Mal has a bit of a surprised look on his face.

"Well...that was awfully decent of 'em," Mal said. "Not used to havin' the government helping our folk out."

"A Mystrious Speedboat throwing out massive ECM being chansed by a single supposedly CAS Coast Guard helicopter. I do not like this one bit." Sam is obviously worried about this new turn of events and her paranoid nature certainly doesn't help. "They're either smugglers or pirates and if it is the latter the chopper may just be in on it."

August 21, 2064. 5:36 am CST

Almost as if on cue, the first rays of the sun shoot across the blue green ocean. The supposed CASCG helio streaks overhead, the twin turbine engines screaming in protest. Thru the optical sensors, and to a lesser extent thru the windows of the bridge, the fact that this is not a rescue chopper is quite evident. It’s carrying a pack of rockets outboard of each skid, and looks to have a cannon along side the cockpit.
Off your port side the Metvina is taking evasive action, both by making another hard turn, and by cycling its jammers, which is throwing the Dolphinian's electronic sensors into a fit.

Mind you, not that it does much good if you don’t need a sensor lock. Assault cannon are designed to be used against heavily armed vehicles, and stubborn shadowrunners. An unarmored ship, such as the Metvina is, wouldn’t fair well matched up with 30mm armor penetrating explosives.

Solomon is still standing out on the bow, watching the departing trawler, and its airborn counterpart. He turns and holds 2 fingers up, before reaching into his pocket and adjusting his comlink to the backup channel. He nods his head in the direction of the Metvina and shrugs.

On the bridge, the radio squawks between static and the radio operator on the helio demanding the Metvina to turn into the wind.

Mal whistles as the chopper - showing off a cannon and racks of missiles - flies by.

"Anyone else get the idea that that ain't a medical copter?" he asks rhetorically.

Hank reemerges on deck without his gear, just in time to see the chooper fly by.

"Its been awhile since I've seen a chopper in that configuration, glad it aint comin at us."

The CASCG helio makes a wide sweep around the bow of the Metvina, and fires a volley of cannon fire across the bow of the ship, sending spray several meters into the air. Amid the steady rotor noise, the high-pitched whine of a twin turbine, comes the tell tail crack of gunfire. Several flashes are visible from the deck of the trawler, which are countered with two rockets from the chopper. One goes wide, but the other hits center deck, creating a massive fire ball. Cannon fire follows, pouring more hurt into the already damaged vessel.

Suddenly the helio makes a hard bank, almost as if it’s trying to evade something, before stalling out and falling tail first into the ocean. Almost anti-climactically, the miniature war between a heavily armed helicopter and an ancient fishing trawler, leaving the helio upside down and sinking fast, and the trawler listing to port and on fire. So far it hasn’t lowered its boats, meaning its either under control, or everyone else is dead.

Solomon walks across the fore deck, and up to the bridge
“Lets get out of here. This place is going to be swarming with rescue in an hour.”

"Gotta agree Sol here," Mal says, a tinge of worry in his voice. "Some big-ass spirit was what caused that chopper to crash - it was no mechanical failure or nothin'."

Ziptide watches the battle from his cabin's window with some interest... who needs the trid when you have live action? They seem to be moving away from the scene of the confrontation; a wise move, although he feels a bit disappointed that they were not involved in any of the action this time. Probably be plenty of fun when they head down to deal with the rebels, though.

Mal looks pensively out the bridge window at the attack helicopter.

They had been damn fortunate that that monstrosity had passed them by without much of a search.

Mal lets out a deep breath.

Here's hopin' that the rest of the trip will be less...eventful.

"Well to be fair, they never said they were a rescue chopper.... ah well shame the chopper's junked, was a sweet piece of kit..... Erm, I said that outloud didn't I?" And even though he's still jack in a flush rises to cover his whole face.

“Lets get out of here. This place is going to be swarming with rescue in an hour.”

"Rodger that cap'n, holding the 160 heading for about 30 mins and then tacking back to a course to our destination."

Holding the yacht on the CASCG suggested course, just like a good little civie pleasure yacht, for a good half hour. Spikes keeps a good look out for any more coast guard or rescue vehicles heading into the area and then swings the boat back around to head towards Soloman's destination with a slight correction for the distance travelled off course.

Sam stares at the wreckage for a moment. The anti-climatic resolution made her feel kind of useless. Nevertheless, she returned to the hold and resumed inspecting the cargo. It wouldn't be good to deliver the wrong merchandise, after all.

If there were anyone around to see her she would be an odd sight ideed. Still veiled in her extravagant new dress she systematicly audits each container with the skill and determination of a professional accountant.

The big pleasure yacht gracefully cuts away to the south, leaving the sinking helio and the smoldering trawler and all the problems that ensue in its wake. A very long night has ended, giving way to a mild day on the blue-green waters of the south Caribbean Sea. The stiff wind that brought you to Havana has long since died, replaced with a warmer, milder breeze. After checking the weather reports, Solomon gives his best guess of 24-30 hours to reach Champoton, Aztlan.

Down in the cargo hold Sam takes inventory of their cargo. Its an astounding variety of weapons, ranging from small handguns, to light weight machineguns, with rockets and grenades thrown in for good measure. Most of them are cheap production knockoffs, but smatterings of quite reasonable pieces dot the inventory list. What makes it more interesting is the range of packaging. Straw packaged Kalashnikovs, army surplus FN-FALs, and a few brand new Styer AUG-CSLs, still with shrink-wrapped manuals in their suitcase sized boxes.

A long relaxing day is spent enjoying the comforts and secrets that the Dolphinian has to offer.
Perception Test TN 8 12 or 14

Hank spends most of the day relaxing on the deck working on his tan. Around noon, he makes lunch for the crew, and takes requests for what to serve for dinner. While at lunch, he asks Solomon if where the fishing gear is located on board.

*Removed because it was sucking goat ass. Check back later*

Ziptide hangs around the deck for the most part, preferring the salty sea air to his cabin. He makes some small talk with the others, assessing their capabilities even as they are likely doing with him. His itch for some action is ameliorated by the joy of being on the open sea again.

It's not all fun and games for him, though. He also explore the ship, partly because it has so many interesting little secrets, and partly to familiarize himself with it, as he likes to do with all vehicles.

Crashing out in his cabin after another long night shift Spikes is late up on deck the day after, but awake and ready to help out with the running as much as he can.

Man I've gotta get one of thse sleep regulator thingies would help soooo much with these changing sleep patterns

Once everything's ship shape again he checks over both the Condor drones one at a time making sure they in top condition and the sealants are holding against the sea spray.

Hmmm probably need to find an on deck hiding place for one of the IWSs... but that'll be real easy to spot.... hmm guess the turrets will have to do til they can get on deck

The emergency having passed, Mal takes some time to tour the ship a bit, looking over the various areas and visiting the cargo hold to look over the goods they're delivering.

Augest 22, 2064 11:35 Pm CST

A long and relaxing day slowing sinks into a warm, yet breezy evening, and finally a chilly blackness. The crew has poked and prodded at its cargo, considered the possibilities of borrowing some of it for their own means, and pondered the ramifications of turning around and finding a better buyer. Which of course isn’t what their intentions are, but it’s always nice to dream.

Spikes finds a rather convenient cabinet in dining hall that one of the IWS armed drones just barely fits into, meaning it can be out in the open a great deal faster then if it was forced to climb the stairs from the cabins. While cleaning out that space, moving the beach towels to a different shelve, he stumbles across a cleverly hidden browning pistol and suppressor. Turns out that there are small arms hidden sporadically about the ship. Sam, while taking what must be the 5th shower in 3 days (fur doesn’t seem to mix well with tropical heat), notices that a light fixture in the bathroom moves, having a mean looking sawed off shotgun wrapped in plastic stuffed behind it.

After a long discussion about the best way to approach the coast its eventually agreed upon that a lazy series of tacks in the general heading would be the most efficient, yet draw the least attention.

The dimly lit yacht sails slowly, but very quietly into Aztlan coastal waters not long before 10pm. The turrets have been tested and loaded, deck guns cleaned and charged (but still safe in their hiding spots), and the crew is ready for what ever.
Spikes sits strapped into the conn chair, intently watching a flight bound for NYC fly 30k feet over head. Off in a dim corner of the passive sonar array, which after the last fiasco has been ill trusted, a fairly specific sound comes across, a high rpm twin screw boat, and faint slapping of the hull skipping between waves. In exact collaboration the radar, IR and mm wave sensors read a pair of small coastal patrol craft converging on their location.

“Attention unidentified sail vessel, you are in violation of Aztlan costal quarantine zone order 2 point 7. Turn heading 000 and await further instructions.” The radio crackles in a rapid fire Spanish.
Solomon shouts, “Turn due east, drop canvas and power up the turbine, but don’t fire it yet. Hopefully we can bluff our way out of this. Everyone else, strap up.”

Standing on the bridge, behind Spikes, looking out the window, Mal tensely watches the patrol craft come towards them.

Hearing the warning over the radio from the Azzie ships, Mal silently curses.

Damn. Let's hope this ship's got enough surprises to get past them.

Upon hearing Solomon's orders, Mal stays right where he is, on the bridge. If something's gonna go down, he wants to be where he can potentially do some good.

You better have something up your sleeve, Sol...

Ziptide, who was resting in his cabin, strolls onto the deck, looking casual other than a professional coldness in his eyes. If any drek goes down, he wants line of sight. And if it all goes to hell, then he'll be able to escape that much easier, too.

Sam stands in the doorway of her cabin wearing a garrish set of jeans and a low-cut top. The sweltering heat has overcome the remembered discomfort of the of the rashes she tends to get under her fur and the bloody flaking of her scales. Behind her, her tail is wraped tightly around the barrel of her pistol and holds it out of sight under her shirt.

Mal gritted his teeth as he waited for Sol's plan to come into play.

Staring at the Azzie ships in front of the yacht, he suddenly got an idea.

It's risky, but it might work.

Going to the intercom switch, Mal hit the button.

"Solomon, where are you? Meet me on the bridge; I have an idea."

Tiring of waiting for Sol to answer, Mal tries the intercom again - this time, to find someone that might be able to actually help.

"Ziptide, Sam, to the bridge immediately," Mal said. "I'm gonna need both of you."

Ziptide saunters onto the bridge liesurely - but he still gets there damn fast. The sorcerer must have already been on deck. He nods a laconic greeting before perching on the edge of a counter, looking at Mal with mild curiosity as he waits for Sam to join them.

Greeting Ziptide on the bridge, Mal taps Spikes on the shoulder.

"Spikes, can you hear me? I want you to hear this too. In fact, we're gonna need your help on this, big time."

The cabin door slams shut behind Sam as she rushes off toward the bridge, her tail still wrapped tightly around her pistol. When she bursts into the bridge her fur is damp with perspiration.

Glad to see everyone gathered on the bridge, Mal starts laying out his plan.

"Alright guys, Solomon isn't answering the com, so I think we're going to have to do this ourselves.

"Bottom line: we have to bluff our way past those Azzie ships. And I think I've got something that can help us do that.

"I'm pretty sure I overheard Solomon say something about a stealth system on this ship - something about adaptive coloration paint or something like that. Well, whatever it is, I think we can use that to our advantage. I have a plan that involves that, but it's gonna take some pretty fraggin' precise timing.

"One of you guys has to find the controls to activate the stealth system. At the exact same moment as we vanish from sight, I throw up an illusion of our ship so that it looks like we're still there. Meanwhile, we sneak away and hope we don't attract any attention. With a little luck, by the time they think to board the ship, we'll be a good enough distance away that we'll be tough to find.

"I'm going to need some serious coordination from everyone on this, and that includes you Spikes. You know more about sailing than I do; how fast could we move without attracting attention?"

Hank is in the galley working on the next meal for the crew. After hearing a garbled message come over the his radio. The only word he managed to pick out of the broken message was "Aztlan".

After several attemps to get his radio working by tapping it against the counter, Hank heads up the bridge to see whats going on.

Mal sighed heavily as the latecomer Hank arrived on the bridge.

"Alright, I'll repeat myself just this once," Mal said in frustration. "We're going to sleaze by the Azzies using the adaptively-colored paint on this boat, and I'm going to whistle up an illusion of our ship at the exact moment that we go invisible that should buy us some time and distance. That clear?"

Sam nods, "perfectly."

It wasn't perfectly clear; Sam didn't know enough about magic to fill a thimble. But, the basic concepts were basic enough.

"Clear enough, but its better than nothing. Anything I can do to help?"

Asked the ork, wish he had more to offer than just a pair of strong hands.

"Yeah - stay below decks, but get your guns ready just in case it comes to that," Mal replies to the ork. "That goes for everyone here, too."

Mal taps Spikes on the shoulder, hoping he can still feel it while jacked in.

"Spikes, get ready to activate the camo paint on my mark. Acknowledge if you can hear me."

Sam tightens her tail around her weapon and speaks to no one in particular, "You do understand that we won't be able to talk our way out of this if they spot us."

"If this doesn't work we'll have to sink both boats before they can radio for backup."

Mal nods at Sam's comment.

"That's why if this doesn't work, we're spinning around 180 degrees and burning in that direction. There's other rebel factions in the world we could sell this cargo to that don't involve us running an Azzie blockade."

Ziptide smiles grimly. "If it all hits the fan, I'll be able to help slow those boats down." Privately, he thinks he will likely have to do just that. Covering such a large ship is spreading the mojo pretty thin - which makes it all the more likely that someone will see through it.

"Sorry, was a little zoned out trying to get some more info. As for stealth we got two real options, if I drop the boat into pure sail we become very hard to spot of sensors and I should be able to do something about visuals especially with the camo paint on the Delph, not Ruthenium scale but it'll help. On the other hand the boat's got a Jet turbine below decks that I've spun up, so it's ready but shouldn't be detectable yet, and hydrafoils on the hull so we should be able to massively out run them..... at least til they get some aircraft up to trace us. If we go the speed route I'd suggest dropping to sails and stealthing it after a short burst.... say 15-30 minutes or we'll have planes and LAVs all over us."

"Either give me the yell and I'll go with whatever your plan is. Either comms or just speak within normal earshot of my deck and I'll hear ya."