The beast is slain! Hurrah!
==*==
Chapter Twenty-Six
19:00 AST, February 12 2332
Off The Coast of Guiana
A seagull’s cry split the air as the descending sun touched down in the tropical sea. The brilliant rays of the sunset seemed to set the water on fire, turning it an intense red-gold colour that shimmered iridescently in the last light of day. On the other side of the sky the rising moon was visible, a brilliant silver sickle against the darkening sky. A faint star or two could be seen on that background of blue fading to velvet-black, unhindered by cloud or storm. Below the waves, Captain Jack Jeffries could appreciate none of this – only the hum of his craft’s reactor and the inky blackness beyond the porthole of his craft.
The submarine NCS Chief Hanlon was a cramped vessel at the best of times. Off the coast of Gan Colombia, near what had once been named Guiana on pre-War maps, thousands of miles away from the NCR and her home port of Dayglow, Jeffries could not hide his discomfort as he paced about the cramped bridge of his ship. The subs were so far away from home that if they were in the Pacific they would be out past the NCR’s westernmost outpost on Hawaii, half-way or more to Australia. The salient-green packed rations – tasteless but nutritious – gave them 120 days of food, which marked sufficient time to raid for a hundred days, then resupply and put on more torpedoes and food at the Altagracia Naval Station.
The facility lacked true submarine pens, but sufficient facilities to take on fresh supply. In addition, the Ranger Seth-class submarines had a triple-stealth configuration – radar stealth through their angular shapes, sonar stealth through the materials of their hulls, and last but certainly not least visual stealth through large-scale photonic distortion generators which bent light around the craft.
Jeffries kept an eye out for contacts as his crew looked them over. Every vessel sailing towards Enclave waters had been marked out by Naval Command as a potential target, save for those carrying the flags of Gran Colombia, France or Nueva-Maya. If they weren’t funnelling troops toward the Enclave they were funnelling resources and civilian workers. The NCR wouldn’t be able to stop every ship, he knew – but every ship that didn’t reach their waters was one less that would be of use to them.
The sonar pinged. Enemy sighted. The returns were coming already – a ship. Not the hull configuration of a warship. A cargo ship. Jeffries gave the order for the periscope to be raised – the officer on duty did so and gave his report, as the sun vanished beneath the horizon. A Brazilian-flagged ship, steam-powered, steel-clad. It had been a surprise to the NCR, and some still found it hard to believe, that the nations of South America and Europe were so eager to trade with the Enclave – with the regime that had come within a hair’s breadth of exterminating them all. The Enclave’s lies and fabrications must have been overwhelmingly effective. The people of New Arroyo had a map displayed in their city of the countries that were collaborating with the Enclave, labelled “TRAITORS TO HUMANITY”. Typical northern mindset, he guessed. Arroyo would never forget or forgive, even after the death of their “Chosen One”, Senator Mingan, three decades ago. It just wasn’t in their nature. For his part, Jeffries didn’t care so much. The Enclave were enemies of the NCR, and that meant it was part of his job description to take them out.
These poor – misguided or deluded – souls simply constituted part of the enemy war effort, and while he didn’t like to do so, he’d sure treat them that way. He gave the order, a somewhat regretful look on his face, to fire one torpedo – this cargo ship was small enough that a full spread would just be wasting munitions, and he didn’t want to be forced to return early.
The underwater missile burst out from the bow of the attack submarine like an arrow from a drawn-out bow, slicing through the water as it hammered home towards its target. The ship, without an actual sonar device and with her lookouts focussed on a nearby reef, was unaware of the threat until it was too late to maneuver. The torpedo struck dead-centre below the waterline, exploding on proximity. Its shaped charge sent a bolt of molten metal straight forward, piercing both sides of the enemy ship. Unable to handle the strain, the tortured metal of the craft groaned and screamed in agony as it buckled under the pressure. With a final pained cry and a mighty crack, the vessel’s hull gave way and she split straight in two.
Her crewmen rushed to the lifeboats, but at such short notice they had barely any time to escape. Both halves of the SS Sao Paulo rose high into the air, outlined brilliantly by the silver moonlight, before crashing into the freezing waves; of a crew of a hundred and fifty, only twenty would make it safe to shore, drifting through the darkness in the lifeboats that had managed to get away.
Captain Jeffries, for his part, had already left. There was more prey yet to be found.
==*==
10:00 EST, February 15 2332
Chesapeake Bay
Three ships of war sailed into Chesapeake Bay under the frosty sky, sun half-hidden by winter clouds, in stately procession, two smaller ships flanking a great battleship almost twice their length. Their escort was a matter of pomp and circumstance more than real military concern – it would not do for them to come in on their own, ignored and unwelcomed. So it was that USS New England, in prestige second only to her older sister, the flagship of the American navy USS Columbia, had come in to escort the heavy cruisers HMS Kent and SMS Von Mackensen into the harbour of Norfolk Naval Station. Crown Prince Friedrich August Von Hohenzollern, heir to a dynasty more than a thousand years old and an Empire less than a century, looked at the fog-covered waters of the port from his transport ship’s bridge as he entered it. The sky was overcast, but he could plainly see a number of ships in harbour – a few civilian vessels, fishers and cargo ships mainly. Then the small flotilla took a hard left, and Friedrich saw the Atlantic Fleet in port.
There were three battleships – not counting USS Columbia, twelve cruisers, thirty destroyers, and one carrier (the other, he had heard, was seconded to the Caribbean Fleet). The ships went on through the harbour, and Friedrich had a feeling he knew what this was about. The Americans wanted to show off their fleet to him as he entered, to let him know in no uncertain terms who was fundamentally in charge here. Even knowing their goals, he couldn’t help but be overawed. The Royal and Imperial Navies couldn’t build ships three-quarters as large, and certainly not in such numbers.
He wondered what Maudling must be feeling, from a country which still had a lingering pride in the former might of its Royal Navy. By contrast, Germany had never been a great naval power. Now they moved on to ships under construction, teams of men with some robotic assistance welding them painstakingly together with brilliantly bright plasma torches that resembled – tellingly enough – some old plasma rifles he’d been shown as part of the military curriculum he’d studied at West Point. He read the names written on the new carriers – about 400 metres long, greater than the ones currently in service; CVN-120 Augustus Autumn, CVN-121 Ronald Reagan. Then on the battleships; Canada, Dixie, Ontario, Nova Scotia, Hawaii, New Mexico. The ship turned to head to another area of the harbour and as it did so Friedrich took another look at the shipyards - he estimated there were six cruisers, and twice that number of destroyers, under various stages of construction in drydock.
The ship halted at one of the unoccupied piers and Friedrich walked out, a touch unsteadily – his sea legs still weren’t good – followed by two single-file columns of Imperial Army Seetruppen in their stone-grey parade dress, carrying their weapons – laser rifles of the European Commonwealth, designated the Strahlgewehr-101 in the Imperial arsenal. They fired in the orange spectrum, powered by hydrogen-fuel energy cells – less charge than American microfusion, but practicable for German industry to produce.
The British Army troops guarding Maudling, to his left, looked askance at their German counterparts – the conflicts of centuries past were not wholly forgotten. Friedrich looked forward as he led his men on to the meeting place that had been designated – Richardson Square, a place close to the wharf where the great ship bearing that name had been restored so painstakingly in the 2280s. A granite statue of the man stood at its centre, grim-faced and stern, a copy of the memorial to him in Washington. As they walked forward he noticed the sheer amount of cars that were around – he’d heard in America there was now at least one per household, whereas they were still scarce in his own country.
He saw General Autumn waiting beneath the statue, flanked by two soldiers in black American power armour. Secret Service men, he knew. There was also an honour guard of troops with him – men in dark blue dress uniforms, wearing white sashes over their chests, red epaulettes, black leather shakos plumed with three feathers = red, white and blue. The laser rifles they carried in flawless display position had been given wooden furniture, as if these were soldiers from the wars of the 19th and 20th centuries and not of the 24th. They bore a badge of a red sword placed over a white obelisk on a green hill, against a dark blue field – Friedrich thought he had seen it before but couldn’t tell where.
There was a truck outside and a collection of reporters with news equipment, already recording. Friedrich paused for a moment, taking in the sight of his old teacher. The man had aged since they had last met – fifteen years would do that – and seemed overwhelmed. Friedrich had seen that same look on his father’s face many times. It was the awful weight of leadership.
The American commander looked to Friedrich, walked over, and reached out his hand. The German prince eagerly took it and shook. For a moment they were not commander and subordinate, or commoner and nobleman; but just two old friends who were once more meeting each other after a long parting. They exchanged the typical greetings and Autumn shook hands with Maudling before taking the two commanders into a hotel that had evidently been commandeered for a press conference.
==*==
NCR Army Camp Oliver, Texas
00:00 CST, February 19th 2332
Sergeant Fields was finishing his preparation for battle, idly looking around the dimly-lit temporary structure that had served as his home for the past several weeks. NCR posters were on the walls between each bunk, bellowing their warlike slogans. “SMASH THE ENCLAVE EMPIRE” roared one, showing an NCR soldier smashing a concrete E-symbol with the butt of his rifle; “FOR THE FREEDOM OF AMERICA’S PEOPLES” shouted another, with a crowd of children in a sunny field gleefully watching as an NCR soldier used his bayonet to slice open an eagle-shaped pinata, out of which was flying out treats coloured in the flags of Cuba, Jamaica, Texas, Quebec, Canada and other subjugated countries; yet another cried out “THE FACE OF ENCLAVE FASCISM”, showing the Statue of Liberty taking her face off like a mask, to reveal a hideous skull behind it. Fields was not particularly sure what “fascism” was – he’d asked on being told in boot that the Enclave were fascists, but his drill sergeant could only explain that fascism was the sort of thing they got up to, with a tone that made it clear he didn’t want any more questions on the subject.
He strapped on his chestplate and his shoulder protection, and sighed. After the bad business at Chicago and the long bitter retreat after he'd not hoped for his unit to be reassigned to the Texan theatre, but the brass wanted soldiers with real experience already taking on the Enclave to be at the forefront over fresh troops from the Core Region or the outlying defence lines that guarded it. The vast majority of new soldiers he’d met had been from Friedman’s or Robertson’s forces – most of Ortez's men, who’d struck the farthest into Enclave territory, were assigned to the eastern Rocky Mountains, or so Fields had heard. Odd that they’re being sidelined.
With a tired look, he caught the eyes of the men under him, furtively blew a kiss at Cassy, and put on his helmet. It was a Ranger-style helm, designed to completely protect the body from chemical warfare. He put on his gloves last, and took up his rifle. A laser-RCW, it was a weapon that had previously been restricted to the PA Corps – this itself was an improved version that fired green beams. He had vaguely heard that it made them more powerful somehow but wasn't quite sure; at the least, he hoped it would do better against the Enclave than his old laser rifle had.
Alright. It’s time to do this.
-*-
A good distance away, General Maguire of the NCR Army was frantically hoping this plan worked. It was fundamentally, quite simple – the Texan forces would launch due westward towards Dallas and Houston supported by elements of the NCR forces, while the main body of the NCR troops swung south onto San Antonio. Like a closing door slamming shut on the Enclave troops, they’d encircle and destroy their forces in the south of Texas and northern Mexico while the Texans held the flank against their forces in the rest of the country. After that he would focus all effort on marching along the coast and taking New Orleans. Advancing through the Southeast would offer a clearer path to Washington than the northern plan attempted earlier – at least, so he hoped.
He sighed. Command is wearing me down to nothing. The whole plan was touch-and-go – Enclave eyes in the sky, their spy-sats and recon planes, hadn’t been that useful to them the past few weeks due to poor weather conditions. OSI had done a great deal of work as well on figuring out the orbital windows that the spy satellites would pass over Texas, allowing him to organise everything so as to minimise their knowledge of his movements. And, last of all, some new holo-tech from Big MT – that crazy techno-wonderland Maguire had never gone even in his darkest nightmares – would assist the feint by disguising Texan troops as NCR forces and NCR APCs and trucks as tanks, creating the illusion of a massive heavily-armoured NCR formation bearing down towards Dallas. Won’t last long, but it doesn’t need to.
He took a deep breath. He had heard the radio messages – all units were cleared to begin the attack. It was now or never. He gave the order.
"This is General Maguire. All units under my authority are to execute the designated attack plan against Enclave objectives in San Antonio. Over."
-*-
Sergeant Fields ran out of his APC into the outer streets of San Antonio, breathing deeply. He’d been trained to handle the gas mask, but the thing still made it hard to breath. Then he remembered why they’d made it standard equipment, and grimaced. Sometimes he could still see and hear what had happened that awful Christmas just as clear as it was yesterday.
There was an Enclave checkpoint just ahead – a short wall blocking the street, painted desert-tan, with a forcefield set up in its central gate. He could see the fiery glow of the enemy soldiers’ yellow-orange eye-lights even through the deep darkness, and gritted his teeth. They won’t stand a chance now. The APC opened up first with its autocannon, taking out an emplaced gatling laser and moving to suppress the others as the NCR squad – ten men in two teams – advanced under the shield of its covering fire. The roar of the gun almost split his eardrums, but he couldn’t help but find it oddly comforting as it raked the enemy-held ramparts.
Nevertheless, the enemy opened fire back, and Fields’ men met them in turn as they pushed forward, running frantically from cover to cover. Laser beams split the night over and over, red and green against blue, the sharp thunder-cracks of ionising air reverberating through his ears. Even through his mask he could smell the actinic tang of massed laser-fire, like the scent of a summer storm. He looked out for Cassy – she was still fine. Thank God.
Grenades shot out against them, but there weren’t enough that they couldn’t be avoided. The enemy were husbanding them greedily, when they even could manage to peek their heads up as the autocannon vented heat, letting up its brutal rain of fire.
They were making it – about one hundred metres away from the checkpoint – when one of the enemy brought up one of their missile launchers and fired it at the APC. The silhouette made it clear he was in power armour. The missile moved too fast to be seen, a streak through the air that detonated right against the front of the vehicle. A searing lance of cobalt-blue hydrogen plasma, channeled more tightly by the geometry of the spot it struck, pierced the front armour, filling the driver’s compartment with plasma and shards of white-hot metal. Fields didn’t even need to look back – he knew the man had died without even getting the chance to scream. It’s worrying how I’m getting used to this.. What’s the war doing to me, that I can barely notice a man’s brought it?
He’d seen it happen so many times, and there was never an opportunity to mourn. The only thing he could do in the field – much as he hated it – was to move on.
"Disperse!" he cried out as loud as he could, not caring for enemy marksmen.
Not a moment too soon, as the missile launcher opened up again with a hail of fire – high-ex, about four rounds all in rapid succession. Explosions rocked the street, blasting craters in the tarmac. The APC gunner kept firing on the enemy from his perch in the turret. Fields gave an order to take the missile trooper out by any means – the squad’s gauss gunner obliged, firing a shot that went straight through the cover the man was kneeling behind, his armour, and the man himself. He went down with a loud thud.
Behind the lines, he heard explosions opening up – the mortar platoons were starting to fire, and were being met by the Enclave’s equivalent, those nuclear launchers they used. Some of the boys in his company had taken to capturing them intact and turning them back on the Enclave, until the CO had put a stop to it. The NCR couldn’t make that kind of ammo, and they would usually only capture enough from the enemy for one or two shots. Not worth the risk of storming a position guarded by those things.
They were at fifty metres now, on top of them by any means – and almost dry of ammo. Fields didn’t sweat it – there were probably enemy supplies with them, which they’d use while their own MFCs recharged their juice. The autocannon on the APC barked out its last few shots then gave out. He’s out now? Damn.
It wasn’t looking great, but Fields gritted his teeth again. The men threw frags – not so much to hurt the enemy as to distract them as they made the last few feet. He gave the order to charge. The checkpoint’s gate was a forcefield, but its walls were just metal and plastic. Fields threw his own grenade straight at a section bearing the scars of gauss fire and stray autocannon rounds, hoping against hope.
With a loud roar the blast of the exploding frag opened up the wall, blasting it inward into the space right under the rampart, the Enclave troops already scurrying down from above to meet them. What followed was a blur of brutal close-quarters combat, laser RCWs bursting out to meet Enclave laser assault rifles. Bayonets whirred as rifle butts were smashed down on heads and combat knives brought out to slice at armour joints. When the business was over two NCR men were dead – one eviscerated by an Enclave bayonet, the other taken out by point blank laser shots from the commander’s pistol to his throat. Five Enclave troops had fallen, two taken prisoner, six fled into the night.
Fields took a deep breath, leaned in on himself, breathed a long sigh of uttermost relief. Cassy came over to him,, and as a beam of moonlight parted the clouds above he wanted more than anything else in the world for them to take off their helmets and look deep in each other’s eyes. But the roar of an artillery shell going off right behind him, where he’d been standing scant minutes before, shattered his fantasies like spun glass. The battle for San Antonio was carrying on, and there was more fighting to be done.
-*-
General Maguire had all but won this battle. The Enclave’s bases in San Antonio had been overrun – the Texans were holding up his flanks well, and NCR troops were on the outskirts of Austin. Now the city centre remained, and the enemy remnants in their area were using as their command post the same location they had during the insurgency and the Texan Civil War. The Alamo, legendary location of a valiant last stand during the Texan Revolution long centuries ago, used once again during the insurgency, then turned into a thorn in the NCR and the loyalist Texan forces’ side. The Enclave troops had fortified it with some AA lasers and plasma casters, trenches and foxholes dug around it, forcefields and anti-tank barriers. Underground they had doubtless made stores of food and ammunition sufficient to last for a good deal of time.
Unlike Santa Anna in days long gone by, he could not afford yet another lengthy siege. This whole operation demanded speed. The local Vaults, defunct for many years, had already had their entrances secured by Ranger strike teams. There would be no retreat for the Enclave there. Speed was of the essence – he needed to maximise his advantage and his opportunity, strike when the iron was hot. Local sensibilities be damned, he thought to himself. The NCR has to do this. He took up his pip-boy from his belt, put its microphone to his mouth, turned on the frequencies used by fire control, and gritted his teeth.
"This is General Maguire to all artillery and air support units not otherwise available," he coldly said. "All fire support in range is to target the Alamo building, Sector M-14. Over."
They roared thunder from an unforgiving sky. Rockets and explosive shells rained down once more on the historic park, scything down what plants had grown since the earlier bombardments of the last year and the chill of winter. Buzzard attack craft joined the chorus of destruction, raining down ground-attack rockets and explosive bullets from heavy machine-guns. The Alamo – the old mission building used as a fort multiple times in its long history, now the centre of Enclave efforts to converge and command a counter-attack – took the brunt of it. By the end of fifteen minutes of relentless bombardment, no stone stood on another. Where the building had been was only a mass of craters, the very structure of the ground deformed by the explosive forces unleashed.
The last remnants of the Enclave garrison fled the city of San Antonio by noon. However, by evening General Hanson, commander of the Texan units sent to fight in San Antonio, had tendered his resignation, sending a curt missive to Maguire that he could no longer in good conscience fight alongside the NCR.
