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.”