Chapter Twelve
16:00 PST, 24 November 2331
New Vegas, NCR State of Mojave
Robert Edwin House was alone, as he usually was. His body remained entombed within its pod as it had for hundreds of years but his mind flowed out along fiber-optic cables into supercomputer systems incorporated into the totality of the Lucky 38 casino and from there into the electronics of Vegas and the wireless comm-net of his Securitron forces. A thousand thousand images flooded into his mind every second via his drones, security cameras and robots all at once. Though he couldn’t make out many of them – requiring deliberate focus to sift the wheat from the chaff – he still possessed an incredible amount of knowledge. Knowledge that could easily be turned into power.
He held unquestioned economic dominance over the NCR State of Mojave, controlling both the casinos and the State’s electronics industry, which produced many of the NCR’s computers and pip-boys. From that flowed his political power – he was de facto ruler of the State, an autocrat unfettered by the de jure government. The Senators and Governors elected from time to time were either selected by him behind the scenes or forced to acquiesce to his wishes to remain in “power”. In the state of Mojave, the house always won. Sadly, he had not been able to get further from there. The wider NCR remained stubbornly opaque to him. He had been able to be a critical swing vote in their Congress from time to time, but other than that he was distrusted and ignored.
He was reminded of his relationship in centuries past with the American government. He had pressured them heavily to install laser defence grids of his design across the country to protect the country’s major cities and critical locations. They had told him no – that it would be a waste of time and money, when they already had their laser defence satellites in orbit. And so he had built his own proof-of-concept for Las Vegas. His combination of remote hacking and superheavy AA lasers had taken out 68 out of 77 missiles aimed for the city, and would have eliminated them all if not for the delay in the arrival of his Platinum chip. At least the NCR had later enacted his defence plans, without the remote hacking, and had been eager to acquire his securitrons for their military. They seemed far less interested in his attempts to get them to consider restarting space travel.
He had known of the pre-War continuity of government plans from his sources in the US Senate. The oil rig that would serve as shelter for the top levels of the Executive Branch and select members of Congress, the bunkers across America … and the robot army that had been planned to emerge from Cheyenne Mountain 30 years after the War to restore order. It had never been released, so far as he knew. Their plans obviously having failed, he had chosen not to make contact with them after his awakening in 2131. In 2245 word had reached him that they had come to a bad end – then in 2281 he had been forced to surrender to the NCR. In 2288, he had learned that the United States persisted. But to declare against the NCR at this point – in the heart of their territory – was suicide. Furthermore, while he was aware many of the rumours surrounding the US Government’s behaviour in recent years had no basis in fact, he was also well aware that they would view his recent behaviour as treasonous.
No matter who gained victory in the military confrontation, he had to ensure that they viewed him as indispensable.
And also … he was weary of life. For so long he had been caught up in here, skin leathery and mummified, a dozen tubes piercing his emaciated body to carry out functions it could no longer perform. There was little company here too – either the PR AI he had coded up, or the electronic ghosts of his dead lovers inhabiting securitrons. The courier had stopped visiting some years ago, and he communicated only electronically with any others. Part of him longed to feel the breeze on his skin, to taste good food and fine wine, to enjoy the passions of the body once more. But he knew that part could never have what it desired.
So here it was. The supreme irony – the self-proclaimed “Architect of Destiny” was helpless, caught up in larger events. He raged against it, but he could not escape that reality, just as he would never leave his life-support chamber. For all his calculations, events were moving beyond his ability to control, just like in the pre-War era. At least for now ...
--*--
James Russell turned off his Pip-Boy, cutting off the song as he worked in the yard of his house near Goodsprings, the sun setting below the mountains contrasting with the lights of Vegas. It was a recent piece – though made well before the war had started – that made fun of the Enclave’s pretensions in a jaunty black-comedy style. The war had made it less funny and more threatening. The Enclave’s effective complete conquest of eastern and southern Texas in a matter of mere weeks had terrified Shady Sands. But there were details that worried him. The power-armoured armies they had deployed were far higher than estimations of the number of Enclave “pure humans” - were they using clones or androids? And there was the way so many Texans had fought against the NCR in the eastern regions, even partied in the streets when they heard their President say there was a coming invasion … it was bizarre, along the way they had made no attempt at another FEV genocide for nigh on 50 years. Something was not adding up.
At any rate, both his grandsons had joined up to fight for the NCR, and were still sending letters regularly. That was their choice, he mused. And I’ve made mine.
He would act in the defence of Goodsprings if it was in danger, but while the war was still being waged a thousand miles away he would not seek to take part in it.
But though part of him wanted to see the Enclave for himself, another part did not want to stick his neck out. Haven't I earned my rest, he thought. The adventures he had undergone – first as a courier pivotal to the fate of the Mojave, then as a civilian agent for the NCR – and the cybernetic implants that were now part of him had changed him. He could expect fifty more years – at the age of 73 – and they would be spent in vigour and health, not feeblemindness and decrepitude. Though his skin was tanned and wiry and his hair was silver, he was prepared for many more years of life. And as the sum of those years approaches, he mused, I might well sign up for that procedure at Big Mountain. But then … part of me wants to see them all again. Wants to see Sarah again.
Just out of the corner of his eye, he saw a visitor. Very odd, he thought. Haven’t really got any since Sunny died three years ago. Apart from useless, meddling reporters wanting to get my opinion on every issue under the Sun.
He noticed as he got closer that the visitor wasn’t walking. It was rolling along in the motion particular to Securitrons.
He blinked as it approached. It was Victor, fresh as the day he’d met him after being shot in the head by Benny. Right down to the cartoon cowboy head in his TV-screen face.
“Howdy, there, pardner!” the robot replied in its faux-cowboy accent. “Don’t you recognise your ol’ pal?”
“I know, Victor,” Russell said. “I would never forget the one who saved my life. What does Mr. House want from me?”
“You’re still lookin’ fit as a fiddle. So, saddle up. Ready to ride one last rodeo?”
==*==
03:00 EST, 27 November 2331
White House Situation Room, Washington DC
The underground areas of the White House were a gloomy mirror to the mansion aboveground. Their steel and concrete construction lit by harsh blue and orange lights made them resemble the military base at Raven Rock – formerly the US Government’s headquarters, now a fortress and staging point against any attack on DC that might be placed from the north. Under the East Wing, there was a barracks and arsenal for the 300 or so Secret Service men – from its 1st Regiment, grimly nicknamed “Lincoln” – who were sworn to the direct defence of the President and his domicile at any time of the day.
There was also a small hospital and emergency room, with on-site apartments for the best-paid doctors in the USA and a sizeable stockpile of medical equipment – synthblood, biomed gel, Panacea, a Mr. Orderly robot and the sarcophagus-like AutoDoc Mk. XII. In the centre, between the West and East Wings, was a connection to the Presidential Metro – an exclusive AI-controlled maglev high-velocity trainline that could take the President and his entourage from the White House to Adams AFB, the Pentagon, Capitol Hill or his estate at Laurel Lodge in less than 30 minutes. There was also a tunnel leading to a secret hangar concealed under the White House lawn, where sat the Presidential Vertibird, Marine One. And beneath the West Wing was the Situation Room and attendant functions.
The room was brightly lit by cool blue ceiling lamps as Nate sat in his chair at the head of the long metal table. There were enough seats for a full Cabinet session, and in the table were set a multitude of computer screens and holographic projectors linked to the White House databanks. In front of him stood a map of the world, the known nations that existed on it marked out. The chair itself was leather-backed and built with incorporated sensors and variable-geometry components that enabled it to reconfigure itself to provide maximum comfort to whoever was sitting on it. He was glad of it – the days of his youth being long past.
He took a moment with his hand, readjusting his comb-over as his cabinet members and advisors, along with the Joint Chiefs entered the room. They took their appointed seats, and the meeting.
“So,” he said. “The expected enemy attack took place a few days ago. We have reports from all along the Mississippi of sophisticated enemy attacks, overwhelming our defences along the river. While most of our units have been able to make a fighting retreat, the garrisons at Davenport and St. Louis are besieged. Our boys out there are fighting and dying while we make the decisions that determine whether America lives or dies.”
“An immediate nuclear strike is within the range of possibility-” General Massey, Air Force Chief of Staff, stated.
“No!” Nate blurted out, shocked by his own emotion. Images flashed through his mind of the mushroom cloud rising over Boston so many years ago, before he calmed himself. “While I will use nuclear weapons if necessary – that, is, if they approach the Appalachian Perimeter – I will not run the risk of using nuclear weapons so close to our own forces. Besides, our intelligence is … lacking on precise numbers and dispositions.”
“I know,” Martha Fairchild, the CIA Director, said. She was an uncannily tall and slender woman at five feet ten, a product of a childhood spent on the Lunar base ELECT. That last remnant of the pre-War continuity plans, on the dark side of the moon, had been re-contacted just as its life-support systems were about to fail. Frantic evacuation had saved the people there, and the abandoned ruins were mute testimony to the harshness of life in space. There had been some talk of repurposing the old facility as an additional base for Helium-3 extraction or other regolith exploitation, but nothing had come of it yet. “Satellite and aerial capability is low due to the weather, our colleagues in the NSA are still trying to crack the enemy codes, and our Special Recon division has its own limitations."
She continued.
“We estimate potentially up to 800,000.”
“They wouldn’t have the logistical capability to supply that many troops. Especially in these weather conditions,” General Hansen, Army Chief of Staff, stated.
“If they take AFB O’Hare – which seems to be their likely target – they have the potential to do that.”
The statement from the CIA director’s lips was chilling. AFB O’Hare was a major logistics hub … and if the enemy took it, to destroy it in retaliation would also cripple US logistical capability in the region. But it was clear that this was the main enemy attack intended to cripple the United States’ warfighting capability, if not destroy it outright. Such measures might have to be made.
“I am going to give one order to all of you today, which you will communicate to General McDowell of Midwestern Command.”
Nate rose to continue his speech, as a strange resolve seemed to harden in him like steel. He felt younger again momentarily.
“No matter what, I will not allow any American city to fall into enemy hands. I will not have the centres of our civic life violated by these feudal technophiles and murderous rebels. Chicago and the Air Force Base to the east of it will hold.”
Secretary of State James H. Davison spoke up.
“Mr. President,” he said. “Do you intend to have Article Eight enacted?”
“Yes. I want the British and German governments to know by twelve-hundred hours that we have called for military assistance in the reclamation of our national territory and the defence of our way of life.”
America had assisted those nations several times in the past decades, but it was still an open question to what extent they would be able to assist her in turn. But they would certainly try – not only because of their agreement to the Windsor Treaty, but broader factors.
Even if the hydraulic fracturing they’re doing in Southeast England gives oil a new lease on life, Nate mused. Our defeat would also mean economic collapse for our European allies – they just don’t have the industrial capacity we have, or the ability to make many of the products we sell them. They stand or fall by us.
The chief diplomat nodded, then Nate turned to the Secretary for Public Information, Mrs. Patricia Nichols.
“How’s the recruitment drive going?”
“I’ve conferred with the Department of War, and they estimate that we only have a third of the recruitment numbers we were hoping for, Mr. President," Nichols replied, running a hand nervously through her honey-coloured hair.
“Why?”
“The war just isn’t real to people. It’s something that’s happening far away. Just like our interventions in France, Germany, and the Caribbean. It just seems to be a bigger version of those.”
“Well, that should change fast.”
“That could be too late to have another choice than to deploy nuclear weapons on American soil. Which itself will spark anti-war sentiment.”
“I want you to put more effort into your recruitment campaign. Furthermore, I’ll be contacting Congress to amend the DPI’s budget further towards pro-military objectives.”
“Understood, Mr. President.”
“Now, as to the military situation-” McCain, the Secretary of War, began. He did not get to finish his sentence.
“Rest assured I have that well in hand,” Nate said. “Redeployment of US Marine Corps and Army forces from Texas to Midwestern Command has been ordered. In the interim, the National Guard units of the States part of the Atlantic, Great Lakes, New England and Canadian Commonwealths have all been called, Federalised, and placed under Midwestern Command, while those of the Southeast and Gulf Coast who will replace regular military forces in Texas have also been called up. In addition, 80% of all US Air Force units under Southeastern Command are now under Midwestern Command and will be redeployed to air-bases in the region. Finally, we have 60,000 fresh troops from the reserves and new recruitment being called up.”
“How many does Midwestern Command have available right now?”
“In the field, not under siege? One corps of US Army soldiers, and 50,000 National Guard.”
“80,000 against ten times that number,” McCain said. “Not good odds.”
“Enemy forces seem to be divided into numerous smaller formations,” Fairchild stated. “And we estimate they’ll only be able to deploy a quarter or a third of their full strength against us at Chicago. So long as St. Louis holds, their southern forces will be tied up in keeping it under siege. In addition, their basic infantry are qualitatively inferior even to the National Guard.”
“So we have a chance,” McCain replied.
“Yes,” Nate concurred. “If we can keep their main thrust from taking Chicago we can defeat them in the field and push them out of our territory. If not, we face a longer campaign and the possibility of drastic measures. While the weather is likely to weaken our strongest advantage – that being our air power – it will also delay their forces and give us more time to call up our own. Winter warfare inherently favours the defender – that was the lesson of Finland, Barbarossa and Alaska.”
“So, about funding the war, Mr. President?” Vincent K. Rutledge, Secretary of Commerce, asked.
“Rest assured, that’s taken care of as well. I’ve called upon Congress to raise taxes – even the ALP hardliners are willing to do so in a time of national danger – expanded war bonds programs, and have begun privatising non-essential sectors of government. For instance, I’m looking to cut down the USSA into an organisation focussed primarily on theoretical science and auction off many of its assets. You’d be surprised how many takers there are.”
He sighed. “We may still have to run a deficit for the next few years.”
That was the end of the substantive portion of the meeting.
==*==
12:30 CST, 27 November 2331
Whitman AFB, Houston, Texas
Arlene Autumn took a drink of a nuka-cola she had gotten from the vending machine and cut into her lunch, looking at the portrait of the base’s namesake – one of the few Navarro veterans who had escaped from the NCR attempts to mercilessly hunt down all US personnel in its territory, and whose skills at piloting a vertibird had proven indispensable to her group of survivor’s re-contacting the USA - on the wall near her.
Arlene had met her score of disdain from members of the other branches she’d encountered, but while the “Chair Force” might spend the majority of their time away from the field, they ran the highest risk of death. If a soldier got shot – even by a plasma bolt – a medic could save his life, if the wound wasn’t anywhere vital and he had enough time to work. If her plane got hit and the ejector failed, they probably wouldn’t be able to identify her body.
“Your man a good kisser?” the woman at the other side of the table said, adjusting her dark hair. Catherine “Cathy” Dawson was Arlene’s wingmate and had quickly proven a firm friend.
Arlene nodded, not wanting to speak while her mouth was full.
“You’re lucky. Mine is so sloppy I worry I’ll end up completely covered in drool by the time he’s done.”
“Maybe we can have a double date if we get the chance. My man can sure show yours how to treat a lady.”
A flicker of worry hit her at that moment. She could see the thin pale lines on the other woman’s face that were also on hers, though more visible on Cathy due to her darker skin tone. A remnant of the micro-surgeries, carried out by robotic instruments in the darkness of the auto-doc sarcophagus, that had installed cybernetic implants which had increased her reflexes; and also improved her eyesight, hearing and sense of balance. Would George notice them when they met again? If they met again, another part of her mind corrected.
Just then a loud voice rang out over the PA system.
“ALL MEMBERS OF AIR WINGS 320, 457. 348, 920, 221, 783. YOU ARE TO PREPARE FOR IMMEDIATE REDEPLOYMENT AS SOON AS THE MID-DAY MEAL IS OVER. YOU ARE NOW UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF MIDWESTERN MILITARY COMMAND. YOU WILL RECEIVE FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS WHEN THE MID-DAY MEAL IS OVER.”
She gulped. In twenty-five minutes she would be frantically packing her bags and then loading them into a transport vertibird before taking off. She knew what such a sudden move indicated. High Command were worried about the enemy invasion to the north. But then, she reminded herself, it would be foolish to assume she could sit around at base while the nation’s industrial heartland was under threat.
==*==
21:00 EST, 28 November 2331
Camp Lookout Prisoner Camp, Maryland, Columbia Commonwealth
Like most of the NCR personnel captured in Texas, Donald Taylor was anxious. He had just spent the better part of a day digging holes in the earth and filling them in again – a pointless task, but at least their Enclave captors had provided them with warm-weather clothing. He remembered bitterly the day he had arrived here, one of many of his unit who had broken when the Enclave’s elite troops had smashed into them from all directions. On arrival, their doctors had gone from soldier to soldier, taking blood tests – some of those who received them later received injections which, mercifully, only gave them a mild fever in some cases – the others received no symptoms. They had recieved plain bands of silvery metal locked round their ankles and wrists - if they left beyond a certain radius of the transmitter or tried to mess with the lock, their bonds would cause agonising pain by direct nerve induction, enough to leave them helpless and incapable of causing permanent damage.
Then they had interrogated him, one-on-one. At first it was the typical – name, serial number, but then it had gotten personal. They had asked for his date of birth.
“Why?!” he had demanded.
“So you can be properly registered as an American citizen,” his interrogator had coolly answered, trying on an affable act. He had never learned the man’s name.
“I’m not one of your ‘citizens’,” he’d said. “I’m NCR.”
“You were born on territory owned by the United States, to parents who were themselves descended from US citizens. What does that make you?”
“The United States ceased to exist when the Chinese nuked it. You Enclave can call yourselves that, but that doesn’t-”
“On the contrary, the United States has continued to exist without interruption from the moment the last signer lifted his pen from the Declaration of Independence right to this very second. Now, we’re well aware that large areas of the nation fell into complete anarchy, and that State and Commonwealth governments ceased to exist. But the Federal Government survived all the turmoil of those centuries until at last it got the chance to start rebuilding the country.”
“The Enclave was a fucking shadow government in the Old World. You were never legitimate, you just manipulated-”
“What do you call a group that includes the President, his Cabinet, two-thirds of Congress, and the Justices of the Supreme Court? That sounds like the critical elements of the regular government to be preserved through a nuclear war, not a shadowy conspiracy manipulating it. Do they teach civics in the NCR?”
He had never raised his voice, and that was the worst thing about him.
“That just proves the rot ran to the core.”
Taylor remembered the defiance that had rung through his voice as he said those words. But they made no difference to the interrogator.
“You think we don’t know government corruption existed in the pre-War era? Some of the scandals involving Vault-Tec and Repconn ... a few incidents were almost as bad as the cases that hit your own papers. If that makes a government illegitimate ...”
He had been unable to reply to that. Two days later, they had asked him again, and he had answered just to get them to stop.
But still, he’d heard rumours of an NCR attack into Enclave territory – apparently it was pretty big. While imprisonment here may be comfortable – while the food may be filling if tasteless, and the barracks may be centrally heated and lighted for two hours every evening – he hoped beyond all hope that his brothers-in-arms reached him soon.
He looked beyond the window – past the electrified barbed wire, the lasers and beyond that the roaming Mr. Gutsies – and hoped.
==*==
13:00 CST, 30 November 2331
Western Illinois
General Lance Robertson looked at Sentinel Brandt with an annoyed expression as they stood across from each other in his command tent. The Brotherhood commander had failed him five days ago, moving too slowly to encircle a group of Enclave light troops. Almost all of them – 15,000 in total – had managed to escape and link up with a larger body of Enclave forces.
“The weather delayed us,” Brandt explained. “All my men concur that the snowstorm was what made us lose track of them and delayed us to allow their escape.”
“And my soldiers have repeatedly made allegations that your men have purposely wasted time in the aftermath of engagements with the enemy collecting every piece of enemy bric-a-brac they can get their hands on. Allowing them to retreat and fight another day and kill my soldiers so you can gain access to tech.”
“The Brotherhood’s main objective has always been the study and safekeeping of advanced technology. It’s as important to us as fighting the Enclave. If I were to deny that to the Elders and Scribes in Brotherhood territory, they would replace me with one who would. At least I haven’t burdened us with civilians who know nothing of military action.”
He pointed to two men – one dark-haired, one light-haired – arguing over some triviality or other at the entrance to the tent, dressed in heavy winter clothing.
“Bill Weston and Jesse McLean are the California Times’ two top journalists. Unlike your own, the Californian public wants to know how the war is going, and it wants hard evidence of Enclave atrocities – the more lurid the better. I could never understand their taste for the latter, but it is what it is.”
“And so far all they’ve encountered of the locals are farmers who shot at them the moment they saw them. Not much success on the latter front.”
The dark haired journalist – McLean – turned from the argument and towards the two commanding officers.
“When we take a major Enclave ‘town’, we’ll all have full confirmation of what Intelligence has been telling us. We’ll certainly have our scoop then.”
==*==
15:00, 31 November 2331
AFB O’Hare, Illinois, Great Lakes Commonwealth
General James McDowell looked at his subordinate with a grim expression. Lt. General Julius Chase, from an old military family – that of the celebrated Liberator of Anchorage – and not even 35. While no proof could be found that his career path had been smoothed for him, it was something McDowell – older than him by two decades – had always suspected. McDowell’s origin could not have been more different – his father a welder and his mother an elementary-school teacher, he had joined the military to make something of himself. And above all, he was certain that he had worked for his position.
“I’ve run the math again,” Chase said. “Going by their current rate of advance, enemy forces will hit Chicago in two or three weeks. That gives us time to wait for reinforcements. Are you sure of this strategy? In one week the National Guard of Indiana will arrive in two, those of Ohio, Michigan and the Canadian States. That equals 200,000 fresh soldiers. And by the end of the month, the forces of Central Command will arrive along with reserves from other parts of the nation. Are you sure you intend to risk our limited forces in a counter-attack right now, Sir?”
“If we let them march unopposed to AFB O’Hare and they take it, we’re talking about a military disaster this country has never faced before. Davenport is also barely holding out, even with the majority of the war robots assigned to Midwestern Command. If we win a victory over the enemy and blunt their forward thrust, we can perhaps put some pressure off them.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Good. You will be in command of O’Hare AFB when I go out to intercept the rebels west of Rockford in a week’s time. Enjoy greeting the National Guard if they arrive in time.”
Chase nodded, though McDowell could tell he thought he was being deliberately slighted.
“Yes, Sir.”
==*==
15:00 CST, 1 December 2331
“Why come you murd’rous secesh,
Your minds what madness fills,
In our woodlands there is danger,
And there’s danger in our hills
Oh you who see not the swooping eagle wild and free,
Full soon you’ll know the ringing of the rifle from the tree!”
Casey Harris sang the words of the song, a re-working of a ballad from the time of the Revolutionary War, as he saw the others approach. When the rebels had swept over this region in their invasion, they had tended to avoid the towns – Harris guessed they wanted to move quickly. Well, what they overlooked would be there undoing.
As a member of the County Police, there was another role that he had the responsibility to do in times of enemy invasion. With martial law activated, so was that other role, the one he had wondered if he would ever have to fulfill. He could see the others approach – members of the County police and fire departments like him.
He continued singing as he kept walking. He had a good voice, though he had never considered applying it professionally (but it was featured in a gospel album his local congregation had produced).
“...When you meet our country boys and their rifles long and stark,
Them that make but little noise, them that always hit the mark!”
He took out a spade from his backpack and dug up a large metal box, which required several men to pull out from the earth. With a key around his belt, it was easily unlocked. There were several rifles inside – old single-shot plasma rifles of the Repconn type – along with plenty of ammunition for them. Another box right by it was filled with pre-War combat armour – yet another with food, another with medical supplies and finally one with various explosives.
Casey smiled a touch. The rebels had dropped leaflets over his town after they’d moved by, urging its people to rise up against the supposedly tyrannical and illegitimate US government. All that had come of it was the local bum getting some fresh toilet paper.
Soon they would learn what the US’ population really thought of them.
