The roar of the twin rotors overpowered any other noise in the Vertibird. The wash from both buffeted the platoon of NCR troopers inside, and Frank had never been more scared in his life.
He sat closest to the cockpit in a line of fifteen soldiers. Opposite him sat Mike, now a First Lieutenant. The two exchanged nervous glances. Rain fell in torrents on the glass canopy overhead while the two pilots brought the Vertibird in low southeast over the Sierra-Nevada range. Frank unhooked his seat harness, stepped to his right, and climbed the metal ladder leading into the cockpit. "How much longer?" he asked the pilot.
"Not much. Maybe five minutes," he answered without turning his head.
"You have enough fuel to make it back to McCarran?"
The pilot, Frank saw a full major, shook his head. "No. We'll refuel in Bloomfield on the return trip. You boys going to be able to make the long hike back?"
Frank started down the ladder again, "I hope so."
A week ago, the NCR found itself in a heap of trouble.
On the trek back from an operation in Baja, a full team of rangers had been intercepted by a group of veteran legionaries who had joined with a group of mercenaries from the Talon Company. Frank had never heard of Talon Company before, but he knew they hailed from the east. The rangers had been taken near the sleepy town of Gecko, and forced into imprisonment inside the Gecko County Golf Resort, a golf course and club outside the small town. Once their hostages had been corralled, the legionaries sent a radio message to McCarran using a long-distance HAM radio. They wanted Hoover Dam for the lives of the rangers. Normally, the NCR would have waited the demand out, and sent another team of rangers in to extract the men, except for the high-value target that made the Gecko Golf Club a priority.
John Cook, senator from San Francisco, had decided to take his wife, son, and dog on vacation to Baja. The rangers had been sent to Baja to rescue the family from the growing tension in the region.
So, General Lee Oliver sent a company of veteran NCR soldiers to the Mojave Outpost. He gave Major Knight the task of drilling the men, and then relinquish lead of the group to Captain Frank Robertson, who would lead the platoon in a daring raid of the Gecko Golf Club. So far, everything had gone according to plan.
Frank sat with the First Platoon in the lead Vertibird. Two other platoons followed in similar men in the company were in their early twenties - except for Lee, who was nineteen - and had various degrees of experience in the military. Each platoon was made up of three squads of ten men; thirty in a platoon. Among the group were three field doctors, a First Recon sharpshooter, three machine gun teams, and three rangers to lead the three platoons. Frank had already met with the men on their mission. They knew it was life and death for them, and the lives of the rangers and Cook family. In all probability, the ninety men would be dead in a few hours.
Frank resumed his seat, looking around. On his left sat the platoon leader of First Platoon, a Second Lieutenant named Marlowe. Marlowe was the epitome of a soldier. Or, so Frank thought. Sergeant 1st Class Dean Marlowe stood at 6'4", with dark hair and blue eyes. His closely-cut hair matched his clean shaven face, though Frank didn't know why. He wore no body armor, only the rangers' casual fatigues: a white shirt, brown vest, and red bandana. Stern eyes stared straight ahead at the Vertibird side plating. In place of the rangers' normal cowboy hat, he wore an old Australian bush hat, curled on his right side. Marlowe's weapon of choice was a sawed-off 20-gauge pump shotgun. From his few short conversations with him, Frank learned that he had seen his fair share of combat.
The plan was simple: the platoon was to be flown in just off a mountain roughly a few miles outside Gecko. They were to hike the remaining distance in, skirting the town and assaulting the golf club from the driving range. The brass expected heavy resistance. Talon Company had a reputation for big weapons, and the Legion's toughness was already known.
A red light turned on overhead, and Frank stood. "Alright, boys!" he yelled over the rush of the rotors. "Stand by to exit! We will be jumping and rolling, since the bird can't linger long. We'll go out the door in twos, one by one. Rally up with your squad leader, and we'll move out. We should reach the club by 0100," the troopers watched him intently. A green light flashed on, and there was the sound of sucking wind and then rain as the cargo bay door slid open. "Good luck, gentlemen! See you on the ground!" he raised his M16 assault rifle, and jacked the slide. The soldiers followed suit.
Slowly, the Vertibird descended until it hovered ten feet off the ground. Frank motioned for the men to stand, and walked to the edge of the ramp. Grabbing a metal rung, he leaned out and into the rain. He peered down and saw the waves of dust pushed away from the rotor wash. Releasing the rung, Frank stepped off the ramp and fell the ten feet with one hand on his rifle and the other on his beret. At the outpost, he had decided to neglect a helmet for his beret.
On impact with the ground, he rolled forward and clutched his rifle with both hands. Springing into a crouch, he scanned the area for persons of interest. Mike followed almost directly after him, and the men began to tumble out. Marlowe and his platoon followed next. Frank scanned the perimeter around the LZ in slow sweeping motions. The other two Vertibirds fell out of the rain and out tumbled sixty more soldiers.
With the perimeter secure, Frank lined the men up and called the platoon leaders to the front. Mike stood on his right, Marlowe on his left. Second Lieutenant Steiner, of Second Platoon, plopped out of the rain next. He looked young as well, maybe the same age as Lee. Frank pegged him as a lifer. The leader of Third Platoon joined the officers next; Second Lieutenant Irving.
It was he who spoke first. "Sorry conditions for a gunfight, sir," he observed.
Frank nodded. "Indeed, it seems so," he agreed.
Marlowe looked up at the falling rain. Each of the officer's, and soldier's for that matter, heads seemed to be dwarfed by their helmets, whose sides hung over. The rain fell in torrents. "Bad business?" Marlowe asked.
"Looks like it, kid," he said gloomily. Mike pulled a small map out, and lit a flashlight. The five officers huddled together, as Frank pointed out directions. "We'll move out due south, single file. More instructions to be given once we arrive at the range. Good luck, gentlemen. See you on the green."
The lieutenants joined their platoons. Frank gave orders to have First Platoon take point, and Marlowe specified from there. Instead of positioning himself at the end of the line, Frank walked behind First Squad. The company, designated Bravo, moved forward in the dirt and rain. Marlowe took point. He led the rest with the skill of a trained eye, and his assault rifle was up and searching. Besides the men, the rain turned dirt to mud, and bushes lay sparse and sporadic. Frank thumbed the safety on his own rifle, and wiped the rain from his eyes. Ahead of him, Marlowe raised his hand in a fist, and crouched low. In a ripple, the company followed, each man scanning the sides of their path.
Frank gave the soldier in front of him a few pats with his left hand, "Pass it up: what's up?"
Softly, Frank heard First Squad pass up his instructions. Through the storm, he heard mud slouching under boots, and Marlowe came into view. Crouched, he approached Frank and pointed back over his shoulder in a wide sweeping motion. "A road, sir, and I'm pretty sure the town is across on our right - two o'clock." Mike had come from the rear, and now held a map. He traced a line with his finger.
"The golf club should be off the road, due east of the town; about a quarter of a mile," he explained.
"Okay," Frank nodded to Marlowe. "Pass the word: two by two, cross the road. I don't want to risk someone from Gecko seeing us - or the Legion has a watch."
Marlowe nodded and crouched back towards point. Frank wiped the rain from his brow again, and shook off his beret. Once again, the company moved forward, this time slowly as pairs moved across the road. Mike crouched in front of Frank as stared at where they thought the road was through the rain. Finally, they inched their way to the road, and it was their turn to cross.
"Right behind you," quipped Frank as he pushed Mike up out of the ditch and onto the concrete. The storm had made the concrete slick, so they ran level and slow and hunched over. When they reached the middle of the road, Frank pulled Mike back. He slipped and cracked his knee against the pavement.
Mike whirled around on the ground. "What did you do that for?" he asked, grasping his knee.
"Don't worry about it," asserted Frank. He crouched low and looked down the road, towards where the golf course lay.
"What's the matter?" Mike asked again.
"Someone coming down the road," Frank told him.
"How do you know?"
"I don't."
"So what do you know?"
"I don't."
"What?"
"Get a move on," ordered Frank, and Mike shuffled off the road to the other ditch. He raised a flat, open hand to signal a halt to the company.
Down the road, three tall figures slowly advanced. Frank could barely make out their silhouettes. He stood straight up and tried to ease his stance. All three shapes advanced in a lumbering movement. They paused when they neared Frank. He still could not make out any distinguishing marks.
"Identify yourself," one figure said. His voice was deep and brooding. Frank pegged him for Legion immediately. The timbre in his voice sounded too pompous; too commanding.
"Just passing through," answered Frank.
"Oh," and there was the stupidity. The legionary in the center stepped forward, and Frank pulled his newly-issued Sequoia revolver out. He crouched and fired once. The legionary fell, but Frank couldn't tell where the bullet struck. His two counterparts took off back down the road and were immediately were lost to Frank's sight.
"Everyone across! Rally up on the far side," Frank called in a rush as he turned to the opposite ditch. He squinted after the two runners. The legionary he had shot lay still.
Soldier began running across the road. Frank called the squad leaders and informed them that they had possibly been made, and time was of the essence. They moved out fast. Now, Frank worried.
The rain still came down by the time the company reached the place where the wilderness to their right opened up. Shrubs and bushes gave way to tall grass and flat ground. They had arrived at their destination: the driving range. Three hundred and fifty yards up, Frank knew lie the Legion, Talon Company, and the Gecko Golf Club.
Frank sent Third Platoon farther down, to where the tenth hole lay. From there, they would move inward to the clubhouse. First and Second Platoons would advance down the driving range. The company would advance and rally outside the clubhouse.
When they arrived, Frank ordered the men to spread out by squads and then platoons, in a straight line parallel to the driving range. The word passed through the ranks: safeties off and stay frosty. Each platoon's radio crackled to life, and each heard Frank's haunting voice issue the order each wished would never come: "Move forward."
The men moved from the small bushes, and into no-man's land.
Frank sensed the movement of sixty men around him. The rain turned wasteland dirt into mud each man splashed through. Frank felt the horrible sensation that something was about to go terribly wrong.
And it did.
Suddenly, after the soldiers had moved a few feet out onto the range, bright floodlights illuminated everything. Through the rain, Frank saw the clubhouse, and what he knew to be covered tee boxes. Overhead, four giant floodlights shone bright through the rain storm. The two platoons stopped in their tracks. Nothing could be heard save the rain.
Until a machine gun sputtered to life from under one of the tee boxes. Multiple machine guns, too. The ground around Frank jumped to life as bullets slammed into the mud and dirt. For a moment, everyone stood rooted in their boots. When the small arms fire began, Frank remembered enough of his training to yell "Down!" and dropped to the ground. Around him, the two platoons followed suit. Dirt and mud splashed up as bullets ricocheted around Frank as he lay in prone. Mike crawled over next to him.
"They've been waiting for us!" he shouted.
"How can you tell?" asked Frank.
Surveying the scene, Frank knew it didn't appear that the fight was in their favor. The two platoons had been caught in the open, and now were pinned down on the driving range. About two hundred and fifty yards ahead were the stations, where the machine guns fired. Also ahead lay small mounds with railroad spikes and boards driven into the near side, facing down range. These mounds had been built sporadically, and lay across the range. Frank though them awful strange.
"Move forward!" he shouted over his shoulder, and pushed himself forward and off the ground. He executed a clumsy, stumbling run towards the closest mound, and slid into the small ditch behind it. Bullets laced over him and where his head had resided only a few seconds earlier. His radio operator, a young man named Tom, landed beside him. Frank twisted and grabbed the handset.
"Bravo-Three this is Maverick, over," he called over the din. Pause. "Bravo-Three this is Maverick, do you copy? Over," once more.
The radio crackled to life. "Maverick, this is Bravo-Three, we're having some difficulty reading you five-by, over," Third Platoon's lieutenant, Parsons, spoke. Even over the radio, Frank could hear the sound of gunfire.
"Bravo-Three, status report, over," Frank paused as a soldier landed to his left. The young man wiped his brow and peered over the lip of the mound.
"Maverick, we're in the rough over just off the tenth green. No stroke penalties so far, minimal damage. We'll have to play a bunker shot, over,"
Frank sat still for a moment and looked around him. Second Platoon had barely made the railroad spike-mounds. They lay covering behind the small hills in groups of three or four. Some lay out in the open close to the ground. Some didn't move. First Platoon had met the most gunfire, many of its members not having reached the mounds yet. However, they appeared to have been pinned down, not casualties.
"Very well, Bravo-Three. Raise when driving on the tee box. Maverick, out," Frank handed the handset to Tom, who replaced it on the radio.
All of a sudden, large objects fell from the sky. The first happened to be Marlowe, who crushed the kid on Frank's left. The lieutenant held a golf club high above his head. Upon close inspection of the head, Frank saw it was a 1-iron.
"Lieutenant!" Frank yelled. "What are you doing?"
"You haven't heard sir?" Marlowe answered, and upon seeing Frank's head shake, continued: "I found a 1-iron behind one of these mounds, and decided to use it as a lightning rod and a tool to draw fire away from myself, sir!"
"Why's that, lieutenant?" Frank asked, perplexed.
Marlowe looked Frank dead in the eye. "Because not even God could hit a 1-iron," he stated flatly.
More things fell from the sky. Mike came next, falling directly on top of Frank. Then, Lee next to Tom.
Frank was screaming. "Mike, what are you doing?" he squirmed. "I can't see anything! I can't see! Get off me, will you?"
"I can't hear you! The rain is too loud! The machine guns, too!" Mike yelled back. Bullets struck the lip of the mound, spraying dirt over the six huddled bodies. Marlowe waved the 1-iron some more. "Frank, can you tell Lieutenant Marlowe to quit swinging the 1-iron?"
Frank, his face in the dirt, only grunted.
Lightning flashed, and Lee raised up and fired a few rounds from his service rifle. Suddenly he buckled backwards, and grasped his chest. Mike rolled from Frank's back and took the empty spot. The young soldier twisted around and grabbed Lee's legs. He pulled, and drug Lee back behind the mound. Frank, his back now against the mound, began waving and calling out loudly.
"We need a medic over here! Where's the Doc'?"
A trooper in a white helmet raised his head up from behind a bunker thirty yards behind. Frank waved him over. The field medic spoke to some hidden soldiers behind the railroad spikes, and hopped over as they raised and fired their weapons. Crouched low to the ground, he ran across open space to where Lee lay. The last few feet, he slid down into the small hole. Frank, back now to the railroad spikes holding the dirt mound up, watched as the medic tore open Lee's fatigues, revealing a bloody wound in his chest. Lee looked down and moaned.
"Help, doc," he croaked out.
The medic nodded as he poured some white powder over it, "You'll be fine Lee, take it easy," he instructed as he retrieved a syringe from his pack and thrust it into Lee's leg.
"What was that?" he asked painfully.
"Vaccine for tetanus," the doc explained.
"Tetanus?" Lee asked. The medic's reply was lost over the roar of the rain and gunfire.
Marlowe and the younger soldier had begun firing towards the stations. Mike and Frank glanced at each other, from across the mound, and grimaced. They watched as the medic began inspecting Lee's wound closer.
"How bad is it, doc?" Frank asked.
Calling to Mike, the medic instructed him in putting pressure over the wound with a plastic sheet. Crawling over, the medic sat beside Frank. "Not too good, Captain. He's losing a lot of blood, and that bullet may have bounced around in his chest some. We need to immobilize him and start transfusions."
Frank groaned. "May I call you Doc?"
"That's my name, sir. Senior Field Doctor Doc Dockers."
"Well, Doc, are transfusions really possible given the circumstances?"
Doc nodded gravely. "If we don't, he'll almost certainly die."
Usually, Frank never enjoyed making decisions for other people. For instance, as a child, he always let other children decide their fate whenever he punished them for cheating at hide and seek. As a young adult, he always let people ask him not to steal for him, before he actually did steal from them. And now, he reluctantly debated over the prospect of letting Doc do blood transfusions on Lee. Luckily for Lee, there wasn't really an option.
"I'm not having any needles in me," said Frank. "I don't want any microchips inside me."
"What?" asked Doc quizzically.
"I'm a universal giver!" announced Mike proudly. Doc quickly turned to Mike, and laid him down directly beside Lee. He then pulled two separate IV sets from his bag, and began checking the two men's vitals. The young soldier began holding Lee's wound. Doc prepared the IV.
"I'm just letting you know," Mike told Doc as he wrapped a belt around his bicep, "I hate needles. So you have one shot to find this vein."
Doc nodded intensely. He began drawing Mike's blood, and Frank turned to the firefight.
"Marlowe," he called. Marlowe crawled over. "We need to get off of this God-forsaken driving range," Frank looked around the range again. There seemed to be no movement from First or Second Platoon. He instructed Tom to call Third Platoon for an update.
"A machine gun would be very useful, sir," Marlowe admitted.
"Bring up the gunner!" he called out. To his left, two men poked out from behind a mound, nearly eighty yards away. The two conversed, and then stood and ran. One carried the heavy weapon, the other the belt that fed.
They ran hunched over, through the rain and past huddled bodies that either lay dead or dying; past others who figured that their life could end at any moment. They ran with the fear of their friends being struck down, and the fear of this being their last payday. They ran with the hope of a cause nearing its climax, and with the hope of a life meant to continue. Halfway to Frank, both were shot and fell in the mud.
Groaning, Frank sat back against the mound and wiped the perspiration mixed with rain on his brow. He sensed movement next to him, and saw as Marlowe rushed from the hole to the fallen duo. He ran low, one hand on his bush hat and the other on his shotgun. At one point, he felt his feet slip and come out from under him. Covering his face, he hit the ground and rolled. In the same motion, he pushed his feet back up around and leaped up.
Bullets flew all around him, hitting the ground around him and making absolutely no sense to him at all. Nothing phased him, he kept running.
Reaching the gunners, he slid behind their bodies. Checking their pulses, he found they were dead. Gunfire flew over his head as he wrapped the belt of bullets around himself, and hoisted the machine gun on his shoulder. Calmly expecting survival, Marlowe began his long trek back.
In one moment, he returned to the hole. Frank, amazed, watched as he slid down and fell against the mound, setting up the machine gun. And in that moment, Frank realized what he needed to do.
"Marlowe, you're with me," he ordered when Marlowe had finished propping up the machine gun. The young soldier had finished holding Lee's gaping wound, and Doc had taken over. The young soldier took the machine gun from Marlowe with a reassuring grin, and waited for further orders. "We're going over this mound in a few seconds. I want you to give us some suppressing fire on that station straight ahead. Marlowe, that's where we'll meet. You take right, I'll take left. Tom, send word to Second Platoon and tell them to follow if we make it,"
"Roger," the three concurred.
"Sir, Third Platoon has reached the tee box and is pushing their position to the clubhouse," informed Tom.
Frank nodded and settled in, one hand resting on the crest of the mound, the other on his assault rifle. He looked around one last time at the hole which he had called home for nearly fifteen minutes, and the range which had proved the crucible of his life. Frank realized very solemnly that these could very possibly be his last few moments on earth, and he knew that dying by the rest of these brave men would be the best part of a life spent fighting against social injustice only to be repaid with fighting for a system that left people tired and hungry. Frank looked around at his surroundings: Marlowe, prepared to charge and die with him; he young soldier on the machine gun who suddenly looked strange and older; Tom the radio operator, who looked back at Frank with admiring eyes; Mike his loyal buddy, who had know idea that Frank was preparing himself for what could be the last moment of his life; Doc, who was fighting his own battle; and Lee, who was fighting a battle against an enemy who already had a foot in the door: death.
Seeing all of this, Frank knew that this could be the end of his life, and he knew that it was indescribably sweet. Looking at his friends, Frank knew that he would not have asked for a better group to be here with.
That said, he still climbed over the crest of the mound, followed by Marlowe, and began leading a diagonal path towards the stations. The machine gun sputtered to life behind him, lacing fiery bullets in the direction of the hitting station. Frank hoped that the soldier firing aimed well enough to miss his and Marlowe's running. Something in the back of his mind told him the soldier could shoot fairly well; adding to his mystique. Concentrating on the task at hand, Frank rushed over the mud and dirt and rain, running over smaller holes in the ground. Everywhere he ran, bullets flew past with wind rippling past and the ground jumped up in a fountain of dirt. Frank ran forward, swinging his arms in a large but controlled arc, regulating his breathing while pumping his legs.
And then he was looking down on the whole scene from the air. He could see the entirety of the Gecko Golf Club, as if he were a bird hovering over the scene. He could see the mound from which he had just ran; Doc digging around in Lee's wound and listening to his chest; Mike laying still and giving blood; Tom yelling into the radio; the young stranger firing his machine gun. Scanning the area entire, Frank saw NCR soldiers returning fire from behind their mounds or from their prone positions on the ground. Then, he saw himself on the ground, and he knew he had died. He saw Marlowe run over to him, and that's when he knew he was not dead. Then he returned to reality.
Marlowe was pulling at him. "Captain, you hit?"
Pain hit him hard in his left foot. Looking down his body in the direction of the hitting stations, Frank saw a hole on the upper portion of his boot, just below his ankle. He twisted his foot around and saw the exit hole.
"I'm fine," he groaned.
Marlowe crouched low to the ground beside him. "Sir, I think you ought to go back."
Frank shook his head. "If I go back I'll be shot. Let's move."
The two stood, Marlowe helping Frank up. They began running again. Frank limped on his left, trying to place the majority of weight on his right. Marlowe led the way.
Just ahead, the stations lay clothed in the faint light from the floodlights. A machine gun popped up in the station the two ran towards, behind a wooden barrier that separated the stations from the range. The two legionnaires behind the small barrier ducked down. Frank grasped a hand grenade from his bandoleer, pulled the pin and popped the spoon in one instinctive second. He waited a few seconds before hurling the grenade into the small port. Marlowe dove behind the shingle, and Frank followed suit just as the grenade exploded. Two screams from the legionnaires followed, and the two hopped the top.
In the port, Frank immediately turned left and raised his rifle, Marlowe the other side.
Frank's special forces training took over. He began moving swiftly from port to port, his rifle raised. Each pull of the trigger sent a three-round burst into wherever he aimed. And, he never missed. Each port held two or three legionnaires, and he dispatched each quickly. Thirty-six rounds, and reload. His hands popped each magazine out and back on instinct.
As he cleared the third port, a legionary jumped from the next, landing on him with a machete raised. Swiveling on his heel, Frank lashed out with the butt of his rifle. The legionary swung and missed by inches with the long machete, and Frank stepped back two steps and squeezed once. Three wet thuds hit the legionary in a line moving up from his chest. Three dark holes appeared on his red armor, and he gave a short yelp as he fell backwards.
By now, Marlowe had already cleared the short side he had been issued. And, the legionnaires had realized what had taken place. They began turning their machine guns and small arms around. Frank crouched behind a divider between the next port; Marlowe joined him.
"Any ideas?" asked Frank, who deeply admired Marlowe's fierce tactics.
However, he didn't have time to answer, because from their right, behind Marlowe, came nearly thirty NCR soldiers pouring from around a small hut that Frank guessed seconded as a bathroom. Third Platoon, off of the tenth tee box, had arrived. Marlowe and Frank stood and aided in their engaging of the enemy. First and Second Platoons groggily made their way to the boxes.
The Legion presence soon dissipated, and silence prevailed.
"Rally on me!" Frank called out. The three platoons gathered, and began reporting losses. First Platoon took the heaviest casualties, with six dead so far, and five wounded; Second Platoon leveled at five casualties, all wounded. Third Platoon suffered minimal damage, with only one minor casualty.
"First Platoon, gather the wounded on the range," Frank ordered. "Second and Third Platoon will set up a perimeter. Hawk, choose your best and join myself and Marlowe by the entrance to the clubhouse," he told the leader of Third Platoon.
Hawk spoke to a few men and followed Frank, who spoke to Marlowe.
"Something is odd," reflected Frank.
"What's that, sir?" asked Marlowe.
"We were briefed on Legion and Talon Company having a presence here. So far, we've encountered fierce Legion resistance. No mercenaries."
"I've been thinking similarly, sir. Maybe they're all holed up in yonder clubhouse?"
"I hope not," muttered Frank grimly. He frowned as he stepped on his left foot. Marlowe noticed, but decided to not pursue the subject yet.
The group, consisting of five soldiers, arrived at the door to the clubhouse. Marlowe and Hawk lined up to the right side of the two heavy-looking wooden doors. The two other soldiers, one of whom Frank recognized as the machine gunner (which he thought weird, since he was from First Platoon). Frank prepped himself slightly off to the left, and raised his hand and three fingers.
"Check your corners. Stay frosty, gentlemen," he watched as each nodded their head slightly, and he began pulling down his fingers.
When his hand was a solid fist, Marlowe yanked the door open. The strange soldier moved in, revolver out (which Frank also thought weird) in front, sweeping the room. Marlowe had followed him in, then the other soldier, Hawk, and Frank. They had entered a small entrance room. Frank joined Marlowe and Hawk by a door on the left, the remaining two on the right. Again counting down from three, Frank kicked the door open.
Entering the main room, Frank watched a tall man in black combat armor and a black combat helmet turn around. Frank squeezed his trigger, hitting the Talon Company mercenary twice in his body armor and once in the soft area on his waistline. As he fell, Frank realized he was the only apparent enemy in the room. Upon the other soldiers entering the room, each saw the one merc, and seven bound NCR Rangers. Frank motioned for the others to see to the rangers as he moved towards the fallen mercenary.
He was breathing, barely.
Frank knelt down. "Where are the others?"
The mercenary, a defined man of probably around thirty, looked up at him with hard eyes. "Gone," he spoke slowly.
"Where?"
"T-to the east. DC. Met up with a..." his voice trailed off and he coughed blood, "a Legion group twelve hours ago. They lit out east...you'll never catch them," he breathed heavily and lay still.
Frank stood, walking to the Rangers, who had just been released. They all stretched their joints and limbs. Marlowe began ushering them out, and Frank caught whom he thought had to be the superior officer.
"Excuse me," he caught his arm. "Where's the senator?"
The ranger raised an eyebrow. "The senator?"
"Senator Cook? Was he not being held as well?"
Shaking his head, the ranger turned and walked into the rain, leaving Frank standing alone in the clubhouse.
"Of course the senator was not there," Major Knight explained. "Do you really think a senator the type of Senator Cook would vacation in Baja?"
Frank pounded the desk. "We lost good men on that op, Major," he asserted. "Lee was one of them. The kid barely had a chance."
Major Knight looked up from his ledger unsympathetically, "That isn't my fault, Captain. General Oliver needed to know if Talon Company had insurgents here. And, Chief Hanlon wanted his rangers back. And the President wanted to see if a dispatch of a company of NCR soldiers might force the Legion's hand."
He paused at Frank's disapproving look.
"I know, he isn't much of a strategist. But he is a war hero, and the President. So, we had to listen."
"You lied to us," growled Frank.
"Not my problem, Frank. But this logbook is, so skedaddle," Knight ordered coldly.
Turning, Frank tore the door open and walked into the sunlight. He turned right and brushed past a man wearing a First Recon beret and a thin man with observant eyes and leather armor.
Frank burst into the bar and joined Mike, who sat in front of a full glass of whiskey. A group of soldiers, men who hadn't been there, had been asking stories from Mike, who turned them away with simply stating, "I got a tetanus vaccine."
"Frank, you seem distraught," observed Mike.
"I am," he admitted. "Major Knight said Cook was never there. It was all a ploy; a political war game for the president and his minions."
"So...what're you going to do about it?"
Pausing, Frank took Mike's drink and downed it. "I can't fight this war anymore, Mike. I can't be a pawn in Knight's game. Or the NCR's, for that matter. We don't matter to them. We're just the little guy, and they're our masters."
"That really didn't answer my question."
"It didn't?" Frank thought it had been a solid answer.
"Not really."
"Well, I need to get away."
Mike, suddenly alarmed, placed his hand on Frank's shoulder.
"Frank, you don't mean you're going to-"
The stool swiveled as Frank faced Mike.
"That's right, Mike. I'm deserting. Tonight."