The people of the town are strange
And they're proud of where they came
Well, you're talkin' 'bout China Grove
Oh-oh, China Grove

China Grove- the Doobie Brothers, 1973

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:20, Sat 31 Aug 2019.

Friday, July 19th, 2030
0900 hours
77F, 85% humidity
Wind 2mph out of the south


Sierra leaves McGehee after breakfast, heading south on State Route 65. With Guillory in agreement, Cao decides to prioritize investigating Jerome and its neighboring POW camp, so she leaves two boxes of mail for the town of Dermott with the exhausted Chief Paddock, who agrees to have it delivered on behalf of the MEMS STAR team.

Yesterday's rain has brought slightly lower temperatures, but increased humidity. The loamy smell of damp earth and rotting greenery seeps into the vehicle through their open windows. Michael McDonald's smooth vocals on the Doobie Brothers', It Keeps You Runnin', pipe through the vehicles radio speakers (courtesy of VOAR), barely heard over the road noise (unless someone violates SOP's by cranking the volume).

The highway cuts through miles of open fields, most appearing fallow. To the convoy's left (i.e. east), a green line of thick vegetation marks the meandering path of a waterway (on their maps, the blue line is labelled Boeuf River).

A couple of miles north of Halley Junction, a dot on the map about 7 miles south of McGehee, and 3 miles east of the town of Dermott, the convoy passes a roadside motel, its faded sign reading, American Inn. As the Sierra vehicles draw away from the motel, four motorcycles pull out of its otherwise empty lot and on to the highway to take station behind the convoy (none of the Sierras spotted the motorcycles in the the lot when passing the motel, so they were likely parked out of sight of the highway).

Nobody notices this tail for several miles, until the convoy passes through the hamlet of Bell Aire. At this point, Murray catches a hint of movement in Ace Hardware's side mirror. The four riders are about 150-200 meters behind the convoy. Objects in the rear-view mirror may indeed be closer than they appear, but Murray can't make out many details of the bikers in the reflected image.


Updated Campaign Map: https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:31, Mon 02 Sept 2019.

Xandra is distracting herself from a nicotine fit by watching for hawks on the roadside utility poles when something flickers in the corner of her eye.  She does a double-take and leans forward, staring into the wing mirror for a moment to confirm what she thinks she saw.

"Well.  That could be a problem."  She ignores the quizzical looks from Ace Hardware's other occupants and reaches for the radio mic.  A pause to draw a breath gives her the space to mentally compose what she's going to say.  "Moray to all Sierras.  We're being tailed by four motorcycles, about two hundred yards astern of Ace.  Can't see anything past that.  Um, over."

Belatedly, she realizes she probably should have used the vehicle's call sign rather than her personal one.  Fuck it.  Everyone knows what she meant, except maybe the two new guys.

She leans forward again to study the reflected image, trying to see if she can recognize any of the bike models from her time partying with that particular set of subcultures.

Shit. The first thought that goes through Lauren’s mind when she hears Xandra’s disembodied voice over the radio isn’t a good one. Dozens of the convicts who escaped from Varner days ago are still unaccounted for and the rumour had been that they were headed south. Which is the same direction that the Sierra convoy is currently heading.

The Air Force Captain reaches for the hand mic attached to Razorback’s radio, holds down the press to talk switch. ”Moray, Falcon, all copied, stand by. Break.” There’s a brief pause, perhaps a second, perhaps two, the Vietnamese American officer considering her options before she keys the mic again. ”Cleveland, Falcon. Trade places with us. We’ll play tail end Charlie. Break.” Rural Arkansas is passing by her armored window as she turns to Skillins. ”Slow down, let the truck pass.”

She then calls up to Kabua on the HMG. ”Kabua, four bikers on our six. Turn the fifty cal towards them but do not engage, keep the barrel up. If they come within a hundred yards put a burst over their heads.” She judges the chances of them closing in to be minimal. They might be prepared to buzz a truck, but they would have to be crazy to take on an armed and armored military vehicle. More likely whoever they were they planned to observe from a distance. And she’s not sure there’s much she can do to prevent that short of opening fire. They’ll easily outrun any pursuit.

She keys the mic again. This isn’t a military problem. Yet. ”Sexton, Gimp, Falcon. We’re trading places with Ace Hardware for now. Do you want to stop, see what they do?”

"You got it, Cap'n," Duane answers, slowly easing up on the accelerator and drifting into the right lane. He smiles to himself, imagining what's going to go through the bikers' minds when they see that the armored juggernaut has taken issue with them.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 01:32, Mon 02 Sept 2019.

Kabua hears the Captain's orders through the headset connected to the vehicle's intercom system. He answers, "Yes, Ma'am."

When Ace Hardware has drawn ahead, Kabua hits the power traverse and brings the M2HB around to face aft, lifting its barrel as he does so. Hopefully, the message is clear and he won't have to expend any more of the weapon's hard-to-replenish .50 caliber ammo on a warning shot.

The former army cook, now ersatz A-Gunner, grimaces in pain as he inadvertently shifts weight on to his wounded leg. It's not as bad as it was the day before, though, so that's a good sign, at least.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:35, Mon 02 Sept 2019.

Saul sits, chewing the inside of his cheek, thinking about Paddock and the Sneks.  He could watch more of Arkansas peel by the window, but there are enough eyeballs on that stuff.  His efforts are better spent trying to keep the wheels on the bus.  Paddock had been tired and pissed off.  Saul couldn't blame her.

Look. he'd told her, we're leaving and you're going to have to deal with all of this.  I'm sorry it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to.  Believe me, I am.  Things are hard enough.  It was an echo of the speech he had delivered on the bridge.  How you move forward is going to be up to you.  But if it were me, I'd make us look like the bad guys in all of this.  Like 'shit, I don't want to have to tell dad and have them come back to fuck everyone up again.' Make it clear we were running the show hard on you. Find a few of the more reasonable second wavers and offer them the chance for a private funeral.  Small groups of non-violent folks to come pay their respects.  Parents love their kids even if they suck.  Show them you can respect that.  You have to live together for a while.  There's hard and then there's less than zero.  Your choice.

It had been chickenshit to go behind Cao's back.  He knew that.  Still...it wasn't like he hadn't been down this kind of road before.  Gang violence in Memphis was worse than most people imagined.  Only difference here was a big wad of voodoo-hoodoo, but in his mind, it still came down to power and respect for people who felt neither.  Didn't mean it was an excuse.  More like a window to the mindset.

Cao's radio traffic snapped him out of the reverie.  As the vehicles start moving, re-positioning, Saul gets a glance down the road.  "Falcon, Gimp.  We've got a few grain silos coming up on the west side of the road.  I recommend we pull over there and say hi.  I don't want to get caught up in this next group of homes before we figure this out."  The silos aren't a great place for defense.  Because of that, they're not an awesome place for an ambush.  If he was going to hit the convoy, he'd do it from the houses where there were less places to run right away.

"Let's see what Arkansas has planned for us now," he says to no one.

"Shit, how did I not notice them?" Chevelle asks, now glancing at the four trailing motorcyclists in her own side-view mirror. "How long they been back there?" It's mostly rhetorical; she doesn't expect Murray to have an answer.

"Cleveland copies, Falcon. Passing now. Over."

Razorback is following the rules of the road, drifting right into the slow lane, so Chevelle eases into the passing [left] lane and presses down on the accelerator. Before she closes up on the J-LTV, she takes another quick look in the side view.

"Looks like at least one of 'em is strapped."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 01:39, Mon 02 Sept 2019.

In the front seat of the point vehicle, Scott is keeping his eyes on his sector - which is to say, straight ahead, scanning the sides of the road as Carswell keeps them centered on the faded and peeling yellow line.  The idea of trouble behind the convoy is so far from his mind that Saul has reached between the front seats and snagged the mic before he can form a reply to Cao's transmission.  He twitches his shoulders, gives Carswell a slight sarcastic eye-roll, and reaches for his helmet.

"Plan?" he replies to Saul's rhetorical almost-a-question.  "You're asking too much.  This is the land of instinct and poor impulse control."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:09, Mon 02 Sept 2019.

"Who isn't, these days?" Xandra says to Chevelle, still studying the motorcycles.  "If they want to catch us, they will.  Not a lot heavy-duty here can do about that."  She pats Ace Hardware's dash with something resembling affection.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:14, Mon 02 Sept 2019.

Sat in the back of Razorback, Nash glanced out of the windows, trying to get a view of the bikers following them. As Ace Hardware passed them, leaving them as tail end Charlie, Nash called up to Kabua as he clearly had the better view of the motorcycles. "Kabua, what details can you see? Are they bikers and are they wearing any gang colors? Also, can you see any radios?"

At points in the past when he had been a Park Ranger he had had problems with biker gangs, a few minor run ins when they had wanted to have a party somewhere and Nash had been part of the authorities telling them to keep it under control. They had tended to hack down any trees they felt like for a bonfire and left vast amounts of trash, mostly beer cans and bottles, behind after they had finished their revelry. He had also done more than his fair share of clearing up after them as a result but they weren't all bad. Some of them had even helped with the tidying. From Nash's experience many of the bikers just liked to live life under they own rules and he could appreciate that. He knew many Choctaw who thought the same way. The deprivations caused by the war and the break down of normal society had changed many of them however, both bikers and Choctaw, and shared cultural bonds had become even more critical to a lot of people, instilling and cementing isolationist attitudes.

"Captain," he said turning to Lauren. "I wonder if they're trying to flush us somewhere. Either to prompt us to pull over somewhere or to drive us towards something or someone. Four of them following us seems a lot if they're just watching the road."

Jackson can't remember the new guy's name. Is is Carter? Clark? No, that's the other one. He's not sure. He studies the four motorcyclists. It's difficult to make out much detail from this distance, especially since the riders appear to have gotten the message and are dropping back. They haven't stopped, though. Jackson reports what he does manage to see over Razorback's intercom system.

"They look like a biker gang. They're mostly in black, but one of 'em's wearing a red bandana. I don't see any radios, but they're kinda far, and they're slowing down. Wait! I think one of 'em just waved at me."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:52, Mon 02 Sept 2019.

Sitting behind the wheel of the Suburban, his own eyes hidden behind his wraparound Oakleys, Carswell grins when he catches the roll of Scott’s eyeballs roll in his peripheral vision, grins wryly. ”Looking for a gold star from GI Jane?” It’s said quietly. They’ve got one of the new guys riding with them after all.

The paramedic then glancing momentarily in his rear view mirror, not because he expects to see the bikers, rather to get the attention of their other new passenger, his voice returning to its normal level as he speaks to Millie Bloom, his eyes returning to the road ahead of him, picking out the silos that Saul had spoken about. ”You seen any bikers around town recently, Ma’am, know if there have been any run ins?”

"We used to have a chapter of the Sober Riders," Millie answers. "But if you mean the outlaw type, no sir, not in McGehee."

-

Lauren is reaching for her helmet as she listens to Nash. In a case of do as I say not as I do, hers is on the dash of the JLTV. As she lifts it towards her head she notices the gouge in the kevlar caused by the insurgent bullet thirty six hours ago.

”If they’re trying to intimidate us they’re going to come off worst.” She muses as she fastens the chin strap in place, adjusts her ECH slightly, her eyes concealed behind her Wiley X Valor ballistic sunglasses. There’s an air of determination in her voice. The bikers are seriously outgunned. Maybe that’s why they’re falling back. Her helmet on, she reaches for the radio mic again. ”Gimp, Falcon, copy that. We’ll follow your lead. Be advised one of them just waved. Over.”

Replacing the mic on its clip, she checks her own door mirror as she speaks to the crew. ”OK, Skillins, pull over with the others when we get to the grain silo. Kabua, keep watching them, but keep the barrel up. Let’s see what they do.”

As the Sierra convoy approaches the grain silos, those who can spare a set of Mark I Eyeballs purposefully scan the three sentinel-like structures and the area surrounding them for signs of an ambush. Nothing untoward is spotted. The quartet* of ASDF vehicles stops on the shoulder just east of the silos.

The four motorcyclists do the same about 300m behind Sierra's Tail-end Charlie (currently, the J-LTV). A few moments pass until one of the riders detaches himself and approaches the parked convoy. At about 100m, he stops, parks his bike, removes his black coal-scuttle style riding helmet, and closes the remaining distance between the two parties on foot. He's got a rifle of some sort slung across his back and a drop holster strapped around his left thigh. He walks with both finger-less glove-clad hands raised.

As he draws closer, more details are noted. He more or less wears the unofficial biker uniform consisting of equal parts denim and leather. His black leather vest, trimmed in red, displays a number of badges, some vaguely military in appearance. He wears a red bandana on his brow. Aviator shades hide his eyes. His leathery skin looks sun-baked and wind-burned. He could be Latino or just very tan, possibly both. When he's within hailing distance of the J-LTV, he stops, calls out,

"Name's Lefty- Sergeant-at-Arms, Combat Vets Motorcycle Club. You here about the shootout at the prison?"

The other three riders hold station roughly 300m down the road.

*OOC: Bourbon Street is no longer towing the horse box. The civilian truck, make, model, year TBA, crew TBA is.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:19, Wed 04 Sept 2019.

Clark ambles beside the parked vehicles and watches the lone rider approach. This didn't seem like the approach a biker gang would use, he thought to himself. They'd be more likely to come in guns blazing. Unless they were trying for some kind of ruse, that was. Clark's right eyebrow raises at hearing the man speak, as a few drops of sweat start making their way down his forehead. Well, that seems to line up.

He walks over to Nash and mumbles to his fellow Afghan vet, and the only man he has any more than a passing knowledge of in his new ad hoc unit, "Seems legit to me. Cautious and wise approach, that's how I'd expect a vet to do it. What do you make of this?"

As soon as the convoy stops, Saul steps out of the back of Bourbon Street and starts moving.  He'd like to say the action is to pull security.  In truth, he just hurts and needs to move his legs.  His eyes catch Carissa and he gives her a toss of the head towards the silos and she's off, searching for elevation and bad guys.  Long way from the first day of school.  She's a killer now.  Tried and true.

Instead of dwelling on the hell of war, he starts ambling back towards Razorback and the now stationary motorcycle quartet.

"Looks legit. Ish." he announces when he arrives at the command vehicle.  Eyes track the solo figure coming towards them. "It's how I'd approach.  If I didn't want to get shot.  Still...risky."  The approaching figure reminds the old cop of Mad Max.  All the man is missing is a giant rottweiler.  I really want not to find the Lord Humongous.

At the report of a gunfight at the prison, Saul sighs and he gives Cao a glance.  "Looks like the storm's got killing on everybody's mind.  For me it's the damn mosquitoes.  You want me to go say hi?"

"If he's with the CVMC, they're at least nominally legit," Scott supplies from a pace behind Saul.  "Classic old-school veteran biker club."  He quirks a corner of his mouth at the ex-Marine and current Air Force officer.  "Before your time in-state, Captain, but the TAG thought highly enough of them that he tried to regularize them into the ASDF.  They were polite about it but they said they'd had enough of following orders."

He shrugs and turns his gaze to the bikers.  "Verify, but trust provisionally, is my thinking."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:28, Thu 05 Sept 2019.

When the J-LTV had pulled over, and people had started clambering out, Nash had followed suit, carrying his rifle but keeping the barrel pointed down at the ground, trying not to look too threatening while spreading wide so that he could find a position to provide covering fire if needed.

As Abbie approached Nash clocked one of his new team mates, Carissa if he remembered her name correctly, heading for one of the silos, presumably looking to find some high ground. With a nod of his head he made sure that Abbie had noted her as well while he pondered his companion's question. He also took the opportunity to look further at the lead biker who had approached to talk. "Yep, he clearly knows what he's doing. Some bikers aren't all bad news and there's a lot of vets amongst them so they probably just want to talk." He glanced around again before continuing. "Let's not take any risks though as some of them are just assholes who were knee deep in crime before it all started and have just seen the war as an opportunity to build up their power. Why don't you take a walk down to the other end of the vehicles and keep a watch out from there. I'll pull security this end."

Nash then continued to keep scanning around, focused mostly on places where further people could be hidden rather than on the four bikers who had followed them, just in case they were the decoys designed to draw their attention away from someone else.

"Yeah, you got it."Abbie responds to Nash with aplomb, then starts walking away back toward the southern end of the vehicles. As he's walking away he looks back over his shoulder, offering a quip, "Don't go and get yourself shot now."

He'll take up station just south of the vehicles, M4A1 held at the low-ready, and keeps his eyes locked onto what appears to be a farming house and compound down the road about 200m to the southeast.

Lauren is in sporting full battle rattle as she climbs down from the JLTV, her M4 held at the low ready across her chest as she watches the apparent spokesperson come closer. She can’t deny that if they’re looking for trouble they’ve adopted a somewhat unusual approach. And it must be obvious to them that they’re outgunned. Even sitting at three hundred metres out they’re well within range of the Ma Deuce. So the probability was that, as Saul and Scott had both said, he was on the level.

She looks over at Saul, nods in the affirmative. ”If you’re happy to meet him then let’s see what he has to say. Do you want some company or would you prefer to fly solo?” The Air Force Captain will accompany him if he wants, but decision is his. She trusts his judgement.

Saul looks at the lone motorcycle rider, the silos where Carissa is presumably climbing, and shrugs. "Nah, I'll go solo.  He's alone, I should return the favor.  It looks good, I'll invite him and his crew forward.  Besides, this is what I get paid the big bucks for."

The ex-Marine pats his pockets, gives his helmet covered head a shake, and runs his fingers across his holstered pistol.  With that done, he starts walking away from the vehicles and down the road under the hot Arkansas sun.

"Shoot out, huh?"  he calls as gets a little closer to the man, "that doesn't sound great."

Saul stops about ten feet away from the leather clad biker.  "Saul Noble, ASDF by way of the USMC and Memphis PD.  Happy to meet you.  Care for some shade?"

Carissa bounds up the thin metal stairs that surround the silos, reaching for a high spot to set up shop.  The sense of hurrying with a rifle in her hands has become familiar.  Almost exciting.  Breath is coming is puffs timed with her boots striking the aluminum treats, the sound of impact carried in the rattling of the frame.  Finally, she reaches the top and takes in the scene below.  Three riders in the distance and, no surprise, her dad walking forward to meet their ambassador.

Given the amount of firepower pointed down the road, Carissa turns her attention to the countryside and starts looking for threats.

Lefty accepts the invitation, follows Saul to the shade on the west side of Razorback. For now, his fellow bikers hang back. When the subject of the shootout at the prison comes up, the CVMC Sergeant-at-arms explains somewhat impatiently,

"Yeah, they're long gone by now. You guys sure took your sweet ass time gettin' down here."

Noting the looks of incomprehension on a few of the faces around him, Lefty exclaims, "Man, they didn't tell you shit, huh?"

Saul and the other Sierras present don't let on that they aren't here to investigate the incident, or that they don't even know about it. When prompted, Lefty gives a grudging, informal report.

"Yeah, so- this is right around a week ago- early in the mornin', an hour or two before sunrise. A prison bus crashed through the fences- from the outside- at the Delta Unit. They shot up a couple of guard towers, busted some of the prisoners out, then took off heading west like a bunch o' scalded dogs. We got the call as it happened, showed up as the cons were leavin', chased 'em outta town. Shot up their fuckin' bus pretty good." There's a slight hitch in his low, gravelly voice as he continues, "Lost a brother, though. Another one's probably gonna lose his eye."

Lefty seems comfortable enough with the newcomers now to signal his three road-dogs over to join the confab in the meager, slowly-dwindling patch of shade in the lee of the J-LTV. The three bikers putter over noisily as the conversation continues.

Lefty points away north, "You know you missed the turn off to Dermott, 'bout 3 miles back, right?"

It's apparent now that Lefty isn't referring to the prison break at Varner/Cummings. Guillory surmises that the Delta unit the biker lieutenant mentioned is located just east of the afore-mentioned town. When asked how many prisoners escaped during the raid, Lefty answers,

"Talked to the guards. They said about two dozen- Caucasians only."

At some point during the conversation, one of the Sierras mentions Jerome (but without revealing why).

"Jerome? No, not for a few months. They got the gawdamn black plague over there. Big warning signs on the roads in, dudes in Hazmat suits patrolin' the area. The Cee-Vee-Em-Cee will take on anyone- Russians, Chinese, Mexicans, convicts- but fuckin' plague? Naw man, we don't fuck around with that shit."


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:40, Sun 08 Sept 2019.

"Sounds like someone is driving around collecting assholes," Saul says in response to the news of the prison break. "Best guess is either the the folks from Grady or someone linked to them who like the idea of collecting a few more good'ole boys.  Not a fan of coincidence in this case."

To Lefty he says, "Y'all have been out here a while.  Any sense of groups that have been collecting white boys and white boys only?  Any groups spouting extra racism?" This part of the world, times like these, reversion to historical norms is all too common and easy.

Saul chews on his thoughts for a few more minutes. "Ma'am," he says to Cao, "My recommendation is we send at least a few folks over to Dermott to check on the situation and the casualties.  I can take Car as a medic leaving Carswell with you for any needs that arise.  A few more folks wouldn't hurt, just to reassure everyone that the ASDF is out here and takes an interest in their lives."

Symbols matter, the former Marine knows.  To have a sense of government, society, you have to have a government that actually shows up.  And that means boots on the ground where they're needed.  Even when orders say that you might be needed somewhere else, too.

Lauren takes a sip of water from her camelbak as she mulls over what she’s just learned, looks over at Lefty. ”You said that you hadn’t been near Jerome for a few months. When did you first hear that they had the plague?”

The Air Force Captain ooks at Saul, although her eyes remain hidden behind her sunglasses as she ponders his suggestion. ”I don’t know.” She says after a moment’s thought. ”Remember what a mess -“ she had been about to say a fucking mess, caught herself just in time ”- Varner turned out to be. I don’t want to send an understrength group there until we know for sure what’s happening. It might be better if we all go.”

Lefty frowns, runs his hand over his chin whiskers. "Been hearing rumors about somethin' called 'the Kingdom', someplace west of Warren. From what I've heard, they're even more extreme than New America."



"End of last summer, maybe? Went back around Christmas, to check in, but they had those signs up so we turned 'round. Same thing earlier this summer."

Lefty proudly claims that the CVMC has taken responsibility for security for a box formed by the 35 in the north, Bayou Bartholomew to the west, the Missippi River to the east, and the 160 in the south. Its current club HQ is located in the town of Lake Village.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:09, Mon 09 Sept 2019.

Scott snorts at Saul's analysis.  "I'm not thinking coincidence here.  Remember Tyron and Luis back around Grady?  What was the phrase they used?"  He cocks his head.  "Ah, yes.  'Peckerwood Homeland,' I believe.  Captain, I'm inclined to agree.  Regardless of whether it's the same group or a case of parallel evolution, I think we want to go in with all available eyes and guns."

He turns to Lefty.  "For planning purposes, what do you the people in your AOR need from us or Little Rock?"

Lefty seems genuinely surprised by Guillory's implied offer of assistance. "Our AOR." The grizzled biker/vet smiles, musing out loud, shaking his head in either awe or disbelief, maybe some of both. "You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Guillory, but I do believe this is the first time anyone from the governor's office has asked the CVMC what we need, or given us our propers. It's always just been them tellin' us what we should or shouldn't be doin'." Lefty removes his sunglasses, revealing grey-green eyes, which lock on to Guillory's, "I appreciate that, Mr. Guillory. Respect goes a long way 'round here. And I really hope you're for real." There's a pause, as Lefty lets the weight of the aspirational comment sink in. After a few seconds, the Biker officer replies directly to Guillory's inquiry.

"Electricity. We got the biggest river in the whole damn country right next door but no power. If Little Rock can turn the lights back on, it'd be a helluva start. And," he adds with a mischievous grin, "you can never have enough ammo, am I right?"

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:15, Tue 10 Sept 2019.

Approaching Lefty, Nash nodded a greeting to him.

"You said something about seeing guys in Hazmat suits patrolling the area around Jerome as well as signs saying that they have the plague. How many guys in Hazmat suits? That's a lot of effort to go to if it's fake and where did they get the Hazmat suits if it's true. Were they armed as well?"

”Did you get close enough to speak to the people in the hazmat suits or see their faces? Or were they covered up?” It seemed to her like if the Communists had managed to take control of the camp what Lefty had described would be a good way of keeping away unwanted visitors.

Abbie continues to keep a lookout. From the sounds of things, the meeting was going well. There was no shooting, at least, and that was always a positive in his eyes.

Still, the group was in the open and exposed, so Abbie does his best to just keep his eyes peeled to ensure no one interrupts the impromptu gathering.

"I only saw a couple. Didn't get close enough to talk to neither one of 'em. They didn't seem like they wanted to talk to us either- waved us off. I mean, it doesn't take a rocket scientist, you know- big ol' plague signs on the roads, soldiers in NBC gear. I know I said 'hazmat suits' earlier but that was for the civies," Lefty smiles, nods in the general direction of Sierra's LEOs before continuing, "The people we saw were wearin' full military NBC gear- gas masks, gloves, overshoes- the whole nine yards. It would'a been real foolish to ignore all that for a little chat."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:36, Wed 11 Sept 2019.

"Only if you're swimming or on fire," Scott grins back.  Then he sobers.  "Your group would be 'from the governor's office,' in a manner of speaking, if your president hadn't told General McCready to, and correct me if I misquote, 'go fuck himself sideways with something sharp and decaying.'  Which is, I will admit, a new one even for me."  Something that might be a suppressed smirk tugs the corners of his mouth back up.  "I wasn't in the meetings but the TAG's office thought highly enough of y'all to be willing to bring you on board, which is not a distinction most clubs can claim.  I get that one round of uniformed service was enough for most of your membership.  That's fine.  From what we've heard since, you've been pretty much doing what the capital would've asked you to do anyway, just according to your own playbook.  Which is fine, because 'the' book isn't very relevant any more.

"Our mission," he nods to Cao, "is to support the local authorities.  Down here, right now, that looks like you.  Unless we find any evidence that you're violating the Constitution or doing anything illegal," he raises a placatory hand, "and I'm feeling fairly practical-minded about what constitutes 'illegal.'  Barring either of those factors, you've got our support to the extent that we can provide it - or request it from Little Rock."

He flips a finger in the direction of Xandra, who's pulling security and doing a poor job of looking like she's not listening.  "Once the local security situation is sorted, we'll have our engineer do an infrastructure survey and pass it back up the line.  As for the ammo, we'll see what the supply situation looks like after we deal with the first problem..."

Lefty laughs out loud when Guillory quotes the club president, interjects, "Yeah, that sounds like Red."

From that point on, he listens intently When Guillory is finished, the CVMC Sergeant-at-Arms reveals what the CVMC really wants from the state government.

"More than ammo, we want recognition, official status. It was never about not wanting to join the ASDF. We would'a signed on- all of us together- if they'd let us keep our own organization in place. But McCready wanted us to give up our bikes, our officers, even our patch. I mean, come on, General, be fuckin' reasonable."

"Bottom line is, the club carse about this state, and we do what we can to make it safe 'round here. We don't start fights, but you better believe we finish 'em. Like you said, we're basically doing what any other ASDF unit would be, only we're doin' it our own way. I'm glad you can see that. If you can get us... deputized, or something, I bet we could patch things right up with Little Rock."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:33, Wed 11 Sept 2019.

Scott nods and grins crookedly.  "So we're back to locally-raised cavalry units electing their own officers and registering their own heraldry?  I'm not opposed to the idea, and I have to admit there's historical precedent."

He sobers and shifts to put both Cao and Lefty in his field of vision.  "I'll give you a formal answer on that after I've seen your operations and interviewed the citizens in your AOR.  Yes, that's within my authority."  Given how conveniently undefined the limits of my authority are, thank you, Steve.  "But both the captain and I need to endorse it with our own observations."

Lefty seems pleased with Guillory's answer. "Absolutely. Totally understand. Y'all are welcome to come check out our operation in Lake Village. We'd love to show you what we're about."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:41, Thu 12 Sept 2019.

Sierra and the CVMC welcoming committee part ways and the former takes an unplanned detour to Dermott- a 12-mile round trip- to visit the Delta Regional Unit southeast of town (the latter heads to Lake Village, to brief the other club officers and prepare for Sierra’s visit later that afternoon).

---

Dermott

Approaching the prison complex from the northwest, it becomes apparent from the curling driveway leading to the parking lot that a section of the tall perimeter fence around the prison is missing. The gap has been crudely patched with a couple of rolls of concertina wire strung along the ground. An ARDOC pickup truck is parked on the grass, facing the opening, an armed guard keeping watch from the bed. He sees the approaching MEMS STAR convoy, nervously calls it in over his radio. A several tense minutes pass as first contact is made.

Both sides are cautious, tentative. Once the acting warden is convinced of Sierra’s bona fides, and vice-versa, a face-to-face, sit-down meeting is arranged. The Warden’s version of events differs little from Lefty’s. He reports that two guards were wounded slightly (they don’t require treatment) during the attack; two others were taken hostage, their current status and whereabouts unknown; one guard was killed- a quarter of the prison's guard force put out of action.

The acting warden allows Sierra to interview a few inmates. They more or less repeat what Tyron and Luis, the escapees from the Cummings unit, told Guillory several days earlier. White inmates, especially those belonging to Delta’s AAA (Arkansas Aryan Alliance) franchise, talked about a  “white homeland”, sometimes referred to as, “The Kingdom”, situated somewhere in the woods of south-central Arkansas. The names Warren, Camden*, and Hampton are mooted as possible centers of Kingdom activity. AAA members would frequently taunt inmates of color, saying, “When Proffit takes his throne, y’all are gonna hang.”

After lunch (OOC: please subtract one meal per person from unit stores), Sierra departs from Dermott  and rolls back on to the 65 heading south, traveling the 15 miles or so to Lake Village. The convoy picks up a CVMC escort at the Boeuf River crossing- two bikes fore, two bikes aft.

*Those intimately familiar with the state are aware that a munitions plant, testing center, and sprawling WWII-era storage facility is located close just east of the town of Camden.  The plant and testing center have been closed for over a year.

---

Lake Village

The club has prepared a royal welcome for the MEMS STAR team. An honor-guard of 20 motorcycles lines the exit, 10 on either side of the road. Unlike many OMC’s, the CVMC’s is ethnically diverse, with minorities making about half of its patched members. Lefty is waiting with Red (the president) and the other CVMC officers at the club-house, a complex that covers an entire block. Several flags fly from a pair of flagpoles- the Stars and Stripes and a state flag on one, a black POW*MIA flag ("You are not forgotten"), and a red and gold club ensign. Hands are shaken, pleased to meet yous exchanged, beers are offered.

Sierra's given free range of the town. The club doesn’t try to restrict the team's access to the townsfolk, a few of which are interviewed on the sly. They have nothing bad to say about the club, other than its bikes are loud. Yes, there have been a few drunk and disorderlies, and a bit of property damage, but nothing particularly felonious. A few Sierras even meets the town sheriff, a white-haired sexagenarian by the name of Pete Staples.  He says the club has made his job so easy that he considers himself semi-retired.

In post-apocalyptic America, if anyplace can describe itself as thriving, Lake Village can, and more or less does. The people of the town are proud of what they've built, and continue to maintain. Aquaculture produces a bountiful harvest of catfish, surrounding farms contribute all manner of useful crops. The town enjoys a cooperative relationship with Greenville, Mississippi, its neighbor just east of the mighty Mississippi. Trading is common and mutually beneficial. The neighboring towns have been assisting one another in cleaning up after the recent flooding. While the CVMS keeps Lake Village safe and secure, a Mississippi State Guard outfit does the same on the other side of the river.

Dinner is served at the club-house. The Vets have laid out an impressive spread for the visitors: the town’s claim to fame- catfish (“Best in the state, probably the whole damn country.”), grilled, fried okra, collard greens, the ubiquitous cornbread, ersatz sweet tea, home-brewed beer, and a local “rum” that tastes like turpentine cut with rubbing alcohol. A few joints are passed around. During the mostly convivial dinner, the club president repeats the requests made earlier by his Sergeant-at-Arms- official state government recognition of the club, and autonomy to continue to operate exclusively in its current AO, under its own officers- essentially, a letter of marque from the governor's office. After dinner, Red hands Guillory a file folder swollen with typed reports, and an accordion folder containing items that could conceivably be used to identify alleged highwaymen and bandits killed by the club in the course of its security duties, along with signed witness statements testifying that those killed had been caught breaking the law, and had fired first.

TBC...

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:55, Thu 12 Sept 2019.

--Then

Saul chews on the fried catfish, taking genuine pleasure in the dish.  It's been a while since honest-to-god Southern Cooking has crossed his pallet.  Not that they don't eat well back on the farm, they do, other than being too busy to really sit down and cook.  But this place is actually relaxed and comfortable.  For the time being.  Ah pessimism, there you are.  It doesn't sour his mood.   The honored arrival on the other hand...

"Look," Saul says quietly to Scott, "all I'm saying is I've never been comforable with parades and atta-boys.  I'm not a fan of being celebrated for doing my job."  A hand comes us to block the first, and obvious, protest.  "No, I don't think they're hiding anything from us.  The town is actually functioning.  That's too hard to fake.  Vacant towns? Fake it, sure.  Fish fries? Good fucking luck passing that off without a hitch as a trap.  Even the sheriff here is 'aww shucks.'  It's Mayberry with a biker gang."

The wounded vet and put on his police officer cap and spent a few hours discussing war stories with the sheriff this afternoon, trying to get a hold on the town and their security situation.  All of it passed his sniff tests.  And he's seen some pretty elaborate schemes to fake him out back in Afghanistan.  Places that had literally blown up a few minutes early or late due to simple twists of fate.

"My vote is to bring them on board.  With your caveats.  Honestly, the faster we can solidify relations and use this place as an outpost, the faster the ASDF is going to be able to tilt us back towards civilization."

Car hugs a wall while hugging a beer, staying close to Chevelle and Xandra.  Not for emotional support, oh no.  She wants wingwomen.  To the farm girl's left, Chevelle tracks her line of sight.  "Feeling nervous Carissa?" Watkins asks.

"Nope," Carissa takes a drink of her beer.  Actual cold beer.  "Shopping." She's seen the eyes flit across their little trio.  New blood in town.  And frankly, Carissa is looking to blow of a little steam.

"Who wants to get to know the locals?"

Lauren leans forward in her seat, the fingers of one hand toying with the label of the bottle of beer that’s held in the other, that label identifying the contents as Budweiser, although the Air Force Captain has her doubts that the bottle actually contained genuine pre War Bud. Not that that had stopped her from drinking said contents, although she’s nursed it slowly, made it last. There was every possibility that they might be fighting Communists tomorrow, so she’s on a one beer max rule. Somewhere in the background someone’s playing a guitar, singing.

"And I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free
And I won't forget the ones who died
Who gave that right to me"

”I agree.” Lauren says over the music, her shoulders still hunched forward as she meets Scott’s eyes. ”Your conditions make sense. And if they are on side they should have no reason to dispute them.” As it happens, she does think that they’re on side. Like Saul had said, they couldn’t have faked all of this.

”We can arrange a swearing in ceremony for after breakfast. You do know that I’m not officially an ASDF officer though?” Her lips curl into the hint of a smile. Maybe the two men had heard about what had happened at Little Rock AFB when the Governor - Steve as Scott would call him - had declared that all Federal military forces in Arkansas were being absorbed into the ASDF by executive order of said Governor. More than one Air Force officer had openly questioned his authority to do so. There had been brief mutterings of mutiny. Eventually a compromise had been reached, primarily to allow the Air Force to save face, one that had resulted in officers like Lauren being able to say that they were on temporary duty to the ASDF. Politics. ”I’m still a serving officer in the United States Air Force.”

Abbie is relaxing on the porch of the club-house. Let the officers do their thing here. This ain't no matter for enlisted men to be worrying about. He thinks to himself as he raises another glass of the "rum" to his mouth, the sweet but bitter liquid rolling liquid fire down his throat as he took a fair bit more than a swig.

"Well at least it's a nice night tonight," he says to no one in particular, enjoying the cooler evening air. "And that catfish was damned mmm tasty." Abbie takes another gulp of the grog, emptying the glass as he notices that his vision is just starting to blur a bit. That seemed like a good sign. "Well then, I suppose that just means that it's time for another g-glass." Abbie hiccups as he starts making his way back inside the clubhouse.

On the way in, Abbie manages to stumble and knock into an end-table, nearly knocking it over with a noticeable *THACK*. He nods a goofy smile to a curious (and attractive) female onlooker, and continues into the dining area while searching for another drink and perhaps a another small bite of that delicious catfish. Tonight was shaping up to be the best night he'd had in months.

Scott tilts the neck of his own beer bottle toward Saul.  "What you just said, there.  An outpost.  This is the first place we've visited that has any spare capacity beyond hanging on by the proverbial fingernails."  He gestures around at the party.  "We all can see this is them in full southern hospitality mode, but it isn't straining their resources to the point that they'll be on half-rations for a week after we leave."

The stack of folders is next to him on the table, carefully slid far enough away that an errant spill won't topple it.  He taps it with his free hand.  "This is pretty hard to fake, too, and on short notice?  Not a chance.  They've been preparing to make a play for legitimacy for at least six or eight months.  This is an application packet.  And someone involved in preparing it used to be an attorney."

He turns to Lauren, shrugs, and returns her almost-smile.  "Yeah, I know.  And most of them probably know, too, considering the combined centuries of experience around us here.  But you're still a commissioned active-duty officer of a legitimate military, and you're in the ASDF chain of command according to the drug deal that Steve cut.  Those factors give you a lot more legitimacy than me for that particular ceremony.  Symbols matter.  Even now.  Especially now."

He scans the room.  "I don't want to leave them hanging overnight.  That seems like bad form.  If we're in agreement, let's present the state's counter-offer to Red before he gets too far into his cups."  Though it seems most of the club's leadership is moderating their own intake, too, presumably for the same reasons that Sierra's command group is.

Xandra kills her own beer and carefully sets the empty in one of the plastic recycling tubs, presumably for eventual refill by the local brewmaster.  "I like bikers," she advises Carissa.

She tucks her hair behind her ears, absently noting that she needs to hack off an inch and redo the dye.  "And bikes," she adds after a moment's thought, and grins.  "Do you have a preference?"

Chevelle cringes demonstratively, then laughs, "Most of these bikers are twice my age!" She shakes her head, smiling, "Y'all ladies are on yo' own tonight."

It's hard not to think back to the affair with the older- and, it turned out, married- senior non-com that had almost ended her USAF career. She'd been 21 back then, and he'd been pushing 40. She'd come to look at it as a blessing of sorts, a learning experience. If it hadn't been for the forced transfer to Little Rock AFB, she might very well have been stuck in Poland, or South Korea, or somewhere the Middle East right now.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:18, Sat 14 Sept 2019.

Captain Cao

Cao's neighbor on the picnic table bench leans over, raises his voice to be heard over the party noise. His breath stinks of homebrew. "Air Force? Pancho's Air Force- won't shut up about it," he points to a short fellow standing nearby chatting with a couple other patches. "Hey Pancho! Come here, man!"

Pancho walks over, a tad unsteadily, smiles, bleary-eyed. When he finally sees Cao, the color drains from his face, and he nearly stumbles backwards. Pancho gives a weak wave, turns around so abruptly that he almost loses his balances, and speed-walks in the opposite direction, caroming off a fellow biker who duly cusses him out.

Carissa Noble & Xandra Murray

Most of the patches seem to have lady friends, but a few appear unattached. They respond to the Sierra women's subtly flirtatious glances, ambling over, offering to refill their females guests' beverage glasses. Watkins is right. The youngest of the interested men appears to be in his late 30's, early 40's, and none of them appear to ever have believed in sunscreen. Still one of them is charming enough. He looks a bit like Tom Skerritt, circa Top Gun.

Abbie Clark

A short, swarthy biker notes the playful looks exchanged between Clark and pretty woman. The biker rises from his seat and stands in Clark's way, puffing up his chest. When Clark stops, the man takes a step forward so that his nose almost brushes Clark's chin. Scowling, the biker looks up at the taller man, says, "Hey man, you better keep your eyes on where you're goin'."

Skillins

Duane spends most of the evening talking bikes with the locals. There's no shortage of riders willing to hold forth about their individual rides- the unique modifications, performance specs, quirks, repairs, custom details, etc. Most of the club motorcycles are Harleys, but there are a few Victories and even a couple of Indians among the collection as well.

Kabua

Jackson started the evening lying down in the back seat of the Suburban, resting his wounded leg. It's healing, but standing on it for most of the day is likely slowing the process somewhat. The young man can't resist the smell of the grill, though, and the club grill-master is more than willing to share the secrets to preparing catfish. The normally shy Marshalese cook becomes an extrovert in the kitchen (or in this case, outdoor barbecue station).

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:02, Sat 14 Sept 2019.

In reply to Good Ol' Rae (msg # 48):

Armand Campbell was quiet in the back of Ace Hardware on the way to Lake Village. He listened quietly to Watkins and Murray go on and on about the group's exploits with Dem Snek Boyz and particularly the two ladies' contributions to the team. He found it telling that the Air Force members of the group didn't consider themselves part of the ASDF, only on temporary loan to it. Even though he was a civilian, Campbell was once military, albeit briefly; the subtlety was not lost on him.

After the feast, the Alabama native took in the sights and sounds around him. The happy, smiling faces were a rarity indeed. He noticed the alcohol consumption and a small part of him wanted to partake, but knew down that road lay rack and ruin. Armand would be just fine with his tea, thank you very much.

Campbell studied very carefully the behavior of Xandra and the other girl...Carissa, was it? He watched as the older bikers swarmed the two women, sin and lust clearly on their minds. The Chickasaw brave(in his mind, at least) wondered why Chevelle had decided not to participate in the degeneracy. Good for her, he thought, a plan forming in his mind. Maybe we're the good guys after all.

Armand went back to...what did they call it? Oh, yeah...Ace Hardware. He wondered how the truck got his name. Names were certainly important, that was for sure. With his middle name being where he was conceived, Armand Stillwater Campbell knew that names were indeed important things. Once inside the truck, he retrieved his recently-issued ALICE pack and pulled out an old paperback version of the King James Bible. The corners were worn off with use and there were several post-it notes sticking out of the top marking some of ASC's favorite passages.

Bible in hand, Armand made his way back to the festivities. He found a group of bikers that were laughing and having a good time. The laughter died down as the ASDF member joined their impromptu gathering. Mr. Campbell took a deep breath in.

"Who will pray with me, brothers and sisters?" he said, letting the breath exhale with his words. Silence. Worse than silence. A couple of the women halfheartedly smiled at him, then snickered and walked off. After a few seconds, the rest of the gathering went in the same direction as the women.

Not to be deterred, Armand S. Campbell went a dozen meters farther afield and tried again. "Surely you fine folks wouldn't mind reading The Good Book with me?" he said, speaking up loud enough for all assembled to hear. More silence. After thirty seconds of no one saying anything, a biker piped up.

"Not our thing, man" the biker said, rejecting Armand's advances gently but firmly. This time it was the ASDF soldier's turn to leave those assembled. If these bikers didn't want to hear the Good Word then surely there were some that did.

Maybe Armand should find Chevelle Watkins and see if she was up for a little bible study. Once she was convinced he was on the level and didn't want to get in her pants, she might relax around him. Armand was saving himself for marriage. He once had heard the phrase, "No hymen, no diamond" and couldn't agree more. If his future Mrs.Campbell was supposed to be chaste, then he should be too.

Armand Campbell would look all night if he had to. He was used to rejection; used to being told 'no'. It was nothing new to the Born Again Christian. 'God works in mysterious ways' echoed around in the Alabama native's head. He knew he was in this place with these people for a reason. Now all he had to do was find some brothers or sisters in Christ, even if they didn't yet know that's what they were.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:34, Sun 15 Sept 2019.

"Bible study?" Chevelle asks, a little surprised by the new man's invitation. The biker clubhouse seems like neither the time nor the place, but the young female airman feels compelled to accept. She'd grown up in the church, drifted away for a bit after she left home, gone back after her Air Force career had almost derailed, tried to attend as often as she could during the war. If ever the world needed God, it has to be now. Besides, she thinks, it's almost Sunday. The Sierra vehicles offer a relatively quiet refuge from the increasingly raucous celebration, and there's not much else for her to do to pass the time until it's over.

"Yeah, OK," she answers.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:17, Sat 14 Sept 2019.

Carissa can't lie.  She's a little disappointed with the quality of the biker gang males that are currently available and on tap.  The older guy with the salt-and-pepper hair, has charm, yeah, and she does keep calling him Viper (which is hysterical when you're border line drunk), but she can't quite bring herself to close the deal with a guy that's closer to her father's age than hers.  Especially when Saul's in the room.

With practiced ease, Car pivots, leaving Xandra to decide if Viper's her kind of guy and starts peppering the other folks on motorcycle knowledge, allowing them to educate a pretty girl on bikes and bike engines and motorcycle riding in general.  Which she immediately announces to be less tough than rodeo. An opinion she offers to defend.

Nash has managed to find a quieter corner of the club house, a corner where he could watch life unfolding around him as that was what passed as entertainment these days. Abbie was pushing his luck flirting with a biker's girlfriend and Armand was preaching to an uninterested audience. He was sure that that wasn't a new experience for the preacher and Nash doubted that it would deter him. It also looked like two of the women in Sierra, Carissa and Xandra, had attracted some male attention but he suspected that they both knew how to deal with it quite easily.

He carried on sipping at his third beer, wishing he hadn't eaten quite so much of that catfish. The beer was giving him gas and when he burped he kept tasting the fish again. It wasn't quite as nice a second time. While he drank he passed the time whittling away at a lump of wood he'd picked up, seeing what object would appear from his carving, letting his instinct guide him, gathering up the savings periodically as he did so. They would make good kindling for a fire and, though he doubted that the bikers would be particularly bothered by him making a mess in their clubhouse, he didn't want to risk causing offence.

While he watched, drank and carved, he took stock of the bikers, trying to get a gauge on their numbers and their weaponry. They had clearly done a good job establishing law and order in this town but he wondered just how capable a military force they were for offensive actions. They seemed more like a paramilitary vigilante force as far as he could tell, though they seemed to be respecting the Sheriff and the townsfolk so they seemed to have their moral compasses set right.

It was noticeable that the bikers included members of several ethnic groups, much to Nash's liking, and he looked for anyone who seemed to have Native American ancestry. He wondered how other tribes had dealt with the collapse of central government and whether any of them had returned to their old ways, becoming much more insular, or whether they had stayed integrated so he was keen to find others to ask.

Glancing at the piece of wood he was carving a look of surprise crossed his face. It seemed that this log contained a small Stormtrooper helmet that he was helping to emerge. He hadn't expected that.

Lauren nods at the same time that the label finally comes away from the bottle. ”Agreed.” She then sits back, fingers grasping the neck of the now label-less bottle, lapses into silence as her eyes wander around the room for a moment. It’s probably the first time since they left Little Rock that she feels like she can let her guard down. Day after day of constant wariness is taking its toll.

Not to mention the events of the last couple of days. Forty eight hours ago she had been in a pitched battle. Forty eight hours ago she had opened up with a heavy machine gun, mowed down insurgents, killed an innocent woman in the process. She hadn’t really thought about that much, not because she was some sort of cold bitch - although doubtless there were some people who would say that she was - but because she had been too busy dealing with the aftermath. Now, though, she had time to think.

Collateral damage. That’s what the woman had been in Air Force speak. Lauren knew the math. That one death had to be weighed against how many more deaths the insurgents might have caused. Nor was it the first time that she had killed anyone. She had fought the Allianza, killed their soldiers, seen their bodies afterwards. But this was different. She had killed an innocent woman. And she wasn’t collateral damage. She had had a name. A daughter, who had seen her mother torn apart by large calibre rounds.

Her thoughts drift to Jess Jess had been a BUFF pilot. Lauren remembered how she had just sat there after her first Gold Code mission, not saying anything, just staring into space. How many tens of thousands had Jess killed?

Lauren shakes her head, tries to pull back from the place that she’s in, tosses back the last of her beer in one gulp. She’d like another. Really like another. But they’re still on the clock. And they have no clue what they’re going to encounter tomorrow.  As she puts the now empty bottle down she hears the biker call over. Maybe he’d overheard her, or, more likely, he’d maybe seen the U.S. Air Force tape on her fatigue jacket.

When Pancho walks up to the table Lauren blinks. I know him. She can’t quite remember the guy’s name. Something hispanic. Alvarez. Sanchez. Something like that. He’d been in the provisional unit that she had commanded when the Allianza had attacked Barksdale. They’d been rushed to Carthage, Texas, joined an ad hoc group that had been put together. Whoever could be found. Air Force, Texas and Arkansas National Guard, Law Enforcement. They’d met the Allianza spearheads, halted their advance. Lauren had incited on pushing forward, advanced without orders, sensing a chance to finish off a Mexican column.

Only the Allianza brought up reinforcements. Her ad hoc company was surrounded. Almost overrun. The Texas Guard saved their asses. Afterwards the Guard Colonel had ripped her to shreds. Someone else had said that they figured she thought she was Patton. Afterwards the stories had done the rounds, naturally enough getting ever more exaggerated with each retelling. And Pancho - or whatever his name really was - had been there.

”Excuse me.” She mutters to her two colleagues, pushing her chair back as she does so. ”I think I know him.” A moment later she’s moving after Pancho, her own footsteps rapid as she tries to match his pace, calling out as she does so. ”Pancho! Wait!”

Mollie Bloom had taken Carswell by surprise. When the medic had asked her if she wanted a cup of tea she’d replied that she’d rather have a glass of rum. Grinning wryly, the paramedic had fetched her the drink that she had wanted then spent some time talking to her before excusing himself, leaving her in the company of several townspeople.

Beer in one hand, the medic makes his way across the room, looking for Lefty, figuring that the best option for what he wants to do is to work through him. Once he’s found him he offers the biker a handshake. ”Hey man, I’m Mike. I’m a paramedic with Metro EMS up in Little Rock. I’d like to talk with whoever looks after your medical needs here, see if we can maybe work together and try and help out with anything that you guys might need. Can you point me in the direction of who I should be talking with?”

Cao

Pancho ignores Cao's first summons, but he pulls up short on the second. He slowly turns around to face the approaching USAF/ASDF officer.

"Oh, hey, uh, Captain," he says, red eyes focusing on her rank insignia. Smiling weakly, he slurs, "Um, what can I do for you?"

Carswell

Lefty introduces the Sierra medic to "Doc", the CVMC medic, a former Army medic who, in turns out, has two deployments in Afghanistan- both in the mid 2000-teens- under his belt. Doc takes Carsell to meet Staples, a biker wounded during the pursuit ADOC bus that busted AAA prisoners out of the Delta Unit near Dermott.

Staples has a buckshot round lodged in the corner of his right eye. Another punched through his right ear, but this latter wound is for all intents and purposes superficial. His eye, however, is not looking too good (no pun intended). It's been cleaned and patched, and he's on antibiotics, but the medicine is expired and not the proper spectrum for the the infection. Staples claims to be able to see out of the injured eye, but fails a couple of simple vision tests. It's pretty clear to Carsell that Staples is going to lose the eye eventually, and if he waits much longer, he might lose more than that.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:37, Sun 15 Sept 2019.

Abbie takes a look at the two short, swarthy bikers, before laying his hand on the shoulder of the one on the left. "Hey uhh *hiccup*. I think you guys are right, friend. That stuff you all call rum is some good stuff. It's so nice that you all are so hospit...hospits...hospitalble. Not too many good people out and about these days..." He sways for a moment before finding his feet under him once more. "That stuff is so good I was just about to go get another, another glass. Care to join me?"

Xandra lets the small talk run on autopilot for a few minutes while she watches Carissa.  Once she's sure the younger woman has steered back into safer (if not calmer) waters, she turns her full attention to the guy with the best mustache in the room.  She laughs, leans in, exchanges a few words with him that none of her teammates can quite make out.  His face goes politely blank, then contemplative, then he laughs.  The two rise and walk toward the door, Xandra offering Carissa a wink and a fist-bump on the way out.  A minute later, there's a rumble as a sport bike engine fires up, then a dwindling snarl receding into the humid night.

Scott looks at Saul and blinks as Cao evacs their table.  "I think I missed some subtext there but I've read enough of her file to fill in the blanks."  In fact, he's read all of it, and concern over both the possible effects on the mission and the possible effects on the younger Air Force officer is having something of a focusing effect.

He glances around the room to see if anyone else has noticed the byplay, just in time to catch Red and Lefty intently watching the imminent confrontation between one of the new guys - Abbie, that's it - and two of their number.  The club leadership doesn't seem particularly concerned.  If anything, their body language says they're interested to see how it plays out.  Scott ostentatiously puts both hands on the table and leans back.

"So this is diplomacy," he murmurs to Saul.

Clark

The vertically-challenged, pugnacious biker ungently brushes Clark's hand from his shoulder, sizes the taller man up while he stares him down. He's probably trying to decide if the inebriated guest is mocking him, weighing his chances if the nascent dispute get's physical. The tension quickly builds to palpable levels. When the little man finally speaks, it doesn't quite break the tension,

"Yeah, you can get me another drink," He maintains eye contact with Clark for another couple of beats, then moves back to his seat, leaving the tipsy Sierra newbie a clear path to the open bar.

Murray

Ape is what Murray's new friend is called, on account of his mustache, which resembles the "ape-hanger" handlebars featured on some of club's bikes. The two rumble off on his Harley, returning not quite an hour later, Ape looking somewhat annoyed.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:04, Wed 18 Sept 2019.

Lauren pulls up short, though not so short that she can’t smell the beer fumes. What could ge do for her? She suddenly realised that she she didn’t really know. Talk about the old days at Barksdale? Or Carthage? Talk about how she’d been standing three feet from Technical Sergeant McGrath when an Allianza sniper had blown his head off, had been close enough to splattered with his blood and brains? You Scott, there’s a reason why people should wear fucking helmets. Or maybe her and Pancho could share a beer, talk about how Sergeant Ferguson’s section had been overrun by Mexicans that had slaughtered every single one of them. Fuck, Lauren hadn’t even known the names of most of the people that she had sent to their deaths. She could only remember Ferguson. Everyone had liked Fergie.

She didn’t even know Pancho’s name for Christ’s sakes. Alvarez, Sanchez, Dominguez? Yeah, fucking way to go Lauren, order people to go and get fucking killed and then you can’t remember their names.

How about they talked about the Louisiana State Trooper? Lauren knew his name. Wojinksi. The Air Force Captain had knelt next to him, held his hand as he had bled out, both of his legs gone below the knee, courtesy of a Mexican mortar shell. Yeah, they could talk about Wojinksi, how he’d talked about his wife and kids as he’d lain in the rubble of the Farmers State Bank as the Mexicans had pounded it, the life slowly oozing out of him, the pain evident in his face, so much so that it had probably been a kindness when he had finally slipped away.

Lauren had killed him, killed all of them, just as surely as she’d killed those fuckers a couple of nights ago. Yeah, she’d fucking turned her heavy machine gun on them and watched them literally get blown to bits. Just like Daenerys had burned King’s Landing. Except that hadn’t been real. This was real. Any maybe tomorrow there would be more killing. After all, tomorrow they were maybe going up against Chinese. Fucking Communists. It had been Communists that had driven her grandfather from Vietnam. He had told her stories about the Communists, and she had listened, learned to hate them.

Lauren takes a deep breath, looks at Pancho. It feels as though everyone is looking at her as she shakes her head. ”Sorry, my mistake. I thought you were someone else. Have a good night.” And then she’s turning on her heel, walking away before he has a chance to reply, heading for the door, avoiding making eye contact with anyone, waving away a hand that offers her another beer. She’s changed her mind, doesn’t want a beer, just wants some fresh air.

Ah shit. Carswell gestures with a nod of his head that he and Doc should step away from their patient, so that they can talk out of his earshot.

”You know it’s bad.” The paramedic says to his ex military counterpart. It’s phrased as statement rather than question. Somewhere behind them the guy that had bene singing has given way to a chick in a leather biker’s vest that’s singing what Carswell vaguely thinks is an old Sheryl Crow number into the mike.

Doc nods. It’s clear from his expression that he knows.

”Look, I can’t save the eye. Even if we got him up to Little Rock I don’t think they’d be able to save the eye. But if we leave it then there’s a fair chance it’s going to end up infected. And that’s not going to end well. Ya hear what I’m saying?” This time it is a question.

Doc nods again. ”I hear ya Mike.” Off to their left the chick is halfway through her song. Out of the corner of his eye Carswell sees GI Jane walking across the room on her own.

I have a face I cannot show
I make the rules up as I go
So try and love me if you can
Are you strong enough to be my man?

”I can do the procedure tonight. And I’ll leave you some anti biotics when we move on so you can take care of him. The good stuff.” The neck of a beer bottle inclines in Guillory’s direction. ”Scott’s a good guy. I’ll speak to him, see if we can get more stuff sent down. Not just for Staples. For everyone.”

”Sounds like a plan.” The nod is more sombre this time. ”I’ll tell him.”

Carswell nods, drains his beer. ”I guess this will be my last one for the night then.” If he’s going to be performing surgery shortly he needs to have a steady hand.

Lie to me
I promise, I'll believe
Lie to me
But please don't leave
This message was last edited by the player at 21:22, Thu 19 Sept 2019.

Clark

Clark is too drunk to fully grasp the situation. This probably works in his favor, as he avoids contributing to a diplomatic incident between his new command and the local authorities. Clark brings the pugnacious biker another rum; The man accepts it without a word. Clark moves on to find a friendlier drinking companion.

Carswell

The Sierra medic pulls off the most complex surgical procedure he's ever attempted, successfully removing the wounded biker's right eye in a candle and headlamp lit procedure. He cleans the now empty socket as well as he can, paying particularly close attention the area showing obvious sign of infection, and covers the wound with a sterile bandage. To combat the infection, Carswell gives the man a course of antibiotics to take for the next several days. The patient is in a lot of pain, but his biker buddies are there to try lifting his spirits, telling him how badass he'll look with an eye-patch. Carswell also gives the one-eyed man some OTC analgesics to take the edge off and councils him not to drink while he's taking the meds.

-1 sterile bandage; 1 course broad spectrum antibiotics; -10 doses pain-relievers

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:35, Thu 19 Sept 2019.

Saturday, July 20th, 2030
0615 hours
69F, 85% humidity
Wind 2mph out of the east
Approximately 3 miles east of Jerome

Hosted by the CVMC, Sierra spent the night in Lake Village, rising before dawn to proceed with the investigation of Jerome. The team leaves the club leadership with the assurance of an official- pending the governor's approval- deputization/swearing-in ceremony once the reconnaissance of Jerome is complete. The convoy retraces its tracks in the dark, north on the 65, to the 144. They take a left on the two-lane road and drive 6 miles west, stopping at a farm house within visual range of the roadblock. Trees and thick vegetation provide concealment for the team and its quartet of vehicles. The morning is pleasantly cool, although everyone knows that won't last long. Through binoculars, the Sierras study the barricade- a couple of saw-horses, a roll of concertina wire held down by a few old tires, and several high visibility traffic cones. A large hand-painted sign stands next to the barrier. It reads,

STOP!
WARNING!
QUARANTEEN ZONE
DISEASE OUT BREAK
TURN AROUND AT ONCE!
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT

Much closer to Sierra, one of the farm owners emerges from his home; a teenage son hangs back in the doorway of the family home. Both are armed with long guns. They are clearly nervous and confused, a paramilitary convoy having just parked, unexpected and unannounced, on their front lawn. They know better than to point their weapons at the heavily armed trespassers.

"What's this all about?", the man calls out, trying and failing to sound assertive, his confidence clearly a front.

Leaving civil affairs to the experts, Xandra and Watkins launch Raven 1. With the rising sun behind it, the small UAV will be extremely difficult to spot from Jerome. The drone speeds west, climbing to get a better view of the landscape beyond the Big Bayou River. No living person is seen in the area of the roadblock, but the fallow fields immediately bordering the road on the far side of the red line are speckled with bleached out bones; from the bird's-eye view provided by the drone, they appear animal in origin. As its tiny camera pans across the fields that sprawl out in every direction beyond the river, there's not much to see at first. There's no movement in the prison camp. Several of its long, narrow barracks-type buildings display obvious signs of storm damage, much of it apparently un-patched. No one currently mans the three guard towers still standing at three of the four corners of the camp's rectangular perimeter. The southeast tower collapsed at some point and has not been reerected. A couple of large patches of bare, disturbed earth just south of the camp hint at the presence of mass graves.

However, as the UAV banks north and begins its approach towards Jerome proper, movement is spotted on the ground. A line of people is heading out into one of the fields neighboring the hamlet, shovels and hoes propped on their shoulders. Several of the people wear broad, conical straw hats in light tan or reed green, the kind often associated with Asian peasant farmers. They make no sign that they've spotted the diminutive unmanned aircraft. The drone is nearing the end of its effective range- it can't loiter on station much longer.

OOC: Sierra has traveled 35 miles since leaving McGehee on full tanks. Please deduct the appropriate amount of fuel burned from each of the unit's vehicles.

Updated Campaign Map: https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:24, Sat 21 Sept 2019.

With the gee-whiz contingent taking care of the drone war, Saul turns up the "aw shucks" charm and starts moseying slowly over towards the Nervous Nellies with the long guns.  Better handle this right now.

The former cop walks slow, hands held out to his sides, his limp turned up to eleven, and a big smile plastered onto his face.  His shotgun is noticeably absent, still secured in his vehicle.  If this goes sideways, he best bet is to just lay down and hope it ends quickly. "Howdy folks," he says when he gets within reasonable voice contact range.  "Sorry to startle y'all.  I know how this looks, a buncha big vehicles packed full of big guns invading your day.  We're no threat to you, folks.  Don't need nothin' from ya.  We're here to check up on things is all."

Saul reaches up and unbuckles his helmet, theatrically wiping the sweat off his forehead that's already built up despite the relatively cooler morning air. "Name's Saul Noble.  We're part of the Arkansas Self Defense Force, sent down here from Little Rock, straight from the governor's office to see how folks are doing after that hurricane.  See how folks are doing after all the unpleasantness really," he adds, shaking his head.  "Give us a little time and we'll be out of your hair, none the worse for wear."

With a feigned casualness, Saul plops his helmet back on his head.  "But if y'all are up to it, I'd sure like to pick your brain about how things are doing around.  How folks are holding up.  How you're holding up and if there's anything you need." The prison intel can wait.  At least a few more minutes.  Better to establish rapport than to dive right in on that stuff.  Makes people less nervous.

"What say?  Care to share a porch and some words?  This sun never does seem to get any cooler."

Wandering over to where Xandra and Watkins were studying the feed from their drone, Nash joined them in watching it for a while. It was a hell of an advantage to have an eye in the sky like this, one that he was glad they were using.

"Hey guys. Those workers walking out to the fields, can you scan around them? Or zoom out a little?" he asked quietly. "If you can, try to see if there are any guards accompanying them or whether they're on their own? And if they're on their own then are any of the farmers carrying rifles or similar?" If guards were present then it probably implied that the workers were still prisoners rather than well organised villagers trying to feed themselves.

He kept watching the screen, trying to add to the intel they could draw from the images, hoping at least to get a gauge on the numbers of people in the work detail.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:38, Fri 20 Sept 2019.

Saul Noble

The farmer looks from Saul to the vehicles, then back to Saul.

"Ok," he answers tersely. His tone makes it clear that he'd rather the visitors just pack up and leave. "You're not gonna need that here," he says, pointing at Saul's helmet.

The farmer gives the elder Sierra a curt after-you type gesture, then raises a hand to the teenager posted on the front porch. He falls in beside the limping elder Sierra, says, "You can call me John."

Just before they reach the front steps of the neat, unassuming farmhouse, Farmer John pointedly asks, "You're here about the prison camp, aren't you?"

Nash, Murray, & Watkins

Chevelle zooms in on the file of people advancing into the fields, the image on the view screen showing a couple of them at a time as the camera pans down the line. One of the marchers near the back of the column appears to be wearing military-style fatigues and carrying a black rifle. His or her face is concealed by the brim of a camouflage boonie hat, tilted down to shield his/her eyes from the nearly horizontal rays of the rising sun.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:50, Fri 20 Sept 2019.

"Hum, do you think that guard is there to keep prisoners in line or to keep the farmers safe?" he asked aloud, unsure himself.

”Kabua, keep an eye on Mr Noble.” Lauren radios to her gunner when she sees Saul move towards the onlookers. ”But keep it low key, don’t traverse the weapon in that direction, just keep watch.” The Air Force Capatin doubts very much that the farmer will be dumb enough to try anything given the show of force that is at the end of his drive. But you never know.

After taking another look at the signs through her binos, she then walks over to join the group gathered around the drone, peers at the screen for a few moments. She’s wearing helmet and body armor, her carbine slung over her shoulder as she watches the figures moving about on the screen. ”Whoever wrote that sign can’t spell ‘quarantine’” she remarks as the camera zooms in. ”And there’s not usually a space in ‘outbreak’”.

She turns to Carterby. ”I don’t think he is a guard. At least not an American one. If you were a prisoner in a POW camp in China and you managed to overpower your guards, seize control of the camp, would you put up signs saying there had been an outbreak of plague to try and keep people away?” Granted some things didn’t add up. The timeline was out. The bikers said that the plague signs had been in place for a while but the camp had stayed in comms until the hurricane had come in. Maybe the Chinese had a fluent English speaker that had been handling the transmissions. Maybe. ”Which means they could all be Chinese, the guards and the farmers. And if they’ve broken out that makes then enemy combatants.” Scott would probably realise what direction that train of thought was likely to quickly head in.

Abbie woke up in the morning feeling great. A little alcohol the previous evening wasn't enough to make him the worse for wear, and he honestly couldn't remember the last time he had had a tried and true hangover. He knew this was simply due to overuse and the build up of tolerance, which was probably a bad sign, but ever since losing Lorna, he wasn't particularly upset by the fact that he was clearly an addict. As far as Abbie was concerned, the world was never that great to him to begin with, and nowadays it was a veritable hell hole. The monsters in the world now were far more likely to kill him sooner than any liver disease.

He meanders over to the group of Sierras near the drone. He waits a moment for the Captain to stop talking before offering up his thoughts. "Excuse me, miss. Err, ma'am. Ma'am, I might be of some use here. Ya see, I used to do a lot of backcountry work like huntin' and fishin' back up in the wilds of big sky country, and I reckon I could prolly get in close to these folks without none of them bein' the wiser. He shifts his feet and fidgets with his thumbs for a moment before continuing. Might help to get some eyes on the ground figurin' out what's goin' on over there is what I'm sayin'. Just say the word an' I'll start making my way over - prolly be back by sundown. Maybe send me and someone else. What do ya think?"

Saul puts his helmet down on the wooden railing as he climbs the couple of steps leading on to the porch. “Nice to meet you, John,” he says, treating the farmer as if the man had been open and friendly.  ”The prison is part of our mission in the area, yes.  But so is checking in on the people on the ground.  The folks who have been living far away from Little Rock.”  Saul smiles.  “So yes, I want to hear about the prison, but I also want to hear about how you are doing John.”

"We're doin' just fine," John answers, still somewhat stand-offish. Hushed voices carry on inside the house, a young man and a woman, maybe another as well. Seeing that his guest isn't satisfied with the one-line report, he continues, "Busy. Lot of work to do; tractor stopped working right before the storm. We used to get some help from the camp- Chinese POWs, hard workers. But that all stopped once the cholera started," Noting Noble's raised eyebrow, the farmer holds up a hand in a gesture meant to reassure, "At the camp. We're all fine out here. The sickness has stayed on the other side of the river, mercifully," he looks in the direction of the grandiosely-named Big Bayou,"I suppose on account of the army quarantine and all. And we stay on this side. Live and let live, right?"

The farmer pauses, but the silence seems to make him uncomfortable. He raises a finger to the far side of the road (south), says, "But we got good neighbors. Try to help each other out much as we can. So yeah, I guess you could say we're doin' okay."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:29, Sat 21 Sept 2019.

Nodding sagely, Saul takes in the information that John has offered up to him. "Well, John, I appreciate the insight.  We do happen to have a couple of real deal mechanics in the convoy over there that would be willing to take a look at that tractor if you want.  Just gimmie a second here." 

Saul takes the ubiquitous half a step back and half turn away that means someone is about to talk on the radio.  "Falcon, Gimp.  Can you send me Rebel and Rawhide with a tool kit?  We've got a tractor over here that needs a little love."

Radio transmission complete, Saul turns back to the farmer.  "They should be over in a few minutes.  Good neighbors make all the difference, don't they?"


OOC:  Saul will press for more information about the POW camp in a conversational manner while any vehicle maintenance is going on. 
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:23, Sat 21 Sept 2019.

Lauren holds one index finger up to Clark, the universal sign to ‘hold one’ as she reaches for her radio to respond to Saul. Sending Skillins would temporarily leave the JLTV without a driver, but in the circumstances she thinks that’s an acceptable risk. It’s not as if he’s going to be far away. ”Gimp, Falcon, all copied. Will do. Out.” Releasing the PTT switch - and lowering the finger that she had been holding up - she then calls out to the people that Saul had asked for. ”Skillins! Noble! Saul needs you both!”

With what is, presumably, a civil affairs matter resolved, she turns her attention back to Clark and his suggestion. It only takes her a moment to nod her assent. He was right, having eyes on the ground would help, but might tell them things that they couldn’t see from the air. ”Let’s do it. Take Carterby and Campbell with you and try to avoid making contact with anyone.” The last part is emphazized. ”If you do get into trouble we’ll come get you. Do you all have radios?”

“Not me, ma’am.” Clark quickly responds. Turning to Carterby next, “Nash, Campbell. Either of you got a walkie and up for a little walkabout? I’m thinking if we stick to that line of trees that runs into town from here to the west, we should be able to get eyes on what’s happenin’ in the town in short order. Maybe be about ten miles round trip?”

Duane smiles, happy for a chance to hang out with a pretty, single lady.

"Roger that, Gimp," he drawls.

"Take care o' my baby, Kabua," Duane shouts as he hops down from the driver's seat. He heads for Ace Hardware and his mechanic's toolbox.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:57, Sat 21 Sept 2019.

Saul watches Skillins and his daughter starting [east] down the road to the large outbuilding where farm machinery is stored. John's quiet. "Can I offer you a water? Got our own well. It won't be cold, but it'll be clean."

"Thank you, that would be nice," Saul dabs at his forehead with a hankercheif. The day is fixing to be a hot one. John returns with two glasses, extends one to the senior Sierra. Saul's takes it, has a sip. It's wet. "Thanks again. Speaking of neighbors, you had any trouble with the camp?"

"No. They've been good neighbors too. Miss the help."

"Any of the guards ever come 'round to visit?"

"Not since the outbreak. Even before then, actually. After the state took over, they stopped loaning out the prisoners. A couple of the new guards came round once, tryin' to buy booze and tobacco, but that was it. Haven't seen any of 'em since they set up the roadblock. Not sure what I'd do if any of 'em showed up now."

-

In reply to Abernathy 'Abbie' Clark (msg # 75):

"Me either, Ma'am" Armand Campbell drawled in his native Alabama dialect. Anyone that was around him for longer than five seconds could tell that he wasn't from Arkansas. The cadence of his speech was much too slow, almost as if he had to contemplate every word before he spoke it.

"They didn't issue me one in Little Rock, Captain" Campbell explained unnecessarily. Truth be told, he was lucky to have the basic loadout he had from ASDF HQ. He felt guilty for not having a radio, as if he were supposed to have one and he had failed somehow. This wasn't the way to impress your new unit, he thought to himself.

"Yeah, foot patrol sounds like a real good idea" Armand said, changing the subject from the missing walkie talkie. The 'Chickasaw brave' excelled at fieldcraft and patroling and felt more comfortable on foot than he did mounted in Ace Hardware. It was a good truck and ASC was lucky to travel in it, but he felt cooped up in it and that it was an awfully big target for someone like him hiding in the woods to take a shot at.

Armand Campbell turned to Nashoba Carterby, the 'other Native American' in the group. He hadn't worked with Nash in the field, but knew the man was Choctaw and that was all he needed to know. Native peoples were simply better at fieldcraft than the Anglos that came from Europe to North America. Two Natives hiding in the bush? Armand thought, looking at Nash. These Chinese don't stand a chance!

"Are you ready to go, my brother?" Campbell asked Nashoba, excited to be able to work with the ASDF scout for the first time. It was possible he could teach the Choctaw a thing or two about stealth and tracking in the field. Who knew? Both tribes had similar language and culture; maybe Nash would be the teacher and Campbell the student. Either way, ASC looked forward to getting away from the vehicles and putting some of his deer tracking skills to good use.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:40, Sat 21 Sept 2019.

"I've got a radio Captain," replied Nash. "Any chance we can take a fourth body though so that we can operate as two fire teams if needed? Maybe Mike?"

While he waited for Lauren to decide on adding a fourth person to the patrol Nash turned to Abbie and Armand. "Get your gear organised guys. Fighting load only." Glancing up at the sun he then added something. "Make sure you're carrying enough water as well though. I think that it's gonna be a hot day."

Turning back to Lauren he then clarified everyone's call signs. "I tend to use the call sign Talker if that's ok Captain? Also, I presume that if we have a contact you want us to withdraw ASAP and break contact rather than engage fully? That'll make it easier if you have to come and get us." He wanted to ensure that everyone understood what their rules of engagement were, though if someone persisted in shooting at him he was sure as damn going to fire back.

Lauren ponders Carterby’s question for a moment. ”If you get into a contact situation use your best judgement. If you outnumber and outgun the enemy I’d prefer you to prosecute the firefight and secure prisoners for interrogation.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. ”if the Communists want a fight we’re going to give them one.” She’s making no attempt to conceal the levels of aggression in her voice. ”Ultimately though, you’re going to be the people on the ground. I’ll back your judgement either way.”

She then nods in agreement to the request for a fourth person. ”OK, take Carswell as well. And that's fine with call signs.” She then rattles off the various call signs being used by the team.

"Ah, southern hospitality," Scott remarks dryly, watching Saul's diplomacy from behind the JLTV's engine.  He waits for Cao to finish managing the patrol arrangements, drumming his fingertips absently on his plate carrier and scanning the surrounding terrain.

Chevelle is watching the feed on Raven 1's control screen, notes the battery icon shed another bar down to half full charge.

"Ma'am," she calls to Captain Cao, "Raven 1 is at 50%. If we don't bring it back now, we'll have to go out and get it."

If Cao gives her the green light to recall the drone, she'll press the button engaging its automated return home function.

Raven 2 (the one modded to drop light munitions) is on deck should the officers wish to continue aerial surveillance whilst the recon team is in transit.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 22:09, Sun 22 Sept 2019.

Lauren nods. "OK, bring the bird back. We'll launch the second one when the patrol's ready to go out." With Carterby appearing to be more than capable of organising the patrol himself, the Air Force Captain then walks over to where Scott is standing. He looks pensive. As though he wants to say something. "Everything OK?"

Scott nods and scratches at the stubble that rasps under his helmet's strap.  "Captain."  His peripheral vision shows him none of the team is within earshot, so he relaxes into a more familiar mode of address.  "Lauren.  Everything looks okay.  It doesn't feel okay.  There's nothing I can put my finger on, but," he turns to face her fully and shrugs, "something's out of joint here."

His mouth and brow quirk in his thinking now expression.  "This isn't the reaction we should be getting.  If there's cholera in the neighborhood, American Gothic over there should be damn glad to see anyone who might represent public health authorities.  If there's bandits around, same thing.  And if neither is the case but he's given up on the government, we should be getting something out of the old 'sovereign citizen' playbook."

He flips a hand at the sign - the hand that's not resting on his slung AR's receiver.  "And that's a big mixed message.  If you're quarantining, you tell people to stay out for their own good.  You don't throw in a trespass warning.

"This feels somewhat like Gould.  It's your call but I'd like it if you kept the recon team on a short enough leash, and close enough to the roads, that we can back them up in a hurry."  He raps his knuckles on Razorback's armored fender for emphasis.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:39, Mon 23 Sept 2019.

The remarkably alliterative four man recon team departs the vehicle laager. Ignoring the misspelled warning sign, they cross the Big Bayou and follow the 144 west, using the thick vegetation that lines the road to conceal their movement. None of them feel sick. Yet.

In the meantime, Raven 1 returns home to roost, and Murray launchers Raven 2 to supplement the four pairs of eyes on the ground. Red stomps, whinnies, and snorts in his trailer, seemingly worried by his human's absence. Guest translator Millie Bloom speaks soothingly to the horse, eventually succeeding in calming him.

The recon team covers about two and three quarters miles, pausing to surveil the field where the farm hands are hard at work. Through his binoculars, Carswell notes that the work party is a heterogeneous mix of men and women, Asian, White (or Hispanic), and Black. The Asians are all men, but not all of the men are Asian. The uniformed figure carrying the M4 is either a white man, or woman with her hair cut short. They don't appear to have any inkling that they are presently being watched from either the ground or the air.

Back at the laager, Skillins takes a look at the broken-down tractor. He finds the problem almost immediately, confidently informs Carissa that it's nothing he can't fix, and sets to work. In less than an hour, he's taking it for a test drive, performing leisurely donuts in the dirt behind the garage.

This unexpected good fortune breaks the ice with Farmer John's family. His wife, son, and daughter emerge from the house, along with a live-in family of refugees. Even the neighbors from across the way, with whom John shares the tractor, show up for an impromptu celebration.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:44, Mon 23 Sept 2019.

Before the patrol sets out:

"Ok guys, you know the drill," commented Nash to the patrol team, "so I won't insult you by teaching you to suck eggs. We'll start with Abbie on point, me walking slack to navigate, Mike third and Armand as tail end Charlie. If we get into a contact we split into two pairs to manoeuvre, Abbie and Mike as one pair and Armand and me as the other pair. That puts one radio in each pair so let's make sure we keep in contact with our backup and not do anything stupid. Just so everyone is clear, orders are to observe and gather intel but if we have a contact then a prisoner or two is desirable if we judge that we can secure one without excessive risk. If you get separated then try to make your way back to this farm. Any questions?"

---

Later, once the patrol is at the OP:

"Ok," Nash commented to Mike as they observed a mix of racial groups in the work party, "that doesn't fit with the intel of just a POW camp of Asian prisoners. Keep watching the armed man and see if you can figure out whether he's there to protect the work party or ensure that they keep working and don't run away. Also try to get a count of the number of people in the work party."

Saying that though there were certainly enough people in the work party to overpower the armed figure so if they had desperately wanted to escape they could have done so. That suggested the armed figure was there for their protection. Pressing the transmit button on his radio he reported in. "Talker to Falcon. Initial SITREP for you. Have set up an OP maybe three miles from your position." He then reported the patrol's coordinates so that Lauren was completely clear on where they were before continuing with the information that they had discovered. "We can see the work party. Mix of Asian men and White, Hispanic and Black men and women. Repeat work party is not entirely Asian men and must include locals. One armed figure in combats carrying an M4. Looks like they are there to protect the work party but we're continuing to observe. OP has not been compromised. Over."

"Well this feels good," Saul says to his daughter, clinking a mason jar of lemonade with her.  It's almost enough to make him forget that a few of the guys are slinking towards a POW camp that may or may not be what it looks like.

"Tell me this wasn't your master plan all along," Car returns to him.

"Yes youngest, my plan for lemonade was to get Duane over there to fix a broken tractor that we would stumble upon while taking over a farmer's front lawn.  Aren't I brilliant?"

Carissa chuckles at that.  Saul is glad to see her smile.  Glad too to see that she out of her body armor, even if they've kept it all nearby.  Post-apocalypse and all.

"Okay, but hearts and minds, right?"

"Yeah," Saul says slowly, "but it's easy to forget that 'hearts and minds' equals real people.  People who now have a tractor and didn't a few hours ago.  Maybe they get a little bit more order out of this.  Claw back a little more."

"Makes sense to me, dad.  Might need to explain it to the rest of the world."

Farmer John approaches the duo with a fresh pitcher of lemonade that is glistening from condensation in the humid air.  "Refill?"

"Don't mind if we do."

John fills the two mason jars while his eyes dart back and forth between Saul and Carissa.  "Can't believe this is a father-daughter thing," John says.  His head tracks over to his own daughter.  "Don't think I'd want Sara out doing this stuff."

"Well I'm not going to let him out of my sight," Carissa says, voice a little harder than it probably needed to be.  "People get in trouble out here."

Saul smiles at that and gives the other father a shrug that says: What can you do? Daughters.  The trio stand there looking at each other for a moment and Saul sips his lemonade.  "You know," he starts, "it's weird to me.  Months of separation from the POW camp, the quarantine sign up an all that, and nobody comes and goes.  I mean, I get the danger, but that seems like a really big change.   Especially since every able hand around here helps.  John, that just seems weird. Does anyone here have any dealings with the camp.  Or know anyone who does?"  Saul sips again. "Look, outside perspective?  Things changed in that camp.  Who or what, I don't know, but I do know that we don't want to kick over a hornets nest we don't have to.  Everything is working? Fine, lets keep everything working, but if something's going wrong..."

Saul rubs absently at his hip.  "Maybe it doesn't matter," he says.  Carissa's eyes recognize that, in fact, it does matter.  Quite a bit.  Saul is just letting farmer John reach his own conclusions.  "Damned good lemonade.  My compliments to your wife."

Abbie slinks through the brush, his five senses alert to the sounds of surroundings. To the west and across the road, he hears what he's sure is a northern mockingbird, warbling a warning to anyone encroaching on its territory. He sees motes of dust dancing in the sunlight between crops of shade from the hickories and oaks, and the lush, summer vegetation fills his mouth with the heady taste of earth and pollen. It all reminds him of hunting whitetails with his pops up near Sheep Mountain.

Closer to the work party now, Abbie walks with knees bent, his feet hitting the ground heel to toe, heel to toe, unconsciously searching for patches of grass or bare dirt - anything that will help keep things nice and quiet.

He raises a hand behind him and waves the others up, the universal signal for an impromptu meeting in the field. He whispers"This looks like a good spot for now. We'll be able to see 'em and they won't be able to see us." Abbie pauses for effect for a moment before continuing. "But we won't be able to hear 'em none either. Nash, you wantin' us to move up a bit more? I reckon with this brush, we could probably get in even closer for a quick sneak and peak. Your call, though."

Lauren had nodded in agreement when Scott had steered the pair of them away from the others, the Air Force officer slinging her carbine before leaning back against the JLTV’s armored hull, crossing her arms across her chest. ”I agree. Scott.” she smiles, shows off those perfect white teeth, just for a moment a glimpse of the California girl revealing itself, albeit it’s mostly submerged amongst the armor and weapons and helmet. Although it doesn’t look as though they’re in any immediate danger here. So after a second she reaches for the chin strap of her helmet, so that she can take it off, place it on Razorback’s hood. The rent in the kevlar where the insurgent bullet had almost penetrated it is clearly visible.

”Something’s off. But I don’t know what either.” Her sunglasses are still attached to a MLBE loop on her plate carrier vest, so emerald eyes look right at him when she turns her head slightly in his direction after he mentions keeping the recon team on a short leash. Had he spoken to Pancho after she’d left the biker club last night? Heard about Fergie, Wojinksi, all the rest of them? Or did he already know the stories anyway? ”We’ll proceed with caution.”

---

Lauren is sitting in the front passenger seat of the JLTV when the radio crackles into life. The notebook that she’d been scribbling in - the report that she’d been ordered to compile for the DIA liaison at Little Rock AFB, the one that was confidential - is slipped back into her pocket as she calls over to Scott. ”Mr Guillory!” Back to formality, ”I’ve got the patrol.” She then reaches for the handset, keys the PTT switch. ”Talker, Falcon. All copied. Continue to observe and exercise caution. Out.” As she waits for Guillory to arrive she muses that that was not what she was expecting.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:47, Mon 23 Sept 2019.

Last night Carswell had been acting as an Ophthalmic Surgeon, his hand rock steady as he’d taken a scalpel to some poor dude’s eyeball. All things being equal, he reckoned Staples had taken the news well. Probably better than Carswell would have. Granted his buddies’ wisecracks about the eye patch had probably helped. Probably suited bikers to think of themselves as some sort of modern day pirates.

And now he’s creeping about the fucking boonies like he’s some sort of Army Ranger. Or something. ”You got it.” The MEMS STAR paramedic nods to Carterby. He starts with the headcount, or at least as best one as he can, the binos moving with his head as he tries to get an idea of how many people are in the work party. Once that’s done he’ll turn his attention back to the guard, try and figure out what his - her? - angle is.  He’ll leave it to the others to decide what they want to do next.

Saul's southern manners, and his persistent neighborly wheedling finally breaks through, breaks Farmer John down. He leans in close to Saul, almost whispers, "Something has changed, but all of it is still working."

Saul raises an eyebrow. "Go on, tell me more," he says without speaking. His host feigns nonchalance as he tries to shoo the family off the porch casually. When it's just the two of them again, Farmer John begins to comes clean (including sharing his surname, Haskins).

"Will you give me your word not to go in guns blazing?" Haskins asks.

"I'm not in charge, but I'll do everything I can to avoid confrontation and bloodshed. You have my word on that," Saul answers.

Haskins takes deep breath, exhales slowly. Then he drops a bombshell.


-
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:45, Tue 24 Sept 2019.

"John," Saul says, putting a hand on the man's shoulder and looking him straight in the eye, "I'm going to level with you.  Y'all down here did exactly what any decent human being would do.  You're making the world better.  Now excuse me, because I need to go make sure our team doesn't make a mistake."

The former Marine weighs the distance between where he's standing with John and Carissa and Cao.  He's going to have to limp it.  Carissa's tracks his glance and  she starts moving towards her gear. "Stay here, Car.  Have some more lemonade and chat with the locals.  No sense making people nervous."

With a few steps, Saul starts making his way back towards Cao and Scott.  It's going to take him a few minutes to get there.  Too long.  "Falcon, Gimp.  I'm on my way up to you.  Recall the recon now.  They must not make contact.  I'll explain in a minute.  Get Sexton, too."  Too little information is better for the next few moments. Too much and she might second guess him.  He's managing up the chain.

Nash was pondering Abbie's suggestion, trying to decide whether it was worth the risk of moving closer so that they could possibly hear any talking going on amongst the work party, when he heard Lauren's message over the radio. "Falcon. Talker. Understood. Out," he replied.

He then updated the others in the patrol on his thoughts. "The Captain's just confirmed that we're to continue observing and to exercise caution so I think that we're best off staying here for the moment and just watching." He glanced around before continuing. "My only concern is that we're laid up in some of the best shade around here so when they take a break this is the logical place for the workers to get out of the sun." He checked his watch carefully. "It's just after nine so we've probably got a little time but I think that we might need to pull back soon to the corner of the field by the bend in the road and the junction with the 315." He indicated a position off to the right of their current location, further east back towards their comrades, about 450 to 500 meters away.



Hearing Gimp's message, Nash turned to the only member of the patrol who had been with the Sierra team for any length of time. "Mike, did you hear that? Am I right that Gimp is Saul? That's who I think that the Captain said was Gimp. He sounds worried about something and he wants the Captain to pull us back ASAP." The last was said more for Abbie and Armand to keep them in the loop. "Get ready to withdraw quietly guys. We could be moving soon and actively trying to avoid contact."

When the patrol had left Saul had been starting to talk to the farmer they had met so Nash's guess was that he had found out something untoward. Nash's guess at the information was that the warnings of a plague were genuine, particularly if Saul wanted to talk to Scott as well as Lauren. That seemed the mostly likely guess, though he didn't share his thoughts with the recon team for the moment.

"Armand, don't move out of the OP but re orientate yourself so that you are looking down the road to the west to check that there isn't anyone on it coming our way. Abbie, do the same but across the fields to the south." He left Mike watching the work party to the north and scanned eastwards himself along their line of withdrawal while he waited for updated orders from Lauren.

In reply to Nashoba 'Nash' Carterby (msg # 93):

"Got it, boss" Armand Campbell said quietly, giving the Choctaw warrior a thumbs up. He had originally thought to say 'chief' instead of 'boss', but you could only get away with that if you were talking to whites, blacks, or Hispanics. Saying 'chief' to a Native American was a big no no, unless of course he was the chief of his tribe. Armand didn't think Nashoba Carterby was chief of his tribe, so calling the Staff Sergeant 'chief' might be taken the wrong way, as a slur against the Choctaw's Native heritage.

Campbell maintained a sector of fire, looking down the road to the west as ordered. He didn't expect contact from that direction, but knew that the area had to be observed just in case. If its one thing working for the ASDF in 2030 Arkansas taught the Alabama native, it was to expect the unexpected. Armand would never forgive himself if they were jumped because of his complacency or inattention. It might not be as exciting as staring at the working party five football fields away, but looking west is what he was told to do, so look west he did.

ASC felt absolutely confident that he could 'reach out and touch' any hostiles that were in the working party with his G3A3, even with open sights. The windage was set for zero wind like now, and the rifle's elevation was set to five hundred meters. From this distance deer looked like tiny brown specks through the weapon's iron sights, and he knew that humans from this distance didnt look much bigger. As hard as it might be to sight up targets from this distance, the heavy .308 round the weapon fired had enough power to knock down a buck from this far away, and it could do the same thing to a man if it hit him anywhere in the torso region.

When the radio crackles into life again Sauk’s transmission causes Lauren to wrinkle her forehead in confusion. Recall the patrol? What the fuck? If Scott - or anyone else - had told her to call the patrol back she would have politely reminded the speaker that while she may not be in the ASDF she is the ranking officer, a fact that Scott had reminded her of last night.

But it’s Saul. Saul. If Saul is telling her to recall the patrol he must have his reasons. Maybe there is an outbreak of something after all. It’s the only thing that Lauren can think of.

There’s a moment’s pause before she keys the mike. Five seconds, perhaps a little more. ”Gimp, Falcon. All copied. Will do. Break. Sexton from Falcon. Can you join me at the drone station? Break.”

The pause is shorter this time, perhaps a second. ”Talker, Falcon. Change of plan. Return to base. I say again, return to base. Do not, say again not, make contact with any locals. That’s an order. Acknowledge. Over.”

Once she has received Carterby’s confirmation that he’s received and understood her message she’ll sling her legs out of the JLTV, and drop down to the ground, her carbine slung over her back on its three point tactical sling as she walks over to the drone control station, nods to Murray and Watkins. ”Ladies. We’re pulling the patrol back. Keep the drone on them as they move. How much more loiter time have we got with Raven Two?”

Nash had no idea what was going on but it sounded like something serious based on the insistence in Captain Cao's broadcast. He quickly responded. "Falcon. Talker. Acknowledging your order. Starting to withdraw now. Will avoid any contact. Let us know if the bird spots any threats on our route. Out."

He then turned to the rest of the recon patrol. "OK, the Captain is very clear. Get back to the vehicles now and avoid contact with the locals so let's quietly get on with it. Armand, you take point this time with Mike as slack, me third and Abbie bringing up the rear." He didn't really know Armand or Mike very well yet so he put himself and Abbie at back, in the position that sounded like it was the most dangerous.

When everyone was ready he gave Armand a nod to lead them out.

Scott's head comes up from, the marinade debate with Kabua immediately dropping from his consciousness as he processes Saul's, then Cao's, tone.  "Sexton clear and responding," he sends as he gathers up his rifle and helmet.  A glance across the farmhouse yard shows that whatever the problem is, it isn't about to go loud, so he slings the weapon and clips the Ops-Core to the carabiner attached to his war belt.

He arrives a moment before Saul.  There's nothing he can accomplish with his own voice except delay explanations, so he merely raises an eyebrow and waits for the briefing.

Xandra is on the control unit at the moment, having just traded out with Chevelle in the twenty-minute rotation that they've found is best for staying alert while staring at the screen.  She's been keeping a close eye on the battery gauge anyway - losing one of the little UAVs out here would purely suck, as they're literally irreplaceable - so she knows her margins to the minute.  But she still double-checks because it's a machine she's responsible for, and that's what you do.

"Twenty-two minutes with our safety margin."  Headwinds could slow the drone's return enough to run it out of juice a few miles short of the team's location, so she and Chevelle have been flying conservatively.  "Plus ten to that if you're willing to take a risk.  Raven One will be at full charge in about two hours."  That's less exact - charging times have been varying wildly based on available sunlight for the charger built into the carrying case.

It sounds like things are about to get interesting again.  Xandra leans back in her creaky folding chair and keeps an eye and an ear on Saul.

Saul arrives with a limp and an expression lodged somewhere between concern and 'ah...crap.'  Looking at the others, he can read their own concern at his radio traffic and their pent up energy waiting for the shoe to drop.

It hadn't been a long walk back up, but it had been one he'd spent trying to figure out how to have this all make sense.

"Okay," he starts, trying to sound reassuring and address the most obvious concern, "the good news is we're not dealing with a disease situation here.  The bad news isn't bad, it's just complicated and if we're not careful, we're going to be the aggressors here.  And I don't think we can afford that.

"So here's where we're at.  Farmer John down there (yeah, that's his real name), was pretty hesitant to talk, but after Skillins got busy with the wrenches, he opened up a bit.  Turns out the cholera thing is real, it really did happen, and when things got a bit rough, our ASDF compatriots pulled a cut-and-run, leaving the town to deal with the mess.  So they did it on their own and nursed the prisoners back to health like the good neighbors they consider themselves.  John said that prior to the cholera mess the camp used to rent out the POWs for day labor and the farms got pretty dependent on that help."

Saul looks over at Cao, trying to judge her reactions so far, knowing the next part is going to be touchy for the military officer.  "Ma'am, something good has happened here.  The folks here in Jerome took care of the sick prisoners and have folded them into the community.  They've been feeding Little Rock a line of BS to make it look like the the camp is operating normally, same with the signs, because they're terrified someone like us is going to come down and break up the good thing they've got going.  The POWs have become interdependent with the citizens of Jerome.  In fact based on talking to John, I'd say the locals consider them citizens of Jerome at this point. There's been one marriage and it looks like a few more pending."

The former Marine pauses.  "In answer to your unasked question, yes, I believe John. He's not the lying type and based on my read, he wasn't lying at all.  He is really worried we're going to upset the apple cart.  In short, they're turning the Chinese POWs into Americans." Saul takes a deep breath here.  "And I think we should let them."

Scott watches and listens, face neutral.  When Saul runs down, he frowns - in thought, not anger - and looks back and forth between Saul and Cao.

"This seems to be the week for 'trust but verify,' but I'm not seeing a problem with that," he says.  "Let's do some more investigating.  I don't want to drive away feeling like we left another Gould behind," he turns his gaze to Cao as he repeats his earlier comment, "but if the locals really are recruiting more citizens, I can't see many folks in Little Rock arguing about it."  He shrugs.

"On the other hand, I can see the Army getting a mite testy about 'its' prisoners getting off the reservation.  But it's not like it's been discharging its own custodial duties toward them."

”Thanks Xandra.” Lauren replies. She’s still not quite sure how to take Mz Murray, finds her appearance…what? Intimidating? Maybe a little. ”Let me know when we’ve only got five minutes left. We can make a decision then whether or not we extend.”

The Captain then stands, waits, as first Scott then Saul arrive, the curiosity evident on her face as the former Marine joins them. She listens in silence, not interrupting, the look of surprise evident on her face when he gets to the meat of the what he’s just found out.

When Scott has finished adding his piece Lauren takes a deep breath, folds her arms across her chest, her thumbs finding their way into MBLE loops on her plate carrier vest. Behind her, her carbine bumps against the small of her back, almost as though it’s reminding her of the firepower that she has at her disposal.

The Chinese have reached an accord with the locals. She’s not actually sure how she feels about that.Part of her feels deflated. Disappointed that she’s not going to get a chance to go into action against the Communists. But what is she supposed to do? Move into the centre of Jerome in full force - all twelve of them, half of them non military - and round up the prisoners? Shoot to kill if they resisted? One marriage, more pending? I’m sorry, Ma’am, I’m here to take your husband back to the camp. He’s an escaped Enemy Prisoner of War.

She’s aware that Saul and Scott are both looking at her. Clearly if they were taking a vote it’s two against one. ”I agree we need to do more digging.” There’s a pause. She’s playing for time while she tries to process what she’s learned. ”We can’t just take John’s word for it.” She looks at Saul, offers a half smile, a brief shrug of her shoulders. No offense. ”If his story checks out we’ll take it from there.” It’s a non committal response. But at least she’s not loading for bear.

The recon team extracts without being detected, and Raven 2 is recovered. The entirety of Sierra is now reunited at the Haskins farm.

It's about 0800 hours, and rather pleasant in the shade.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:57, Thu 26 Sept 2019.

In reply to Good Ol' Rae (msg # 102):

Abbie listens intently as the situation in Jerome is laid out. He swats at his face as another mosquito lands and attempts to make a meal out of him. God he hated those flying pests. They were back home in Montana as well, but they were nothing like the ones down here in the south. Not just size, but back home the flying monsters didn’t seem to actively hunt for him like they did here - maybe they could smell that his blood wasn’t of the local variety or something.

“I guess my take is that this just is how Americans come to be American, ya know? If they’re fallen for our people and don’t mind living here, then more power to ‘em I say.” He looks around at the rest of the group to see how his statement is taken. It’s may not what they would have expected from a backwoods boy like Clark, but he always had a libertarian streak in em and didn’t much care about the color of someone’s skin - just so long as they didn’t go out hurtin’ nobody else an’ all.

Nash sipped at some water and listened as the farmer's version of the situation in Jerome and the POW camp was explained to everyone. It sounded like an awkward political mess to him, one that wasn't really his area of expertise to resolve. He still had some questions and opinions though.

"So according to Farmer John the ASDF troops assigned to guard the POW camp just abandoned the camp and left. With an uncontrolled outbreak of cholera I can believe that but where have they all gone? It's been several months and none of them have turned up anywhere reporting in. Some of them must have had families elsewhere in ASDF controlled territory and it seems unlikely that they would all just abandon them. Therefore if that part of the story is true then it means all of them have gone rogue and that seems unlikely to me. I don't know how we check that all of the ASDF guys abandoned their post but we need to try to confirm that."

He took another sip from his canteen before continuing. "It also still doesn't explain where the amount of combat gear that the bikers saw came from. They're vets so I presume that they know what they're talking about but it suggests that the ASDF troops didn't take all of their gear with them when they left. Or couldn't take it with them for some reason. Either way it doesn't quite fit with the story so we need to see what military gear they have in Jerome as part of figuring out what happened."

Scratching at his chin, he pondered what the implications were if the story was true. It sounded like the locals had made the best of it and the POWs had responded in kind. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened. He'd seen a film once about a World War Two German POW who fell in love with a British girl and never went home when he was released, choosing instead to stay in Britain and make a life there. "If it's all on the level then I kind of also agree with Abbie. If the POWs have integrated with the locals and are actively working to help people in the local community then that sounds like a good thing to me. We need to confirm that however."

A smile crossed his face and he shrugged. "And if it's all true then maybe we report that the POWs appear to have escaped from the camp and fled west in stolen vehicles."

"Trust but verify," Saul says to the group, echoing (or directly quoting) Scott.  "I recommend we ask for a meeting with whoever serves as the community leader around here along with the ranking Chinese officer and have a nice conversation about how all this happened and where our heroes in the ASDF ran off to.  And not to contradict Mr. Carterby," Saul continues, "but I don't think it would be that hard to disappear.  We're the first direct ASDF force that's been down here in a while.  The ASDF doesn't have the resources to check out every missing soldier, and if Little Rock has been getting reports that everything down here is copacetic, they aren't even officially 'missing.'"

Maybe he's optimistic, or maybe it's his cop instincts, but Saul is clearly not as skeptical as many of his teammates.  That's why they're a team.  To cover each others blind spots.  "I would prefer that if we handle this possible integration situation peacefully we report to Little Rock as much of the truth as possible.  We don't need the the official stance on missing POWs to be shoot on sight.  If all of this is true, it's a success story.  I'd rather send the governor the great news that we administered the oath of citizenship to 75 new Americans that have the experience to help defend this little pocket of working government. Maybe we can tie the folks here together with the CVMC, make this spot even more resilient. Especially with the rumors of The Kingdom taking shape."

"I think that you misunderstood my point about the guards," Nash replied to Saul with a shrug. "I was meaning that I find it hard to believe that all the ASDF guards abandoned their families. I'm sure that they could disappear if they wanted to but some of them will have families that they will want to go back to eventually and completely abandoning their posts doesn't fit with that. Why not just go back to Little Rock and report that there was an out of control Cholera outbreak and that they had to leave?"

Jackson rarely speaks up, but he can understand why someone might desert. Perhaps that personal insight will help his teammates make sense of the reports coming out of Jerome.

"Maybe they deserted to be with their families," Jackson suggests, adding,  "That's why I did it."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:46, Fri 27 Sept 2019.

”Dude’s right’” Carswell announces, jeering a thumb in Kabua’s direction. ”Maybe they all decided to try and make it back to their families. That’s gotta be a mighty big temptation. And no one’s saying they all went in one big group. Maybe a couple went that way -“ a tanned forearm points in a random direction. ”Another couple went that way.” That arm now points in the opposite direction. ”A dude makes it back to his hometown and you think he’s going to report for duty, maybe get himself sent to the opposite end of the State? Or that his wife and neighbors are going to turn him in. And if there’s a nosey bitch down the street all they have to do is tell her he’s been discharged.”

The paramedic shrugs, looks over at Saul. ”I’m buying it so far.”

Scott turns a blank stare on Carterby.  "No one's falsifying any reports to Little Rock," he states flatly.

"It hangs together," he says, returning his attention to the main discussion.  "Technically, we're lacking a federal judge to administer the oath of citizenship, but there may be some other options.  Let me think on that, Saul.  But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves.  I generally like your pitch but let's meet with the local executive privately first."

”Aren’t we missing a point here?” Lauren opines quietly. She’s been watching the exchange go backwards and forwards, her arms folded in front of her. ”These ‘seventy five new Americans’ are enemy soldiers.”

She turns to Abbie. ”Do you know how my grandfather became an American Mr Clark?” Her voice is low. She’s not yelling or ranting, she’s calm, perhaps as calm as those that have known her the longest have ever seen her, certainly far calmer than Grady. Or McGehee. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s not. ”He and my grandmother left Vietnam in a boat. He was lucky. He’d fought alongside the American Army, knew some people that managed to get him and my grandmother into the country. If they’d stayed the Communists would have sent him to a camp, or killed him.”

Rationally what they were all saying probably made sense. She knows that. But she doesn’t have to like the idea.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:34, Fri 27 Sept 2019.

"Let me talk to John," Saul says.  He's taking in the various opinions offered by Sierra and measuring.  Examining his own intuition through their eyes. "See if he can help us set up a meeting with the powers that be.  That's a spot we're all in agreement with.  Any next step we take hinges on more information.  And John's seems like a decent enough fella.  I think he'll help."

In reply to Lauren Cao (msg # 110):

Abbie sways side to side, as though he were a tall pine and a strong breeze was doing its best to blow him over, while he ponders what the Captain said. "Yes, ma'am. You raise a good point. These are former enemy soldiers and this could be one big deception - one that perhaps they've even fooled farmer John with. Sure it could be, and so we need to investigate further".

Then Abbie, in a strange motion, points down to his footwear. "An' I appreciate what you're sayin' of course, ma'am. But at the same time these here Merrell hiking boots I'm wearing? There's a tag inside 'em that says 'Made in Viet-nam'. Sometimes people can change is all I'm sayin', after the fightin's done an' all that. Maybe that happened here, an' maybe it didn't. We need to go an' figure out what they have to say I think."

Farmer John agrees to arrange a meeting between Sierra and Jerome's current international leadership cadre. His son and daughter help him saddle a horse, Molly, and he rides west towards the village, bringing news of the visitors from Little Rock.

He's gone for about two hours, during which Sierra...

OOC: I'll leave it to y'all to decide how you passed the time.

At about 1100 hours, an old, late 20th century model Ford truck approaches Sierra's position, a small white flag flying from a pole held by one of the passengers riding in the bed. Recognizable at a distance through binoculars, Farmer John waves reassuringly from the front passenger seat.

The truck stops on the shoulder of the 144 and its four occupants slowly emerge, deliberately keeping their hands visible at all times. Haskins introduces them as,

Colonel (PLA) Huang Míng jié (elected leader of the surviving Chinese POWs)
Captain (PLA) Deng An (Huang's XO)
Michelle Waxman-Chang (a 32 year old local woman, married to one of the Chinese POWs)
Bill Grass (the 57 year old mayor of Jerome)

Col. Huang is wearing jeans and sandals and a Kenny Chesney concert tee. In thickly accented but grammatically correct English, he introduces himself and exchanges greetings with the assembled Sierras. (OOC: NPCs can handle security, if you want your PC to be present at the meet-n-greet.)

"I am very pleased to meet you. Welcome to our home."

Perhaps in solidarity, the very Caucasian Waxman-Chang adds, "Nǐ hǎo, welcome to Jerome."


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:09, Thu 03 Oct 2019.

Scott watches the negotiating party approach, one thumb hooked in his belt, gentle pressure from his wrist pinning his jacket to keep it from blowing open in the light breeze and exposing his Nighthawk.  Against Cao's unvoiced but very strenuously expressed preferences, he's in his gray suit again, soft armor vest under his dress shirt.  His plate carrier, helmet, and rifle are in Bourbon Street.  If he survives to write this up for Steve, he'll say it was a calculated display of trust designed to elicit reciprocal goodwill.  But Steve will know he's doing it this way because he's just fucking tired of losing incrementally, and this looks like a chance at a step forward rather than just avoiding two more steps back.  And because this is his uniform.

"Colonel.  Captain.  Ma'am.  Mayor."  Scott peels off his Oakleys and offers his hand to each community member in turn.  "I'm Scott Guillory with the governor's office."  There's a flicker of recognition in Grass' eyes, probably from the prewar political coverage in the Democrat-Gazette, but the local official has a pretty good poker face.  "This is Captain Cao of the U.S. Air Force, currently on secondment to the ASDF, and her XO, Saul Noble."  Whether or not Saul has the rank, and that is debatable in the rather fluid ASDF of 2030, he's sure functioning in the role now.  "As you've probably heard by now, we're STAR Team Sierra.  We're down on a survey and recontact mission to see what local needs are so we can figure out which state resources need to go where."

"Mister Haskins has been a fine host," he nods to Farmer John, who's hovering uncertainly at the back of the group, "but I'd appreciate it if I could hear from y'all what your current status is.  The capital's been operating on limited information," he catches himself before he can say "out of touch," which would be equally accurate but perhaps more open to idiomatic exploitation, "for a while and news from these parts has been a bit sparse."

He's as interested in who steps up as spokesperson as he is in what answers they give.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:05, Thu 03 Oct 2019.

Mayor Grass is first to respond.

"Well, our 'status' is that we're gettin' by; I reckon that describes most Arkansans these days. But I don't think that's what you're really asking."

There's a subtle nod to Col. Huang, before Grass continues,

"I'm sure what you're really interested in is our newest citizens. Jerome would be a ghost town if it weren't for them. They've been helping this town since the day they moved in next door."

Grass gives the Sierras a brief local history lesson.

"We were small to begin with, but then the war took nearly every man 'tween the ages of 18 and 40, most of the young women too, leaving the folks who stayed too much work and not enough hands to do it."

Grass pauses, weighing his next words carefully. In the end, he lets emotion take the wheel, "We're doing a lot better now, and it's mostly thanks to Col. Huang and his men. You take them away from us, you kill Jerome."

Michelle Waxman-Chang adds, "I already lost one man to this goddamn war. You try to take my husband, you're gonna have to go through me."

"Missy!" Mayor Grass, chides.

-

Nash stayed to one side of the meet and greet, letting Guillroy do his bit, essentially providing close security for the Sierra team. He listened to the Mayor explain very the situation very simply, noting that he made no mention of the fate of the ASDF troops who had been guarding the POW camp. Had they really just left as Farmer John had said, probably returning to their families like Kabua had suggested, or had something ultimately more sinister taken place? Had there been an uprising by the POWs resulting in the murder of the ASDF troops, possibly with the complicit help of the citizens of Jerome? That was what the Sierra team needed to work out and one important element of that investigation was the level of military gear that the bikers had reported seeing. That suggested that either the camp guards had left behind significant amounts of gear when they had left or that someone in Jerome had a lot of gear themselves. Or that the gear had been taken by force from the guards with whatever consequences that entailed.

He carried on listening for the moment, holding his tongue until it seemed appropriate.

Lauren nods to each of the four newcomers in turn when Scott introduces her although she doesn’t offer a handshake. Nor does she salute either of the men who are introduced as Chinese People’s Liberation Army officers, although she does study each closely. Unlike Guillory, trust isn’t particularly evident, although neither is overt hostility. She’s wearing her helmet and body armor, but her carbine is slung over her shoulder and her arms are folded in front of her. She’d even ordered Kabua to stand down, Razorback parked behind them, where the Chinese can see it, but with its gun turret unmanned, the M2 pointed harmlessly skywards. It’s a détente of sorts.

She doesn’t really know what to make of the two Chinese, but then she hadn’t known what to expect either. She is surprised that they are in civilian clothes. For some reason she’d expected them to be in PLA uniform, even if that probably didn’t make much sense.

When the local woman, Michelle, challenges them, Lauren remains quiet, content to let Scott and Saul - she’d smiled when he’d been introduced as her XO - handle things for now. This was their area of expertise.

XO, huh? Saul muses before twitching his jaw. Yeah that fits.  Better than resident old guy.  The introductions go down about how he would have expected and Saul stands next to Lauren, branching the divide between civilian and military operations.  Where Scott is in his battlefield-casual, civilian heavily armored attire and Lauren is ready to go into battle, Saul has the mishmash of BDU pants, a civilian t-shirt, and no helmet that he like to think indicates he general ease of the world.

The outburst of the local woman doesn't surprise Saul as much as it could have, he supposes.
Her eyes had been hot on arrival.  With Scott in official mode, and Lauren playing bad-cop, Saul gives Michelle an easy grin and waves off the mayor's complaint.

"Well ma'am, I know better than to come between a down-state woman and man she loves.  Doesn't really matter much to me where he comes from, long as he and his are good men.  And that's what we're here to prove."  Better to start on the positive assumption that Sierra is provisionally on the town's side.  Getting on the defensive won't help anyone uncover the truth.  And better to start with a softball.  A question that will allow him to watch for lies and manipulations.

"Mister Mayor, if we could get down to brass tacks for one second here, there's one question I'm really hoping you can clear up to set everyone at ease.  We heard the ASDF folks that were guarding the camp up and left y'all in the lurch, what with the cholera and all.  Can you explain what happened?"

"Well," Grass begins, "I don't think they ever wanted to be there in the first place. They were just lookin' for an excuse to bail and, you have to admit, cholera is a pretty good one."

Col. Huang says something in Mandarin. Waxman-Chang nods. In an aside to the Mayor, she says, "Tell 'em about the food, and the massacre."

Grass explains, "The guards took out their frustrations on the prisoners. Withheld food, medicine, stopped lettin' 'em out to work on the farms around the camp. When the prisoners protested, the guards shot up a bunch of 'em."

Col. Huang interjects, "Twenty-one."

Grass continues, "Twenty-one dead. A couple weeks after that, when the prisoners started gettin' sick, the guards didn't lift a finger. After a couple of weeks, and dozens of deaths, the guards took off. Locked the prisoners inside and just left. Grant- one of the good ones- came and told us. We did what we could to help the sick, probably saved a few lives. Got 'em all out of that hell-hole. The Chinese- they've been good neighbors, all of 'em."

Col. Huang smiles and gives a little bow of acknowledgement.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:09, Fri 04 Oct 2019.

From the sidelines Nash spoke up with a question of his own.

"And this ASDF guard Grant, is he still around with you in the community? Or did he leave eventually as well?"

"Naw, he's still with us. Grant's a good kid." Mayor Grass answers. He seems to want to say more, but he hesitates for a few moments. Then, "If you want to know where the rest of the guards went off to, there's someone in town you'll want to talk to."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:47, Sun 06 Oct 2019.

"Who's that?" asked Nash, his suspicious manner starting to thaw with the openness of the Mayor. "We need to talk to them as well as to Grant."

He paused briefly before asking the question that Kabua had prompted in their discussion within the Sierra team earlier on. "They haven't all just gone home, back to their families then?" That would have been a simple lie so whatever this person the Mayor was referring to had to say was either going to be a complicated lie or the truth.

Carswell coughs, raises one hand, his right index finger pointed skywards. ”I’ve got one question.” He then pauses, nods to the Jerome representatives when heads turn towards him. ”Hi, I’m Mike. I’m a paramedic. Can I just confirm these cholera signs are bullshit, yeah? Or do you have any urgent medical needs? Any of you?” That’s clearly meant to extend to both villagers and Chinese soldiers. Although the latter are now probably best counted as the former.

The Mayor responds to Carterby first. "One of our young people decided it would be a good idea to go along with some of the... deserters. Changed his mind soon as he learned what they were up to. Came back home. Sounds like they've taken to marauding; set themselves up in a little town in the woods on the other side of the Bayou."

He then turns to Carswell and gives the Sierra a quick rundown on Jerome's health situation.

"The signs? Yeah, they're bullshit... now. As for medical needs, one of our Chinese friends has a pretty bad boil; another has a lump in his throat." Grass pauses, gently rubs his jaw, continues "And I got a toothache just won't quit. That's it, though, far as I know."

Waxman-Chang adds, cryptically, "Malia."

"Ah yes. We may have our first, uh, 'peace baby' on the way." Grass reports. "A pregnancy. Not sure, though. She'd only be, what, six weeks along?"

Waxman-Chang nods in assent.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:52, Mon 07 Oct 2019.

"There's a lot of that going around," Scott murmurs, and makes a mental note to check the map for exactly where "the other side of the Bayou" may be and how inaccessible it's likely to be to Sierra's vehicles.  "You're right; we need to talk to that kid.  Did you retain any of the ASDF equipment or did the guards take it all?  For that matter, what's your local infrastructure and militia capability look like, overall?"  He carefully addresses the question to Mayor Grass and does not glance at the Chinese officers - ex-officers? - as he speaks.

Grass' brow furrows as he does some mental math. "They left some of the riot gear, but they took all the guns and ammo, including a couple machine guns. Grant managed to keep his sidearm but they took his rifle. We got some guns in town, o' course, but we don't have enough of 'em to arm every able bodied citizen," he glances sidelong at Col. Huang. "About two dozen is what we can muster at the moment. And we're pretty spread out. Our alarm system doesn't always work the way it's supposed to." Grass looks pointedly at Haskins as he says this. "As for infrastructure?" he laughs ironically, "Luckily most of us are on wells, so fresh water hasn't been much of a problem. A few of the outlying farms have solar. We've got a couple of generators in town, and a community still... that's about it, though, far as infrastructure goes."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:39, Thu 10 Oct 2019.

Nash noted that the Mayor hadn't given them the name of the Jerome citizen who had decided to go off with some of the the ASDF troops when they deserted and had then changed their mind and returned but he didn't push it. Instead he carried on listening as the discussions continued.

Saul chews his lip and nods at the conversation moving around them.  "Ma'am," he says to Cao quietly.  "My recommendation is to split up and investigate all of this.  Send Doc and some security out to check on their wounded. Win some hearts and minds.  Rest up a recon element to check this marauder situation after nightfall and in the meantime I'll speak to Grant and the reformed wayward youth.  See what I can make out of those situations.  Scott can work out legalities with the Mayor of what's going on here."  He looks at Scott.  "Am I missing anything here?"

Lauren has remained a silent spectator throughout the various exchanges, her arms folded, eyes that are hidden behind the polarised lenses of her sunglasses mostly watching the two Chinese. It’s not as if she expects either of them to do anything crazy - based on what she’s seen thus far she’s taking their story at face value, if for no other reason than it seems too elaborate to fake, and there’s not obvious signs that the locals are under any sort of duress.

When Saul murmurs quietly in her ear she takes a step backwards, putting just a little bit more distance between them and the local delegation, just enough that she can turn her head in Mr Noble’s direction, reply in the same low tones. ”I concur.” There’s a decisive nod of her head, but in truth she’s simply rubber stamping his recommendation. It’s intended as a compliment. He knows what he’s doing and she’s grateful for the advice. Civil Affairs is not her area of expertise. If this is Civil Affairs. Frankly, she’s not really sure. But it’s certainly a lot calmer than some of the other places they’ve stopped at.

Her mind is also drifting towards the marauders. Alleged marauders. But there’s a certain irony to the situation. She’d rolled into Jerome fully prepared for an engagement with Chinese soldiers. Wanting an engagement with the Chinese if she was honest with herself. But if she’s going to be going up against anyone it looks as though it might be ASDF deserters.

”I’m thinking the three new guys plus Carissa for the recon patrol.” She murmurs quietly, looking over at Saul, well aware that she’s suggesting putting his daughter in potential harm’s way. ”And maybe Mz Murray could go with Doc.” Xandra could fix machines while Carswell fixed people.She looks at Scott. an enquiring eyebrow raised.

Abbie had been fairly quiet throughout the engagement as well, but for a much different reason than the captain. He knew that this interaction with the locals was more about the team accomplishing some strategic goals with some good old fashioned diplomacy. As far as he was concerned, this kind of thing was above his pay grade. He then chuckled to himself at the thought of being paid. Ahh well, at least he had food and drink, that was a kind of pay as well.

After a few minutes of listening to the back and forth, Abbie uncharacteristically decides to ask a question of the townsfolk. “Mayor, uhh, sir. Sorry to interrupt. But these former ASDF guys. Can I ask a question bluntly? We’re they all white boys?” He tries to read the Mayor’s reaction for a moment, then decides that he needs to explain his reasoning some so as to not look like a total lunatic. “Ya see the thing of it is, we’ve been hearing all kinds of things about a white-person homeland, a bit farther to the west of here. You think there’s a chance they may have left to go join up with those nut jobs?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:15, Thu 10 Oct 2019.

”OK.” Carswell nods. ”I can take a look at all of that for you.” He appears unfazed by the news of a pregnancy. After all, he’s delivered more than one baby in the back of a Little Rock ambo. Although pre natal check ups are a little out of his area of expertise. Hopefully more formal arrangements will be in place in seven and a half months’ time. He looks over at Mrs Waxman-Chang. ”Care to act as translator?”

Scott nods neutrally at Grass' inventory of local inventory, such as it is.  "Thanks.  That lets us know more or less what you're working with."  He leaves the precise question of armament on the table for the moment; he's assuming some of the Chinese quasi-defectors are among the militia and equally certain the locals will get pricklier if he inquires directly.  Instead, he tilts his head to catch Saul's quiet interjection and gives a nod to Cao's endorsement.

He's rolling the white supremacist question around in his head when Abbie tosses it into the middle of the discussion.  He's torn between a cringe and a grin, and settles for a poker face and an inquisitive look toward Green.

The Mayor's smile is somewhat bemused, "No, they were a pretty mixed bunch. Few of 'em were white, yeah, but there were blacks and Hispanics too. Grant can tell you more about the guards."

-

Abbie nods at the Mayor's response and looks briefly at Cao, seeing if she has a reaction, before returning his attention to the Mayor. "Alright, so it sounds like they may just have turned run of the mill marauders in that case. That helps us to better understand the strategic situation a bit better. It also would mean that those crazy racists may not be in the area on the other side of bayou - I wouldn't think they'd want a random mixed-race of marauders operating on their turf. Thank you for that kindly, sir."

Legal Affairs (Gullory, S. Noble, Carterby)

Bourbon Street follows the Jerome welcome wagon into the tiny town. There, the Sierra legal affairs team (and Carterby) is introduced to ASDF Private Anthony Grant, a light-skinned African-American youth just barely clinging to his teens. He tells the Sierras that his ASDF CO, Lieutenant Carter Reeves, decided that the state didn't pay him enough to preside over a pestilential hellhole in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, and that he could do better for himself on his own. According to Private Grant, most of the guards decided to throw in their lot with Reeves, excepting for a couple who planned to head for home in other parts of the state, and himself, who'd struck up a friendship with a young lady in Jerome.

Next, the Sierras meet with Nick Massey, a young Jeromite who accompanied Reeves' deserters. He explains that he lost his father, from whom he was already estranged, in the war, and that he came to see Reeves as something of a surrogate. Until, that is, he learned what Reeves' new "job" entailed. According to the teenager, Reeves' crew has set up shop in a farmhouse just east of the town of Snyder, about 15m southwest of Jerome, where they've begun trying make a living as modern-day highwaymen, waylaying folks passing through town on State Highway 82. Massey says he left when they started doing "bad stuff". Upon further questioning, he explains that this included rape and murder. When pressed for the number of deserters-cum-highwaymen, he says there were 10 of them when he left.

The legal affairs team sees no evidence that things are not as Mayor Grass et al claimed.


Hearts and Minds (Carswell, Murray, Skillins, Millie Bloom)

Although Skillins is tapped to drive Razorback for the upcoming recon mission, his mechanic skills earn him a slot on the hearts and minds team.

Carswell is kept busy for a couple of hours, successfully lancing a boil, confirming a pregnancy and giving advice on prenatal care, and removing Mayor Grass' bad tooth. As for the lump in the Chinese patient's throat, the medic is pretty sure that he's looking at a case of Thyroid cancer. The man can barely swallow solid food, and he's having difficulty speaking. Bloom has a hard time understanding him. Carswell could try to remove the tumor, but it would be by far the most complicated surgical procedure he's ever attempted.

Murray and Skillins meet a resident whose solar power system is on the fritz. Murray takes a look at it and correctly diagnoses the problem. With Skillins' help (mostly muscling stuff open, closed, etc.), she gets the system up and running again, earning the hearty thanks of the homeowners (a middle-aged couple) and their two Chinese lodgers.

The hears and minds team sees no evidence that things are not as Mayor Grass et al claimed.


Recon (Cao, C. Noble, Clark, Campbell, Watkins, and Kabua)

The recon team rests and preps their gear for a nighttime op. It's a good time to catch up on sleep too. Kabua is grateful for the chance to rest his leg, which seems to be healing quickly.

Red the horse is restless. He needs to be fed, and run, and his trailer needs to be cleaned out. The Haskins kids offer to take him out for some exercise. They also show quite a bit of interest in Sierra's military vehicles and equipment. Billy Haskins asks for a live .50 BMG round as a souvenir. Kabua gives him a spent shell.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:30, Fri 11 Oct 2019.

Scott chuckles at Kabua's anecdote.  "Well, if kids are still being kids... what?  None of you kept spent brass from the Boy Scout range as props for playing soldier when you went back home at the end of summer camp?"

He sobers and looks down at his notepad.  "Okay.  From what we saw, and from what the med and tech team is saying, the stories are consistent, but not rehearsed-consistent.  Is anyone's bullshit detector twitching?  Anyone see any details that didn't align with what we've been told?"

At the ragged chorus of negatives, he nods.  "Based on that, I'm not seeing any reason to censure the town for the arrangements it's made to date.  The ASDF, and by extension the state, failed in its custodial obligations to the POWs.  I'm not prepared to make a firm policy recommendation on the disposition of those prisoners yet.  We need to have a little chat with Colonel Huang regarding his status, wishes, and intentions.  But I think things here can remain status quo until we've dealt with the more immediate problem, which is neutralizing deserters who've gone feral and recovering as much of their state equipment as we can."

He looks at Cao.  "Captain, it's your call.  But once we get recon intel in hand, we do have some bike cavalry in the area, and it would be nice to see if they can obey orders and operate with 'regular' forces."

Abbie watches the Haskins kids play with Red out in the field neighboring the farmstead. He wasn't worried about the kids at all - Red was a good horse that would be happy just getting out of the trailer for a few. So long as the kids didn't try to hurt him, they were in no danger at all.

Lounging around in the shade of the tractor, Abbie sees Campbell nearby and calls out to him. "Hey. Sorry that scouting patrol went a little south on us, but it sounds like we might be gettin' another chance here tonight." He waits a moment for Campbell's reaction before continuing. "What do you think about these guards that went all bandit on us? You reckon we'll need to deal with 'em before moving on?"

Lauren looks uncomfortable at the idea of Chinese soldiers potentially being left in the wind but she doesn’t offer any objections, at least not any verbal ones, for her eyebrows do rise briefly. But at the moment she doesn’t have any alternative solutions to put forward. And even if she did, she suspects that she would likely be in a minority of one. So for now she’s content to leave that particular problem for Guillory to deal with.

The deserters clearly are her problem though. When she’d first heard about them her train of thought had been the same as Clark’s, that the deserters might have been somehow linked to the escaped cons, although that had obviously turned out to be well wide of the mark. But what she was hearing about them was bad enough. Any qualms she might have been having about having to potentially fire on fellow Americans in uniform were rapidly dissipating now that she’d heard the details of Massey’s debrief.

”I have no problems with that.” She replies to Scott with a nod, before adding a clarification ”Involving the bikers I mean.” Clearly she has problems with the Communists but that’s another matter. ”With regards the deserters, based on what we’re hearing, I agree that feral seems like an appropriate description. That being the case, it strikes me that they’re unlikely to give themselves up willingly to face justice.” It’s fairly evident to her what form that justice is likely to take. ”Therefore I’m advocating that we treat them as unlawful combatants.” Reading between the lines she’s suggesting shoot first, ask questions later.

The irony is not lost on her. She’d rolled into Jerome expecting - hoping? - to engage the Chinese. But it turned out that as far as the people of Jerome were concerned the Chinese were the good guys and the ASDF were the bad guys.

Earlier on, when they had been talking to Grant, Nash's eyebrows had raised at the mention of Carter Reeves. Lieutenant Carter Reeves, though he hadn't been a Lieutenant when Nash had met him. He had questioned Grant on what Reeves looked like and the physical description fitted with his memory of the man he'd met several years previously.

Once they had regrouped with the others he passed along the information that he knew.

"OK, assuming that there aren't two Carter Reeves that look like each other then I know him a bit and he's an asshole," he started to explain to the others. "I met him several times on training exercises about eight or ten years ago when we were both in the Arkansas National Guard. Not in the same unit but he's a couple of years younger than me and we did a leadership course together. Of course he wasn't a Lieutenant then. We were both Sergeants at the time and we got buddied up together by the instructors. From what I remember he's ex USMC, did some time with them after High School but left for some reason. I think that he sold insurance or something similar. Anyway, he's a control freak. Likes to be in charge and gets a kick out of telling people what to do. Sounds like someone in the ASDF decided that that made him officer material. So yea, he sounds like the kind of asshole who would decide to set himself up as his own boss and do the kind of shit that the other one, Massey, talked about. Sounds like him and his cronies are a problem around here that we should try to solve."

"All right," Saul says to the assembled members of Sierra.  "So Reeves is a problem child with a gun.  And an agenda for power.  Great.  The locals here say he has ten folks with him, but I'm not loving the accuracy of that report.  So let's say fifteen for the sake of argument.  At least until our recon element can verify.  That's enough firepower that we don't want to get sucked into an engagement until we choose."

This is the kind of thing that really gets Saul's blood pumping.  Identifying destabalizing elements and eliminating them.  Co-opting allies.  Turning the tables and bringing order out of chaos.  "We can use the bikers, and it's probably critical that we do, but can I suggest something truly radical?  Can we utilize a few of the Chinese here as well?  That's really out there, I agree, but I've got two reasons.  One, they are going to be the front line of defense around here once we're gone and we might as well see what they can do.  Two, if they are going to be living here openly, they are going to be interacting with our biker friends, and I think we'd be well served to open that relationship on our terms in order to avoid any accidental miscommunications."

It's a nice way of saying, Let's make sure no one shoots each other by mistake.  Or otherwise.  Saul isn't wedded to the idea.  The whole concept is out there and injects a lot more complexity into the operation.  And that leaves aside the fact that Lauren clearly has misgivings about the whole Chinese situation, although Saul has to credit her with keeping her emotions in check and rolling with the punches on this one.

"Maybe we can utilize them as a blocking force.  Nothing super tactical, just a seat at the table."
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:48, Sun 13 Oct 2019.

Lake Village (Scott & Saul in Bourbon Street), 1500 hrs.


"That's a little outside of our AO," Lefty observes. Red nods, holds up a hand to forestall further comments,

"Does this mean we're official?" the club leader asks pointedly. It's clear that an unequivocal assurance of official ASDF-auxiliary status is a prerequisite to assisting in an operation that seems likely to involve combat.

---

Recon Team in Pony Express (Clark, Carterby, Carissa, & Campbell) & Razorback (Cao, Skillins, Kabua, Murray)


The recon teams sets off just after sunset. Its two vehicles pass through Boydell, a hamlet in on the quarantined POW camp subterfuge and Montrose, a small town that is not. Montrose appears to be bedding down for the evening. It's likely that a few residents noted the passing of the ASDF vehicles, which is likely to stoke some curiosity given the direction they came from.

The Sierra vehicles pull off the road in a wooded area just north of a bend in the Bayou Bartholomew river and the recon team dismounts. Murray sends up Raven 1 to scout the route from the above. Once again, the drone will be operating at the edge of its effective range, giving it little time to loiter on site.

The C-crew sets off on foot, crossing the river via a bridge, but sticking close to the waterway in order to use the thick vegetation that borders it to conceal their approach to the target.

Raven 1 arrives on station above the homestead reported to serve as Reeves' crew's base of operations. Murray spots a lone figure sitting on the roof of the farmhouse, smoking some sort of cigarette. He appears not to notice the drone buzzing overhead. Perhaps the high pitched keening of insects on the make drowns out the sound of the drone's engine. There's two pickup trucks- one light, one dark- parked in the dirt driveway near the farmhouse. What appears to be an M60 GPMG is propped on the cab roof of the mottled one. No other people are visible. The low-battery light begins to flash on Murray's control screen so she orders the drone home.

The recon team arrives in place opposite the farmhouse and begins observing the target from ground level. It's well after dark. The Sierras can see the lookout on the roof. At one point, another figure emerges from the house and engages in a brief conversation with the rooftop sentry. Candlelight flickers in the open doorway. At about 23 hours, the door opens again and the lookout is relieved. Shortly thereafter, the lights inside the farmhouse are extinguished. The sky is clear but the moon is waning, providing a modicum of illumination of the scene playing out below.


Updated Campaign Map: https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:42, Tue 15 Oct 2019.

Scott briefly lifts his eyebrows.  "Yes.  Contingent on... what was the phrase, Saul?  'Maintaining good order and discipline,' to the same extent that we expect of every other auxiliary unit.  Basically, follow orders, so long as they aren't indefensibly stupid, and keep independent action to a level that we can justify as aligned with the needs of the state."  He shrugs.  "Captain Cao will have overall command of the op but we're not stupid enough to try to exert tactical command of your unit.

"As far as the orders go, we'll want you or your planning officer to give input on the op plan before we do this so we don't task you with something that doesn't make a lick of damn sense.  And on our earlier conversation about ammo... I don't know what we're going to salvage from these guys, but your unit will get a share of any ASDF gear we recover, and any other property we can't reasonably reunite with original owners."

Saul nods along with everything Scott says.  "We're not interested in dictating to you how to run your show.  You and yours have been doing an admirable job of keeping this little corner of Arkansas functioning at a high level.  More than anything, we would like to help you capitalize on that stability and grow it out from here.  To that end, we hope that this will be a joint operation with the folks in Jerome as well.  They're your neighbors and I think between the two of your communities you can really accomplish something here."

A small chuckle escapes Saul's lips. "Some of you vets have probably heard speeches like this before.  I came up in Afghanistan and Iraq, and coalition building is what I did.  Now I want to be clear, I'm not comparing any red-blooded Americans here to anybody over there.  But the lessons are the same.  Work with good people to systematically identify and eliminate scumbags that make things worse for everyone else.  And we're judging that you are some of the good people Arkansas needs."
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:05, Thu 17 Oct 2019.

Carissa is settled into the game at this point.  A couple hours walking through the humid Arkansas night, dressed to the nine's in battle-rattle, and carrying Scott's Remington in her arms.  A rifle that has started to feel more like her than any other weapon she's carried.  Scott hadn't really wanted to give it up.  Hadn't really had a good argument not to.  And Carissa still knows how to smile, just so, and how to promise to return something she borrows in good working order.

The morning and afternoon had passed slowly.  Sierra had gotten to Jerome early and then the recon team had been put into a holding pattern so they could rest for for the night op.  After prepping weapons and gear, there hadn't been much else to do besides sit around and try to sleep.  In short, nothing to do but be bored.  It had felt good to be on the move again.  Moving towards adrenaline.  Moving towards purpose.  Even the waiting outside the farmhouse feels better than the waiting in camp.

She takes a deep breath, more to relax her muscles than anything else and sweeps the house again with the scope of her rifle.

"I've got one sentry on the roof," she reports to Carterby without turning her head and knowing full well the man can see the sentry as clearly as she can.  "The rest of the house looks put to bed.  I've got an angle on the gun truck as well.  Just in case."

Red nods along as Guillory and Noble reiterate their vision for how the CVMC will fit into the ASDF. When Saul finishes his piece, Red says, "You remember the YPG, Mr. Noble? The Kurds? They did our dirty work for us in Syria. Then, when we didn't need 'em any more, we turned our backs on 'em, sold 'em out to the Turks and the Russians."

He pauses to let the point sink in. It's by no means a perfect comparison, but Red's meaning is clear. What's to stop the ASDF from using the CVMC and then cutting them loose again?

"It's not that your word's no good, gentlemen- I trust the both of you, but the governor's office... not so much. As it stands right now, your word's all we got, and that's not enough. In the... eventuality, that something happens to the both of you, I want a written record of our arrangement. I had one of my men draft a 'contract' of sorts. I bet a real lawyer could tear it to shreds, but it'll make the club feel a whole lot better about this relationship moving forward."

The club secretary passes a sheet of paper over Red's shoulder. The club president takes it, sets it firmly down on the table and slides it across to Scott and Saul. They look it over. It's most boilerplate pseudo-legal language, bullet-pointing the main stipulations of the CVMC's independent security contractor status in the ASDF. It also retroactively authorizes previous security operations, but stops short of granting club members blanket immunity for past, present, or future actions.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:31, Thu 17 Oct 2019.

”Right.” Lauren announces as the recon team seat off. ”Kabua, you’re on overwatch with the M2. Call out if you see anything that looks out of the ordinary but hold your fire unless I give the word.” The Air Force Captain swivels in her seat so that she can look at Xandra. ”Mz Murray, you stay here and watch the drone feed. Same things applies, if you see anything that’s a concern let me know.”

Her attention turns to their driver. ”Skillins, you stay put, monitor the radio and be ready to move if we have to. I’m going to dismount and cover the perimeter with Carswell.” ‘The perimeter’ currently consists of two vehicles, parked line astern, the JLTV in the lead, the Ford behind it.

Pushing open the armored door, Lauren steps down from the JLTV, closing the door quietly behind her, cradles her carbine at the low ready as she walks back to the Ford where the medic is currently sitting by himself in the driver’s seat. The Air Force officer is back in full battle rattle, body armor, helmet, even camp facepaint on her face as she approaches the other vehicle. The medic has already rolled the window down, looks at her as she walks up. ”I need you to dismount, cover the perimeter with me.”

”Sure thing.” Nodding agreeably, Carswell gathers up his carbine and joins Cao in a circuit around the two parked vehicles that terminates with the pair of them standing next to Razorback’s hood, looking about in different directions as they keep a look out for any signs of possible trouble, Kabul in the gun ring acting as the third lookout.

Hiking through the woods on the approach to the suspected bandit location, Abbie had forgone his M4 in favor of his Hoyt Carbon Defiant compound hunting bow, figuring that the terrain favored a short range and quiet weapons, and he didn't think anything the team had would be as silent as a bow, unless they got into knife range, that was. When the group finally made it to the northern edge of the forest however, after taking one look at the farmhouse in the distance, Clark unlimbered his rifle once more.

Abbie was dressed in wooded fatigues, and was difficult to see in the heavy woods. For those that did look closely, noticeably absent was his new kevlar helmet, gifted to him by the departing team members; instead, a simple wooded camo boonie cap once again graced his scalp.

Having no night vision device, Abbie trusted in his other senses. He listened to the sound of the crickets chirping and the warm summer breeze fluttering through the tree branches. He smelled the sweet juniper of the longleaf pines and the faint apple smell of nearby hickory nuts. In the end though, he was still able to make out the outline of a man standing on the roof of the farmhouse in the distance. The lookout had good sight lines - if the team wanted to get closer, they'd have to go pretty far around to the east or the south unless they were willing to take a risk.

After watching the sentry and the surrounding terrain for a few minutes, Abbie turns to Nash with a whisper, "What do you think, boss? We could sit here all night watchin' this guy lookin' around, but we might be able to get a little closer if we use those trees over there," Abbie then points northwest. "The question is whether we want to try to sneak across the road right in front of him, or go all the way around..." Clark then waits for a response from his old comrade in arms.

Scott scans Red's paperwork.  Then he stretches, feels a couple of vertebrae pop, and grins.  "As it so happens..."  He picks up the metal clipboard that he'd pulled from Ace Hardware's admin supplies before he and Saul set out on this law-op.  "I am a real lawyer.  And, not to put too fine a point on it, I am the governor's office hereabouts.  So you may be unsurprised to learn that I came prepared."

He flips open the clipboard and pulls out an only slightly travel-worn copy of Form AR-DOM-11910 (ASDF Attachment of Local Forces), giving Saul an amused sidelong glance as he does so.  "Bureaucracy, like cockroaches, survives nuclear war."  He flips the form around and offers it to Red.  "This is the standard for integrating local militias into the ASDF under autonomous command.  It gives you most of what you're asking for there.  It also formalizes your ability to draw on ASDF stores - assuming you can find any, because the cupboard's pretty damn bare these days - and to requisition a limited amount of private property in support of security and relief operations.  It doesn't automatically sanction operations prior to the effective date, but with the documentation packet you've already given us, I'll sign off on that separately."

With a formal alliance established between the Sierra team and the Combat Vets Motorcycle Club, the anti-marauder operation proceeds. The CVMC seconds two seven-rider squads to Sierra, one following in Razorback's tracks, the other approaching from the south on the 160. In the meantime, a small force of Jerome militia (a mix of natives and ex-PLA) arrives at the mobile CP and is deployed, moving into the woods north of the bandit encampment.

OOC: I figure that the two Sierra legal liaisons can accompany the militia groups, Saul in Bourbon Street with the CVMC, Guillory on foot with the Jerome militia, but feel free to place them elsewhere/task them otherwise.

Advised of the operational plan of attack, the recon team moves west through the woods until they meet the juncture of 82E and 160N. This allows them to keep the west side of homestead under surveillance, as well as cut off any escape attempt made in a southerly direction. The rooftop sentry seems none the wiser.

With coms established and all units in position, the attack begins at dawn. With the sun at its back, Razorback hustles down the 82 towards the residence. From about 150m south of the target, the surveillance team watches the rooftop sentry take note of the danger approaching from the east. He stands up and starts shouting, no doubt attempting to rouse his late-sleeping criminal comrades. The JLTV is approximately 600 meters from its destination and closing at about 50mph.

https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-

Lauren’s expression is pensive as the JLTV closes on its objective, her eyes focused on the target house, the radio handset clutched in her left hand so that she can coordinate their attack. For the second time in a matter of days Razorback is the tip of the spear, its fifty cal ready to engage their enemy. The enemy are different this time though. They’re not gangbangers, they’re Americans that are wearing the same uniform as she is, and she’s about to order Kabua to unleash a lethal hail of large caliber rounds on them without any warning or any chance to give themselves up. That thought alone had been enough to fuel the knot of tension in her belly as she’d tried mostly unsuccessfully to breakfast on an energy bar half an hour ago.

And that’s before she factors in the risks of accidentally firing on their own people. They’ve got three different groups in the field, none of whom have operated together before. If they can pull it off it will be a text book example of cooperation, something they can build on for the future. But it’s risky. They’ve had no time to get to know each other, little time to throw together a plan - there’s a part of her head that thinks that if there hasn’t been a powerpoint presentation it’s not a proper plan - and for at least some of them English wasn’t their first language. Lauren is still trying to get her head around the fact that she’s going to War with the Chinese rather than against them. And the people they are going to be firing on in a matter of seconds were, until recently, their jailers.

”All units target in sight, stand by.” Her voice is terse as she keys the radio, watches the house grow larger, mentally counting off in her head. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. Three thousand is close enough. It takes her another few seconds to give Kabua the order using a USAF brevity code which everyone had been briefed on. ”Kabua, open fire on the house. All callsigns Guns, Guns, Guns.”

Lauren
JLTV front passenger seat
Coordinating / initiating assault

The approaching dawn has a calming effect on Carissa.  The night had been spent on the move, in observation, and on the move again.  About an hour before the the attack was scheduled to begin, she'd had to shake off the cobwebs from so much movement and sitting still.  Resting when it wasn't her turn to watch the marauder base had been about all she could manage, the pent up energy waiting to be released, vibrating in her blood.  Then with the lightening of the sky from black to violet, the oncoming promise of action brought with it stillness.

The farm girl lies prone, several logs built up around her to support the rifle she watches her targets with. And to provide some bit of cover against incoming bullets, she admits to the ghost of her father for his peace of mind.  Not that she that worried about drawing fire.  The range is long and the forest concealing.

What am I missing? she asks herself.  What would my dad see?

Leaving the sentry alone, she begins moving her scope across the farm, looking in windows, at the front yard, the vehicles, the landscaping.  She's looking for the details that will tell her who lives here.  Someone that cares about a garden or marauders that don't bother with such things?  A child's toy left in the grass either to rot or because it was left there last night?  Carissa wants to know if there will be any unwelcome surprises when the bullets start to fly.  Finally, she traces the path from the farmhouse door to the gun truck back and forth six or seven times, anticipating the path she expects her target to run.

The light comes and she can hear vehicles in the distance being positioned.  She draws the map in her mind of where the friendlies are and where they could move to.  The roar of an engine starts as Razorback starts its approach.  Carissa leaves the sentry for Kabua.  The heavy machine gun should make short work of him.  Her scope sits on the front of the house, waiting for a runner.

Rawhide
Prone behind wood cover
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
5/5, 40 rounds remaining

Saul sits behind the wheel of Bourbon Street, door open, one foot on the ground and the radio turned up to hear the operational orders of the impending attack.  He's grateful that Car isn't in the direct attack, instead sitting back to provide sniper support, but he doesn't dwell.  Too many things could change.  And he's got liaison duty to attend to.

It's like being back in Afghanistan, he thinks.  Only this time I'm not hacking together phrases of Pashtun and hoping that I don't have a Taliban insurgent stuck somewhere in my operation with ten pounds of C4 strapped to his chest.  Everyone here speaks English.  And most of them have cut their teeth fighting guerrilla operations across various unpleasant places across the globe. All in all, he can think of worse groups of people to be embedded with.

Lefty sits on his Harley near the open door and listens to the radio with Saul.  Saul gives the biker an easy nod.  "Sounds like it's starting up," he says. "Glad to have you and your boys with us.  If you're needed, it'll be soon.  Lock'n load."
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:03, Sun 03 Nov 2019.

Abbie sits back, relaxing in the shade of the large trees south of the bandit house. His eyes and ears are wide open, waiting, anticipating the radio order to open fire. He didn't feel any particular qualms with opening fire on what were in all reality other Americans; he'd seen enough shit the past couple of years to know that what they were doing was the right thing - soldiers turned bandit would present a huge problem all over the country for years to come.

One thing that did concern Abbie though, was that he didn't feel like he was going to be particularly useful outside of putting down some suppressive fire on the house - a target which was already going to be rich with fast-moving lead. With that in mind, he turns to his long time comrade, "Hey, Nash. You're staying with Car, yeah? I'm thinking of keeping a lookout to the west and south to watch out for surprises. You okay with that?"

"I'm trusting you to keep the new guys from shooting through the target while we're on the far side of it," Scott quietly told Carissa before she ghosted out to link up with the recon team, and now that conversation looms overly-large in his head.  The Jerome militia squad's positioning is not exactly ideal in terms of blue-on-blue potential and he's itching to displace a few dozen yards east or west as soon as he can.  For now, though, their current position has the best available combination of concealment and a view of Bearhouse Creek, which any fleeing mutineers will have to cross if they want to try to break contact into the forest.

The Arkansans and Chinese are intermingled along the skirmish line with an ease that suggests they've already been training, if not actually deploying, together.  The locals haven't volunteered any information and Scott hasn't asked, figuring plausible deniability is his best option.  They're behind cover, with the Chinese combat veterans keeping their less-experienced local cohorts from getting too anxious.  As the one member of the team with a ghillie suit and good glass, Scott's serving as lookout and communications relay.

Lauren's transmission carries cleanly into his earpiece.  Scott lowers his binoculars and turns his head.  "Falcon advises, 'guns, guns, guns,'" he relays to the militia squad's leader.

Scott
prone behind convenient stump, under ghillie suit
observing incipient shenanigans with binoculars; relaying comms
Wilson Recon SR Tac [30/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope
This message was last edited by the player at 23:41, Wed 20 Nov 2019.

"Yea," Nash replied to Abbie. "Good idea. Take Armand with you to cover south and west and keep your heads down as well. I think that we have friendlies directly opposite us on the other side of the buildings so I'm gonna hold fire until needed. You may have loose rounds passing over you so stay low. Also keep a look out for anyone bugging out. When they start getting hit some of the bandits will try to make a run for it."

He then moved forward and positioned himself beside Carissa, letting her snipe while he held his fire. "I'll spot for you," he whispered to her as he deployed the bipod of the SAW, ready to engage if necessary. He then scanned around, looking for other targets beside the sentry to indicate to Carissa. Once the firing started Nash focused on the western side of the building, looking for runners trying to escape.

When the order came to engage he didn't relay it. Carissa had a radio of her own and Abbie and Armand were too far away to inform them quietly. And once the .50 cal started firing then it was going to be clear anyway that it was time to start shooting.

As ordered, Kabua looses off a five-round burst from the J-LTV's fifty-cal. The range to target, at this point, is about 500m. Considering the distance, the angle of approach, and the movement of his firing platform, the result of the burst is little more than a tentative ranging shot. The red tracers, just visible in the early morning light, sail wide right, disappearing into the woods just north of the house. Kabua checks fire, aware that Guillory's team of Jerome militia occupy blocking positions in that general area, and worried about wasting ammo. Although the young cook-cum-machine gunner is more than competent with belt-fed automatic weapons, he's not used to firing them from a fast-moving vehicle. (-5 rounds .50 BMG)

Guillory hears the brief, jackhammer-like report of the Ma Deuce, but isn't aware of the .50 BMG rounds tearing through the trees between his position and the target house (which is not currently visible to him).

The Sierra scouts watch as the man on the roof of the target house continues to shout and gesture, his audience as yet unseen. The front door of the house swings inward and two men emerge, both armed but only partially dressed. Another emerges from a side door and climbs into the bed of the camo-painted truck parked alongside the house, likely to man the M60 propped on its roof. A fourth man appears beside the truck, starts to open the driver's side door. Then a fifth stumbles out the front door, pausing to pull up his sagging fatigue pants. The whole scene is one of confusion and urgency, already teetering on the brink of panic.

Where Saul sits behind the wheel of Bourbon Street-about 2.8 km south of the target area- the sound of the Sierra .50 is drowned out by a chorus of CLICK-CLACKS as nearly a dozen bikers lock-and-load.

Razorback is now 400m (as the crow flies) from the target house and closing at about 80kmph (50 mph).

https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:49, Thu 28 Nov 2019.

The noise of the .50 carries clearly through the woods.  Scott glances left and right to check the militia troops and sees them holding position.  There's no need for him to intervene in anything - and nothing visible for him to intervene in just yet - so he returns his focus southward and waits for the mutineers to decide they're better off elsewhere.

Scott
prone behind convenient stump, under ghillie suit
observing incipient shenanigans with binoculars; relaying comms
Wilson Recon SR Tac [30/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope
This message was last edited by the player at 16:55, Thu 28 Nov 2019.

Xandra is once again thankful she's not susceptible to motion sickness.  She's known people who'd be puking their appendixes up from staring at a small screen in the back seat of a moving vehicle.  Thankfully, her sea legs seem to carry over to remote piloting while riding in an armored truck whose motion is in no way matched to the images on her screen.  Also, fuck yeah, air conditioning.

"Got guys coming out," she advises the rest of Razorback's crew.  "Total six including the sentry.  They're armed but I can't see anyone acting like he's in charge.  It's kind of a bumblefuck over there."

Xandra
Razorback, driver's side rear seat
drone ops
This message was last edited by the player at 17:01, Thu 28 Nov 2019.

”Copy that.” Lauren’s reply to Xandra’s update is terse. Missing the house entirely hadn’t factored in to her thinking and she’s conscious that with multiple friendlies on the ground their fire discipline needs to be spot on.

”Kabua, target the men coming out of the house!” They’ve got a confirmed target and they’re armed so she's making that a higher priority than randomly shooting up the house.

Lauren
JLTV, front passenger seat
Directing fire

Lying prone next to Carissa, the SAW in front of him on its bipod, ready to be used if needed, Nash started spotting for the sniper, pointing out targets.

"Start with the gunner on the technical," he commented. "Then switch to the driver. If he gets the vehicle moving then I'll also engage." He then flicked his eyes to the other men hurriedly exiting the building, looking to see if any of them were armed with a weapon more substantial than an assault rifle. He also glanced at Abbie and Armand, checking that they were aware that there were now potential runners at the rear of the building.


Nash
Lying prone next to Carissa
Spotting targets but ready to engage the technical with a series of bursts from the SAW if it starts moving
M249 SAW (200/200)

Carissa watches the chaos at the target house unfold with grim satisfaction, glad she's not on the receiving end of it all.  As would-be defenders scatter across her field of vision, she reaches up and clicks a notch or two over on her scope to adjust for the increased bit of wind the dawn has brought.  "Got it," she says to Nash.  "Gunner, driver."  For a moment, her brain freezes on the the thought of shooting through the windshield, trying to remember how to adjust the bullet path for safety glass, but she pushes the thought away.  Gunner first. A small adjustment of her sight picture finds the frantic gunner climbing into the back of the pickup bed.  She waits, just a split second, for him to stop moving as he reaches the weapon.  To make her shot that little bit easier.  A slight jolt of adrenaline courses through her veins, bringing a bit of dopamine with it.  Feels good.

Carissa exhales, holds, and squeezes the trigger.


Rawhide
Prone behind wood cover
Engaging gunner, then driver if time allows, with aimed shots
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
5/5, 40 rounds remaining

Saul feels the familiar chagrin of upcoming combat crawl across his skin.  Where his daughter feels the thrill (unbeknownst to Saul, anyway), her father has become habituated to a sense of oh here we go again when others start doing the lock and load routine.  That it is both a practical operation and a psychological preparation mechanism is not lost on the former Marine.  There's a reason he's studied the human psyche so much.

"Okay," he yells over to Red.  "Let's get a little closer to action.  No sense driving for miles if they need us."

Saul pulls the door of Bourbon Street closed, runs through the familiar routine of making sure his seatbelt is stowed where it won't hang up on his gear (bullets being somewhat of a more direct threat that getting t-boned on a deserted country road after the apocalypse), and starts leading the reaction force forward to their next staging area.

"Falcon, Gimp, we're moving north in support."

Saul
Driving north with the CVMC in tow
Will stop at the southern edge of the tree line in the same wooded area that the scouts are in, still along the 160

"Yes, ma'am," Jackson answers, trying to bring the long-barreled M2 HMG around to his left. He feels like he's fighting the wind, which pushes insistently against the many-angled turret, some of it rushing through various crevasses in the armor plate to swirl around the cramped, open-topped compartment, tugging at his fatigue shirt. The young gunner sees motion at the front of the house. When the rear sight lines up over one of the distant figures, he squeezes the triggers, hoping for the best, but not expecting much.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:27, Sat 30 Nov 2019.

Razorback continues to close the distance to the target house, Skillins holding the pedal to the metal. Kabua's second burst of heavy machine gun fire is far more effective than the first, one of the heavy rounds rag-dolling the bandit who'd been struggling to keep his trousers up just a moment before. If his companions notice, they don't seem to care. Both make a bee-line for the pickup truck sputtering to life in the driveway. Another figure appears in the front doorway, but turns right around at the sight of his comrade lying motionless on the front lawn, disappearing into the shadows within the dwelling.
(-5 rounds .50 BMG)

With Nash spotting, Carissa takes a shot at the machine gunner standing upright in the truck bed. As the sound of the gunshot dies, the target pitches sideways but remains on board. Nash notes a red bloom on the fallen man's upper, left hip. (Carissa -1 round 7mm-08)

The two men who'd exited through the front door scramble into the truck bed, but neither make an attempt to man the M60 still propped atop the cab. Another pair of bandits appears from the side door and piles aboard. The truck abruptly backs up a few meters, and turns 90 degrees to point its nose down the driveway before skidding to a halt. The M60 tumbles off the roof none of the observing Sierras see it hitting the ground. The truck's tires then spit gravel as it fights to accelerate forward towards the highway.

The rooftop sentry hesitates, seemingly caught between two minds. He raises his carbine towards the approaching AFV, then lowers it and takes a couple of steps closer to the top of the ladder propped against the east side of the house. The impending departure of bandit's pickup truck seems to make up his mind. He hastily mounts the ladder and begins descending, pausing briefly to flag down the driver with one frantically-waving hand.

Another man emerges from the side door and, also waving frantically, starts chasing after the departing pickup truck.

Razorback is about 300m from house, 270m from where the driveway meets the 82. Bourbon Street and its tailing formation of militia motorcycles is about 1km from its stated destination.

Guillory hears another throaty burst from the team's Ma Deuce, a bit louder this time. The woods are still heavy with shadow, the rays of the rising sun yet to penetrate the thick, green foliage. The seasoned Sierra lawman's squad waits patiently, but the nervous anticipation of impending action is palpable. It's been a while for the ex-PLA troops, and their last experience of combat was certainly disappointing on some level.

https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:10, Sat 30 Nov 2019.

”Kabua! Switch your fire to the pickup. Give it ten rounds!” Lauren can see the truck starting to move, presumes that means at least some of the deserters are trying to get out of dodge, which means at best having to chase after them, and at worst that they manage to get away. That’s made the pick up the priority target in her mind, outweighs any benefit that there may be in seizing it intact. She wants maximum firepower directed on that truck, wants it stopped dead.

Lauren
JLTV, front passenger seat
Directing fire

Scott resists the urge to weigh in on the radio.  He has nothing to report and there's no point in jostling Cao's elbow at this point.  Still -

"All right, get ready for leakers," he advises the Jerome militiamen closest to him.  "Remember, anyone without a weapon gets a chance to surrender.  Anyone armed gets dropped.

Scott
prone behind convenient stump, under ghillie suit
awaiting opportunities
Wilson Recon SR Tac [30/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope

All the action is happening in front of Razorback, and the five-point harness isn't really designed to allow Xandra to peek over Duane's shoulder - especially given their relative heights.  She keeps the drone orbiting the house.  The flicker of .50 tracers shows her where Cao and Kabua's attention is, so she watches for anyone fleeing the scene who isn't making a futile attempt to chase down the fleeing truck.

Xandra
Razorback, driver's side rear seat
drone ops

"Hit," Carissa announces to Nash as she works the bolt on her rifle.  There's a hint of frustration in her voice.  She's pissed she missed a clean shot to the head or chest.  "Shifting to driver."  The scene is chaotic, Sierra has well and truly kicked over an ant nest on this one.  The bandits look like their panicking, which is understandable, given that they've just been woken up with heavy machine gun fire.  Settling her sights on the approaching pickup, the cowgirl pushes the last shot from her mind and draws another breath. At least this shot has the vehicle moving at an angle where she can still put a round at the driver.

Exhale.  Hold.  Squeeze.

Rawhide
Prone behind wood cover
Engaging driver with aimed shot
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
4/5, 40 rounds remaining

Saul can't see anything yet and there's no radio traffic to tell him what's going on, but he can picture the situation up ahead with a reasonable degree of certainty.  A group of irregular, who probably consider themselves to be the baddest dudes on the block, just got woken up by a fifty cal mounted on an up armored vehicle.  That would get anybody attention.  Probably make them shit their pants, too.  Unless they are consummate professionals and all reports put these guys on the peckerhead end of the professional scale.  Doesn't really matter how professional the guy or gal is who shoots you though, not if they hit.

"Nice and steady," he says to Mike.  More from lack of anything else to say than to communicate an idea.  Just to let everyone know that things are still under control on their end.  For now.

”You don’t want me to use the lights then?” Carswell replies with a grin as he gradually applies the gas, checks his mirrors to make sure that the bikers are keeping pace with them. He’s joking. Sort of. Ahead of him the fifty cal is shattering the early morning stillness. Maybe he’s going to be busy later maybe not. If it’s anything like McGehee he’ll probably have to spend more time collecting body parts than he will administering triage. Ah well, these guys had made their choice.

"Engaging the pickup," Nash commented quietly to Carissa beside him as he opened up with the M249 SAW, adding to the sniper's shots at the driver of the vehicle, hoping that any rounds that fell short would hit the engine block and stop the pickup truck from moving. He fired short controlled bursts, relying on the bipod to help him control the recoil of the light machine gun in an attempt to prevent any stray rounds passing close to the troops to the north of the bandit's base of operations.


Nash
Lying prone next to Carissa
Firing 3x 5rnd bursts at the driver of the pickup truck
M249 SAW on bipod (200/200 rnds)

In reply to Nashoba 'Nash' Carterby (msg # 171):

In moments, Abbie can be seen about 10 meters to the sniper team's west. "Nash! South and West are clear!" He yells, but it's clear he isn't likely to be heard over the sound of the squad automatic weapon now chattering away. He and Campbell had been keeping an eye out from the forest line in that direction, but it had all looked clear when the shooting started. Campbell was still there holding things down just to be safe.

Rather than spend anymore time trying to get Nash's attention, Abbie decides to appraise how the fight had been going so far and to see where he could best help. He immediately follows the SAW's tracers toward a roaring pickup, and raises his M4 to his shoulder, taking careful aim. He'll wait until the pickup gets to the end of the driveway, and then fire off three rounds at the trucks tires depending on which direction it turns.

Abbie Clark
Standing west of the snipers in the treeline.
Firing 3 rounds at the truck's tires once it starts to turn.

Kabua, Carissa, Nash, and Clark all open up on the fleeing vehicle, more or less simultaneously. The target spews a few puffs of atomized material as it leaps forward, out of reach of its foot-bound pursuers, then just as suddenly begins decelerating. The windshield abruptly turns an almost opaque white, indicating multiple spiderweb cracks caused by hits, whilst obscuring the driver from his executioners. At nearly the same time, the truck's front, left tire explodes. The stricken vehicle drifts left (to the southeast), onto the unkempt front lawn, slowing down until it's finally stopped by a young tree, about 15m from where it exited the gravel driveway. (Carissa -1 round 7mm-08; M2HB -10 rounds; Nash -15 rounds belted 5.56mm; Abbie -3 rounds 5.56mm)

As the truck is hit by the fusilade and starts to drift, the two men who'd been desperate to leap aboard just moments before stop in their tracks, turn on their heels, and start high-tailing it back the way they came. Similarly, as soon as the truck stops, the passengers in the bed of the truck clamber out and start fleeing the scene, heading towards the perceived shelter of the buildings, or perhaps the woods beyond.

Razorback, still travelling at about 80kph, has closed the range to bandit truck to about 125m; in a few seconds, the speeding J-LTV will arrive at the driveway entrance. Bourbon Street has just reached the southwest corner of a wooded area extending south from the 82.

https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-

”Skillins, turn right! Now! Take us off road.” They’re closing fast on the turn off to the house occupied by the deserters but Lauren doesn’t plan to take the road. She figures that of they can cut across the field they’re passing by now they can roll up to a spot close to the house where they can use the fifty cal without having to worry about their own people being danger close and deploy the M79 that’s stowed next to her. If the deserters haven’t given up by then of course, although thus far there’s no sign of anyone surrendering.

”Everyone hang on, we’re going off road! Kabua, put a short burst into the house! Skillins, stand by to stop on my word. Mz Murray, i’m going to dismount when we stop. You carry on updating everyone.”

Taking her own advice, the Air Force Captain then reaches out a hand to grip the JLTV’s dash, bracing herself for the transition from paved road to field.

Lauren
JLTV, front passenger seat
Issuing orders

"Yes, ma'am," Duane answers with laconic calm, trying to temper the urgency in Cao's command. Well-aware that the J-LTV's relatively high center of gravity could cause the heavy metal vehicle to jack-knife if it turns sharply at high speed, the redneck wheel-man brakes for few beats before turning the wheel. If the Captain is pissed off with the delay, then so be it- better safe than ass-over-teakettle.

-
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 19:23, Tue 03 Dec 2019.

An "oh, shit," escapes Xandra as the J-LTV sways into the turn.  She suits action to words and grabs the oh-shit handle next to her door with the hand that isn't keeping the drone control station from sailing across the crew compartment.  "Aye, aye, cap'n."  She's pretty sure that isn't the correct Army etiquette, but hopefully Cao - being Air Force herself - won't catch the error.

The bandit's vehicle had stopped but there were still enemy troops trying to get into cover. Even though they were former comrades, once members of the ASDF, Nash didn't hesitate in continuing to fire, squeezing off another three bursts at a group of them. They had made their choice and they now had to live with that, though that wouldn't be for very long if they didn't surrender quickly.

"Make sure you ID your targets," Nash yelled to the rest of the recon patrol between bursts as he tried to pick off the fleeing bandits. "God knows what other friendlies are nearby so be careful."

After firing another burst he then called out to the two members of the patrol who were further west than him. "Abbie. Armand. Keep watching for runners trying to escape into the woods to the west of the building. That's the obvious way to run."


Nash
Lying prone next to Carissa
Firing 3x 5rnd bursts at the three bandits running northwest from the pickup truck
M249 SAW on bipod (185/200 rnds)

"Well, that got their attention." Abbie says with a slow drawl and accompanying chuckle. When Nash gives the order to keep an eye out for runners, Abbie does just that - he pivots so that his field of fire is pointing up a lane west of the driveway, at the same time taking a knee, and aims to fire upon any runners heading to the forest.

Abbie Clark
Kneeling to the west of Nash, pointing north
Firing a 5 round burst at any targets that seem to be heading west to the nearby forest
M4A1 5.56mmN 27/30

Well that got'em.  It's impossible to tell if her shot hit the driver or not, and it doesn't really matter for the poor bastard behind the wheel.  And now the bandits are scattering like rats on an sinking ship.  Carissa works the bolt on the rifle to chamber another round and finishes her exhale. "Rawhide to all.  Pickup is down.  Bad guys are headed back north."

With all the firepower headed at the fleeing targets, the farm girl thinks about saving some bullets, what with the rarity of 7mm and all.  That gets discounted rapidly.  Silly to have somebody end up dead because she didn't fire on an easy target.  Something else entirely to throw rounds away on someone she can't see.  The guy whose back is square to her on the other hand...

Rawhide
Prone behind wood cover
Engaging fleeing bandit with aimed shot
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
3/5, 40 rounds remaining

"Let's close the door," Saul tells Mike.  With the enemy vehicle down, there isn't much point to holding the motorcycle gang back out of the action.  Better instead to stay kinetic and both cut off the run to the south and west, and maybe flush the bandits into making a panicked decision and run straight at the waiting arms of Scott and the locals.

Saul sticks a hand out the window and feels the sticky Arkansas morning air already heating up.  He waves at Red, indicating that he should follow along then reaches for his radio.  "Falcon, Gimp.  We're moving forward to cut off the south and west."

Gimp
Heading north in Bourbon Street
Goal is the intersection of 160/82

Nash and Carissa engage the bandits fleeing on foot from the wrecked pickup truck. One of the three runners falls on his face; the others continue their headlong flight. The two bandits who'd been chasing the truck have a head start on the retreat, disappearing behind the detached garage. The two runners still in view will reach the cover of the buildings in a couple of seconds. (Nash -15 rounds 5.56mm belted; Carissa -1 round 07mm-08)

Before Razorback leaves the black top, Kabua aims a five-round burst at the house. As the Ma Deuce finishes hammering out the quintet of throaty gunshots, a streaking red tracer appears to impact near the southeast corner of the house. (M2HB -5 rounds)

Clark unselfishly covers the west side of the house, ready to engage anyone who attempts to flee in that direction. No one appears there.

Saul decides to lead the cavalry into blocking positions southwest of the target building. Carswell accelerates the armored SUV, watching in the rear-view mirror to make sure the attendant bikers keep pace (they do). The convoy should be arrive at the intersection of the 160 and the 82 in a few more seconds.

Razborback is now rumbling through the fallow field west of the bandit hideout, its speedometer reading 35mph. The AFV's suspension handles the echoes of furrows well enough, but it's still a bumpier ride than what its crew has grown accustomed to. The range to the compound is a little over 100m and closing.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:31, Thu 05 Dec 2019.

Lauren tries to ignore the bumps that are jostling her back and forth in her seat, mirrors Xandra by grabbing the oh shit handle above the door as the target house grows larger ahead of them. They’re not taking any incoming fire but she can’t see any runners either. Maybe they’ve gone to ground in the house, in which case flushing them out could prove problematic. Or maybe they’ve had enough. After all, they could hardly have expected to find themselves attacked by heavy machine gun fire as the Sun came up. Shock and awe. It’s fast becoming the Air Force Captain’s mantra when dealing with opposition.

”That’s close enough.” She says to Skillins as they come level with the shot up pick up. She’s already reaching for the quick release on her five point harness. No point in getting too close. ”Kabua, guns are still hot but hold your fire unless you have a confirmed target.” Her intent is partly to conserve ammo. They’ve made their point, no need to shoot up empty rooms. And besides, they never did manage to establish for certain who else might be in the house. Although it’s maybe a little late for that now. ”Murray, you’ve got comms. Ask Mr Guillory if he can get some of the “ she’s about to say PLA troops, rephrases before the words come out ”- Jerome militia to move forward to support us.”

Her right hand is moving to the door handle as she speaks, pushing against the weight of the armored door as Skillins brings Razorback to a halt. Once they’ve stopped she slings her M4 over her shoulder and jumps down, the M79 in her hands as she takes a few steps forward, using the hood of the armored vehicle for cover. A bandolier of 40mm HE rounds is slung across her chest, while two CS gas rounds are stuffed into the right cargo pocket of her OCP pants.

The rising Sun is behind her as she as she gets a bead on the house, although like Kabua she doesn’t immediately open fire but she’s ready to return any incoming fire that’s directed at them.

Lauren
Directing then dismounting
Right hand side of JLTV, using front of vehicle for cover
Holding fire but ready to return fire if fired upon
M79 (1/1 HE) ready, M4A1 (30/30) slung

"We've got nothing over on our side. West side of the house looks clear!" Abbie calls back over to Nash and Carissa. Although he was speaking for both himself and Campbell, in all reality he isn't quite sure what happened to Armand. He hadn't seen the other man for a few minutes now, and assumed he was still watching to the west.

Abbie Clark
Kneeling 10m west of the sniper's nest, facing north
Aiming for any targets heading west of the house
M4A1 5.56mmN 27/30

If Abbie looks around, he won't see any sign of Campbell, other than a matted, now empty patch of forest floor where the other man had been lying when Abbie'd last seen him. It's hard to gauge time during a firefight, but when Abbie thinks about it, he determines that must have been a few minutes ago now.

-

Xandra slaps the quick-release on her own harness and hits the LOITER button on the drone controller, ensuring the Raven probably won't crash before she can get back to it.  She tosses the control station into the seat Cao has just vacated and leans forward between the front seats to grab the radio mic.  "Uh, Razorback to Sexton.  Falcon asks if you can move your guys forward to support the assault on the house.  Uh, over."

Scott frowns and closes his eyes for a moment to visualize the terrain.  "Razorback, Sexton.  We'll be moving up to the treeline by the north row of structures.  Watch your fire in that area.  We'll move on acknowledgement.  Because there is no fucking way I'm taking us downrange of that fifty without some margin of safety," he adds after releasing the mic.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:05, Thu 05 Dec 2019.

Xandra at the little compass thingy on the J-LTV's dashboard to orient herself, then slaps Kabua's leg to get his attention.  "Hey!  Guillory's guys are gonna come out by the houses on the right!" she yells up to the gunner.  "Don't fuck up!"

She waits for Kabua's thumbs-up, then keys u again.  "Razorback to Sexton.  The gunner's got the message."

"Sexton clear and responding," Scott says.  He rises to one knee and waves to get the attention of most of the group he's liaising with. "Hey!  Captain Cao needs us to move up.  Angle to the left to stay out of the line of fire."  He points with his free hand for emphasis.

Scott
moving forward (southeast) with local militia
upon gaining LOS to target area, will go prone and engage confirmed hostiles with aimed fire
Wilson Recon SR Tac [30/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope

Listening to the comms over the radio net about the risk of friendly fire Nash decided to stop shooting for the moment. Though the major risk was from the .50 Cal, the SAW was also spitting a lot of rounds down range that weren't hitting their targets.

"Friendlies getting close to the house," he called out loudly to the others, not realising that Armand had gone walkabout. "Make sure you have a clear target before firing."


Nash
Lying prone next to Carissa
Holding fire and trying to minimise the risk of a friendly fire incident
M249 SAW on bipod (170/200 rnds)

With her scope giving a a narrowed view of the backsides of fleeing bandits, Carissa takes an easy breath.  The bad guys are moving towards Scott and his folks, right into the next layer of the trap.  Now to avoid crossfire...  The brief respite allows the farm girl to slide two fresh cartridges into the rifle, topping off her ammo supply.  The next few seconds are spent relining up her sight to the buildings.  If anyone decides to stick their head out from around a corner, they're going to get an extremely short lived surprise.  "Friendlies," she echoes Nash.  "Got it."

She amends the earlier thought, reminds herself to identify a target first.  Although that will slow down the operation a bit.


Rawhide
Prone behind wood cover
Reloading, looking for hostile targets
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
5/5, 38 rounds remaining
This message was last edited by the player at 15:23, Sun 08 Dec 2019.

"Put us across the street, right up against that treeline," Saul says to Mike, pointing across the 82.  "We'll fan the bikers out in the cover when they get here."  Experienced eyes take in the unfolding situation that pops out from the trees to the east when they hit the cross street.

"Flacon, Gimp.  If they hole up, do you want me to move forward and give them the surrender speech over the loud speaker?"  And, you know, support the one woman gun show?  He leaves that part out.  And, to be fair, she does have a .50 cal over her shoulder.

Gimp
Observation, orders, and radio traffic
Bourbon Street
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:49, Thu 12 Dec 2019.

Resting the blooper's barrel on the hood of the JLTV, Lauren reaches for her radio with her left hand, her fingers working by touch while her eyes stay on the house. "Gimp, Falcon, affirmative. Out." The moment she's made the transmission her hand moves back towards the M79, grasping it firmly under the barrel. She'd prefer it if the deserters did surrender, and anything that leads to that is fine by her. But if they don't she's prepared to force them out. Her adrenaline is pumping, she's buzzing as she continues to watch the house.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 21:29, Mon 09 Dec 2019.

"Copy that." Carswell nods in confirmation when Saul indicates where he wants the medic to put the SUV. He's about to offer a commentary on GI Jane's strategy, remembers that Watkins is riding in the back so decides to stay silent on the subject rather than put the Air Force non com on the spot, instead concentrates on pointing the Suburban in the direction of the treeline and contents himself with a "Ever think you'd be sounding the charge for a bunch of bikers?"

"Nash!" Abbie calls over to his 10th Mountain friend. "Campbell's gone!" He has a lot of thoughts suddenly appear his mind that he wants to share, but in the middle of the op while rounds were still popping off wasn't the best time to share. It looks like Campbell either went in on his own, or bugged out. Either way, it would have to wait until things calmed down a bit before it could be followed up on.

"What?" exclaimed Nash in response to Abbie's call, turning to look at where the other two members of the Recon patrol were positioned, thinking that by gone Abbie was meaning that Armand had been hit and killed. He couldn't see Armand though so confusion washed over him.

"What do you mean by gone?" he yelled across, trying to understand what had happened. "Do you mean that he's been hit? If so then how bad is it?"

Skillins maneuvers the J-LTV in a lazy S-curve, north then west again, making it difficult for Kabua to keep the target house in his sights. Razorback skids to a halt in the dew-damp field, about 40m east of the marauder truck. With a WHOOSH and a POP, flames erupt from the latter vehicle's front end, cracking its hood and lapping up from its undercarriage. The engine fire quickly builds in intensity; in a minute or so, it'll probably engulf the crew cab. The driver is currently slumped behind the wheel. He may have just moved a bit, but it's hard to be sure. He's clearly in extremis.

One marauder lies face down in the driveway; another lies face up on the front lawn a few steps from the front door of the house.

Kabua covers the tight cluster of rural residential structures with the M2. From the gunner's cupola he shouts, "I got nothin'!"

Clark continues to cover the west side of the house. Like Kabua, he sees nothing. Without leaving their positions, Abbie and Nash spare a few moments to look around for Campbell but neither spots him.

Bourbon Street appears at the intersection southeast of the bandit hideout, leading a column of motorcycles. When the State Police SUV stops on the northern shoulder, the bikers slowly motor around, looking anxious, impatient.

Strung out in a skirmish line, Guillory's multi-national Jerome militia unit begins a cautious, measured advance through the woods towards the north face of the target house.

After advancing maybe 20m, one of the ex-PLA troops lifts his heavily modded SKS and starts pumping rounds out to his right-front. Scott looks in that direction, sees a hint of rapid movement through the trees.

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...82254437432&z=18


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:08, Sat 14 Dec 2019.

In reply to Nashoba 'Nash' Carterby (msg # 195):

Abbie calls back over while trying to maintain his focus on the bandits and the house downrange, "Nahh...he ain't hit! I mean, I don't know for sure. He's just not here anymore!".

Thinking further, Abbie adds in, "No one grabbed 'im or anything! He must've taken off!"

Scott checks left and right to ensure the squad isn't about to succumb to mass sympathetic fire without a target - and isn't about to run into their buddy's line of fire.  Then he drops to a knee beside a reassuringly-thick tree.  "Sexton, contact north of the house," he reports as he shoulders his rifle and starts scanning for a target.

Scott
moving forward (southeast) with local militia
going to cover, then engaging with aimed fire on positively-ID'd hostiles
Wilson Recon SR Tac [30/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope

In reply to Abernathy 'Abbie' Clark (msg # 197):

"Taken off!" exclaimed Nash, clearly still confused by what had happened to Armand. "How long since you've seen him?"

Before Abbie could reply however he made sure that everyone on the radio net knew that someone was missing, out of position from where they were supposed to be. "Talker to all stations. Be aware that one of my team has separated himself from the rest of us. Current location unknown but he may be playing the hero so be certain of your shots. Out."

He muttered quietly, more to himself than Carissa beside him. "What the fuck is that guy Armand doing?"

Out of the air conditioned bubble of the JLTV, Lauren can feel beads of sweat trickle down her forehead as she watches the house from behind what she hopes is the protection of Razorback’s armored hood. She’s angled in such a way that she can see the burning pick up out of the corner of her eye, is aware that someone may be moving inside.

Getting to the pick up is going to involve a twenty metre dash across open ground. When she’d done track and field at the Air Force Academy she would have made that in a few seconds. But that had been in shorts and running shoes. Now she’s in full battle rattle. And there may still be deserters in that house ready to fire on her the moment she steps out of cover.

In one respect it’s a hard call, in another it’s a fairly easy one. The barrel of the M79 resting on the hood, a gloved hand reaches for her radio again. ”Chef, Falcon. Target the man in the pick up but hold your fire unless I give the word. Break.” She currently rates that person’s chances of surviving this encounter as minimal. If the flames spread to him before any efforts can be made to extract him she’ll instruct Kabua to try and make sure he doesn’t suffer. That’ll be on her, not the stand in machine gunner. And besides it would probably be a kindness.

”Gimp, can you do your thing with the PA? Break.” They can end this now, try and stop anyone else having to die here this morning. And if anyone can talk them into surrendering she reckons it’s Saul. The next few seconds are spent processing what she’s hearing over the radio. ”Sexton, copy that. Break. Murray -” She’s temporarily forgotten Xandra’s call sign ”- Can you retask the drone to concentrate on the area north of the house and advise Sexton if you see anything.”

Finally, there’s Carterby’s transmission. ”Talker, can you confirm who is missing? Over.” He’s said ‘himself’ so she presumes it must be Clark or Campbell.

The radio is busy enough that Xandra doesn't bother clogging the channel with acknowledgement.  A quick swipe at the controls keeps the Raven in its elliptical orbit over the house while slewing the camera pod toward where she thinks Guillory's team is.

"He's just...gone?" Carissa asks from her position behind the scope of her rifle.  Without meaning to, she takes her eyes off the target and turns to regard Nash, kind of confused as to what just happened. "Gone?"  she repeats, more in disbelief than in fear.  Arkansas doesn't seem to be the kind of place where restless locals could sneak through a forest and carry you off for dinner even after the nukes went flying.  Although the boars...

A burst of radio traffic pulls Car back to her assigned job, the whole security of her team leader thing.  Her eye goes back to the scope, attention directed to her forward direction.  If the two guys in the woods, plus the loitering biker gang, can't keep her safe while she uses a high power rifle, she's got bigger problems to fry.

Rawhide
Prone behind wood cover
Reloading, looking for hostile targets
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
5/5, 38 rounds remaining

"Gimp copies, we're on the way," Saul returns to Cao over the ops net.  Time to shift into the whole nice-nice place, he muses.  But first...

"Hey Red," he calls out to their motorcycle liaison.  "Hold your folks here watching for any runners.  Make sure than you can identify you shoot out as hostile.  Yes," Saul says, catching Red's hardening glance, "I know y'all are professionals.  I've just got a paranoid streak when it comes to blue on blue.  It's not you, it's me. Just humor me and pass it on to your folks.  We're going to move up and try and convince Clarence the Menace to surrender."

The retired cop shuts his door and nods to Mike. "Take us up the driveway.  Lawn care ain't what it used to be and this beast weighs a ton.  Stop about half way up."

A few seconds of fiddling with a few dials on the center console (Saul is absurdly glad that sirens and PAs are a standard thing across the nation), and he picks up the mic to talk bandit.

"This is the Arkansas Self Defense Force.  We are here to shut down bandit activity in this area, and have the legal authority to use lethal force.  I advise you to surrender at once."  This first bit comes out hard, in cop mode, booming from the PA built into Bourbon Street's electronic package.  The next part is the reasonable human being.  "You are basically surrounded here folks, and you can see that we're not messing around.  Come out now, hands up, and you have a much better chance of living through this.  We don't want to dig you out, but we will.  And it won't be pretty.  You have thirty seconds to surrender."

The time frame is made up, but Saul figures it mostly fits.  The bandits are going to be off center as it is.  Might as well make them feel like they need to make a snap decision to live or die.

Red follows Saul's instructions, but moves his mounted force west until the woods block its LOS to and from the target compound. Carswell turns right, taking Bourbon Street east, taking no fire from the house as he passes in front of it, then turns left on to the compound's gravel driveway. The bandit's truck is throwing up an undulating column of black smoke.

Kabua shifts his sights from the house to the burning pickup. The driver, obscured by smoke, has made no discernible effort to exit the vehicle. The young cook-slash-machine gunner takes aim at the truck cab and tells himself this is mercy, not murder. The jackhammer-like report of the Ma Deuce is immediately answered by the metallic bang of rounds impacting metal. The projectiles easily punch through the passenger-side door. Carswell and Saul can see them tear jagged holes in the driver's side door as the rounds punch their way out. (-5 rounds .50 BMG)

Saul's amplified voice rings out from Bourbon Street's integral loudspeaker, calling out for the bandit's immediate surrender. There's no immediate response, verbal or otherwise, from the residence. No one observing the target house sees any indication of life from within.

Murray steers Raven 1 over the woods just north of the target buildings. The standard camera eye can't penetrate the thick green blanket of summer foliage, so she flicks on the FLIR, revealing between 12 and 20 heat signatures. The Jerome militia formation is recognizable- a skirmish line running roughly east to west. There's a less orderly clump of bright blobs hanging off the west end of said line, presumably the fleeing bandits.

Guillory sees part of this from a different angle. Looking in the direction the Chinese militiaman is firing, the lawman spots dropping prone behind a tree. Guillory takes aim as his target starts to return fire and squeezes off a round. A puff of dust and atomized blood erupts from the back of the hostile's right leg; the wounded man's scream can be heard above the exchange of gunfire, which is growing louder to Scott's right. The veteran lawman's quick and dirty tactical assessment of the violently dynamic situation is that a group of bandits, fleeing their compromised hideout, didn't quite get around the right flank of the militia skirmish line. (Guillory -1 round 5.56mm)

https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:16, Sun 15 Dec 2019.

”There’s a couple of perps down up ahead.” Carswell muses, his eye hidden behind his Oakleys as he lapses into cop speak to refer to the wounded deserters. He’d been around enough cops to speak it more or less fluently. Hell, his girlfriend was a cop.

It’s probably obvious where his thought process is going. First and foremost he’s a paramedic, has been in situations like this before. There’s people down. Granted, they’re bad guys, but that’s not really the point at this stage. But there’s also a house up ahead that may or may not contain more perps. Not to mention a burning pick up truck that’s kind of sort of maybe blocking their path.

”Think we can get any closer to them?” He asks Saul without taking his eyes off what’s happening in front of them.

"Talker to Falcon," Nash replied when there was a gap in the radio traffic. "Missing man is Campbell. We're holding position currently but will soon have friendlies between us and the target buildings. Do you want us to advance, search for Campbell or stay put? Over."

He then spoke to Carissa and Abbie while he waited for any new orders updating them on what they were to do next. "Friendly bikers coming in from the west and there seems to be action on the northern side of the building. We may need to relocate as our fields of fire are getting surely limited here." He didn't bother saying again that they needed to be careful with their shots as both Carissa and Abbie knew what they were doing. He just wondered what Armand was up to as he seemed to have either panicked or decided to play at being a hero!

Abbie responds to Nash, "Sorry boss. He was here just a couple minutes ago, but he just up n' vanished. Couldn't have been more n' 3 or 4 minutes, tops." He takes a breather as he looks around the wooded area, taking advantage of the lull in activity near the bandit house. "Want me to see if I can pick up his trail?"

If Nash agrees, Clark will immediately head over to where he last saw Armand and begin looking for signs of the man's exit.

”Talker, stand by.” Lauren’s reply to Nash is terse as she takes a moment to process the different snippets of information that she’s getting and formulate a course of action. The fact that someone is apparently missing is a source of concern but starting a search for him now before the deserters are dealt with and the situation is brought under control doesn’t strike her as being a good option. They already have enough different elements to manage and deconflict without adding yet another to the mix and increasing the chances of a blue on blue.

”Negative on searching for Campbell at the moment.” Even though her voice is disembodied the Staff Sergeant would presumably recognize the tone. It’s one that doesn’t encourage debate. They could look for Campbell afterwards, once they’d secured the area and could concentrate their efforts, use the drone.

”I want you to move forward to my position in leaps and bounds. Stay to the east of the house and use the vehicles for shelter, We will provide covering fire. Avoid the trees to the west. Say again all callsigns, stay out of the trees. Leave them to Sexton. Break.” Taking the eastern approach means covering more open ground but it’s a case of assessing the risks. The trees potentially afford them better cover but there’s a chance of them accidentally walking into the firefight that’s taking place north of the house and catching stray rounds. Or one of the Jerome militia getting eyes on them and thinking they’re some of the deserters. Whereas there’s no fire coming from the house at the moment and anyone inside that does stick their head up is likely to get it blown off by a fifty cal round or a forty mike mike HE. Or both.

Releasing the PTT switch, the Vietnamese American Air Force Captain calls up to Kabua. ”We need to cover the friendlies moving up. If you see anyone moving in the house open fire.” There’s no mention of the fact that he had fired on the pick up before she could tell him to. There’s no need.

"Negative," Nash replied to Abbie as he listened to the updated orders from Captain Cao. He then pressed the transmit button on his radio. "Falcon. Talker. Orders understood. Moving now. Out."

He then turned to Carissa and Abbie to update them. "OK, the Captain wants us to move up to join her at her vehicle. We move tactically while they cover us. You two pair up as Armand has gone missing. I'll go first. We're also to avoid the trees to the west as there are friendlies in there."

Pushing himself up into a crouch, Nash clicked up the SAW bipod and then muttered to his companions. "Ready?" he asked quietly. Once he got affirmatives from both of them he set off across the open ground at a run, taking the first leap forward before dropping and covering while Carissa and Abbie caught up and then bounded past him.

Carissa tries not to look at Nash as he relays the order to move out.  Fails.  Looks at the distance between their position and Cao's.  Looks at Nash again.  That's only like a hundred and fifty yards or so.  Her guts clench like being in the chute.

"Uh...yeah.  Okay," she manages.  "We've got your back."  She knows intellectually that the bandits seem to be exiting the back, but there's still fear at the thought of moving across that much grass in sight of the house.  Without the cover of darkness.  With moments that Nash uses to get ready are spent sweeping her area for any gear she's dropped, then she's back on providing cover while the new addition to Sierra dashes into the open.

Her turn will be soon.

Rawhide
kneeling, bounding over watch
looking for hostile targets
7mm-08 Remington, suppressed, 3-9x variable scope
5/5, 38 rounds remaining

"Yeah," Saul drawls slowly to Mike's question. "We can move up a little bit more.  Probably should.  I'd rather anybody left in the house be looking at us and not at our runners."  He leaves out naming names.  Everyone knows where Car is and he's trying not to let it color his decisions.  As if that were possible. "Doesn't look like anyone is surrendering anyway."  A steady hand comes up and points further down the driveway.  "Let's go play bullet magnet.  Just watch that fifty on our right.  I don't want to cross their line of fire to the house."  That would be a quick way to end up on a really bad day.

Saul looks down briefly at the shotgun in his lap.  Rehearses the load he's carrying with the slugs up first for more distance work.  Let's just hope it doesn't come to this.

”Yeah.” Carswell replies with a glance ahead and to his right, to where the JLTV is sitting, stationary, its heavy machine gun pointed menacingly towards the house. If Watkins wasn’t sitting in the back seat he’d have probably murmured something, instead lets the thought hang in the air, unsaid. GI Jane’s probably trigger happy. Again.

The paramedic applies the gas, slowly, takes the Suburban up the drive at what’s no more than a walking pace, seeing first one tree then another pass by his window, at which point he brings the SUV to a halt, well short of what should by any sane measure be the JLTV’s field of fire and also
keeping a respectable distance from the burning pick up.He had been tempted to go off road, into the field, but this fucker is heavy, so he sticks to the drive. He’s still some distance from the casualties though. And it’s open ground.

Carissa, Nash, and Abbie rise and move east about 40m, so that the team's armored SUV is more or less between them and the bandit house. They step out of the woods, still feeling quite vulnerable and start running towards Bourbon Street.

The black Suburban slowly rolls up the driveway several meters, until Mike and Saul can almost feel the heat of the burning ASDF pickup through the bulletproof windshield. Watkins, sitting in the back seat, racks a shell into the chamber of her Remington shotgun.

As the dismounts close the gap from the southern woods to the Sierra SUV, they hear a gunshot from the direction of the house. Cao and Kabua hear it too. It's a little muffled, but sounds closer and sharper than the smattering of shots from the northern woods. No one sees the source of the shot, though, nor do any of the Sierras note any indication that the shot was directed at them. There are no follow up shots either.

Razorback and its crew hold station, Xandra continuing to monitor the firefight in the woods. The clump of heat signatures on the west side of the militia skirmish line are starting to break off, move further west, but they seem to have left one of their number behind.

The man that Scott shot continues to scream in pain. The gunfire to the lawman's right continues. He hears a couple of rounds buzz by his position, high and wide right. The militiamen are shouting back and forth in a mix of English and Mandarin; there might be a bandit voice or three in there somewhere as well. Scott sees purple smoke through the trees. The wounded bandit screams, "Wait! Don't leave me! I'm hit"

The bandit truck is almost fully engulfed in flames at this point, the fire having spread quickly from the engine compartment to the fuel tank. The driver, mercifully, is not roasting alive. Rounds in the bed of the truck start to cook off, posing a danger to anyone not behind cover.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:14, Sun 22 Dec 2019.

”Did you see where that shot came from?” Lauren yells up to Kabua. When the answer is in the negative, the Air Force Captain takes a moment so size up the house opposite her which apparently still contains at least one active shooter and that they may have to storm when the dismount squad arrive on the scene.

The people in the house have to realize that staying there to make a last stand is tantamount to suicide by proxy. But there’s still a chance that they’ll inflict casualties as they go down. Carefully Lauren breaks open the blooper that’s in her hands, extracts the HE round and replaces it in the bandolier slung around her chest before replacing it with one of the CS rounds that are in the cargo pockets of her fatigue pants.

Once that’s done she decides to restate the message that Saul had already delivered while she waits for her back up to arrive, yelling at the top of her voice. ”You in there! Come out with your hands up and you won’t be harmed!”

Lauren
Swapping HE round for CS round
Attempting to persuade those in the house to come out

"Razorback to Sexton, the guys you're fighting are trying to break away to theeeee..." Xandra takes a moment to orient herself.  "west.  Um, over," she concludes.

"ASDF!  Show us your hands!  You, you, you."  Scott tags the three closest militia troops, including one who admitted to some experience as a TSA screener before the war.  It's the closest he has to anyone with any knowledge of search techniques.  "Y'all get ready to take that guy into custody.  If he's still holding a weapon, shoot his ass."

He takes a quick look around and keys up.  "Razorback, Sexton's clear on your last.  Break for Falcon, I'm gonna try to push 'em west for the cavalry to sweep up."

Scott
moving the militia squad by fireteams to maintain contact with the fleeing bandits
single snap shots on any confirmed targets
Wilson Recon SR Tac [29/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope

OOC: character is smarter than player, so I'll retcon if this is too much of a departure from our established plan.

Abbie bounds forward with Carissa and Nash, careful to keep from developing tunnel vision and keeping his peripheral vision open and searching, particularly to the west side of the house. He'll try to stay on point, recognizing that his M4 is going to be much easier to maneuver than the farmgirl's Remington or Nash's SAW.

What cover there is, is almost non-existent - mainly grass and the occasional shrub. Abbie is thankful when Bourbon Street cruises past and comes to a halt between the runners and the house. He'll quickly run up behind it, give the rear corner panel a double tap with his left hand to let the passengers know the detachments have arrived, then wait for the others and prepare for the next bound forward.

Abbie Clark
Bounding forward to the rear of the armored SUV
Aiming at the area around the house and awaiting orders
M4A1 5.56mmN 27/30

Carissa arrives at Bourbon Street with her ears ringing and lungs heaving from the mad dash across open ground.  "Yeah," she says to Nash with a tight grin. "Let's not do that again, real soon."  Her breath comes back to normal fairly quickly only to tighten back up when a errant round from the cooking bandit truck cracks by her head.  "Jesus," she mumbles.

The front passenger side window on Bourbon Street, facing away from the bandit house cracks open, creating a little pocket of relative safety that Car moves forward into.  "Hey girl," Saul says from the passenger seat.

"Hey yourself, old man," she grins back at him.  "I'm guessing Cao is going to push us into the buildings."

Saul nods, probably guessing the same thing.  "You want the street-cannon?"

"Yeah," Car answers, already untangling the bolt action rifle from her body armor.  Her pouch of extra shells follows the rifle into the SUV.  Saul hands her back his Remington 870 and a bandoleer of shells.

"First three in the pipe are slugs.  After that its double-ought all the way down."  Saul tells his youngest.  He's putting on a brave face, but Carissa can see the worry etched in his eyes.  The former Marine and Cop looks tired.

"Got it.  Thanks dad."

"Sure thing sweetheart."  His voice sounds like he's handing her the car keys.  At least he didn't tell her to be careful.

Carissa duck walks back to Nash and the arriving Clark.

"Ready for what's next."

Rawhide
Bounding overwatch, crouched behind Bourbon Street
Switching weapons with Saul
Remington 870 w/reflex sight
7/6 30 rounds remaining

It's almost impossible to tell if someone is firing from within the target house. Rounds continue to cook off in the burning pickup truck, ejecting bits of metal in sparks and smoking streamers. It almost sounds like a bag of microwave popcorn as it approaching peak as it approaches its crescendo. There's a lot of smoke, and a heat haze surrounds the blazing vehicle like some sort of sci-fi force field. The folks inside and behind Bourbon Street's views of the target house are somewhat obscured as a result.

OOC: The dismounts are now behind Bourbon Street, sweating and a little out of breath, but unscathed.

Cao and the crew of Razorback have a less obstructed view, but the angle from the AFV to the house is such that it might not be possible to spot the muzzle flash of someone shooting from well within the structure. As far as she can tell over the noise of battle and destruction, Lauren's calls for surrender have, so far, gone unanswered.

Guillory's call for surrender to the wounded bandit doesn't seem to have the desired effect. The man continues to call out to his companions, his voice ripe with panic. Purple smoke drifts among the tree trunks, concealing what lies beyond. Rounds continue to travel back and forth. It's hard to tell who has the edge, although it appears that there's more outgoing fire than incoming. The militia squad seems to have some trouble redeploying to face west. This difficulty is likely the result of several factors- inexperience (on the part of the civilians militiamen), a language barrier, and some confusion regarding who's in command (Guillory, the senior native Jeromite, and the highest ranking ex-PLA are all issuing orders to their respective constituents and one another).

Despite the inefficiency of the militias action, the desired result is being achieved. Murray continues to monitor the confused firefight in the woods below via Raven 1's thermal imager. The cluster of bright blobs representing the bandits is moving west now, instead of trying to work around the jumbled right flank of the militia line and continue their flight north. Although they sometimes merge and separate, like single-cell organisms under a microscope, making it hard to be sure, Xandra counts four distinct signatures (other than the one abandoned, wounded bandit).


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:50, Mon 30 Dec 2019.

It’s probably fair to say that Lauren isn’t particularly surprised when no one comes out of the house in response to her call. After all, Saul had already tried. And if they weren’t going to listen to him they probably weren’t going to listen to her.

The Vietnamese American lets out a sigh. It’s not surprising but it means that they’re going to have to go in, clear the house. Which is going to be hazardous if there is someone in there who decides to make a last stand. `she’s also well aware that she’s not with the rest of the dismounts. She might have a reputation for recklessness, but whatever people might say about her they couldn’t claim that she tried to stay back in the rear while she sent others into harm’s way. But getting from here to Bourbon Street looked to be at least fifty to sixty metres over open ground. Even in her track gear she’d be exposed for probably six or seven seconds. And in full battle kit that was likely to be doubled. So on this occasion she can’t lead from the front.

Maybe they can torch the house, burn them out. She can remember the look on Chief Paddock’s face when Scott had mentioned a flame thrower. If only they’d managed to get one. Maybe she was turning into the Mad Queen, thinking of fire as the immediate solution. But they don’t have a Drogon, can't melt the Iron Throne. She can’t even think they have anything aboard Razorback. There’s no incendiary rounds, at least none that she can recall seeing.

They’re going to have to do it the hard way. Bourbon Street was armored wasn’t it? Her left hand moves away from the M79’s barrel, presses the PTT switch on her radio. ”Gimp from Falcon. Do you think you can roll up to the house and give the dismounts rolling cover for an entry? We can move forward ten or fifteen meters and put down suppressive fire if anyone fires on you from the house. Over.” While she waits for her XO’s - that thought makes her smile despite the current circumstances - response she calls out to Skillins. ”Skillins! Stand by to roll forward fifteen meters on my mark. Slowly!” She’d walk alongside the vehicle, using it for cover in the same way that she envisages the dismounts can use the SUV.

Carswell sits in Bourbon Street, one hand resting on the steering wheel, eyes hidden behind Oakleys trying to pick out the any wounded that might be lying on the ground while Lauren’s disembodied voice crackles over the radio. ”Those stray rounds might be a bit of a problem.” He muses to Saul before the former Marine can reply. Granted, Saul knows his shit, so he’s probably already thought of that anyway.

”I think I can see a man down at eleven o’clock.” He then continues. The burning pick up is doing a good job of blocking his line of sight to anyone on the other side of it. ”If we get up close to him and we’re quick Chevelle can take the wheel and I can try and help that dude.” If he’s not already beyond help of course. GI Jane’s been heavy on the fifty cal so it might just be a case of bagging up body parts. Again. It goes without saying that he’d be putting himself in harm’s way to help someone that fifteen minutes ago would probably have killed them if he had the chance. But hey, that’s the job. ”What do ya think?”

Noting that Carissa had swapped weapons with someone and was now brandishing a shotgun, Nash sucked in a few more breaths and then muttered in reply, nodding at the building ahead while he did so. "Yea, it sounds like we're going in." His own weapon was a bit unwieldy for room to room fighting but his shotgun wasn't nearby to switch to. He would probably have to let the other two take the lead while he supported them with the SAW. "The Captain and Saul are working it out now and I'm guessing we'll enter wherever Bourbon Street can escort us to."

Xandra does another quick check to be sure of her numbers and directions before keying up.  "Razorback to all.  We're got four targets in the woods who are moving west away from the house and Sexton's team.  There's another one stationary about thirty yards in front of Sexton's position."

Scott cocks his head to listen to Xandra's update, then throttles back on his impulse to control this whole side of the engagement.  Being the only one with a radio on the coordination frequency doesn't help.  "Sexton's clear," he acknowledges.  Then he whistles for attention and waits until both the senior ex-PLA officer and the local nominal "leader" are looking at him.

"Four running that way."  He points west for emphasis.  "And that guy," with a wave toward the wounded bandit.  He waits a moment for one of them to take the lead - and hopefully not order anything too suicidal.

Scott
trying to coordinate
single snap shots on any source of incoming fire
Wilson Recon SR Tac [29/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope

Saul checks his angles, looks at the ground between the house and their current spot on the road, spots his daughter and the new guys in the rear view mirror of Bourbon Street and grimaces.  Ordering the dismounts running without cover has the potential for voluntary manslaughter written all over it.  Not even from the house, but from the rolling ball of fire that's sending errant rounds all over the place.

"Your heart's in the right place Mike, but we need to secure the area before we start dealing with wounded bad guys.  If we get the dismounts in, we can provide you a safe working environment, but I don't want you getting back shot over a marauder."  Practiced eyes sweep the lawn, rate the recent moisture rates, and compare soil to vehicle weight.  "Okay, were going to push forward, but angle across the lawn to about our ten o'clock.  We need to put the dismounts on your side to shield them from the house and the rounds cooking off that truck."

With a practiced grab, Saul take the radio mic that's hanging suspended from the roof of the SUV.  "Falcon, Gimp.  We're going to move forward to the house angling northwest to avoid your fire and the pickup.  Dismounts form up on the driver side of Bourbon Street."

Saul releases the mic and it snaps back on the retaining strap that keeps it out of the driver's line on sight.  He looks back over his shoulder at Watkins.  "Think light thoughts, because getting bogged down here would suck."

As the dismounts position themselves for their next movement, Saul listens to Xandra's recon report.  A few finger twists click the PA back on.  "Red, if you can hear this, four bad guys in the woods moving west.  Move to intercept.  Friendlies in pursuit so watch your targets."

Might as well increase the chance for blue on blue.

Fuck.

"Sexton, Gimp, watch your south. I'm trying to get the bikers into the woods to cut off the escape."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:37, Fri 03 Jan 2020.

The rear driver side corner of Bourbon Street has become a crowded little spot, the three scouts taking up what little bit of cover they can get, trying to keep the body of the SUV between them and any incoming rounds.  Carissa can smell the sweat and dirt coming off the two men hovering near her.  You probably smell delightful as well.  Her heart is pounding even as her breathing has slowed down.  It's not fear, it's excitement.

Well, maybe a little fear.  The cooking off rounds are more concerning than anything aimed.  Something about a random act of death that just seems like a let down.

"I'll take the lead," she says to the others.  She'd prefer to be in front, and these guys aren't going to show her up.

Rawhide
Moving on building behind Bourbon Street
Remington 870 w/reflex sight
7/6 30 rounds remaining

Scott won't admit it to anyone now, but he makes a mental note to tell Saul, after the fight's over, that he was hoping for that.  "Copy," is his only response now.

"Bikers are going after those guys," he relays.

In reply to Carissa Noble (msg # 226):

"Copy that, girlie. We got your back." Abbie hoped Carissa didn't take the 'girlie' comment as an insult, and there was no condescension in his voice as he said it; far from it it in fact - given his background, it just felt like the natural thing to say at the moment. In all honesty, Abbie was really impressed by the young woman's form and calm head - she clearly knew her business and was about it. Plus, he sure as shit wasn't going to talk down to someone who just offered to take point into what could turn out to be a hail of gunfire, and especially not when that person was rocking a loaded 12-gauge.

He slots into the slack spot behind Carissa, taps her shoulder to make sure she knows he's there, and begins slowly moving forward as Bourbon Street starts rolling.

Abbie Clark
Moving forward in rolling cover behind Bourbon Street
M4A1 5.56mmN 27/30

”Gimp, Falcon, all copied. Out.” Taking her finger off the PTT switch, Lauren’s left hand bangs on the door of the JLTV to get Skillins’ attention before it finds its way back to the barrel of the blooper.

”OK, Skillins, start to roll forward now! Kabua, dismounts are moving in on the house. If you see anyone moving in the house put a burst into them.” Having - possibly prematurely - swapped out the HE round in the M79 for a CS one, it will be largely down to Kabua to suppress anyone still in the house.

The Air Force Captain then gets ready to move in time with the vehicle, walking forward, keeping the armored vehicle between herself and the house.

”Roger that.” Carswell acknowledges, turning the wheel and gently applying the gas so that the SUV can roll forward across the lawn at a steady walking pace.

In reply to Abernathy 'Abbie' Clark (msg # 228):

With a nod to Carissa and Abbie as they passed him, Nash followed along behind, bringing up the rear as they advanced from the cover of Bourbon Street to the building. He held his SAW ready like an overly large rifle, ready to engage anything that needed more than the other two's personal weapons.

He also kept glancing to the sides and behind them, ensuring that he had a full a picture as possible of what was going on in the rapidly fragmenting skirmish.


Nash
Bringing up the rear as the recon team advances towards the building
SAW held like a rifle, ready to fire short bursts at any targets that the other two hadn't neutralised
M249 SAW (170/200 rnds)

Carswell turns the wheel and starts easing Bourbon Street off of the driveway and onto the unkempt front lawn. There's definitely a difference in feel between the firmly packed gravel and relatively springy turf, but the ground below the Suburban's tires seems firm enough to support the heavy, armored SUV. He keeps the Suburban moving at a walking pace, allowing the dismounts to use it as a moving shield.

Red's gruff voice breaks in over the joint net, "Copy that, Gimp. We're moving into the woods about a half-a-klick west of the property line. Over."

Carissa, Abbie, and Nash walk alongside the slow-moving SUV, all trying to keep at least one eye on the house (this is difficult due to the vehicle's tinted, bulletproof glass, and the friendlies behind it), but unable to respond directly should the vehicle take fire without first unavailing themselves of its cover.

From the right, rear seat of the Suburban, Watkins calls out, "I see movement inside! Front, right window!" (NOTE: As Bourbon Street is currently buttoned up, this is unintelligible to those outside, in part also to the racket still emanating from the burning pickup.)

In the meantime, Skillins is executing a similar slow rolling approach, this one on a west-northwest line. Between 35-40m separates the two Sierra vehicles. The olive drab M1278 rolls through a moving curtain of thick dark smoke, prompting Kabua to start coughing pretty forcefully. Closer to the ground, Cao isn't quite as affected by the smoke. After a couple of seconds, they are through the worst of it. (NOTE: Team Razorback has a sharply oblique view of the front of the target house. They are looking at the east side of the house almost straight-on. They have also a clear view of the front of the detached garage which is currently open.)

In the woods, Guillory continues to restore order. There's a pause in the shooting as the mixed militia team dresses its lines. The bandits are in full flight now (confirmed by Murray via the drone feed). The wounded bandit is obscured by drifting purple smoke. He's apparently trying to crawl away now (this also according to Murray's reading of the skyborne thermal imager).

https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:59, Sat 04 Jan 2020.

Scott listens as Xandra vectors the bikers toward the fleeing bandits.  "Okay, we've got friendlies entering the woods to the west," he advises the squad he's accompanying.  "Be sure of your targets."

"Contact," Saul intones over the radio, trying to keep his voice calm and level.  "South East corner of the house in the window." He didn't see the movement, didn't need to.  Trusts that Watkins knows what she's doing.  But that doesn't mean he's not looking now.

So far this morning is going like combat as far as Saul is concerned.  The enemy isn't exactly cooperating with the plan, but Sierra and their allies seem to be compensating well and as long as an RPG doesn't make a surprise appearance...  Better not to even finish that thought.

"Looking smooth Mike," he says to the paramedic behind the wheel.  A little easy confidence never hurts a situation like this. "Watkins, if you've got a shot, feel free to roll down the window."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:47, Mon 06 Jan 2020.

With a scatter gun in her hands (slug or not), Carissa isn't exactly in weapon shape to stick her head out from around Bourbon Street and try to drop a lump of lead into a possible target in the house.  Instead, she tries to spot the approximate location of the window in question and keep the bulk of the SUV between her and the potential bad guy.  Maybe Nash in the back can throw a spray of rounds from that SAW he's cradling.

Carissa keeps her eyes peeled on the house, sweeping back and forth for threats that she has a fighting chance of hitting.

Rawhide
Moving on building behind Bourbon Street
Looking for targets
Remington 870 w/reflex sight
7/6 30 rounds remaining

”Gimp, Falcon, copy that.” Lauren’s voice is terse as her eyes orient towards the threat that Saul has called out. She’s opened her mouth ready to call out to Kabua to put a burst into the house when she realizes that the bikers are moving into the woods behind the house and that there’s every possibility that the large caliber rounds might end up punching clean through the structure. The odds of any stray rounds finding a gap in the trees that will allow them to pass right through and hit any of the bikers are probably extremely slim.

But the possibility does exist.. And taking out the local militia in a blue on blue is not the way to build relationships. So the command is parked. ”Gimp, I think friendlies are now danger close if we use the fifty cal. Switching to small arms only. Over.” In other words, the Ma Deuce’s part in this engagement is over, for the moment at least.

Taking her finger off the PTT switch, she calls up to her gunner. ”Kabua! Friendlies are too close. Observe but hold your fire and stand by to dismount on my mark!” As she speaks, Lauren then starts to sling the M79 over one shoulder so that she can unsling her carbine from the other, the barrel of the lighter weapon moving towards the window that Saul had reported as containing the enemy shooter. Centering the carbine on the window, Lauren squeezes off a quick burst at it, her intent to try and suppress anyone in there and give them something else to focus on as the dismounts close in.

Lauren
Directing Kabua to hold fire
Switching out M79 for M4A1 / firing 5 round burst at target window
Advancing with JLTV

”Thanks man.” Carswell replies, his eyes flicking between the target house and his side mirror, alternating between checking for threats from the former and using the latter to make sure that the dismounts are keeping up with his pace and aren’t about to get themselves knocked over by mistake.

His mouth wrinkles into a wry grin. ”It’s probably not any worse than driving an ambo on a Saturday night shift around 12th Street before the War.” He’s joking. Kind of. For it is kind of reminding of Law Enforcement taking down a crack house in one of the more skeevy parts of Little Rock. Although the cops hadn’t normally resorted to heavy machine gun fire.

Abbie continues slow-walking forward as the SUV creeps across the lawn, his boots squelching a bit with each step in the damp, overgrown yard.  He's barely able to make out the sound of folks talking from inside the vehicle, but can't make out what's being said. He continues to focus on the job at hand, waiting to take a cue from either Carissa or Nash.

Abbie Clark
Continuing to move forward behind Bourbon Street
M4A1 5.56mmN 27/30

"Got it!" Chevelle responds to Saul's instructions to engage the target from the back seat, if able. Window still up, she stares at the spot where she'd seen movement- a silhouette and a protrusion, like a long gun of some sort- but she doesn't see either shape now, just curtains and... nothing. Nothing of note.

"I... I lost it," she reports, still searching, now doubting what her eyes had told her just a few seconds before.

-

"Ack! Ack! Ack! Sorry... Ack! Cap... Ack!"

Jackson's struggling to catch his breath, expel the caustic remains of a two lungs-full of acrid smoke. He was just taking a deep breath, in preparation for holding it while the J-LTV passed through the smoke from the burning pickup, when the breeze had shifted, directing the miasma into greedy airways.

-

The Sierra vehicles continue rolling forward at a brisk walking pace, arriving within about 50 feet of the target house almost simultaneously. The pace of the ammo cooking off in the bed of the burning pickup has slackened considerably, kind of like when a bag of microwave popcorn is on the verge of over-nuking, but the dismounts sheltering in the lee of the armored SUV are now partially exposed.

As far as any of the Sierras can tell, they haven't taken any more fire from the hideout, but it's hard to be certain, given the fairly pervasive sound of gunfire emanating from the wider battlefield.

Decision Time: At this point, do you want to move the vehicles even closer to the target house, begin a dynamic entry, a combo, or something else?

Guillory's mixed squad is back on line, facing roughly west now, and ready to advance. They begin to do so, slowly, cautiously. The drifting purple smoke is starting to dissipate. Guillory spots the wounded bandit, still trying to crawl away, less than 20m to his left. Two of the militiamen, one Jerome native and one Chinese, are closer. The Jeromite fires first, the ex-PLA soldier follows suit. Between them, they pump out at least a dozen rounds. Impacting bullets kick up little fountains of dirt and leaf litter all around the wounded bandit, pink geysers erupt from his back. He shudders and slumps forward, twitches a bit, then lies completely still.

Xandra continues to monitor the situation in the woods from the circling drone's video [thermal imager] feed. The runners are picking up their pace, angling more northwest now, than west, and increasing the distance between themselves and both groups of pursuers. Unless either or both pursuit teams start moving significantly faster, the marauders will eventually escape. Without warning, one of the runners slows, stops, then another. There's a brief, strobing flair on the thermal, and then.... static. The feed is cut. Xandra has no way of knowing if Raven 1 is responding to her command prompts, manual or pre-set protocols.

Decision Time: Do you want to pick up the pace and continue the pursuit, or call it off. If the former, which group, the mixed militia, the CVMC dismount squad, or both?

https://drive.google.com/open?...ZAW3&usp=sharing


Your Move.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:00, Fri 10 Jan 2020.

"Son of a son of a bitch," Xandra growls.  She whacks the drone control station a couple of times with the heel of her hand but the percussive maintenance fails to produce any results.  She admits to herself that the thermal flare was probably a deserter shooting down the literally-irreplaceable UAS, strings together some more creative profanity, and keys up.

"Razorback to all stations.  Drone is offline.  Last known position of assholes was about a hundred meters west of Sexton's position, last known direction of travel was west-northwest to pop out between Sexton and the cavalry."  Belatedly, she wonders if "assholes" was proper radio protocol, but at least her intent was probably clear.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:05, Fri 10 Jan 2020.

Carswell is still half watching the house and half watching what’s around him so he doesn’t actually turn towards Saul as he speaks to the former Marine. ”I can take us round the back if you want. The guys might be able to get in from there.” By the back he means the far, western, side of the house. That would serve to put the structure of the house between them and the ammo that’s cooking off in the pick up. Granted, the amount of stray rounds appears to have diminished, but it only needs one to turn this into a really bad fucking day.

He glances in his mirror. ”Nash’s crew could get in the back for the ride round there.” The paramedic thinks that Nash’s crew is a better way of phrasing it than Car and the others. Either way, if they are headed round the back of the house there’s still at least fifty metres or so to go, and that’s a long way out in the open. It will be a squeeze in the back but they’ll manage it. In fact, Carswell is mentally beating himself up for not thinking of it sooner.

"Yeah," Saul says to Carswell, "Let's do that.  The west side should be reasonably secure and I'd rather flush any occupants towards Cao than into the woods to mess up the pursuit."  The defacto XO tries not to worry too much about Xandra's radio traffic, even if the very thought of losing one of their drones makes him cringe.

"Falcon, Gimp.  We're going to scoop our dismounts up and run them around to the west side of the house to enter through the back door.  They can flush any hostiles towards you.  I'm going to give'em Cleveland to buff up their numbers." Saul doesn't ask Chevelle if she's down for a little room clearing.  He assumes that as an MP, she probably is.

"Hit the breaks.  Let's get'em in."  Like Mike, Saul doesn't take his eyes off the house while he talks, watching for the movement that Watkins saw earlier.

We ran this far and now we get a ride?  Thanks dad. The thought comes and goes quickly.  Carissa doesn't dwell on it, just tries to keep her cool and stay ready to engage any targets that leap out at them.  The break lights come on as Bourbon Street stops moving and Car grabs the handle to pull open the the rear hatch, exposing the fairly packed cargo area of the SUV.  "Uh...one of you guys should probably hit the empty passenger seat," she says crawling into the back.  Whoever joins her in the rear is in for getting to know her rather up close and personal.

”Kabua! Drop down into the vehicle!” Lauren called up to her gunner. Neither he nor anyone else had mentioned him being hit and Cao hadn’t seen any incoming fire headed their way but he was clearly in some distress and it was probably too risky to use the Ma Deuce now anyway, what with the dismounts moving in. The risk of the large caliber rounds tearing right through the structure and into them was too great. So she may as well take advantage of the apparent lull and make sure he was OK.

”Murray, check Kabua out, see if he looks OK!” Lauren knows that Xandra’s not a medic but she’s the only person available to assist Kabua, and besides she no longer had the drone to deal with. Losing that was going to be a major setback. Granted, they had another one, but they would have no redundancy, so might have to think twice about when and where to deploy the remaining one if the one that was airborne at the moment was permanently lost. They could assess that after the battle was over. Maybe Xandra could repair it.

The Air Force Captain then keys her radio. ”Gimp, Falcon, copy that. Be advised, fifty cal is temporarily offline.” Having updated Saul, Lauren tried to identify any doors on the side of the house facing her, expecting any runners to use them in their escape. If there weren’t any she’d look for windows, preparing herself to fire on anyone trying to make a break for it. She would have preferred some back up but with Kabua temporarily out of action it looks like she’s on her own, for the moment at least.

Lauren
Trying to use JLTV for cover
Organising / looking for possible exits that runners might take
Engaging any runners that come out of the house with multiple three round bursts
M4A1 (30/30

”You got it.” Carswell acknowledges Saul’s instruction by gently bringing the big SUV to a halt. ”Watkins, let me know when we’ve got all of our passengers.”

Mike
Bourbon Street, driver’s seat
Waiting for the word that all dismounts are on board and then headed for the west side of the house
SUV (1/1)

Scott winces at the report.  "Drone's out of action," he advises the ad hoc joint command around him.  "They were headed that way," he points approximately northwest, "but stay ready in case they try to turn and fight."  If the mutineers figure they have nothing to lose, he expects them to try to take as many of their pursuers with them as they can.

Scott
still trying to coordinate
single snap shots on any source of incoming fire
Wilson Recon SR Tac [29/30] - suppressed, 1-6x scope