Chapter 85: Hunter Killer

A family of molerats crawled out of their burrows to investigate the disturbance in the air above them. Cutting through the wasteland, a squadron of six patchworked gunships soared over the dirt and dust, kicking up enough debris to startle the family back into the burrow.

"Gamma 6-1, all wings reporting," said the pilot in the lead craft into his radio.

"This is Theta 5-3, no sign of them on comms. Permission to head back?"

"Negative 5-3, Omega 1-1 wants bodies, so we're getting him some."

"Gamma 6-1, we've just gotten some pings!"

Gamma 6-1 leaned towards his console, watching the sensor display activate at 200 degrees southwest. "All wings, mount up, we're checking it out."

War Chief Tandi watched as her scouts broke off and headed towards the northeast. While surveying was usually a task handled by the 32nd, the recent influx of mouths to feed stepped up the pressure to comb every last inch of turf for resources. Rationing was at its most strict, with water halved and food down to a meal and a half for most. Going forward, every drop of water would be worth its weight in gold, and the sooner they neared a city, Legion or not, the better.

Thankfully, she was being reinforced by another outfit within the AEG. However, she was unaccustomed to the other CO's more… reserved surliness. As several super mutants marched out with some makeshift digging implements, Rathmore just quietly stood back and watched as his team labored alongside the 14th Scouts.

"…So… you gonna tell me what went down between you and Wallace?" Tandi asked.

Rathmore snorted but said nothing. Tandi crossed her arms, unsatisfied by the responses she was getting from the Captain. "I mean, you weren't even demoted, and Milligan just went against direct orders once. Whatever you did couldn't have been that bad if Wallace didn't even think he could really punish you over it?"

Rathmore continued to say nothing. Tandi wondered if she should bring up the rumors she heard. "…You're usually more fun than this," she said.

"Then go entertain yourself elsewhere," Rathmore growled.

"Found him!" Tandi let out a short celebratory cheer as Rathmore scoffed, upset he had been so easily baited. "So, what did you do? I'm only asking in confidence, to make sure I know you're still solid."

Rathmore glared at her. "…It was a personal issue that I let get too personal, that is all."

"Oh," Tandi nodded. "…So, what did it have to do with that girl our friend Caesar has been spending time on?"

"You know," Rathmore abruptly cut her off. "I'm curious, are you and Milligan still fucking when you two think no one else notices? Because that's exactly where this conversation sounds like it's heading!"

Tandi looked away. "Well, not since we were both deployed to Vegas."

"Uh-huh. And that "private conference" the two of you took while on the train was fully professional?" Rathmore asked.

"Strictly professional," Tandi replied. Rathmore snorted. "…Mostly professional," Tandi admitted. "What do you care?"

"I could ask the same of you. I don't, and the only reason you'd want to pry into my business is because you can't appreciate silence, if I were so inclined to be generous."

Tandi finally took the hint and dropped the subject, much to Rathmore's relief and gratitude. "…Now I know something's wrong," Tandi then continued. "The old Rathmore would've had more to say."

"That was the problem," Rathmore muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Tandi asked.

"Nothing. Are we here to scout or gab?" Rathmore growled as he picked up his shotgun and traipsed towards the super mutants as they began digging into a prospective well. Tandi rested her hands on her hatchets as she looked to the horizon. Looking out, she saw little but sand and the faintest outlines of mountains, hoping desperately that one day she would look out and see the lights of a settlement. She fought back a chuckle. Her ancestors would never forgive her for her growing tolerance of civilization, but she had grown an appreciation for such luxuries like running water. It was half the reason her tribe and those like her signed on with the NCR military, the strongest military power on the continent.

"Gamma 6-1, we have eyes on a new contacts."

"Amazons?"

"That appears to be a negative, 6-1. They look military, though. Mostly tribals and mutants."

"Huh, guess that rules out the chances that they belong to our host."

"Shut it, Delta 2-8. Looks like we finally ran into the NCR."

"Rules of engagement, sir?"

"All wings, weapons free."

The outermost soldiers on the perimeter looked up and saw the strangest sight many of them had ever witnessed in all their years in the wasteland. While the AEG was familiar with the aircraft of the Mojave Air Patrol, and many of them had witnessed vertibirds back in California, these new craft were different. Using the cabins of semi-trailers as cockpits, the rotary-winged aircraft began drawing closer to the survey teams, having used the sun behind them to obscure their approach. Upon reaching the perimeter, the aircraft broke from their single file and began to spread out. The lead craft identified the closest survey team as they were marking out a possible well, stopping only to watch as the craft approached. Gamma 6-1 prepared a rocket and fired.

"LOAD UP ON HEAVY WEAPONS, GRAB ANY MISSILE YOU CAN CARRY!" Baxter ordered as her Power Armor encased around her body. As her squad loaded up on missile launchers, Kim settled for her .50 cal. Storming out of the mechanic field tents, she glanced around her at the camp as it seemed like everyone was in some kind of panic. The Legion hounds bayed as their riders tried to calm their animals, while looking resentful at their inability to respond effectively to the threat. The Amazons, when told of the sighting of the aircraft, seemed to have their morale visibly plummet, as their retreat had been menaced by such machines ever since their last unsuccessful stand against Scorpio. The Liberty Clanners looked little better, their own previous experience against air power diminishing their own fighting spirit, forcing their Sovereign to try and rally his troops together while assuring them they were not being sent to deal with the threat.

Wallace had selected elements of the 1st Recon and 5th Heavy Armor to counter the air attack. Commissioner Boone was focusing her efforts on having the Marshals maintain order in the main camp and establish a lookout for any other oncoming threats. Mostly, though, they were trying their best to keep the Liberty Clanners and Amazons from doing anything rash. They among others.

Rosa was once again caught and dragged back from joining the fray by Gael and Jimmy. "You can't expect me to just sit on my ass while people are dying?!" she called out.

"Yes," Kim stated as she walked past the three. "You'll only get in the way. You want to help, tend to any wounded who come back." Rosa, still upset and distraught by her own helplessness in the situation, eventually acquiesced and walked away while flanked by her escort. Kim sighed as her squad rallied around her. No one had anticipated an air battle, but Kim had came prepared with high-impact and armor-piercing weapons. Looking to her right, she saw Milligan hoisting an anti-material rifle over his shoulder, nodding at her as his assembled task force linked up with hers to launch the reinforcement action. Storming out, Kim picked up speed as her power-armored soldiers readied themselves to prove their worth once more.

The opening volley had led to a massacre. Tribals and mutants alike were scattered into a disorganized rout by the soaring death machines. Any attempt at resistance was cut down by volleys of rockets or machine guns. Gamma 6-1 oversaw the devastation with satisfaction. "These are the guys who drove us from California?" he asked over the radio. "No wonder the Legion gave these idiots such a hard time," he chuckled as the rest of his squadron reciprocated. "All units, prepare to deposit our cargo. Have them clean up the rest while we report our positions to Omega 1-1."

"Right," came the simultaneous reply from his wingmen. The craft all then lined up and made their landings on the recently cleared fields littered with shell casings, impact craters, and bodies. Near the backs of their craft, their passengers were offloaded. Each Midwest Confederacy Attack Craft was crewed by a pilot, a co-pilot, and a heavy infantry soldier in the back to handle troublesome ground emplacements. Soon, all six power-armored warriors had exfiltrated their attack crafts and positioned themselves into a standard attack pattern, entering a spear-shaped formation as they readied their weapons and began their unstoppable march toward the fleeing scouts.

Rathmore helped one of his men to their feet as Tandi began ordering her men to provide cover fire against the aircraft and the new infantry. By themselves, six soldiers, even in power armor didn't seem like a major threat, but with their forces scattered after the initial volley, Tandi knew that they could rack up dozens of casualties before they were brought down or they retreated. Not to mention the attack craft were still very much in play.

"Rathmore!" she called out. Rathmore had just told Large Sarge to gather what he could of his brethren and lead the countercharge against the new threat. He then turned to look at his fellow CO. "Those power-armor guys, the Paladins, you know how to take them down, right?"

Donald Rathmore was a veteran of the Brotherhood War, the largest conflict the NCR had fought until meeting the Legion. Most of his claim to fame came from that era, following the destruction of the Enclave on the West Coast. Though unorthodox, Rathmore had at least twelve cracked suits of power armor to his name officially, with the actual number likely higher. Indeed, Rathmore lifted up his pantleg on his right foot and pulled out a railroad spike. "I'll have my boys lead a counterattack! You and I? We'll attack those guys piecemeal!"

"This is Gamma 6-1, all craft, link up with me and regroup. We'll hit these guys in the rear," the lead craft announced as the rest fell in line. Keeping the edge of the field of engagement, the plan was to further harass and neutralize the encroaching force before picking up the armored clean-up crew and reporting back to the Onager. Gamma 6-1 hadn't had this much fun since annihilating the rebel Cypher/Luddite collective about ten years ago. It was just as well that none of these idiots knew how to handle air supremacy.

The craft on his second suddenly had a bunch of smoke plume out of their engine by the rotors. "Gamma 6-1, this is Theta 5-3, it feels like I have some engine problems, I'm currently about to disengage an-" The engine exploded, sending the craft into a spin as it careened into the ground. "THETA 5-3! DO YOU COPY?!" Gamma 6-1 demanded over the radio. Some distance away, Lt. Milligan loaded another bullet into his AMR as Baxter's team charged forward.

Large Sarge loaded up another mortar round as he oversaw his team of sharpshooters and artillery, mostly his green boys lobbing grenades and mortars toward the approaching paladins. "SHOOT WHERE THEY'RE GOING TO BE, NOT WHERE THEY ARE!" he screamed at his subordinates. "I HAVE TO TELL YOU EVERY SINGLE FREAKING TIME!" he complained as he aimed his mortar high, popping a finger into his mouth as he accounted for what little wind there was. He fired off a round, his sturdy body absorbing most of the recoil as the round howled toward the oncoming firing line. It hit the right flank, causing two of the paladins to stumble as the rest of the line kept advancing, leaving them vulnerable as Rathmore and Tandi made contact. The first paladin tried to raise their double-barreled shotgun at the approaching aggressors, only for Tandi to kick it away as she struck at him with her tomahawks. Unfazed, the paladin discarded his primary weapon and reached for his backup, a ripper. Activating it, he swung at the tribal leader while Rathmore attacked his partner. Rathmore ducked and weaved around the wild swings of the other paladin while checking to see if any joints had been previously damaged. A spark emitting around the shoulder after a missed hook told him everything he needed to know. Grabbing his railroad spike, he jammed it into the damaged servo, and the armor's operator suddenly found their entire right arm out of commission. Snaking around, Rathmore got behind him and went straight for his anti-Paladin signature; straight for the neck.

Tandi was using both of her tomahawks to block the oncoming swing against her, being forced back as she dug her heels into the ground as the paladin began pressuring her. The malicious-looking paladin armor stared at her through his unblinking visor. Tandi let out a scream as she threw the last of her strength against the paladin, and sure enough managed to stalemate with her enemy, catching him off guard as the railroad spike dug into the back of his neck and into his spine. As the war chief fell back, the armored body collapsed forward as Rathmore maintained his grip on his railroad spike. "Nice job," Rathmore nodded as he fished it out.

"So, this is how you fought the Brotherhood War?" Tandi let out a weak chuckle.

"Nah. They were tougher. The real Brotherhood of Steel learned the hard way not to underestimate anyone, even tribals," Rathmore explained. "No offense."

A slow smile crept onto Tandi's face. "None taken."

As the firing line of paladins advanced, several tribal skirmishers tried to flank the line, firing at them with lever-action rifles and bows and arrows. The lead paladin had to laugh as he turned his machine gun towards them and opened fire, driving them back, even as a particularly stubborn tribal warrior felt compelled to launch a spear in their particular direction. As it buried uselessly into the sand before him, the paladin took a moment to at least admire the tenacity of the warrior, right before he noticed the pulse grenade tied right under the spear tip.

Upon seeing the grenade activate and detonate, the 14th Scouts and 66th Assault both focused their fire on the paladin as he fell to his knees. The paladin, in his heavy husk of an armor suit, could only feel the oncoming onslaught of bullets chip into and tear away at his armor before some lucky shot finally penetrated his visor and his body slumped onto the ground. The rest of the paladin's squad, feeling their fortunes taking a turn, began to slowly retreat, keeping up the fire behind them as the new squad leader radioed for extraction.

Gamma 6-1 evaded another missile as the radio calls came in and overwhelmed the channels.

"This is Delta 2-8, weapons system in-op!"

"Kappa 8-5, my co-pilot took a bullet and is bleeding out!"

"Omicron 4-2, I strongly advise falling back!"

"EVERYONE, SHUT UP!" Gamma 6-1 screamed. "We need to maximize our damage while the opportunity presents itself! This was a pre-emptive strike, we will not get one again! We need to find the leadership, decapitate the command, that way we can-"

"HEY, EVERYBODY, DID THE NEWS GET AROUND ABOUT A GUY NAMED BUTCHER PETE!" a new voice broke over the comms.

"Who is this?!" Gamma 6-1 demanded.

"OH, PETE JUST FLEW INTO THIS TOWN AND HE'S CHOPPING UP ALL THE WOMEN'S MEAT!" the off-key girl continued to sing.

"He's hacking and whacking and smacking… he's hacking and whacking and smacking… he's hacking whacking and smacking. He just hacks, whacks, chopping that meat!" the two male voices joined in.

"GET OFF THIS CHANNEL!" Gamma screamed.

Rosa just blew a raspberry into her Pip-boy as she picked up the next verse. "BUTCHER PETE'S GOT A LONG SHARP KNIFE…"

"CHANGE COMMS, NOW!" Gamma exclaimed as he narrowly avoided another rocket. "…Anyways, Delta, since you're in-op, you have to-"

"HACKING, WHACKING, SMACKING!"

"GET OFF THE COMMS!"

A missile slammed into the cockpit of Delta 2-8. As Gamma watched the craft hurdle down to the ground, he realized that this basic recon mission had cost him one-third of his flight. "…On my six," he growled as Rosa began trying to sing about playing it again. Soon enough, the frequency grew weaker as she watched the attack craft make their retreat. "…I helped," she grinned as Jimmy and Gael let out simultaneous exhales.

Large Sarge oversaw what wounded they had were positioned as far from the ever-retreating paladins as he could. Roughly eight tribals and about a baker's dozen ghouls had been wounded. As his super mutants formed a perimeter (in their language, "don't hurt the busted tiny guys") he looked over the wounded mutants and began asking questions. "…What's 3+4?"

"Seven," a ghoul corporal answered immediately.

"You, what year did President Tandi take office?"

"I don't fucking know," a private whined, pleading.

Satisfied, Large Sarge went over to a sergeant. "What's Rathmore's middle name?"

The sergeant just stared vacantly. "…What's his middle name, Sgt. Harris?" Large Sarge asked with extra urgency. Slowly, the ghoul's mouth began to open, slobber dripping from his teeth as he lunged at the super mutant. The super mutant NCO then did his duty and grabbed the new feral by the neck, snapping it and tossing his body to the side for a later burial, the tribals looking on in horror as the ghouls either bowed their heads in mourning or protested that they still held their mental faculties.

There was a lot that people didn't understand about the process the medical community had dubbed "feralization," the process of a ghoul's mental degradation into what could only be described as a violent degenerate zombie. Some figured the process was inevitable, that a ghoul's decay would inevitably affect their mentality, and that going feral was guaranteed. Rathmore, a Pre-war ghoul, could not bring himself to believe that. He had his own theory. He believed that trauma, repeated and consistent, was what destroyed a ghoul's mind and brought about the "second death." Wounds, tragedy, misfortunes, grief, bad shit, and hopelessness were what Rathmore believed would truly separate the connection of his kin from the rest of humanity, turning them into the monsters Rathmore feared above all others.

As Large Sarge dusted off his palms, the sounds of the rotors beating began to come back. The super mutants guarding the wounded turned and began to fire upon the approaching craft. As much as Large Sarge wanted to tell them to stop wasting time, it was a miracle whenever he could get them all to shoot in the same direction, so regardless of how little good it accomplished, he watched with a smile on his face as the rounds peppered off the armored hulls of the craft. That smile would slowly recede when the lead craft broke from its formation and began a hovering approach towards Large Sarge. Or to be more accurate, the group of wounded he was looking after.

Gamma 6-1 was angry and looking for some quick and easy kills to bolster his record before returning to Omega 1-1. With most of his ammo spent, he still had a ream or so of machinegun ammo and about twenty disabled hostiles before him. Correction, he thought, twenty future threats he was about to neutralize. He opened fire as he flew over them, the green mutant lunging into the line of fire, his kind typically stupid enough to misjudge where to jump to escape the oncoming fire, he thought with a snort. As he soared away, he pondered over how best to report this to Tek-Baron Jefferson, and how much of a promotion he could wring out of the cyborg.

Large Sarge forced his body up, his perforating wounds puncturing a few of his pre-mutant organs and a could post-mutant ones in his estimation. Hacking up some blood, he felt weak, serene even. As more blood leaked from his body, he forced himself upright as he dropped one last round into his mortar. No wind. He thought back to days he could barely remember, throwing an unusually shaped ball down the metal field to a teammate on the other end. He remembered the roar of the crowd and the celebration of his teammates as he went back to the bench, satisfied he had broken another Vault-ball record. It was a memory he cherished, even after he was taken and dipped in the FEV, even after he became a soldier of a madman, even after he tried to make up for all the harm he did and look after all the little guys. Even after all this time, he could make that shot.

Gamma 6-1 watched as his escorting craft used their magnetic hooks to pick up the survivors of the reconnaissance-turned-raid. The ground forces were sturdier than expected, but another follow-up raid should be enough to shatter them, he thought. His leadership, his heroism, it was beyond commendable, he was the best pilot in the Detroit Tek-Barony, no, the entire Midwest Confederacy! He was going to go down in the records as the finest flight commander in the Confederacy's history, in legend!

These were the last thoughts that went through Gamma 6-1's mind as the back of his craft erupted, igniting the fuel and remaining ammo before the blast incinerated him and his co-pilot, the attack craft going down in flames. A nearly impossible distance behind them, a dying super mutant let out a small and bloody smile. "…Touchdown," he whispered as he fell, the mortar slipping from his grasp for the final time.

Thirty NCR soldiers had died from the sudden attack. In actuality, the number was closer to twenty-five, but the sudden and traumatic onslaught had pushed a few ghouls into feralization, which had to be personally remedied by Captain Rathmore. The Captain made his way back to the main camp without further word, stopping briefly to acknowledge his most trusted fallen subordinate before continuing on his way. "…Guess you won the bet, Sergeant," Rathmore muttered to himself. The lucky bastard had died under his own power, his mind intact, with honor, and before Rathmore. He owed him a round in the next life.

As Tandi returned to headquarters, the mood was grim. The casualties they had taken were stark, and the least of their problems at that. 1st Recon reports, along with several of the dog riders, had found a rather disturbing development steadily approaching him. An ominous black cloud, and beneath it, an army numbering in the thousands. Judging from the attack craft and paladins they had managed to down earlier, they could understand just who and what might be hiding inside the approaching cloud of smog and soot, and those who marched beneath it carried banners with them. A silver scorpion on a field of red. It was as they feared. The 4th Legion had allied with the Midwest Confederacy, and they were standing in the way of the end of this Lone Star Expedition.