January, 2239
Control Station Enclave
The rapture of gaining power armour lasted for several weeks after getting the suits, despite the extra training that it required; it was a sign that they were all over the hill of training, punished brutally through rigorous PT and now finally considered fit enough to have earned the right to the suits. That was never expressed in so-many words by the Sergeant himself but the indication was clear, you only got power armour after proving you were capable without it. They spent a further week just becoming accustomed moving in the damn things, relearning a thousand basic movements and skills that had been banished from conscious thought long-ago. The difference in equipment alone shattered all their previous notions, due to its size and structure standard Load Bearing Equipment couldn't be used on power armour and the presence of the power-pack and radiators prevented the use of a backpack all together. Instead the majority of field equipment was stored in a duffle-bag that slotted into the small of the back and the lack of a proper place for a belt meant that other equipment was in holders on the thighs. To a layman it might seem like nothing, but a soldier was expected to react to situations like an animal immediately and with instinct with no room for thought; fumbling around for equipment created unnecessary risks to the entire unit. After relearning the basics they moved into power armour combat roles, assaulting the Chinese positions in Alaska and during the Yangtze campaign as-well as patrolling the eerie and deserted streets of annexed Canadian cities for seditious activists.
Classroom work was also taken in a completely new direction, as unit tactics and history was given over to weapon training. They'd been schooled in basic ballistic theory months ago to operate the archaic weapons of the realistic simulation soldier. To be a soldier in the modern Joint Force however meant discarding, mostly, paltry firearms for the use of energy weapons. To be competent with energy weapons however didn't just end at their immediate operation in a combat environment, it meant a knowledge of how they were to be handled and maintained in the field which was far more complicated than the standard kit issued with the R-91 assault rifle. They were given a crash-course in electronic maintenance, instructed how to use soldering irons to perform direct repairs and learned the basics of laser theory. Laser weapons were standard issue, meaning that anyone who applied and failed to earned the limited spots in other weapons specialties such-as, plasma and heavy weapons, were still trained. Sutler himself of-course had wanted none of these things, all he had ever wanted was to acquire the world's most powerful handgun.
The Walther PPK12 Gauss Pistol was unorthodox as a primary weapon, but firing a 2mm aluminium round at over Mach-1 gave it an effectively infinite point blank range where the only determining factor was the operators hand and eyes. Sutler's free-time and weekends were spent at the simulated firing range with the Gauss Pistol with hour after hour of continuous firing. It was a truly fascinating weapon; a qualified operator must be able to engage multiple targets between 150-200 yards away and maximise the rate-of-fire by committing to instinct how long the weapon would vibrate after each shot. The hardest part however was being able to accurately manipulate coil strength in-battle, because though the Gauss pistol could accelerate rounds to ludicrous speeds unless you were hitting a vital organ it would just punch tiny holes through them. Thus the 2x45mm rounds were not designed to be aerodynamic, they could move fast enough to always be lethal, but rather to "tumble" like conventional rounds upon impact, transferring their massive kinetic momentum across the length of the round. To get that right meant that the operator must be able to consistently gauge and the set most effective coil strength to ensure maximum tumbling, across rapidly varying distances, and all in the heat of combat.
It took Sutler a lot of free-time and training but in the end he won out, a Marksman Badge "Pistol – Expert" pinned to his chest and the awesome weapon itself stowed in his locker in the armoury. That day alone had been greater than getting his armour, though the armour was earned through grueling pain that was expected of every soldier; to have been granted the right to use the weapon by the Sergeant was the vindication of himself above his peers.
The day of the final task was launched upon them unexpectedly, after qualifying for weapons they fell into a routine where-in they learned nothing new but just practiced everyday: PT in the morning, firing-range in the afternoon and reading in the evening. It went on like that for thirteen days before the day of the final exercise was upon them.
The klaxon sounded at four-twenty-two hours, Sutler regaining consciousness fast enough to hear the confused sound of Drexler on fire-guard duty looking up at the speaker.
"The fuck?" He had time to murmur before the barrack was a din of young bodies scrambling from bunks and into boots before racing down to the armoury to suit and gear-up, sprinting through the deserted deck of the Rig. But beneath the professional response was an electric tension flowing silently between them. This was it, the day were boys became men. Navigating the maze of suspended power suits Sutler found his own and stepped into it as its functions energised. At his locker he began donning the rest of his gear, sliding his arms through the straps of his chest rig, clipping on his thigh and leg holsters. He took his two weapons, the immaculately polished Gauss Pistol went into his chest rig beside a pair of plasma grenades and an L-shaped torch whilst a noticeably dull P90c submachine-gun was tucked into a space on his thigh next to a Ripper. Swinging his duffle-bag around his waist he loaded it with gear: allen-keys, portable soldering kit, replacement mag-coils, dose of psycho, extra reservoir and catheter and the rest before closing the clasps. He double-timed back to the barracks, snapping to attention in the familiar sag in the floor-grating by his bunk which had begun to buckle from decades of soldiers weighing it down.
The Sergeant himself came in after five minutes. Stamping down the length of the corridor he beckoned for them to follow, leading them into their familiar classroom. The tables and chairs had been pushed to the side beforehand, they wouldn't have been able to sit suited up regardless. At the head of the room was a middle-aged man in dark in a dark Class-A uniform, a full Lieutenant judging by the single silver bar on his collar, holding the remote to control a projector which cast a rounded square of light on the wall beside him.
"School circle soldiers," he called and they dutifully formed a semi-circle around the projector before snapping to attention and salutes. "At-ease," he returned their salutes.
"Alright soldiers listen up, at two-twenty hours PST the Defence Intelligence Agency received SIGINT indicating a hostile, illegal alien position roughly 104 klicks north-east of Camp Navarro," he pressed a button on his remote and the flickering blank canvas became a map of California with the position of Camp Navarro and the illegal alien, read mutant, position indicated on it. It was roughly somewhere in-between the base and the Old World town of Redding which was known to be active with mutants.
"It has been determined by the DIA that this position represents a threat to the security of Camp Navarro and must be neutralised. Your objective is to formulate a plan of attack against this enemy position and meet the following objectives: the neutralisation of the threat, the securing of enemy non-combatants and the capture of the outpost's CO. After liaising with your commander, Sergeant Hillenkoetter, we have decided to place field-control of this operation with recruit Alan Sutler, now Acting-Sergeant."
Sutler almost felt his heart skip a beat, he looked at the Sergeant stood imposingly behind the officer but the awe and humility he intended to convey was obscured by his helmet.
"Beneath him will be recruits Oscar Schubert and Arnold Drexler as Acting-Corporals. The position itself," he clicked the remote again and a grainy satellite shot of the mutant compound was displayed on the screen, "is comprised of fifteen structures, constructed from local timber and sheet metal, within the confines of a palisade with several structures suspected to be agricultural in nature on the outside." All whilst talking, he was jabbing at the projection with a metal pointer. "Number of enemy personnel is unknown but suspected to be between two and three dozen, lightly armed. Weather projections for the AO is overcast but no rain is expected. Acting-Sergeant."
"Sir," Sutler snapped to attention, left dumbfounded for a second before he realised he was being addressed.
"You have one hour to formulate a plan of attack with your troops before deployment."
The whole thing was a large group exercise like the kind they had sometimes done during classes, a test of their knowledge of unit tactics and positioning. The notion that this "outpost" posed any security threat to Navarro, even in-terms of long distance surveillance, was laughable; it was just a small village of mutants eking out what passed for an existence on the mainland. But a job was a job. They stood around the projection, Sutler was given the officers pointer and stood lost for a moment before making some token gestures. They noted the several watchtowers at key points on the palisade, one the gate and one on two of the corners as-well as lengths of battlements along the longer sections of the palisade. The whole set-up was something from ancient history, a theatre of war that they were not trained for, like the forts in the Revolutionary Wars that had birthed their country. The Chinese had fought from trenches where they had bothered to fortify and the Canadian seditionists fought from the windows and vantages in their own cities; never anything so Colonial in-design.
Sutler stood at the front of the room, taking advice from those in-front of him, he couldn't see their faces and, though they kept their tones chaste, he couldn't help but wonder what some of them thought of taking orders from him. Alan Sutler, the son of a lowly deck-hand and a dead soldier, whose grandparents had fed the great Reactor or abseiled down the struts to remove rust and repaint the Rig now leading people from generational soldiers. He didn't know what he had done to merit this honour, what he had done more than anyone to catch the Sergeant's eye, but he couldn't let him down.
As they planned the officer paced around behind the formation of soldiers, seldom offering comment or interjection. Sutler was watching him from the corner of his eye, scanning for any inflection that might hint at an opinion on their plan, approval or otherwise. The Sergeant too, though largely inscrutable inside his armour, caught Sutler's eye with every movement as he watched closely for a slight shake of the head or nod of approval that the old man might make to himself as he watched the subjects of all his training. When they had discussed simply strafing the entire camp with 25mm grenades from a Vertibird before moving in to mop-up the officer and had piped-up.
"Such a manoeuvre might kill the enemy commander and cause failure of critical mission objectives."
'Of-course', Sutler thought bitterly. 'That would be cheating'.
Sutler was stood comfortably by the right-hand door, looking through the window at the hazy blur of beige and brown, peppered with dead stalks of trees that they were supposedly fighting to reclaim. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel, he'd seen the movies and heard the stories from the others about soldiers laughing, joking and singing as their Vertibird borne them towards their destination. But the atmosphere in the Vertibird was quiet, almost ponderous, not with fear of the task but in reverence of its magnitude and what it meant for them to become men. Looking away from the window he turned to watch his men, three lined up at each of the doors, busying themselves with their equipment and weapons. Drexler in particular Sutler noticed was stood stock still, tracing his thumb around a circular outlet on his plasma rifle whilst looking down but not at the weapon. Sutler watched him curiously, thinking back to something Autumn had said after their weapons the previous week.
"People who go for plasma are like those that went for flamethrowers before the war," he had said cautiously. "A few rounds short of a full mag if you catch me."
Sutler had asked why, not being familiar with military caste superstition.
"There ain't no plasma positions on the Oil Rig sport. The people who are fixin' after those weapons are the kind that want to be on the mainland fighting for as-long as possible and never come home. Some might be kind and call it keen but I'll call it what it is and that's plan weird. Drex is a Plasma Spaz; keep an eye on your Psycho ration.
He continued to watch Drexler perform the reverent motion for a few more moments before the pilot interrupted.
"Alright boys," he yelled back. "ETA at the LZ in five minutes. Gear up!"
Sutler swallowed and felt a cold lump in his chest. It was finally time. He reached for the handle on the door of the Vertibird and slid it back as Drexler on the other-side did the same, their study power armour un-phased by the roaring buffet of air that blasted through. Looking out he saw the other Vertibird flying close beside them, a trooper he took to be Schubert gave him something between a salute and a wave which Sutler returned with a grin.
"Right men," Sutler said turning around to face them. "Light 'em up." There was a flurry of activity as weapons were drawn and re-energised. "Pop-em," he drew a dose of Psycho from his duffle bag and removed a panel on the left fore-guard of his armour to reveal a small circular port; drawing his thumb across a slide it opened mechanically and he slid the needle into his arm. As the drug coursed through him he felt his eyes open wider and became suddenly aware of his breathing as he inhaled and exhaled loudly. Looking out the window again it was like everything had been brought into an unnatural focus, he looked down to find his right fist clenching and unclenching without him having consciously wished it to do so. "Positions!"
He scrambled into a squat before letting his legs hang outside the Vertibird as Private Roscoe did the same next to him and Drexler and Autumn would be doing on the other-side. They were slowing down and losing altitude, coming to a near stop before the cabin of the craft was filled with green light.
"Go!"
The four soldiers dropped some fifty feet to the ground, landing on haunches, their impact kicking a cloud of dry earth into the air. Sutler look up to see the Vertibird peeling away again and across at the other LZ where the other flight was doing the same. The birds, each still with two soldiers between them would hover around the enemy settlement some three klicks distant and provide them with tactical information before their assault.
"Form up,"
Getting to their feet and iron sights pressed to helmets, they scanned around for any sign of activity but found none. Sutler made a chopping motion with his hand as he looked over at the other fire-team, Shubert nodding and beckoning for his men to follow to their designation position. Sutler looked around, gauging the environment of lightly cresting hills and dry, barren soil; dawn had broken only an hour previously, casting a feeble dawn light across the world. The fire-teams were splitting up, as-per their plan, with Sutler leading an attack on the compound's western wall whilst Shubert and his men would take the east. The remaining troops were being deployed on the ruin of an elevated highway not too far from the settlement to act as marksmen. They made swift pace across the wilderness, jogging in a long line. It was as they ran that the one thing which always struck Sutler about the mainland got to him again, the silence. The eerie quiet that pervaded the desolate landscape was enough to make the soldier in him instinctively cautious and expecting of trouble. A life on the Oil Rig accustomed a person to constant noise: the stamp of boots on metal tread, mysterious humming and hissing of machinery behind panels and the constant ticking of the PA system that counted every second of everyday. Out here the only noise being made was by them, their heavy boots in the dry earth and the Vertibirds circling not too far away.
As the settlement can into sight, Sutler could only marvel out how the place really did look like an ancient colonial fort, albeit constructed from tyres and loose timber rather than bricks. Sutler pulled a hand-held radio from his thigh.
"COEN-Twelve, this is Charlie-Actual. Receiving me over?"
"Affirmative Charlie-Actual, Lime Charlie, over." The pilot came back, flat and professional.
"Sitrep on the compound. Over."
"Copy. Around two dozen in central courtyard. Appear armed but can't identify. They're just looking at us, not engaging. Probably rocking their tiny worlds. Over."
It was certainly true, the poor saps behind their flimsy walls had probably never even countenanced the thought of something so large flying. Whilst talking on his radio, Sutler had a pair of binoculars glued to his helmet, the two watchtowers along the perimeter of the compound were manned.
"Copy. Can you identify contact in northern watchtower? Over."
"Affirmative Charlie-Actual. Single contact in northern watch-tower. Over."
"Copy. Need 'em taken all out. Execute to follow. Over."
"Copy. Over."
"Copy. Out. COEN-Nine, are you receiving? Over."
"Copy Charlie-Actual. Over."
"Copy. I've got two structures outside the walls. Need 'em taking out. 25mm cannon. Execute to follow. Over."
"Copy Charlie-Actual. Over."
"Roger. Out."
Both Vertibirds in position, all he needed was a clear from the other two four man teams.
"Delta-Actual, give me two clicks. Execute to follow .Out." He released the transmit button and immediately heard two clicks as Shubert pressed the transmit button twice. "Echo-Actual, two clicks. Execute to follow. Out." Again he received the signal. Everyone was ready. He suddenly felt a great weight on his shoulders as two airborne killing machines and eleven men waited on his signal to wade in combat. The pressing weight of the situation was almost negating the Psycho haze.
"Execute. Out."
There was a final moment of silence before hell was unleashed. From COEN-Twelve was long and low thump as a column of steel rain, loosed from a minigun, turned a watchtower and it's occupant to splinters and traced across the ground, kicking up a wall of dirt as bullets slammed into the earth, before striking the second watchtower. Simultaneously COEN-Nine spat out two bursts, each composed of three 25mm grenades which slammed into the structures outside the walls. They imploded beneath a cloud of smoke and dust.
"Come one lads!" Sutler yelled as he stood up and charged at the palisade ahead. There was another burst of fire as the COEN-Twelve obliterated the final watchtower that covered Schubert and his men's route to the compound. Sutler pulled a plasma grenade from his chest rig and let it fly at the wall ahead, detonating in a brilliant green light that instantly liquefied the sturdy wall into a glowing puddle of green ooze. As the energy dissipated, Sutler could see through the whole the gathered crowd that COEN-Twelve had identified scattering; aiming down the sights of the Gauss Pistol he pulled the trigger. The gun cracked loudly as the slim round broke the sound barrier and caught a scruffy looking mutant in leather in the torso. It tumbled perfectly, blasting everything around the rib-cage into a cloud of red mist and Sutler felt his eyes flick open in awe. A second blast went off as Schubert and his men blast through their part of the wall, the air crackling as the vibrant green energy dissipated.
Crossing the distance to the hole blasted in the weak palisade Sutler say the gawkers scattered, running in all directions. They lacked even the weak combat tactics of the Chinese. He fired again, backed up with bolts of red and green from his men and Schubert's clearing their breach. The people in the courtyard didn't stand a chance, cut down in the lethal light-show, distinctions between those armed and those not both unperceivable and unimportant. They didn't vanish in flashes of blue light like the corpses in the simulations, instead remaining on the ground in grotesque formations, often only partly whole and smoldering with residual energy and heat from the energy weapons.
Striding across to the nearest building, Sutler planted his boot through the flimsy sheet metal that construed its walls and felt the weak structure rock beneath the force. The sheet of metal flew across the small space and Sutler stepped in, a man in the corner, shielding behind him a women and child hopelessly raised a weapon before Sutler fired – painting him across the wall. Sutler turned, but the sound of cry, laden with repressed sobs, turned him back around. The women was crawling from his position to the fallen shotgun by the man's shattered body. Crossing the space in two strides, Sutler stamped on the gun, crushing the barrel beneath his boot before casually flicking the women back into his corner with the tip of his boot.
"Don't move!" He yelled at her.
The whole show was over in minutes, troops clearing each structure of those daring to even raise a weapon against them whilst the Vertibirds in the air cut down those fleeing with a storm of bullets from their mounted miniguns.
Sutler stepped back into the courtyard as the battle waned, the final blast of gunfire silenced by the hiss of a laser. He looked around at those disseminated through-out the courtyard, strewn like litter across the dirt. With his free hand he drew his P90c, wafting it casually through the air, pulling the trigger for an occasional burst to silence the few remaining groans of agony. Stowing the weapon he raised his radio again.
"COEN-Twelve, this is Charlie-Actual. Over."
Copy Charlie-Actual. Over."
"Any more runners?"
"Negative Charlie-Actual. All hostiles neutralised. Over."
"Copy. Rounding remaining populace around the well. Requesting further orders. Out."
As he spoke and the dust settled, the remaining people from the settlement were evicted from their homes; some dragged bodily by Enclave soldiers to form a huddled pile of weeping and confused mutants in the centre of the settlement. As the final one was thrown into the huddled crowd Sutler drew his weapon on a women, her face a glistening mask of tears.
"You!" He barked. "Who's in-charge of this place?"
Wordlessly, she pointed to a man lying in the dirt, a gaping whole glowing with florescent green in his chest.
"Fuck," Sutler cursed. The enemy "commander" was dead, double PT for them all probably. He drew his radio again.
"ENCOM this is Charlie-Actual. Over."
"Copy Charlie-Actual. Over." Though distant, the voice of the man at Navarro was clear.
"Objectives complete. Requesting further orders. Over."
"Copy Charlie-Actual." There was a brief pause for effect, Sutler greatly suspecting that their subsequent orders were already there. "Charlie-Actual, orders from Command. Eliminate remaining illegal aliens. Over."
"WILCO ENCOM. Charlie-Actual out."
He stowed the radio before taking a side-long look at the mass of people around the well, just over a dozen; non-combatants to be sure but definitely mutants. He raised a first before twirling his fingers in a circle in the air. The nearby troops gathered around.
"Orders from command are to eliminate these people. Nobody can remain."
There was a grumble of agreement but to Sutler's honest surprise Autumn spoke up.
"The battle is over Sut… Acting-Sergeant. Are you certain of your orders."
"Yes Private," Sutler said with deliberate emphasis. It felt strange, the granting of a temporary title placing him above the man he thought of as his big brother. "Kill them all," he said simply.
"But…" Autumn's voiced shook with a sincerity that Sutler had honestly never imagined from the strutting, confident figure of Augustus Autumn.
"They're already dead anyway," Drexler said. "Either us or the Project. Who cares?"
Sutler looked back at the crowd, a women was closest to him, muffling her bawling into the crook of her elbow before looking up to turn a tear streaked and frightened face to him. Sutler remembered his father before he left for Navarro that last time and of coming home one day to see a uniformed officer presenting his mother with a folded flag whilst she cried.
"Drex is right," Sutler said softly, aiming his pistol at the women. "These mainlanders are already dead anyway."
He fired.
Stood smartly to attention in the barrack room, Sutler shone with pride as the President Dick Richardson himself turned away from his adjutant and pressed a black leather box into Sutler's hands. Inside were a pair of badges, the Combat Infantryman Badge of a musket on a blue enamel rectangle and the crossed lightening and rifle of the air assault badge. On top was a yellow and black shoulder tab reading "AIRBORNE". He saluted the President. He was finally a man.
