Mal steps away from the crate he was helping to push and goes over to Sam.

"After all the shit I've seen with slavers, you cannot tell me that leaving him to be gettin' sexed against his will somewhere is more humane than puttin' a bullet through his head right here. Killin' might be messy, but leavin' him for slavers to do what they will is nothin' less than torture. And I won't be part of it."

Mal pulls his revolver from its holster, but points it down at his feet to make it clear that he's not aiming for Sam or trying to start a gunfight with her.

"You really wanna argue 'bout it, I could settle the matter right here n' now," Mal says, pointing his finger at the wounded guy. "One shot, n' it's all over."

The van, an obvious rental, is pretty clean, though the so-called one-legged wonder has 80 bucks in CAS script and a few grams of novacoke. Anyone with medical experience can tell you that without some pretty serious surgery, he will loose the lower part of his leg, and without medical attention, he will bleed out and die.

Solomon and others pull the crate onto the deck. "As far as I care, leave him there to die. As soon as he pulled a gun and had the intent to take my ship, my money, or my life, it was a fight to the death. While I’m always open to suggestions, it will be your responsibility to keep his greasy ass sedated until we make port. Worst case is I know someone who could use a warm body for what else is in it. Either way, hurry up, and lets get out of here before someone cares enough to call harbor patrol." Mal fires into the wounded thug. "Meh... kick them both into the water and lets blow this popsicle stand."

Solomon pulls the crate to the aft deck. He again plugs something into his head and in short order a 20' section of the sun deck clamshell's open reveling a large cargo hold. He pushes the crate onto a small lift gate and rides it down as the clam shell doors close, leaving a seamless wooden sun deck behind.

As soon as Mal hears "As far as I care, leave him there to die," he smiles.

"Don't mind me," he says to Solomon. "I'm just speedin' the process along."

Marching past Sam, he levels his revolver at the wounded goon and fires, then marches back aboard the ship.

Knowing that leaving bodies laying around is always bad for business Hank decides to partial clean up the scene. Going back to the van, he removes the spare tire and wheels it over next to "the legless wonder". Then he grabs a tow line from another dock cuts a 2 meter piece. Then he ties both of the goons legs together and through the center of the wheel.

Once bound, Hank draws his combat knife and punches a hole in the tire, then to help the body stay down, he cuts it across the stomach. After ripping part of the mans shirt off, Hank stands and kicks both goon and weight into the harbor.

Walking back up the gang plank cleaning his knife with shirt scrap. "Solomon will Brian be able to dispose of the van after we're gone?

Ziptide heads groggily up to his cabin. He pauses as he sees the potential argument break out, then shrugs as it seems to get resolved. Truth be told, even if he was feeling a hundred percent, he wouldn't know which one to back, if the two of them went at it - they are still strangers to him.

"Have to get to know these guys a bit better... lot of times, knowing someone's little quirks can keep you out of trouble, or at least give you a heads up about it," he thinks as he gets ready to bunk down.

Wincing at the gunshot, and then again at Hank's casual mutilation, Spikes heads over to the van. Having a quick look around inside the drivers section his voice drifts back to the group. "Well given a minute or two and if it has an autopilot, I should be able to set it to take a route around the city with a couple of other stop-offs to distract from this one and then back to the rental agency. Might cover us and seem like they just sent the van back on auto....."

Going back to his business helping load the crate up, Mal helps complete the by-hand transfer of the container.

"Sorry for walking off there - had a little disagreement that had to be resolved," Mal tells Solomon.

Grunting as he helps push the container into its place in the cargo hold, Mal lets out a sigh.

"So...we gettin' underway anytime soon?"

Augest 18 2064 12:58 am
Not long after going below Solomon returns from below deck. He watches the rented van drive itself off the pier and away to whom knows where. “Cast off. We are headed out right now.”
Its only once the boat is into the channel and headed safly out to sea does Solomon relax and set the auto pilot. “We should be getting to Havana about 7pm tonight. The sat nav says good weather, but Im hearing a lot of chatter about CAS coast guard off the keys.”
“Either way. The plan is to make port, send the lot of you to Izzy’s and off load the cargo at 2am. We have a short layover, and will rendevous with another boat to load up for our next leg, on the 21st.”

"Three days in Commie Country, huh?" Mal says, using his smart-ass name for Cuba. "Wonderin' whether it might be safer to stay on the boat instead of takin' a tour of Havana."

Standing on the top deck of the ship, Mal stands at the bow and closes his eyes, feeling the sea air invade his nostrils and listening to the waves.

God, I forgot how good this feels, Mal thinks, smiling. I'm finally back out where I belong.

Sitting down near the deck railing, Mal spends his time on the surface deck, watching his natural habitat as the ship gets underway.

Finishing the van's autonav route, Spikes jogs back to the boat...

"Cast off. We are headed out right now."

Casting the lines off and jumping aboard he sees Soloman at the wheel and logs back into the drones to check their back for pursuit and time passes....

Watching the land slide by from the eyes of a condor, this there a better feeling? Well maybe knowing that we're safe from pursuit for now.

Heading to captain's chair, he hands the drones their orders Once we're in open water inform me of any vessels within sight range

Dropping back into his meat again Spikes heads over to help Soloman with the boat, but sees him happily piloting and turns back to the others.

"So we'd better organise a comms frequency.... how about this for our standard, this for combat and this one as a backup if we think comms is compromised?" With this he hands round a piece of paper with some comm frequencies scribbled on. "My transceiver can handle at least security grade encryption but we'll need to settle on a level we can all handle or people'll be getting static."

“We should be getting to Havana about 7pm tonight. The sat nav says good weather, but Im hearing a lot of chatter about CAS coast guard off the keys. Either way. The plan is to make port, send the lot of you to Izzy’s and off load the cargo at 2am. We have a short layover, and will rendevous with another boat to load up for our next leg, on the 21st.”

"Aye aye captain, eyes are up in the sky and hopefully should give us warning of other vessels nearby for the trip, although night shift'll have to be the Dolphinian's sensors as the condors'll have power issues through the night. Other than that I've got the drones watching for any other vessels and they'll let me know if they see anything."

The boat pilots itself out of the harbor, past the canal that you entered from, and the pleasantries of home. The open ocean beckons from afar, shimmering with moonlight over the smooth sea. It’s all rather picturesque. But this is why you love the open ocean, raw salty freedom. Once the land falls away, signaling the exit from the Ft Myers harbor, Solomon leaves the bridge and climbs down the ladder to the main deck.

“If that’s what you wish. I'd like to retire for the night, and make some additional arrangements. So I bid you a pleasant morning.”

The night is pleasant. Apart from an oil tanker making its way to the gulf and a flight bound to Miami, the 20km radar stays clear as the night sky.

Morning breaks, and Spikes gets to watch a sun rise from the middle of the Caribbean from the deck of a sailboat. Having spent a part of the night jacked into the Dolp, he learns many of its secrets, including the 3200 bhp jet turbine that appears to have been stuffed into the Dolphinain’s ass which means it might possibly outrun small rotorcraft. As well as armored turrets, sonar system, and small electronic warfare system. Guess Solomon wasn’t kidding when he said all is not as it seems.

The day progresses uneventfully. Most of the crew spends the day lounging on deck, poking around the cabins, or leaning the nuances of a sail powered craft from Solomon. With a favorable, wind you actually clear into Cuban waters an hour ahead of time, the city lights of Havana rising on the horizon.

Ziptide seemed pretty beat up the night before, but a long stretch of sleep followed by a big breakfast seem to have restored him. Like some of the others, he shows an interest in learning how the sails work.

He watches the approaching lights of Havana with the same ambivalence he feels at most ports. An eagerness to explore a new place, especially one that could hold danger, but mixed with it is a regret to be leaving the sea again.

As the ship gets closer to its destination, Mal starts walking around the ship, looking for Solomon.

"Looks like we're 'bout ready to start dockin' on Red Island," Mal says to Solomon, using another just-made-up nickname for Cuba.

Mal lowers his voice a bit as he asks what could be a sensitive question.

"Now that we're about to make landfall, you mind tellin' me what we're unloadin' and what we're taking on?"

Hank spends the afternoon near Solomon, trying to learn how to work the sails. About an 2 hours before reaching Havana, he heads below deck and fires up the range and begins cooking.



After the food is on the table he makes an annoucement to the rest of the crew over his comm. Once everyone is seated, he looks over at Solomon, "So captain, what is it were hauling?"

Sam spends most of the trip sulking in her cabin, coming out only to retrieve food. At least, she appears to be sulking. Mal's cold blooded murder of an unarmed and defenseless enemy was distressing to her. More distressing, however, was the fact that the goon did not have a credstick. Sam's off-the-cuff comment about selling the goon was entirely jovial. But Mal's reaction sparked an idea in her mind and the seeds of a plan began to form. The goon could have been useful, but only if he had a bank account.

Still, there will be other goons to transform into unwitting patsy's and Sam's time was spend planning for that eventuality. Sequestered in her cabin, she regurgitated everything she knew about her family's business into two spiral-bound notebooks. LTG numbers, bank accounts, schedules, passwords, backdoors, the intricacies of the accounting programs they used, and much, more were carefully scribed onto the wide-rule paper. When she was finished the two compositions contained all the information a skilled decker would need to steal very large sums of money from the family that cast her out. Getting away with it was another matter entirely, of course. But she didn't want to get away with it. She just wanted a war.

In an unusual show of pragmatism, she writes in bold black letters on the covers of both notebooks "In the event of my death, use the information contained within to cause as much damage as is possible and make yourself rich while you're at it", before wrapping them in a towel and placing the package on a desk in plain sight.

Those of you who spend time with Solomon learning the basics of sailing find him to be a highly engaging instructor. Though with the subject matter, its not surprising that he’s also somewhat excited to show you how to sail the Dolphinian in case of a catastrophic equipment failure.

Once entering the busy waterways of Havana, the big yacht drops sail and putts into a small, but exclusive marina. Solomon shoos you off the boat with directions to Izzy’s for a measuring and fitting. The gate for customs seems deserted, and is left wide open.

A short taxi ride drops you off in front of a 2-story tenant, with a faded sign pointing down the stairs to the basement. A Closed sign hangs on a blacked out window, though small imperfections in the paint leak light thru. The door is shortly opened, and you are greeted by what may well be the daintiest troll you have ever met. “Why HELLO there! Joeseppi said he was sending some friends over, but I was expecting an entourage, not the likes of you. Either way, come in, come in. As you enter you notice that at this late hour, it looks as though the entire staff is there, ready to cater to you. Izzy quickly sorts you out to different groups of people, leaving Micheal and Samantha to deal with personally.



“Well he said this would be a challenging set, but goodness, he wasn’t kidding around. Joeseppi is quite the kidder you know. The lady first if you will?” Leaving Spikes to sit, he takes Sam behind a screen and ask her to strip down to her under things, and with notebook, sketchbook and tape measure in hand, takes an astounding number of measurements and notes, relating normal measurements to scale and fur patterns as well as well as Sam’s added preferences. Spikes gets the same treatment, though a trid camera is needed to record the size and location of many of the bone spurs.
The session lasts only an hour and a half, and you are promised a formal outfit, as well as 3 semi formal outfits, complete with shoes and accessories, delivery taking place Wednesday morning.

Back on board, over a late dinner and fielding the big questions first, Solomon, explains his plan. “The idea with smuggling, or even normal trading is to buy low and sell high. The crate we picked up in Ft. Myers was a stolen Valkyrie remote medical unit. However it has been registered all ready, so unless it gets some large reprogramming, it’s not useable. But because of the Novatech, C.A.T, and UCAS embargos on high tech to Cuba, they are desperate for any good medical equipment. We drop that off, kill a few days and pick up a cargo of small arms to transport to Champoton. So yes, we are going to give guns to the rebels fighting in the Yucatan. I’m still trying to arrange for us to take a load of street drugs to Northern Europe, but finding a seller with enough to turn a good profit is becoming hard.”

Mal shifts uncomfortably in his tailored suit as he fidgets with the collar. Formal clothes weren't really his style, and the suit made him very uncomfortable.

Why the ruttin' hell does formal-wear have to be so confining? Mal thinks to himself.

...

Hours later, aboard ship and VERY happily back into his brown trenchcoat and street clothes, Mal sits down to dinner as he listens to Solomon's plan.

The moment he hears about the plan to run guns to the Yucatan rebels, a VERY wide and visible smile appears on his face. It's all he can do not to howl with joy.

"Oooooh man, you have no idea how positively giddy that news makes me," Mal says. "This is gonna be a damn good job, if I say so myself."

Stickin' it to the corps and helpin' the little guy - just what I got into this biz to do.

The night shift was, as always, long, dark and generally uneventful. Well uneventful once Spikes had given up trying to get the drones to warn him of vessels, and got them to just dock back on the yacht til day break. Spending the rest of the shift plugged directly into the Dolphinian was brought a number of discoveries Hmmm, Soloman certainly does live by his 'Everything is not as it seems' motto..... Wonder how fast I could get this up to..... Resisting the temptation he merely keeps an eye on the course and everything out there that might interfer with the smooth voyage, finally turning in at dawn as at least one other appears on deck to hand over to.

Almost stumbling to his bunk, Spikes thinks to himself Man, first the radio frequencies and now watches I gotta get my head together. and with that carefully settles down and sleeps the sleep of the very small or very tired.

...

Rising in the early afternoon, Spikes remembers Soloman offering to teach them about sheet sailing and with a quick wash up and pulling a fresh set of ships clothes on head up on deck to join in the class. Spending time with Soloman learning to sail a boat with no rig, was both a revelation and a disappointment. Revelation in almost feeling to yacht moving as though he was rigged in, and disappointment that it wasn't as good as rigged in.

...

The sights of Havana going by through the taxi window reminding him of why he travels "Man you don't get to see the sights of the world if you won't travel" Arriving at the tailors surprise showing on his face as the shop still seems to be full staffed and also the lack of surprise at both him and Sam by Izzy.

“Well he said this would be a challenging set, but goodness, he wasn’t kidding around. Joeseppi is quite the kidder you know. The lady first if you will?”

"Of course, Ladies first" and with a quick smile and out streched as though he was offering an opened door to her, Spikes sits and patently awaits his turn with the eccentric tailor running over the Dolpinian's specs in his head.

After his 'sitting' or rather tridmapping and listening carefully to Izzy's descriptions of how the suits will come out, he nods and says [spanish]"My thanks, you have excellent taste and I await the results with great expectations"[/spanish]

...

Back on the yacht and over the dinner the talk gets down to basics of smuggling and to the plans for the next few legs.

“The idea with smuggling, or even normal trading is to buy low and sell high. The crate we picked up in Ft. Myers was a stolen Valkyrie remote medical unit. However it has been registered all ready, so unless it gets some large reprogramming, it’s not useable. But because of the Novatech, C.A.T, and UCAS embargos on high tech to Cuba, they are desperate for any good medical equipment. We drop that off, kill a few days and pick up a cargo of small arms to transport to Champoton. So yes, we are going to give guns to the rebels fighting in the Yucatan. I’m still trying to arrange for us to take a load of street drugs to Northern Europe, but finding a seller with enough to turn a good profit is becoming hard.”

"Sounds like a good plan, the run into the penisula will be interesting although the yacht under sail should avoid most radio sweeps, unless they're being very paranoid. Shouldn't be interesting and the way the rebellions going, the rebels could definately use any weapons they can get hold of."

Ziptide, dressed elegantly, but not in his newer attire (which he is saving for more formal occasions), sips his glass of water thoughtfully.

"They definitely need the weapons. But we're going to have to be sharp. Desperate people will often take what they want, and there would be relatively few repurcussions if they were to rob an independent smuggler, rather than someone working for one of the bigger fish. So we need to look tough, but at the same time be careful not to do anything that is an affront to their honor" - he shakes his head - "I swear, sometimes they can be as touchy as the Yaks."

He doesn't seem that worried, just careful. Actually, he is looking forward to their next stop a great deal. He internally sneers at the thought of the stop after that, in Europe. He considers drug users a pathetic lot, although he has no moral qualms with making money off of their pitiful weakness.

"Ah, I wouldn't worry 'bout it," Mal says in response to Ziptide's concern about the rebels stealing their stuff. "'While back, boat I was on made a quick trip into the Yucatan, met up with some rebels, delivering some...'relief supplies.' Anyways, the ones we met up with played pretty straight with us. Rebel lieutenant we met up with in the port looked like he was keepin' his own pretty well in line. 'Course, we spent a grand total of maybe half-a-day there, and that was before the whole toxic mess started 'round there, so they might have gotten more desperate since then, but still, I think we'll be alright."

Taking another fork-full of food, Mal barely finishes swallowing before speaking again.

"Anyways, I've read a few sheets offa Shadowland about these guys - friend of mine graciously supplied me with a few write-ups. I gotta say, I admire 'em. Takes a lotta cojones not to break before the might of a group as freakish, bloodthirsty and powerful as the Big A. Things've just gotten harder on 'em since the whole earthquake and toxics business a couple years ago."

Sam doesn't know how many times she's had this done in her old live. Several, begining when she was a baby, and she always hated it. It wasn't the measurement process itself. It wasn't even the clothes. It is the suffocating formality of the events that these types of clothes are normally worn to. The water doesn't care about formality.

When all was done and everyone returned to the boat Sam donned her diving armor. She intended to do some swimming while they were docked.

Overhearing Ziptide's and Mal's conversation Sam adds.
"Desperation, stupidity, insanity, or pragmatic risk-benefit analysis are often mistaken for bravery. True bravery is very rare. The rebels are fighting Aztechnology because they believe it is the only way to accomplish their goals and they believe that their goals are worth dying for. Anyone can believe that something is worth dyigng for. It's easy. Just fall in love.

We shouldn't ask if the rebels think that our guns are worth our lives. Obviously, they do because they are letting us risk our lives to deliver them. What we should ask is if the rebel leaders think that free guns today are worth an indefinant amount of supplies lost tomorrow. Our deaths would certain give pause to anyone else willing to smuggle to the rebels even if they were caused by a random paraanimal attack. Our deaths at the rebel's hands because they don't want to pay would ensure that no sane smuggler will go near them ever again.

Our guns won't win their war. They won't even if they shoot magical self-guided nuclear-tipped bullets. We aren't in much danger of betrayl from them. People who fight for a cause can be trusted to what is best for that cause. You should worry about the people who fight for the fun of fighting They're always stupid or insane. Stupidity and insanity are unpredictable."

“I find it interesting your all concerned about the rebels being the dangerous ones, when in fact this was to be a delivery, not a sale. From what I keep hearing, the insurgency is giving Aztechnology forces a new breed of hell, but in the process burning their own resources up quite rapidly. I for one am far more concerned with the fact that we are sailing right up the Aztlan coast. Their navy is nothing short of formidable, and yes, this is only possible because we have the electronic cross section of a canoe. I would feel more confidant in flat out stealth if I had been afforded the opportunity to purchase some electronic deception equipment. However, this is why I insisted on a few changes of attire. If we are spotted, and appear to be a luxury plaything the worst that may happen is a stern warning to leave the area. Where as, if it’s found out that we are a heavily armed gunrunner, I hope you all enjoy long swims and subsequent walks on the beach. Thankfully, the overwhelming majority of smugglers are either in one of two types of craft, the small, ultra fast cigarette boat, or the big slow heavy trawler. Those are the types of boats that air patrols and submersible listening stations are looking for, and we don’t fit either bill.”

Hours after a splendid dinner, the crate is unloaded into the back of a pickup truck with out any incident. Money changes hands and after verifying it’s worth parties part.

Tuesday is spent doing very little. Solomon spends most of the day, and into the evening either on the phone, or on the sat. link. The crew is free to poke about the city, with the warning that while they are being treated as VIP guests here, most of the rest of the city, and the government, could care less.

Not long after noon on Wednesday, a ageing BMW pulls up to the marina gate and a face (and a walk for that matter) you all know instantly starts the long walk down the dock, followed by 3 people who look like they haven’t slept in days carrying a small mountain of assorted boxes. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?” the troll shouts, though his voice cracks painfully at the conclusion of the question.

Solomon is first to greet the tailor, and they appear to be old friends, chattering away in rapid fire French. Izzy’s assistants dole out the stacks of boxes to the correct parties, including a stack for Solomon. Everything from under garments to top coats are included, with 3 changes of day to day wear, and something that could easily be on the red carpet. They do all have one small detail in common, and that’s the subtle luster of dikote fabric weave. So apparently, they aren’t just for show.
While you are packing things away, Solomon pulls a credstick from his pocket and finishes the transaction.
Izzy and his entourage debark, creating a highly noticeable void of action. “I suppose its pay day now. Thanks to a party wishing to remain un-named, the initial cost of the Valkyrie unit was recovered, which not only covered your tailors bill, but substantially increased the per share take for this leg. After expenses incurred, each share will receive ¥5300. I assume certified nuyen will suffice?”

"Fair 'nough," Mal says after hearing of his new influx of capital.

Seeing the boxes of formal wear brought aboard makes him uneasy, though. This sorta stuff is definitely not to his liking.

Maybe there's some way I can dodge this requirement... he thinks as he roams around the top deck of the ship.

"Certified Nuyen is always accepted boss." says Hank with a toothy grin. He than takes his boxes back to his bunk and plays a quick game of dressup, seeing how the clothes feel with a few weapons hidden underneath them.

I gotta admit the guy does nice work.

For the rest of the day, Hank wonders around the city, looking for somewhere his pocketsec is able to pickup matrix service and checks on a few message boards around the matrix. That night when he gets back on the ship, Hank goes and finds Solomon.

"Hey boss, I was wondering if I could use the sat comm. I got a guy I know down in the Yucatan. It's been a couple of months since I've talked to him, but when I was there last time I he treated me straight. Could be worth looking up"

"Certified is great by me, boss"

"The Azzie blockade is going to be the hardest thing to bypass, and they aren't forgiving.... but thems the breaks as they say. An ED system would help out a lot, I could put feelers out to see if any of my contacts can find one, but they cost a packet and aren't easy to get hold of....." Spikes trails off a bit as a thoughtful expression passes over his face.

"Almost certainly won't get hold of one before the Yucatan run, but if we're looking for one might be best to ask about now....... Erm, if you wanted one captain, of course" and although it's hard to tell with the scales it looks almost like Spikes is blushing over his slip about him maybe having some claim on the Dolphinian.

"Not been down that way before, coasting would be bad for being spotted by land installations and would be harder to explain how lost we were but possibly more likely for ultra rich looking at the scenary. Otherwise we could sit further out.... more likely to catch a sea patrol, but it's easier to get lost out there.... Well anyway I'm sure a plan'll come together....." Again he kinda trails off as though he realises that he rabbiting on and thinking outloud.

Ziptide nods. "Certified is fine... best in fact." He tries on his new finery, more than pleased with it. It's elegant, but not gaudy. He has a few reservations about their tactic of relying on their rich-party-yacht pose to get past patrols, but keeps them to himself.

And if it fails to work, there is always violence to fall back on; the thought makes him smile. He reflects on Sam's comment about people who love violence being stupid or insane. Well, he's not stupid, but insane? Maaaaybe.

The next leg of the trip certainly offers the possibility of such excitement. Havana was a nice place to stretch his legs, but the habenero sauce at one of the restaurants was the most exciting thing to happen. Perhaps Havana's predators were simply better at sorting out the sheep from the wolves.

Sam graciously accepts the cred and finds herself lacking anything useful to do with it at the moment. Speaking not a single word of spanish she really doesn't have much hope of finding anything useful in Havana so she simply slips into the water and begins comtemplating her overelaborate plans for revenge.

Maybe I oughta take a walk around, Mal thinks, soon growing bored with pacing back and forth on the ship's deck.

Keeping his holstered revolver hidden under his armor coat - with only the one five-rounds-left clip for ammo - he disembarks from the ship, roaming around the docks and checking out the sights.

August, 20, 2064.

After a much greater then expected payout, there is little left to do in Havana. Those of you who stay aboard ship find the occasional surprise, such as the hunting rifle under the navigation display on the bridge. Those of you who head out find the touristy parts of the city to be rather nice, but there is always an under lying feeling of poverty, and old world oppression. After an early dinner, the boat shoves off and heads for an area of international waters some 100 miles west of Havana.

It’s explained that an open ocean transfer will be taking place just before dawn and that once the cargo is secured its time to start the ruse.

August 21, 2064. 4:35 am CST.

Solomon has spent the night on the bridge, pacing around and checking shipping schedules, weather reports, and any possible information a shadownode can feed him about coast guard or navy actions in the area. His phone chirps once and then goes silent. He quickly asks that the crew be gathered and ready for anything, and goes about dropping the sails.

“Spikes, can you get those spotter drones up for me? I know its dark, but they should only need to run off battery for an hour or 2. Id also like to ask that you stay up here and keep a close eye out for anything that comes up on the 20-mile sensors besides ‘The Metvina’. I got word that a skip runner hit a rogue swell and is starting to break up, so I’m fairly certain that someone will have rescue and enforcement in the area. I just hope its CAS Coast Guard and not the Carrib Navy.”

Solomon starts to head down the ladder to the main deck and pauses “Bring one of those armed jobs up too. If this gets ugly, it’s going to get really ugly.” Solomon pauses to retrieve his smartgun from its hiding place, pulling a carry sling out with it. He gestures to the rest of you gathered to follow him as he heads out into the pre-dawn darkness. Just at he mid line he stops and bends down and slides a short length of the wooden decking backwards, exposing a pull handle. With a good deal of effort, a 3-foot long part of deck opens exposing a lightweight machine gun and large box of ammo.
“On the other side, just in front of this cleat, same deal, I assume you know how to mount one of these?” He jesters to the nearby rail post before yanking the LMG clear of the storage box and lets the pintle mount click into place. “Glad its calm this morning, I dropped one of these into the north Atlantic during a storm once.” Solomon speaks as if he is trying to make light of the fact that this is a dangerous time.

He heads to the rear deck plugging his pocket sec in alone the way. “Ok, here is how this is suppose to go down. The Metvina is going to pull along side, and hand the guns over to us. If it’s too choppy, it’s going to be done with a series of launches, but that’s going to take longer. Once we get everything below, pull the guns and get below deck. As soon as there’s light, someone’s going to have a satellite up looking for that skip.

Spikes voice comes over the radio “Capt, the Metvina is inbound, 5 min to intercept”

Packing his Guardian as well as his trusty revolver under his trenchcoat, along with three spare clips for each, Mal heads up to the main deck and readies himself for the ship-to-ship transfer.

Better just make sure... Mal thinks, as he concentrates and lets himself slip into "detection mode."

Ziptide stands on deck, wearing his armored greatcoat, a stray gust of wind whipping a bit of his hair around his face despite most of it being tied back in a ponytail. He gazes intently out to sea, his astral vision giving him a slightly distant look.

He briefly steps up to Solomon. "If we have trouble with any other vessels, I have a spell that should be able to slow them down." He then resumes his scrutiny of the sea, awaiting the immenent rendezvous with the Metvina.

August 21, 2064. 4:35 am CST.

“Spikes, can you get those spotter drones up for me? I know its dark, but they should only need to run off battery for an hour or 2. Id also like to ask that you stay up here and keep a close eye out for anything that comes up on the 20-mile sensors besides ‘The Metvina’. I got word that a skip runner hit a rogue swell and is starting to break up, so I’m fairly certain that someone will have rescue and enforcement in the area. I just hope its CAS Coast Guard and not the Carrib Navy.”

"Roger, that. Launching drones." With swift and practiced movements Spikes settles down in the wheel house and plugs his deck both into his jack and into the ship itself. At the silent command the two lighter than air drones lift off the deck and disappear to the naked eye into the night-time murk. A slight clattering from below deck signals the approach of one of the armed drones carefully pulling itself up the stairs using its arms.

Sitting in his virtual space watching the sensor feeds from all three drones, Spikes feels at home again Ah the feeling of information flowing past, nothing beats it.... well maybe driving.... actually definately driving and an unconcious smile spreads across his face and then fades away slowly.

As he monitors the crew mounting the machine guns onto the pindle mounts he sees a shape coming in towards the ship. Concentrating and zooming in it resolves into the ship they're waiting for.

"Capt, the Metvina is inbound, 5 min to intercept"

With message delivered he goes back to monitoring for any other incoming vessels in the cordon around them, and while the drones search about Spikes takes a closer look at the Metvina checking it over for surprises Well there's going to be guns.... at least I expect so but always pays to be prepared.... and know where the enemy's weaponry is

After hearing Spike message across the comm net, Hank sprints back to his room and quickly straps on his web gear. Emerging from below decks with about a minute to spare, he's surprised to see the light machine guns mounted on the deck. Hank takes positon near one of them, with his rifle slung across his chest.

August 21, 2064. 4:35 am CST.

Only a brief minute after Spikes announcement of The Metvina’s approach, a red and green bow signal flickers to life, giving the prow of the ship eyes glowing like a beast from some trid movie. Following it in the dim moonlight is a garbage scow of a fishing ship, but as it nears, its crew looks to be making up for any qualities the ship is lacking in. No less then a dozen men are on deck; most of them are armed as well, from knives to RPGs. As it closes in your direction, the crew tosses a length of rubber tires over the port side of the boat, and shortly there after tosses mooring lines to those of you on deck.

It takes less then 30 seconds for a human chain extending from the hold of the scow to the hold of the yacht to shovel boxes and crates and pallets of weapons and ammunition into the hold of the Dolphinian. Solomon and another man, a grimy skinned orc, stand far to the front of the ships having an animated conversation between them, handing a tablet back and forth.

On the bridge of the Dolphinian, Spikes is reveling in the feeling of input from 4 different sources. Suddenly one of them spikes a warning signal, the active sonar array from the Dolph just picked up something HUGE, and biological moving rather fast and straight for the paired ships!

Sam, still wearing her Dive Armor, decides to put her accounting skills to use by inspecting the cargo being loaded. Oblivious to the aproaching danger, she pokes her head in crates and sifts tnrough boxes while shoving relevant numbers into her math SPU.

Feeling and seeing all the data flowing around him, everything seems fine.... right up to the point where the Dolphinian's sonar suite starts flashing warnings. Swinging his view to it Spikes gets a great view of the large, unidentified blob heading straight at the two boats. Frag, what the hell is that? Damn it, wish I had more experience with sonar.... doesn't look good though and it's heading straight at us. Time to heads up the others.

Moments later the radio link comes to life with a slightly computerized version of Spikes' voice "Guys, quick heads up. Sonar's picked up a large mass heading straight at us underwater. Can't get a clear reading on what it is, but I'm trying. Could be a Megaladon or Leviathan... or a mass of fish. Either way, not much I can do til it surfaces without being very obvious. Checking....."

Hmmm, would either of those go for two ships of this size? Think Spikes, think.....

Mal steels his concentration on the other boat's men despite Spikes' warning. - a bunch of guys with guns versus a blob with no positive ID? The guys with guns win out. However, he is worried.

Dammit...If that turns out to be Mega-Jaws...

Ziptide, hearing the warning, frowns slightly. Whatever it is, it sounds dangerous. The size by itself wouldn't be a worry, but if it's actually heading directly towards two boats, then it's insanely agressive, awakened, or both. Still watching the astral, he scans the water intently for it.

A mention of something headed at the ships spurs everyone into action. Shouting, guns being drawn, things being tripped over, complete pandemonium ensues. Ziptide tries to look though the relatively crowded astral mass that is the top of warm sea water, and gets a good judge of some large mass moving in roughly the direction of the paired ships. One of the men on the Metvina is also looking intently at the moving glowing cloud skating under the biomass of microscopic life. He turns to look at Ziptide, and gives a over emphasized smirk before hefting his rifle. A dull “Thwump” follows a rather nice parabolic arch as a launched grenade trails into the water. The blob reacts by splitting in the middle. Then the grenade goes off. It scatters.
Spikes intently feeling the sonar readout, hears a surface splash, and had he been using traditional sonophone would have been deafened by the sub surface explosion. However, modern technology saves his hearing, and allows him to watch what he now realizes is a large school of scared fish. He leaves a system note to look into upgrading the sonar gear. A wave of nervous laughter washes across the ships and the loading continues.

As a false dawn starts to light up the sky, the transfer is completed. Lines are cast off and the 2 ships start their separate ways, The Dolphinian south west, the Metvina east. And not a moment too soon, as sensors pick a rotorcraft crossing into the 20km sensor range.

Mal lets out a frustrated sigh as the danger from the un-ID'd blob turns out to be nothing.

Keeping his mind on his enemy detector spell, he's relieved as the transfer completes without incident and the two ships begin to uncouple.

Right next port..... better sonar

Over the team radio "Sorry for the false alarm guys"

Seeing the boats finish their loading and the all clear given, Spikes carefully pulls the Dolphinian away and sets it's south west course. Sailing along at a pleasent and safe speed pretending for all his worth that the Dolphinian is just another pleasure yacht out for a cruise his sees another blip heading in on the sensors extreme range.

Over the radio the rest of the crew getting a message, again in a slightly computerized version of Spikes' voice "Incoming rotor craft, approximately 20 km away. Attempting to get a better look on passive sensors. Pulling in the condors so we look more like a normal yacht at night and IWS heading to below decks."

With that he gives the drones their orders and hopes the armed drone'll get out of LOS before the chopper gets close enough for a visual. And peering at the passive sensor info from the Dolphinian and drones to see if he can spot any identifying markers.

Ah crap, Mal thinks as he hears the warning about an approaching helicopter.

Thinking quickly, Mal takes off his trenchcoat and places it on the deck, hiding his guns and their ammo in his pockets and under the coat itself, placing it under a chair near the railing on the deck. Sitting down on the chair, he puts on his sunglasses, trying to look as much like a beach bum as possible so as to allay suspiscion, all the while keeping up his spell to ascertain whether or not the copter is bad news.

Act natural, act natural, act natural...

Sam cringes when Spikes mentions the condors and has to bite to lip to keep from screaming obscenities when he says "normal yaht." She acrivates her radio and simply states "Broadcasts can be intercepted." as both a warning and a suggestion. She isn't familiar with the equipment that Spikes has and has no clue what is on that chopper but she does understand the concept of radio integrity and the usefulness of signal interception.

Rushing into her room, Sam quickly discards her diving suit and gets dressed in one of her trademark full-coverage outfits. This time, it is the evening wear obtained earlier from Solomon's very skilled tailor. The ensemble begins with a sleaved one-piece silk dress, in flamboyant blue and gold, which reaches down to her toes. The curves of the colourful dress reveal nothing but they cling and move in such a way that suggests everything. Still, they are more than ample to conceal for FFBA suit and the flare of the bodice provides a hiding spot for her pistol so long as no one gropes her. Her hands are covered with supple velvet gloves colored royal blue and matching velvet slippers adorn her feet. The set is topped off by a tasteful and alluring silk veil. The glasses that complete the set block ultraviolet but are otherwise transparent, revealing her sultry catlike eyes.

"Your tailor has fine taste", she compliments the captain.

"Broadcasts can be intercepted."

"I know, but I'm hoping that a short range burst transmission to give them their orders will be less conspicious and detectable than them flying around at night." The voice sounds slightly pained as though it's the lesser of two evils "Guess we'll find out though"

Really need to get the encryption modules for the drones as well.... <sigh> too much to get and fit and not enough cash or time. Heyho the life of a smuggler rigger.... gotta love it

The sensors come back with a very specific description of the big cargo helio, from its make and model, to its registry as a CAS Coast Guard armed reconnaissance craft. It’s big, loud, and isn’t doing anything to keep it from looking or sounding as much.

Spikes sends orders for the IWS to get into the cabin and shut down, which it does rather quickly (and has the curtsey to shut the door behind it as well). The rest of the crew dives out of sight. Thankfully, the LMGs are removed and stowed very quickly and Hank moves below to make sure his own gear is in order. Mal decides to hide in plain sight, sleeping on deck. The two mini-blimps putter around a click or so off, and about the same in height, sending data back to Spikes about the helio that’s closing, and the beginnings of their recharge cycle.

The crew about the Metvina is less organized, or at least less informed. The ancient trawler is steaming away at full throttle, belching diesel smoke, but making very good headway into the rising sun.

“Uh Delta Oscar Lima Papa 0-6-2-7, this is CAS 3-8 H Heavy, copy”
Spikes pauses for a moment, unsure as to what to do.
“Delta Oscar Lima Papa 0-6-2-7, this is CAS 3-8-5 H Heavy, copy, over”
It takes a brief second for the realization to set in that DOLP 0627 is the Dolphinian, and the proper etiquette for ATC (air traffic control) is quite the same as this.
“3-8 Heavy, this is Delta Oscar 2-7, we copy”
“Delta, we are looking for a reported speed boat headed though this area, last known heading 045, speed 60 knots, do you have any confirmation of this?”
“Uh, negitive 3-8”
Several panels light up on the virtual dashboard of the Dolphinain, relaying the bombardment of sensor activity from the chopper as it crosses 10km out. A big flashing toggle reading whimsically “Oh bugger…” winks into existence.
“Rodger 2-7, contact CASCG if you get contact, but do not attempt res…” The radio-women’s voice rises in tone, as if questioning something.
“ 2-7, 2-7 turn hard heading 160 and get out of the area, hostile contact at 08 *fshhh*” the radio is cut off as the on board sensors go wild from a major ECM flux.
Some 500m away the Metvina makes a sharp turn to the south.

After hearing about the helicopter, Hank begins reconcealing the deck mounted weapons before heading below deck to store his own gear.

Well its good that things are going so simple, he visually cringes at his own thought. I wonder how long until Murphys Law asserts itself?

Still standing casually on deck, Ziptide watches the chopper head after the Metvina. "Well, better them than us, he thinks, then heads down to the galley to get another cup of coffee.

“Rodger 2-7, contact CASCG if you get contact, but do not attempt res…” The radio-women’s voice rises in tone, as if questioning something.
“ 2-7, 2-7 turn hard heading 160 and get out of the area, hostile contact at 08 *fshhh*” the radio is cut off as the on board sensors go wild from a major ECM flux.

Holy frag, that's some major ECM, glad the drones know to follow the boat

Swinging the boat's heading around to the indicated heading in a tight but graceful, smooth curve that wouldn't upset drinks Spikes mentally turns up the deck's intercom volume and switching of the connected transceiver. He calls out loud enough to carry across the deck. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have just been informed of a problem in our path by the CAS Coast Gaurd. For this reaon we'll be making a slight detour but we should arrive at our destination at the expected time. Again I apologise for any discomfort or inconvience this causes." Well hopefully that'll cover us if the chopper can spare the attention to listen in on us

The boat on it's new heading to the southsoutheast, Spikes tries the short range transceivers to see if anyone can get a message on them, slowly boosting his transceivers output power with the Dolphinian's power through his deck.

"Guys, no idea if this'll punch through the ECM jamming going on but head up to the wheel house for more info. Bring you drinks and toys." Damn I hope they understand that but with CASCG so close I don't want to be too open where they could hear us

And with that he turns his attention back to the sensor feeds to see if he can pick anything out through the waves of ECM static.....

Scooping up his coat - along with his hidden guns - Mal heads up to the bridge to see what's going on.

"Spikes, what's goin' on here? And what exactly is the Coast Guard up to here?"

Over the intercom from his RC deck, which is lieing on Spikes' lap as he rests against the wall apparently asleep.... well unless you know riggers.... or astral mages, comes the slightly metallic voice again "They wanted to know if we'd seen a speedboat around here. Then warned us not to approach it, rather maybe not to attempt a rescue. As they were leaving a massive ECM field came up that's screwing our sensors and before the radio went out warned us to turn to the current heading due to a hostile contact."