Honor, Faith, Land, Resource. Wars are fought for any number of reasons, but on the battlefield, every soldier must find their own. As things turned out a small group of soldiers would discover a pretty interesting reason…
A grey verti-bird sailed through the sky. From the window of the curved machine, a soldier looked out in the dry, faded orange sand. A sliding door moved out to allow the passengers a view of the Forward Operating Base below. Makeshift tents with faded tarps whooshed in the wind and kicked up loose sand grains.
Welcome to the 222nd Army battalion, the B-Company. Where they raked together all the leftovers and troublemakers deemed expendable by the army. Among the troops, they call it Bad Company. A miss-matched bunch of sorry rejects placed to serve the Republic as cannon fodder. The moment the verti-bird landed everyone else dismounted and immediate knew where to go while the pilots shut things down.
On a Brodie helmet was a pair of strapped goggles, along with the curved rim, was the last name Marlowe written in black ink. The Private's boots clattered on the sand as moved his hand to shield his eyes. His uniform was a khaki field jacket with bellowed hip pockets and khaki breeches, worn with black leather fingerless gloves, arm wraps, brown combat boots, and khaki puttees. An armored breastplate emblazoned with the emblem of a double-headed roaring mountain bear. His body armor was attached via leather straps and buckles.
The Caucasian private did not have flat cheeks and did work out in his free time. His chine was free any loose whiskers, and above his lip, the mustache hair did not project itself boldly. His delicate nose sniffed the air, and he slightly regretted it. He shrugged at himself and roamed for ten feet.
The Private could have been thrown in jail for what he did. Instead, he was transferred to this company.
Outside the verti-bird had three letters painted on the side. N.C.R. Standing for the New California Republic. This beautiful patch of paradise was called the Mojave Wasteland, and it exists in a world that somehow survived a devastating nuclear war over two hundred years earlier. If the heat does not want to make one quit being a soldier; the murderous wildlife added to the self-loathing aura.
It was strange to see everyone else not give a damn about the soldier confused on where to go. About forty or so feet from the verti-bird stood a single soldier in a military cap hat, and Marlowe walked over. He stood behind the capped soldier.
"Reporting for duty sir!" Private Marlowe saluted.
The cap soldier with a slightly pulled back lip and disinterested grunt looked over his shoulder toward Marlowe. He saluted back at Marlowe. The cap soldier has had a black skin tone, and his shin to his sideburns was shaven completely. Although he shaved, the roots of his whiskers were so thick that it would think his chin had a stubble. What caught Marlowe's attention the most was capped soldier's bulbous nose did not compliment muscular cheeks. On his torso, the capped soldier had his V-neck vest on top of his body armor and around the bicep section of his sleeves was yellow horizontal stripes. Inside was ammo pouches and strapped several fragmentation grenades.
"Are you sure you're in the right place?"
"I believe so, sir!" Marlowe responded. The capped soldier lightly nodded his head and looked around the verti-bird. Not wanting to wallow in a long pause, Marlowe leaned forward. "This is B-Company, right?"
"Yep, sure is. But you want to cut out that 'sir, yes sir' crap. I'm a Sergeant not the god damn president!" The capped soldier glanced around the verti-bird again.
"Sorry, sir…" Marlowe broke eye contact at his mistake. "I mean Sergeant."
"Yeah, whatever." The Sergeant beckoned two soldiers to come over.
"That one over there is named Sweetwater." The Sergeant nonchalantly nodded.
Sweetwater's thick-rimmed black glasses shined at the bridge of his white Grecian nose. Unlike the Sergeant, this soldier had noticeably flatter cheeks. Not quite fat, but not entirely athletic either. Caucasian skin tone, at above his lips, was a thin-haired mustache. He carried a Light Machine Gun in his right arm and a large bulky backpack. It had eight or so extra pouches. The backpack either was meant like a rectangular box, or Private Sweetwater decided to carry additional equipment. There was even a folded lightweight stretcher behind the backpack. "Hey, welcome to the sandbox."
"And other's name is Haggard." The Sergeant tilted his head to his right.
Haggard was a Caucasian man with a grey beanie and spouting downward from the sideburns to his horseshoe mustache under a flat nose. The mustache must have meant a lot to him because he was cleanly shaven at his chin. For the most part, Haggard dressed similarly to the Sergeant, minus the yellow stripes at the biceps. Equipped with a shotgun, this meant his vest pouches were slightly fatter to fit shotgun shells. His cheeks were at a similar state to Sweetwater, not the peak of physical prime but no slouch either. At his back was a strapped and 40 Millimeter grenade launcher with a belt to hold his explosives. Haggard's piercing blue eyes stared at Marlowe while he lifted shotgun to the sky. "How you doing? You smell very clean."
"And I'm Sergeant Redford. You can call me that or Serge. We're all in this mess together now."
"Right, Serge. Do you know which squad I belong to?" Marlowe inquired while the three soldiers walked away.
"A new guy smell. Like a toy from a vault." Haggard said and waved behind the three.
"Yeah. I'll give you three to two days. He's dead by Friday." Sweetwater grimaced.
Stuck in place, Marlowe called out again. "Serge?"
"You can come with us… New guy." Redford did not bother to turn around.
"New guy." Private Marlowe looked the ground and tightened his grip around his M4A1 compact Assault Rifle. Dust kicked up at the heel of his boots while he jogged to catch up to the others.
"Alright guys, we have orders to go check out an outpost 40 kilometers southwest from here. They've failed to report into HQ." Redford glanced at Marlowe then Sweetwater.
"Bravo One Charlie can you hear me over?" A feminine voice called over the radio communication. "This is Mike-One-Juliet."
"Oh, this must be one of the new dispatch girls, Miss July." Sweetwater's expression lit up. Haggard rolled his eyes as Redford ignored the two.
"Mike One Juliet this is Bravo One Charlie reporting in, we have one of the transfers with us, and we're making our way to the outpost now."
"Roger that." Miss July responded. "You are to move ahead of the platoon to scout the region. I'll get back to you with further orders. Out."
"We copy." Redford lowered his hand from his ear and continued his brisk walking pace.
"Oh, she's got a real nice voice." Sweetwater swooned and shook his shoulders.
"Sweetwater, shut up!" Redford barked. "Haggard, you're on point!"
The squad continued onward for twenty minutes in relative silence.
"Hey Haggard, do you know where you're leading us?" Sweetwater called to Haggard for the ninth time.
"I don't know about you, but I get the feeling that the enemy doesn't want to be found." Haggard gave his scruffy chin a scratch.
"Do not make me come up there," Redford shouted sternly, leaned down, and chucked a small rock at Sweetwater.
"Hey what was that for?"
Like those old novels, Marlowe used to read in pre-war books, such as a group of people heading to the same location and bored during the journey. The Mojave lived up to its reputation during the intense heat and dull terrain. Those fictional characters had it easy.
"Hey Preston, are you alive back there?" Haggard turned sideways then walked backward.
"Yeah, I'm just thirsty." Marlowe lied. During the trek, he finished a ration of dried mole rat jerky and dirty water. It was a way to cope with the bickering between soldiers ahead of him.
Buzzzz. "What is that?" Marlowe looked on ahead. There were black dots into the distance. "Hey, people look alive." He sprinted past everyone and jumped onto a rock and aimed with his M4.
"What is it, new guy? See a bottle cap?" Sweetwater chuckled.
"Cazadores," Marlowe whispered.
"Yeah." As Sweetwater rotated his head to his left to spot a pack of Cazadores was flying quickly in their direction. The pack was about five strong, three newborns and two adults.
Cazadores were a recent predator that came about in the west. Flying charcoal black insects that have an aggressive attitude. Deep in the Republic, it is rare to see a Cazadore but prevalent in the frontier. The natural tough exterior of the insects could grow to be as tall to an adult human's waist. Orange wings allowed the overgrown insects to hover above the ground and glide at twenty miles an hour. The scientists in the Republic compared Cazadores to something called a Wasp from before the war. They were compared that way because Cazadores attack their prey with large stingers. Supposedly back in those days, they grew no bigger than a quarter coin.
"Hey Hags, have I ever said that I hate you?" Sweetwater lifted his LMG.
"All the time." Haggard slung his single 40-millimeter grenade launcher to the charging critters. He fired it on a slight lob in front of the buzzing menace. The explosion distorted the senses of the three critters. One adult and two newborns flipped around as the first adult came within striking distance of Redford. It exposed its stinger and stabbed the center of his chest at the body armor.
"Ah, shhiiitt!" Redford pushed back as the Cazadore backed off and circled around him. Redford clicked his M4A1 fire rate to semi-auto. Two controlled bursts into the eyes of the adult. The body flung backward as the left eye popped out.
Marlowe killed one of the newborns when it was stunned by Haggard's grenade. As that happened Sweetwater missed a hole by his left foot, and he toppled backward. The second adult positioned itself right above him. Sweetwater didn't know what to do so he unhinged a knife and stabbed the insect into its right set of eyes. Goopy green blood erupted out and poured onto the blade. Releasing its grip on him, Sweetwater kicked it back and took hold of his LMG. In two seconds, the insect had 34 new holes.
"Hey fly guts, are you feeling better?" Haggard held one of the killed newborns by the left wing. Redford and Marlowe shot the other newborns while Redford and Sweetwater regained their bearings.
"You've got to be kidding me." Sweetwater realized that some greenish blood was on his forehead.
"Say what you will, this stuff does wonders." Haggard took out an empty whiskey bottle and squeezed the Cazadore juices into the bottle.
Seeing no more danger, Marlowe jumped off the rock. Serge rubbed his chest several times. "Hey serge, you okay?"
"Yeah, that damn bug knocked the wind out of me. I don't feel woozy, so the venom didn't pierce the skin." Redford checked the magazine of his M4A1.
"Say, Haggard why are you doing that?" Marlowe was intrigued by Haggard draining of the blood of a Cazadore.
"It can act as a decent remedy for burns and helps drinks have that extra kick." Haggard used a makeshift cork for the bottle.
"We're burning daylight," Redford lightly pointed his weapon out to complete their recon.
"Yeah, I think we could use a little less sunlight." Sweetwater wiped the sweat off his brow.
The group collectively regrouped the pressed on. Eventually, they made it to the Ranger outpost. The steel gate rusted open showing the outpost abandon with gapping parts of the fence with pools of blood in different locations.
No words were needed for the suspected danger. Redford tapped Marlowe's shoulders. Redford waved hand signals for Haggard and Marlowe to go left with Redford and Sweetwater went right. There was a sound of a piece to metal continually tinging off a metal chain-linked fence. All that was needed was for a rolling bit of tumbleweed.
Oh look at that, there is a tumbleweed caught between a corpse and the fence. It was that of the standard NCR Ranger. Marlowe looked around to see nothing or that is what their attacker wants them to believe. There is no rapid movement coming from the tents and the metal shacks. Marlowe made a quick sprint to a metal shack to act as cover. He looked through one of the many holes to see a Ranger positioned in a corner, still breathing. Marlowe carefully approached the man from the doorway. Haggard caught up and placed his back against a wall beside the door.
Marlowe kneeled down to the wounded ranger. "What happened?"
The wounded ranger was a woman that coughed up blood. "This is Ranger station… we are holding off an attack of…" The woman went limp.
"Damn it no!" Marlowe pulled out a syringe with a container of fluids. Called a stim-pack and he stabbed the woman in the throat with one. The needle caused the woman to wiggle from the aid. Stim-packs can act as a way of quick healing but only minor wounds.
"What's going on?" Haggard did not turn his view away from the desert.
"This ranger is alive, barely." Marlowe walked into the view of the desert. He wanted to give the ranger a dose of Med-X but judging from the blood she cannot have her heart rate slow down. Instead, he used rags of sleeves to act as bandages.
"Wow, can I get her lollipop doctor?" Haggard chuckled.
Redford and Sweets showed up. "We checked the perimeter, we didn't find anything else." Sweets stated. After that Haggard informed them of the wounded Ranger.
"Bravo One Charlie, report your status. Over."
"Mike One Juliet, We made it to the outpost, but it has been attacked. There is a survivor. We need to evacuate now. Over."
Outside the shack, Private Marlowe looked around the area to see if there was anything he could see to help figure out what happened in the area. Several bullet casings were sprawled out in the sand.
"Roger that." Miss July responded to Redford.
Marlowe looked at the shack. A force tackled the back of his helmet. He fell forward as the sand puffed in the wind.
"Anyone got a band-aid? Marlowe is down!" Sweets shouted as the squad took cover in the cracking wind of bullets.
"Oh look the new guy's dead," Haggard muttered.
"Already? I didn't even get his name."
"Would you two shut up? Marlowe's not dead, aren't you soldier?" Redford shouted as he fired his rifle.
Marlowe felt that he was kicked by a horse as his vision was utterly burred. He blinked twice. Everything was coming back to him. Survivor, she's dying, and now ambushed. Marlowe kept to the ground as he reached for his weapon. The bullets started to slow down, so Marlowe got back onto his feet and ran to a large rock. He crouched and scanned the horizon to figure out where the bullets were coming from.
Wholly pinned down and standing up would be a death sentence. Marlowe realized that the bullets were coming from one direction than around, so that means this was a poorly planned attack. Scanning the surroundings, Marlowe noticed he had a straight path to the where the bullets came from.
"Hey Serge, give me some cover!" Marlowe shouted over the sporadic fire.
Redford nodded. "Suppressing FIRE!" Redford shot blindly then he stood up for the rest of the magazine, the Sweetwater and Haggard joined him.
Marlowe broke from his cover as he sprinted forward across the open sand and saw five men spreading out. His vision shifted to the sight as one of the shooters broke from his cover. In two shots the man was down. Looking up three of the attackers saw Marlowe's position. In a quick act, Private Marlowe ripped a fragmentation grenade off his vest, pulled the pin out, and lobbed it. The explosion created a nice dust cloud for him to move.
Bullets pierced the dusty air as Marlowe jogged to his right. Shoot and move, with no cover he can't just stop. Breaking from the dust one attacker was twenty feet away. He wore some an array of tanned clothing. Desert leather armor if you will. Both aimed with Marlowe missing the NCR trooper. Crouching down Marlowe stabilized his arm as the M4A1 unloaded at the man and put him down also. He looked on ahead while as another man sprinted through the dust.
Wielding a metal rod with the corners edged off for a makeshift sword. Lifting it upward for a downward slash, Marlowe fired two rounds as the attacker approached. He did not stop. Marlowe could not aim fast enough from the sloppy array of jabs and slashes. With no more options, Marlowe pulled out his combat knife. The blade is durable through the attackers "sword" has the distance. Marlowe adjusted his rifle to his chest while the attacker charged. After golf like an uppercut, Preston tossed his weapon forward smacking the attacker in the cheek, and Marlowe lunged forward and presented his blade to the attacker's heart. The man garbled blood from the lips and released his sword. As he lay dying on the sand, Marlowe wiped his blade off on the man's shirt. Two more to go.
The bullets stopped now. The squad must probably have the chance to move until they came into view. One more attacker gave a coat of red blood to the sand as the last one raised his arms.
This one had a Mohawk. This was an attack by the Viper Gang, a group of raiders. Preston didn't feel any remorse; these raiders had a name of dismembering people and selling survivors into slavery.
"Hey there New Guy, that was great work." Haggard slid shells into his shotgun. "Come to the think of it, you're no longer New Guy as for you are now, whatever your name is. Wear it well."
"Sure, if he can call you George." Sweetwater wisecracked.
"Hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Whatever." Redford walked to the Viper gang thug. "Were you and your cronies the ones that attack this outpost?" Redford looked down at the man.
The Viper chuckled to himself. "Fucking NCR, you can't even protect yourselves." The Viper laughed until his nose was to the sky. Redford tipped his hat as he adjusted his rifle sling to his back. When the Viper stopped laughing, Redford took hold of both sides of the thug's head. In two seconds, KAK! Redford pulled the man's head down as his kneed the thug in the center of the face.
Reeling his head back into place the Viper's nose was misaligned with his nose seeping blood. It poured out quickly enough to the point when the thug spat out drool with the blood.
"Were you the one that attacked this outpost?" Redford dusted off his pants.
"Go to the hell!" The Viper lashed back.
Sergeant Redford pulled out a bowie knife from his boot and had it shine in the sun. "I'm going to ask you one more time." Redford set the blade beneath the chin and deliberately started to press it deeper into the skin. Although the thug's hands were free, his palms shook several inches from Redford's wrist. Sweetwater stepped forward, but Haggard stopped him.
Blood began to show on the bowie knife's cold steel.
"Wait, wait psycho!" Redford removed the blade. "No, we just came across the camp; we saw everyone dead and were about to scavenge it until you bastards showed up." The Viper injected.
Seeing that he was no longer needed Marlowe walked to the shack of the wounded Ranger. The Ranger positioned herself slightly upright against a wall. After Marlowe changed the bandages, he learned the bleeding stopped. "Who's there?" The woman whispered.
"Private Preston Marlowe, don't worry you're in the company of friends." Preston finished tightening the last bandage.
The woman made a weak smile and laid her head back.
Preston walked to where the interrogation was held, Haggard and Sweetwater were doing their own thing with a game of rock, paper, scissors. Redford didn't turn his eyes away from the Viper. "How's the Ranger?"
"She'll live."
The Viper's expression changed to a happy one. His teeth bear with blood at the corners. In the second Redford blinked, the thug reached into the dirt to get a knife. Preston sent a bullet to the thug's eye. Snapping back, the Viper's arms flung upward.
Redford turned his head at Preston going "hmm." Like a cold analysis of the situation. Haggard and Sweetwater showed up as they saw the dead Viper.
"He wanted to get back up, I had to end him," Preston stated.
"Okay. Well, we checked in with Miss July." Sweetwater pulled out a whiskey bottle containing his water ration.
"Come on, Serge is waving at us to move." Haggard patted Preston's back as he walked to their leader. Preston and Sweetwater carefully removed a makeshift stretcher from Sweetwater's back. The two carefully placed the woman on top of it. As they prepared to leave, two NCR Rangers made their presence known.
"Hey there, Bravo One Charlie. Were you the squad that called in about this outpost?" An NCR ranger in dressed like a cowboy and round hat. Revolver at his hip and a repeater rifle in hand.
"Yeah, no one else survived besides this one. We're taking her back to the F.O.B. (Forward Operating Base)." Haggard gestured to the metal ghost town behind him.
"Roger that, we'll stay here until the next squad arrives." A Ranger grimaced at the sight.
The squad continued onward, Sweetwater carried the front end of the stretcher as Preston did the back. The woman's eyes were shut she made plenty of rapid eye movement. She's awake and alert, but her body was too exhausted.
"Hey, why do those guys get to look like cowboys?" Haggard reached to his left thigh pocket to take out a snack. Bighorner beef jerky.
"They worked for it, something you can learn about when you're not destroying precious equipment," Sweetwater grunted. "Also they look good in those pictures they pose for the press."
"Well I just like it when stuff blows up, and I think they can really punch our enemies in the gut. I always wanted to use dynamite sticks." Haggard gnawed a piece off his candy.
"Well, you should have decided to join a mining company." Redford kept his eyes on the horizon.
"Well, I prefer if we got a job in logistics," Sweetwater added. Once the topic changed to that, Haggard and Sweetwater debated the merits and ills of being in charge of such a crappy desk job. It at least gave the walk some entertainment until they arrived at the F.O.B. Some of the soldiers stared as Sweetwater and Preston entered the medical tent. A doctor bushed his way past her assistants to the wounded Ranger. After placing her on an uncomfortable table, the doctor inspected the damage.
"I see she received some first aid in the golden hour." The doctor looked up at Sweetwater, but he nodded at Preston. The doctor lightly smiled as she began to work on the Ranger's remaining injuries.
The two exited the tent, outside the other two members of the squad waited. "How was that for your first day?" Redford raised an eyebrow.
"This is what I've wanted to do. This beats staring at a wall back home and hunting Geckos." Preston laughed.
Haggard stretched his back. "Speaking of Geckos, the mess hall is serving some steaks tonight."
"Were these the ones that pestered the north guard post?" Sweetwater and Haggard sauntered off to a mess hall tent.
Preston was about to do the same with a light jog until Redford's left arm cut him off. The Sergeant extended his hand and Preston took it.
"Welcome to Bad Company."
The two firmly shook hands and made their way to the mess hall tent.
I know this is technically a crossover, but I feel like that Fallout fandom would appreciate this story because it will be heavily reliant on the New Vegas universe.
Thank you for reading.