Disclaimer:
        -"Car Wars", "Autoduel Quarterly" (ADQ), "Midville" and
"Americain Autoduel Association" (AADA)  are all registered trade
marks of Steve Jackson Games.
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        Well part II of U.S. is here, as you would expect with part I
coming out last issue, I've recieved a couple of comments and have
forwarded them on to C. J. Burke.  I'd like to thank those who gave us
a nice comment, good to hear it's appreciated.  Well enough of me, on
to the sites and the fiction.

        All these links can be found at
  http://www.sjgames.com/HVD/lnk.html

        Any contributions, news or questions can be sent to.
  mailto:dbarton@racp.edu.au

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NEWS:

PBEM:
        Duel #5 has begun, check out the web site for info, but for
starters it looks like it's going to be one of the fastest most
dangerous duels yet, the price of awarding bonuses for getting over
200 mph and averaging over 70.

T-BONE RULES:
        I'd just like to add something that was an oversight, when a
vehicle is pushing or conforming another vehicle the accleration
possible is the fraction of DMs times the acceleration (round up),
if a result less than 2 is obtained, assume no acceleration possible.
EGS:  1 DM (10 mph acc) pushing 15 DM, 1/16 * 10 > 1 therefore 0 acc.
      20 DM (10 mph acc) pushing 1 DM, 20/21 * 10 = 10 acc.

        Note if a vehicles acc is 2.5 / 5 and a result less than 2
is obtained (fairly common) ignore this and 1/2 the speed.  This
reflects that vehicles with acc 2.5 are designed for pushing large
loads, eg HD-Trans, Trucks and thus their acc will be slowed but not
stopped.

        Hope these add a little bit more interest and stop a
subcompact or cycle pushing a semi-trailer across the road.
 

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ADQ:

        No news is not good news, but that's all I've got for you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
AADA CHAPTERS:

NOVA:
        Guess who's updated their pages again, new convention info is
there so have a look and try to get down there.  New arenas and yet
more of their newsletters have been added.
                                                Last Mod: 28-JUL

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OTHER CW PAGES:

MT HEAD:                                                **
        A group, no not an official AADA chapter, playing Car Wars,
they are from Michigan Tech, at the moment their page doesn't
contain too much info, just who they are and an old tournament.
                                                Last Mod 14-JUL

FINNISH CAR WARS PAGE:                                  **
        Another new page, the text is in Finnish, I think.  However
the designs there are in English.
                                                Last Mod 20-JUL
----------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 

                                U S 1
         An early adventure of the Driving Tigers/Road Wolves

                       by Christopher J. Burke
                            cjburke@io.com

 Copyright (c) 1984, 1997 Christopher J. Burke.  All rights reserved.
 

                               Part II
 

    So there we were driving along the streets of Baltimore, heading
south on US 1, escorting an unmarked ambulance down to Key West.  Now,
I know what your thinking:  who in their right mind would take an
ambulance onto Route 1 for a thousand-mile journey unless they were
just planning ahead.  Well, it's a long-story, but I'll sum it up for
you.

    Yesterday, a bomb went off in the Baltimore office of Wildcat Auto
Works, critically injuring president Victor Cose.  One of the senior
VPs, Jack O'Hara, my uncle Jack, gave me a call and within hours four
members of the Road Wolves arrived in his office:  Aramis (that's my
road name), certified ace; Lucky, certified ace, uncertified double
ace; Turbo, certified double ace; and Oddball, certifiable, if you
know what I mean.

    Our mission, and we chose to accept it, was to quietly escort
Mr. Cose to Key West for treatment via US 1 while a decoy team
traveled I-95.  Crazy, sure.  But that doesn't mean it can't be done.
And we were so damned well determined to get it done that not even a
hurricane could stop us.  Which is a good thing . . . because there
might be one hitting the Florida Keys the same time that we would.

    Traffic was light, mostly due to the early hour.  Baltimore kept
the roads in good repair and patrol cars occassionally let their
presence be known.  Turbo, in his ramcar "Bumper" took the point.
Lucky followed in his clunker.  After that, the van, then me and my
station wagon (Hey, don't laugh; it was my father's.) and finally
Oddball covering the rear.

    Two paramedics manned the van.  Jones, the driver,
had some prior autoduelling experience.  The other fellow, Carmichael,
professed to knowing only how to use personal weaponry on a more
defensive level.  Victor Cose rested on a stretcher in the back of the
van, hooked up to monitors.

    We spaced ourselves apart so as not to attract attention.  The
last thing we needed was to be ID'ed before we even left the city
limits.  And we still had two long days ahead of us.

    Our convoy had only traveled a few miles when a small compact came
into view behind us.  He honked at Oddball to let him pass.  A quick
look showed it to be an old lightweight Civic with nothing more than
an MG strapped onto the hood.  One of the old Japanese beer cans.
There aren't too many of them on the road nowadays given their
tendency to squash like bugs on contact.  There was no apparent
reason why this guy was on the highway let alone honking at Oddball.

    Cautiously, we allowed him to pass on our left, each of us keeping
an eye on him.  When he had passed, we saw the retrofitted
spikedropper hanging down from the tail bumper.  "Jury-rigged" would
be a better word.  As a courier between arena duels, I'm used to
lightly-armed vehicles that use speed as their best defense, but not
even triple hazard pay could get me behind the wheel of that thing.

    "Does anyone else have the strange feeling about that guy that I
had?"  I asked.

    "Keep an eye out," Lucky replied.  "We're going to find a wreck in
a little while.  Someone is going to pick that runt off.  I just hope
the jerk doesn't come running to us for protection."

    Lucky spoke prematurely.  As we turned the next bend, the tan
compact had spun around up in the distance.  He was heading back our
way.

    "Gladys, oh, Gladys --" the radio sobbed.  "I can't live without
you..."

    Turbo tapped his brakes.  "We've got our first problem.  Lucky,
you take the point for a while."  No reason for Turbo to test out
his ramplate just yet.

    Lucky swung around to get a clean shot but hesitated.  "I can't
fire on the poor sap.  He's gone wacko over a woman."

    I grinned. "Your brother in spirit, Luck?"

    A blast from the Civic's MG cut off Lucky's retort, not to mention
a piece of his front armor.

    "Then again . . . " The return burst of ammo disintegrated most of
the distraught loony's front grill, leaving a gaping hole that exposed
the engine.

    "Thank you," he said.  "Finally, someone understands."

    Less than 100 yards apart and closing fast, the wacko swerved
toward Lucky at full speed.  He wanted a head-on collision to end his
troubles.

    No one wanted to knock off the jerk, but he was about to get us
killed. Lucky dueled with a Gentlemen's Code of Honor that usually
prevented taking tire shots except in extreme circumstances.  They
rarely got less gentlemanly nor more extreme than now.

    Lucky let out a yell as he swerved and blasted the compact's left
front tire.  The Civic flipped and rolled.  The convoy avoided the
wreck, unsure if its driver had survived.

    No one said anything.  We had been worried about industrial spies,
terrorists and major crime syndicates, and we almost bought it because
of a jilted romantic.  Funny thing is we all felt for the poor sap --
it happens all the time.  Personally, I thought Gladys should have
given him another chance.

                                * * *

    The next couple of hours were uneventful.  The entire entourage
charged up in Washington.  Lucky replaced a couple of wasted rounds.
All the vehicles got a fresh set of tires -- off-road tires because of
conditions ahead.  Within a half hour, our wheels were moving and we
were pointing toward Richmond, Va.

    No one complained about the unusual quietness of the road.  You
would figure that an unpatrolled road like this one would be a haven
for bandits, but bandits need victims and there just weren't enough of
them around any more to make it worth their while.

    US 1 passes through the hearts of many small towns, but those
hearts bled out long ago during the Riots and the bad years following.
Artifacts and landmarks of another time dotted the landscape.  Almost
everything had been picked clean, but careful scrounging could turn
something up.

    The weeds had grown unchecked by the sides of the road, many to
the size of trees which lifted rubble and debris in their branches.
Enough growth popped up between the numerous cracks in the highway
that Turbo wished Bumper sported a brushcutter instead of a ramplate.
Though we had the foresight to use off-road tires, the disrepair of
the road still forced us to slow down considerably, no faster than 40,
and sometimes slower.

    Up ahead, a couple of the trees swayed in the breeze.  Just a
couple, not the rest.  Had we been outside our vehicles, we might have
noticed that the air was actually quite still.

    Jones got on the radio.  "Did anyone else see that?  The pair of
faces.  At least, I think they were faces."

    I craned my neck around, saw nothing. Then some of the brush
started moving. Turbo hadn't passed it yet, so it wasn't because of
us. Something was in there.

    Thud!

    A tailpipe bounced off Turbo's windshield.  Rocks and twisted
metal started to rain down on the van.  Then they started to emerge,
whatever it is they were.  Once, they might have been people, but
now?  Their pale skin was caked with dirt, their clothes tattered
revealing starved physiques.  They snarled and growled bearing
sharpened teeth.  Hunger drove them, and I got the impression that
they saw a tasty meal, if only they could open the containers.

    The first wave ventured toward the road wielding rocks, metal
spears and clubs, one even had an ammo-less rifle.  Our turrets swung
about as Lucky, Jones and I swept the area with Vulcan fire.  Some of
them fell over and others fell back, but a second wave emerged.  Turbo
bumped a few of them over, but there were too many to speed through,
not with the decrepit road surface.

    I reached over to the box of grenades I keep handy on the seat
next to me, grabbed a pineapple and tossed it into the crowd away from
the car.  The sudden loud noise scared as many as the shrapnel.
Reaching out, I hurled another over the car to the side of the road.
Instead of scaring them at the source, the grenade erupted harmlessly
with the bushes absorbing the blast. That gave me an idea.

    Keeping my eye on the fight ahead of me, I felt around until I
found what I wanted and hurled that into the brush.  With a flash of
light, the weeds erupted in flames.  Oddball and I passed the fir
closely, fanning it, spreading it a little.

    The creatures behind us stopped following. The ones in the trees
scattered out of them.  The attackers in front who didn't give up got
caught by the second grenade.  Within seconds, the road in front of
us was clear, and we jammed on the speed.

    "Lucky," I said. "Remember when we were discussing last month how
flamethrowers are too bulky and useless to have on long-range trips?
I think I'll change my opinion."

    "You, too, huh?"

                                * * *

    Simply put, we blew out of Richmond.  We needed to make up the
time lost to the cannibals and the time for the extra repairs and
reloads.  We didn't slow down until we crossed the border into North
Carolina and then only out of necessity.  We'd lose more time if we
ran out of juice short of our next pit stop.

    About 20 miles north of Raleigh, N.C., a lone cyclist pulled up,
hanging 50 feet behind Oddball.  He stayed there for a minute making
no effort to pass or communicate.  Oddball finally go on the radio.
"Any particular reason you're hanging on my tail?"

    "Nice van you got there," replied the biker.  "Must be something
pretty important with so many people guarding it."

    Another pause.  "Anything we can do for you?"

    "Yup, must be really important stuff in there."

    Oddball looked the cycle over carefully in the mirror.  The front
armor was fairly bulky with no hint of any gun ports.  Only the top of
the driver's head could be seen.

    "So which is it going to be?" the cyclist asked.

    "Which which are you talking about?"

    "Oh, horrors!  Forgive my manners.  I should have noticed from
your tags that you're not from around here.  My name's Cobra, and this
here is Rattler territory.  Us Rattlers, we get first choice on all
the goods that come through here.  You got a choice:  give us what we
want and you guys keep the rest, or we take it all.  What'll it be?"

    Oddball accepted one fact:  this guy resembled a slimy reptilian.
"Cobra, my name's Mongoose.  If you ever plan on laying any eggs, I
suggest you crawl on your belly back into your muddy hole."

    "Is that your final word?"

    Oddball growled.  And that spoke for all of us.  If there was
anything worse than a scuzzy, loud-mouthed, unarmed, hustling snake,
it's a scuzzy, loud-mouthed, unarmed, hustling snake with "Southern
hospitality".

    The lone rider fell back.  Behind him two more cycles appeared.
Then two more, and further back a couple of more came into view.  We
had a whole swarm of them . . . or whatever you call a bunch of
snakes.

    Turbo took charge of the situation.  "Aramis, drop back and give
Oddball a hand."

    I was already on the way, slowing until I was even with Oddball on
his right side.  We left little room to pass or get a clean shot at
the van.  They hadn't shot yet, and we figured they were waiting for a
good shot at our tires or a way around us.  Either way, we wouldn't
accommodate them.

    The first to make a run tried to swing about Oddball's left side.
With a quick drift, Oddball sent him flying head over handlebars off
the side of the road.  The second jumped up and took a shot at passing
between us through the space Oddball left.  I swerved toward him and
Oddball swerved back.  The fear in his eyes burned through his
faceplate as the side of our cars each touched his handlebars.  In the
face of his inevitable demise, a sudden surge of "heroism" overcame
the biker.  He pulled a grenade and waved it so I could see it.  I
flipped a switch, and he saw the muzzle of my Vulcan swing toward his
head.

    We stalemated for a moment.  He didn't think I'd try it with the
cars so close together.  He thought I was bluffing.  Jerk, it's the
first rule of the road:  "Vulcan's never bluff."

    "Aramis, you're going to clean the mess off my car this time!
Last time I scrubbed guts off for two hours before I got the shine
back!"

    Our cycle buddy took a quick look at Oddball, who returned a
deranged, twisted smile.  He jumped up, put one hand on top of
Oddball's car for support and flung the grenade as far as he could.
Very nice.  Very stupid, too.  I pulled to the right about a foot.
His cycle no longer braced, he toppled very nicely, thank you.

    The pack swung around his crashed cycle and started to open fire
on our rears.  Under cover of fire, Cobra managed to gun past me on
the right side.  I had been so engrossed torturing the last guy, I
hadn't kept my concentration.

    "Get him!"  Oddball ordered.  "I'll get the rest."

    Dropping a load of spikes, I jammed down on the accelerator.  The
pack avoided them easily, but they were all behind Oddball now.
He fired two rounds from his rear-mounted anti-tank gun.  We don't
know if he actually hit anyone, but the resulting explosion took out
all but two of them. Both fell way back.

    In the meantime, General Custer closed in on the van.  He had no
weapons mounted, so I expected him to pull a grenade to take out the
tires.  What he pulled instead was bad news; Cobra hoisted a stick of
dynamite into the air.  He wasn't going for the tires -- he wanted to
take out the entire van!

    That did it.  No more Mr. Nice Guy.  One volley from the Vulca
took Cobra out and the cycle flew off the road.  The dynamite,
however, fell from his hand onto the highway.  I swerved, but there
was no way to avoid it.

    The explosion sent me spinning out of control.  I grabbed the
radio.  "Keep going!  I'll catch up."

    Oddball sped past me as my car flipped over the shoulder.  I timed
myself, jumped and tumbled clear of the car.  I lay there in the grass
several feet from the wagon for a couple of minutes.  Nothing bruised
but my ego.
 

                            End of Part II

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        Hope we all enjoyed Part II, guess what's next fortnight -
Part III, or it should be.  Hope to hear from a few of you, enjoy
your fortnight.  also those who were at some of the conventions /
duels during the past couple of months please send me something in.
I'd really like to hear, and I'm sure many other would also, how the
racing championships went.
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