Saul doesn't say much for a moment.  He's processing.  Trying to evaluate where Cao is on this thing.  In her head, most likely.  "Falcon, Gimp.  You need to not be on the ground right now.  Pull Razorback about fifty meters and maintain a presence, but right now you are an absolute shit magnet.  This has to transition rapidly to law enforcement or we're going to be dealing with anger instead of shock."  It's not the finest radio discipline he's ever used, but it should get the point across.  "Our people need you in overwatch."  Then Saul puts on his coaching hat and reaches far and hard.  Hopes Chevelle doesn't feel like getting chatty and than no one else clicked over to hear the "adults" in the room talk about what the kids should be doing.

"Falcon, you need to order Rawhide, Doc, and Anderson to start surveying the potential wounded from the HMG fire and to treat as necessary.  Local PD as security."  He very carefully does not say anything about the source of the HMG fire.  The tone is friendly, not fatherly.  He suggests gently.  Cao can judge herself.  Saul knows she will, he knows the type.  His eldest was the same.

Carissa stands, stretches.  Takes advantage of the momentary break in the action to drink some water and count her blessings that she still in one piece.  The adrenaline come down is familiar, like that in a rodeo arena, only with less spectators.  She has the urge to turn to the cop next to her and say: 'did you see that shit?  I dropped that chick hard!'  Of course, that thought makes her feel ill.  And proud.  She finds it easier to just drink more water and reload this bolt action rifle that she's getting to know pretty well.

She looks at the weapon and closes the scope covers to protect the fragile gas.  "Who made who a killer here, huh?" she whispers to it, then immediately feels self conscious about it.  What would the people around her think if they saw her talking to the rifle. Her mind's eye watches Chloe fall about five more times.  Each time she blinks.

Shit.

Scott runs the roster in his head, matching up the other team members with law enforcement experience to what needs to be done.  "Gimp, on your last, I have another tasking for Anderson.  Rawhide is paired up with a local wingman and she and Doc will need a guide."

He glances at Baird  "Hey.  We're about to take a lot of these guys into custody.  Are you gonna be good with that or do I need to rotate you out to the perimeter?"  Are you gonna start shooting prisoners after months of them fucking with your citizens?

The local cop nods sharply and clicks on the safety on his patrol rifle.  "My shit's wired down.  Don't bring McConnell up, though."

"Roger that."  Scott files away that datum.  "Falcon, Sexton.  Recommended assignments as follows.  Doc, Rawhide, and her wingman as per Gimp's last.  Myself, Rios, and my wingman on prisoner search and transport in the hot zone.  Your unit is the command post.  Remaining personnel in the warm zone for logistics and prisoner security.  Local police hold the hot zone perimeter."  It gives the search team one officer for contact and two for cover but the perimeter will be porous as hell.

As an afterthought, Scott fishes in one of his pouches and comes out with two chemlights.  He hands one to Baird, then cracks the other one and clips it to the carbiner on his armor's shoulder.  "Further: signal for friendlies in the hot zone is green, repeat, green chemlight.  No friendlies in the hot zone without that identifier."

OOC:

Overwatch and command post: Cao, Skillins, local PD command

Status check on friendlies: Carissa, Carswell, local Ofc. McConnell

Prisoner search and transport: Scott, Rios, local Ofc. Baird

Prisoner collection point: Anderson, Saul, Watkins for security; Murray and Kabua for logistics and drone coverage
This message was last edited by the player at 01:05, Wed 17 July 2019.

”All copied.” Lauren eases her finger off the PTT switch, takes a deep breath. Being told that she is a shit magnet had had the same effect as punch in the guts but she hadn’t argued or offered any retort. Anyway, there would probably be worse to come, so she might as well get used to it. She just hoped that Skillins hadn’t heard any of it, although that was probably being optimistic.

She takes a deep breath, then another, tries to gather her thoughts, to compose herself. Guillory and Noble Senior have told her what needs to be done but left it up to her to issue the actual orders. She figures they’re letting her save some face. Once she’s sure that her voice won’t falter or break she rotates the channel selector back to its original setting, keys the radio again. ”Draugr, I need you, Chef and -“ what the fuck was Xandra’s call sign? ”- Murray to move back to Gimp’s position and start getting ready to receive prisoners. Gimp will direct taskings when you get there. Break.”

Another deep breath before she continues. ”Doc, Rawhide, you move towards the rail cars.” Her hand shakes a little. ”Check for wounded, commence triage. We’ll send more resources as soon as we can.” That presumes that they’ll need more resources to deal with the casualties of course. They probably will. She’d turned the rail yards into a free fire zone. And now Carswell and Ms Noble are going to have to deal with it. ”Take the local LEO that’s with Rawhide with you.”

“Razorback will act as mobile command post. Chief Paddock -“ she braces herself for a reaction from the local PD Chief ”- can the rest of your people establish a perimeter and transport for Draugr’s team? All call signs, IFF is a green chemlight, say again a green chemlight to identify friendlies.”

Hopefully they don’t have too many questions. So after what feels like one of the longest radio transmissions she’s ever made she releases her radio, calls down to Skillins. ”OK Skillins, pull us back another fifty metres then hold position. Keep the lights off.”

The heat of battle dissipates, the sanguine rush of combat replaced by the bone-wary comedown that inevitably follows. The night remains oppressively heavy, in climate conditions, in mood.

The law enforcement/crisis management experience of Sierra's senior lawmen (Guillory and Noble) proves invaluable. That's not to say that this hard-earned expertise isn't strained at times. For many citizens of McGehee, old and new, on both sides of the law, this will be the longest night of their lives.

After a perimeter is established, the Sierra-heavy point team enters the Second Wave camp to take down the remnants of the resident criminal elements. The place is like an ant's nest that's been kicked, then doused in cold water. in the dark. It takes nearly all night but, by dawn of the 18th, the area is deemed secure.

The situation at the break of day on July 18 is as follows:

It is apparent that the D.S.B. street gang has been broken. The headless corpse of its field leader, Lil' Nappy (né Napoleon), is found, effectively decapitated by a .50 caliber round, not far from Madame Chloe's boxcar temple. He's identified by his tattoos and the chrome-plated AK found next to the body. The bodies of half-a-dozen other Snek Boys are laid out in a row near the still-warm ashes of the ritual bonfire, their motley assortment of dropped weapons safely secured. A few more makeshift weapons, including a milk-crate of Molotovs- unused during the night's fighting- are uncovered and confiscated.

The spiritual leader of the gang, and mistress of the Second Wave is confirmed killed. Cause of a death- a .308 round pierced her right side, an inch or two below her armpit, and punctured both lungs before lodging in her pelvis. She died very quickly, likely never regaining consciousness before expiring.

Fortunately, there are only two civilian casualties, victims of the inescapable crossfire, a woman killed by a stray large caliber round, and her daughter, cut by flying splinters (she's treated and released at the scene; her physical wounds will heal, her psychological and emotional wounds are, perhaps, another matter).

The bodies of the dead will need to be dealt with quickly. In the relentless heat and humidity of the southern Arkansas summer, they've already begun to stink and swell, posing legitimate health hazards to the makeshift refugee community, if not the entire town. A few die hard adherents insist upon a voodoo funeral.

In the days that follow, two wounded D.S.B. will turn up, both victims of small-caliber GSWs. Both will have developed infections by then. One will lose an arm but survive, the other will die slowly and in agony.

There are two officer involved shootings before daybreak, resulting in three more dead Second Wavers. One of the shootings is clearly justified, as evidenced by the serious machete wound sustained by the one of the involved MPD auxiliaries. The other is rather questionable, 'fugee witnesses vehemently denying that the victim had any ties whatsoever to Dem Snek Boyz, or was acting aggressively or resisting in any way when the shooting occurred.

Those Second Wavers brave enough to confront the de facto authorities register numerous complaints of police brutality and civil rights violations that allegedly occurred during the long night. For the most part, it's a matter of the accuser's word against the accused's. One rape is reported, allegedly at the hands of an auxiliary posse. The accusations, of course, are strenuously denied.

It promises to be another hot, sultry day, but a band of dark grey clouds on the southern horizon teases the prospect of rain.

Thursday, July 17th, 2030
0600 hours
79F, 75% humidity
Wind 2mph out of the southeast


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:35, Mon 22 July 2019.

The last couple of years have pretty much cured Scott's caffeine addiction via withdrawal, but that doesn't mean he doesn't miss it.  In lieu of a Starbucks fix, he settles for the usual patch job that will give him another three to five hours of lucidity before the crash: a thirty-minute combat nap, a quick shower and shave in the PD's locker room (using a wood-fired boiler apparatus whose evidence tags attest to its prewar origins as a confiscated moonshine still), and a change of clothes.  He gives the latter process more thought than it probably deserves, but in the end, Sierra needs to send the message that McGehee is going to remain under civilian authority.  So when he emerges, it's in court attire: charcoal suit, Arkansas-red tie, 1911 in the matching black and red stingray-skin holster.

A good tailor can do a lot for a plainclothes cop, and Scott had a long-standing relationship with a very good tailor before the bombs fell.  His soft armor vest is barely visible under the fitted shirt.  He has a small side bet with Saul as to whether Cao will notice it.

The unified Sierra and McGehee command group has taken over the station's small conference room.  Someone's been storing the local government's dwindling stock of dry-erase markers in Ziploc bags to keep them fresh, so the room's whiteboard is covered with an incident scene map, counts of Sneks and associates in custody, medical status reports... the anatomy and history of the preceding night, laid out in the neat handwriting of an octogenarian retired constable drafted to serve as scribe.  The radios are finally quiet save for status checks and patrol reports.

"Chief."  Scott has to repeat himself before Paddock jerks herself out of whatever waking dream has her staring at the texture of the cinder blocks.  "It's under control.  Why don't you put half your people on stand-down for a couple of hours.  We'll send someone for you before we brief the mayor and his staff at," he checks his watch, "zero-nine."

It's not really inflected as a suggestion, and Paddock takes the hint, levering herself out of her chair with visible effort.  "Yeah.  I'll be in my office.  If I get that far."  She nearly clips the door frame with her shoulder, but her voice is steady enough as she begins issuing the necessary orders.

Scott eases the door shut, drops into the vacated chair, and looks at Cao and Saul.  "I told Rios we needed half an hour for a command conference.  She's gonna send Kabua around with breakfast in a bit.  What do we need to discuss before he rolls up?"

Lauren watches from her own seat as Paddock rises, makes her way towards the door. The local Police Chief and the Air Force Captain haven’t exchanged a word since the end of the battle. You’re welcome. The Vietnamese American woman thinks to herself ironically. She knows she’s being unfair. Local PD had had to deal with this situation for a helluva lot longer than her team. Fuck, Sierra have been in town for less than twenty four hours. It feels longer. She is exhausted. Mentally and physically. It probably shows in her eyes.

Lauren looks at Guillory. A suit. And a tie. Like he was ready for a day in court. OK, maybe not. He is carrying a weapon.  Although that’s probably as much normal court room attire as a briefcase in a lot of courts these days. She’s oblivious to any wagers of course, but whichever one of them opted for ’she won’t notice’ would be scooping the pot.

The Air Force Captain is still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, although her plate carrier vest is resting against the leg of her chair, her carbine next to it, while her jacket is draped over the back of the chair. She’s undone the loose ponytail that her had had been in so that it now falls loose about her shoulders in a distinctly unmilitary look. She hasn’t showered, sweat showing on her t shirt, darker stains against the tan of her t shirt. The fake ‘voodoo’ symbols on her arms are more or less gone, the sweat having seen to that, only the odd stain lingering persistently. Her helmet is on the desk in front of her, next to a Cisco phone that looks dead, its LCD screen blank. Every now and then she’ll look at the helmet, let her fingers brush over the kevlar where the insurgent bullet had impacted it. She’d been lucky. An inch or so lower and she wouldn’t be here.

Ultimately the voodoo symbols hadn’t worked anyway. She isn’t putting that one at Saul’s door. It had been worth a try and she’d bought into. More than that, at one point she had actually been enjoying it. Not any more.

What did they need to discuss? Lauren runs a hand through her hair, tries to process her thoughts. Which isn’t easy given her fatigue. Or her mental state. Although she’s telling herself that it’s fatigue. But her mind is already drifting, as it had during the night, back to the moment when she had depressed the butterfly triggers, opened up with the M2. And beyond that, to the point where she had swung the barrel towards Chloe’s ‘attendants’. Only she knows how close she had come to opening fire on them. Which is probably just as well.

Lauren forces herself back into the here and now, looks at Scott. She doesn’t look away, holds his gaze. She had done what she had thought she had to do. Neither fo them had been in the JLTV watching men running towards them with Molotov cocktails. That had just been her and Skillins. Skillins had hardly said a word to her since, just the odd monosyllabic grunt when she had tried to engage with him as the JLTV had sat on overwatch.

”The dead bodies.” The Air Force Captain says after a moment, taking the Governor’s right hand man at his word when he asks what they need to discuss, presuming that he is simply referring to logistical matters, that there isn’t a subtext to what he’s saying, that what they need to discuss is her. She had done her job, kept her people safe. She knows that will be scant comfort to the girl that had lost her mother to a stray round, but what the fuck had Lauren been supposed to do? ”I heard some people want a voodoo funeral.” Paddock had mentioned it, though she hadn’t been talking to Cao at the time. ”That’s not happening. They need to know that this voodoo bullshit is over.” It’s not an oblique attack on Saul. His plan had been sound. It just hadn’t worked. That wasn’t anyone’s fault. ”I’d recommend mass cremation.” Unsaid but implied is that she’s only talking about the insurgents, not the woman that she shot. ”It’s quick and it doesn’t leave anything for anyone to rally around further down the line.”

”Other than that…” She shrugs, stifles a yawn. Not boredom. Exhaustion. Like Paddock she’s almost out on her feet. ”I guess you need to decide what you’re doing with the rest of them. Does due process apply? Or are you shipping them all up to Little Rock?” And if so then what? And her use of the word ’you’ makes it clear that from her perspective DSCA no longer applies, this is now the State Government’s problem.

Saul taps his knuckles slowly on the desk.  Unlike his counterparts, he's not dressed either strictly military or civilian.  He's advertising a weird hybrid of BDU pants and law enforcement t-shirt, the sweat-through cloth stained white with salt from the stress and heat of the day/night before.  The Memphis PD logo has faded with time, the yellow printing separated and flaking.   Sierra is holding itself together and he's proud of that, but they're at the far edge of the string.  Cao is upright and dealing well with what came before and that's a good thing.  The former cop does wish the voodoo-hoodoo plan would have worked out better, but then, shit happens in combat.  Murphy says no plan survives contact with the enemy and Saul has never seen it go any other way.

"A quick disposal of the Sneks is the way to go, I agree," Saul says, also carefully avoiding the mention of a civilian bystander.  "I'd also recommend that the military aspect of Sierra be kept out of sight as much as possible.  The elements that we'd provoke know we're here anyway, but there's no sense in rubbing their noses in it.  The law-enforcement aspects need to be front an center, although Captain Cao should retain overall command."

A few slow turns of the neck pop Saul's joints and he shrugs.  He's not tired.  He's too old to be tired at this point.  Or maybe so tired that he just feels old.  "The tricky thing is going to be the law enforcement folks here.  We need to quickly get on top of the allegations that have been made against the auxiliary posse folks.  That's going to mean some interrogations, unfortunately."  Anticipating resistance, Saul puts a hand up.  "Two reasons for that.  One, if civilization comes back online in the next ten years, we don't need petty shit like this mucking up the works.  Two, those Wave-Two refugees need at least a bit of assurance that we're fair.  And yes, I know it's probably all spurious anyway.

"I can give Chief Paddock the bad news.  Invite the chief or some local representatives to observe.  I've been down this road with Marines involved in rumors of war crimes.  I know how to ask questions without it being an accusation, and I speak the language.

"Finally, let's get at least a third of our people down for rest.  They're not falling apart yet, but it won't be long.  And by 'them,'" he adds with a tired smile, "I mean 'me.'"

Scott nods.  "Saul is pretty much on the money.  We need to remind everyone here that the rule of law applies.  That means being ruthlessly impartial."  He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, reminding himself that those words apply to him too, no matter how much he wishes that Cao had kept holding down the trigger on the Sneks last night.

"So.  We handle the accusations of excessive force and sexual assault like any other law enforcement professional standards investigation.  Break out the GoPro and video the victim and witness statements.  It's gonna piss off the locals but they need the reminder as much as the prisoners do.  Have Doc examine the victims' injuries and determine if they're consistent with the accusations.  We've got no way to collect and process a rape kit, but someone - preferably not Doc, no offense to him - should conduct an examination of that subject, too, if we can find a female practitioner and if she'll consent to it."

He leans back and thinks for a moment.  "Agree with you both on the disposal of the bodies.  Mass cremation, today.  No voodoo rites.  First Amendment rights only go so far and there is a demonstrable link between their religious practices and their campaign of -" technical vocabulary momentarily fails him - "whatever-the-fuck you call a terrorist cult in official documents.  'Insurrection' sounds about right."

The folding chair creaks as he tries, unsuccessfully, to find a more comfortable posture.  "Once I have statements in hand and can make a preliminary determination of what I would or wouldn't have sent to a grand jury, I'll call Little Rock and request transport for whoever needs to be shipped out.  Acting in good conscience, I don't think we can leave the prisoners here when we pull out.

"Lauren, Saul and I will get those processes started.  One-third of the team on rest applies to command staff too and," he almost smiles, "no offense, but you look like I feel."

Lauren tries to focus on the conversation that’s going backwards and forwards but she’s only partially successful, her mind drifting as the conversation goes backwards and forwards, thoughts going back to the events of the previous evening, images of gangsters being literally torn apart by large caliber rounds playing in front of her eyes for a moment before she forces herself back to the present. The insurgents - she’s back to thinking of them in purely military terms - had had their chance to surrender and had opted to ignore it. Everything that had happened after that had been on them,. Not her. They were just like the Communist infiltrators that her grandfather had told her about, terrorising innocent villagers in Vietnam. Grandfather had told her how the ARVN had dealt with the likes of them. She hoped that he would have approved of her actions, regretted that she had not had a chance to finish off the insurgent leader with his Colt 1911, the one that he had carried throughout his ARVN service, the same one that now nestled in the holster strapped to her right thigh.

Part of her wonders why Scott and Saul are so concerned about what the insurgents are saying. If she had lived here under their reign of terror and heard the screams as innocent men and women had tires put around their necks then set alight she.s not sure she would be able to keep herself in check if she had a chance to get revenge. No, these bastards had got what they deserved. Just like the bastards in Grady. They didn’t deserve any rights. A thought coalesces in her mind. She should have kept shooting, saved everyone the trouble of having to deal with the aftermath. Why hadn’t she? She closes her eyes, recalls the wailing noise that she had heard. A short burst with the fifty cal would have stopped that. Just a gentle squeeze of the triggers, a few rounds, carefully, so as not to go beyond their intended target. Why hadn’t she?

”What’s the problem here?” The words are out before she’s had a chance to think about them. She jerks her head back, blinks. Fuck, she wished she had some Benzedrine, but she hadn’t seen anything like that for years, probably the first few months after the nukes had dropped. ”Forget it, you’re right.” A hand waves semi apologetically as her brain clicks into gear. They were right. Weren’t they?

”And yeah, if you don’t need me I’ll try and get my head down for a bit. But wake me if anything happens.” She’s already pushing her chair back and bending down to gather up her body armour and weapon. Once she's scooped everything up she'll make for the door. There’s probably somewhere in the police station that she can get some rest while Saul and Scott start their investigation.

Most of the morning is taken up with police work that, until a few years prior, would have been considered routine. Under the circumstances, it doesn't feel that way.

It's nearly impossible to collect statements from the Second Wavers. Their collective lack of cooperation, if not naked hostility, means that little headway is made on that front. When it is announced that those killed during the night are to be cremated, a riot nearly breaks out. Surviving community leaders insist on interment. (OOC: Will you allow it, or cremate the bodies).

Despite her obvious exhaustion, Acting Chief Paddock is fully cooperative, even when it comes to interviewing MPD auxiliaries accused of violating the law during the previous evening's events. McGehee's hospital has rape kits in stock, but no way to process them, and the alleged victim refuses to allow Carswell or any other medical professional, female or male, to examine her, even when informed that this will effectively scupper the rape investigation. (She does identify a posse member as her attacker from a crude photo lineup; when interviewed, the man vehemently denies assaulting the young woman. As it stands, it's currently a matter of he said, she said.)

Those who've leveled accusations of police brutality bear an assortment of cuts, bruises, and contusions, but given the anarchy of the last 12 hours, it's difficult to determine what injuries were intentionally dealt, which are incidental, and which are unrelated to the police action. Saul, however, using his signature avuncular interrogation style, gets one young posse member to admit kicking a cuffed, prone suspect in the head.

Six D.S.B. suspects- identified by their serpentine gang tattoos- are in custody in the MPD station jail. Even if none of them can be placed at a specific crime, Chief Paddock reckons that all can be charged with racketeering, given the gang's extortion of food and alcohol from the town gov't. Another gang member be arrested when he turns up at the hospital with a gunshot wound to the upper arm (the arm will need to come off).

It's not all angst, though. A delegation from Lil' Easy arrives at the station to express their gratitude for the destruction of the D.S.B. and Madame Chloe's "devil worshipers".

Kabua feeds the team breakfast, in spite of his leg wounds, before retiring for a few hours of shut-eye. Others nap when they can and as they are able, but none of the Sierra's get enough rest to eliminate the muddy feeling and flat affect of the sleep deprived. The clouds off to the south creep closer to the town, but not nearly fast enough.

Shortly after noon, a ARDOT dually towing a two-horse box trailer pulls into the McGehee Police Station, three men sitting in the truck's cab.

Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:29, Sun 08 Sept 2019.

Staff Sergeant Nashoba Nash Carterby climbed out of the pickup truck and turned to his companion in the vehicle. "Abbie, I'm gonna go find this Captain Cao and report in. You wanna stay here with Red or come and join me?"

Nash is stocky man, a little under six feet in height and weighing just over a hundred and ninety pounds. He looks to be older than he actually is, in his late forties to early fifties rather than the forty four his dog tags record, and, from his complexion, he probably has Native American ancestry. His facial hair is nicely trimmed, though grey is showing in it, and he's shaved that morning for once, rather muting the weathered look he normally has. Most distinctive in his appearance are the wooden earrings he has in both ears, an affectation that is either connected to his Choctaw ancestry or is just a piece of pseudo ethnic decoration.

Like many members of the ASDF he's dressed in a mishmash of camouflage clothing. Brown, good quality hiking boots, a pair of lightweight civilian pants in a forest camouflage pattern, probably bought for use in hunting, a US Military issue Army Combat Shirt with the Universal Combat Pattern on the sleeves and a wide brimmed bush hat, also in a forest camouflage pattern but not one that matches his pants. Strapped to his right thigh is a pistol in a drop leg holster, the black grip that of a mid sized automatic, while on his left hip is a large bladed survival knife.

Before going to look for Captain Cao, Nash pulled his combat jacket out of the pickup and put it on, despite the noon day heat, the two letters from the duty officer he was to deliver still secured in a pocket. As well as his rank insignia the jacket also included quite a number of unit patches, almost like he was collecting them. To the knowledgeable person there was the upwards pointing red arrow of 32nd Infantry, the crossed bayonets of 10th Mountain, the 153rd Infantry badge with the Great Bear on it, the Bowie knife of the 39th Infantry Brigade Combat Team and even a version of the Arkansas State Guard unit patch, sewn in black, green and grey thread to make it a combat patch. There were other badges as well as these, all also done in subdued colours to avoid them standing out against the camouflage. There was the arrow head shaped badge of the National Park Service, a Browncoats triangular patch, pointing downwards, a Rebel Alliance patch in grey and black and unit patches for the Colonial Marines and the Mobile Infantry. It was certainly a non regulation collection but did that kind of regulation really matter any more.

He also pulled out his rifle and slipped it's three point sling on, letting it hang handily at his right side for the moment. It was a Patriot Ordnance Factory P308 Edge semi automatic rifle fitted with some version of an Aimpoint red dot sight, certainly not a standard issue firearm but Nash had been a fan of shooting as a hobby prior to his first enlistment and as he had got older his toys had just become more expensive. Lastly he retrieved his forest pattern MOLLE plate carrier vest from the pickup, with his advanced combat helmet clipped to it amongst all the other pouches, and slung it over his left shoulder.

So equipped he looked around for someone at the McGehee Police Station who could tell him where to find Captain Cao.

"Think I'll sit tight for this one, Nash. I don't much trust these locals without having met 'em yet. And this is mighty fine truck to jus' be leavin' around out here." He takes a breath as he slides out of the passenger side of the grimey white ArDOT truck, before continuing, "'Sides, Red hates these trailers enough. Don't wanna leave him alone out here in this heat - he's liable to be angry with me enough as is."

Abbie walks around toward the side of the horse trailer and reaches into a pocket, pulling out an old apple that he had been holding onto, before sliding it between some bars. "There you go, fella. We're here. I'll let you out just as soon as I can." Abbie does his best to calm the horse before continuing in a yell over to Nash. "You go on in and do your thing! I'll keep an eye on things out here!"

"Flamethrower?" Paddock asks, with a cough brought on by bemusement. Smiling, she follows up with, "Is that somethin' most towns y'all pass through happen to have on hand? 'Cause we don't."

She grows serious, continuing,

"Look, I can see where you're comin' from here, Mr. Guillory, Captain Cao, but burnin' them bodies could come back and bite us in the butt in other ways. There's still close to a hundred Second Wavers here that we're gonna have to keep livin' with after y'all move on. And I don't want the State to come at us later, askin' why we destroyed evidence."

The acting chief then proposes an alternative,

"We can bury them out back, like we did the one's tried to attack the station. We'll be able to keep an eye on the plot that way, make sure they don't try no more of that voodoo shit. But folks can come pay their respects, and we can't be accused of desecratin' the dead or anything like that. It's more dignified."

It's clear from her tone that she feels very strongly about this, but she adds, "I'm just the actin' chief of police, though, so this kind of decision is probably above my pay grade. It's your call."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:40, Mon 29 July 2019.

Lauren’s tempted to retort that if the town had had a flamethrower it might not have needed their assistance. It’s probably fairly safe to say that any chance she had of finding common ground with Paddock evaporates when the Chief thinks the suggestion is funny. Lauren’s mood probably isn’t improved by the fact that she had only got her head down for forty minutes or so after her earlier conference with Scott and Saul, and even then she hadn’t slept, had just lay on a couch and tossed and turned while her thoughts had drifted back to the night before.

”You’re right, Chief.” The Air Force Captain replies with a brief smile, one that only lasts a moment or so. If Paddock thinks she’s come round to her way of thinking that thought is going to be short lived. ”It’s our call.” Lauren sounds every bit as determined to stand her ground as the Police Chief is.

The guy who would be Arkansas' attorney general if he ever asked the governor for the job chuckles mordantly.  "I can assure you the current administration will not be asking about destruction of evidence once my report gets to Little Rock."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:33, Wed 31 July 2019.

Xandra is using the tailgate of Ace Hardware as a workbench on which to clean "her" Raven and pack it for transport.  It's none the worse for wear after its controlled crash in an overgrown lot, even though it took her most of an hour to track down all the parts.  The fact that the little aircraft is designed to come apart on impact strikes her as questionable engineering, but then again, it was designed for soldiers.

She looks up at the sound of an approaching vehicle.  She doesn't recognize the truck, which is cause for a momentary trickle of adrenaline and a hasty pat at the rifle slung muzzle-down across her back, but the two men stepping out of it are definitely not cut from the same cloth as the Sneks.  Still, she digs an elbow into Skillins' bicep to wake him up before she walks over.

"Xandra Murray, STAR Sierra," she introduces herself, looking up at the big guy.  It takes her a moment to process the patch collection for what it is, rather than a biker's colors, and she grins as she recognizes the Browncoat badge.  "Help ya with somethin'?"

"Nash," he replied to Xandra, offering his hand in greeting, a smile on his face, his friendliness genuine. "Nashoba Carterby, ASDF. Pleased to meet you. I'm looking for your CO, Captain Cao. Any idea where she is?"

"Yeah.  She's in the cop shop."  Xandra jerks a thumb in the direction of the building.  "Come on, I'll take you in."  She pauses.  "Oh, hey, tell your buddy to keep an eye out.  We had a little bit of a gunfight with the local New Orleans voodoo posse last night and they aren't all accounted for yet."

Xandra leads Nash into the building and knocks on the frame of the door to the conference room.  "Captain?  Two more ASDF just rolled in.  Staff Sergeant Carterby here is lookin' for you."  She indicates Nash with a nod, mildly pleased with herself for deciphering the chevrons.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:21, Thu 01 Aug 2019.

"Well, that was fast," Scott observes sotto voce to Saul.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:21, Thu 01 Aug 2019.

"Abbie," he called across to his travel buddy. "They had some trouble last night with some voodoo gang and there could well be members still active so keep yourself sharp until we get everything squared away. I'll be back ASAP."

With a nod of gratitude to Xandra he then followed her into the police station, noting her informal garb, even for the ASDF, and smiled to himself. He reckoned that he was going to fit in well with this Sierra team if they were showing a degree of common sense when it came to matters like that.

After Xandra had introduced him, Nash placed his vest and rifle against the wall and then played it safe. He wasn't sure just how much of a stickler Captain Cao was for formality so he stood reasonably to attention and delivered a formal, but not parade ground, salute. Best to make a good first impression if you could.

"Captain. Please to meet you. Myself and Corporal Clark were sent to join your team." He paused and lowered his salute to pull two letters from an inside pocket of his jacket which he then handed over to Lauren. "We were asked to bring these to you from HQ mam. One of those is an addendum to your orders. Something about investigating a POW camp at Jerome as HQ hasn't heard anything from there since before the storm and the two of us joining your team." He glanced around the room to confirm that Anderson wasn't present before continuing. "The other is a personal letter for one of your team. For Tech Sergeant Anderson," he added. "There's been some bad news for his family and it's been decided further up the chain that he needs to go home for the moment for some compassionate leave."

In reply to Nashoba 'Nash' Carterby (msg # 342):

"Copy that, buddy." Abbie responds jovially to Nash before the First Nation soldier enters the police station with the short woman. He rubs his neck in frustration at hearing the news about the recent violence, and returns to the cab of the truck, first giving a quick farewell to his trusty horse. From inside the cab, he pulls out his M4 carbine and holds it at rest.

Before heading into the police station herself, Xandra gets a fair look at him for the first time. Abbie is fairly tall, probably over 6 feet, and gangly. He has the look of a man that has eaten too little and been in the sun far too long. Greasy brown hair cut short rings his weather beaten face, with deep ridges of premature aging and wrinkles. His nose is fairly bulbous, with blood vessels bright red clearly from too much drinking. His skin isn't much better, tan and stained from a life of over-exposure. His slate blue eyes reveal a keen glint, but otherwise, he's far from what most would consider as being even close to attractive.

At the moment, he's wearing a boonie hat, MOLLE II tactical webbing and plate carrier, and BDU bottoms, all in OCP camouflage. Under the webbing, he's wearing a dirty maroon t-shirt, and a busted old pair of brown Merrell hiking boots complete the ensemble. None of the equipment appear to have any kind of patch or symbol attached - just various layers of grime and sweat stains. Onlookers would also notice him carrying what looks like a fairly weathered, but high quality compound hunting bow over his left shoulder.

Abbie slowly starts walking a loose perimeter around the truck and horse trailer, intent on keeping a look out. His gait is awkward, his body almost at a slant as he appears to favor his left side, perhaps due to an old injury. He looks around, briefly looking up at the old white water tower, 'M^cGEHEE' stenciled in red on the side. His view then looks west, toward the open fields. "This place needs some mountains..." he reflects to himself as he marvels at just how flat the land is.

"Look ma'am," Saul says to Cao from his seat, respect moderating his voice. "I get it.  These people suck.  But there's a fine line between rubbing their collective noses in our 'victory,'" the air quotes are visible in his voice, "and moving forward. And Acting-Chief Paddock here is going to be dealing with the aftermath long after our band of violence rolls south.  My recommendation is to back the Chief's request.  Bury them in the back with the other trouble makers." Saul turns to Scott before he can object. "Yeah, I get it.  No place for them to focus their efforts to rebuild.   Twofold answer to that.  One, Mama didn't always raise a gangbanger, even a voodoo one, and mourning can lead to healing.  Two, it's always nice when the scum rises to the surface and self-identifies.

"All that being said, ma'am, I'll back your play everywhere I need to.  It's your job to make the decisions.  It's my job to provide input."  Saul means it.

The arrival of Nash provides a much needed break in the conversation.

"My, my," Saul deadpans back to Scott.  "Unexpected news from back in The World.  That's always welcome."

Sure enough, when the newcomer Nash delivers his news, Saul's lack of enthusiasm is rewarded.  It's probably just fatigue talking.  At least Sierra will be picking up a few new folks.  Even if they lose Anderson.  Which isn't great.

He'll leave the introductions to Cao.

To her surprise, Carisaa sleeps.  Hard.  No dreams, just exhaustion.  At the last, just before she returns to consciousness, there's a sense memory of a rifle pushing back into her shoulder with a report, and then she's awake.  The day's heat is already pushing at her as she sits up and drinks long and heavy from the canteen next to her spot on the floor.  The nice thing about being a civilian is the troops don't quite know what to do with her and she doesn't have the law enforcement experience to be super helpful in processing the possible Sneks.  So she got put to bed for future security.  A quick glance at her watch shows that she's been asleep for five hours or so.

Nice.  Time to be useful.

She stretches long and hard then starts pulling the assorted bits and parts of battle-rattle back on her body and slung over her shoulder.  Settling for her Armadillo Rodeo Armor cap, she steps out to see a new truck parked out front with a horse trailer attached to the back.  That gets her attention.  A few moments later and she ambles over to peek into the back of the trailer at the horse standing in the metal box.  The animal looks good to her apprentice-trained eye.  Well cared for.  Except for the part of baking in the sun.  That parts not so good.

"Hey," she says to the gangly guy rounding the side of the trailer. "Nice lookin' horse here.  Can I help you get him out of the sun?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:27, Fri 02 Aug 2019.

They’ve only known each other for a short time but Lauren has already come to respect Saul, to trust his judgment, listen when he offers counsel. Partly it’s a cultural thing, even if subconsciously, for the Vietnamese American woman had been raised in a culture that showed due deference to elders. And partly it’s because he was usually right. She wished her grandfather could have met him.

She eases herself into a seat at the table, leans back, runs a hand through her hair, now once more pulled back into a tight bun that would be fully in accordance with military regulations. Was he right? She feels out of her depth, was making decisions on the spur of the moment. But a backlash against the cremations might be a flash point, but at least it would bring things out into the open. A burial plot for Madame Chloe could serve as a rallying point for future insurgencies for months to come, maybe years. And who was to say some fucking lunatic wouldn’t try to dig her up? The voodoo symbols that had been on Lauren’s arms are completely gone now, a brief shower courtesy of the impromptu lash up in the locker room having seen to that, but the memories of how she’d felt when she’d been made up as a voodoo Priestess were fresh. It had been intoxicating, easy to buy into the fantasy. Who was to say someone else wouldn’t try?

”I’m sorry, Saul.” Her tone is considerably more conciliatory than it had been when she’d spoken to Paddock. ”My original decision stands.” Her eyes flick to Scott, as though she’s hoping he’ll chime in with some verbal back up.

Before Guillory can do anything though there’s a knock at the door. Looking round, Lauren sees Xandra enter first, followed by someone that she doesn’t recognize. Looking at him, her eyes move over the assortment of patches but the newcomer himself most of them are unfamiliar to her, the only one she immediately recognizes being the Rebel Alliance one. Go Rey.

Her first thought is that this must be one of Paddock’s people, come to report in on something, but that notion is dispelled pretty much immediately as Xandra announces  that the newcomer is with the ASDF, although that prompts a wave of curiosity as to how he got here. And why he’s here.

When Carterby salutes Lauren returns the courtesy, her own salute one that has clearly been honed on various parade grounds and drill squares, although it’s swiftly followed by ”Stand easy, Sergeant…Carterby you said? And going forward there’s no need to salute while we’re in the field.” It’s said with a smile, intended to indicate that it’s not an admonishment. But when she’d been fighting the Allianza in ArkLaTex their snipers had used the exchange of salutes as a way to identify American officers. Sure, she doesn’t reckon there are any Venezuelan snipers holed up in the water tower overlooking McGehee Police Station, but this counts as being out in the field as far as she’s concerned and old habits die hard.

”I’m Captain Lauren Cao.” she offers by way of introduction, adding without a discernible pause ”United States Air Force, on secondment to the Arkansas State Guard.” It’s probably clear from how she self identifies that she considers herself to still be an active duty officer in the United States Armed Forces working with the State authorities, which puts her at odds with the Executive Order the Governor issued in 2029 which absorbed all USAF and Air National Guard personnel within Arkansas’ borders into the ASDF.

A hand indicates the others gathered around the table. ”This is Scott Guillory, with the Governor’s office and this is Saul Noble, civil affairs advisor.” The hand then moves in the direction of Paddock. Lauren may not like her but she’s not about to be a complete bitch. ”Acting Chief Paddock of McGehee PD.” She nods towards Sandra. ”And you’ve already met Mz Murray.” The Vietnamese American Air Force Captain is some five feet seven inches tall and is currently attired in Multicam trousers and a Tan military issue t shirt that bears no markings, her Multicam fatigue jacket draped over a nearby chair in deference to the temperature inside the police station, the heat a reminder that air con is an essential, not a luxury. A glance at the jacket draped over the back of her chair would reveal the expected adornments, a full color national flag on one sleeve, a lo viz USAF Security Forces patch on the other, railroad track rank insignia on both collar points, nametape above both pockets, one simply saying Cao, the other stating U.S. Air Force. Her helmet, body armour, and carbine are against the wall, while an M1911A1 Automatic Pistol sits snugly in a holster strapped to her right thigh.

It would be plain by looking at her that she is fatigued as she reaches out a hand for the offered letters, takes them with a murmured ”Thank you.” as she opens the one addressed to her, reads it quickly.

Check out a POW camp that had gone quiet. Her face remains impassive as she reads the letter, but she’s already thinking about the first stop on their patrol, the mass prison breakout they had encountered at the Cummings unit, really hopes this isn’t going to turn out to be a similar situation. At least this time they had some advance notice of what they were driving in to, could adopt the necessary defensive postures. After she’s read the letter she hands it off to Scott and Saul should either of them wish to read it. They could work out a route to Jerome later, once they’d wrapped everything up here.

Lauren then turns her attention to the second letter, looks at the envelope, addressed to Anderson. She had never really managed to get to know Anderson as well as she had hoped that she would when she had discovered that he was Air Force SPECOPS, the career path that Lauren had aspired to herself when she had volunteered to be a CRO. Except she had washed out. And now he was being recalled back to Little Rock. Lauren didn’t even know he had family there. Regardless, he was going to be a big loss to the team.

”Thank you Staff Sergeant Carterby.” the Air Force Captain says after a moment, slipping the unopened letter into the right hand cargo pocket of her Multicam pants. ”I’ll speak with Sergeant Anderson.” After she’d spoken to Saul. She’d never had to look someone in the eye and deliver this sort of bad news before. ”Do you need anything just now? Rations, ammunition, anything like that?” If two newcomers are joining her team that makes her responsible for them, so any personal admin will need to be sorted out.