Chapter One: War Drums
Navarro
Well-known member
Chapter One
15:00, March 23 2331
Washington DC, USA
Abraham Lincoln High School
George Michael Walker sat down in class and prepared for the lesson – Civics, as usual – due to unfold. The teacher walked into the class – portly, balding and in his late 40s. Old enough to remember the bad times of the 80s, when wasteland monsters and raiders were still a recent memory. Walker had known nothing of that era and the even worse time two decades beforehand – his earliest memories of the city were of shining white marble monuments, brick houses and apartments, clear blue skies and bright green lawns. He remembered a field trip to the Capitol Wasteland Museum when he was thirteen, five years ago – those stuffed deathclaws and super mutants, crude pipe rifles used by wasteland dwellers to protect themselves, and explosive collars used by slavers to secure their ‘stock’ had scared and enthralled him in equal measure.
He was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of the teacher writing on the blackboard, the two words clear to him - “PERPETUAL UNION”.
“Can any of you,” he said, “explain what this concept means?”
Minnie, a black-haired girl with her hair still in pigtails at 18, raised her hand first, beating Walker by a fraction of a second.
“It means that even though the secessionists claim that the United States ceased to exist in the nuclear war, it still does?”
“Close, but incorrect. That would be continuity of government, without the plans for which put in action by our prudent forefathers 250 years ago, we would all still be living in shacks and looting pre-War supermarkets to supplement our diet.”
George looked over to Arlene - a blonde-haired girl who kept her hair tied in a ponytail - for an instant, his face turning red momentarily in synch with hers, and spoke, running a hand through his maple-brown hair nervously.
“It means that it’s illegal for US states and commonwealths to attempt to secede?”
“Close again, but not quite.”
Arlene spoke up this time.
“It means that true secession is impossible unless the Federal Government itself were to be destroyed.”
“Bingo! The secessionist and anarchic regions of our great republic are still part of the United States no matter how much they try and deny that fact. That is why the NCR and the Brotherhood are so determined to destroy the Federal Government, and doubly so to tarnish its good name with all that crazy propaganda you’ve heard about in Post-War History.”
“When the original thirteen colonies first aligned with each other – and this is before even the Declaration of Independence, I might add – they declared a ‘perpetual union’ and in the 1780s, within a decade of winning the War of Independence, they made it ‘more perfect’ with the Constitution. How can a perpetual union, made more perfect, possibly be abandoned once entered into? There’s no right for any constituent part of the United States to withdraw or become independent – after Aradesh had reorganised South California back in the late 2100s, the first thing he should have done was establish contact with the Federal Government and said ‘hey, we’ve got this republican form of government, would you please take us South Californians back in, Mr. President?’”
“But he didn’t, and here we are now.”
He spoke on at length, drawing various parallels and explaining the concept in detail for the better part of an hour before wrapping up.
“You’ll be tested on this next week and in the exam. Class dismissed.”
After taking notes on their Pip-Boy 3500s, the students filed out through the corridors as the bell rang marking school closing time, George holding hands with Arlene. He could hear snatches of conversation-
“-Glad my parents got out of Texas-”
“Have you seen the new Navarro movie?”
“-Tickets to see the Adams Sisters in concert?”
They raced each other to his motorbike – an Excelsior H5, not particularly fast but very controllable, fusion-powered, required decontamination and coolant refill once a month or so. He did some final adjustments to his leather jacket and put on his helmet, noting a large black car at the end of the street, the insignia of the Secret Service painted on its hood and the unique sheen of laser-resistant coating on its tinted-black windows and its chassis.
Man, I know we’re related to the head of the US Government, but could you try to be a little subtle?
He turned on the bike and headed due west across the Potomac river, noting to his right an offramp going off the elevated highway to Theodore Roosevelt Island. He ignored it, knowing what lay that way – the Panopticon Complex. A series of dull low-rise office buildings surrounded by a sea of parking lots, overshadowed by the Panopticon itself. A looming 100-floor art deco skyscraper clad in black stone, the structure was the nerve centre of all US intelligence agencies in the same way the Pentagon was the headquarter of the US military’s branches (except for the Secret Service, which was based in the White House).
Once on a dare he had ran up right to the statue of Argus – a giant from Greek mythology who had a hundred eyes – outside the black wrought iron-gates and flipped it the bird. He’d heard a rumour that the eyes sculpted into the mythical creature actually functioned as security cameras – a classmate had boasted in high school of graffiti-ing the statue and ended up in court a few days later.
Ahead were the skyscrapers of Rosslyn – a collection of art deco wedding cakes in various shapes and sizes, none persisting from the pre-War era – and the Liberty Tower, planned to be a kilometre high and three-quarters of the way complete, the finished sections clad completely in white marble. It was controversial, he’d heard, for the way it overshadowed most of Arlington National Cemetery, but he didn't really care about politics. Odd, for one of his descent and hometown, but the caterwauling on Capitol Hill had never affected him thus far and probably never would.
He crossed the river – entering the western half of the District of Columbia – and turned left, heading south. The black car was still following him unerringly. He passed the Pentagon – both of them saluting instinctively – and the airport, following the river until they reached Alexandria, the southernmost suburb of Washington DC.
He stopped at a gate west of the town’s northern edge and pulled over – Arlene got off the bike and put her hand on a biometric scanner.
“Identity verified,” a computerised voice said. “Welcome home, resident.”
Above, private security men armed with laser rifles watched him warily from their watchtowers.
The gate opened and George wasted no time in getting through into the neighbourhood. He wove his way between the mansions on his bike until he reached his destination. Taking care to park the bike in a good position, he stole a kiss from Arlene before ringing the bell.
A man greeted him – in his early 50s, he wore a finely-decorated military dress uniform and his chest had various medals on it. George saluted him.
“Good, you brought her back just in time for dinner,” the older man replied as he led them in to the mansion’s dining room. “A perfect gentleman, just like your grandfather.”
He looked to an old family portrait – traced from a photograph – on the wall, showing Arlene’s grandfather in the beginning of his middle age, sitting surrounded by his family. The oil painting showed a brown-haired man in his mid-40s with two small children – a boy and a girl – on his knee. Everybody living in America knew him – Augustus Autumn, 63rd President and architect of the restoration of the USA. From 2278 to his official retirement in 2302, he had sat as President of the United States. And even after that, well into the last decade he had often been a guest at the White House – even when his official title was simply “President of the American Chess Federation” – for more than sentimental reasons. His death two years ago had been a shock to everyone – even George and Arlene, born well after his retirement, could not have imagined a world without him.
It was even harder to imagine that the boy on Autumn’s knee was General Alexander Autumn, former military governor of Arkansas and Arlene Autumn’s father.
A Mr. Handy domestic robot served dinner, making compliments to the family members present and the guest in its typical British tones. As the family sat and tucked in, Alexander asked George a question.
“So, kid, what do you want to make of yourself after you leave high school?”
“I’m still not sure, Mister. I just … I just don’t have a direction. Inherit the family business once dad retires, I suppose.”
“You’d have to do more than that to impress me,” Arlene teased him, adjusting her golden blonde hair so as not to have it touch the food. “Using up your dad’s money is no way for my future husband to live.”
“What are you doing, Arlene?”
“I’m going into the air force. Before my grandfather was President, he was a soldier, and so’s my father. I want to honour that legacy.”
“So, why not follow her example?”
“I’m just not suited to the air force, Mister.”
“There are plenty of other branches. The Army and the Marine Corps could surely use a young man like you.”
“I suppose.”
“And think of the opportunities. You’ll get lifelong friends, new skills, and college paid for. And that’s just after one tour of duty. But most important of all, there’s the honour of having served your country.”
“I’ll … I’ll ...”
If Arlene … if my girlfriend is brave enough to risk her life, surely I have to do the same. She’s right, I’ll never impress her by staying at home.
“… I’ll do it, Mister.”
==*==
13:00, April 21 2331
Outskirts of San Antonio, Lone Star Republic
Long Live President Carrera!, the graffiti proclaimed on the tan sandcrete of the ruined post-war apartment building, above a mural of the black-haired, tanned woman being supported by Texans from various walks of life, with heroically-posed Enclave soldiers defending them underneath the starry rag that they bore as their banner these days.
Sergeant James Calhoun took off his helmet and spat on the damned thing. Fuck these fucking Texans, he thought. They seem to hate our guts, treat us like fucking invaders. And they were so eager to cozy up to the fucking Enclave too.
For thirty years the Texans had played both sides between the NCR and the Enclave, happy to sell and buy to and from both. But over time, common sentiment had increasingly become pro-Enclave, supporting the idea of “re-integration” or annexation into Enclave territory, the “United States” that possessed control of all land east of the Mississippi.
That had been a thing the NCR could never allow. So when Carrera had been elected on an unabashedly pro-Enclave platform, they had worked with elements within the Texan military to carry out a coup. Carrera had been shot on the steps of the Presidential Palace in Austin, hours after her inauguration, and the Texan army had seized control of the capital. Mutiny and popular rebellion had broken out immediately after, and the Lone Star Republic’s new provisional government had called for NCR support. They – and their allies in the Midwestern Brotherhood, along with the Republic of New Canaan – had joined in.
None of which Calhoun really cared about. As far as he was concerned, this whole fucking country could rot as far as he cared. Their previous administration, before Carrera, had even tried to hold a peace conference - humoured by both sides more to impress the Texans than anything else - that had immediately turned into a mass fucking brawl. Between the herds of vicious hogs with bulletproof hides and horns that could pierce combat armour, these people’s fucking accents, and the sheer distance from home, he was far past the point of caring.
Just do your patrols, day by day, he mused. Maybe light up some fucking Enclave-supporting morons, then go back home to base.
He put his helmet back on and gripped his weapon tightly – a Gun Runner made Laser RCW, the rapid-fire energy weapon was the main gun of the Power Armor Corps. The NCR Rangers might crow about their victories – the Legion and Brotherhood wars, the battle of Navarro, the recovery of the North Pacific Squadron – but they were decidedly bit players these days compared to the PA Corps.
Okay, patrol. Keep your eyes fucking peeled-
Even through his armour, the sound hit him, the high-pitched whine of a firing electromagnetic rifle mingled with the hammerblows of high-velocity kinetic impacts in rapid succession. Five men of his squad lay dead – armour pierced in multiple locations, blood and brains and viscera spread out across the dusty tarmac – and the source of the attack unknown. He knew what it was instantly of course – a gauss minigun. Judging by the lack of further fire, even that short burst had drained these rebels’ ammo supplies enough to render it ineffective. He could see the building they were using as a strongpoint – a low rise apartment building, across the street from the one with the mural.
“Secure that location!” he ordered plainly. “I want every fucking Enclave man in that building dead!”
He then shouted the NCR’s traditional battlecry against the Enclave, first used during the final charge at Navarro 81 years ago.
“Remember Arroyo!”
Closest I’ve ever been was some girl from there I fucked the day before my draft papers came up, he thought bitterly.
A heavy weapons team supported the push, launching missiles and grenades against the largely-abandoned building to smoke out the occupying gang of rebels. But they seemed to have already vacated the premises – was this really nothing more than a strike of opportunity?
Too late he heard the whistle of a shell and saw his doom approaching – the sound of a Fat Man atomic cannon. One of his men instinctively jumped in front of him but the effort was futile. The mini-nuke detonated, filling the street with atomic fire, cooking him and three other NCR soldiers inside the scorched remains of his armour.
Amid frantic cries and calls to retreat, the war for San Antonio and all of Texas went on.
-*-
Colonel James Mitchell, of the NCR Army’s 3rd Power-Armored Infantry Regiment – the “Eagle Hunters” – spat on the ground as another round of shells went off near his command post, far away enough that shrapnel was no risk. These days he had gotten used to the sound of shells and energy beams flying through the air.
“Ambush on East Market Street,” he heard over the radio from the commander of 2nd platoon 4th company. “Rebel forces have a high supply of heavy weapons, we’ve been forced to fall back. Sending coordinates to your pip-boy.”
He looked at the Pip-boy 2000 attached to his belt and checked over the numbers, before leaning over and speaking into its integrated radio. He ordered a barrage at the co-ordinates designated and sighed at the futility. By the time it took the guns to track, the pro-Enclave insurgents would most likely have gotten away.
Power armor was a terror to any force that encountered it … not only on the offence, but on the defence. To pry out a properly dug-in force of power-armoured infantry as he was facing here was a nightmare, as the battles of Navarro and Helios One had shown in the previous century. At least the NCR had its own power-armoured troops these days, loyal to it and not the Brotherhood.
The NCR and loyalist Texan forces had been besieging San Antonio for the better part of a year, and had only managed to drag the Enclave supporters into the city centre. Once then, it might have been thought that it was easy … but they’d underestimated the tenacity of the Enclave sympathisers. Forcefield barricades blocked every street, smuggled in during the early weeks of the civil war. Coupled with a laser air defence system also in their possession and the fact that many of them were formerly Lone Star military, the enemy had held out strong.
Every tall building was a nest for snipers and a firing point for artillery. The network of tunnels and bunkers the enemy had dug merged with the city sewers and subway network, allowing raiding parties to strike deep into loyalist-held areas. Fort Sam Houston, a pre-War military site until recently occupied by the Lone Star Republic’s army, was also another tough nut to crack. Thankfully a mutiny at the nearby airbase at the beginning of the uprising had been stamped out, or the NCR would have been unable to do even this containment.
As it was, the situation in the Lone Star Republic’s other major cities was scarcely any better. Dallas and Fort Worth were both divided into loyalist and insurgent-controlled areas, and even a district of Austin was under firm insurgent control. Oklahoma City and Tulsa had formed a connected block that resisted Brotherhood attempts to cut them apart, and they still controlled many military bases and large areas of the countryside.
As it was, Mitchell believed it would take another year – or even two – before the NCR, Lone Star government, and Brotherhood fully suppressed the pro-Enclave movement and took San Antonio.
==*==
14:00, May 18 2331
Patriot Park, Virginia
“So, your mind’s made up?”
Arlene Autumn asked her question to her boyfriend as they walked through the attraction. “Little America”, the area of the park – located halfway between Washington DC and Annapolis – that wasn’t dedicated to honouring the United States Military by means of various exhibits, rides, shows and video-game arcades, was quite peaceful in comparison. A lazily winding path took visitors past scale models of America’s natural and man-made wonders, state by state and commonwealth by commonwealth. Under the shade of precisely-planted trees, there were various snack bars, washrooms, and drink vendors on the way.
All in all, a perfect place for a weekend date.
“Yes,” he answered. “We’ll go to the recruitment centre together. July 4 sounds right, yeah?”
She sat down on a bench next to him and looked at the model in front of her. It was of Kennedy Spaceport – the headquarters of the USSA or United States Space Administration – with an included model of the Astraea Mk. 6, the spaceplane that had touched down on Mars and brought humans to the red planet for the first time five years ago. First into space, she thought, first to the moon, and first to Mars. That’s one of the things we can truly be proud of as a country.
Of course, the space program had been on the backfoot since then. Apart from the purely practical elements of rebuilding the network of spy and GPS satellites and ferrying Helium-3 from the Moon to Earth, the USSA’s small fleet of single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes saw little use.
“Are you worried about something?”
She could see it on his face, no matter how much George tried to hide it.
“I mean – it’s just … I don’t know, we’ll be apart for our tour of duty, for years. I’m scared ...”
He didn’t voice his fear, but Arlene knew what it was.
“I’m no share crop,” she said in an uneven tone, anxiously fiddling with her ponytail. “And I know you’re not the type of guy to break a girl’s heart like that. We’ll work it out … and once it’s over, we’ll still have the rest of our lives.”
==*==
10:00, June 15 2329
Washington DC, USA
Walker Residence
“Can you imagine the scale of the mistake you’re about to make?!”
George Walker looked at his father, Davis, with an intense glare as he continued to speak. The TV was still on in the living room, the announcer for Federal News Network breathlessly going over the latest battles of the civil war in Texas and the struggle by pro-American freedom fighters to depose the rebel-backed military government.
“I support the troops as much as anybody, but do you really imagine you’re going to be a hero on the battlefield? There hasn’t been a major campaign since the one against Ronto, and by the time you finish Basic I swear on my life the situation in Texas will be done with. It’ll be over by Christmas if we send in the troops, and I heard talk that it’s gonna happen soon. You really wanna spend four years of your life sitting around on an army base doing push-ups and firing a laser rifle at targets propped up in a shooting gallery?”
“I made a promise to my girlfriend and her father, and I’m gonna stick to it.”
George heard his father sigh.
“My father was a special forces man … the very best. He never had time for me or my brother when we grew up … that’s why I never joined. I wanted to be there for you. After that, don’t you want to be there for me?”
George didn’t answer. He could understand his father’s appeal, but he had made his choice already.
His mother – just turned forty-two last week – opened up with her own arguments. While she didn’t seem to believe his father’s claims, evidently she had her own reasons for not wanting him to join up.
“George … you’re my only child, and the only one I’ll ever have. Can you imagine my heartbreak if the rebels kill you?”
He looked down, a bit ashamed of himself, until he realised.
“So, if I’m never going to see action because the war will be over by the time I get to the field, won’t there be very little risk of me being hurt?”
Both of his parents shrugged and gave up. They seemed to admit his mind was made up.
“Alright,” George’s father said. “Have it your way.”
“I’ll make both of you proud, I promise.”
==*==
18:00, July 4 2331
Washington DC, USA
The White House
Nate Wahington, President of the United States of America, rested his elbow on the Resolute Desk. Soon, he’d be making the biggest roll of the dice he ever had as a commander. The very fate of the continent would be decided in a matter of months. The days of his youth – when he had fought in the Sino-American War, helped reintegrate Boston, liberated eastern Canada – were distant memories now. From Captain to General to Secretary of War to Senator to President … it had been a long ride. And now … before he died, he wanted to see all America restored to her former glory, just the way it had been in his youth.
It was inevitable at any rate – peace, as the Texans had attempted to negotiate during the Travis Administration, was a fantasy. The final war couldn’t be delayed any longer – skirmishes in the no-man’s-land which covered most of Iowa, Minnesota and Missouri had been happening more often and getting bigger, a key sign that the Brotherhood-NCR alliance intended to strike the first blow.
And the sooner it happened, the smaller and less devastating it could be. There had been enough delay– 40 years of building strength was surely enough for the USA to finally commit to victory.
As he was musing over these thoughts, the door opened and he saw the Commandant of the Secret Service – General Stevens – walk on through. He was tall and bulky, with the physique of a star athlete despite his desk job – FEV enhancement, Nate knew. The man was a special forces veteran, and all US specops troops went through that procedure these days.
“Mr. President,” he said plainly. “Your grandson – George Michael Walker – has just applied to join the United States Armed Forces.”
George, he thought. Good kid. His grandson through his first daughter, the boy was quick-witted and good-natured. That he would follow his path in life was, he felt, a good sign.
“Along with a descendant of President Augustus Autumn,” he said. “Same day, same time. And you know the two are lovebirds. Should I take the necessary steps to keep them out of harm’s way?”
“I didn’t ask for special treatment for Elliott,” Nate replied. “And even though he was already in when I was inaugurated, the same applies for any other children or grandchildren of mine who want to serve. Besides, the Secret Service has better things to do than babysit – your role in Operation Lightning Hammer, for one.”
“Understood, Mr. President. General Alexander Autumn said much the same,” Stevens replied, and left.
If George had joined up just now, he would be in the initial liberation of Texas, due to start four months from now.
That thought … it worried him and it made him proud in equal measures. Maybe Stevens was right, he mused. Maybe I should have him kept safe behind the lines.
But it was a passing thought, and quickly silenced. He had developed an instinct for these things, and he had the feeling the boy would do just fine.
15:00, March 23 2331
Washington DC, USA
Abraham Lincoln High School
George Michael Walker sat down in class and prepared for the lesson – Civics, as usual – due to unfold. The teacher walked into the class – portly, balding and in his late 40s. Old enough to remember the bad times of the 80s, when wasteland monsters and raiders were still a recent memory. Walker had known nothing of that era and the even worse time two decades beforehand – his earliest memories of the city were of shining white marble monuments, brick houses and apartments, clear blue skies and bright green lawns. He remembered a field trip to the Capitol Wasteland Museum when he was thirteen, five years ago – those stuffed deathclaws and super mutants, crude pipe rifles used by wasteland dwellers to protect themselves, and explosive collars used by slavers to secure their ‘stock’ had scared and enthralled him in equal measure.
He was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of the teacher writing on the blackboard, the two words clear to him - “PERPETUAL UNION”.
“Can any of you,” he said, “explain what this concept means?”
Minnie, a black-haired girl with her hair still in pigtails at 18, raised her hand first, beating Walker by a fraction of a second.
“It means that even though the secessionists claim that the United States ceased to exist in the nuclear war, it still does?”
“Close, but incorrect. That would be continuity of government, without the plans for which put in action by our prudent forefathers 250 years ago, we would all still be living in shacks and looting pre-War supermarkets to supplement our diet.”
George looked over to Arlene - a blonde-haired girl who kept her hair tied in a ponytail - for an instant, his face turning red momentarily in synch with hers, and spoke, running a hand through his maple-brown hair nervously.
“It means that it’s illegal for US states and commonwealths to attempt to secede?”
“Close again, but not quite.”
Arlene spoke up this time.
“It means that true secession is impossible unless the Federal Government itself were to be destroyed.”
“Bingo! The secessionist and anarchic regions of our great republic are still part of the United States no matter how much they try and deny that fact. That is why the NCR and the Brotherhood are so determined to destroy the Federal Government, and doubly so to tarnish its good name with all that crazy propaganda you’ve heard about in Post-War History.”
“When the original thirteen colonies first aligned with each other – and this is before even the Declaration of Independence, I might add – they declared a ‘perpetual union’ and in the 1780s, within a decade of winning the War of Independence, they made it ‘more perfect’ with the Constitution. How can a perpetual union, made more perfect, possibly be abandoned once entered into? There’s no right for any constituent part of the United States to withdraw or become independent – after Aradesh had reorganised South California back in the late 2100s, the first thing he should have done was establish contact with the Federal Government and said ‘hey, we’ve got this republican form of government, would you please take us South Californians back in, Mr. President?’”
“But he didn’t, and here we are now.”
He spoke on at length, drawing various parallels and explaining the concept in detail for the better part of an hour before wrapping up.
“You’ll be tested on this next week and in the exam. Class dismissed.”
After taking notes on their Pip-Boy 3500s, the students filed out through the corridors as the bell rang marking school closing time, George holding hands with Arlene. He could hear snatches of conversation-
“-Glad my parents got out of Texas-”
“Have you seen the new Navarro movie?”
“-Tickets to see the Adams Sisters in concert?”
They raced each other to his motorbike – an Excelsior H5, not particularly fast but very controllable, fusion-powered, required decontamination and coolant refill once a month or so. He did some final adjustments to his leather jacket and put on his helmet, noting a large black car at the end of the street, the insignia of the Secret Service painted on its hood and the unique sheen of laser-resistant coating on its tinted-black windows and its chassis.
Man, I know we’re related to the head of the US Government, but could you try to be a little subtle?
He turned on the bike and headed due west across the Potomac river, noting to his right an offramp going off the elevated highway to Theodore Roosevelt Island. He ignored it, knowing what lay that way – the Panopticon Complex. A series of dull low-rise office buildings surrounded by a sea of parking lots, overshadowed by the Panopticon itself. A looming 100-floor art deco skyscraper clad in black stone, the structure was the nerve centre of all US intelligence agencies in the same way the Pentagon was the headquarter of the US military’s branches (except for the Secret Service, which was based in the White House).
Once on a dare he had ran up right to the statue of Argus – a giant from Greek mythology who had a hundred eyes – outside the black wrought iron-gates and flipped it the bird. He’d heard a rumour that the eyes sculpted into the mythical creature actually functioned as security cameras – a classmate had boasted in high school of graffiti-ing the statue and ended up in court a few days later.
Ahead were the skyscrapers of Rosslyn – a collection of art deco wedding cakes in various shapes and sizes, none persisting from the pre-War era – and the Liberty Tower, planned to be a kilometre high and three-quarters of the way complete, the finished sections clad completely in white marble. It was controversial, he’d heard, for the way it overshadowed most of Arlington National Cemetery, but he didn't really care about politics. Odd, for one of his descent and hometown, but the caterwauling on Capitol Hill had never affected him thus far and probably never would.
He crossed the river – entering the western half of the District of Columbia – and turned left, heading south. The black car was still following him unerringly. He passed the Pentagon – both of them saluting instinctively – and the airport, following the river until they reached Alexandria, the southernmost suburb of Washington DC.
He stopped at a gate west of the town’s northern edge and pulled over – Arlene got off the bike and put her hand on a biometric scanner.
“Identity verified,” a computerised voice said. “Welcome home, resident.”
Above, private security men armed with laser rifles watched him warily from their watchtowers.
The gate opened and George wasted no time in getting through into the neighbourhood. He wove his way between the mansions on his bike until he reached his destination. Taking care to park the bike in a good position, he stole a kiss from Arlene before ringing the bell.
A man greeted him – in his early 50s, he wore a finely-decorated military dress uniform and his chest had various medals on it. George saluted him.
“Good, you brought her back just in time for dinner,” the older man replied as he led them in to the mansion’s dining room. “A perfect gentleman, just like your grandfather.”
He looked to an old family portrait – traced from a photograph – on the wall, showing Arlene’s grandfather in the beginning of his middle age, sitting surrounded by his family. The oil painting showed a brown-haired man in his mid-40s with two small children – a boy and a girl – on his knee. Everybody living in America knew him – Augustus Autumn, 63rd President and architect of the restoration of the USA. From 2278 to his official retirement in 2302, he had sat as President of the United States. And even after that, well into the last decade he had often been a guest at the White House – even when his official title was simply “President of the American Chess Federation” – for more than sentimental reasons. His death two years ago had been a shock to everyone – even George and Arlene, born well after his retirement, could not have imagined a world without him.
It was even harder to imagine that the boy on Autumn’s knee was General Alexander Autumn, former military governor of Arkansas and Arlene Autumn’s father.
A Mr. Handy domestic robot served dinner, making compliments to the family members present and the guest in its typical British tones. As the family sat and tucked in, Alexander asked George a question.
“So, kid, what do you want to make of yourself after you leave high school?”
“I’m still not sure, Mister. I just … I just don’t have a direction. Inherit the family business once dad retires, I suppose.”
“You’d have to do more than that to impress me,” Arlene teased him, adjusting her golden blonde hair so as not to have it touch the food. “Using up your dad’s money is no way for my future husband to live.”
“What are you doing, Arlene?”
“I’m going into the air force. Before my grandfather was President, he was a soldier, and so’s my father. I want to honour that legacy.”
“So, why not follow her example?”
“I’m just not suited to the air force, Mister.”
“There are plenty of other branches. The Army and the Marine Corps could surely use a young man like you.”
“I suppose.”
“And think of the opportunities. You’ll get lifelong friends, new skills, and college paid for. And that’s just after one tour of duty. But most important of all, there’s the honour of having served your country.”
“I’ll … I’ll ...”
If Arlene … if my girlfriend is brave enough to risk her life, surely I have to do the same. She’s right, I’ll never impress her by staying at home.
“… I’ll do it, Mister.”
==*==
13:00, April 21 2331
Outskirts of San Antonio, Lone Star Republic
Long Live President Carrera!, the graffiti proclaimed on the tan sandcrete of the ruined post-war apartment building, above a mural of the black-haired, tanned woman being supported by Texans from various walks of life, with heroically-posed Enclave soldiers defending them underneath the starry rag that they bore as their banner these days.
Sergeant James Calhoun took off his helmet and spat on the damned thing. Fuck these fucking Texans, he thought. They seem to hate our guts, treat us like fucking invaders. And they were so eager to cozy up to the fucking Enclave too.
For thirty years the Texans had played both sides between the NCR and the Enclave, happy to sell and buy to and from both. But over time, common sentiment had increasingly become pro-Enclave, supporting the idea of “re-integration” or annexation into Enclave territory, the “United States” that possessed control of all land east of the Mississippi.
That had been a thing the NCR could never allow. So when Carrera had been elected on an unabashedly pro-Enclave platform, they had worked with elements within the Texan military to carry out a coup. Carrera had been shot on the steps of the Presidential Palace in Austin, hours after her inauguration, and the Texan army had seized control of the capital. Mutiny and popular rebellion had broken out immediately after, and the Lone Star Republic’s new provisional government had called for NCR support. They – and their allies in the Midwestern Brotherhood, along with the Republic of New Canaan – had joined in.
None of which Calhoun really cared about. As far as he was concerned, this whole fucking country could rot as far as he cared. Their previous administration, before Carrera, had even tried to hold a peace conference - humoured by both sides more to impress the Texans than anything else - that had immediately turned into a mass fucking brawl. Between the herds of vicious hogs with bulletproof hides and horns that could pierce combat armour, these people’s fucking accents, and the sheer distance from home, he was far past the point of caring.
Just do your patrols, day by day, he mused. Maybe light up some fucking Enclave-supporting morons, then go back home to base.
He put his helmet back on and gripped his weapon tightly – a Gun Runner made Laser RCW, the rapid-fire energy weapon was the main gun of the Power Armor Corps. The NCR Rangers might crow about their victories – the Legion and Brotherhood wars, the battle of Navarro, the recovery of the North Pacific Squadron – but they were decidedly bit players these days compared to the PA Corps.
Okay, patrol. Keep your eyes fucking peeled-
Even through his armour, the sound hit him, the high-pitched whine of a firing electromagnetic rifle mingled with the hammerblows of high-velocity kinetic impacts in rapid succession. Five men of his squad lay dead – armour pierced in multiple locations, blood and brains and viscera spread out across the dusty tarmac – and the source of the attack unknown. He knew what it was instantly of course – a gauss minigun. Judging by the lack of further fire, even that short burst had drained these rebels’ ammo supplies enough to render it ineffective. He could see the building they were using as a strongpoint – a low rise apartment building, across the street from the one with the mural.
“Secure that location!” he ordered plainly. “I want every fucking Enclave man in that building dead!”
He then shouted the NCR’s traditional battlecry against the Enclave, first used during the final charge at Navarro 81 years ago.
“Remember Arroyo!”
Closest I’ve ever been was some girl from there I fucked the day before my draft papers came up, he thought bitterly.
A heavy weapons team supported the push, launching missiles and grenades against the largely-abandoned building to smoke out the occupying gang of rebels. But they seemed to have already vacated the premises – was this really nothing more than a strike of opportunity?
Too late he heard the whistle of a shell and saw his doom approaching – the sound of a Fat Man atomic cannon. One of his men instinctively jumped in front of him but the effort was futile. The mini-nuke detonated, filling the street with atomic fire, cooking him and three other NCR soldiers inside the scorched remains of his armour.
Amid frantic cries and calls to retreat, the war for San Antonio and all of Texas went on.
-*-
Colonel James Mitchell, of the NCR Army’s 3rd Power-Armored Infantry Regiment – the “Eagle Hunters” – spat on the ground as another round of shells went off near his command post, far away enough that shrapnel was no risk. These days he had gotten used to the sound of shells and energy beams flying through the air.
“Ambush on East Market Street,” he heard over the radio from the commander of 2nd platoon 4th company. “Rebel forces have a high supply of heavy weapons, we’ve been forced to fall back. Sending coordinates to your pip-boy.”
He looked at the Pip-boy 2000 attached to his belt and checked over the numbers, before leaning over and speaking into its integrated radio. He ordered a barrage at the co-ordinates designated and sighed at the futility. By the time it took the guns to track, the pro-Enclave insurgents would most likely have gotten away.
Power armor was a terror to any force that encountered it … not only on the offence, but on the defence. To pry out a properly dug-in force of power-armoured infantry as he was facing here was a nightmare, as the battles of Navarro and Helios One had shown in the previous century. At least the NCR had its own power-armoured troops these days, loyal to it and not the Brotherhood.
The NCR and loyalist Texan forces had been besieging San Antonio for the better part of a year, and had only managed to drag the Enclave supporters into the city centre. Once then, it might have been thought that it was easy … but they’d underestimated the tenacity of the Enclave sympathisers. Forcefield barricades blocked every street, smuggled in during the early weeks of the civil war. Coupled with a laser air defence system also in their possession and the fact that many of them were formerly Lone Star military, the enemy had held out strong.
Every tall building was a nest for snipers and a firing point for artillery. The network of tunnels and bunkers the enemy had dug merged with the city sewers and subway network, allowing raiding parties to strike deep into loyalist-held areas. Fort Sam Houston, a pre-War military site until recently occupied by the Lone Star Republic’s army, was also another tough nut to crack. Thankfully a mutiny at the nearby airbase at the beginning of the uprising had been stamped out, or the NCR would have been unable to do even this containment.
As it was, the situation in the Lone Star Republic’s other major cities was scarcely any better. Dallas and Fort Worth were both divided into loyalist and insurgent-controlled areas, and even a district of Austin was under firm insurgent control. Oklahoma City and Tulsa had formed a connected block that resisted Brotherhood attempts to cut them apart, and they still controlled many military bases and large areas of the countryside.
As it was, Mitchell believed it would take another year – or even two – before the NCR, Lone Star government, and Brotherhood fully suppressed the pro-Enclave movement and took San Antonio.
==*==
14:00, May 18 2331
Patriot Park, Virginia
“So, your mind’s made up?”
Arlene Autumn asked her question to her boyfriend as they walked through the attraction. “Little America”, the area of the park – located halfway between Washington DC and Annapolis – that wasn’t dedicated to honouring the United States Military by means of various exhibits, rides, shows and video-game arcades, was quite peaceful in comparison. A lazily winding path took visitors past scale models of America’s natural and man-made wonders, state by state and commonwealth by commonwealth. Under the shade of precisely-planted trees, there were various snack bars, washrooms, and drink vendors on the way.
All in all, a perfect place for a weekend date.
“Yes,” he answered. “We’ll go to the recruitment centre together. July 4 sounds right, yeah?”
She sat down on a bench next to him and looked at the model in front of her. It was of Kennedy Spaceport – the headquarters of the USSA or United States Space Administration – with an included model of the Astraea Mk. 6, the spaceplane that had touched down on Mars and brought humans to the red planet for the first time five years ago. First into space, she thought, first to the moon, and first to Mars. That’s one of the things we can truly be proud of as a country.
Of course, the space program had been on the backfoot since then. Apart from the purely practical elements of rebuilding the network of spy and GPS satellites and ferrying Helium-3 from the Moon to Earth, the USSA’s small fleet of single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes saw little use.
“Are you worried about something?”
She could see it on his face, no matter how much George tried to hide it.
“I mean – it’s just … I don’t know, we’ll be apart for our tour of duty, for years. I’m scared ...”
He didn’t voice his fear, but Arlene knew what it was.
“I’m no share crop,” she said in an uneven tone, anxiously fiddling with her ponytail. “And I know you’re not the type of guy to break a girl’s heart like that. We’ll work it out … and once it’s over, we’ll still have the rest of our lives.”
==*==
10:00, June 15 2329
Washington DC, USA
Walker Residence
“Can you imagine the scale of the mistake you’re about to make?!”
George Walker looked at his father, Davis, with an intense glare as he continued to speak. The TV was still on in the living room, the announcer for Federal News Network breathlessly going over the latest battles of the civil war in Texas and the struggle by pro-American freedom fighters to depose the rebel-backed military government.
“I support the troops as much as anybody, but do you really imagine you’re going to be a hero on the battlefield? There hasn’t been a major campaign since the one against Ronto, and by the time you finish Basic I swear on my life the situation in Texas will be done with. It’ll be over by Christmas if we send in the troops, and I heard talk that it’s gonna happen soon. You really wanna spend four years of your life sitting around on an army base doing push-ups and firing a laser rifle at targets propped up in a shooting gallery?”
“I made a promise to my girlfriend and her father, and I’m gonna stick to it.”
George heard his father sigh.
“My father was a special forces man … the very best. He never had time for me or my brother when we grew up … that’s why I never joined. I wanted to be there for you. After that, don’t you want to be there for me?”
George didn’t answer. He could understand his father’s appeal, but he had made his choice already.
His mother – just turned forty-two last week – opened up with her own arguments. While she didn’t seem to believe his father’s claims, evidently she had her own reasons for not wanting him to join up.
“George … you’re my only child, and the only one I’ll ever have. Can you imagine my heartbreak if the rebels kill you?”
He looked down, a bit ashamed of himself, until he realised.
“So, if I’m never going to see action because the war will be over by the time I get to the field, won’t there be very little risk of me being hurt?”
Both of his parents shrugged and gave up. They seemed to admit his mind was made up.
“Alright,” George’s father said. “Have it your way.”
“I’ll make both of you proud, I promise.”
==*==
18:00, July 4 2331
Washington DC, USA
The White House
Nate Wahington, President of the United States of America, rested his elbow on the Resolute Desk. Soon, he’d be making the biggest roll of the dice he ever had as a commander. The very fate of the continent would be decided in a matter of months. The days of his youth – when he had fought in the Sino-American War, helped reintegrate Boston, liberated eastern Canada – were distant memories now. From Captain to General to Secretary of War to Senator to President … it had been a long ride. And now … before he died, he wanted to see all America restored to her former glory, just the way it had been in his youth.
It was inevitable at any rate – peace, as the Texans had attempted to negotiate during the Travis Administration, was a fantasy. The final war couldn’t be delayed any longer – skirmishes in the no-man’s-land which covered most of Iowa, Minnesota and Missouri had been happening more often and getting bigger, a key sign that the Brotherhood-NCR alliance intended to strike the first blow.
And the sooner it happened, the smaller and less devastating it could be. There had been enough delay– 40 years of building strength was surely enough for the USA to finally commit to victory.
As he was musing over these thoughts, the door opened and he saw the Commandant of the Secret Service – General Stevens – walk on through. He was tall and bulky, with the physique of a star athlete despite his desk job – FEV enhancement, Nate knew. The man was a special forces veteran, and all US specops troops went through that procedure these days.
“Mr. President,” he said plainly. “Your grandson – George Michael Walker – has just applied to join the United States Armed Forces.”
George, he thought. Good kid. His grandson through his first daughter, the boy was quick-witted and good-natured. That he would follow his path in life was, he felt, a good sign.
“Along with a descendant of President Augustus Autumn,” he said. “Same day, same time. And you know the two are lovebirds. Should I take the necessary steps to keep them out of harm’s way?”
“I didn’t ask for special treatment for Elliott,” Nate replied. “And even though he was already in when I was inaugurated, the same applies for any other children or grandchildren of mine who want to serve. Besides, the Secret Service has better things to do than babysit – your role in Operation Lightning Hammer, for one.”
“Understood, Mr. President. General Alexander Autumn said much the same,” Stevens replied, and left.
If George had joined up just now, he would be in the initial liberation of Texas, due to start four months from now.
That thought … it worried him and it made him proud in equal measures. Maybe Stevens was right, he mused. Maybe I should have him kept safe behind the lines.
But it was a passing thought, and quickly silenced. He had developed an instinct for these things, and he had the feeling the boy would do just fine.
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