Keystone Fort, Hill 20
10 miles South of "The Pitt", Former Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
March 7th, 2280
It was just past midnight and uncharacteristically quiet, save for the errant chatter and crackle of the many communication and relay terminals lined along the walls of the tent. In the distance the thunder of guns was carried on the breeze and a series of explosions fell around the fort.
"Down! Get down!" Someone yelled. Probably the Scribe who, only moments ago had poured coffee for all attending.
Paladin Yasmine Oakley tossed her mug, disregarded the idea of safety and burst out of the communications tent, shouldering her AER laser rifle. She started moving and pulsed her comm, "Marnie, Irish, meet me at the FCC."
"Meet you there!" Irish's gruff voice said in her earpiece and she got a similar response from Marnie. Shells started blasting the fort, sending plumes of dirt and smoke into the air as the sounds of heavy combat suddenly erupted, filling the skies above. There were explosions, shouts and machine gun bursts that crackled and popped, as blasts from the Wasteland Marauders artillery and unguided rockets smashed the hillsides around them. The thunderous boom of answering Brotherhood guns sounded off. Creating a cacophony so oppressive, you couldn't hear yourself think.
Keystone Fort was a medium complex of trenches, tents and gunnery stations atop hill 20, just outside The Pitt. Yasmine had been assigned to manage the defensive facilities. However, two days ago, following Commander Luson's death, she became the next in line to assume command.
In front of her were two trenches that branched left and right, trench A and B. A trench led to the gunnery stations and ruined Command Post (CP.) She went down B trench, running at a slight crouch, passing the underground food Storage and bypassing the entrance to C trench - which snaked across the more level part of the hill to the barracks, ammo stores, mess hall and medical tent.
There was a bend up ahead and a slope which was the first Observation Post (OP). An artillery shell whistled down behind her, landing in the piles of mud from the trench excavations and blasted dirt and sand down on her shoulders. She hunched, but didn't stop. Sand granules pinged off her combat armour, a series of standard issue ablative plates that wrapped across her snug, all-black bodysuit.
A person fell into the trench, half landing half sliding into a pile of limbs. They recovered quickly enough, and Yasmine and they stopped in an alcove to let three fatigue-wearing engineers pass them, carting crates of 155mm shells for the fort's guns.
The person pressed into her was Marnie Kellen. "I thought you would have stayed in the Comm tent," Marnie said, mouth pressed into a firm line. Not quite a smile, "too afraid to get your boots dirty."
Another shell landed nearby, but not as close as the last. The two women huddled together, a supportive act. It wouldn't save them from a direct hit, but it made Yasmine feel better about it. The flash briefly illuminated the woman. The glow revealed neotenous facial features and a pale complexion, with wide dark eyes and short blonde hair pinned beneath her combat helmet.
"You know, after the CP went up, I think I prefer my chances in the trenches with the grunts," Yasmine said at last.
The distinctive boom of the Brotherhood 155mm artillery guns and hiss from the hydraulic assisted loading mechanisms let her know they weren't going to take the enemy hits without a stiff response. Another shell landed nearby and someone started screaming for a medic. "Fuckers," Marnie spat.
Yasmine had never heard the smaller, almost fragile looking woman cuss before. It was a dirty thing, like watching a swan cover itself in mud. She wanted to give her a stern talking to. She felt like her mother half the time anyway, so it was almost appropriate. Although, given the circumstances, perhaps a few curt swears we're a necessity.
The trenchline was almost pitch black, outside the wire - a twenty metre deadzone of barbed spikes, pits and artillery craters, crimson flares hung and lit up the broken skyline. There was gunfire, laser reports and explosions echoing around, and tracers whistled over the fort.
"Control to Oakley," a calm voice said in her ear, "Major Hakim is on the comm, his men are under attack."
Yasmine hit her collar, the little plastic button creaked, "Copy that, control. I'll be with you shortly. Oakley, out." She ended the line.
Another series of artillery blasts rained down around the fort, one of them sent up a massive corona of fire as something flammable had been hit. The shockwave wrapped across the trench and made her ears ring. Yasmine moved out of the alcove and back into the trench, in the distance the Brotherhood artillery shells battered some unseen target with tremendous booms which she could feel through her boots.
"We need to get to the FCC and coordinate with the Major," Yasmine said and together they ran down B trench, aiming for the fire control tent at the end.
The sky, as always, was grey and bleak. The sun could never manage to pierce the thick smog that was perpetual to the Pennsylvania skyline. Much like D.C and Maryland, in all directions a person could look it was dark gloomy and decrepit. The Pitt, former city of Pittsburgh, was the only thing the eyes could focus on. With its ruined residential buildings, solitary skyscrapers and crumbling concrete industrial estates welded together in a haze of smog and smoke.
The Brotherhood had spent over a year in the area attempting to clean up the zone, and Yasmine could still remember the words of Elder Sarah Lyons at the initial brief.
"It'll be a relatively easy operation, we don't expect much in the way of organised resistance. Intel has it that the gangs are fractured and weakened from sickness and poor infrastructure. We'll roll in with the Vertibirds and clear the city street by street and building by building."
Operation Cloudburst was launched with a dozen newly arranged and organised units. More traditional military designs than the Brotherhood had been able to field in the past. But when the first few shiny new VB-3 Vertibirds had been shot down and the initial probing attacks had been pushed out of the city by a well organised defence, the Brotherhood had stepped back to re-evaluate its foothold.
Yasmine had been in logistics at the time, but the constant shortage of personnel meant anyone capable was called up to the front. She'd been given a promotion, a new job and told to get it done by the operation commander.
Yasmine and Marnie burst into the FCC and hit the assorted boards that represented the floor. An artillery shell landed someway behind them, too close for comfort and sent a gust of dirt and sand into the tent. They stood and dusted themselves off, both well accustomed to the to and fro of artillery, which had been a daily occurrence since they'd been sent here.
Lewis Bowen was sitting on an ammo crate he'd dragged to the communication terminal, he had a handset glued to one ear and a second held under his chin. His blue eyes were lidded and unfocused, as he robotically liaised information with whoever was on the receiving end.
The tent ruffled behind them and Gus Merrick came in, shoulders and Greaves coated in a fine layer of silicate and dust. He had ginger braids and the bushiest beard Yasmine had ever laid eyes on. Someone at the gunnery station had referred to him as Irish St Nick and the moniker had largely stuck.
Bowmen turned to her and lowered the handsets, "ma'am," he said somewhat uncomfortably, "guns are down to half-ammo, we've lost contact with Dr. Monroe and the medical team, and Major Hakim is waiting for you on channel 2-0."
Bowmen was good. The kid was proficient, didn't get emotional and never needed her to tell him what she needed. She couldn't have asked for a better Controller. "Thanks, Bowmen," Yasmine started, before turning to look at Irish, "get to medical, take a spool from supply and get Comms restored."
"You got it," he said and left. The tent flap waved in his wake and she caught a glimpse of smoke and twisted sandbags. That last hit had been far closer than she liked. It started raining, she could hear it on the canvas of the tent.
Yasmine crouched next to Bowmen and took the offered handset, the radio was already tuned to channel 2-0. "Keystone Control to Alpha Actual, over."
The earpiece spat static back to her for a moment before an energetic man answered, "good to hear your voice, Yas. I was worried you'd be KIA when I heard the news about Commander Luson."
She smiled thinly at that, she liked Major Jonathan Hakim and so did his men. He was personable, motivating and didn't have any issue getting his hands dirty with the regular troops. He'd been the one to meet her at the fort when she'd been transported in, he always had a soft smile, but it didn't feel forced. She wager he was struggling to keep it up right now, though. "Likewise, sir. I heard you're having some trouble on the defence?"
There was a pause, and that enthusiastic energy from moments ago was gone, he sounded strained, "affirmative. We're on the South side of the Monongahela River. We were making our way into the city, but the bastards counter-attacked, they near enough wiped out every rifle at the Glenwood bridge and we had to fall back."
Yasmine took out her field map and began taking notes, marking unit locations and small dots to represent possible enemy locations. Hakim kept talking. "We're stuck at a junction on East Carson St. and 335. They're hitting us with rockets and heavy machine guns. I know you're on guard duty but we're pinned down, in a bad way. I've got multiple wounded, including me and we can't pull out until those heavy weapons are destroyed. Is there any chance you could muster up enough troops for a rescue?"
Yasmine thought about it. Everyday since her unwanted promotion she obsessed over their battle reports, they had so few people left, Fort Keystone was basically a ghost town. When she'd started they had about seventy-five people manning the fort and most of those were technical and support staff. They had a small defence contingent, Commander Luson had sent eight of those to assist Captain Bauldwell on the East flank, four were dead from enemy action, two critically wounded and evacuated, plus ten others in the sick bay. Luson and five officers had been killed when an unguided missile landed right on top of the CP. No, I fucking well can't, she thought.
"Standby," she replied reluctantly and glanced at Marnie. The small woman was poised behind two of the Fire Control Officers, one of them had their arm bandaged in a sling and the other had them poking out from their shirt collar and the sleeves of their vest. Those two were in no shape for anything.
Her comm pinged and she switched channels, "this is Oakley."
"I'm at the med tent," it was Irish, "one of the techs is already repairing the line, you'll have hardwired comms soon."
That was a slim bit of good news, "what's their status?" She asked and held her breath. They only had one trained sawbones, Doctor Jay Monroe, a young guy, good kid, she wasn't sure where they pulled him from, but he'd been invaluable in keeping everyone's limbs attached.
"Monroe's alive and so is his staff, but he's pissed about the lack of support from Command," even as Irish said that Yasmine could hear the somewhat shrill young man continue in the background, bitching about the need for evacuation and reinforcement. Yeah, you and me both, pal, Yasmine thought.
She thought for a moment, recalling who was in sick bay and what their injuries were, "I want you to tell Doctor Monroe to prep Boram and Paulson. I need them for a trip outside the wire. And get ready, Irish. I'm taking you, too." She killed the conversation before he could argue by switching back to channel 2-0, "Major?"
His voice replied instantly, "I hear you, Yas." Outside the tent, the artillery blasts had stopped landing, but the Brotherhood guns continued to boom. The rain was picking up as the horizon crackled with the after echo of gunfire and explosions.
"I'm going to hand control of the fort to Senior Scribe Bowmen and lead a team to knock out those guns. I'm tired of them hitting us."
"Say again," he said exasperatedly, "I must have misheard, it sounded like you said you were leaving the fort. You're a clerk, Yas, not infantry. Just send the damn security team," he sounded pained, as if someone was patching him up while he was talking to her.
Yasmine frowned, she'd served her time, run patrols and been involved in many combat actions a few years back. But a bullet had nearly severed her spine and she'd spent eight months in the infirmary and a lot more time learning just to walk again. That's why she was a rear echelon soldier. But now she was fit and ready to fight, and by god she was going to.
"I am the security force," she said, somewhat annoyed. "I'll lead a small team, commando style, hit them from the rear and call in artillery from the fort. Those raiders aren't well trained enough to respond effectively. I advise you to contact Captain Bauldwell and see if they can provide some suppressing fire as we move across the dead zone."
There was a lengthy pause, in the background comm chatter fed through as Bowmen and the other two officers spoke quietly, relaying info and troops around the fort. Major Hakim was leading A Company, Captain Bauldwell had D Company on the East flank, and there were B and F companies to the west, likewise bogged down in a labyrinth of trenches and artillery craters. The constant rain had turned the area between the fort and the Monongahela River into a quagmire. Power Armoured units were too impractical to overrun the enemy, becoming mired in the slurry and any air assets got shot down by heat seekers. It was the twenty-third century for christ sake, almost three hundred years of warfare evolution just to go back to the trench. Yasmine sighed.
Her earpiece crackled, "Bauldwell's dead," Hakim said deadpan, "we can't reach command, and now I've lost touch with D Company, too. God damn it, Yas." He sounded tired. "Ok, I'll authorise your little commando raid, but keep in touch with the FCC. All the radiation in the river is playing hell with our communications, so you'll encounter dead zones with your broadcast range as you get closer to us. You can try to relay through Keystone Control, or send a runner with a spool, it's your call." He sighed as well. Sounding uncharacteristically defeatist, "if this goddamn weather lets up maybe we can call in close air support and get my men out of here. I've got to go, Yas, the fighting is right outside. Hakim, out." He cut the line off.
Yasmine stood, catching Bowmens eye as she did, "you'll be fine, Lewis, just keep doing what you're doing. We'll be in touch. Marnie, let's go."
Outside the rain was constant and both women were soaked in an instant. They dropped down into the trench and began making their way to the Medical tent. The sky was black, dark clouds only visible from fires and flashes from the explosions along the river. There were two battalions worth of Brotherhood troops out there and the enemy seemed without end. All the radio chatter she'd eavesdropped on spoke of a mix of heavily armed and ferocious Marauder types. The Brotherhood would advance, take heavy casualties and run low on ammo and be overwhelmed by numerically superior enemy numbers. Intel on The Pitt wasn't much of a benefit to those on the ground, but it helped Yasmine to create a pretty decent picture.
The Pitt was made up of a variety of human traffickers, raiders, crime syndicates and mercenaries that historically battled each other for control of the downtown area. When the Brotherhood had marched on the city, they had unified against them. The city, although a ruined maze of concrete, had an extensive industrial zone under the slavers control. Steel yards, foundries and mills pumped out raw metals to processing plants and factories, they made arms, ammunition, armour and protective gear. They had ample access to coal and raw steel from mines in the west, far beyond the Brotherhood's somewhat lacking range, and a steady stream of new flesh was provided by the slave trains the human traffickers in Cleveland and Detroit organised.
To be a slave, Yasmine thought, must have been the worst fate a person could endure. Word from around the sparse local settlements said that as a slave you could be put to work in the foundries, mills or mines. Usually to the death. If you were tough enough though, they might select you for their barbaric fighting tournament. The Hole. An underground arena where slaves and prisoners were made to fight to the death.. You could earn your freedom that way, the settlers said. Otherwise you fought for the gangs in their organised slave armies, or fed to the Trogs. Yasmine shivered, she hadn't seen any of the abominations first hand, but a few months ago one of the Forts patrols had stumbled across a band of the things. They looked like trolls or little gremlins, these mutated people. She'd seen the wounds they could inflict, and wasn't in a hurry to meet them herself. Hopefully the fighting had forced them away,
The journey to the med tent was thankfully uneventful, although an artillery blast had screwed this section of trenches' ability to drain water and they slogged along with it up to their ankles. The Medical tent was the largest of those at the fort and leant against a mountain of earthworks to shelter it from the city and the constant artillery.
Two men in fatigues carried a woman's body, one of the arms was hanging limply, their sleeve looking like the only thing saving it from falling off completely. Marnie held the flap open for them and Yasmine followed them inside. They gently placed the woman on a gurney and an aide wearing blood-splattered scrubs rushed over to start working on the wounded woman, flashing a dismissive hand at the two men.
"You'll be ok, Kait," one of them said.
"Yeah, take it easy, now. We'll see you real soon," the second muttered.
They walked past Yasmine and Marnie as they stood back to take in the space. The tent was an H-shape, with the main entrance dumping the women into what Yasmine thought of as the triage lounge. There was a distinct metallic smell of blood and burned flesh, combined with sterile fumes from the antiseptics and was a sense of urgency, as the aide shouted for help and a woman in identical scrubs rushed out of one of the side doors, kicked the brakes off with her heel and began tugging the gurney back the way she'd come. All the while the aide was relaying information, his legs working on autopilot to stay beside his patient as his hands caressed the ruined arm.
The light spilling from the opposite room shimmered and Irish filled the doorway, his arms were crossed and his shoulders set in that, 'how dare you leave me here,' look. He turned without a word, Marnie and Yasmine exchanged a confused look and walked in. The next room was a row of beds, all of them occupied. To the left was another aide talking quietly with Doctor Monroe, while on the right at the back the hall-shaped room was a dark area, with a set of doors slightly ajar.
When Yasmine glanced back at Irish, he was looking straight at her, "you ok?" She asked.
"Terrific," he said curtly. It sounded more like a 'fuck you,' but Yasmine wasn't sure why.
"Ah, Paladin, I've heard you want to release two of my patients," Monroe said.
Yasmine frowned and tried to get her forehead to unclench but it was a real effort. Made worse - not as much by his intonation, which told her he was going to be difficult - but more so his tone, which was high pitched for a man and somehow shrill and loud at the same time. It was one of those voices that hit your eardrums and made you think, shut up, shut up, shut up!
"I shouldn't need to remind you, Doctor, there's a war going on outside and if they're fit well enough to stand they can damn well pick up a rifle and fight." She folded her arms and leaned back. Behind Monroes skeletal frame she could see Shin Boram, but not Tom Paulson.
Marnie had spotted it as well, "where's Tom?" She asked, before Yamsine could. Voice almost cracking. As far as she knew the two had been seeing each other.
Monroe unfolded his arms and looked sad for a moment, "I'm sorry Knight," he said, all the defiance leaving him, "he's gone."
Yasmine opened her mouth to ask how, but Marnie beat her to it once again, "what do you mean gone? Did they evacuate him?!"
Marnie was shouting now and Yasmine didn't think she realised, she also couldn't bring herself to tell her to knock it off. But the woman was kidding herself, they all knew no choppers had made it to Fort Keystone in weeks. Yasmine walked past Irish, Monroe and the upset Marnie to stand behind Shin and tuned out the conversation, but briefly heard Irish chip in to calm the woman down.
"Paladin Boram," Yasmine said, looking at the Asian woman's reflection in the grainy mirror.
She didn't answer, concentrating too much on her reflection, as she slowly ran a disposable razor over her bald head like a farmer ploughing rows through a field. Shin might have been pretty,under normal circumstances, possibly possessing a fair complexion, but she was recovering from several complex procedures and looked pale and gaunt-faced with hollow, almond-shaped eyes. The woman looked slightly built and not particularly impressive physically. But Yasmine had seen her hit the sparring mats with men twice her size and it always ended with them choking and tapping frantically to end the bout. She was quiet and tended to blend into the background, which made Ysmine think she would have made a good spy or clandestine operative. Perfect for the kind of mission she had planned for them.
Shin finished with shaving and finished up by cleaning the razor and sticking it in a pouch on her belt. She wore the same ablative combat armour and bodysuit they all did - although she had painted her plates a black colour. Some of the other members of the security team had done the same, it was alloy paint mixed with grease and oil. It helped you blend in with the environment, allegedly anyway.
Yasmines head jerked up as someone threw the tent flaps aside in a hurry, she caught the tail end of Marnie vanishing out into the rain. Irish moved to follow, but halted at the last moment. Monroe walked over, he looked to have aged, the near constant youthful energy he seemed to radiate was gone and instead his shoulders looked heavy, as if laden with sandbags.
Shin turned around, "I remember you," she said to Yasmine. Her voice was soft and gentle, almost peaceful. But she had this unblinking stare, "you were at the Checkpoint when I was wounded."
Yasmine had seen the slight woman's name on the patrol roster and on the WIA list so often, but hadn't put two and two together at the time. They had met a few weeks ago, Yasmine had been outside the wire writing a report on one of the checkpoints defences, when their position fell under attack. A small unit of the organised mercenaries that fought on behalf of the Pitt had launched mortars and laid down withering fire, before a dozen men in crude metal armour made a rush for the gate. A mortar round had blown one of the Sangars and buried Paladin Boram in half a ton of earth. She'd been trapped while Yasmine and the checkpoint guards defended against waves of mercs. The collapse had broken some ribs, punctured a lung and ruptured her appendix, but they'd managed to dig her out alive. It had been Yasmine who had tended to Shin, while a 4x4 APC had been dispatched to rush her back to the Fort for surgery.
"Sorry for the rude wake up call," Yasmine started, "but I'm short on people and need you for an op."
Shin blinked for the first time, "I am ready."
"You are not," Monroe butted in as he joined them. He folded his arms and set his jaw, "I told you many times already, Paladin. I will not approve you for field duty. If you're keen to get back to work, I have some light duties around the ward you can help with, but you're only two weeks post-op after multiple complex surgeries. If you go outside the wire we both know what will happen; You'll be crawling through dysentery filled trenches and getting shot at! And we're low enough on antibiotics and stims as it is, without you taking away more of them."
Shin turned her blank gaze on him, "I am well enough, Doctor. I understand perfectly that you are worried for me and I am moved by that, but this decision is mine alone. Now please, do not make me go AWOL."
He stiffened halfway through her plea but then he just shut his eyes and let out a long breath. He tilted his head up at the ceiling, eyes still shut and just breathed for a moment. Finally, he opened his eyes again and regarded Shin, "very well, Paladin. In that case you are relieved of my care." Then he spun around, pausing to throw a short glare at Yasmine, "I had to spend the last of my Analgesics and Intubation medicine on her. Do not waste it by letting her get killed." He stormed off before Yasmine could say anything. I won't, She thought.
Irish came over, still with that sad look on his face, "where's Paulson?" She asked, suddenly realising he wasn't present.
Shin and Irish just gave a little head jerk and subtle point to a pair of sliding doors. The interior was dark, as Yasmine neared it. Her stomach filled with a knot that was either vague despair or rising anger. There was a gurney wheeled just inside, the boots of someone poking out of a jungle green rain poncho. There was an identification tag on the ankle, just a bit of string with a paper note and a bloodspeck on one corner. It read, Paulson, Tom J.
Shit, she thought, Shit, shit, shit. That word passed through her head so many times these days, it had more or less lost any deeper meaning. Tom was a good man, she'd known him a while. He was trained with explosives and she hated herself for being more concerned with the lack of a qualified demolitions expert than the fact her friend was dead. Irish joined her and they stood in silence for perhaps ten seconds, head bowed in an unspoken farewell. She squared herself with a breath, fed up with feeling tired and sad.
"I gave his tags to the comms clerk, don't worry," Irish said with a tightly forced smile, "as soon as we regain contact with command they'll know. His family will know." He finished, sounding worse for it.
"Good," Yasmine said after a while, "let's grab Marnie and get to the stores."
"Shopping?" Irish asked.
"Yeah, I need a few things."