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.

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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).

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.