Mission Report Part (1/?)G's BBQ BG's (Part One)Two operators will serve as Grace O'Malley's bodyguards at the Founder's Fifth Festival in Rattlesnake Ridge, Harad. Grace O'Malley is technically a fugitive from Flossmore PCF, and apparently a figure well-connected with the active insurgency on Anghabar. Evelyn Salt will be deployed as the lead due to her rapport with the client. Vic "Pipehitter" Vega will be her backup.
As shipside prep, the two should do a quick area study online, to familiarizing themselves with Rattlesnake Ridge and its current events. They should also look for any public information regarding the festival, confirming its location, schedule, and general nature as much as possible.
They will go boots on ground ahead of time, walking the area in civvies to get a baseline threat assessment. Take the opportunity to mingle when possible, finding what the word on the street is, especially what people's holiday plans are. Rattlesnake Ridge is an established city with a lot of recent immigration; a new stranger finding their way around town shouldn't be unusual. Renting a secure safehouse near the festival site could also make casual collection and a getaway route easy. A Gator ATV is provided for transportation.
Priority Intelligence Requirements (PIR)'s are as follows:
(PIR 1) What threats (law enforcement or otherwise) are actively looking for Grace in Rattlesnake Ridge?
(PIR 2) What's the general schedule for the Festival and who's attending?
(PIR 3) What's the best route/means to flee the Festival (with or without the VIP)?
The day before the festival, Salt should call up the client to confirm plans and general intelligence. Salt should not reveal her present whereabouts, and note any discrepancies in intelligence. From this point onward, Lead Bodyguard has full discretion to abort mission if she detects a setup.
As any threat likely will come from local law enforcement, ensure that a method of bypassing blockades to reach the space port is available. One operator should remain in the vehicle idling at all times during the party, having backed into the parking spot to insure a swift getaway. The actual bodyguard is to analyze any threats and respond to any by rushing to the client to the escape vehicle and following the pre-planned route (either to the space port or appropriate safehouse that we can lie-low in until any police blockades are removed). Unless we discover that local law enforcement is anemic or on the take, this includes minor threats that may attract police attention such as a brawl. We should avoid engaging law enforcement when possible, as we don't particularly care about any of the terrorist's well-being barring our client we should avoid making ourselves their main target by spitting lead at them. If necessary you may use them as decoys, given your apparent position of authority both trained and untrained men are likely to follow orders you shout without thinking during a high-stress situation such as a police raid. Ideally this will appear to be in the best interest of those we give orders to both to our client and the target of the order to maximize the chance it will be followed without the target or anyone in authority questioning them. For example "You/Everyone follow me! I have an escape route planned!" is likely to be an attractive offer to someone without their own route planned (or someone unconfident in their own route). You can then have them split off later without attracting attention "We have to split up to throw them off! You take a right down this street, then a left at the MacDonald's. You take a left down this intersection, then a right at the Wendy's. I'll go straight and see if I can throw them off in the burbs." works fine even if there isn't a viable escape plan (or even a MacDonalds assuming someone isn't intimately familiar with the town) in the provided directions, given the actual goal is to have pursuers follow the decoys instead of us. Likewise "You barricade that door to buy us some time!" sounds reasonable to the person given the order, while "You try to slow them down!" is much more self-sacrifice than someone is likely willing to do on the words of a stranger.
Uniform and arms posture should be relaxed, yet authoritative. Helmets and balaclavas are not recommended; Sunglasses are. Two AS Val carbines are available if needed.
Lead Bodyguard: Evelyn Salt
Secondary Bodyguard/Driver: Vic "Pipehitter" Vega
Hardware:
Gator ATV (1)
AS Val Carbine (2)
"Keep your cool, Cowboy. We got the time."
When someone speaks of a frontier world, cities aren't the first thing that comes to mind. But as ramshackle as it is, Rattlesnake Ridge is well into the "awkward teenager" phase of becoming a fully-grown city. Newer midrise towers are scattered amongst warrens of old pre-fab shelters. Next to a sleek mini-mall featuring a smartphone shop and a gamer netcafe, an old woman tends a small duck farm. Utilities are spotty and de-centralized, with competing entreprenuers hawking their own cottage industry electric and sanitation companies. Most businesses and better-off residents still run their own generators anyways. The only concession to urban planning seems to be the occasional paved road. Even then, random stretches of those roads go back to gravel as soon they reach landowners that decided not to finance the road project.
Speaking of roads, traffic in Rattlesnake Ridge is accordingly anarchic. The city has reached the point where there definitely should be traffic laws, but it seems like no one wants to give up their God-given right to drive like a complete asshole. More importantly, no one is willing to pay the salary of a traffic cop. While you technically have two teams operating in the city simultaneously, geography and gridlock is such that there's no way they can support each other. Keeping OPSEC in mind, Salt and Vega tried their best not to acknowledge Anna and Erik on their way out of the spaceport.
Vega fumes behind the wheel of the Gator ATV, acutely aware of the vehicle's lack of a horn, "MOVE. THE. FRAK. FORWARD. Why can't these frakers just drive, already?!?"
Salt tries a joke, "Hey, just pretend you're back on a cattle drive again. Think they should get a moooo-ve on?"
Vega looks at her incredulously, "Was that supposed to be a cow impression?"
"Was it good? I've never met one."
Vega lightens up and plays along, "Oh really? Then how do you know what they sound like?"
"Parents are really big on teaching kids animal sounds for some reason. You know, 'the cow goes moo, the sheep goes baa, the pig goes oink,' etc."
"Wow, look at Miss Fancy-Pants-My-Parents-Loved-Me. Why am I not surprised?"
Salt gives an awkward scoff and goes to check her smartphone. Vic meant it as playful banter but can immediately tell he hit a nerve somewhere. Better to shut up and focus on his driving for now.
The festival is planned at a riverside field just outside town, so your team find their way to a motel on the outskirts. As they pull up, Vic points out the "no vacancy" sign out front.
"...which is why we have reservations, Cowboy. There's this thing called the Internet..."
"Oh really? I thought that was just for porn?"
They share a laugh together before heading in for check-in.
To say the room doesn't match the picture online is an understatement. Half the lighting fixtures don't work, and the carpet is worn and grimy. The water in the bathroom is cloudy with a musty metallic smell. The sole queen bed has mysterious stains on the mattress, and the sofa is far too small and uncomfortable to sleep on.
Salt takes this up with the front desk, but the motel manager shrugs. They're booked full, but he'd be willing to refund them half their money if they cancel now. Salt spends the next hour furiously calling nearby accommodations, but they too are fully booked. With the influx of refugees from Anghabar, warm beds are a hot commodity in Rattlesnake Ridge, (no matter how shitty they are). Dejected, your two operators settle in to their motel room.
The next day, your team starts out with recon at the festival site. When they get there, it's pretty obvious why the site was chosen. The festival site is both upstream and far enough from the city to be relatively devoid of pollution. Aside from some litter and the homeless sleeping in the bushes, it's a fairly idyllic open terrain that would probably qualify as a public park back in the Old World. ...maybe not a particularly well maintained public park, but you get what you pay for. The morning your team visits, the riverside is popular with a group of small children flying kites. The cackle gleefully as their tattered homemade paper diamonds soar up into the sky. From a security standpoint, neither of your operators pick up on anything too alarming.
Having seen the riverside, your team decide to head back to the city to gather more general intelligence and "atmospherics." While not necessarily a "bad" part of town, this region on the outskirts of Rattlesnake Ridge is unmistakably on the low-income side of society. While that probably could be said about Harad as a whole, your operators find themselves more in a shantytown than a suburb. Refugee families who can't afford a roof over the their heads have pitched tents on any open patch of dirt they can find. Near each tent, overworked mothers and daughters constantly boil water over crude firepits. As a side effect, this pervasive smell of burning presumably masks God-knows-what-other reeking stenches of unwashed humanity. Most of the men are absent during the day, presumably off trying to hustle a paycheck somewhere downtown. Mangy cats try their best to keep the rodents in check.
Salt had done her research online, but this quickly growing refugee neighborhood isn't very well publicized or documented. Even Google Maps still listed most of the area as undeveloped lots. Short of going door-to-door (tentflap-to-tentflap?) asking questions, your team can't devise a means to canvass the largely residential area for baseline intelligence.
After a long day of work, Salt looks to Vega, "Well, we skipped lunch and I'm starving. You wanna hit downtown for some dinner?"
"You read my mind. I don't think I'm brave enough to try the room service at that shithole motel either."
Salt holds back a laugh, "You think a place like that even has room service? Maybe a Hot Pocket and a warm bottle of Coke?"
"Girl, was that supposed to sound terrible?"
Salt rolls her eyes.
Not wanting to stray too far, they decide on the first decent looking casual eatery they see, "Humberto's." Vega isn't enthused by the menu, but Salt encourages him to order a plate of enchiladas. As they wait for their food to come out, they can't help but overhear the table next to them.
"I lost another bid today. These frakin' gingers, man."
"Got lowballed that bad, Juan?"
"Now I'm not racist, but these motherfrakers are bad for this city. They come here, don't know the language, and then knock up their women with four gorram kids."
"Dude, you don't speak Spanish either..."
"You're missing the point. Why do you think they set up their own ghettos? They don't want to assimilate. Some day their ethnic enclave is going to rise up and bite us in the ass. What do you think happened to AMR? Besides, they're all criminals anyways."
"Why did your dad leave Lossarnach again?"
"Frak off man! I've had a shit day, okay? I'm not against immigrants, but we don't need immigrants from incompatible places. Have you seen how they live? Like animals. And the smell? Cabbage. Yeah, I know the New Worlds is all about rebuilding human civilization, but you expect us to restore our civilization with white trash babies?"
"But at least their chicks are total smokeshows."
"Yeah, I'd help assimilate that into the gene pool."
The table erupts into laughter and moves onto to other topics of discussion.
The night is still young and your two operators wrap up their meal. Salt pulls up a list of nightspots on her smartphone, but Vega's stomach rumbles as they reach their parked Gator ATV.
"Geez, Cowboy. You okay?"
Vega groans, "I think I'm done for the night. You take the wheel."
Salt takes the hint and rushes the Gator back to their motel room. Vega almost makes it to the bathroom in time.
After leaving a large cash tip for housekeeping, the next few days end less tragically. Taking various driving and foot tours, your operators gradually establish the in and outs of their area of operation. Like most low-income areas, things get sketchy at night, but otherwise it's pretty safe during the daytime. Sure, a few men open carry sidearms here and there, but at least your operators don't stand out too much in that regard. Also, despite being on the lookout, your operators note a distinct absence of uniformed law enforcement personnel. Presumably the locals have a means of policing their own community. For a moment, Salt debates calling Marshal York to cover all the bases for PIR 1. But she soon realizes how quickly that could backfire, and decides to avoid unduly provoking law enforcement curiosity.
After hours, your operators enjoy the cosmopolitan city dining and night life. They'd been with Ocean's Ten on the Mothership for almost half a year now, and the honeymoon phase with shipside life was over. Yes, the mothership is luxurious, but most of the services are priced out of your operators' day-to-day budget. Playgrounds for the rich aren't so much fun when you aren't rich. Working class establishments do exist shipshide, but they're underdeveloped if not outright discouraged. With finite berthing/real estate shipside, commercial rent can be astronomical. A working-class entrepreneur running a storefront out of his modest living room is not uncommon.
Salt thinks to herself, "Yeah, the planetside smog and squalor suck, but it's nice to get outside and intereact with 'normal' people."
The ultimate country club, to say the ship had a diversity problem was an understatement. The Bay Area never died, they just moved to the Mothership Leviatian. Even worse, because no one of political or cultural relevance ever died, shipside culture was both regressive and stagnant. Only a complete dolt doesn't follow current events, and accordingly, everyone always had the right things to say over cocktails at the Twenty Forward Lounge. But it all was regurgitations of Old World talking points, reapplied to partisan or superficial "news" reports.
Finishing off her mammoth bulgogi, Salt explores one of the trendier neighborhoods of Rattlesnake Ridge solo. Vega's injured shoulder was acting up again, and he decided to get some early bedrest. Comfortable on her own, a hip looking bar, "Oak," calls out to her. The music is eclectic and catchy, and everyone is young and well groomed. Despite the magnum revolver on her hip, no one stops her at the door. Guessing from the various upturned pierced-noses giving her side-eye, she guesses it's not because they approve of ostentatiously packing heat, but that they're collectively too cool to make a scene about it. Wishing she had more discreet protection, she sidles up to the bar.
"Well hey there, Sweetcheeks..."
Salt recognizes the voice immediately and sharply pivots to stare down Jack Bauer, "You think I won't throwdown with some frakin' fascist ex-frat boy in a place like this?!! Your sorry ass is gorram lucky I'm on the job."
Jack Bauer takes a step back and tries to laugh it off, "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take a chill pill AOC. I come in peace."
Salt scoffs and doesn't let up, "Oh, so you just happened to be in this bar? They run out of Jager bombs down at the roadhouse? I don't buy it. You wanna take this shit outside?"
"Hey, hey... I saw you outside the kimchee place and figured I'd catch up with a familar face." He looks around furtively and leans in to speak in a lower voice, "I'm no longer with my previous employer."
"Well no shit, huh?" Salt drops her guard and gestures to a place next to her at the bar.
The two get to talking and Bauer reveals that Nick was furious Greywater took the heat for the Flossmore job. The Greywater truck was immistakable, and enough CERT troopers lived to talk about it. AMR and several other clients have now gone cold on them. Nick was ready to fire both Jack Bauer and Jack Ryan for this egregious self-serving OPSEC breach, but Bauer insisted the responsibility was all his and got Jack Ryan spared.
"I knew I shouldn't have taken that Porsche. Damn thing had a beacon on it and sealed the case on us."
Salt laughs and shakes her head, "That shady motherfraker... Anyhow, what are you up to now?"
Bauer pauses in deliberation for a moment before deciding to share, "Well, I may be out now, but I have decades of experience in the field. Why shouldn't a guy like me hang up his own shingle? You know, be my own boss for once? Cost of living down here on Harad is dirt cheap. All I need is pull in one or two cakewalk jobs a month and build up the retirement nest egg."
"Run and gun stuff?"
Bauer shakes his head, "Ha, probably not a good idea. All aboveboard work. 'Bauer Investigations and Security.' It'll be nice to get back to smaller jobs too. Maybe take up some pro bono charity cases on a sliding scale? You know, I'm hiring if you're interested... Not the best benefits right now, but I'm sure I'll get that whole immortal extralegal spacetraveler package worked out soon."
Salt laughs at his joke, "How could I turn that down? I'll send you a copy of my resume." She winds down the laughter to get serious, "Jokes aside though, I do wish you the best." She finishes off her drink, "And I am sorry that I went full bitch mode on you there. Tell you what, how about we do a toast?"
"To what?"
"New beginnings, of course."
"Well it would be bad luck to refuse a drink from a lady."
Salt shakes her head, "Don't make me reconsider my apology now..."
"Old World habits. Hey, what are you drinking anyways?"
"A gin and tonic."
"You know they grow agave out here? You're missing out on some great artisanal small batch tequila."
Her curiosity is piqued, "Bring it."
An hour and a few rounds of tequila shots later, the two have gotten much more comfortable with each other. Despite her previous misgivings, Bauer is great company and also a lot more mature than she expected. She never realized he was as old as Chief Neil MacCauley, and Bauer alluded they were both in Singapore in their US Army days. The exchange ends up being a pleasant surprise to her. "I mean sure, he kills people for a living, but I think that's pretty hypocritical to hold against him now," she muses.
When she gets up to use the restroom, the inebriation hits and she stumbles slightly. Bauer tries to catch her, "Whoa, looks like somebody got white girl wasted."
Salt pretends like the room isn't wobbling, "Hands off mister. You're talking to a fellow trained killer here."
He gamely keeps the banter going, "Whatever you say, Sweetcheeks. Try not to fall and kill yourself on the way to the john."
Salt staggers her way to the restroom and relieves herself. The stop and go motion didn't help her inebriated vertigo, and steadying herself on the restroom sink, she knows she just fraked up hard. She takes a few deep breaths to try and compose herself before returning back to Bauer.
"So, hey... I'm not feeling well I need to get out of here. You mind taking me home?"
"Oh really?"
"Geez, not like that kind of 'take me home.' I mean-"
"Hey, don't worry. Professional courtesy. Besides, Neil would bury me headless in the desert if I raped you."
Salt's mouth is slightly agape as she stares him down wordlessly.
"Chicks never laugh at date rape jokes for some reason. Come on, let's get you home safe."
Bauer walks your drunken operator out of the bar and she slumps into the front passenger seat of his Toyota Corolla. Bauer's not exactly sober either, but he's got a job to do. Careening through the lawless darkened streets of the city, he rushes his Corolla back to her motel room. Salt almost makes it to the bathroom in time.
The next morning, Vega can't help but see and smell the vomit, "Damn Girl, didn't know you could party like that."
Salt is still worse for wear, "Yeah... I try not to. Can we agree to leave this part out of the mission report?"
Vega reassures her, "Your secret is safe with me."
Salt claims the bathroom to clean herself up. She's pretty sure she stayed lucid the whole time, but it's hard to be completely sure. To her relief, she's still fully clothed, so it's a safe bet nothing too got too far out of hand. Stripping off her jeans though, a little cardboard rectangle pokes out of her pocket: a simple business card for 'Bauer Investigations and Security.' Turning over the card, she sees "Hey Sweetcheeks. Call me!" eagerly handwritten on the back. She takes a long stare into the cracked bathroom mirror and then hangs her head.
***