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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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."

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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."

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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.

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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?"