moral compass and unwavering banner man.  Lizzie is fairly certain if she asked him to eat glass, he'd rub that stubbly chin for a moment or two, then, not bothering with a spoon, tip the cup directly into his mouth and begin to chew.  Maybe he knows how much she appreciated that the puppy dog eyes that the men she served with had shifted into something else within weeks.  She'd never told him, it seemed like some kind of mutually accepted secret. To give name to their relationship would be to put limits on it.  How do you name what you think of your right hand?

After the last six months, Ana has become her left hand.  There are reasons that go beyond their shared history of bad decisions.  Ana knows why Lizzie speaks Polish with a Russian accent.  Lizzie knows where some of the scars on the agent's face came from,  was there to watch one of them get put one.  And when the need to put the Polaris team together was brought forward, Lizzie knew who to ask to join her.

The last ruck, the extra.  The one that Phillips would undoubtedly be pillaging through  with her permission in the near future.  That one signified loss and a complication that she isn't sure how they are going to address yet.

"Eric," she continues, "we'll outfit you as best we can.  Glad to have you on the team, but I can't brief you on our mission just yet."  His professionalism is evident in the nod and shrug she relieves.  "I'm going to look up our Captain and the Hauptmann and make nice-nice." Lizzie smiles.  It even looks like she means it.  Her Toughbook comes out of her ruck and gets tucked under her arm.

"Mark, it's not nice rob the new guy blind," she cackles a bit as she wanders off towards the bridge.

Boarding:

Ana slips off her patrol pack, docks it to her ruck, and hoists the whole assembly onto her back with a suppressed grunt of effort.  "Thanks, but we're good here," she advises Mariusz in Polish, then favors him with a slight smile of appreciation.  Christ.  That's some serious Lost Generation shit.  She shakes off the chill that runs down her spine and follows Scully down to the water.

---

Later:

As the team settles into their alleged accommodations, Ana digs out her own shelter half to add to the windbreak.  A Kifaru Woobie, scuffed and stained, follows it to insulate part of the nest.  She shrugs out of her plate carrier, carefully laying it flat to avoid further abusing the trauma plates' edges and corners.  Her first-line gear stays on.  Of course.

She chuckles at the mention of Scully's infamous cards.  "Wait, what?  He gets paid?  Shit.  Lizzie, you promised me the moral satisfaction of upholding freedom and democracy.  You didn't say anything about a paycheck."

She drops cross-legged, unconsciously adjusting the Smith & Wesson's pancake holster, and extends a hand to the new guy.  "Heya.  I'm Anastasjia.  State Department.  You can call me Ana because every other possible diminutive sounds like a stage name."

At the rustle of the precious laptop coming out of its case, she looks up sharply.  "Oh.  It is time to perform debased acts of diplomacy?"  She rises smoothly to her feet, tucks the sweater's hem beneath the Smith's butt to keep it from fouling her drawstroke, and falls in at Lizzie's heel.  "Boys, try not to burn down the boat while we're gone," she tosses over her shoulder.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:46, Tue 16 June 2015.

As the leader of the newcomers approached, Griet resisted the temptation to stand on the steps leading to the upper deck, it might make her feel superior but admitted a feeling of inferiority in reality.

She stuck out her hand and said, "It is good to meet you, I'm Griet Niewiadomska, Master of the Wistula Queen out of Krakow. You'll have to forgive me for being blunt but we've met a lot of Americans more than willing to sacrifice my men and boat for their cause."

"No doubt you've also met your fair share of grasping mercenaries that would cut heir gran's throats for a meal. They've also tried to screw you numerous times. Hopefully we'll be able to prove each other wrong."

"I'm setting down some ground rules here, if you don't like them we'll get you clear of the danger here and set you down somewhere safe, no harm, no foul. I hope however they are acceptable to you."

"First, I have command of the craft and Hauptmann Bayer has command of the security. In any defensive action I expect your command to follow orders without question. We will try to relay any commands through you and you will of course interpret those orders in whatever way you see best to execute them, but if there are arguments in combat none of us will survive to argue about it."

"Also, whilst you are on board I trust you not to do anything your mission calls for that will endanger my crew or bring undue interest on us, we have a roll of honour to the dead who were slain because of other people doing that."

She paused and her mouth moved as if she was chewing something unpleasant, "I know I'm teaching my grandmother to suck eggs but I find it best to be up front. If we decide to conduct any offensive actions during your journey with us, I will discuss them fully with you and you will have the right to veto your involvement should you decide it is too risky or counter to your missions and morals. If you agree to the undertaking you will be fully included in planning and decisions but again, in combat, you will be expected to follow Bayer's orders to the best of your ability, again interpreted through your own experiences. If we take any loot whilst engaged in action, it will be shared on a sixty forty basis, sixty for us forty for you after any combatant has refilled their weapon loads as best they can. It will be divided by group consensus. If we can't agree, I have casting vote on the first impasse, you on the second and Bayer on the third. After that it will roll on in the same way. All loot will be turned over, no picking up in secret by either side. If that happens I will discipline my men and I expect you to do the same."

"Hopefully it won't. When you leave, any loot you've accumulated that you can't carry, we'll keep and give you some gold for it."

She looked around, she was talking too much, "I wanted you out here but it is too cold. I've asked Mariusz to clear out a triple bunk cabin. It is relatively isolated from the rest of the tug and I ask your people not to explore unless they are accompanied by a member of the crew. Once you are settled in there, I'll get Mariusz to escort you to the bathroom where you are welcome to use the shower and bath. Water is hot and not rationed, perks of steam power."

"I wish we could offer you food but we're low ourselves. If you can contribute to a meal then Mariusz is quite a good cook. If you can't, he can supervise your use of the galley."

"If these conditions are acceptable, welcome aboard and I'll ask you to join us in a conference to discuss mutual defence of the Queen and how we approach our next destination."

Once the salvage and all the personnel have been ferried aboard the Wisla Krolowa, Thijs takes up his customary position at the starboard DShK, watching the right bank as the tug creeps downstream.

The newcomers must have certainly noticed the AR-15-based weapon he had been carrying while ashore.  The large drum magazine and the boxy square handguard with a vertical foregrip and folding bipod attached mark it as the C7A1 LSW automatic rifle manufactured for the Canadian Army and used, among others, by the Dutch Korps Mariniers.  Underneath his British-made Kevlar vest lie the BDUs of a Dutch Marine with four low-visibility chevrons, denoting the rank of Sergeant-Majoor (OR-7).  His youthful face seems to contraindicate his high noncomissioned rank, but a closer look at his eyes reveal the experience of a middle-aged man.

---

Upon his relief at the starboard HMG, Thijs heads to the bridge to speak to Griet.  "Kapitein," he begins, "when you speak to these new people of what lies downriver, I suggest you have me present.  It may be useful to compare notes with them.  My own intel may be somewhat dated, but we -- or rather you and Hauptmann Bayer -- might be able to get a clearer picture of what lies ahead."

Once he has spoken to the tug's captain, Thijs goes to the mess to eat a meager meal and sit awhile.

Ken's shift had just ended. He's on his way to his quarters- a converted supply closet on the main hospital building's third floor- with a full bottle of hydrogen peroxide hidden under his third-or-fourth-hand Red Army winter-weight field jacket. He's doing a favor for a new friend, and an insanely risky favor considering the fact that he'd only known the woman for a few days. 'Friend' and 'known' are both overstatements, really. He's only spoken to her three or four times. Is it loneliness, boredom, petty rebellion, or just the unconscious evolutionary drive to get laid, Ken wonders. If he's being truly honest with himself, it's probably some of each. Ken doesn't know for sure what the penalty for stealing medical supplies is, but he can make a pretty good guess.

It had been a fairly quiet day at the office. Except for an unlucky patroller who'd lost his left leg below the knee to a landmine, he hadn't seen a combat casualty in over a week. Talk around town was that General Zolnerovich had come to some kind of arrangement with the local partisans- a winter ceasefire of sorts. Flu season was kicking off hard but there wasn't much to be done for the growing number of sufferers added daily to the division's sick rolls. There'd been a chastened drunk who'd stumbled and caught himself on the cooktop of a woodstove. The man wept tears of shame the entire time Ken applied the site-made salve and freshly laundered bandages to his scorched hands. Then there was the soldier would walked in with a long, deep slash up the inside of the his forearm. The young man claimed he'd cut himself climbing through a busted window, but Ken could read the wound- he knew it hadn't been caused by broken glass. It'd taken 18 stitches to close. The soldier might never be able to make a proper fist again; he was lucky that the major blood vessels to and from his hand hadn't been severed.

"Gilligan", Ken's Red Army assistant/minder, had already turned in. To Ken, he resembled a very young Bob Denver, hence the nickname. The Corpsman was teaching the teenager English, and Gilligan was helping Ken with his very rudimentary Russian. Between the two languages, both spoken badly, the two had formed something of an understanding, a bond even. During the first week in town, Gilligan had been ordered to lock Ken in the mop closet when the American was off duty. With the first snows of winter, the pretense of escape and attendant practice of close confinement had been dropped. Where was Ken going to go? It wasn't like there were a whole lot of Nissei-twice-removed residing in Poland amongst whom he could blend in. And Ken's Polish was worse than his Russian.

But for a single lantern at the currently unoccupied nurse's station, the hallway was dark. The generator was on- he could feel its vibrations through the walls- but, in order to save fuel, only the first and second floors, with their diagnostic machines and surgical bays, were connected at the moment. A dark shape turned the corner up ahead and walked briskly down the narrow corridor towards him.

Shit. This better be Yellena, Ken thought.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:02, Wed 17 June 2015.

Lizzie eyes the captain of the boat carefully as she makes her approach.  She's tall for a woman, maybe an inch or so taller than Kane, and thin in the way that has become common since food became something they all have had to think about more often.  Her face is open enough, she's broadcasting neither outright hostility or undue welcome.  All things that Lizzie would expect to see, and the American is cautious as well.  She takes the captain's hand willingly enough and shakes.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Captain Niewiadomska," Lizzie says.  It may not be the Pole's official rank, but she's the head of the boat, and Lizzie has been in the Navy long enough that she would address the head of a rowboat as Captain as a sign of respect.  Griet's boat, Griet's rules.  "I'm Lt Cdr Elizabeth Kane, US Navy.  Thank you for taking us aboard.  I am aware that it isn't easy for you to have NATO personnel with you underway and we will do our best to minimize any complication that it may cause.  This," she continues indicating Ana, "is Ana Kovac, my left hand."

The American listens carefully as the Captain lays out the rules.  Nothing seems out of line to her, there is nothing that she wouldn't be asking for if it was her vessel that was taking the risk of bringing on unknown passengers.  The offer to split the loot is actually more generous than she would have expected, but Polaris isn't here for loot so it doesn't really excite her all that much.  The prospect of a bunk room, however, is enough to "get her blood pumping," so to speak.  The wind out on the deck is shitty and cold.  Still, Lizzie watches carefully, searching for tells that Griet wants something for modifying the terms of their passage to a more beneficial state for Polaris without being prompted.  When she can't find any, she accepts that maybe, maybe, the Pole is simply being generous.

"First, let my express my gratitude about getting us in and out of the wind.  One forgets what it's like to be on the deck of a boat without the land to shelter you from the breeze."   Better to just be honest and express thanks when it's due.

"I have no complaints about your conditions," Lizzie says. "Maybe a clarification.  I accept that Hauptmann Bayer is in charge of combat operations and it is in all or our interests to coordinate any and all combat operations.  I would ask that we be subordinate to you and him, only, and not subject to the orders of his squad leaders.  We will function as third squad should the need arise."

"If you would like, Ana and I can share a little of what we know about what lies ahead of us, north, on the river."  Lizzie brings forward her computer and opens the lid, twisting it around so that the monitor lies flat on the surface.

Griet nodded at the clarification, "That is exactly what I meant, any orders to your people come through you via the Hauptmann. If you don't mind, one of my men has been this way before and I'd like him to listen in on any intel you have to share. That way we can co-ordinate anything you and he has and firm up any soft information you have."

She looked over at the shotgun that the big American was carrying, "Carrying longarms unloaded is OK for your assault rifles, they're easy to reload. That shotgun could be useful in boarding actions but would be a bitch to reload. If..." she paused trying to find a diplomatic term, "your comrade would feel easier, he can load it although I'd appreciate it if he kept it in the bunk room when not on deck."

"Looking at him, if he wants to take us out, the shotgun might just make it less painful for us than having him beat us to death." It wasn't a good joke, but humour was something that Griet only had a theoretical grasp of.

"Would it be easier to have the conference in the chart room so you can refer to my maps?"

"No, that's good, thanks." Bayer replies. Sutherland had caught him in mid-travels to hunt down where Van Lincklaen and Quyen had gone to after boarding the queen.

The Dutchman is the first of the two that he finds, "Keep that radio... the one you and Quyen had today. Hold on to it for now as personal gear." Bayer then moves on to Quyen with a fairly similar message. The communication situation earlier in the day wasn't a big deal, as the number of radios still provided lots of flexibility, but he wanted them issued just the same. "I'd like to get into the stores and draw a radio to keep on you. There's a short range tac set in there."

Once everything is securfed and the Queen is underway again, Robert will appraoch the new 'passengers' with some reluctance feeling that the Spec Ops community is a close-knot bunch and they don't mix well with others (his opinion) that haven't done what they have.  "In the case we get into some shit, I know we have some mags for the FN around," he says pointing to Scully.  "We have a little bit of PACT ammo and mags laying around too.  I also have some mags for your carbine too if it gets bad.  Just a heads up."

Tuck will see if there's a response, if not, he spins off and goes to help out with the new salvage and fashioning defenses for the tug.

Mariusz finished off moving the gear in the bunk room over to the one Jan had up to this point occupied on his own. He was a bit sulky about the move, the Czech snored like a buzz-saw and his farts were so smelly he should have been classified as a WMD.

Still, the newcomers couldn't be left out in the cold when the crew lay in sweltering luxury. That wouldn't be hospitable. He ran through the stores they had left before returning to the deck.

He sought out the big man with loads of guns, Scully he thought his name was, "You bunk room is ready, smelly but I haven't had enough time to valet it. There's only three bunks but you could get a sleeping bag on the floor. Once you're settled yell out for me. I'll escort however many people you want to the washroom. Leave any clothes you want washing in the laundry, I'm doing some tonight."

"It's not room service though," he said, "I'll expect a good look at your guns, those you're willing to show. I like guns. I'd also like someone to have a look at my G3 if you have the time an expertise, it's a nice piece of kit but needs tuning."

"I'd prefer to pool rations if you have any, it'll give us more variety and I may be a better cook than anyone here, maybe. I find that good cooking make the food go round better. If you want to cook your own rations though, I'll escort whoever you want to the galley and show them where things are."

"Aye aye, Ma'am" Scully nods as Kane walks away, his right index finger drifting upwards, touching the tip of his cap in what passed as a vague form of informal salute, a nod to Ana as well as she follows the Commander. "We'll do our best Miss Kovacs."

He's about to turn away,  take a walk round their small "camp" when he sees two figures approaching, not quite together, so instead gives a low whistle to attract Phillips' attention. "Company." He says as he watches two of them, his grey eyes shifting from one to the other. The kid he remembers from earlier, when he'd offered to help with the rucks, the other guy, the one wearing woodland BDU's, he'd seen ashore. Scully's expression isn't overtly hostile as they approach, but neither is he smiling. It's more a wary curiosity. His right hand isn't too far from his sidearm and there are two knives on his person, one overt, one not. They were on the boat now though, and whilst it may have been against his better judgement - as Kane well knew - they were probably going to have to make the best of it, at least until the next port call.

The guy in U.S. BDU's speaks first, his accent immediately indentifying him to Scully as a fellow countryman. The SEAL relaxes a little as it becomes obvious that the guy isn't looking for trouble, quite the opposite when he mentions ammunition. Scully nods, recognizing that the guy appears to be making a gesture. And after all, now that they were on this fucking thing it was in everyone's interests to play nice together if bad shit went down. Jerking each other around and having a dick measuring contest in the middle of a firefight wouldn't get anyone anywhere. "Thanks. We're good for ammo at the minute." There's a brief pause."I appreciate the offer though." He nods towards Phillips. "I don't know about the Sergeant."

The pause is a little longer this time. "I'm Scully." No first name is offered, no rank. His BDU jacket is obscured by his Polish parka, neither of which carry any rank insignia. He's roughly the same size as the other guy, maybe slightly taller, but not by much."Are you expecting trouble?"

As he talks to the American he'll turn to the kid who has also showed up, nods. "Thanks." He doesn't even try in Polish this time as the kid tells him that the cabin is ready, and that they can use the washroom. It's been some time since Scully last bathed, a fact that was probably self evident by the layer of grime and dirt on the few pieces of skin that were exposed to the elements, the smell of stale sweat.

"You're using a G3?" He asks when there's a break in his conversation with his countryman. It was the same type of weapon as he had slung over his shoulder, although his had an HK79 under barrel grenade launcher attached. Scully had long since passed the stage of feeling anything when he saw kids who looked barely old enough to shave carrying battle rifles, although the kid's obvious enthusiasm gnaws at him a little. The SEAL hoped that he didn't have the same enthusiasm for killing, for that wasn't something that he should be enjoying. He's tempted to say no, to shoot down the kid's apparent wet dream. Hearts and minds. "OK. I'll take a look at your rifle for you. I'll need to speak to my boss about the food though. OK?"

"Oh, and call me Scully."

Once everyone has said their piece the SEAL will start taking down their makeshift camp, begin to move everything to the cabin that they have been allocated.

"Nice to meet you, Scully," Mariusz said, "I'm Mariusz, most of the time I use an AK-74 with BG-1 but my pet project is the G3, she's got a scope and a HK-79. The gun was set up by a scout sniper called Yazzie. He was American so you probably know him. I'd like to start using the G3 when I can, it has a better feel."

He tapped the barrels of the Zoo-Two, "Guns are good, the bigger the better, they keep the enemy away. The G3 looks bad, just like yours, nobody screws with you. If I carry a gun like that maybe nobody screws with me. But, like you, a big gun is nothing if you can't use it. No one is going to screw with me again if I can defend myself, and no one will hurt the Queen if I can use the guns."

He shrugged, "They'll try, they always do, but we fight them off. Sometimes we even leave people better off. Sometimes."

He sneaked a look at Scully's G3, "We have two G3Ks in the armoury. I'll bring them up when I show you my gun. Maybe they'll be useful for parts for your weapons and we can arrange a trade."

As he spoke about the guns he reflexively rubbed his right arm exposing the series of random burns left there that looked about the size of a cigar butt. He stared away in the distance, if he'd had guns when the bastards killed his father maybe he could have saved him. He'd have definitely been able to save his mother. As for the Warlord's men, the guns wouldn't have stopped them, but the pistol at his hip would have made sure that the misery wouldn't have lasted as long.

It was indeed Jelena Tamm. The dark-haired woman dressed in her Soviet camo had been planning to desert for a couple of weeks now and prepare for her trip back to her native Estonia, hoping that something of that country had left.

Ken hadn't really known much about Estonia. Jelena had told him, in her accented and occasionally halting English, that it had once been an independent nation until taken over again by the USSR sixty years earlier.

She had put on her pack and seemed to be carrying her full combat load with her, AK-74 and all, everything except her helmet. She looked determined, slightly nervous and a little bit attractive.

Reaching the nurse's station, she stopped by him.

"It is time. Give me the peroxide so I can go", she said in English, her accent sounding almost Nordic.

When he noticed the rifle, Ken's heart sank. He thought he'd been pinched for sure. The wielder's figure, however, even under layers of Red Army-issue winter clothing, hinted strongly at femininity. As the individual draws nearer the light of the lantern, a wave of relief washes over Ken. A few steps later and they're standing face-to-face, less than a meter apart. Shaking his head, he slips the bottle out from under his arm and hands it to the woman, "You really scared the shit out of me. Wait, where are you going?"

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:06, Wed 17 June 2015.

Once he was back on board the Queen, and didn't have anything immediate to do, Jan took the opportunity to indulge one of his two main vices and savoured one of his dwindling supply of cigarettes.  As he puffed away up on deck he had that familiar desire for an espresso to sip at the same time so that he could indulge both vices at the same time.  Coffee with a cigarette would be a true sign that they had managed to restore civilisation.  It was good to have an objective in life.

Tapping off some ash he wondered whether any of the new Americans were smokers and desperate for a fix.  As was traditional on the Queen he would share his cigarette with them and let them have a couple of drags.  It was also just a question of time before Minh and Tuck joined him with their own ever decreasing supplies of tobacco.

Anders put himself to work on the new gunshields right after they got back aboard. The peculiar naval officer (he was clearly not from any of the Nato-aligned fleet, but his accent didn't place him as an Eastern European either. The white flag with a blue cross revealed his nationality perhaps, but even the flag did not tell most people where he was from. If talked to, he replied in short sentences of heavily accented English.

Ana follows Lizzie's lead, offering Captain Niewiadomska her hand in turn.  "Ana Kovac.  U.S. State Department."  She doesn't elaborate.  If the Pole doesn't know about America's current constitutional crisis, details will only be problematic.  If she does know enough to wonder why Ana's traveling with a Navy team, she can damn well ask.

She stands silently while Lizzie handles the negotiations, taking the opportunity to appraise the rest of the crew.  At the mention of unrationed hot water, she holds herself to the lift of an eyebrow, though inside: Hot damn!  Hygiene!  The thought makes her aware of knots in her back that have been unnoticed parts of her general low-level misery for months.

After the fourth or fifth tickle of mutual half-recognition with the bearded metalworker, she gives up and waits for an appropriate break in the conversation.  "Hey, Lizzie, have we met that Finn before?"

"Maybe," Lizzie says.  "He's scoping us like we owe him money."  There is something familiar about the man, other than that unique "Finnish" character.  Familiar enough that it is worth looking into.  But then again, outside of a sauna, one Finn can blend into another.

"Why don't you go say hi and figure out which of our sordid pasts he's crawling out of."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:27, Thu 18 June 2015.

"Tucker.  Most everyone calls me Tuck though.  Let me know what you got and I'll see if we have anything compatible if we need it and can spare it," Robert says to the fellow American extending his hand in greeting.

He snickers at Scully's question and says to him before turning and moving away to continue his smoke with Jan and Minh, "We've come to always expect trouble Scully.  Luck, for the most part, has been on our side.  Like you I'm sure, we've all lost people, good people.  We've had to deal with some fucked up shit and people since we left Krakow.  Excuse some of our apprehension towards your team but, some of the Spec Ops people we've dealt with almost got the lot of us killed one way or another.  Some FUBAR'd mission for the good of the United States, CIA, DIA, or whoever thought they had the biggest set of balls.  This is still a war.  Maybe not how it started but, still a war nonetheless.  mOre of a war of survival than anything lately.

I'm sure we'll bump into each other again.  Hope your accommodations are a little cozier inside than on the deck."

"Out of here", Jelena said as she took the bottle and placed it inside a tunic pocket, "I will not tell you where. That way they cannot torture it out".

She turned to walk away and then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you", she finished and then started to look for the fire escape.

Torture? Ken's completely taken aback by the exchange. For a second, he's torn, tempted to follow the woman, leave Grudziaz, and head... where? The half-formed idea passes beyond the event horizon without reaching escape velocity. Ken watches Yelena turn the corner, his feet stuck to the floor. "Good luck," he whispers, "...you're on your own."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:18, Thu 18 June 2015.

Night falls, the tug swaying gently at anchor about 5km upriver from Grudziaz, most of the city lights slowly blinking out in ones and twos as the hours pass, until Grudziaz is a dark, jagged hump, pricked through by a few glimmering dots, a black mass against the dark sky.

The new arrivals gratefully settle into their new berth below decks. Steam pipes running the length of the ceiling warm the tiny room. Body heat adds to the effect. They run their own watch schedule, two up and two down. One in the narrow hallway just outside the cabin and the other just outside the nearest hatch to the main deck.

Working diligently during the previous day, Craig and Tucker finished reroofing the Krolowa's quarterdeck with the corrugated metal sheets, making the rudimentary shelter completely waterproof. They don't have the technical know-how or skill to fashion a peaked roof, but they do know enough to cant its flat surface slightly aft to make sure that rain and snow can drain properly. Concurrently, Anders used the tug's welding equipment to fashion a sturdy gun shield for the aft Dishka HMG out of two barge hatches and some of the leftover steel pipe. The improvised armor protection turns out to be very heavy, though, and the standard anti-aircraft tripod mount probably won't stand up to the job of carrying it for very long. It'll have to be reinforced or, better yet, a fixed mount will need to crafted- a couple of meters of the remaining heavy steel tubing will probably suffice- and the pintle fixture form the AAA mount transplanted in order to properly mount the gun (this will likely take at least a couple more hours to complete).

The night passes slowly. The city looms like a watching giant in the middle distance. It's not often that you've arrived at an occupied settlement of this size and not been immediately approached by people asking for help, making demands, or attacking without provocation. It's hard to rest well with the uncertainty of the situation; its particularly nervy for those on watch. What will the morning bring?

Dawn breaks slowly, as if the late autumn sun is reluctant to shine its cold light on the new day. The deep blue, early morning sky is mostly clear and the barometer markedly higher than the day before. Although it's still bone-achingly cold on deck, the threats of sleet and snow of the past couple of days may prove to be empty. Tendrils of grey smoke begin to rise from the city as hearth fires are stoked, and breakfast put on to simmer.

The tug is still partially crippled, one screw no longer functional, cutting the tug's speed and maneuverability by more than half. If Gryzyech's knowledge of the area is accurate, Grudziaz is the most likely place to remedy that. Circumventing the city on one screw, if opposed, will likely prove suicidal. In addition, the tug is desperately short of provisions. At best, two day's worth of food remains. Putting in at a Soviet-controlled settlement is hardly anybody's idea of a wise decision, but what choice do you really have?

A new day rises. Grudziaz awaits.


Your Move.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:17, Thu 18 June 2015.

Griet smoothed out the charts of the river from Grudziaz north and then cupped the mug of weak nettle tea she had poured from the battered brass samovar, "Help yourself," she pointed to the bubbling heater, "it's little more than hot water but it helps with the chill."

"If you have any intel about what we are likely to encounter on our way north then now is the time to tell us. Once we've heard that we'll discuss what we do in Grudziaz. I'm thinking that we should go in under our Free City of Krakow flag, I have paperwork that legitimises us as a free trader but as Krakow effectively defected from Communist control it may not be advisable, I'm willing to take advice on that. When we get into the city I'd like to have at least two groups out. Mariusz needs to be in one as he knows what food and domestic material to buy. The second group will need to try and find the spare part we need for the engine and any ammo we can scrape up."

She dropped a note pad on the table, "These are the items we have to trade, also we have several hundred gold bullets, each about thirty-nine grams. I'd prefer to trade gold if we can, the other gear is better to trade out in the wild."

"Any ideas and comments would be most welcome."

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Look at the Hold and see what we have spare. Assume you can discuss any of teh items as potential for trade except electronics and medical goods.

---

Robert will rise the next morning from a fairly decent nights sleep and change into a set of civilian style clothes and put his woodland camos on the side to be washed for another days wear.  He washes up and puts on his shoulder rig that holds his Colt Python, finishes dressing for the weather and then heads up on deck with his M-14 slung over his shoulder.  He heads up to the deck to see who's up and about as he takes in the morning air.

"Do we send patrol on foot first for meet outer sentry posts and see what situation is?  Scout before we take Queen there?  Might find signs saying if merchant welcome in city."

He then glanced at the new arrivals and at Thijs.  "What is intel you know on city?" he asked.  "Even old intel."

Craig rose from his bunk early as was his custom and after retrieving a cup of hot water he relieves the sentry on the quarter deck and spends a long time watching the small town laid out before them. When the original relief comes to take over the watch he retreats to his cabin and after finding some civilian clothes he showers and dresses.

Once suitably attired he makes his way to the galley for breakfast and to hear the plan.

"Of the city itself," Thijs replies, "I know very little.  When I passed by there some time ago, there was a pontoon bridge across the river, run by PACT troops.  That is one of the few, if any, bridges remaining between here and the Sea."

With a shrug of his shoulders, Thijs shifts emphasis from Grudziaz to the river north of the town. "There are few settlements of significance north of Grudziaz.  Nowe, the first, has a small way station, similar to what the Americans call a truck stop.  There was no military presence there, nor was there at Gniew.  The last settlement along the river is Tczew, which is a Polish cantonment Headquarters. There is a footbridge there, as well as a cable stretched across the river, intended to control traffic.

"East of Tczew, some distance away from the Vistula, but on the Nogat, Malbork is Soviet Baltic Front HQ. There was a cantonment there, mostly Poles but Russians too. There's an airstrip there and reports of functional aircraft present.

"Lastly, there were a couple of large units of anti-PACT partisans on the west bank.  Where they are now, I have no idea."

Then:

"With that fuzz, I'm thinking he's more your type," Ana murmurs, but she also parses Lizzie's subtext: I'm feeling safe enough to peel off my security detail, so go gather intel.  Maybe it's the offer of a hot bath and a loaded shotgun, but Ana's inclined to buy in as well, so she makes her way aft.  When she's just outside conversational distance, the face finally resolves for her.  "Well, well.  Ensign Mattson, wasn't it?"  She grins.  "It took me a while.  The beard makes you look older."

---

Now:

Ana wanders onto the main deck, reveling in the simple pleasure of clothes that didn't go crunch when she put them on.  Spooning up a mouthful of MRE applesauce with a week-old crust of black bread, she looks around and raises her eyebrows as she spots the boat's American NCO and his shoulder holster.  She wanders over and leans on the rail next to him.  "Sergeant Tucker.  That's a serious Miami Vice rig but I have to say I admire your decision to haul around a wheelgun.  Major style points there."  The worn butt of her own Smith & Wesson K-frame is visible at her hip.

In the morning light - and without the Ray-Bans she was wearing the previous afternoon - a couple of old surgical scars are faintly visible around her battered  cheekbones.  Her nose clearly has been broken and re-set at least once.  The sun washes her eyes a pale green as she scrutinizes Grudziaz for signs of activity.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:15, Fri 19 June 2015.

In reply to Thijs van Lincklaen (msg # 156):

"This is very interesting," he replied to Thijs.  "How long before did you travel by these places?"

Anders studied the face of the American woman. She looked familiar enough - Anders was better at remembering faces than names, so her name slipped him. Then again, the flashback placed her aboard FNS Karjala during his conscript service, where he had been on watch during a visit by some U.S.Navy officers and diplomats. "It was Reserve Officer Candidate then, now Senior Lieutanant, ma'am", he replied in heavily accented English. Unlike the other Nordic languages, Finnish was completely unlike the rest and though Anders spoke both Finnish and Swedish as native languages, he sounded pretty peculiar. "I am sorry, but I can't combine a name to your face." Even if he was a.bit shabby looking in a naval wooly with only one epaulette (two broad gold bands on both sides of a narrow one), he seemed a perfect gentleman, not to mention a proper naval officer.

---

After a sleep interupted by a deck watch during the night, Anders returned to working with building the new mount for the heavy machinegun. The new shield would attach to the mount itself, so it would not make working the gun any more difficult. Combined with the sandbags along the railings, the gunner would be well protected from fire coming at him.

Jelena found the fire escape, un-shouldered her AK-74 and started to rapidly walk down the steps. She didn't want to shoot anyone, but she would if she had to.

Reaching the doors, she pushed them open, took a quick glance left and right to see if anyone was around. If the path was clear, she'd start heading for the river, hoping to find a boat.

That and somewhere she could apply the peroxide to bleach her hair.

"They must have food," Lizzie says by way of greeting to the Captain.  She reaches out a mug of hot water and points at the smoke coming up in discrete columns in the way the wood being consumed as fuel climbs into the sky, not in the dull smudge the signifies atrocity. "Something is getting cooked for breakfast on all that wood."  The prospect of real food makes the agent's stomach rumble in a sound familiar to everyone.  MREs crossed the line from food to fuel many years ago, declared victory over Lizzie's digestive system, and have burned her tastebuds nearly silent.  Or maybe it was just all the tabasco needed to render them edible.

Instead of the faded BDUs she had on yesterday, Lizzie has exchanged them for a pair of insulated denim jeans and the same black sweatshirt.  "If the plan is to go ashore, we can certainly help," she tells Griet. "I'm told my Polish sounds Russian, and my Russian is quite good.  Not as good as Ana's, but we can handle some recon if you need it.  I'll take Phillips, his Polish should be sound.  Mariusz would be good, too.  His charm is both distracting and endearing."

Lizzie takes another drink of the water, grateful to feel heat in her hands an in her stomach.   Almost as grateful as she felt taking the shower last night.  The first real limitless shower she'd had in years.  Literal years.  Her skin was pink now in places she couldn't remember seeing clean.  As far as indulgences went, it used to seem minor.  Now, it seemed like something they all needed, and would have to pay for, one way or another.  The warmth made the contrast with the wind almost pleasurable, something that could be experienced and retreated from, not an implacable wall.

"I had Mariusz wash an old overcoat we found in our bunk.  Smelled like rat shit, probably had some on it, but it might fit Scully.  I can bring him with for the strong silent type, or I can leave him here with you to coordinate our actions.  Might be safer, and he makes for a really good cavalry should everything go to Hell." 

"Of course, if you would rather send out your own recon or shore party, I'd be happy to stay at home or go along.  But this is what we do."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:00, Fri 19 June 2015.

"If you want to head in on your own," Griet said to Lizze, "you're welcome to but I would really appreciate you riding shotgun on Mariusz, it give me more to deploy searching for parts. I'll issue you some trade goods and an amount of the gold we have. If you can, I'd also like to try for some cargo we can trade up north, it's bulkier than gold but we're more likely to be able to trade with it. Food would be best but I doubt they have quantities spare."

"We can haul up to four tonnes of goods but I'd prefer smaller and more valuable as it won't clutter us up."

Scully takes a sip of tea from a battered and chipped mug which he holds in both hands, grins wrly as he hears the Commander's stomach rumble. The Navy SEAL is wearing a fresh set of woodland camo BDU's taken from his ruck, though the jacket has been replaced with a heavy black pullover fleece. Seeing no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, the ones he had worn yesterday had been deposited with Mariusz for laundry. He'd taken the opportunity to shower as well, spent nearly twenty five minutes under the hot water, cleaned himself from head to toe, had even shaved.  With two of the group on guard at any given time they'd been able to simply hot bunk, so he feels refreshed, having slept reasonably well.

He's wearing his assault vest and kevlar armor over his fleece, not because he particularly feels under threat at the moment but simply because he has been wearing them for so long that it has become second nature, and he would feel naked without them, although he's again chosen to eschew his helmet, attached it to his LBE instead, its place taken by his omnipresent Steelers cap. His G3 is slung over his right shoulder. Unloaded, as per the Commander's instruction. His sidearm sits snugly in its holster, fully loaded. He'd loaded up his Mossberg last night, after they'd been shown to their cabin. He'd also stripped and thoroughly cleaned each of his weapons in turn last night, taking care of them before he'd washed himself.

The SEAL is leaning against the cabin wall, his posture casual, relaxed, his arms folded, as he looks around at those gathered. The mention of gold bullets causes him to roll his eyes, a reminder that the vessel that he's on is crewed by mercs, but he makes no verbal comment. He's actually said very little so far, but it would be a mistake to interpret his silence as a sign that he was just a grunt, on the Polaris team merely to kill people and do the heavy lifting. He wouldn't be there if that was the case. It's the first time he's met the tug's Captain, so it's her that gets most of the attention as he listens to the exchange between her and the Commander. He's not giving her the eye in that sense, it's more that he's trying to get a first impression of her.

He shrugs his shoulders when his own role is mentioned. "I've got a Polish Army parka in my ruck." - he had been wearing the pantera camo parka yesterday -"If you've got a pair of camo pants you can loan me. My Polish is shit though, so I'd have to keep my mouth shut. I wont last five seconds in a conversation with a Pole." Kane knew that of course, hence her reference to the strong, silent type. This was more for the tug Captain's benefit.

His head turns towards the Commander. "Might be better if I stayed here Ma'am. Probably less risk of things going south ashore." In other words, if I go ashore the chances of everyone else's cover being blown increase exponentially. It meant splitting their team, but he didn't want to put the others at risk. And besides, Phillips could keep an eye on the ladies. Not that they needed watching over of course.

He shifts his attention towards Niewiadomska. "If that's OK with you Captain?" Like Kane, he addresses the tug's Master in accordance with Naval tradition. It was the right thing to do.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:23, Fri 19 June 2015.

"Who is going on recon?" Jan asked Griet and Konrad.  "Do you wish me for go?"

He then glanced at Lizzie and Mark.  "I have clothes I borrow to you that not look American if you go.  Polish, Russian, Czech, Swiss.  I make you look mercenary like us."  The last was said with a grin.  "Many soldiers now wear mix uniforms.  Camo pattern not mean soldier wearing jacket from that Army."

Currently Jan was dressed in Brithish Army issue thermal fatigues with Pact issue webbing and a NATO issue drop leg holster on his right thigh.

Scully turns towards the guy in mostly Brit uniform that talked wierd. He remembered Konrad had indicated that this guy and Tucker were his sub team commanders, but couldn't remember the dude's name.

Even if the SEAL stayed aboard the tug there was a possibility it might be boarded for whatever reason while it was tied up alongside. And whilst the guy's logic could be applied in reverse to mean that just because Scully was wearing U.S. BDU's that didn't automatically make him American, if the guy was offering it wouldn't do any harm to look like he was from somewhere else, although he can't help but chuckle wryly at the comment about looking like a mercenary.

So after a second or so he nods. The guy looked to be around the same size as him, maybe an inch or so shorter, close enough that it shouldn't make any difference. "Ok, that would work." The tall American nods. "Thanks." Then, after a noticeable pause, he extends his right hand. "I'm Scully." No first name, no rank, just Scully.

Tucker turns to the voice behind him to see which one of the new girls it is.  "Miss Kovac," he says nonchalantly to her as he goes back looking at the river and what lies ahead.  "I would say more Dirty Harry than Miami Vice ma'am but, it does get the job done."  He leans on the railing near her and certainly not getting too close but, close enough to have a casual conversation.  "Problem I've seen a lot since they went to these high-cap auto loaders and movies, kids want to shoot fast and spray and pray a target rather than delivering more precise, accurate fire with less rounds.  I like my original Belgium Browning hi-power for combat missions or the Mark-23 I picked up ff one of our fucked up crew members that almost killed us.  Some guns just feel right.  Revolvers don't jam either.  Makes you concentrate on shooting.

How come you carry a wheel gun?  Practical?  No choice?  Ammo availability?  Easy to shoot?"

In reply to Thijs van Lincklaen (msg # 156):

"Any chance of getting in touch with some of these anti Pact people?   Maybe our best bet could be our new shipmates having best chances getting something foing, if we can find them. "

"Very good," Griet said, "so there'll be two groups. The Lieutenant Commander and the members of her team that she wants to take as well as Jan and Mariusz. You'll focus on getting food, wood and any cargo that's available. I am aiming for a minimum of a week's rations for everyone on board. If you see anything else that we could use, get it, if you double up on something the other team gets we can always trade it later if we decide we don't need it. There are two hundred and ninety nine gold bullets left on board if you need to promise more, radio in to confirm."

"That isn't to clear permission to spend it, just to make sure the other team hasn't spent it already."

"The Parts team will be led by Hauptmann Bayer and be made up of the rest of our team going ashore. Their utmost priority is the part we need to keep the Queen going, anything else is a bonus. I doubt you'll be able to get much for our heavy weapons but if you can, I'll be really happy."

"Also, try to get a feel for what's further up the river, if you need to spend some of the gold on drink to do that, do it but I expect professionalism. The same goes for food, get something to eat if you can."

"Are there any questions?"

The Krolowa weighs anchor and begins to drift, under power, towards Grudziaz. Like most large settlements along the river, the outskirts of the city look to be largely abandoned. They likely bore the brunt of the fighting that obviously occurred here, and the badly damaged buildings at the edges of the city have been razed or cannibalized to repair buildings nearer the city center. As the tug creeps closer to the heart of Grudziaz, many of the buildings at the riverside also show signs of battle damage. Shell holes, some the size of a dinner plate, others large enough to drive a lorry through, perforate many of the structures with a view of the river. Some buildings appear poxed from the hundreds of bullet strikes that mar their facades, others are missing entire floors. Still, signs of life abound. It's still fairly early on a cold, late autumn day, but a few civilians are already out and about along the riverside. A rag-and-bone man loudly plies his trade, a dog pulling a small cart full of his wares. A gaggle of children bundled up against the cold kick a partially-inflated soccer ball down a cobblestone street. A particularly optimistic old man prepares a rod and line. Life goes on.

As the tug comes around a slight bend in the river, the rusty remains of a truss bridge stretch from bank to bank up ahead. Airstrikes and/or demolition charges dropped it years ago, and it's never been repaired. Instead, a pontoon bridge spans the river just upriver of the mangled, partially sunken trusses. There's a gap in the pontoons, presumably for security purposes but perhaps to allow river traffic to pass through as well. The missing segment is behind its nearest neighbor on the right (east), ready to be pushed into place to complete the span. The current gap in the pontoon bridge is aligned with a missing truss creating a clear lane about 100m wide through the man-made obstacles. On the east bank, overlooking the pontoon bridge, is the familiar insectoid profile of a ZU-23-2 AAA gun. Somewhat oddly, in your experience, the brown and grey-clad troops on the bank near the pontoon bridge don't seem alarmed by the approach of a large, heavily-armed vessel (no one thought or acted to cover the Vasilek and/or ZU so they are clearly visible from the shore). The Red Army solders mill about and gawk but, to your great relief, no heavy weapons are pointed directly at the tug. Perhaps the tug's snail-like speed indicates a lack of aggressive intent. A soldier bearing traffic control paddles jogs out from the east bank to the gap in the pontoons and starts signaling to the approaching tugboat. She (as you get closer, you can tell that the signaler is a woman) points with a paddle downriver and towards the east bank. It appears as though she wants the Krolowa to put in somewhere on the downriver side of the bridges. Through his binoculars, Walter spots the docking facilities, accessed through a cut in the east bank about 450m past the bridges. He points them out to Griet and the tricky process of docking the severely underpowered tug begins.

Struggling to steer and mitigate against the current at less than half-power and on only one screw, Griet nearly crashes bow-on into the reinforced concrete buttress on the starboard (her right) of the entryway. [rolled 20]. Fortunately, at the last second Walter is able to wrestle the wheel over hard enough to effect a glancing blow instead, tearing off some of the few remaining tires* that serve as bumpers along the starboard bow, but avoiding serious damage to the tug's hull [rolled 3]. Drenched in sweat from the exertion and the near disaster, Walter and Griet finally bring the Krolowa in snug against the sheltered pier and deckhand Luboslaw leaps ashore to tie her off.

The partially enclosed dock is already home to three other vessels, a fishing boat about a third smaller than the Krolowa, a water taxi, and another river tug. This latter vessel is not a twin to the Krolowa; it's slightly smaller and looks significantly older, though it's not entirely decrepit. Based on the previous vessels that you examined at Swiecie (the derelict barges and cannibalized motor launches), these three seem to have been in use up until quite recently; perhaps they're still in use. The place smells like fish and bilge water.

The harbor master, a goateed, tiny-eyed, middle-aged man with a long halo of gray hair protruding from beneath his black watch cap, appears, accompanied by a girl- presumably his daughter- of about Mariusz's age. The man, who gives his name as Jurgen, is not particularly surprised by your arrival, until he learns that you've come from upriver.

"Krakow? That's a first! We get traffic down from the coast, but not much coming from the other direction. I'll bet you've seen some pretty crazy shit along the way."

He makes a little more small talk, while his daughter flirts a bit with Mariusz. In his official capacity, Jurgen comes aboard the tug and performs a cursory inspection. "Don't worry- it's purely routine. I've just got to make sure that you're not carrying any hazardous materials." He looks around, making little tallies on his clipboard. "A ton of guns and no cargo: 'merchants', you said?" he asks, knowingly. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, long as you can afford the docking fee and you don't go causing trouble, you're welcome to stay here. The Russians might have some questions, though, when they see this." he continues, holding up the clipboard and twisting it sharply from side to side. His meaning is clear. A single golden bullet and, with a few additional pencil strokes, "all of the paperwork is in order". Jurgen explains that firearms aren't allowed in the city; even the occupying Red Army soldiers have to keep their guns unloaded within the city limits.

Dressed in civilian garb and non-NATO uniform odds and ends, two shore parties assemble on deck. One is tasked with finding the much-needed spare parts for the Krolowa, the other with securing provisions for the crew and dry goods for trade downriver.

Jurgen points you in the general direction of the business district, located, like most towns in Poland, centrally in and around the town square. "The marketplace won't be open quite yet, but the weather's good today so give it about an hour. A couple of indoor shops and cafes might be open already, though. Good luck with your business and stay out of trouble."

The two groups head towards the market square down narrow streets, most of them quaintly cobbled, of the old town. The terrain slopes gently upward away from the river, most of the city built on a low rise, safely removed from the floodplain. The buildings here are fairly old, some dating back to the 16th and 17th centuries, and most of them have seen better days. The further from the river you travel, the less battle damage you notice. Attempts have been made, some cruder than others, to repair the wounds caused by past bouts of fighting.

After covering about a half-kilometer, you meet your first Red Army troops. A couple of Soviet soldiers, rifles slung, walk past you headed in the other direction. Their stares are not openly hostile, but they're not at all friendly either. As you glance back at them, you notice that no magazines are currently seated in their Kalashnikovs. You round a corner and continue on your way. A few minutes later, you glance back again and see that seven or eight soldiers are walking in the same direction as you, about 15m behind your party, steadily closing the distance. They too are carrying their rifles slung, although from this angle, you can't really tell if these are loaded are not. The two you saw earlier might by among them but since they're all more or less dressed the same, it's hard to be sure. As you continue on your way, one of the soldiers shouts out (in Russian), "Hey! You! Hold up!" This is repeated two seconds later by a second shout, this time in Polish (the message, however, is the same). Something about this lot tells you that they're not here to give you a welcome basket.

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...w8YU&usp=sharing

*The tug is short of tires, many having been shot to pieces or torn off since Krakow. You might want to add some to your shopping lists.


Your Move.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:31, Sat 20 June 2015.

Griet smiled when Jurgen mentioned a lack of cargo. As she hand him the gold bullet as docking fees she said, "Our last cargo was sold in Torun for gold, I'd have rather goods but the local commander made me an offer I couldn't refuse. We're looking to buy cargo with the gold here though, if you have any ideas on what we might find I'd be very grateful."

he patted the good vodka that the castellan had given them, "If you'd like to discuss any ideas you have more when you get off duty, please feel free to drop in for a drink or two."

Mariusz looked back to see the Russians on their way toward them. He turned to Bayer and was glad they hadn't split up yet, "My Russian's OK, do you want me to try and talk to them or can someone else do it better?"

He kept his voice low so as not to let the English carry.

Bayer nods. The boy was his usual envoy, so even with the odd circumstance it seemed the natural course. "Don't get us shot." he says with a quick glance... before turning to Tucker, "Smoke break."

Mariusz stepped forward smiling, after years of studying the language he knew that his Russian was good, almost up to the standard of an average native speaker and whilst Russians outside of Russia had a casual superiority over others, they tended to react a little better to those who could speak their language competently.

Mariusz forced down the niggle of worry, tended to wasn't a cast iron certainty.

He assumed that the band was going to try and shake them down for cash or goods if not outright rob them and he intended to try and head that off at the pass without any violence, "Good morning," he said brightly, "this place is much better off than anywhere else we've visited and I'd like to thank you for playing your part in that. Without you and your comrades who fought to protect us we'd be under the capitalist yoke again. Mind you, a little enterprise doesn't do any harm and that's what we're undertaking here."

He looked around, "Hopefully we'll be able to make some trades that leave both of our communities better off and I was wondering if you'd like to help us in that task. If you don't mind, would it be possible for you all to join us for a late breakfast or a drink in the nearest tavern? We would like to talk with someone about the city before we let the merchants gouge us with their prices. A little research into what is available and the usual costs might save us resources in the long run. I know such information won't come cheap and I assure you that we are generous when showing our appreciation. So what do you say, would you like to join us and see what we have to offer in exchange for your expertise or do you have something else that we can help you with?"

Even if they didn't take hi up on the offer which could be beneficial to both sides, Mariusz hoped that his approach would at least soften the blow of whatever the Russians wanted.
This message was last edited by the player at 07:07, Sun 21 June 2015.

Yesterday:

Ana tilts her head and her brows crease slightly in concentration as she parses Anders' accent.  Her smattering of Norwegian is as much help as hindrance but she limps through it, then smiles.  "Congratulatons on the series of promotions, then," she says.  "Ana Kovac.  U.S. State Department then and now.  I was more or less at the back of the delegation."  And didn't get much introduction because I was the hired help, she grumbles internally, remembering that particular ambassador.

---

This morning:

Ana grins at Tuck.  "Ammo for a .357 is a bitch this far east, as I'm sure you know.  I cleaned out the armory of every last round when we started this op.  But I'm saving my brass when I can."  She shrugs.  "It's what I originally trained on and it'll punch through that shitty Soviet soft armor better than any nine-mil I've seen.  And I don't have to worry about the slide getting shoved out of battery when I take a contact shot."

She extends a hand.  "Call me Ana.  You got a first name other than 'Sergeant,' Sergeant Tucker?"

---

Now:

The first pass with the soldiers leaves Ana tense with the feeling of unresolved business.  It's not much of a relief when the hail comes a few minutes later, but it does bring a sense of resolution.  She's too experienced to flinch or look to Lizzie for instruction.  Instead, she makes a cautious half-turn to bring the patrol fully into view, mimicking the demeanor of the civilian women she's been observing in the streets.  She keeps her ungloved hands in her jacket's pockets.

Despite her tension, she suppresses a chuckle at Mariusz' friendly-puppy style of diplomacy while watching the men's reactions.  It just may work.  And if it doesn't, she has options other than guns.  Her hands are curled around two of them.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:57, Sun 21 June 2015.

Having successfully bleached her hair, Jelena Tamm proceeded to remove any Soviet insignia from her uniform. Her red tabs went into a bin and she used her knife to remove the patches from her BDUs.

After making her way to the marketplace to grab a quick bite to eat, she started to make her way down the desolate, uncared for street towards the marina, where she could hopefully find a boat that was still working.

Hopefully none of the Soviet troops would recognise her. Even so, she kept her head down, literally and metaphorically.

Scully is still on the bridge. He's still wearing his worn black fleece, but it's paired now with a pair of Soviet woodland camo trousers borrowed from Cerny and his own black wool cap, the intent being to turn him into what he hopes is a fair approximation of a Polish deckhand. So long as he doesn't have to speak to someone. He might be able to wing it with a Russian, but he knows he has no chance of bluffing a native Polish speaker. That was the reason why, with Lizzie Kane's blessing, he's opted to stay aboard the tug.

In an effort to enhance his disguise, such as it is, he's removed his body armor and assault vest, stashed them both in a closet on the bridge, together with his rifle, although he's retained his sidearm and there's also the small matter of the folding knife nestled in the pocket of his borrowed pants. The one thing that probably would be out of place on a Polish crewman is the tac radio which is clipped to his rigger belt, mostly concealed by his fleece, the earpiece in, monitoring the frequency that the shore parties are using.

The SEAL had felt a pang of unease when he'd watched the others go ashore, even although he knew that they could look after themselves without him. After all, it's not like he'd spent the last twelve months attached to Lizzie Kane at the hip. They've split up many times when the mission has called for it. But it still makes him anxious.

After both shore parties have cleared the gangway and disappeared into the town, he turns to Niewiadomska. "I know you told the Commander you wanted me to keep my shotgun below decks, but do you have a problem if I go below and get it? I'd rather keep it close by while we're in port. If the shit does hit the fan and we need it we'll probably need it in a hurry." He shrugs. So far they hadn't seen any obvious signs of trouble, but that could change at any time, and if things did go south he'd rather have the Mossberg close at hand. Just in case it happens quickly.

Frank follow Bayer outside for one request he doesn't think that the Hauptman has asked him for before.  Tucker walks out and pulls out a cigar from one of his pockets and unwraps it ready to hand it to Bayer,

Craig stops with others and looks out over the river as the Mariusz speaks to the Russians. He rubs his hands and blows on them, more to get them out of his pockets and hopefully ease the situation somewhat.

As they waited Craig took the opportunity to get a look at their surrounds and to partially occupy himself and stop him looking towards the Russian group.

When Scully asked about the shotgun, Griet nodded, "The restriction was meant to be when you are off guard. On duty like this feel free to carry it around. The same goes for your long arm. On duty, I would prefer you to be loaded."

She watched the world go by and hoped that everything was going well for the sore parties. She settled in for the long haul and then said to Scully, "So, what's Scully's story? Let's hear the bits that won't compromise security."

Lizzie watches as the Russians approach noting their body language and trying to gauge their intentions.  It could be curiosity, it could be menace.  In either case, the naval officer is not loving the idea of standing in the open without her sidearm.  The effort involved in loading an AK is minuscule should the Russians even need to go that far before inflicting violence and the other party isn't broadcasting companionship.

"I feel like the only girl at the dance without a date," she says to Ana in surprisingly good Polish.  She knows that Ana has the armed thing covered.  For a member of the diplomatic corps, the other woman is walking arsenal of physical violence.  And Lizzie wouldn't have it any other way.

Instead of trying to provoke an action, Lizzie stands off angle to Ana, covering the other side of their party, ensuring that she can overhear what Mariusz is saying in his friendly banter.  But where Ana mimics the women around them, Lizzie stands a bit taller.  A bit more of the alpha radiating from her demeanor.  Should Mariusz need it, she is ready to intervene with words.

They city may not be actively taking a role in the hostilities that are still in their death spasms around it, but that doesn't mean that the NATO soldiers in their group won't be treated to ill will or violence should they be identified.  Lizzie's Russian is good, her accent educated and of the political class, like the defector who taught it to her at the senior Kane's "request."

Following the clarification about the loading of weapons, Scully had excused himself from the bridge for a few minutes, made his way back down to the cabin and retrieved the Mossberg. As it lacked a sling, he's now holding it, his left hand under the barrel, the sawed off stock resting against his thigh, making sure that it's pointed well away from Niewiadomska, the barrel aimed at the ceiling. It's fully loaded, as is the G3 which still nestles out of sight in a closet with the rest of his gear, though he's removed a magazine from his assault vest, slipped it into the cargo pocket of his Soviet pants. Just in case.

He offers a wry grin when the Polish woman asks his story. He supposes everyone has a story of sorts these days. "Not much to tell, Skipper. I grew up in a steel town in Pennsylvania, just outside Pittsburgh, joined the Navy more or less straight from school." The tall American shrugs. "My father and grandfather both spent their whole lives working in the steel mills, but by the time that I left school the economy wasn't doing so good, it was getting harder to get work. I guess that was the same all over.  I did my first three years in the Atlantic Fleet aboard the USS Arkansas, was a Boatswain's Mate. I don't know what the entails in Poland. In our Navy a Boatswain's Mate looks after pretty much everything that happens on deck. General maintenance, running damage control parties, stuff like that. I've done my fair share of time as a helmsman and I'm rated as a coxswain on inflatables."

"I applied for the SEAL's in '87. You've heard of the SEAL's yeah? Sea Air Land Teams." There's another shrug of his shoulders. "Scuttlebutt is U.S. Special Forces aren't too popular on this ship." He pauses a moment. Up until now he's been talking relatively freely, one sailor to another, and talking to her has taken his mind away from worrying about the shore party. Clearly though he's about to slip into the more sanitized version from here on in, much of the detail left out. OPSEC was OPSEC.

"I've done different stuff, stuff that with all due respect I just can't talk about. It's nothing personal, I've said the same to four-stripers in the United States Navy before so I know how that can go down with some people, and I can imagine how your crew are feeling right now if they have had bad experiences with some of our people before, but in my experience running away at the mouth can get people killed."

"Look, I can't vouch for Sergeant Phillips. I've known him as long as you have. But what I will say is that I can promise you Commander Kane is one of the best there is. So is Ms Kovac. We know our business and we're not going to screw you over. We're not about starting shit then leaving other people to clean up our mess. You got my word on that Captain. And if you want us off we're off. It's that simple." His body language is open, his manner attempting to convey sincerity. It's clear when he mentions Kane's name that he will lead wherever she follows. Whether that is a weakness or a strength is subjective.

"So, that's my story." It's fairly obvious where the conversation is going to go next. "How about you Captain Niewiadomska? How'd you end up signing on with Konrad's Kommandos?"
This message was last edited by the player at 18:43, Mon 22 June 2015.

"He signed on with me, well, my father originally."

She settled down, she'd expected the sanitised version of his story, would have respected him less if he hadn't, "My mother made her living I Krakow. She was the illegitimate child of a Krakow street walker and a Russian diplomat. She'd been brought up in state orphanages before attracting the attention of some Party Officals and ending up being handed around as a mistress."

Griet looked out into the distance for a moment, staring back into the reaches of the past, "I had a series of Uncles, most of whom I can't remember, but my favourite was a man called Adam Rataj," her face softened, almost dropping the façade built of years of meanness and plotting, "he used to visit even after he stopped seeing my mother. He started my love of sailing because he was ex-Polish Navy, he'd served in British destroyers during the war. He took me sailing and when my mother died of cancer, he sponsored my entrance to the Merchant Navy Academy in Gdynia."

"It was an unusual choice of career but engines make more sense than people, you know what I mean?"

"Anyway, I graduated and made the black crew on a Baltic trawler and Adam dropped off the radar. Later I found out he'd been involved in smuggling for Solidarity. From the fishing fleet I graduated into Spy Trawlers and when the war started I was transferred to the Navy and serviced subs and torpedo boats. Then the F-111s hit Gydinia and I was wounded. I got sent back to Krakow to recover and when the bombs fell I ended up in the ORMO there until it declared itself a Free City."

"I was serving in the newly built River Patrol Force designed to protect riverine trade when I met Adam again. He was trying to convince the Council to fund a trip down rive on the Queen. I wasn't that interested but he sprung a surprise on me. Mariusz says it was an Empire Strikes back moment, whatever that is, and he told me he was his father and the trip was a cover to get to Warsaw and rescue the rest of his family."

She sighed, "Long story short, we found the rest of the family and Adam charged me with getting the Kommandos home. They fought all the way down the river to save people they didn't know and now I want to get them home. Why they want that I don't know, they'll end up fighting and dying in a war that's already lost. Just like you I suppose."

"That's your business though, everyone needs something to believe in, I'm just lucky that what I believe in is small enough for me to understand," she waved her arm, "my world is here."

"As for you lot," she stretched out, not used to speaking for so long, especially about herself, "if I was that worried, you'd be walking. The Queen has survived everything thrown at it and fund some diamonds among the remnants of humanity. My father would have taken you in without hesitation and he achieved the impossible. We'll see what happens in this relationship for as long as it lasts."

She smiled, a gesture that looked as if she'd learned the theory but never mastered the emotions that went with it, the smile didn't reach  her eyes, too much had passed through them to leave much space for joy, "As for not screwing people over, I'm trying to restrict that to my enemies since I found my long lost father, if we keep on each others' friends list we should be OK."
This message was last updated by the GM at 23:40, Mon 22 June 2015.

"We try to save whatever we can.  Not very often we run across good ole .357 magnum ammo anywhere out here either.  Occasionally, we might get some .38 specials or reloads but, still, few and far between.  Stick to what we can get.  I usually only use it aboard the Queen and yes, it does do very against soft armor."

Tucker pushes himself off the rail and turns toward Ana smiling, I do Ana.  Everyone just usually calls me Tuck.  Nice to meet you too," he says returning her hand shake.

Yesterday:

"War does that, Miss Kovac", Anders replied. He had been in active service ever since Finland begun activating its forces prior to the nuclear exchange and earned most of his promotions even prior to that. Had FNS Karjala not run in to the drift mine on its way back from one of the numerous runs of herding merchant vessels from Finland to Gothenburg and back, he would probably have received his own command by now. Yet there he was, stuck in Poland of all places. "Interesting to run in to you here, though", he continued. He was more than likely just as curious about her presence there as she was of his.

---

Now:

Anders waits in the background to see, where Mariusz can take them with only words. If it is not enough, there is always the sailor way - most sailors say, there are few things more scary and dangerous as an angry sailor, except an angry, drunken Finnish sailor.

The leader of the pack of Russian soldiers seems somewhat confused by Mariusz's obsequious diplomatic approach [Mariusz rolls 20 in persuasion/diplomacy/leadership]. The big man snorts through his oft-broken nose and spits. The others eye the strangers, looking for signs of weakness, and mill about in nervous anticipation of their alpha's response. When Mariusz finishes his speech, the head bully smiles.

"You wanna buy us breakfast, eh pretty-boy? I think we'll just take all of your money right now and buy our own instead."

He hands his rifle to his second. The others rush over to the wall of the building looming over the street and prop their AKs against it, detailing one of the smaller soldiers to watch the weapons. The brawlers, seven of them, remove their hats and adjust their clothing as they approach the 7-person party of "merchants". Clearly, despite the party's identical numbers, the Russians like their odds. It wouldn't be the first time a group of macho tough guys has underestimated the fighting prowess of Anastasjia Kovac and Lizzie Kane.

Kane looks towards the marketplace, assessing the possibility of flight. A ninth Red Army soldier has just rounded a corner about 30m up the street and, head down, is walking towards the imminent street brawl. This one, however, isn't at the head of a gang, and by the soldier's shape and walk, Lizzie is almost certain that she's looking at a woman. The soldier looks up, briefly making eye contact, and Lizzie's instincts are confirmed.

OOC: As per last round's IC posts, the PCs in the shore party are Mariusz, Konrad, Anastasjia, Tucker, Craig, Lizzie, and Anders. Jan was instructed to go along by Griet but hasn't posted IC for this round.

On board the tug, the security personnel that elected to remain behind stand at their duty stations or pace around the deck, conspicuously armed. Red Army gawkers appear in twos and threes, most wandering off after a few minutes of pointing and staring. About 20 minutes after the departure of the shore parties, an hard-topped UAZ arrives dockside in a cloud of blue smoke. Three uniformed men emerge (the driver stays seated behind the wheel), one wearing the sheepskin coat of a Red Army staff officer. They march purposefully towards the tug. Jurgen (the harbormaster) intercepts them just out of earshot and an increasingly heated conversation ensues. Jurgen wields his clipboard like a battleaxe, slapping, waving, and pointing it in a display meant to cow. It doesn't work. After a few minutes of loud negotiating, the harbormaster acquiesces and the Soviets approach the tug.

Standing on the pier within leaping distance of the Krolowa, the officer calls up [to anyone visible on deck] in Russian-accented Polish, , "I'm here to see your master." The other two soldiers- presumably the staff officer's personal security detail- are armed with AKs, both carried at the low ready.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:59, Thu 25 June 2015.

"Look like we might be getting some company." Scully says, looking out the bridge window when he hears the Russians hailing the tug. His Polish isn't up to following the conversation, but they look to all extents and purposes like a boarding party. Or maybe a shakedown party, here to see what they can steal.

He turns round, looks over at Niewiadomska. "Do you want me to make myself scarce somewhere below deck or hang around here?"
This message was last edited by the player at 13:52, Tue 23 June 2015.

Jelena saw the group of out of towners, who might well have a means for her to leave town. Of course, she'd have to help them first. Seeing the large crowd of Russians in front of them, she unshouldered her AK-74, held it in her hands in "patrol mode" and yelled at the Russians.

"Oi, stupid"", she called in Russian - her Estonian accent distinctly noticeable, "Ain't you guys got something to do?".

She aimed the AK in their general direction.

"Are you feeling lucky?", she asked in English.

"It's probably best that you go below and wait this out. If I need you I'll bang on the superstructure."
Once Scully had made himself scarce, Griet came out of teh bridge and called down, "I'm Griet Niewiadomska, Master and Commander of the Wistula Queen. You have permission to come aboard. I'm glad you're here, I wanted to speak with someone in authority and this saves me a trip. Come on up and I'll put some tea on." She spoke in Russian that was at least as good as their Polish.

She waited for the party to respond, not assuming that they would ascend rather than calling her down. If they did call her down she would go immediately.

”Aye, aye Captain.” Scully nods, moves to quickly retrieve his gear from the closet he had stowed it in, then leaves the bridge by the inner stairwell, his rifle slung over his shoulder, shotgun in one hand assault vest and body armor in the other.

Taking the steps two at a time he descends down to the tug’s main deck. Emerging into what he takes to be some sort of storeroom, he moves through the galley heading  aft, keeping to the opposite side of the ship from the quayside to try and minimize the risk of being spotted by anyone ashore as he makes his way towards the machine shop at the rear of the tug's superstructure.

Once he's reached the machine shop he'll then look for a niche or cranny somewhere amongst the various tools and appliances where he can stow his rifle, vest and armor. After a moment's hesitation he removes the magazine from the G3, slips it into his pocket where it joins the one already there. That way if things go south and someone else gets their hands on his rifle they won't be able to turn it on him immediately. The grenade launcher is already unloaded. He contemplates removing his holster and sidearm, but ultimately decides to leave them in place. After all, the Ivans had seen the tug's heavy weaponry, so they knew there were guns aboard.

He does remove his tac radio from his belt, takes off the headset, and ensures that the radio is off before stowing both radio and headset back in his vest. An American military issue sidearm can probably be overlooked or explained away as a war trophy, but an American military issue AN/PRC 139 tactical radio is another matter. After looking around, he then makes his way over to the vertical boring machine, places his shotgun on the deck and slides it forward so that it is mostly hidden underneath the machinery although remains close at hand if he needs it.

The SEAL then runs his hand over the oily surface, trying to stain his palms and fingers with the lubricant, before running one hand down the right side of his face, intentionally smearing the oil across his skin and thinking to himself why the fuck did he shave last night. Finally, he picks up the heaviest wrench he can see from a workbench, squats down by the machine, the wrench held in his right hand, the shotgun at his feet, close by but hopefully mostly out of sight.

Should any of the Soviets find their way this far into the interior of the tug Scully's intention is to try and simulate a surly oil stained Polish mechanic who is working on a stubborn piece of broken machinery. Should they speak to him he'll acknowledge them with a grunt whilst continuing to feign working on the it, giving the impression that all of his attention is focused on it and hoping that encourages them to move on.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:42, Tue 23 June 2015.

In reply to Cap'n Rae (msg # 185):

Tucker removes his gloves and smiles when he sees the Russian soldiers place their rifles off to the side and look to have a street fight.  He hasn't had a lot of hand to hand fighting recently but, this may get very interesting quickly.  Being they have females with them, the Russians may get cocky and underestimate their abilities.  Plus, he can get a good idea if they can handle themselves without the SEAL they were travelling with.

Robert does make sure that he can reach his knife easily enough in case it is needed.

Craig continued to adopt the same pose as the Russian group advanced on them. This was no different then any Saturday night in Glasgow or the after match function of a Rangers game.

Once the woman behind the group pulled an AK on the patrol the first thing that ran through his head was that they would not be buying anything from this town. With the advantageous distraction in place he says in a low whisper "Lets move off, fast."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:39, Tue 23 June 2015.

Anders braced himself for the impact - the memories from the childhood Karate practice flooded his mind. He never made it past green belt, but he had at least some idea of how to deliver at least some pain if not prolonged physical injury. Tracking the movement of the others in the shore party and that of the Russians, he was ready for a fight if that was to ensue.

"I am Jan," he had replied, pronouncing it Yahn as he offered his hand in return.  His handshake was very firm, marking Jan as someone with a strong grip.

---

Jan had been happy to let the American officer take the lead in the group he had been assigned to.  She had more people present in the team so it made sense to follow her instructions.  He was also trying to figure out where the second woman fitted in as she didn't seem like a soldier when they were interrupted by the Russian gang.  Discipline seemed to be questionable amongst some of the occupying troops.

"Hej," called out Jan to the leader of the Russian troops in a challenging tone.  "Jak o tymrobimy jeden przeciwko jednemu konkursie na nagrodę?  Ty i ja."

He had taught Savate and unarmed combat in the Legion and fancied that he could handle a Russian bully.  Hopefully the man would take up the challenge.

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
"Hey.  How about we make this a one against one contest for a prize?  You and me."

---

In a practiced motion, Lizzie pivots and steps first to the side, and then slightly behind Ana.  The movement isn't particularly dignified, but between the two women, Ana is vastly more dangerous with her fists and whatever unfair advantages she brings to a brawl in mechanical form.  Lizzie's role is to play spoiler, keeping her partner from becoming flanked and getting in any cheap shots she can.

The whole situation is faintly amusing, in a darkly comic kind of way.  The Russian soldiers are scrambling to set their weapons aside, lining up with testosterone oozing out of filthy uniforms.  An unknown factor in the form a woman brandishing an assault rifle and issuing challenges to the would be assailants has appeared in the new found allies six o'clock position, and Jan has called out request for single combat; an honorable move and one that she is curious to see unfold.

Lizzie's instincts tell her that Mariusz should be pulled to the rear before the the fighting really gets going, but she's unsure how much of that is an echo of her relationship with her screw up of a younger brother.  Ultimately, she chooses to hope that the youth has a grasp of his abilities and will put himself where he needs to be.

"Mariusz, Jan, on me.  Tighten up.  Ana, move left, we are clearing a lane for fire."   Lizzie lightly places her left hand on Ana's shoulder and guides her into position out of the center of the narrow street so the agent won't have to turn her attention away from their attackers. "Jan, if he answers, feel free."  The orders come in Polish.  It's chess with people, a knot of contained violence prepared to receive and return an attack.

The phrase clearing a lane for fire prompted Jan to re-apprise the woman with the AK.  He had initially thought her connected to the group of Russians trying to cause some trouble but Lizzie didn't seem to think so.  He nodded in response to her instructions, though he kept his gaze fixed on the talker amongst the Russians, and moved a little closer to the rest of his group, grasping what the American officer was trying to do.

Mariusz moved to where Kane had pointed, as he passed her he whispered, "I'm rubbish at hand to hand, I'll try to keep people off your back so you can do the damage but don't count on too much."

An unpleasant smile creeps onto Ana's face as the Russians set aside their rifles.  This isn't official harassment, just a little bit of corrupt and undisciplined hooliganism in the ranks.  The preemptive disproportionate response in her right pocket is off the table now, but it was really a go-to-hell plan anyway.  Now that the other side has disarmed, she knows where she stands on her own personal use of force continuum --

-- and then another player enters the ring.  She stays focused on her sector, letting Lizzie assess the newcomer's contribution, then murmurs, "roger, moving left."  Matching word to deed, she sidesteps to clear the center of the street but not so much as to hamper Mariusz's maneuvering room.

She straightens to her full height, noting that she's taller than at least two of the poorly-nourished conscript troops, and withdraws her hands from her pockets.  Glancing sideways at Jan, she comments dryly in Russian, "Better you than me.  I'm sure he doesn't want to explain to his sergeant that he's unfit for duty because a girl kicked his ass." Her Russian accent is distinctly not a native Anglophone's - rather, something else Slavic flavors her words (OOC: Anyone who's spent time in the Balkans may place her accent as Yugoslavian).

On the Mean Streets of Grudziaz

The swarm-like, primal drive of collective violence has lent this situation a momentum that can't easily be stopped. The approaching Red Army woman's shouts fail to move her erstwhile comrades- they either don't hear her or they simply just don't care. Furthermore, it's apparent to all present that if she is to make good on her threat to use violence, she'll be opening fire on a crowd of strangers and fellow Soviet soldiers both. Although some of the "merchants" tentatively respond to her call, the Soviet soldiers do not. The net result is the same- in effect, her bluff's been called.

Jan's rather sporting challenge is ignored, but being as he's stepped forward to present himself as champion, he becomes the alpha brawler's first target. Moved by instinct and herd mentality, the others pick their own marks and wade in. The free-for-all begins.

The alpha brawler lunges forward and throws a looping overhand right at Jan. The Czech sees the telegraphed punch coming and ducks under it. With the range between the two men so close now that he can smell the vodka-stink of the Russian's breath, Jan attempts to answer with a almost reflexive elbow strike to the head. However, by the time Jan's elbow comes around, his opponent's forward momentum has already carried him past, and the Czech catches nothing but air. The opening exchange would have been quite comical if the stakes weren't so high. The prospective audience, however, is too busy at the moment to notice.

The alpha's second hears Ana's imasculating aside and veers abruptly from his intended target (Tucker) towards the lippy woman. His straight right punch slips through Ana's upraised forearms and lands squarely on her left breast, driving her back a foot or two. It's a jarring, painful blow, one that she's definitely going to be feeling a while, but not one that's going to take her out of the fight for more than a few seconds. (Ana sustains 6 temporary damage to chest)

Seeing her teammate at the receiving end of a vicious punch, Lizzie launches an instant, one-woman counteroffensive. Trying to keep out of the brute's striking range, she throws a swift side kick at Ana's attacker. The heel of her boot makes solid contact with the man's midsection just above the belt, knocking him backwards, doubled over and gasping for air. With one well-timed kick, Lizzie's taken the upper hand and given her teammate enough time and space to get back into the fight.

Another Russian goes for Tuck. Wild haymakers seem to be the Russian gang's calling card this morning. Tuck gets his hands up in time to catch the full weight of the blow with his left forearm. It feels as though the Russian has hammers for fists. A white hot flash of pain bursts from the impact site; Tucker fears that his forearm might have just been broken. (Tucker sustains 6 damage to left arm.)

Craig steps and leans back to avoid a sweeping right hook thrown at his head. The punch misses his nose by millimeters. On his heels, Craig answers with a left hook that catches his assailant in the side of the head. Craig hadn't had the time to really put his hips into the punch, though, so it lacks power to fails to knock his opponent down or out. The successful strike does, however, buy him the initiative. The next move is clearly his.

Anders assumes a fighting stance and makes eye contact with his opponent. The rapidly approaching Russian drops his eyes, ducks low, and throws a punch at Anders' stomach. The Russian's fist slips underneath Ander's elbows and drives into the Finn's midsection. Fortunately, Anders contracts his abdominal muscles just in time to avoid getting the wind knocked out of him. He is, however, knocked backwards a couple of steps. (Anders sustains 5 temporary damage to abdomen.)

Konrad draws the kicker of the group. The Russian lashes out with his boot and the German can't quite get his left leg up in time to check the kick. The laces of the attacker's boot catch the side of Konrad's left leg just above the knee, the force of the blow almost spinning the German around. (Konrad sustains 3 temporary damage to his left leg.) If Konrad's left foot had been planted when the kick arrived, it's likely that his knee ligaments would have sustained some significant damage. Despite the the shock of the blow, Konrad is pleasantly surprised to find himself still standing. He's wise enough to know, however, that when the adrenaline wears off, his leg is going to hurt like hell.

Ana and Lizzie having drawn (and temporarily incapacitated) one of the seven chauvinistic attackers, Mariusz is somewhat surprised to find himself unscathed and unengaged- for the time being, at least.

---

Wisla Krolowa

At Griet's invitation, the Soviet officer and his two bodyguards cross the gangway and climb the cold external stairs towards the Krolowa's bridge. Three of the tug's four remaining security personnel (Thijs, Minh, Phillips, & Scully) are American, and all endeavor to make themselves scarce whilst still keeping an eye on the Red Army guests.

The staff officer steps onto the bridge and removes his fur Ushanka hat. It's not Red Army protocol. He appears to be in his mid-thirties, slim, of average height. He's balding prematurely, his hairline rapidly receding towards the crown of his head. What hair that remains is combed neatly. His Polish is quite good.

"Good morning, Captain. I am major Yuri Lagunov, 43rd Cavalry Division."

Niceties are exchanged and introductions made. With the requisite formalities taken care of, Lagunov begins to explain the nature of his visit, but not before asking a few pointed questions.

"You are a merchant, no?" he enquires, a hint of skepticism in his incongruously deep voice.

"From Krakow? That is a very long way. Surely, you have braved and bested many dangers on your journey to Grudziaz. And I take it that after you leave Grudziaz, you plan to carry on all the way to the Baltic coast?"

Griet's responses to this opening volley of questions are generally affirmative but noncommittal and completely lacking in any specifics.

"I see. My Commander, Major General Mikhail Zolnernowich, wishes to meet with you. He has a bit of business that he'd like to discuss. A job offer, of sorts."

He pauses, trying to read Griet's face.

"You're suspicious, I understand. You can't have travelled this far without being extremely cautious. And your crew, not all of them are Polish, are they? Perhaps some of them used to serve NATO, even. Yes. Let me assure you, Captain, we have no interest in your employees. The general's intentions are good. If we wanted your boat for ourselves, it would ours already. Surely, you know this. This is simply business, Captain. You are merchants and he has need of your services, that is all. If you'd rather not meet the general at his headquarters, he is willing to come here." He looks around the interior of the Krolowa's bridge, noting the soot stains, bubbled paint, shrapnel scouring. "May I suggest a neutral venue? The general's favorite café is not too far from here. I could send a jeep to pick you up, you and whoever you'd like to bring with you. Lunch will be our treat. Would that be acceptable?"


Your Move.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:32, Thu 25 June 2015.

Though he's knocked aside a little, Bayer's opponent is kept well in reach. Still standing and with his arms still clutched in close and ready, he strikes out at his attacker - throwing his body weight forward to help. He'll attempt to grab the man, not punch or kick, but to grapple onto him and hopefully, eventually, drag him down to the ground where he can be more effectively pinned.

Depending whether his opponent had dropped his head or not Craig would either try for a right hook into the aggressors temple or he would raise his knee in to the Russian's face. He was looking to end the fight as fast as possible.

Jelena decided that this was really not going well for the party against the soldiers. She knew that she'd have to try to end this. It was a good thing that's she'd brought an assault rifle to a fist fight.

Flicking the selector to single shot, she tried to get a clear shot at one of the Soviet attackers, aiming for centre mass and hoping to put him down.

Well, she never did like Russians anyway.

Jelena Tamm
Standing a short distance from the fight
AK-74 (30/30, clip #1)
Intending to shoot one of the Russians if the shot is clear

Mariusz was about to decide whose fist he'd get in the way of when he saw the Russian woman readying her rifle. He took a step toward her, his mind racing, she had shouted at the Russians to stop their attack and he assumed she was trying to help his fellows.

"Please," he called out, "don't shoot. We'll get the blame and end up dead"

"That is a very generous offer, Captain Lagunov," Griet replied, "and I would be rude not to accept. I will attend with my head of security and second in command if they are back from the shopping expedition that they are engaged on."

Anders decided to to on offensive with a kick at his opponent. The Russian soldier had managed to get a sucker punch on him, but now it was a good time to return the favour.

Jan turned and went after the leader of the Russians, the one who had swung at him rather than accepting his challenge.  He was annoyed with himself for miss timing his elbow strike so he crossed the distance quickly, spinning as he reached the vodka fuelled man and lashing out with a classic Savate fouetté bas roundhouse kick to the man's legs.  He was aiming to both hurt the Russian and knock him to the ground.

The impact of her boot sent a comforting thump reverberating up through Lizzie's thigh and into her core.  Watching the Russian prick stumble backwards from the impact had been a bonus.  Despite the opportunity to gloat, the naval officer knows that she got a lucky shot in, if an effective one.  A glance to her side shows Ana still standing and moving back to the fight having sustained a blow that must have looked worse than it was.  Instead of closing, Lizzie moves to once again try and protect her partner's flank, ready to engage should it prove necessary.

Mariusz voice, the pleading to not open fire, breaks into her focus.  His instincts are good, the read that if she fires they will all pay the price is spot on.  "Handle it," she tells the young man.  "She shoots, we all lose."  Sending a boy to do a woman's job doesn't thrill her at all, but there is a street fight going on here, and her attention is needed to the front.

When Jan breaks forward, pushing into the Russian attacking him, Lizzie moves again, this time trying to bridge the gap between the two remaining members of her squad.  Whoever needs support will get it.  If neither does, cheap shots are always an option...

Hearing the shout, Jelena lowered her rifle slightly and held off on shooting. Hopefully the Russians would get the hint.

Phillips wasn’t the only one who was waiting restlessly for the Russians to get off the tug.  In his pack, Eric’s mess kit and personal water filter couldn’t wait to be pressed into service as soon as possible.  They knew Eric must be both hungry and thirsty right now.

Despite being wrapped in a 100% wool blanket together, the mess kit and water filter were the antithesis of each other and their enmity toward one another was well known.  Like the blanket, Eric’s mess kit was a timeless piece of gear, based on the German World War Two mess kit.  Its nested containers and thick handle gave it a stern presence and its rugged construction, which carried a respectable number of scuffs and dents, marked it as a military piece of hardware.

The personal filter was the exact opposite in almost every fashion.  The filter was high-tech, relying on spun ceramic fibers to filter out micro particulates.  Where the mess kit was squat and unattractive, the filter was tall, slender, and elegant… the Eloi to the mess kit’s Morlock.  Even the names of the two items couldn’t draw any more of a distinction between them.  MESS kit…  Why didn’t they just call it filthy disgusting kit!  Whereas personal water filter was more, intimate.  Personal was in the name after all.  And to use it, you had to put it in your mouth and suck… HARD.

It was perhaps because they were so different and yet always vied for the same attention from their user, neither the mess kit, nor the personal water filter, could be happy in each other’s presence.  Somehow, like the punishment of Prometheus, they were forced each day to live in a special hell, snuggled together tightly in Phillip’s pack, to ‘prevent rattling’.  Or at least that’s what he said.  But both truly believed that they must have done something quite horrifying in a previous life to deserve such a cruel fate.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:12, Fri 26 June 2015.

Ana's breath hisses out in as much surprise as pain from the unexpected punch.  "Tits?" she gasps in complaint to Lizzie, "he punches for tits?"  She spares a moment to body-check the wheezing man out of the way before wheeling behind Tuck's attacker.  The man's still wearing his body armor so she regretfully forsakes his exposed kidneys in favor of a strike to his bicep.

Scully remains hidden away in the machine shop, continuing to pretend to use the wrench to work on a piece of machinery that isn't actually broken, casting the odd wary glance towards the door every now and then. So far no one had disturbed him, and the SEAL will be quite happy if it stays that way until the Russians have left the tug.

Jan spins and kicks out low at his opponent's (B1) legs, hoping to take them out from under him. The drunken brawler is surprisingly agile, however, and, half stepping, half jumping, manages to avoid the leg sweep. The alpha then attempts a vicious kick of his own, but, once again, Jan notes the full body wind-up and easily sidesteps it. The miss throws the attacker off balance and Jan takes the opening to punch him in the head. But, the punch misses, leaving both men breathing hard but essentially right back where they started, facing off, unbruised, and hoping to draw first blood (that's four rolled misses in a row, including back-to-back 20s!).

Craig misses with his follow up right hook, allowing his opponent (B3) a chance for revenge- a chance that he takes, socking Craig in the mouth, momentarily filling it with the warm, coppery taste of blood. (Craig suffers superficial facial damage: slight wound to head).)

Still reeling from the hard punch he'd just caught with his forearm, Tucker doesn't see the next punch coming. His opponent's (B6) follow up strike lands against the American's ribs like a brickbat, sending brief but intense shockwaves of agony through his torso and knocking the wind out of him. Overwhelmed by pain, Tucker's legs give out and he falls to the cobbles, completely vulnerable to follow-up attacks. (Tucker suffers temporary damage to left ribcage.)

Ana body checks the man who'd just punched her (B2), knocking him down, on her way to help Tucker. Tucker's already on the ground. His attacker (B6), driven by blood lust, is leaning over Tuck's crumpled form, starting to rain down punches on his downed opponent. From behind, Ana strikes at the man's cocked arm, trying to hit a tendon or nerve, but instead misses altogether. Fortunately for her, but not so fortunately for Tucker, the man is fixated on pummeling the target on the ground, so much so that he doesn't Ana's attack (or her proximity at all, it seems).

Lizzie moves with Ana to cover her flank. Another Russian (B5), who's hung back out of the fight until now, is stepping into the fray, moving purposefully towards Ana, who's back is currently to him. Easy prey, he must be thinking. Lizzie kicks at his lower body as soon as he passes into range, striking him hard behind the knee, and forcing him to fall to his hands and knees just behind Ana. As soon as he hits the cobbles, he's working to get back to his feet.

Anders has even more luck with his kick. It lands squarely against the man's (B4) patella, hyperextending it. Anders can feel it give. Hopped up on adrenaline (and, quite likely, bathtub vodka), the Russian doesn't seem to feel it- that is, until he takes another step, shifting his weight to that leg. His damaged knee buckles and he falls to the ground with a brief but surprisingly shill scream.

Konrad forgoes striking in attempt to take his opponent (B7) to the ground. Before the man can turn around, Konrad wraps both arms around him, pinning the man's arms to his body, and drives forward with his legs. Without being able to use his arms for balance, the Russian can't keep himself standing, and he falls to the cold, hard ground with the German on top of him.

The melee is too dynamic, moving too quickly, for Jelena to target any of her fellow Red Army soldiers without endangering their opponents. Perhaps there will be an opening, but everything is moving so quickly, and one of the pseudo-civilians has asked her not to fire.

Mariusz, well aware of his lack of street fighting prowess, hangs back on the edge of the brawl.

On the far side of the furball, nearest the docks, the eighth Russian, the youngest and smallest of the bunch, stands guard by his squadmates' rifles, cheering his comrades on.

Tactical Summary
B1: Currently engaged with Jan; unscathed
B2: Unengaged; temporarily down (wind knocked out of him)
B3: Engaged with Craig; minor damage to head
B4: Engaged with Anders; disabled (hyperextended left knee w/ probable ligament/tendon damage)
B5: Near Ana & Lizzie; temporarily down due to leg strike
B6: Engaged with Tucker, beating him up on the ground
B7: Engaged with Konrad; currently grappled in the bottom position
B8: Unengaged; guarding his comrades' rifles 

---

Having arranged a meeting between the "merchants" and his commanding general, Major Lagunov takes his leave of the tug, bodyguards in tow. While he was on the bridge, a second UAZ arrived quayside, this one packed with six fully kitted-out Red Army soldiers. They currently form a loose cordon on the tug's landward side, for the most part facing the city. It appears that they are present to guard the tug from the rest of the 43rd Cavalry Division, not the other way around.

Before leaving, Major Lagunov informs Griet that he will send a vehicle to chauffer the tug's representatives* to the lunch meeting at 1200 hours.

*By now, it is clear that the leadership of the 43rd CD doesn't really care that there are Americans and other ex-NATO military types on board. The rank-and-file, on the other hand...

OOC: Anyway, it's set up so that whoever wants to go can go, and whoever wants to stay (or isn't posting) can stay.


Your Move.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:55, Sat 27 June 2015.

In reply to Cap'n Rae (msg # 211):


Tucker has seen the situation go from bad to worse for him.  He now finds himself covered up on the ground but looks for one of the Russians knees or ankles to disable one of them.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:47, Sun 28 June 2015.

Craig returns the Russians punch in kind, trying not to get too technical. If he has an opening for a kick to the mans crouch area he will feign a punch and take the kick.

"Mule kick! Mule kick!" Lizzie calls to Ana. Two kicks from the naval officer, two delivered.  I'm on a roll!  Not to be cocky...false confidence kills.  They still need to handle this guy between them and they still need to pull the threat off of Tucker before their new friend is beaten more bloody.  Some of these Ruskies need to go down and stay down.

Instead of opting out, Lizzie adds her own kick at the scrambling soldier, hopefully they can tip this particular threat out of the fight once and for all.  Then deal with the others, because the first guy she kicked isn't going to be down for much longer.

Anders, spotting Tuck in a tight spot, goes for a flying tackle and does his best to get the Russian off the American Sergeant.

Still focused on the man pummeling Tuck to the ground, Ana completely misses Lizzie's intervention - but her partner's urgent warning draws an immediate response.  Turning slightly to bring Lizzie into her peripheral vision, she lashes out with a kick behind her (B5).  As she refocuses on Tuck's opponent, she sees the Finnish cruise missile launch and checks her attack for a moment, ready to lock up the Russian's arm (B6) if Anders misses.

Jelena could only watch... it was a complete and utter brawl. It was frankly best that she played no part in it whatsoever.

Once Griet waved the Soviet officer away she sought out the crew and brought them up to date.

"Someone needs to et the teams know they need to be back for midday ad I'll ask the harbour master if he knows the General's favourite café in case we want to stake it out." she explained.

"Mr Scully, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the harbour master, please?"

Once Scully had answered, Griet headed for the harbour master, "Thanks for trying to run interference for us," she said to him, "as it is, we have a meeting with the General in his favourite café. He's sending a cafe for us but I'd like to know where it is before that. You wouldn't know where it is would you?"

Mariusz was relieved when someone tried to bail Tuck out, he had been getting ready to wade in and try and give the American time to recover by getting his own ass kicked instead. Anders had taken the job for him though.

HE sidled up to the new Russian and smiled, "Hi, my name's Mariusz, thanks for trying to help."

Scully doesn't even attempt to hide the look of disbelief on his face when Niewiadomska has finished explaining the purpose behind the Soviet officer's visit. "Let me make sure I've got this straight" the tall American asks "A Soviet General wants to hire us?" He shakes his head. "You do realize that I'm not a mercenary, I'm a United States Navy SEAL, yes? I don't fight for the Russians." He's clearly about to say more, stops, perhaps thinking better of it. "Unfuckingbelievable." he mutters, before turning his attention to the rest of what she had said.

"OK, I've got radio comms with my people, you do have comms with yours, yeah? So getting them back in time should be straightforward. As for the cafe, you're damn right I want to stake it out. I don't want my people going to a meeting with a group of Russians without putting some sort of security in place. Phillips and I will do it." He nods to the Green Beret. "That work for you Forrest?"

He then turns back to  Niewiadomska. "OK, let's go find the harbor master. Once we've spoken to him we can radio the shore parties. We might have better intel on the cafe, so no sense in radiong them now and only giving them half a plan." Accompanying her to meet the harbor master, Scully listens as the two Poles converse in their own language. When there's a break in the conversation he turns to the tall woman. "Try and find out what you can about the general area. Not just where it is, but if there are any buildings that overlook it, anywhere we can keep eyes on what's happening inside. What sort of security does the General have? Are there other customers there or do they toss everyone else out while he's there? What's the clientele? Is it classy, are two dock workers having a beer going to look out of place?"

"Also, I'm not keen on walking about a town full of Ivans without any weapons. If there is absolutely no option I will, but ask him if there is any way he can 'arrange' for us to be armed. Papers that say we're taking guns to sell them at the market, that sort of thing.  I don't mind them being unloaded. Tell him I understand that if it's possible there will be a fee to pay." He pauses whilst Niewiadomska handles the translations. The worst that could happen was that the harbor master said no.

Griet sighed, the mom and apple pie speech was getting old fast, "That's why I arranged for your commander to be in on the meeting. If she doesn't like the deal she can walk away. The emphasis of course will be on the word walk."

"As for working for Russians, some are bastards an some just want to get home. the last lot we worked with wanted to go home and the lot before that spilt blood for the CIA to free Warsaw. Of course, others have tried to kill us, but in my experience it's the same with Americans. You do what you think is right but don't get in my way of keeping my people alive, that would be regrettable."

She listened to the rest of his observations and nodded before continuing with her conversation with the harbour master, "We have several weapons we need to trade if we are to maximise our profits her. Would it be possible for you to write us up a permit that tells people we are carrying unloaded weapons for trade purposes?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:43, Mon 29 June 2015.

"Sure, why not," Phillips said, regarding scoping out the meet and greet.

Phillips thought about it and realized that he'd never been hired by a Communist before.  He imagined a Soviet officer handing over a briefcase full of red script, only to have another Soviet officer come and take at least half and redistribute it to a bunch of lazy, shiftless, peasants.

From each according to his ability, to each according to his need…  Or was that Socialism?  Maybe Marxism?  He had a class on this in college, but couldn't remember much.  Too many hits the previous day at practice.

Fuck it.  It didn’t matter.  It was all wrong.  Godless heathens and their bullshit socio-economic models.

"Perhaps we'll see a talking dog on the way there or something,"  Eric said, trying to think of how this could get any weirder.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:59, Mon 29 June 2015.

Jan continued engaging his chosen opponent, rather annoyed and embarased with himself for failing to even connect with a single blow on the man.  He stopped trying to land a roundhouse kick and instead tried a combination of quick kicks, once again targeting the man's legs in an attempt to put him on the ground.  Once down it would be easier to continue kicking him.

The alpha brawler finally connects, landing a punch to Jan's stomach. The Czech successfully fights the urge to drop his hands and double over, but the pain is jarring and it takes every ounce of willpower to resist. Blood up, the Russian leader keeps coming. Jan kicks out at his antagonist's legs; he connects, but not with enough force to do much damage or throw the man off balance. The alpha cocks his right arm in preparation for another haymaker. (Jan sustains 4 temporary damage to torso.)

Tucker lashes out at the man standing over him raining down blows. Under the circumstances, it's nearly impossible to focus on a specific target and, sure enough, Tucker misses. His hands and arms are still up and taking a pummeling, but so far Tuck's been able to keep any of his attackers' punches from connecting with his more essential body parts.

Left with one good wheel, Anders' opponent is essentially out of the fight, so the Finn looks to focus his violence elsewhere. Tucker's plight immediately catches his attention. Anders pivots, pushes off, and launches himself at Tuck's attacker, plowing the Russian bully down to the ground and landing in the top position.

Still tasting blood, Craig throws a straight right to the body of his opponent and connects, causing just enough damage to keep the attack window open. Noting the Russian's wide-legged stance, Craig launches a quick punt kick at his crotch. The Russian can't close his legs or get his hands down in time to block the blow, and the toe of Craig's boot crunches up against scrotum. With a gasp and moan, the Russian crumples to the ground, where he curls up and clutches his pulverized gonads.

Realizing the urgent need to swing the numbers in her party's favor, Lizzie follows up her successful second kick with a devastating third. Lashing out with a vicious left round kick, she connects with power, shin against skull. The man instantly goes stiff and falls hard to his side, eyes rolled back into his head. It occurs to Lizzie that she may have just killed the man.

Seeing her teammate go three-for-three with kicks, Ana decides to go for one of her own. In an effort to contain the escalating violence level of the street fight, she dials back on the application of force. Focusing on the man who'd punched her in the fight's opening round (he's currently getting back to his feet after Lizzie's earlier leg kick and Ana's subsequent body check), she aims center mass and focuses on placement over power. When her bootlaces connect with the man's chest just below his left armpit, she can feel his ribs give. He drops back down, gasping, to lie on his right side.

Konrad is laying on top of his opponent, trying desperately to keep him down. The man's fighting back with all he's got, trying to buck the German off and reverse the position, whilst simultaneously trying to get a hold of Konrad's wrists in order to keep from being pounded out. The man is thrashing about so much, that Konrad can't get free to posture up and do some damage with ground strikes. He's effectively locked in stalemate.

Mariusz, knowing his limits, removes himself further from the brawl, instead attempting to make small talk with the Soviet army woman.

Tactical Summary
B1: Currently engaged with Jan; unscathed
B2: Unengaged; down with cracked ribs, courtesy of Ana
B3: Down after kick to groin by Craig
B4: Disabled (hyperextended left knee w/ probable ligament/tendon damage) by Anders
B5: KTFO by Lizzie (head kick)
B6: Tackled and grappled by Anders (formerly unleashing ground and pound on Tucker)
B7: Engaged with Konrad; currently grappled/grappling from the bottom position
B8: Unengaged; guarding his comrades' rifles

---

Jurgen is in a bad mood. He's clearly worried that he's in some sort of trouble with the Soviet garrison, so he's reluctant to speak with Griet, especially in the presence of Red Army soldiers. It takes quite a bit of reassuring to talk him down. Griet leads him to a quiet corner of the dock, behind one of the other vessels moored there.

"You're sure they didn't say anything about me? OK, then, but if I get in any trouble..."

A few more conciliatory words and Griet has the harbormaster refocused.

"Weapons? Like rifles? No. Not a chance. Any deals for weapons are done here- they're not allowed in town, period. Only the town militia and the Ivans are allowed to carry, and only then unloaded. I can get an ORMO rep down here, if you'd like to sell some guns, but that's it."

Seeing Griet's displeasure with this news registering on her face, Jurgen leans in closer and lowers his voice.

"I'm not telling you this, OK? They don't usually pat people down- the authorities, I mean. If you can carry it under your coat, you can probably get away with it. Just don't give them a reason to check you out."

Slightly mollified, Griet follows up by pursuing Scully's line of questioning.

"Pretty much all of the cafes that are still in business are right off the main square in the old town. You can probably watch the place right from the market. There are tall buildings all around the square, but I don't know right off hand which ones, if any, are empty."


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:38, Wed 01 July 2015.

Anders does his best to turn the tackle and grapple in to a stranglehold with his lower arms, to either cause his opponent to submit or to take his lights out without causing too much damage. With the 6' tall and not a featherweight Finn having crashed in to the Russian like a torpedo, Anders estimates his chances of success reasonable due to the potential stun effect on his opponent due to the crash. His arms maneuver around the man's neck from both front and behind, imitating a large constrictor snake.

Spiting the blood that had a accumulated in his mouth Craig looked to anyone who needed a hand. He did not approach the Russian near the weapons as he did not want to give the guy any reason to fire on them. Jan looked to be having an issue with the main dick of the group of Russians and if the leader lands any additional hits on the French guy Craig would step up. He scoops some dirt from the road in his left hand as he moves closer to Jan.

If there was an opportunity to king hit one of the Russians who looked to be getting the upper hand of his team mates on the ground he would. Otherwise Craig looked to see if there little tussle had garnered the attention of additional Russians.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:00, Tue 30 June 2015.

Tucker finally gets some relief from his attacker when a blur of Anders, he thinks, goes by him with the Russian who was trying to whoop the dog shit out of him.  He seizes the break and pushes up with his pummeled arms and body and goes to a standing defensive position.  He looks around to see that everything is pretty much well in hand except for Jan needing the most help at the moment.  He tries to move in close enough to give Jan some relief like he was afforded.  "We done here?" Robert says in simple Polish to the Russian.

Scully stands with Niewiadomska, his hands buried in the pockets of the Polish Army parka he's wearing, the collar turned up against the chill coming in of the river. His makeshift disguise is completed by the Czech camo trousers he'd borrowed from Cerny before the merc had gone ashore.

The SEAL's Polish isn't up to catching any more than a few words here and there, so as the Polish tug skipper provides a translation the tall American concentrates on watching the harbor master, trying to ascertain his mood from his body language, looking for any obvious signs that the other man is lying.

When the Pole pauses Scully nods. He'd hoped for a little more information, but at least they knew a more than they had before they'd spoken to him. And the conversation about weapons had been interesting. The SEAL nods to the harbor master. "Dziękuję."

He then turns to Niewiadomska, indicates with a gesture of his head that they should maybe step back a pace, away from her countryman. "Even if I wear that coat that the Commander found I doubt if I'll be able to hide the fact that I'm carrying a fully loaded battle rifle and Forrest Gump's likely to have the same problem with his Tantal." If she's missed the kid's Empire Strikes Back reference he reckons she probably wont follow the Forrest Gump one either. " Sergeant Phillips." he adds as an afterthought.

"I can take my Mossberg but it's a close in weapon. And I'm light on ammo. Do you have anything smaller we can borrow, that might be easier to conceal? A Skorpion, an AKR, anything like that? One for me and one for Phillips?" He fixes his grey eyes on the Polish woman, looks right at her. "As you're going to be there as well, it's in your interests as well as ours that we're ready for any trouble. And if the shit does hit the fan we're deniable from your point of view - the only person that knows that you are anything to do with us is Jurgen."

He then shrugs his shoulders. "And if you do have any spare weapons I figure you may as well take ol' Jurgen here up on his offer of having someone stop by and make you an offer."
This message was last edited by the player at 18:17, Tue 30 June 2015.

"If you could make the arrangements, I'd be grateful. Tell the rep that he may be surprised by what we have on offer to the right buyer."

Once they were out of earshot of the locals, Griet led the Americans back to the tug, "I'm not entirely sure a couple of hold out weapons are going to help if we get into a situation, but Kaptain Bayer and Commander Kane can discuss it with you. Come with me and I'll show you the weapons locker, knowing its contents will give you more of an opportunity to formulate a plan even if it isn't used."

She opened up the locker to display their collection of weapons, gathered over a series of bloody battles.

"Well, the idea is to not get into a situation in the first place. Believe me, it's not my preferred option, but neither is getting caught walking around town loaded for bear before we even get near the cafe. It would have been better if he had come here." He shrugs as he looks at the collection of firearms. "I'm open to alternative suggestions."  The SEAL looks over at Phillips. "Any thoughts, Sarge?"

"Until we get a crystal ball all we can do is hedge our bets and hope we make the right choices."

She pointed at the weapons, "There are three AKSUs as well as a pair of sub-machineguns, a Heckler and Koch and an Uzi. The sniper rifles all look a little big, even the bullpup SVD and Tucker's ugly ass gun he calls an M14K. We could detach a BG-1 grenade launcher if you want and we have an unattached M203 but I'm not sure how many rounds we have for it. Take a look and you are welcome to base any plans you take to Bayer and Kane on them or anything else you can see in the locker."

Once they had seen all thy needed to, Griet locked up the locker and returned to the bridge, "Griet to Sunray, events are developing here. I need you back before eleven thirty. If you need to abort your mission for that, do so."
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:05, Wed 01 July 2015.

"Oh, we're waiting for Konrad.  Gotcha," Phillips said.  He turned and walked back to whatever stateroom they had been assigned and took a nap.  Turns out he was a very deep sleeper.

As Eric snoozed, his Poncho and Shelter-half started to argue about who was tougher.  The Poncho was really tired of the Shelter-half’s shit.  First off, the argument was stupid to begin with because the Poncho was just a poncho, but the Shelter-half was like a warlord, commanding poles, ties, and stakes. I mean, why could he not see that?  It’s because he’s dirt stupid, the Poncho surmised.  The Shelter Half was made of oil impregnated canvas… stupid to the core.  I mean, if you filled your head with petrochemicals, you’d be fuct too.  Not that the Poncho had anything against petrochemicals.  I mean, she was made of nylon, which was made from petroleum, but that was different.  The Poncho was pure and made from 100% nylon. Not some miscegenation of cotton and oil.  That was the Shelter-half’s problem.  It was an abomination.  And now that abomination once again wanted to argue about who was tougher.

The problem with arguing with morons is that they suck you down to their level and then beat you with experience.  He doesn’t even know what tensile strength is but wants to argue about whose tougher.  You have got to be shitting me!

And every time he gets that stupid flat-affect look on his face when I bring up the word tensile.  He still hasn’t bothered to look it up.  Die in a fire you stupid fifty-percent solution!

What Poncho had failed to realize was that Shelter-half only argued with her because he had a crush on her.  Shelter-half was fairly young, having been acquired less than a year ago, and therefore he was somewhat immature.  He felt something for Poncho, but didn’t have enough life experience to express it in a more appropriate way.  So there were going to be a few more arguments in store for Poncho and Shelter-half.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:18, Tue 30 June 2015.

Griet put the radio handset down and poured out some more tea. She added a mug full for Scully an sat down.

She sighed,"Our options are limited at the moment by our engines. We can barely make any headway and are limited to drifting with the current. That doesn't make for much of a chance of shooting our way out if the deal goes south. I don't like the idea of going in without guns and I don't like the idea of hanging yourself out to dry if you are discovered, although it is a noble offer. If we decide that is the best option, I won't like it but I will accept it."

She looked over at the SEAL and sipped some of the weak tea, more hot water than flavour, "The General's messenger had a point, if they were going to screw us over they would have done it by now but that doesn't mean he's not playing some sick mind games with us. So, what options do you think we have?"

"Could we break down one of the sniper rifles in the time we have? That would give you more flexibility. We have a range of smoke grenades too if that will help your planning."

Jan sucked up the pain from the blow to his stomach and tried to dodge past the haymaker his opponent was lining up, intending on throwing back a classic direct bras arrière counter punch in return, the instant the man's defence was open.  His opponent had obviously been drinking and an all or nothing wild swing like a haymaker was liable to open him up to the straight cross punch.

It was a manoeuvre that Jan had taught in classes in the Legion so he hoped that it would connect, though he appeared to be rather rusty at present.

"Jelena", the woman smiled back at him, continuing to watch the fight and wincing at the some of the nastier connections, "I am glad to be of limited assistance".

From the sound of her voice, Jelena didn't sound at all Russian... possibly another Soviet nationality?

When her shin impacts on her target's skull, Lizzie's first reaction is an emphatic oh yeah! that has her basking in the adrenaline fueled glow of successful combat.  That initial reaction is followed half a second later by an oh shit! as the realization of the damage done in the the attack and what the long term repercussions could be.  Drunken street fights are one thing, but actually beating a man to death in the middle of one can only lead to very bad places, complete with attention and revenge.  Her shin throbs in sympathy with the Russian's head.  Bone on bone contact hurts.

Given that it appears that the street fight has tilted decisively into the hands of the Queen's crew, Lizzie drops along side her target and rolls him over trying to make sure that the man is still breathing.  His neck is still moving at all the correct angles, which Lizzie interprets as a good sign.  The impact looks to have knocked him clean out, a serious injury to be sure, but hopefully not life threatening.  It's not that she would feel terrible for killing the guy, it's that life would become that much more difficult.

Lizzie bends over and begins a one arm drag of the man towards the eighth and, for now, unoccupied member of the Russian goon squad.  She doesn't drag him far.  Ten feet maybe, just enough to make it clear he is out of the fight, but not so far as to look like she's making a move on the weapons.

"Your friend is hurt," she tells the last man in crisp Russian.  "He needs your help."  Maybe they won't look like total dickheads for her shot.  She backs away and evaluates the fight, ready to intervene where necessary.

Once again, Jan manages to avoid the alpha brawler's wild, looping punch but, this time, the Czech doesn't squander the opportunity to retaliate. His straight right cross catches the big Russian in the side of the head, just in front of his left ear. The alpha's legs turn to rubber and he stumbles sideways, stunned. Shaking his head and blinking repeatedly, he tries to clear the cobwebs from his rattled brain. He surveys the small urban battlefield. Four of his boys are down and effectively out. Two more are engaged in grappling matches on the cobbled street. Tucker arrives, making it two against one for the Russian gang leader. He's not drunk or concussed enough not to realize that the jig is up. If he doesn't stop this now, he knows that he's going to get his ass kicked.

"Enough! Enough!", he slurs, calling his dogs off.

The leaders' calls slowly register with those of his men still fighting. The two grapplers are somewhat loathe to stop at this point, both just having managed to take the advantage in their respective grappling contests (Konrad's opponent is now in the top position; Anders has just gone from choker to chokee).

As they ease up and look around, it's clear to the Russians that their gang is in no shape to continue the fight, not with any realistic hope of winning it, at least.

At this point, the fight breaks up quickly. The Russians still able to stay on their feet carry/drag their incapacitated comrades over to where their collected rifles are propped, but they make no effort to go for their weapons. There is honor among street fighters, apparently. They mill about in a loose knot, licking their wounds and trying to revive their still-unconscious friend. At least four of them should probably visit the hospital (i.e. blown knee, cracked rib, serious concussion, and possibly ruptured testicle).

Breathing hard, the alpha turns around and steps out of the gaggle of Red Army soldiers, a glinting object in his hand.

"Good fight." he says, holding out a clear glass bottle (no label) of clear liquid. "Welcome to Grudziaz."

Konrad notices that a call's coming in over his radio. Griet's voice leaks from the tiny speaker, "Griet to Sunray, events are developing here. I need you back before eleven thirty. If you need to abort your mission for that, do so."


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:59, Wed 01 July 2015.

Scully's first act on returning to the bridge is press the transmit button on his own radio so he can relay the message to return to the boat directly to his people rather than have to go through the mercs. "Polaris One Six Actual, Polaris Seven Seven. How copy, over?"

He then turns to Niewiadomska whilst he awaits a response from the shore party. "A sniper rifle is a possibility if we can set up an overwatch somewhere. The problem is none of us have had eyes on the ground, so we don't know whether that will be doable or not. Smoke grenades might be useful as well if we need a diversion." He shrugs. "We may need to consider two teams, one in the market, one on overwatch."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:54, Wed 01 July 2015.

"That sounds about right," Griet agreed about the sniper rifle, "It was just one of the options. Whatever is decided we'll make the best of it."

Robert will drop his defensive stance when the Russians all gather back up and the bottle is extended out to the group.  He looks and waits for a second before stepping forward to take a swig from the bottle.  "Da!  Nosdrovya," he cheers them and takes a small swig from the bottle.

Ana is closing on Anders' opponent from behind when the Russian ringleader decides he's had enough.  She does a quick 360º scan to make sure everyone got the message, then innocently makes the still-collapsed baton disappear again.

Confirming that the fight is over and that her partner is unscathed, she steps up beside Tuck and takes the bottle from him.  "Not bad for something you brewed in the back of the garage," she appraises its contents after a sniff and a drink, then grins widely.  "Now, about that lunch one of you was going to buy me..."

Lizzie is taking her turn from the bottle when the radio in her ear chirps to life.  Instead of answering right away, she lets the moonshine burn it's way down her esophagus and hopefully not deposit methanol in her veins.  It's poison, but in the best possible way.  She builds a little distance between herself and any convenient witnesses that might overhear the English transmissions.

"Polaris Seven, Six Actual has you lickin' chicken.  Go." Clearly the alcohol and the fight hit her adrenal system harder than she had figured.  The naval officer listens as Scully lays out what has been going on back at the boat while they shore party has been making friends and influencing people.  More than likely, Lizzie concludes, Griet is filling the Hauptmann in to the same information and telling them to head back.

There aren't a lot of options.  When a Russian general, or any general for that matter, wants to talk, you talk.  If only to find out what a general thinks is so damn important that he needs you to grace his presence.  Same applies to admirals, really.

"Polaris Seven, take Polaris Gump. Recon and secure the site.  We will return to the boat and appraise you of any changes.  I will update King on this end, over."

Lizzie readjusts her clothes to conceal the radio as much as possible, then moseys over to Konrad, still buzzing slightly from the fight.  She gives the man a quick update on her deployment of resources before asking the obvious question: "So if a Russian wants to deal, we deal?"

Tucker enjoys the burning taste of the moonshine liquor from the unmarked bottle and it takes a little of the sting out of his arms and forearms for a second as his body begins to relax.  After she passes the bottle off to the next person, he turns to Ana, "I'm goin' to start hanging out with the SEAL's more.  You two handle yourselves pretty fuckin' good!"

He will then go over to Konrad and help him up and check on him.  "Some fuckin' welcome wagon huh boss?