Missing in Action 22) Charlie Foxtrot, Entree
My thanks to ScrimshawPen, DmCrebel25, Aegon Blacksteel, The Desert Dancer, Paladin Bailey, PartyPat22, JSailer, Guest (Yes, it's the same Dogmeat. Physically, at least.), WilSquare, Winding Warpath, MasterDoom Maker (x2), colstrent (x4) for their feedback and support.
I've deleted House's scene from the last chapter. It was too wordy, and most of the content was either redundant after Kana's scene with Derek, or just telling worldbuilding rather than showing it. It didn't work well, no matter the information it confirmed or revealed. That still stands, by the way. Or maybe they don't anymore.
"Today's news was brought to you by the Wah Ching Triad. To all the Shi folks in this fine city, Vegas has a place for you. More classics coming right up for you, so stay tuned."
John knocked back the lithium and replaced the empty vial into the box as Blue Moon started waxing out of the radio. 'Only a few more to go.' He stowed the medication back into his personal locker, then stole out of the bedroom, following the sound and aroma of sizzling meat into the kitchen.
He flipped one steak, then the other, and pressed the rawer side on the hob with a spatula. A rosemary stick dipped into the oil and he brushed the steak with it, careful not to overdo it. Just enough to add to the taste, not cover it, Veronica had said.
Satisfied, he picked up his book where he left off. In moments, he was wearing Rodion Raskolnikov's shoes again, treading the streets of St. Petersburg to the rhythm of Dostoevsky's prose.
He hadn't known what to expect when he started therapy with Mr. Cork, two weeks before. A reading assignment hadn't been it.
It didn't take long to figure out the reason behind the barman-therapist's taste.
The first time the Russian student's internal conflict and guilt over a senseless murder strummed at familiar cords, John had put down the book. The next time, and many after that, he did the same.
Two weeks later and half the book in, the impulse was weaker. And yet, it was still a relief to have a good excuse to put down the book when the door hissed open.
"That smells nice." His wife walked up, already kicking off her low shoes, apron folded over one arm. The other slid comfortably around his side. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "You know, there's only so many ways you can have a steak before just frying it."
"Nope, only one. Medium rare –"
" – no sauce. Always the purist." They shared a chuckle and Joana gave him a quick peck before she disappeared into the bathroom. When he heard the shower power-up, he moved the small dining table away from the only window giving into the Vault's corridor. After he made sure that nobody was lurking outside, he pulled the curtains, and set the table in the middle of their living space. Lastly, he lit the two scented candles he'd bought at the Heavenly Dragon in Freeside, earlier that day.
Humming, he plated the steaks up with potato wedges, then set the homemade deviled eggs with peppers beside a cool bowl of fruit salad, a light thing made of sliced banana yucca, mutfruit, and cactus fruit with only a sprinkle of pinyon nuts.
On the way to the room's light controls, he caught a glimpse of himself in the screen of the dormant Pip-Boy, left near the sink.
He was smirking. His muscles started to curl downwards. Following Mr. Cork's advice, he closed his eyes and focused on the general soreness of his muscles after a hard day of physical work; on the faint tingle lingering after the skin of his right palm regenerated where it split open, again and again, after tearing his working gloves on a piece of rebar.
The pang of guilt eased. It wasn't much, but it was something. Then he realized the shower wasn't running anymore. He forced the smile back and rushed to the controls.
Joana gaped a little when she emerged, clad in a tank top and sweatpants, skin rosy from the hot water. John's face relaxed a little, but his pants started to feel tight.
"Wow. What are we celebrating?"
"Us. Today's our fourth anniversary, isn't it?"
She looked at the table, eyes distant. "It is." Her smile wavered. "You remembered?"
"Just what you told me."
"It'll come back to you. I know it." She walked up to him and poked him in the chest. "'Us', huh? That was corny."
"Still true."
"Still corny." She took his hand and led him to the table. "This looks delicious!"
He pulled the chair out for her, and they dug in. The food washed away the lingering taste of lithium in his mouth. Two weeks into marital life and three meals a day had done wonders for both of them. Joana didn't speak much of her time in North Vegas, but he knew she'd skirted too close to starvation. When, during their first session, Mr. Cork suggested that he picked up a hobby as well as Crime and Punishment, cooking had been John's first choice.
The very faint scars in the crook of Joana's elbow and how she always wore long sleeves at work told another story too, a familiar one. The only time he'd asked, a wall had gone up behind her eyes, and she'd said she didn't want to talk about it. Not yet.
That night, he'd woken up to an empty bed and sobs echoing from the bathroom. He didn't know what to do. When she'd laid back down, after what felt like hours, he'd pretended to be asleep.
He didn't ask again, giving her time and space. In return, she never questioned him on what his work for Mr. House entailed.
He chewed on a nerve in the meat, looking at her. What was better? Lies and half-truths, or willingly ignoring certain discussions as per a tacit agreement?
"These are great. So spicy!" She smiled at him around a mouthful of deviled eggs. He pushed those thoughts aside.
"How was your day? That Omertas thug bothered you again?"
"I told you, Sarah's banned him, and a Securitron took him in for harassment. Relax." She shrugged and picked another egg. "More and more people are coming in, now that the NCR has pushed the Fiends back. Sarah's pleased. And she thinks you're avoiding her."
"I am," John grunted. Joana chuckled. "That woman's dangerous."
"She's just a terrible gossip." Her bare foot left a trail of shivers up John's calf. She answered his raised eyebrow with an impish smirk. "She's also asked to join in, one of these nights."
John choked on a potato wedge. Joana chortled into her fist.
"Devil woman," he coughed.
"Don't worry," she said, a glint in her eye, "I won't let her ravish you. You're mine."
A small, fond smile spread across his face. "Now who's being corny?"
She flicked a nut at him. "Shut up. What about you? How was Freeside?"
"It was good. Better than last week," he amended, sobering up. "The King's out and about again, and there's been a surge of new jobs since Mr. House and Crocker struck their deal."
The NCR Ambassador had gone on air a few days before, ratifying in the same breath the creation of an official NCR colony in Freeside, and the transfer of most of the Sharecropper Farms to Mr. House.
Presley King had limped out of the Strip less than an hour later, escorted by Securitrons. Then two days later, a column of Shi trucks had driven up to Freeside's gate.
"More than a hundred people showed up to help at the School, on top of the Kings there," John continued. "That was something. We cleared out most of the debris in the morning and made good progress on the outer walls. There was even a Protectron playing architect for the renovation."
John had been close enough to see the King clearly. More than the scars lining his handsome face, or his words of collaboration with Mr. House and the Securitrons, it was his eyes that stuck with John. They didn't belong to a cowed man. The memory soured the taste of the crunchy potato.
"What's an architect?" Joana asked.
"Someone who plans and oversees the construction of a building. Mr. House programmed some spare robots with the know-how and set them loose." John made a circling gesture with his fork. "There's a couple dozen of them all over Freeside and the Sharecroppers now, I think. Helping set up greenhouses and irrigation systems, repair homes, wells, pipes, roads. And I heard some of the Followers talk about public schooling come spring when I passed by the Fort." He chewed down the last of his steak. Mr. House had been busy. "The first greenhouse will be up in a couple of days. People have already started planting the Shi's cool season crops in pots."
Joana looked thoughtful. "That was very kind of Mr. House. I mean, lending the crops, giving all that free food around during the crisis. All he did for us."
John nodded. Kind was not a word he'd use to describe Mr. House. A firm believer in the carrot and the stick, absolutely. Someone who did nothing without a personal gain, a gain for Vegas. And yet, he had been generous.
In spite of the terms of their contract and how pressing the Boomer situation had sounded a couple of weeks before, the ruler of Vegas hadn't brought any of that up, or any other black op whatsoever, ever since he reunited with Joana.
They even stopped playing high-stakes poker, which did help John's pockets.
Looking back, it was a break he didn't know he'd needed. Both to deal with his own baggage, and learn to know and live with his wife again. The road was long and tortuous. but John was grateful for the opportunity to walk it.
And yet, he awoke almost every night with a start, covered in sweat. Half-remembered dreams of glass domes and crushing pincers mixed with the memories of the very real mangled bodies dug out from the buildings that collapsed in the Silver Rush's explosion.
Sometimes, as he lay there, panting quietly as to not awake Joana, Jason Bright's voice in his head asked if the price of his soul was worth the future Mr. House had gifted him.
Joana's hand over his started him. She peered at him in the candlelight. "Hey. You spaced out a bit there."
"Just thinking." She squeezed his hand, her offer unobtrusive yet clear. John wondered what to say. Would she judge him, if he told her the truth about what he'd done to buy them this chance? What kind of relationship could they even rebuild on top of lies?
"I don't remember anything," he said. It was a truth, just not the truth of what he'd been thinking about. "The East, all we went through to escape the Enclave and get here. It's a complete blank. Nothing's coming back."
She stood and hugged him from behind, resting her chin on the crook of his neck. "It's not your fault, Johnathan." Her breath tickled him, her chest pressed against his back. Despite his shame, his body started to respond.
"It's Benny's. He tried to take everything from us. He almost took you away from me." She cupped his face, making him look at her. "The Enclave tried too, but we're still here. You're a good man."
'I'm a mass murderer.'
Later, on the couch, Joana stretched her legs across his lap and John gave her a foot massage. Hank Williams's Jambalaya and the occasional groan filled the silence between them for slow minutes, while Joana's free foot traced lazy circles on the inside of his thigh.
"How do you want to celebrate?" he asked. The circling stopped, and Joana smirked teasingly.
"Everyone's speaking about the Rad Pack's new act at the Tops. We've still got time to catch it."
The radio powered down, the sudden silence cutting him off. John's head snapped around just in time to see Mr. House's face appear on the Pip-Boy's screen.
"Mr. Ross."
Joana gasped. John turned back to her with an apologetic look. She offered a wistful smile, and nodded at the sink. He picked up the Pip-Boy and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
"I'm here, sir."
"I know." Mr. House didn't sound pleased. "There's been a measles outbreak at the Aerotech refugee camp. The Followers are mobilizing, and Ms. Santangelo is assisting. Keep a close tab on her in the next few days, will you? And please, be discrete. Don't overdo it with the Stealth Boys again."
"Yes sir," John confirmed, wincing. "What happened to the tracker you put in her suit?"
"It stopped transmitting for a few hours, then it turned back on. It could be a malfunction, or she may know about it. Either way, it's a chance I won't take."
There was little shushing that stab of guilt. "Do you think she'll pack up and go back to the bunker? Last time I spoke to her, it looked like she'd clicked with the Followers." With most of them, at least. Her direct superior, the same Dr. Gannon from Novac, was distant and sardonic, sharp eyes suspicious behind his spectacles.
"I predict she will, after she hears the news." There was a smirk in Mr. House's voice. "I intercepted an army transmission to McCarran. Lost Hills has capitulated. Finally, I may add. Brigadier General Navache has taken High Elder Maxson captive."
"Alive?" John drew in a breath, recalling the data from Mr. House's thin folder on the Iron General and the thicker one on his decade-long campaign against the Brotherhood, which he'd only skimmed. The song was always the same. No survivors. "He means to parade him around, doesn't he?"
"A savvy political move, for a tribal." Was that annoyance? "Soon, the news will spread like wildfire. For the morale boost on the frontlines, if nothing else."
The dots linked in John's mind. There was no way Veronica wouldn't hear, not when at an NCR camp. "That means the Mojave bunker –"
"- is the last, pitiful holdout of the Brotherhood in the West. Considering their isolation policies, I predict that she'll rush to get the news to them. An emotional, knee-jerk reaction. She will lead you straight to their doorstep." Scorn and mockery dripped from Mr. House's voice. "I won't have more bulging-eyed fanatics galavant around the Mojave, sowing chaos."
John's throat was dry, the lingering taste of dinner turning to ash. "You want me to kill them?"
"Hm. I doubt you can bluff or sneak your way in. You're a capable agent, Mr. Ross, but it's better we leave the bunker-cracking to the specialists. Especially when several are at hand. Don't take unnecessary risks. Just bring me the coordinates."
The bottom fell out from John's stomach under Mr. House's pixel stare. 'He's going to turn them into more political capital.' "What about Veronica, sir?"
"As per our contract, her fate remains up to you."
The bed creaked under John's sudden weight. "I'll bring Boone," he said, eyes closed. If the sniper was willing. In hindsight, Boone had taken to being used as bait for cannibals as well as it could be expected. He'd seen little of the sniper ever since. "He's a better tracker than I am." 'A better man. Maybe he'll know what to do.'
"That won't be possible," House said. John's head snapped up. "He headed into Fiends' territory three days ago. Hunting, I believe the word was." Mr. House's voice turned steely. "Don't let misdirected sympathy cloud your judgment, Mr. Ross. I'd be terribly disappointed."
No Proof.
The incision on the .308 cartridge was so thin, Boone would have missed it in full daylight if he didn't already know it was there.
Office's standard contact method, Lt. Boyd had said. Never mentioned how pointless it would all be.
He should have never accepted their offer. Looking back, he'd have let Ranger Tanner walk out of that interrogation room. He'd do a great many things differently.
'But that's not how it works.'
Boone slotted the ruined cartridge into a damaged mag, then secured that in a pouch on his rig. For later. He plucked another .308 from the loose stash he'd bought from Mick & Ralph three days before. Finding no imperfections, he filed it into the last empty mag.
Down the high-powered scope, the night ruins beyond the loosely boarded-up window were awash in Cateye blues. Further north-west, a huge fire blazed a glowing white. Dust motes and dirt from the sandstorm two weeks before danced before the lenses, disturbed when he'd adjusted the rifle's bipod on the table.
Boone locked the mag into the AXMC and chambered the first round. .308s were cheaper than .338 Lapua. Easier to find in large quantities. Just needed to switch his rifle's barrel, and he was good to go.
.308s cut through the Khans, at Bitter Springs. They'd do for the Fiends. The precious few AP .338 left from House's armory had another name already written on them.
Boone checked the starry sky through the wide gaps in the boarded window. Almost time. Cook-Cook enjoyed late dinners, and so did his gang. Motor Runner's disastrous offensive and the army's counterattack hadn't changed that habit. The not-so-distant blaze didn't, either. He made sure the cooler bag was within hands' reach for a quick getaway,
His back complained. The chair creaked under the weight of the riot gear as he shifted, to keep the blood flowing. He placed two more mags on the table for a quick reload, took a sip of water, and then set to waiting for his prey. After two days of scouting and preparing, he was finally ready.
Five stories below and a collapsed city block away, several brahmin cows and bulls dozed in a pen. A cooking fire roared silently in a pit. The white glow played on scattered bottles, metal armor and cattle skulls.
A thin crowd of Fiends warmed themselves up around the fire. To a man, those not spastic or senseless with drugs and booze stared regularly north-west. Mouths ran, the words lost. A fistfight erupted and was quickly broken up before the knives came out.
Boone counted at least a dozen fewer people than the night before. He'd seen them trickle out throughout the day, between the sporadic patrols. The perimeter was full of holes, mounted guns barely manned. The few who'd had been caught were shot in the back. It didn't stop others from trying.
Cook Cook's gang was falling apart. Boone studied them. This remaining crowd could never get the jump on any First Recon team. Too ragtag. Disorganized.
It was no consolation for Betsy, though. Killing the rapist herself would help her more than all the therapy at Dr. Usanagi's, but she couldn't. Too compromised to risk it, the doctor said.
What did a shrink know? But Betsy had her orders, from Lt. Gorobets and Major Dhatri.
Flames spurted out from a nearby building, white and blinding. Boone blinked rapidly. Soon. He double-checked that his line of fire remained free. The cooking fire flickered and wavered, white flames blowing in his direction.
He adjusted the scope to compensate for the wind, glancing at the numbers jotted on a scrap of paper taped to the inside of the scope's flip-up cap. Moments later, the cool autumn breeze washed over him through the boarded window.
Boone shivered inside the armor. The cold echoed inside his bones.
Forty-five minutes. He'd spent that long inside the Ultra-Lux's cooler. He rubbed his fingers and toes against ghost-frostbite. Nearly froze to death there, before the kitchen shift changed and he managed to sneak out.
Meanwhile, Doe had kidnapped Alice McLafferty, and pinned the blame on the White Gloves' Society. Hadn't even denied it, when he came to apologize.
He hadn't expected any better, not from another mass-murderer. Wouldn't lose any sleep over the masked fools, either. But to compromise Crimson Caravan meant sabotaging the army's supply lines. The info went into his last coded report. House's movements at Black Mountain, the super mutant inner strife, even the Legion involvement, were just a quick addendum.
The Office's answer came in the terms of the new agreement with Mr. House, and etched on a .308 cartridge. No Proof.
The message couldn't be any clearer. Boone exhaled sharply, struggling to control his breathing.
He had his orders. Be Doe's shadow. Spy on House. Stay on the lookout for Enclave contact.
He had had orders at Bitter Springs too. Followed them, and stared down his scope at women and children. Put him on life's blacklist.
Movement around Cook Cook's camp alerted him. It wasn't the chieftain and his aides, carrying a fresh carcass tied to a metal grill, to finish crisping it and then carve it up for the posse. He zeroed the scope on the newcomers as they walked past the perimeter, their numbers swelling by the second in the firelight.
Ten. Twenty. Fifty, and rising. Fiends in patchwork metal armor or half-naked, cattle and human skulls hanging from sashes and belts. His finger froze on the trigger at the sight of the first horned helmet among that crowd.
Great Khans, geared for war. Thick motorcycle gear reinforced with heavy metal plates replaced the usual sleeveless jerkins and jackets. The red horned skull grinned from their breasts and backs.
Last time he'd seen that attire, it was on corpses at Bitter Springs, torn apart by enough bullets to put down a bear.
What were they doing there? 'This isn't a delivery.' His mind went to the blaze north-west. Could it be? No, he'd seen the lasers. Heard the missiles' impact, how it silenced the howls of dogs and men in the wind. Khans used neither.
The newcomers and the Khans encircled Cook-Cook's gang. Boone lifted his finger from the trigger and waited. There. The crowd parted for Cook-Cook, a butcher apron tied over his barrel torso. He waved the flamethrower muzzle around; his gang and the newcomers alike took a step back.
Boone centered the crosshair just above the chieftain's heart. His trigger finger twitched. A perfect shot opportunity came and passed as Cook-Cook swiveled around and stopped, gaping.
Boone saw the deathclaw skull first, then the slack, bearded head mounted on a spear, too mangled and swollen to make out a face. Wearing the skull as a helmet and holding the latter high, the other Fiends chieftain strode up within striking distance of Cook-Cook and drove the butt of the spear into the ground. He turned around, offering the stunned Cook-Cook and the gang his back, and beckoned the crowd behind him.
A broken chainsaw was tossed at Cook-Cook's feet. He recoiled like it was a grenade. Boone's blood turned to ice.
That was Motor Runner's head. And the deathclaw-wearing chieftain pointing a golf club at Cook-Cook and his gang could only be Driver Nephi.
'It's a coup.' One that already happened, he realized. 'This is just the last act.' Motor-Runner had led the Fiends to assault the NCR, and paid for the failure. Driver Nephi held everyone's attention as he swept his club between Cook-Cook and the fires to the north-west.
Hours after sundown, Violet's Hound Fortress, the gateway to Red Rock Canyon and the Khans' chem trade, was still burning.
Boone had no way to hear his words without Doe's microphone. It didn't matter. One after another, every member of Cook-Cook's gang dropped their weapons.
In a matter of seconds, Cook-Cook was alone. Like the first wounded coyote Boone had ever cornered, the Fiend lashed out.
Before he could light Nephi up like a bonfire, his legs went out from under him, and he crumpled under the weight of the tank on his back. The gun reports reached Boone a moment later. Two Khans fell on the thrashing chieftain. They kicked the flamethrower's muzzle away and tore the fuel tank from his back, then grabbed him and hauled him to his feet.
As they held Cook-Cook up between them and Driver Nephi caved his head in, Boone put the Fiends' new leader into his crosshair.
The line of fire was still clear. He could take the shot. Behead the Fiends' leadership for good. Motor-Runner and Cook-Cook were dead. Violet too, presumably. Nephi was the last bigshot name on Major Dhatri's hit-list, the last chieftain with enough pull to rally all the psychos and addicts under one banner.
Boone caressed the trigger. He'd planned his escape from two dozen people, not nearly a hundred. Not with Khan veterans thrown in the mix. Maybe he could still manage, but it was night, and they had the home terrain advantage. The first army checkpoint was at least a mile-long slog through the ruins.
He breathed out. Not too long ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. Nephi would already be dead, and he'd be running. If he hesitated in the field, he or someone he loved would die. The drill sergeants had broken it into him early during boot camp.
The words rang hollow now. Who was left? Cook-Cook's head would be his last farewell.
Boone's finger eased off the trigger again. He'd take his last shot soon. 'But not here. Not now.'
Dawn was starting to break by the time Boone crawled a roundabout way to Cook-Cook's camp, both eyes out for stragglers and traps. He found only a radio set on the NCR public channel, garbling out a repeat of Henry Jamison's first interview as Crimson's Mojave CEO. A condemnation of his predecessor's murder, and a reassurance of support. Boone turned it off.
Driver Nephi had taken away Motor Runner's head and the chainsaw, as well as all the brahmins and supplies, but Cook-Cook's body was left to rot and feed the carrion. A couple of bullets dispatched the biggest bloatflies already nesting on it, leaving only burrowing worms and the smaller, harmless variety buzzing around him as he set down to work.
For all his reputation as a pyro, cannibal, and rapist, Cook-Cook had a fleshy baby face. A very recognizable one. Boone hacked at the neck with his machete. The blade ground and scraped against bone, vibrations traveling up his arm with every blow. When he was done, he sealed the trophy into the cooler bag and tied it across his back.
He was about to depart when he recalled Corporal Sterling's words, on the day Betsy and the new blood came back. His hand closed around soft, grimy cloth in Cook-Cook's back pocket.
Did the legionaries who kidnapped Carla take trophies too, afterward?
Boone spat on Cook-Cook's body and put the beret in his pocket.
The trip back to the New Vegas Clinic took him the best part of the morning. He crossed the army's new checkpoints on both sides of Highway 15, followed the fading tracks left by the Shi trucks, and skirted around McCarran and the hustle and bustle of fall farmers and Securitrons at the Sharecroppers. A Guard of Iron sergeant leading a perimeter patrol accepted to deliver the broken mag to Ranger Tanner for a handful of caps.
The sun was shining high on a crisp desert morning when Boone was admitted into the Clinic.
"You came back," Dr. Usanagi greeted him. She looked up from her clipboard to the cooler bag, and paled a little. "You actually went and did it. That's him?"
Boone nodded and unslung the package from his back. The bottom of the bag bulged tellingly in the middle. The short Shi doctor suppressed a flinch and had a guard take it from Boone with orders to stow it into an empty freezer. Soon, gagging sounds echoed down the corridor.
"Betsy?"
"The next group meeting is tonight. You can stick around and wait for her. Take a shower and a nap. There're free beds in the back." For a moment, he was sorely tempted. His limbs were starting to feel leaden. He shook his head, digging into his pocket.
The doctor sighed, "For the record, I do not approve of murder as therapy, but he deserved it. Maybe this will help Betsy, and others like her, to turn over a new leaf. That's hers?"
"He kept it as a trophy."
She turned the folded beret in her hands, grimacing. "I'll give it back to her, clean. You need to at least eat something before you leave. You look dead on your feet"
"I'll eat. Later." When he was farther away from McCarran and the Office. "Doctor."
"Wait." Boone turned back on the door, frowning behind his shades. "A veteran ranger stopped by yesterday to settle Ranger Stella's bill. Didn't know you'd already paid for it. Asked to pass along the Rangers' thanks, and to tell you that Stella's doing much better. Apparently, she's already been reassigned to light duty." Her expression conveyed just what she thought of that decision. "Couldn't tell me where, of course."
"The veteran. What was her name?"
Dr. Usanagi peered at him over the rim of her glasses. "I never said it was a woman. He introduced himself as Ranger Lewin, but he never took off his helmet. A giant of a ghoul."
He nodded, teeth unclenching, and walked out of the Clinic. His stomach ached with hunger, but he decided to put a little more ground between himself and McCarran. No reason to get the Clinic involved with the Office, when they came after him. Better be long gone, by then.
He started to walk south-east on a well-beaten path through the ruins, towards Lake Mead. His legs were heavy, and a familiar sense of malaise urged him to turn back. To think again. To grab a bottle and numb himself for a while. It was weaker than it used to be, back when Carla was alive.
Had it already been a month since Cottonwood Cove?
Boone wiped his shades. This was for Carla. For himself, too. He should have done it long ago. Settled his debt. She would still be alive, then. Safe, happy, and oblivious on the Strip. Better off for having never met him.
The finality of that resolution steeled his nerves more than any stiff drink. By midday, he was overlooking Lake Mead. Camp Golf's resort clung to the mouth of the Vegas Bay, a couple miles down south.
Miles across the lake, the hazy profile of Fortification Hill towered above the water. Boone adjusted his shades and started down the overlook, looking for a boat.
For a giant of a man, Garrett had always been very light on his feet. In McCarran's packed mess hall, that only mattered so much. Tanner tracked her mentor's approach by the trail of curses he caused in his wake, strident notes to the cheers and generally upbeat atmosphere.
Someone gagged, probably a greenhorn. She put down her spork and suppressed a grimace.
'Canuck's going barefaced.' That always meant trouble. She flipped her notepad closed, putting narrowing down who the mole within Command was on hold, for the moment. She was going cross-eyed anyway after staring at the cipher all morning; ideally, she'd need someone behind bars or dead before the President and General Olivier sat down to treat with Mr. House.
'C'mon Carrie, get that centurion to talk.'
Garrett's ranger helmet claimed the spot in front of her. The white star on its side, a memento from his days as the riot control officer in Ashton, was freshly painted over a new dent in the helmet.
"Fiends?"
"Nelson," Garret said, hunched into a chair too small for him, no lunch tray to his name. If his flayed, red face didn't look like a skull straight out of a nightmare, she'd have chuckled. "The Legion has turned the whole area into a maze of mines, traps, and sharpshooters. Even Granite's being cautious." The dry, exposed muscles made his grimace look more like a snarl. "Violet's place was a cakewalk, by comparison."
"Well, shit. That's gonna be another meat grinder." A cheer of 'Fuck the tin-heads!' went up from a table, and more picked up the cry on the encore. Tanner didn't chuckle. For a moment there, Garrett looked ready to strangle someone. "Any trace of the Khans?"
He gave her a look. "Nothing new. Picked up their yurts and marched into the ruins. The only thing at Red Rock Canyon was Regis's body. They beat him to a pulp. And there goes the only chance of solving this without another bloodbath."
"Don't turn soft on me in your old age, now," she tried, but her stomach tied itself into ever tighter knots. "It's the Khans. They only learn the hard way."
"And swing back with a vengeance every time." He shook his head, stalling her with a raised palm. "Stow it. What about our lad?"
"He's vanished." The lie came out smoothly, even accusing. "The tracker stopped transmitting shortly after the incident at the Tops."
"And?"
"And nothing. We've lost him. Maybe House has him on ice, or maybe he just up and hightailed out of the Mojave. I won't tell you I told you, but I did."
Garrett sighed into his balled fists. His shoulders sagged. "And I had hoped…"
For a moment, he looked small, broken. The next, he was pinning her with a look that made her feel thirteen again, aiming his rifle down the firing range for the first time.
"Do you think I'm a fool, Helen? Look at me. Did you think I wouldn't figure you're an Agent, sooner or later?"
'How? Who told him?' Thoughts of playing dumb evaporated in the span of a long exhale. "Took you one hell of a long time, though."
Raw pain flickered across his face. "Since when?" A familiar stab tried to steal her breath, but she was long used to it.
"Three years and change. I volunteered after Baja." Then, more softly, "I know what the Divide did to you."
"You volunteered."
She mirrored him, elbows on the table, her voice low enough only he'd hear. "Do you think I'm blind? I've seen you cough blood. I know you visit Dr. Gunnarson. I don't want you to spend your last years on a battlefield, or see you killed by the Legion. The General will end this war faster than anyone else. All wars." She reached out and touched his forearm. "You've given more to the NCR than anyone else. You deserve to rest."
"Foolish brat." His voice hardened with his face. "Victory means nothing if you sacrifice your soul to get there. Navache is no different from the generals who pushed to annex Canada. His is not an NCR I want to live in for sure. It's not the NCR I've fought for!"
She grabbed his wrist. "Hush, Garrett. Not here." Conversations around them were going quiet, heads turning to see what the kerfuffle was all about. "Come on. We can continue this somewhere more private."
He made to respond but thought better of it. He strode off into the concourse instead, a withering glare sending many to study their trays. She caught up to him halfway to her quarters, but he barely glanced at her. The concourse echoed around them with the rumble and hiss of brakes; outside the panoramic window, the midday tram from the Strip slowed into the terminal building.
They didn't speak a word to each other until the door was firmly locked behind them, muffling McCarran's daily thrum to a faint hum.
"I know I've taught you better than this. Having people like Navache in power nearly made humanity extinct."
"'My country, right or wrong'," she quoted, sitting down on her bunk and staring at nothing. "'If right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right'. I remember, Garrett. But we've tried your way for so long. Years. And what did we get? You're dying." She rubbed her face, feeling every early line crease. "As long as the Brotherhood, the Legion, or anyone else like them is threatening us, we can't afford that kind of naïveté. We just can't anymore."
Garrett didn't speak for a long minute. He just stared at her, his face undecipherable. Then, "He's boasted about taking High Elder Maxson captive. Not one word about anyone else. Anyone. No mention of prisoners to deliver to Tibbets. No children and teens tagged for re-education."
Part of her truly envied him, for holding onto his values for so many decades. Centuries, even. 'And the result is killing him from the inside.'
"We've hunted down Navarro's hardliners for decades on the same grounds," she said slowly. She fancied she could see the words bounce off his thick skull. "Even the kids. Ideas and dogmas can be more dangerous than any nuke. You taught me that too."
"That goes both ways, Helen," he drawled. "We used to stand for something, back in Tandi's day. Before the Scourge. Before Navache."
"The government hired mercs and sanctioned sabotage to make Vault City fold in, back in Tandi's day," she spat back. "She signed the treaties with the New Reno Families. That's just how war and politics work. How they always have, and always will." She craned her neck to meet his gaze. "The General never put civilians into slave camps. He's just killed Brotherhood."
"Do you even hear yourself? You're condoning the murder of children and the helpless. Half the camp is celebrating, for God's sake! What have we come to?" He raked a hand through his tuft of stringy hair, frustrated enough to tear it off. "How is that any different from the Legion? Gas, rather than crosses and collars? How is that any different from the Enclave?"
"We didn't start the Scourge. They did. They bombed the Congress first."
"'They'? Goddamnit, Helen! Some of those kids weren't even born back then."
She bolted up then, even if she didn't reach up to his chin. "And how many never did, because of the Scourge?! Because your Follower friends didn't contribute their know-how to end the war early but cowered behind their pacifism?" Garrett stood very still. "It's because of this kind of talk that Hanlon's Chief, and not you."
She regretted the words the moment she said them, but it was too late. Garrett didn't even flinch. She couldn't remember him looking this sad, even back when he still had half of a working face.
"I don't envy him," he said, at last, unlocking the door. "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Helen. It's our choice whether we rise above it or not. I hope you'll see it, before it's too late."
And he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Tanner took a steadying breath and splashed some water in her face. The woman in the cracked mirror could have been her mother.
Someone rapped on her door.
"Garrett?" she asked, chastising herself with her next breath.
"No, ma'am. It's Sergeant Colville. Guard of Iron." Of course. Too low. "I was given a message for you."
It wasn't from Hildern, nor Granite. The puzzled non-com handed her a magazine and took his leave. She turned the thing in her hands, frowning. Too light for C4, or Semtex. The metal was bent in the middle, and she was fairly sure it wouldn't lock into any rifle. A single .308 cartridge was slotted on top.
When her thumb brushed over the faint etching on the case, doubt turned to certainty, and the bottom of her stomach fell. She'd told Dr. Hildern this would happen. Carrie had too. But the jumped-up egghead had to have it his way.
Breathing hard through her nose, she examined the cartridge. The .308 had no primer, she noticed after a moment. Hollowed out. She carefully extracted a piece of paper, covered in a couple of neat lines of cipher.
Khans joined the Fiends. Driver Nephi new leader, killed Motor-Runner and Cook-Cook.
I'm out.
B.
"This is crazy," she said, then hurried out of the door. Colonel Hsu and Major Granite needed to know, ASAP. Dr. Hildern could go hang, for all she cared.
She wasn't halfway through the concourse, the vibrations from the tram picking up speed on the monorail a familiar comfort, when the whole base shook once. The windows exploded, showering her with razor-sharp glass. Her last thought was that she should have worn a helmet.
Next thing she knew, someone was shaking her. A quick check-up told her that she was on her back. A whistle was bouncing around her skull. Blood dribbled into her eyes, stinging and restoring a measure of clarity. She wiped it away and let the soldier help her to a sitting position, glass cracking with every movement.
When she looked outside the window that had just tried to murder her, she blinked. The sight didn't change. Where the monorail used to wrap around the terminal building, melted rails ran into a gaping void. The tram cars were gutted pancakes of slag fifty feet below, vomiting flames and corpses in every direction.
It took her a moment to realize it wasn't a whistle she was hearing, but the blare of alarm sirens.