Entry 02: We found the MacGuffin
Date: Unknown +3 days
Reporting: Sgt. Clayton "Nora" Mossberg
Location: Czestochowa, Poland
After setting down to a campfire with the young folks of Klobuck (all two of them, and an infant), and sharing some food, health care and stories, I was able to divulge from Specialist Spencer that she indeed has a given name; a name that she is not at all eager to be known by, and I would wager that if I called her by it, she would ignore me out of spite. When I asked why she wouldn't want to be called "Nora" (her first name), and politely tacking on the fact that I thought it was a pretty name, she then asked, "Why wouldn't you want to be called Nora?" The answer to which is, obviously, because my name is Clayton, which merely sounds like my parents wanted me to grow up to be a successful mud salesman. She then insinuated that my nickname from now on should be Nora. Well, if it makes her happy, so be it. Kid's had a rough time. At dawn, we would head out to Czestochowa, which would probably be no picnic.
After asking what the fleck marks on our map around our destination meant, it was pointed out to me that our locally-supplied and annotated map had a legend on it, which I had inadvertently folded up and missed. The fleck marks denoted rubble, since Czestochowa had been hit with a tactical nuke some time ago. That concerned me a bit, since currently I do not have any Prussian Blue, potassium iodide or DTPA in my kit for dealing with radiation sickness. (However, I have read that some species of fungi are radiotrophic, and use a process called radiosynthesis--like photosythesis, but using ionizing radiation rather than light as an energy source--and thereby might be able to reduce a patient's rads, but I digress) Now, one of the big things to remember about radiation is time. The "hotness" of an area that has suffered a nuclear attack is largely determined not only by the power of the weapon that hit it, but the time that has passed since the event. According to the 7/10 rule, if the radiation is strongest right after the event, then after 7 hours, it will drop to about 10% of that level, and seven times longer than that, it will drop to 10% of that level, and so on. 48 hours after a nuke goes off, the radiation level (measured in Grays or rads) the measured radiation will be approximately 1% of its max. A fortnight later, it will be about one-tenth of a percent. This may sound awesome, but it's still not safe. The radiation level within a mile of the relatively puny (15 kiloton nominal yield) Little Boy bomb dropped on Hiroshima was nearly a thousand rads! The other time-related factor here is length of exposure. An area may have a certain level of radiation, but it takes time for a body to absorb it. You can slowly wave your hand over a campfire with no harm except for maybe a few singed hairs, but if you wave too slowly, or try that same wave over a blowtorch, you might well be fucked. Since Czestochowa was hit probably something like 100 days ago, the 7/10 rule has had a few extra cycles, dropping the magnitude of the hourly dose by a few orders, according to my rough napkin-math. We could go in and poke around, but camping out there was not recommended.
When we neared the target, we reviewed the dead man's journal, to see if there was a literary breadcrumb trail to follow, or maybe even prove the veracity of the document. I pointed out to Major Mackensen that the missive told of having to abandon their broke-down Humvee and a cache of supplies (who doesn't like free supplies?) just a few klicks north of Czestochowa, until closer review of the document showed that the site was a few clicks north of Klobuck, the fucking place we had so eagerly left this morning. Since wasting gas backtracking was not an option, we had to table that for later. You know what that means? There is probably a shotgun hidden there, dammit. One of the things the journal pointed out was how the dead guys had found the treasure cave in the first place, which was camping on a hill outside of town with a monastery on it, and waiting until sundown. A bunch of bats flew up out of a cave, and that led them to the creepy doom tunnels. So, we decided to do that, but we had to get attacked by a bunch of assholes first.
Having an ICV is great for many reasons. "Keeping a low-profile in a nuclear wasteland" is not one of them. It screams out "please shoot us because we have stuff to take." We drove straight into an ambush, where guys on horseback crossed in front of us and behind us right when we drove by a building with a sniper in it. Spence, as usual, was on point on her horse. I was riding exposed on the back deck of the rig, keeping an eye on our six and able to patch up 80% of our team with a little scrabble or sprint; if Wharton needed my particular help while he was behind the wheel, things had already moved into deeply fucked territory. I took a shot at this one particular asshole on our ass (and only nicked him, goddammit), when he leveled a gun at me and blasted me on my ass. Sure, the kevlar stopped most of it, but I saw all the tiny little shreds in the carrier, and realized instantly...
That dude had a shotgun!
Eddie and the Major were engaging the guys in the building and the horseman in front. Spence took a hit that spanged off her helmet. I dove off the rig and hid inside a doorway, tossing a smoke bomb to cover our rear, and laid in ambush, expecting the guy to our rear to ride through it, at which point I would attempt to fuck him from the side. That didn't happen, though, because he appeared to dismount and beat feet. Simon pulled a neat maneuver and tried a PIT maneuver on the horse, while our gunners took down the rider. Sensing the shotgun slipping through my fingers, I headed back to regroup, crossing paths with Spencer, who had a waterfall of blood cascading down her face. It turned out not to be too severe, but you know what they say about head wounds bleeding. I patched her up right quick, then heard Eddie calling for my help, too. I jumped back on the M1126 and tended to him while he was still standing in the cupola. He'd taken a burst from the sniper, but had the good fortune to have a bunch of armor plating in the way for most of it. I patched up his scratch, too, but reminded him that, "in these times of scarcity, I can't whip up too many enemy marksmanship medals, so maybe try and duck next time." With the aggressors having apparently run for it and things getting a bit quiet, we took a moment to loot the dead, while Spence tried to find her horse, who had beat feet during the fracas after she had dismounted.
Spence came across a couple of weirdos just chilling. She called us up. Me and the Major formed up while Sam and Eddie minded the rig. When we got to Spencer's location, there was an older guy and a woman. They looked like civilians. The guy was wearing a funny robe, like a judge, or something. Then I remembered the name for that bit of clothing: a cassock. The dude was a priest! Or, he had looted a hunk of cloth off a dead one (you know, because they're super stylish and provide the tactical advantage of covering up all the gear strapped on your body that you might need to get to at a moment's notice). The chick had an M4 with an M203 (definitely making her an HVT), while the priest had a sniper rifle slung. If that wasn't weird/suspicious enough, both of them looked to be...praying? Major Mackensen seemed to have no respect for the prayers of Catholics, so he snuck up and laid out the woman. I was hoping that the priest would just surrender, but of course he wouldn't, so I had to shoot him, a good solid shot right in the thigh. He scrabbled over and into a nearby building. I popped smoke at the entrance, giving the Mack a chance to barge in and subdue him. With these two taken care of, we trussed them up and began our interrogation.
