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?"

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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."