Part 3 – El Centro

Good evening Captain. Your papers, please.

The sentry held out his hand in anticipation; Haywood retrieved her identity papers from her inside coat pocket and complied. "NAVY EL CENTRO" adorned the familiar sign that arched above the entrance to the NCR base, and beyond within the camp itself stood a pre-war flying machine - a statue stood frozen in time; constructed as a symbol then of the might of the old world and now a symbol of ironic hubris: lonely and isolated it was the sole survivor when everything else had been lost.

Thank you, Ma'am. Sergeant, if you please?

Fernandez acquiesced to the request. Watchtowers loomed above into the night sky. Spotlights probed the enveloping desert; an oasis for traders and new recruits who travelled eastwards along the "Great Eight" from Dayglow, before moving onwards to the NCR outposts in the south, or east towards the edge of civilization. To Haywood, this place was her home away from home.

Thank you. The sentry saluted and the two rangers responded in kind.

They made their way through the gate towards the Tandi Military Housing barracks, in which the administration buildings and armoury were located.

Listen, Alicia, don't mention what happened with the scout to anyone. Not until the Major has got my report.

Haywood was still seething. She had awoken on the warehouse floor that morning, drowsy and disorientated. It took her a moment to realise where she was. Bleary she scanned the large room until she remembered the legionary scout from the previous evening. She looked over to where he had been sleeping only to find him absent. She concluded rapidly from her demeanour that the horsetail he gave them the night before must have been drugged. It was now late morning and the storm had passed from the previous day. She frantically awoke Fernandez and cursed their stupidity before they made their long journey back to HQ.

They passed a platoon of volunteers on night drills and manoeuvres in the open yard outside the armoury. Inside, they were admitted by a pre-war military Mister Gutsy - a levitating sphere affixed with eyes and protruding metallic arms - reprogrammed to serve its new masters, and in the livery of the Republic.

Good evening Captain. It barked mechanically.

Evening Gear. Responded Haywood wearily.

She handed in her weapon for inventory check, and a robotic limb took it up. The machine used it's "eyes" to scan the serial number of the weapon before placing Law-bringer into a locked cage.

Did you give those Commie sons-of-a-bitch a what for? It asked.

Are you defaulting again? Remind me when was your last maintenance check-up? Asked Fernandez cautiously.

No bleeding-heart sissy doctor needs to have a look at me, Staff Sergeant. I'm as fit as a fiddle.

After a brief bureaucratic checklist of the ammo spent and the rounds they'd returned, they exited the armoury as Fernandez made a comment regarding the risk and likelihood of that machine going haywire around the camp. Haywood disregarded her and merely stated that she would meet up with her later, promptly leaving in the direction of the administration buildings to deliver her report.


The whole fucking jaw.

Fernandez was sat up on her bunk in the ranger barracks, a beer in hand, relaying her story to a young lieutenant that was sat on a nearby bunk.

Bullshit Sergeant. She's good but not that good. Replied the lieutenant.

You don't know Haywood. Four years I've been her spotter and every year she surprises me. The sick fuck was withering away on the ground and then BAM another shot to the brain. Now that's justice. She's a one-woman fucking army. Her and Law-bringer could defeat the Legion on their own and I can retire in peace.

What did you say? Legion?

The barracks was alive with chatter; a radio blared in the corner of the room. A programme on NCR Public Radio was seemingly discussing the proposal of a new welfare bill for veterans of the NCR military.

Huh? No… I said region. She could defeat everyone in the region. What the fuck is this shit? Someone change the channel, it's Jerry time. Lieutenant, would you do the honours?

The Lieutenant begrudgingly rose and obliged, changing the station on the radio.

Anyone would think you're the officer Fernandez. The Lieutenant quipped as he took the opportunity to slink away.

Hello guys, gals, and ghouls. What's the haps? How you fine looking soldiers doing out there throughout the sunset nation tonight? I'm Jerry McGhoulberry and I'm feeling good, and here on ANCR radio, I'm kicking off with Ella and the spots.

Out on the plains down near Santa Fe, I met a cowboy ridin' the range one day, And as he jogged along I heard him singin', The most peculiar cowboy song…

The music continued as Haywood entered the barracks. She was received with a round of applause from the other rangers in appreciation of her feat. Reticent, she nodded half-heartedly in response.

I'm assuming Alicia has updated you all. My very own cheerleader.

I prefer public relations officer. Fernandez responded amid gulps of beer.

The Rangers returned to their own interests. Haywood made her way over to Fernandez, sitting next to her on the bunk. Fernandez supplied her a beer.

Where have you been? Did you speak to the Major?

Just needed some air. Yeah, I told him what happened. He said to write it all down in my report and he'd speak to the colonel. He must have been with him when I handed in my final report to his secretary; cause he wasn't there when I got back.

Speak of the devil.

A man entered through the door and the barracks as a whole rose to attention, all albeit Fernandez who made a feeble attempt at a salute.

At ease guys, at ease. Ah, Fernandez, I'm surprised to see you here. According to Haywood's report, she said she left you with the Salt Faces. We could be so lucky I suppose.

The barracks fell into laughter. Fernandez took another sip of her beverage through what could be interpreted as an honest smile. Major Sandford was the ranger commander at the base, very popular with the troopers, rangers, grunts and officers alike. He began as a private in the regular army and had made his way up to Major in the Rangers after twenty-five years of service. Always ready and willing, he was also patient, kind, and jocular with his troops. His promotion was seen by some as overdue, and that he should have replaced Colonel Merritt as the overall Commander of El Centro, and thus director of southern operations. Others saw it as a compromise with the establishment, an attempt to moderate his repartee with the grunts by giving him more responsibility. It failed: he remained considerate and yet competent in his judgements.

Captain Haywood, the Colonel would like to see you.

Haywood and Fernandez exchanged a glance as the barracks fell silent. Haywood returned the beer to Fernandez and followed the Major out of the barracks, who had left the moment he had delivered his message. Once she had joined him they strode towards the Colonel's office on the other side of the housing compound.

I got your written report. I've handed it to Merritt, but after speaking to him, he was keen to talk to you as soon as. Now listen Faith, I can't say much right now, but he's going to ask you to go out again tomorrow. After the two day's you've had in the wastes I reckon you deserve a break, so I'm telling you now, you can refuse and I will be behind you one hundred percent.

Haywood was taken slightly aback by this. She had never refused an order no matter how much she disagreed with it, or the dangers that it entailed. Maybe the Major was concerned about fatigue, but it was more likely that the impending mission carried risks.

You know you've just made it more likely that I'd accept, right?

Yeah, I know. Just remember… He stopped and turned to face her. Only I can give you direct orders. They have to come through me, so if you refuse, he can't do shit to you.

Now what kind of ranger would I be if I just passed along the responsibility to someone else?

The Major smiled.

I thought you'd say that. Just don't let the old bastard off lightly if he starts sneering at us rangers again. If it were up to him then we'd still be sending troopers in to fight that butcher Malo.

They continued onwards until they reached the admin building. Inside the lobby, they were greeted by a receptionist inside the lobby who remarked that the Colonel was expecting them and that they could head right into his office. Upon entering, Haywood presented herself in front of the Colonel, who sat behind his desk and saluted.

His office was typical and unremarkable: a desk was placed in the centre of the room, adorned with a pre-war terminal, stationary, lamp, a photo of the family, and several files that were scattered across the work surface. A portrait of President William Peterson peered down upon then from the wall at the rear of the office, and on either side of the picture, flag poles proudly draped the flag of the Republic. To Haywood's left and right, sofas sat below an assortment of portraits of NCR officials from its one-hundred-year existence. On the couch to her right, a dapper dressed man sat languidly with legs crossed, eyes fixated on Haywood since she had entered.

The Colonel swivelled in his chair slightly from side to side, peering over some pages in his left hand - that Haywood identified as her report from her own handwriting - as the index finger of his right hand rested on his chin.

Colonel Merritt was an ageing soldier, balding and a girth that was ever expanding to the relative size of his ego. Throughout his service, he had remained steadfast and stubborn. A veteran of the NCR-Enclave war, his combat credentials were not in question, but the rumour around camp was that he had come to such an elevated position of power through "friends in high places", whilst others believed it was a simple matter that no one else was available, or rather wanted the job. Although, the calamitous engagement with the Salt Faces, and the fact that as a consequence he had not been relieved of his command, suggested otherwise.

Merritt continued to study his papers and Haywood at-eased herself. Sandford closed the door to the office and sat on the sofa opposite to the strange man, whose hands busied themselves with a fedora that matched in colour his immaculate grey suit, as his eyes all the while remained on Haywood. In turn, Haywood took half a glance at the man before pulling back towards the Colonel. Merritt took one last look at the report and then set it on the table before him, raising his head slowly until he found the Captain's face.

Captain, you're to be congratulated it seems for single-handedly taking out the raider known as Malo.

Staff Sergeant Fernandez was with me, sir.

Discounting ghouls, obviously. He swiftly corrected himself. Oh, this is Special Agent Christiansen of the Bureau of Intelligence.

Merritt held out his stubby left arm to indicate the man in the suit, who rose and presented his hand, which Haywood took.

Please, call me Arnold. He smiled.

Agent Christiansen has been hiding in the shadows at it were; overlooking our progress on the Salt Faces threat. How are we doing Mr Christiansen?

Oh, swell. He beamed to retook his seat and his gaze refocused on Haywood. Just… swell.

He also has an interest in the man you supposedly saw. A man that seems to have slipped away from you. The Colonel sat back into his chair and enveloped his hands, resting them over his gut. You claim he drugged you. I find that quite embarrassing for a ranger.

You take whatever you can eat out there, sir. I'm just following your example. Sir.

Sandford smiled surreptitiously, hiding his reaction with a hand. The Colonel frowned.

One thing you should know about Ranger Haywood, Mr Christiansen, is that she likes to exaggerate. It's simply not enough to get the job done. You should take this report dubiously.

Sir, I apprise you that it is with the utmost certitude that within my role I consider anything and everything to be viewed askance. The agent said cheerfully.

Indeed. So, this man, this Vitus, made two claims according to your report. One: that he is a member of a group of tribals known as the Legion, and two: that he claimed that the township of Sunrise was – and these are your words, Captain… The Colonel picked up one of the papers again and scanned it quickly. Gone. He put the paper back down on the table. Is this correct Captain?

Yes, sir.

Well, Ranger, I must say that I do find this hard to believe. Perhaps, however, I should defer to the agent here, lest I reveal a state secret regarding my opinions on the matter.

The agent continued to eye Haywood, tapping his lower foot rhythmically on the floor. The Colonel had finished his sentence without altering his gaze, but after a moment of brief silence he looked over at the agent.

Mr Christiansen?

Uh, yes. He cleared his throat. Thank you, Colonel. He opened his mouth and paused for a moment. What do you know about the Legion, Captain?

As much as anyone else I suppose. Only what the traders who pass through here say.

And what is that Captain?

That they are a tribe. A new and different tribe. Some praise them for their sense of order, others claim that they commit crimes worse than raiders…

The Colonel interjected.

Can we hurry this up, Christiansen? It's already getting late.

Well, Captain, you're certainly not wrong. The truth, however, is that although they are primal in their methods, they are well organised and numerous. Our understanding is that almost every tribe in Arizona and New Mexico has been subsumed into this organisation.

You've known about them?

Oh yes, we've known about their existence for a number of years. The agent sat forwards. We were unaware, however, of the proximity of their forces. Our eyes across the Colorado are not as clear as we would like, I'm sure you understand. The fact is, if you have made contact with a member of this "tribe" if you will, then this will be the first such occasion. We have received unsettling information regarding the town of Sunrise, and that it may indeed have been assaulted.

I think you overestimate these tribals, Agent. The manner in which you and the BOI refer to them, you'd think that the Enclave has returned. What Agent Christiansen is trying to say is that these undeveloped filthy savages may have seized some citizens of Sunrise. Certainly, it has not "gone", especially to a motley band of raiders.

Er, yes, Colonel. The Agent looked at the floor fleetingly. As you can understand Captain, the relationship between the NCR and Sunrise is preeminent in the thoughts of President Peterson. There are ambitions to eventually incorporate the settlement officially into the Republic. So, I think it would be remiss of us not to at least send out a small scouting party to, um, survey the extent of the damage to the settlement.

I suppose I'm volunteering?

I would hope so, Captain. But there's more, continue please Agent Christiansen.

If we are to maintain favourable ties with Sunrise, then if possible we'd like to return any citizen that was apprehended by the Legion. Now, if the number of settlers happen to be multitudinous, short of mobilising a full force and at a risk of declaring all-out war, we instead have information pertaining to the possible identification of the leader of this specific raid. This individual has been known to us for some time, we understand he has committed a number of crimes against people east of the Colorado. However, if he has perpetrated any transgressions against the people of Sunrise then he will be branded a terrorist of the state and a legitimate assassination target.

The Agent picked up a file which lay beside him on the sofa.

The name of this man is Un… Ungala – that's U.N.G.A.L.A – also known as "The Despoiler of New Mexico". The most authentic intelligence we have regarding the individual is from a trader based out of the Hub who came across him near Kingman, Arizona. He provided the following account:

"The religious slaves, those who call themselves Mormons, refer to him as the Devil: a word that represents evil in their religion. The soldiers call him the Despoiler of New Mexico, on account of his brutal conquests of that area. When I first laid eyes upon him I wanted to laugh, but I'm glad I didn't. He wore the skin of a deathclaw: his feet were paws, his armour scales, and his face featured the discernible horns and mouth of the creature. He wielded claw-gauntlets in each of his hands. He chose only to speak the language of the Legion, and through an interpreter, he told me that his uniform was a trophy he had taken personally from a deathclaw he had slain. And in doing so he had embodied the soul of the beast, yet tamed by the touch of Caesar himself. He never removed his "skin" even when he ate. When hungry he would pick a slave or a failed legionary to sate his hunger, gutting them with his adopted hands, and would then feast like an animal on all fours from their fresh innards, as everyone else was forced to watch. I knew then, from what I had truly seen, I could comprehend the meaning of evil. This I saw and is my testimony."

The deathclaw: the most fearsome creature of the wastes. Long thought as a myth, they now roamed the wasteland, multiplying faster than any brave hunter who dared tracked them could poach. Their origins were shrouded in mystery, but some claimed they were failed test subjects of Enclave research – the continuity of the US Government - whilst others said that they could be found in the wastes long before the Enclave appeared in California. Some were said to reach as high as twenty feet tall, with claws as sharp as any blade wielded by man, could be faster than a coyote, possessing jaws that could break a person in a single bite, and horns that could pierce Brotherhood steel.

So, looks like I'm going deathclaw hunting.

Yes, Captain. Yawned the Colonel. Scope the town, gain intelligence, and then track the sick fuck to the Capital Wasteland if need be. We'd like to keep this as quiet as possible, you'd understand. Seeing as you're abreast of the situation you'd be ably suited. Take the ghoul too. Any objections Major?

The Colonel began clearing some papers on his desk without so much as a sideways glance to Sandford.

I think, we need to be clear here with the Captain, that we consider Sunrise to be within our sphere of influence, and so this Ungala, is a legitimate target. In that regards this does not have to be undertaken as a clandestine operation.

Absolutely. The Legion needs to know that the NCR is not to be fooled with and that our interests are not to be threatened. Kill this freak, and then those misfits will think twice about crossing the river again.

Fine, sign me up.

Good. The Major will outline any further mission details. Dismissed.

Haywood saluted. The Agent rose, shook her once again by the hand, and parted a farewell and good luck. Haywood exited the room, followed by Sandford. The Agent turned to the Colonel who was back to busying around his desk.

Gee Colonel, are all your rangers like that?