Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bomber City was a rather odd name for a town Patrick thought as he and Colonel Granger approached after a long day of walking and riding north from Vault 63. First, it wasn't anything close to a city. At most, it had about 3,000 people, which, while large in many respects in the Wasteland where most people would have lived in small villages or tribes (and it was a lot bigger than Melita), but it was absolutely nothing compared to Winnipeg, or even Brandon.
Second, there was no bomber anywhere in sight. Apparently a Chinese bomber had crashed right in the middle where the town now is, but had long since been scrapped for the metal. It made it, well, odd that they kept the name.
When they reached the town, which unlike most towns didn't have a wall around it, they just meandered into the center of town, around a large, train station that looked fairly new, built within the past thirty or so years. The wood, most likely from the forests up north, was painted a dull red, and it had the shape of any small town's UAR train station, with BOMBER CITY printed in large white words on the roof and on a sign where people could see it. In front of the train station there was a large open square where a bustling market was located. The dirt had been so well trod on it was hard as concrete, and not even the most stubborn of weeds tried to grow there.
A few people noticed Colonel Granger in his power armor, but unlike other places where the power armor would have made him stand out, and possibly made people scared that he was from the Brotherhood of Steel, the people here seemed to gravitate toward him, asking him questions and commenting, usually positively on the armor.
One person near Patrick even go a low whistle when he saw Colonel Granger.
"That's some fancy tech the Brotherhood has now. Hopefully they put it to good use."
"He's not Brotherhood, he's from the Enclave," Patrick replied.
"Really? Well, hopefully the Enclave will help us out then."
Before Patrick could ask what it was, the man disappeared in the crowd.
There were groups of three or four soldiers slowly prowling the market, their weapons slung on their backs. They were looking everywhere for any danger, and they were clearly nervous. They wouldn't have been much older than Patrick: they were most likely from Winnipeg, signed up for the army to get out of poverty or barely subsistence living.
But the looks of the populace on their back was anything but friendly. Men and women spat toward the soldiers, the wads always landing just a few inches from their boots. A couple people flipped the bird or cursed them. One person, Patrick couldn't tell where, shouted "Dakota!" Another shouted "Asses go home!"
"Tough crowd," Patrick said when Colonel Granger finally caught up to him.
"Yeah. Say, want to get a drink?"
"I could use one, yeah," Patrick answered.
There was a small inn perched on the edge of the market, and a handful of men and women hung around the door in various stages of sobriety. Patrick and Colonel Granger pushed the door into the bar.
It was smokey from a fireplace in the corner and the cigarettes and pipes puffing away from the denizens, some of whom looked up to see who came in. Once again, comments about the power armor attracted attention, but most people didn't seem to care much. A bartender in a white shirt and black vest and grey hair balding on top was at the front of the bar, polishing the counter when Patrick and Colonel Granger came up.
He looked up from his dirty rag. "Huh, new people. Don't see many new people around here."
"Oh?" Patrick asked, before ordering a couple of beer, and paying for it with some real Assiniboian pounds. The two ice-cold bottles were produced from under the counter and the money was taken. "Why is that?"
"Martial Law here in Bomber City has kept most traders and travelers away," he said. "Not to mention that passenger service had been discontinued on the train, with only those given military approval allowed to come in." The bartender sighed. "It's done a number on the town. Most of the people here in the bar used to be working with the UAR or the caravan companies that come to town. But now they are more or less laid off, with nothing to do."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Patrick said. "But Martial Law?"
"You aren't from around here, huh?" The man shrugged Well, it's been three or four months since it was put in place," the bartender said. "A protest against Assiniboia turned rowdy, soldiers fired at the crowd, killed 15. Rioting and looting took place, and only Martial Law, a flood of soldiers and RAMP officers prevented the town from going up in smoke."
"Why are the people here against Assiniboia?" Patrick asked.
"You really aren't from around these parts, huh?" The bartender asked Patrick. Patrick shook his head. "Well, I'll fill ya in: There is a chunk of the town, not anywhere near a majority, that wants Assiniboia to leave, 'Give Dakota back to Dakotans,' and all that crap. They call themselves the Free Dakota Movement."
"Free Dakota, huh?" Colonel Granger asked. "People wanting to re-establish America or something?"
"I dunno," the barkeep said. "Most of them don't really care about some old, dead nation that was destroyed. All they want is Assiniboia to leave." The barkeep may have noticed the falling expression on Colonel Granger's face, but he didn't say anything.
"Then there are a few people, a small minority really, mostly folks originally from up north, that want the area to remain. They don't speak up much, because nasty things happen to people that oppose Free Dakota.
"Then there's everyone else, the largest chunk of people in town, who just want to live. I don't care if it's Assiniboia, a free Dakota, or a Republic of Dave that rules. Just so long as I can keep my inn, I'd be happy. Most of the people here just want to have a safe, secure life, like everyone wants in the Wasteland."
Patrick nodded softly. "I see." He tipped back and polished off his beer as a heavily bearded, dirty man hiccupped for another whiskey, which the bartender provided. "Well thanks for the info. And the beer."
"Of course," the barkeep said, having not smiled or raised his voice above a dull whisper.
"One more thing though. If I do want to get a train ride, where would I go?" Patrick asked.
"Ah. You'll have to go talk to the military admin here. Though whoever is in charge, he's not exactly… willing to accommodate people. But I guess you can ask."
Patrick nodded, and set the beer on the counter. Colonel Granger sat his bottle next to Patrick's, and they walked out.
It was easy to tell where the soldiers were. A dozen or more long columns of smoke reached into the sky to the east of the market, so Patrick and Colonel Granger went that way.
The Enclave man wasn't really happy, and possibly on the verge of depression.
"I have no idea if the Enclave could ever rebuild America, if no one cares about it," he said. "Even if all the Dakota territories were free from Assiniboia, would they even want to follow the Enclave?"
Patrick could tell the Colonel was feeling down about it. "Well, I dunno. Maybe the Enclave is just going to have to try to prove to the Wasteland that it is the best thing they can hope for. Peace, security, freedom, etc. etc."
Colonel Granger wasn't in a mood to be consoled. "I have no idea how we can do that. The Enclave is an unknown here, and we aren't exactly large, and we really don't have the resources to provide a standard of living better than subsistence level farming." He kicked at a rock on the ground that, thanks to the strength of his power armor, went hopscotching across the packed dirt road. "The Enclave has been thinking for 140 years what to do when they leave the Vault, and that plan we had, just won't work. And if Speaker Graham figures that out, I have no idea what he will try to do."
The name triggered a memory in Patrick's memory, the note that the ghoul General at Minot gave him on the Pip-Boy, to not trust a Graham. But, really, after seven or eight generations, would the same character traits be there?
Patrick and Colonel Granger turned the corner, and they were immediately confronted with a half-dozen Assiniboian army soldiers. They were all in the same, olive green uniform, with only some smaller, gold coloured stripes (or lack thereof) to differentiate ranks. They were all some variation of jittery, nervous, or startled as Patrick and Colonel Granger, a dirty, disheveled wanderer with an entire arsenal of powerful weaponry attached to his backpack or slung on his hip and a man in a seven foot tall suit of power armor, with a lot of dirt and grime from weeks of use.
"Halt!" one of them, an old, grizzled sergeant from the stripes on his sleeves, said as he slightly lowered his service rifle. "Who the hell are you two? And what's with the power armor? It's not like any I've seen before."
"I'm Colonel Granger, Commander of the Enclave Armed Forces, and this is my power armor," the Colonel said after he took off his helmet to show the Sergeant that he wasn't some robot.
"Oh, yeah, I heard of you Enclave fellers," the sergeant said, before spitting on the ground. "Apparently you guys are becoming really chummy up in Winnipeg with all the high and mighty politicians and shit. But this ain't Winnipeg." He sneered, then turned to Patrick, sitting high atop Hardtack's back. "And who are you?"
"I'm… they call me the Auxiliary," Patrick replied.
The sergeant paused, staring right at Patrick. "I highly doubt that kid."
Patrick stiffened up a bit. "I've been hunting for my brother Zach for about two months now, fought raiders and uncovered plots against Assiniboia, traveled through land that belongs to the Brotherhood, and somehow have made it through pretty much alive. I don't like to brag about it, but I'm the goddamned Auxiliary that everyone keeps talking about!"
The sergeant gave a small whistle. "No shit? I thought he'd be older than some teenager, if what the radio is saying about what you do is half true. And taller."
"Nope, I'm the Auxiliary," Patrick replied, giving a weary smile. Why did everyone think he'd be taller?
The sergeant shook his head. "Well, what a day. A guy in a fancy tin can and the biggest Goddamned hero in Assiniboia, both showing up in this backwards dump in the middle of nowhere." The sergeant shook his head again.
"Dump?" Patrick said. The town actually looked well kept, compared to places like New California and Hardingville.
"Full of 'Free Dakota!' types, morons who want to leave Assiniboia, or worse, destroy our country. People that would rather shoot you than talk to you. But because we have the powerful guns and the entire army at our back, they won't do anything. Yet." The sergeant spat again.
"You think there is a problem?" Patrick asked
"There is always a problem. We've managed to keep a lid on it so far, but if something happens, it will start here."
"Huh," Patrick said. Colonel Granger was very quiet, but the shuffling he made in his armor made it clear he wasn't really comfortable right now.
"Anyway, you better go talk to Lieutenant-Colonel Kerry Rochford. He's in the largest tent at the camp just over there." He pointed to a cluster of tents. "He can sort you guys out. Maybe." His voice said he wasn't so sure.
"Thanks," Patrick said. "May I ask what regiment you are part of?"
"The Royal Winnipeg Rifles, The Little Black Devils," the sergeant said with a cockeyed grin. "This is the First Battalion, one of the best units in the entire Assiniboian army. Isn't that right boys?" There was a loud cheer among the other soldiers in earshot, followed by hollars of "Little Black Devils!"
One of the young private's (riflemen, they prefered to be called) lead Patrick and Colonel Granger to the the row of tents that were perfectly lined up on a grid pattern. The green tents would have held about ten people, and were designed to be tough in Assiniboia's weather, able to withstand all the elements that were thrown at it.
The soldiers inside the little tent city were all wearing a dark green uniform, with only some patches on the shoulder to identify the unit they were part of, as well as a similar badge on their peaked cap or helmet, that of a black figure running on a red background, with a huge wreath of silver maple leafs and scrolls around it, topped with a crown.
The arrived at the tent with "CO TENT" painted on the outside. The rifleman pulled open the flap and allowed them to enter, and held on to Patrick's Sleipnir.
Inside the tent several soldiers sat at different radios with headsets, talking into them, while others were busy writing on clipboards and some were looking at maps. For the most part, they seemed pretty relaxed and calm, though there was a tense undercurrent underneath it all.
Three officers were at a table, one sitting and talking, the other two standing and taking notes. The officer sitting in the chair glanced at the tent flap as it opened up. Before Patrick could even get his eyes to adjust to the darker area, he was being bombarded by a booming, loud voice.
"Who the hell are you? Civilians aren't allowed in here. Much less someone in enemy armor!" The soldier with a perfectly trimmed brown mustache on his lips said, rising up from his chair. He was the only one of the three officers to wear all the marks of his office, that of a Lieutenant-Colonel, including Sam Browne belt and pistol securely clasped into it's holster, peaked cap, a shoulder board with a "pip" and a maple leaf, and perfectly polished brass buttons on his uniform. He must have been the person in charge of the First Battalion.
"People call me the Auxiliary," Patrick said. "And this is Colonel Gabriel Granger, Chief of Staff of the Enclave Armed Forces."
Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stopped, looked at the two, and sat down again. "Eh, yeah, sure. Whatever." He looked at Patrick. "So, the Auxiliary, eh? I'd have thought you would be taller."
"Why does everyone think that?" Patrick muttered under his breath, loud enough just for Colonel Granger to hear it, and he gave a small chuckle.
"And the Enclave? Those people in the Vault near Brahmin Crossing?"
"That would be correct, yes," Granger said.
"Well, surprised that a fella like you is out here," Rochford said, before he shook his head. "Well, what can I do for you folks?"
"Ss it possible for me to get a train ride out of here? Say, to Winnipeg?"
"Carlson!" Lieutenant Colonel Rochford barked instead of answering.
A man in a major's uniform and glasses standing near by stiffened and gave a salute. "The next train doesn't come in until tomorrow evening. But I can look into arranging passage on it for you, Sir!"
Patrick blinked. Major Carlson, who was also in a perfectly kept uniform seemed nervous and soft spoken but trying to project some air of confidence, but failing. It didn't help that he was a bit short and had a pair of glasses that made his eyes seem cartoonishly bigger than they should have been.
"Well, I guess that's the best option we have right now."
"Unless you want to start hoofing it, it is." Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford shifted in his seat. "Alright, find them somewhere to sleep, get them food, all that crap. And I don't want either of you in here again, or interfering with my men, or just getting in the way like you civilians always do, got it?"
Colonel Granger's eyes twitched. In this exchange, he should be the superior, both for his rank and his position in the Enclave as the leader of the entire military establishment there. And a civilian? He was the furthest thing from that! And this tin-pot soldier had the gall to consider himself superior? He clenched his fists, trying his best not to hit the smug mustachioed bastard in his face.
"Thank you," Patrick said, and gave a small knock on Colonel Granger's armor, snapping the Enclave officer out of his anger fueled trance. The Colonel turned around and stomped right out.
"Who the hell does he think he is?" Colonel Granger asked Patrick as he stepped out of the tent, trying once again to keep his temper under control. Patrick had never seen him get angry like this before.
"I don't know," Patrick admitted, taking Hardtack's reins from the rifleman.
The soldier then pointed out the tent that they would be assigned to, pointing out where the washrooms, showers, and mess hall were. "Also, I highly recommend that you don't go into town, and just stay here until the train comes."
"Why is that?" Patrick asked.
"The folks here… they don't take too kindly to Assiniboians. Or anyone associating with Assiniboians." The rifleman gave a salute and meandered back to his squad.
"What is the story with this place?" Colonel Granger asked Patrick later, after they had both showered and wore a pair of Assiniboian-issue army outfits, in an olive green that wasn't far removed from anyone else's uniform, just short the patches and hat.
"Bomber City was the center of what they called the 'Provisional Republic of Dakota,' and tried to leave Assiniboia around… 2173, if I remember right. There was a brutal war that lasted for years. But you can see what the outcome was."
Colonel Granger was about to say something when their tent flap opened, and Major Carlson stepped in. He was nervous, shaking as if he was on drugs, and paler than a ghost.
"Major? What are you doing here?" Patrick asked.
He took a deep breath, and adjusted the Nuka-Cola bottle glasses on his nose. "Auxiliary, I need your help."
"What is going on?"
"A couple soldiers have been severely injured in a fight in town. The details are a bit sketchy, but as far as we know, it was a civilian that started the fight. Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford has been looking for an excuse to start imprisoning and executing everyone in Bomber City, all to try to restore order and end the long simmering revolt here. But if he takes this action, taking the entire battalion and sweeping through the city, it will be bloodshed, both for the city and our unit. He's calling it Operation Custer."
"Why do you say that?" Patrick queried.
"There is intelligence that there are large stashes of military grade weapons and ammo in town, even though it is illegal for anyone in town to have anything more powerful than a hunting rifle." Major Carlson adjusted his glasses with trembling hands. "We have no idea how they got here, all I know is that if the Lieutenant-Colonel provokes the situation, they will use it."
"Haven't you told him? Wouldn't that be enough to dissuade him?" Colonel Granger asked.
Major Carlson shook his head. "I did tell him, showed him the reports from agents here in town. He brushed them aside, saying that the people here would never dare attack Assiniboian troops. Then turning around and saying that because there are forbidden weapons here, the operation should go forward."
"Shit," Patrick cursed. "When is this happening?"
"Tonight, at 0200 hours." Major Carlson pulled a pocket watch out of his pocket. "That's in about five hours."
"That idiot is going to kill a lot of people. Does he not know that?" Colonel Granger asked.
"If he does, he doesn't care," Major Carlson said.
Colonel Granger was furious again. "How in the Chinese Communist Hell did he become a soldier in the first place? A commanding officer even? He should be thrown into the deepest, darkest hole in the Wasteland and forgotten about!"
"He's the nephew of a high ranking Member of Parliament back in Winnipeg," Major Carlson said. "If anything, that's why he's trying to do this, to make himself and his family look good. With a war with the Brotherhood of Steel brewing, Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford wants to be transferred to the front lines, somewhere where he can prove his worth and get further promoted." Major Carlson sighed, and flopped into a nearby wooden chair.
"Politics," Colonel Granger snarled. "I know politics from the Enclave all too well."
"Every position from Battalion Commander upwards is all ordered by the Department of Defense in Winnipeg, and although there are many smart and brave soldiers, it depends on who you know more than what you know that gets you promoted. If I remember right, he only got the post to convince his uncle to vote for a certain bill three years ago." Major Carlson sighed again. "Not to say that there aren't some smart people that can balance the politics and the military, but Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford isn't one of them."
"And he will kill lots of well trained, proud Assiniboian soldiers to do it, not to mention the hundreds of other people who live in this town, all for glory and heroism," Colonel Granger said.
"What do you want us to do?" Patrick asked.
"I need you talk sense into him. Maybe he'll listen to the Auxiliary, the hero of Assiniboia," Major Carlson suggested. "He keeps saying how much better Assiniboia would be if more people like you were around in the army. He won't listen to me or anyone else otherwise."
Patrick bit his lip. "Okay, I can try. But, if this doesn't work, what should we do after that?"
"I do have a backup plan. I will be looking to implement it if your talk fails." Major Carlson stood up, his hand shaking. "Go talk to him right away. He'll still be up in his tent right now."
Patrick nodded. Major Carlson saluted Colonel Granger, then slipped out of the tent, and disappeared into the night.
"Okay, I better go now," Patrick said. "You better stay here, just to be on the safe side."
"Yeah. I'd most likely smash his face in. Good luck," Colonel Granger said.
Patrick also left the tent, and walked over to the CO's tent. It was dark out, and only a few oil burning lamps hung on posts were used to illuminate the path and the base.
It was very quiet. Only the sound of marching boots, sleeping soldiers, and a small breeze cut through the night air.
Two sentries stood on either side of the tent. "State your business, Auxiliary."
"I've been asked to talk to the Lieutenant-Colonel," Patrick said.
The sentries looked at each other, but one of them shrugged. "Alright, go on in."
Patrick pushed into the tent, once again blinded by bright, mechanical lights. Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford was the only one in the tent, staring at a map of Bomber City. Patrick cleared his throat, bringing Rochford's attention to him. He quickly shuffled the maps under some other papers and books.
"Auxiliary, what the hell are you doing here? I told you to not interrupt me!"
"I'm sorry Lieutenant-Colonel," Patrick said. "But I would like to talk to you for a moment. I was told that you liked what you heard about me."
"Well, yes." Rochford said, slightly startled by the statement. "True. I think you've done a great service to Assiniboia, rooting out Brotherhood of Steel plots to undermine our nation, save the Dominion from dangers both within and without. I wish the men under my command would care half as much about their nation as you do."
"Well, thank you," Patrick replied. He was doing it only partially for his country. Zach was the real reason…
"In fact, tomorrow afternoon, before you go to Winnipeg, why don't you have dinner with me and my officers? My treat," Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford said, giving as much of a smile as his face would allow. In reality, all it did was make him look creepy and sinister. "Then you can tell us all about your adventures. Because I'm sure you have more to tell than the radio does."
"That is true, yes," Patrick said.
"Excellent! I'm sure we would be excited to hear about it."
"Alright. But, before I go, I have something I'd like to ask you about."
Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stood straight up, puffing his chest out. "Whatever you would like to know about."
"What is Operation Custer?" Patrick asked.
Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford froze in place, staring at Patrick. "Who the hell told you about it?" The officer demanded.
"I… heard talk around the camp of an upcoming operation, and some officer, I don't know who, said the name," Patrick partially lied and partially told the truth.
Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford snarled, but shook his head. "Fine, whatever. What do you want to know about my plan to pacify Bomber City, and this whole blasted region?"
"What I want to know is; why are you doing this?"
"To bring peace, order, and good government to Bomber City and all of the Devil's Lake District," he replied. "A strong show of force, a few hangings, a few imprisonments, and all should be safe. They will never bother an Assiniboian soldier again, knowing that I'm here and willing to use force to make them behave."
"What about the reports of weapons here in town?" Patrick asked.
"Nothing to be concerned about. We'll capture and neutralize them before anyone in town knows anything," The Lieutenant-Colonel said. "Now, tomorrow I can give you a full rundown of the results. But I want you-"
"Lieutenant-Colonel, although I've done a lot of things for Assiniboia since raiders destroyed my family's farm, such as defeating those raiders single handedly, stopped a massive spy ring, brought down the entire Syndicate in Brandon and rooted out corruption and gangsters and the morally bankrupt that threatens the nation that you proclaim to love, there is one thing I've learned: angry people, no matter the stripe, the creed, the nationality or belief, are not to be taken lightly."
"Auxiliary, I…"
"No, shut up. I'm talking now," Patrick said, his voice rising just a bit. "If you send your soldiers into Bomber City tonight, you will be walking into a bloodbugs nest. But these ones won't stop at just poking you, they will do their damndest to kill you and all of the soldiers of the Battalion. You will not be a hero, you will be a villain, killing hundreds, sparking a new civil war, one that Assiniboia can ill afford right now. So I ask you right now: please, for the love of God, mercy, Assiniboia, and everything else, do not order Operation Custer tonight."
Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stared at Patrick, his face turning red in anger. But unlike his underlings, Patrick would not be cowed.
"I guess I've completely misunderstood you. You aren't the Assiniboian patriot you claim to be, instead willing to coddle terrorists and bandits who rose up and attacked Assiniboia forty-five years ago to divide us. I am the ranking military officer here, in charge of keeping these rebellious bastards underfoot. Since they are clearly planning on trying to rise up again, I'm putting them down. And if you, or your fancy metal puppet get in the way, I'll destroy you too. Get out. Get out! That's an order!"
Patrick took a deep breath, and stomped out of the tent. After he took a few steps, Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford stuck his head out of the tent. "And your uninvited from dinner as well!"
Patrick scowled, and stomped back to his tent. When he got there, Colonel Granger was in his power armor again, drinking a cup of coffee.
"So, how did it…" Colonel Granger started, before seeing Patrick's face. "Uhh… I'm guessing not well."
"Operation Custer is still a go. I need to talk to Major Carlson, immediately."
"He came back while you out, said that he was going to be in the mess hall. And he wanted me to wear my power armor and come with you if it didn't go well. I'm not sure why, but, here I am."
"Well, let's go," Patrick said, pushing his way out of the tent, and walking to the mess hall, which was guarded by some soldiers, who let in Patrick and Colonel Granger without even asking for confirmation.
The mess hall had about 20 men and women, mostly lieutenants and captains, with a few sergeants, including the one that greeted Patrick earlier. They were very quiet, talking to each other in hushed tones, if they talked at all. One female captain had her eyes closed and hands clasped together, silently saying a prayer. A young lieutenant was taking sips from a bottle of non-regulation whiskey. But it was nowhere near all the officers or NCOs of a battalion. Some of the officer's must have been considered a liability by Carlson, so only those that he knew he could trust were here.
Major Carlson was there as well, standing at one end of the room where the officers of the battalion could see him. As soon as he saw Patrick, he waved him over.
"The news?"
"He's not backing down."
"Shit," Major Carlson said, then took a deep breath. "Well, it's now or never then."
Major Carlson stepped up, and everyone else in the tent went silent. Only a radio playing DBS in the corner could be heard.
"Leaders of the First Battalion, I'm about to ask something of you that you may consider a crime, something that goes against the tradition of the Assiniboian Army, and could be seen as treason. However, if we are to maintain the peace in Bomber City, and ensure that the men that are assigned to us will live to see another day, I don't see any other possible alternative.
"As you know," Carlson continued, his voice soft so as to not carry outside the tent, "Tonight we are to put into place Operation Custer, the neutralization of any resistance here in Bomber City. However, intelligence says that the members of the resistance here in town are well armed, and ready to defend themselves if need be. Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford believes that this is a lie, and that they will just roll over and show us their bellies. But you should know better.
"The Auxiliary here tried to reason with our commanding officer, but to no avail. Therefore, the only option we have left is one that I have no pleasure in proposing. But we must remove Rochford from the command of this unit, before any lives are lost."
There was a stunned silence. Patrick was as stunned as everyone else in the tent. He couldn't remember a case where the soldiers of a regiment, even the officers, actually mutinying and overthrowing their CO. This was a huge step.
The female captain who was praying earlier stood up. "How do you think we can justify this? This is going against all the rules of the military."
"I know. Orders are to be followed, and are expected to be followed. However, I cannot justify massacring this town, and possibly this entire battalion, because of short sighted decision of Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford. We do not have enough time to talk to the General Staff in Winnipeg, or even Colonel Hemsworth in Fargo, even if we could have used the radio to talk to either. We have to act now, and the only way to do is to remove him."
Everyone was silent, many of them contemplating what Major Carlson had just said. After all, this was, technically a mutiny, treason even. Many of the men and women here had fought long and hard to get to where they were, in a military establishment that was heavily political and leaned toward those with power and influence than skill or intelligence. One wrong move: comment about someone to the wrong person, let loose what you may actually think to your superior, or even just making a joke about whoever was in Winnipeg would be enough to get someone kicked out, blackmailed, held back, or worse. There are soldiers in Stoney Mountain Prison there just for the crime of insulting the wrong person, and they were the lucky ones not dumped off into The Angle to the east, the death sentence given to the worst criminals and traitors of Assiniboia.
Some of the officers, the ambitious ones, were clearly contemplating leaving and telling Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford about what Major Carlson said, thinking it would help their careers. But those soldiers grounded by realism in the tent knew that it wouldn't matter if they turned Major Carlson in, if they were besieged and killed by the townsfolk anyway.
The sergeants, however, were a practical lot, with little to no interest in climbing the ranks. They knew better than anyone else the capabilities of the soldiers in First Battalion, and what they knew wasn't exactly promising. Sure, the soldiers were decently trained, had modern and well kept weapons, and the morale was satisfactory. But they were, nine men out of ten, raw recruits, sent here on garrison duty. Second Battalion was in Fargo, as they were the battle hardened part of the regiment. If they were here, then the issue of losing over 700 men wouldn't exactly be as great. But they were also outnumbered by the townsfolk five to one, were located in a very difficult to defend spot, the palisade of timber, train cars, and old Highwaymen notwithstanding. Hell, the train station was on the other side of town, making reinforcement or retreat impossible unless they fought for it.
Patrick turned to Colonel Granger, who was thinking of everything that Patrick was thinking, and most likely of bigger issues. The pale, fearful look on the Colonel's face told Patrick that what he was thinking wasn't good, in any situation.
The sergeant that Patrick first met stood up. "The Major is right. The Lieutenant-Colonel has to be neutralized."
"Kill our commanding officer?" A young Lieutenant, barely an adult, asked, his voice nearly breaking from the panic he was feeling.
"No. Sir," The sergeant said, though it was clear that he only threw in the honorific because of his rank, not for any respect he may have. "At least, we should plan on not killing him. Murder will be a bigger danger than mutiny."
"But what about our careers? If this goes wrong, we will all be kicked out… or worse," another captain said.
"Do you want to die in this fucking town because some fucker told us to just march out and shoot all the fucking Dakotan bastards we see?" The sergeant snapped back. "Sir?" That shut the captain up.
"Auxiliary," Major Carlson said, turning to Patrick. "What do you think?"
Patrick looked out over the twenty some people in the room, all officers and sergeants of the Assiniboian Army. Most were scared, though most of the sergeants masked their emotions. He could make or break this.
"I may not have any authority here, as I'm an Auxiliary of the RAMP, and before that was a member of the militia back home," Patrick admitted. "I'm not a soldier, though I've fought and killed a lot of people. But it was not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I'm pretty sure that none of you take pleasure in killing fellow human beings, even if they hate us, Assiniboia, and everything we hold dear. But that's not even true. Most of the people here in Bomber City are just trying to survive another day, and don't care if it's Assiniboia, the Republic of Dakota, the old USA, or some guy calling himself the Grand Poombaa. But if you attack those people, you will have the entire town, the entire district, up in arms against Assiniboia.
"This may not mean anything, coming from a young farmer thrown to the wolves because some raiders took my brother, but if you do what the Major is suggesting, I will support you guys, and do whatever I can do to help you, either tonight, tomorrow, or months down the road."
The room was silent again. The Sergeant from early made eye contact with Patrick and gave an amused smile. Patrick gave one back.
"Alright, Let's have a quick vote," Major Carlson said. "If it passes, we will go arrest Rochford. If it doesn't, then we will forget this conversation ever happened." Carlson took a deep breath. "All in favor of removing the Lieutenant-Colonel, raise your hand."
Everyone in the room raised their hand.
"All opposed?"
No one raised their hand.
Major Carlson took a deep breath, fixing the tie on his neck and picking up his peaked cap on the table nearby. "Then ladies and gentlemen, it is agreed. Let's do this."
The major quickly outlined the plan. It was very simple, and if everything went well, it would be over in about ten minutes. That was, if everything went according to plan. But they were running out of time: in half an hour, the Lieutenant-Colonel was going to sound the alarm, and have the soldiers still in bed woken up to "repel an attack," then go on the offensive, and put Operation Custer into effect.
Colonel Granger stood beside Patrick as the officers listened to Major Carlson. "I sure do hope this works."
"It should be fine," Patrick said. But he and Colonel Granger knew very well that it might not be.
The sergeant from earlier went to rouse his unit, and got them equipped and ready. Another sergeant was given some whispered orders, and he gave a salute and marched away. The other officers were given other instructions, quickly and quietly. As soon as they got them, ranging from rousing their troops to securing the armory to arresting and otherwise silencing the officers that Carlson knew were in cahoots with Rochford, no matter the suicidal plans he had.
"Auxiliary, I'm going to need your help with one thing," Major Carlson said after the last captain gave a salute and sprinted out of the tent.
"What is it?"
"I need you to somehow distract the Lieutenant-Colonel again. I don't care what you do. Tell him you're sorry, get him drunk, tell him the town is ready to explode," the Major said. "But he needs to be kept occupied for at least twenty minutes."
"Okay," Patrick said. "I don't know if he'll listen to me though."
"Whatever you got to do, do it." Major Carlson turned to Colonel Granger. "And I need you to do something as well."
Patrick left the tent, and scurried to the CO's tent. The two guards, however, were less amiable this time.
"The Lieutenant-Colonel will not see any visitors, especially you, Auxiliary," the soldier said.
"But this is important!" Patrick exclaimed. "I just heard that some of the resistance guys are arming and getting ready to attack!"
The two soldiers looked at each other, clearly unsure what to do. After all, he wasn't supposed to go in. But if the town was about to rise up... "Well… okay. I'm sure he'll want to hear that."
Patrick nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank you!"
He barged into the tent, with the Lieutenant-Colonel still looking over the maps. He looked up to see Patrick.
"Goddamnit, you son of a bitch, I told you not to come back here. Now get out!" His face gone red from anger.
"Sir, please," Patrick pleaded. "Look… I was thinking…"
"I don't care what you are thinking. You clearly are in cahoots with the rebels in this town, and I won't listen to your lies anymore!" He pulled out his revolver and aimed it at Patrick. "I will give you the count of three to leave, or your brains will be blown out!"
"Colonel, sir," Patrick said, lifting his arms up in surrender.
"One."
"Rochford…"
"Two…" He cocked the gun.
"I was wrong, you were right!" Patrick shouted.
"What?"
"You were right about the townsfolk. I think some of them are arming and getting ready to attack the base."
Rochford blinked. "What?"
"I don't know how or why… maybe they got word of your plan?"
"Impossible! Only myself and Major Carlson knew of Operation Custer!" Rochford exclaimed. "And Carlson knows better than to flab his lips."
Oh, how wrong you are, Patrick thought, then glanced at a clock hanging on the wall nearby. Ten minutes to go. "Either way, I think you will have to do something else, get the troops ready to attack or something."
Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford twirled his mustache in a thought, then slammed his fist on the table. "No."
"No?"
"No. If anything, this will make Operation Custer easier to put into effect. Motivate the troops while under fire," Rochford said, giving a grin.
"Uh, sir, won't that result in some of them being killed before they can fire back?" Patrick asked, concerned about what the man in charge of the battalion was saying.
"Necessary, if unfortunate losses," Rochford remarked. From his tone of voice, they were more necessary than unfortunate. "But either way, it will suit the purpose of Operation Custer, and therefore…"
Suddenly the lights in the tent went out. Only a few candles and lamps not running on the base's power generator were still on. The plan was in motion.
"What the… saboteurs! Someone cut the power!" Rochford cried out.
"Sir, I…"
"No! The troops will wait until the attack comes!" The officer shouted, clearly excited, giddy even, though Patrick could barely see him in the dark room. "This is just the thing I've been waiting years for!"
"What exactly?" Patrick asked.
"The moment when I will finally become a war hero, crush the rebels in this town, and…"
"Incoming!" Someone shouted outside. Patrick ducked as soon as he heard it, sheltering himself under the table. A loud explosion as a grenade landed nearby cut holes in the tent, shrapnel being flung everywhere, smashing into electronics, books, papers, and everything else in the way. More grenades quickly followed.
Lieutenant-Colonel Rochford was not as quick. He screamed out as shrapnel pierced his body in multiple places, tearing through his clothing and flesh. He fell to the ground, gasping for air, half his face ripped off by one of the explosions.. Patrick crawled over to the Lieutenant-Colonel, red staining the green fabric and turning it a sickly brown. Bloody froth formed on his lips as he struggled to breath, his whole body shaking and spasming. Before Patrick could do anything, he went limp with a gurgle, and his eyes rolled back into his head.
Major Carlson and several of the other officers, all armed with service rifles, barged into the tent. They were followed by Colonel Granger with his laser pistol.
"Oh my god!" The young lieutenant from earlier screamed. "We did kill him!"
"No. It was Dakotan Resistance," Major Carlson said, turning around and staring at the young man. "Right?"
"Err… yes. Right. Dakotan Resistance," he repeated. But he was pale, and went to the corner and vomited.
"Sorry about that Auxiliary. I hope it didn't hurt you," Major Carlson said.
"I was able to duck a bit quicker than the Lieutenant-Colonel," Patrick admitted.
"It's a shame he had to die. I was hoping that maybe, at the very least, he would have been injured and incapacitated. But this works just as well."
Outside, a volley of gunfire went off. Then everything was silent. No one in the tent breathed a word.
Major Carlson sighed, and turned to the officers after a long moment. "I'm going to contact the Colonel and the General Staff in Winnipeg with the news of what just happened here. Remember, none of us could do anything about it. The Dakotan resistance managed to sneak in and killed the Lieutenant-Colonel with grenades and shot some of the officers of the battalion."
A sergeant came forward with a couple bottles of whiskey, and opened the cork and dumped it over the papers on the table, the computers, the radio, beds, clothing, before dumping most of the rest on Rochford, and setting the bottle next to him. Major Carlson reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, grabbing a piece of paper, one of the scraps of Operation Custer, and lit it. When he was satisfied it was burning, he tossed it onto the table, which immediately went up in flames, and raced through the tent.
Everyone quickly and orderly filed out, and dispersed back to their assigned posts. No one looked back.
Patrick and Colonel Granger followed Carlson to a nearby tent, where a second radio had been set up. The Major held up his hand before they entered with him.
"Auxiliary, Colonel," he said, nodding to Patrick and Colonel Granger in turn. "I know this wasn't really the best outcome, and I will most likely never be forgiven in the eyes of God. But better seven men dead than 700, and so long as everything goes right, no one will know the truth for a long, long time."
Colonel Granger took a deep breath. "If this had been the Enclave, you would have been shot by now. But at the same time, that bastard was not fit to order a brahmin around, much less an entire battalion of troops."
The major nodded.
"So, you're the commanding officer now?" Patrick asked.
"Acting commanding officer, yeah," Major Carlson said. "I expect Winnipeg will find another Lieutenant-Colonel to take over First Battalion. I don't have the connections, the wealth, or the inclination to fight the dirty politics to get any higher than where I am."
"Well… you have me," Patrick said. "I might have a bit of pull in Winnipeg right now."
Major Carlson gave a faint smile. "I didn't do this to take over. I did it to save men's lives. If it's found out what actually happened tonight, I will walk into The Angle with my head held high, knowing I did the right thing."
Patrick somberly nodded. "My lips are sealed."
"I thank you Auxiliary for your support. You helped save many men's lives tonight." Major Carlson gave a small snort. "Hell, you even gave the late Lieutenant-Colonel what he always wanted. Too bad he's not alive to see the DBS extol his virtues."
"We'll still be able to leave tomorrow, right?" Patrick asked.
"I don't know. I may have to "shut down" the town, and see about finding whoever did this. But hopefully by tomorrow night, you should be on the train heading to Grand Forks."
Major Carlson extended his hand, and Patrick shook it. The Assiniboian officer then turned and saluted Colonel Granger, who returned it. He then entered the radio tent.
"I hope I have half the courage that man does, if something like this every happened in the Enclave," Colonel Granger whispered to Patrick as they got settled into their tent a bit later. The fire from the CO's tent had been contained, but thanks to the efforts of the officers in on the plot, order had been maintained, though the blood was boiling in some of the younger soldiers. But no one had gone out and started shooting up Bomber City. If anything, Bomber City would be wondering why the camp had a fire and explosions last night.
"You'll do the right thing," Patrick said. "It may not be the legal or official way, but it will be right." Colonel Granger was somewhat assured by that, and rolled over on his cot to sleep. Patrick, still awake and staring at the green tent above him, hoped that he was right.
PipBoy Infotracker Note #92
Thirty Years On, Dakota Still Yearns For Freedom
By Kerry O'Malley
July 7, 2206, Winnipeg Tribune Press
It's rarely talked about much outside of whispers in Bomber City and Siloville, or in the dusty halls of armories, the drunk tales of veterans, or the University of Manitoba's History department, but the Assiniboia-Dakota War still has deep scars within much of Assiniboia.
While there will be little to commemorate the event other than some news articles and maybe a protest or two in the American districts, it's still very important that us Assiniboian's actually know what happened, why, and what has come from it.
For people in the old US, Assiniboia had always been an unwelcome conqueror. The area, which had great resources and potential, saw most of their bounty being shipped north to build Winnipeg and Assiniboia, but little to help the people of Dakota itself. The lack of political representation, and the general air of superiority and smugness that Assiniboians presented to the Americans, that Assiniboia "won" the War of 2077, while the superpower that annexed Canada long ago had long since died did little to help
The three year long war that ended in 2176 was one of the bloodiest that our nation had ever faced. An exasperating and brutal guerrilla war that neither the Assiniboian Army or the RAMP at the time were prepared to fight. Until this point, all the foes that the army faced were hastily organized militias, raider gangers, or large bands of mutated wildlife. So when the Provisional Government of Dakota (PGD) rose up in Bomber City and declared their intentions, Winnipeg assumed that they were just dealing with a few disgruntled farmers, not the heavily armed and well trained force they would be dealing with.
The response by the Army was quick, mobilizing two regiments and sending them on a multi-pronged offensive to squash Dakota as quickly as they could. However, even sending almost 4000 men wasn't enough, and while Bomber City was given up by the PGD within weeks, it wasn't an end to the war. Raids and hit and run tactics were used on Assiniboian soldiers for months, inflicting casualties, destroying supplies, and keeping the soldiers tense and triggerhappy, leading to the massacre of Devil's Lake in September 2174.
Within days, all of the territories south of the old border were in open revolt, and even more Assiniboian soldiers were required to be sent down. By the middle of 2175, almost 60% of the entire strength of the army was in Dakota, trying to smother the rebellion. But the attacks by the PGD soon turned from the soldiers and Assiniboian targets to "collaborators," which began to turn many people away from the "freedom fighters" to Assiniboia.
Eventually numbers began to tell. Larger cells of rebels were destroyed and forced to retreat or surrender. By January 2176, the last survivors were at Siloville, hunkering down in the old missile silos to fight to the end. Casualties were grievous on both sides, but eventually the Assiniboian flag was once again raised over all Dakota.
So what went wrong? There are many reasons: heavy handed rule from Assiniboia sparked the conflict, and Assiniboian underestimation of the enemy at first, but then overestimation months later prolonged the war and resulted in death and destruction on a scale that few knew. But the PGD infighting and extreme posturing made reconciliation and their cause lose support very quickly. But the memories of the war, the hatred on both sides, is still there. And until we address it, politically, economically and socially, it will be waiting to flair up again.