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.

-
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.