Operation: Swooping Crane - Phase 2 - Just Outside of Township-held Airfield
Private Log, Day 3:
I said it in the first log, but we've encountered some unexpected resistance. We were supposed to come in and decimate whatever stood in our way, but I'm afraid it ain't going to be that easy. There's no negotiating here like I did in Goldendale, and it seems like these guys are gettin' some outside help. Probably NCR. We were hit with some pretty heavy artillery fire the first time we charged in. It caught us completely off-guard and we lost a lot of good men. Fuck. -Sigh- I wonder if they finally got those crazies at Nellis to hand over their guns. If they did, well.. I know where those fuckin' guns are now. Goddamn it -adjusting mic-. I just hope there aren't any NCR troopers in that airfield, and if there are I hope they make it out soon; I haven't been able to get close enough yet. Ain't no crackin' their defenses with what we've got; I've requested assistance. President Clearwater says he's got a couple of those mutant mole-people - whatever the fuck they are - coming to assist, but I ain't too happy about the plan. I've already lost enough men. Now they want to me to keep charging that godforsaken airfield to draw the defenders northward so the muties can hit the airfield from the rear. -Explosion- Fuck. -End transmission-
- - -
Three days under siege had left a once mighty beast weary. It was a dying beast now; its desperate cries heard all throughout the night. It cried out and trembled, its lead claws reaching out to strike down the men besieging its ruined lair. Its claws were a flurry of fiery tracers, the endless clamor of artillery, and the peering bayonet blades of frightened but steadfast men. The guns made the airfield light up a bright orange against the dark backdrop of night, its ruined edifices trembling with every thunderous detonation. It was as though every building had been fortified for the coming storm. It howled like an animal aware of the danger over the horizon; the deafening bellow of a dying beast crying out with its last breath, its spit a fiery hail of lead that wouldn't cease.
Machine-guns peered out of every window, as did canons. They sent forth shells with such force the decaying buildings from which they fired often crumbled. Hathaway had seen it himself. It was a desperate stand, but its bite was still strong. The space before the airfield was a smoldering field of fire; metal carcasses beneath columns of black smoke - what remained of some of his men. The tracer rounds lit the dark areas with their fiery flight and geysers of dirt came bursting skyward whenever a shell impacted the earth, sending shrapnel raining over the 1st Mechanized. Already several men had been put out of action by shrapnel wounds; their arms cut wide open, dirt-caked gashes where a sharp rock or piece of metal had sliced through. But they pressed on.
The air was hot with fire and embers blew against their faces like fireflies amidst the night sky. Smoke choked the air. They could hardly breath, or see. Their ears rang. But they kept their eyes trained on the great fire on the horizon. It roared at them. There wasn't a single man who wasn't covered in dirt. To his right - sitting atop the same armored vehicle barreling downhill towards the airfield - was a boy no more than nineteen. Dirt had caked on his face and some tears formed around his eyes. The dirt cleared in downward-lines where previous tears had run down. Others washed over small cuts and he wore a grimace over fearful eyes. Behind him sat a man with a nose covered in blood. It ran down his face and neck to soak his khaki tunic. He had tried to stop the bleeding and it left him with bloody hands.
Hathaway knew every one of their faces. These were his men, and it pained him to see them suffer. But he knew they were strong. The clanks of impacting rounds cutting away at the armor on their vehicles rang loud. The thunderous boom of shells made them tremble with fear and it felt as though they had been sent to face an earthquake. Blood ran down the side of armored cars carrying men struck with stray rounds or shrapnel, leaving crimson trails upon the dead grass. Their faces stung, peppered by rocks being kicked back by the cars at the front. The fire on the horizon grew bigger and more intense. And it roared, it roared. But they pressed on atop their own metal beasts like a pack of hungry wolves; a storm of rumbling Old World monstrosities they swore could roar louder than whatever awaited them behind the smoke.
This had been their third charge and though every charge had chipped away a part of the defenses, the beast still stood. When they passed the smoke it looked them in the face, its eyes a blaze of yellow and red. Hathaway hadn't given an order when his men opened up with everything they had. A cacophony of sound erupted from his rear and out from under him as every remaining vehicle unloaded. Hathaway braced himself as the machine-guns under him began to fire and the truck began to shake even more wildly. Around them, the thunder of dozens of machine-guns cried out between the more subtle thumps of grenade launchers. For a second, it seemed as though they had overpowered the enemy.
Then came the enemy response.
Something warm hit Hathaway in the face and began to flow down to his neck. It was followed by a sound reminiscent of tearing paper. He looked to his right to see the boy beside him fall off the side of the vehicle. It caught him off-guard. He touched his face and held his hands in front of him to see that they were covered in blood. He realized what had happened immediately and ducked, holding on to his peaked hat with bloody hands. A dozen clanks followed as more rounds hit the truck and cars around it. The man behind him was struck too, and he watched him fall off as the boy had before. The rounds kicked up rocks when they hit the dirt and he could feel their sting where clothes could not shield him.
Looking around wearily he could see that the rest of the cars had stopped firing and their gunners simply ducked. Hathaway could see drivers through the metal slits on the front of vehicles - many of them had ducked and simply stepped on the pedal, sending their cars aimlessly downhill. He couldn't hear anything now. The machine-gun fire was relentless, the shells unceasing. One shell hit a vehicle several rows right of him and its pieces began to rain over the rest. He shielded himself with his great coat but some pieces of shrapnel still cut him. When he raised his head again, he could see some of the vehicles behind the one struck had swerved out of control, smashing into the sides of others and sending gunners spinning through the air; their bodies left mangled to be trampled by those behind.
His men had never faced an enemy this well-armed. And it was clear there were some professionals manning those guns. These were no mere tribal bands, or farmers. There was more to it - the NCR. He ducked again, but this time to peer into the vehicle through its hatch. He couldn't hear a thing, but he knew the driver would. "Get us to the front!" he yelled into the front of the vehicle. He wasn't sure how loud. It was clear the driver had heard him though, and it wasn't long before the vehicle began to pass up the rest. "I want us at the front." Hathaway said. "I want us where everyone can see us - everyone."
Theirs was the lead vehicle now. They had never gotten this close. The walls around the airfield were beginning to tower over the columns, and the fire raged hotter than ever. The occasional clank of impacting rounds made Hathaway jerk and duck but he held on to the top anyway, one hand holding on to his peaked hat. By now, the blood had congealed and it made his fingers stick. He glanced over his shoulders to see the rest of his force - what remained - keeping up. Occasionally, someone would muster up the courage to stand up and let out a burst of fire before ducking behind cover again. It wasn't fear, he could see it now -- it was restraint. Guilt.
Hathaway held his breath and crawled towards the back of the armored truck, holding on for his life as it swerved and shook with every rock it rolled over. Another shell hit somewhere close and its shockwave sent a car to their left smashing against the side of the truck, nearly knocking Hathaway off. He held on with all his strength, a grimace across his face as he pulled himself up again and continued to crawl rearward.
He reached the back and climbed inside. The back of the truck had no soldiers, or arms. Only a flag. It was white and red, with a two-headed bear and the name of his homeland - 'New California Republic'. Attached to the same pole was another banner. This one emblazoned with an old, battered image. One with history, and well-respected within the New California Republic. An image he knew would be recognized by his compatriots - the image of Hathaway's mechanized NCR unit, a skull and crossbones on a field of brown. What he did not know, was whether it would mean anything to them. It was a long shot, but the alternative pinned him against his own - something he dreaded. He cut the ropes keeping the canvas fastened over the flatbed of the truck and the wind sent it flying behind them. He raised the flag pole, fighting against the wind trying to blow it back down, and raised it over the back of the truck. It flew high above the vehicle, and over the rest of the columns. He looked behind him to see other trucks raising their own banners, as planned.
Then they waited.
Still the machine-guns roared, their muzzle-flashes lighting up the airfield. Hathaway and his men waited anxiously, ducking as rounds whizzed by. Then came what they were waiting for. A machine-gun nest went silent. And then another. The shells ceased to fall. "It worked." Hathaway said to himself. "It worked!" he called out. It wasn't long before every machine-gun nest and artillery emplacement manned by NCR troopers dissipated. Only those manned by the Township remained, their tracers firing wildly around the armored columns. "It fuckin' worked." Hathaway whispered. His name - and the deeds of his unit - still meant something. Though it was much simpler than that, and he knew it. Like his own men, the NCR troopers in the airfield had little interest in fighting their own countrymen. Hathaway only hoped now they would leave the Township under the cover of night, before President Clearwater's promised reinforcements arrived and trapped his countrymen within the airfield.
Now came the easy part. Hathaway looked around to see his men readying their weapons and training them on the Township defenders nestled within the crumbling ruins around the airfield. The Township would fall by dawn, and it wouldn't be dragging any good NCR men with it.
- - -
Private Log, Day 4:
It's done -Laugh-. The mole-people reinforcement arrived just as we made our final push. The Township put up a defense but it wasn't much after, well.. you know. We pushed through it, and soon enough they were scattering. The mole-people would have me believe their targeting of leadership had something to do with it, but the fact is this battle was over before they arrived. Four-fucking-days. It'd had been easier if those Klamath boys weren't so damn accurate -Laugh-. Fuck. -Sigh- A lot of good men killed a lot of other good men for fuckin' nothin'. They had left when we poured onto the airfield. Good, too. I'm not sure what I would have had to force my men to do if we had found a whole company of troopers lying in wait for us. They left in the night, after.. you know - after we identified ourselves. I imagine they wanted no business shooting at their own people -- If only they knew how many they took down. -Deep breath- Well, it's over now. My men found a couple of them south of the airfield. One of them told me he was sorry -- I said I was too. I let them go after that. -End transmission-
Private Log, Day 3:
I said it in the first log, but we've encountered some unexpected resistance. We were supposed to come in and decimate whatever stood in our way, but I'm afraid it ain't going to be that easy. There's no negotiating here like I did in Goldendale, and it seems like these guys are gettin' some outside help. Probably NCR. We were hit with some pretty heavy artillery fire the first time we charged in. It caught us completely off-guard and we lost a lot of good men. Fuck. -Sigh- I wonder if they finally got those crazies at Nellis to hand over their guns. If they did, well.. I know where those fuckin' guns are now. Goddamn it -adjusting mic-. I just hope there aren't any NCR troopers in that airfield, and if there are I hope they make it out soon; I haven't been able to get close enough yet. Ain't no crackin' their defenses with what we've got; I've requested assistance. President Clearwater says he's got a couple of those mutant mole-people - whatever the fuck they are - coming to assist, but I ain't too happy about the plan. I've already lost enough men. Now they want to me to keep charging that godforsaken airfield to draw the defenders northward so the muties can hit the airfield from the rear. -Explosion- Fuck. -End transmission-
- - -
Three days under siege had left a once mighty beast weary. It was a dying beast now; its desperate cries heard all throughout the night. It cried out and trembled, its lead claws reaching out to strike down the men besieging its ruined lair. Its claws were a flurry of fiery tracers, the endless clamor of artillery, and the peering bayonet blades of frightened but steadfast men. The guns made the airfield light up a bright orange against the dark backdrop of night, its ruined edifices trembling with every thunderous detonation. It was as though every building had been fortified for the coming storm. It howled like an animal aware of the danger over the horizon; the deafening bellow of a dying beast crying out with its last breath, its spit a fiery hail of lead that wouldn't cease.
Machine-guns peered out of every window, as did canons. They sent forth shells with such force the decaying buildings from which they fired often crumbled. Hathaway had seen it himself. It was a desperate stand, but its bite was still strong. The space before the airfield was a smoldering field of fire; metal carcasses beneath columns of black smoke - what remained of some of his men. The tracer rounds lit the dark areas with their fiery flight and geysers of dirt came bursting skyward whenever a shell impacted the earth, sending shrapnel raining over the 1st Mechanized. Already several men had been put out of action by shrapnel wounds; their arms cut wide open, dirt-caked gashes where a sharp rock or piece of metal had sliced through. But they pressed on.
The air was hot with fire and embers blew against their faces like fireflies amidst the night sky. Smoke choked the air. They could hardly breath, or see. Their ears rang. But they kept their eyes trained on the great fire on the horizon. It roared at them. There wasn't a single man who wasn't covered in dirt. To his right - sitting atop the same armored vehicle barreling downhill towards the airfield - was a boy no more than nineteen. Dirt had caked on his face and some tears formed around his eyes. The dirt cleared in downward-lines where previous tears had run down. Others washed over small cuts and he wore a grimace over fearful eyes. Behind him sat a man with a nose covered in blood. It ran down his face and neck to soak his khaki tunic. He had tried to stop the bleeding and it left him with bloody hands.
Hathaway knew every one of their faces. These were his men, and it pained him to see them suffer. But he knew they were strong. The clanks of impacting rounds cutting away at the armor on their vehicles rang loud. The thunderous boom of shells made them tremble with fear and it felt as though they had been sent to face an earthquake. Blood ran down the side of armored cars carrying men struck with stray rounds or shrapnel, leaving crimson trails upon the dead grass. Their faces stung, peppered by rocks being kicked back by the cars at the front. The fire on the horizon grew bigger and more intense. And it roared, it roared. But they pressed on atop their own metal beasts like a pack of hungry wolves; a storm of rumbling Old World monstrosities they swore could roar louder than whatever awaited them behind the smoke.
This had been their third charge and though every charge had chipped away a part of the defenses, the beast still stood. When they passed the smoke it looked them in the face, its eyes a blaze of yellow and red. Hathaway hadn't given an order when his men opened up with everything they had. A cacophony of sound erupted from his rear and out from under him as every remaining vehicle unloaded. Hathaway braced himself as the machine-guns under him began to fire and the truck began to shake even more wildly. Around them, the thunder of dozens of machine-guns cried out between the more subtle thumps of grenade launchers. For a second, it seemed as though they had overpowered the enemy.
Then came the enemy response.
Something warm hit Hathaway in the face and began to flow down to his neck. It was followed by a sound reminiscent of tearing paper. He looked to his right to see the boy beside him fall off the side of the vehicle. It caught him off-guard. He touched his face and held his hands in front of him to see that they were covered in blood. He realized what had happened immediately and ducked, holding on to his peaked hat with bloody hands. A dozen clanks followed as more rounds hit the truck and cars around it. The man behind him was struck too, and he watched him fall off as the boy had before. The rounds kicked up rocks when they hit the dirt and he could feel their sting where clothes could not shield him.
Looking around wearily he could see that the rest of the cars had stopped firing and their gunners simply ducked. Hathaway could see drivers through the metal slits on the front of vehicles - many of them had ducked and simply stepped on the pedal, sending their cars aimlessly downhill. He couldn't hear anything now. The machine-gun fire was relentless, the shells unceasing. One shell hit a vehicle several rows right of him and its pieces began to rain over the rest. He shielded himself with his great coat but some pieces of shrapnel still cut him. When he raised his head again, he could see some of the vehicles behind the one struck had swerved out of control, smashing into the sides of others and sending gunners spinning through the air; their bodies left mangled to be trampled by those behind.
His men had never faced an enemy this well-armed. And it was clear there were some professionals manning those guns. These were no mere tribal bands, or farmers. There was more to it - the NCR. He ducked again, but this time to peer into the vehicle through its hatch. He couldn't hear a thing, but he knew the driver would. "Get us to the front!" he yelled into the front of the vehicle. He wasn't sure how loud. It was clear the driver had heard him though, and it wasn't long before the vehicle began to pass up the rest. "I want us at the front." Hathaway said. "I want us where everyone can see us - everyone."
Theirs was the lead vehicle now. They had never gotten this close. The walls around the airfield were beginning to tower over the columns, and the fire raged hotter than ever. The occasional clank of impacting rounds made Hathaway jerk and duck but he held on to the top anyway, one hand holding on to his peaked hat. By now, the blood had congealed and it made his fingers stick. He glanced over his shoulders to see the rest of his force - what remained - keeping up. Occasionally, someone would muster up the courage to stand up and let out a burst of fire before ducking behind cover again. It wasn't fear, he could see it now -- it was restraint. Guilt.
Hathaway held his breath and crawled towards the back of the armored truck, holding on for his life as it swerved and shook with every rock it rolled over. Another shell hit somewhere close and its shockwave sent a car to their left smashing against the side of the truck, nearly knocking Hathaway off. He held on with all his strength, a grimace across his face as he pulled himself up again and continued to crawl rearward.
He reached the back and climbed inside. The back of the truck had no soldiers, or arms. Only a flag. It was white and red, with a two-headed bear and the name of his homeland - 'New California Republic'. Attached to the same pole was another banner. This one emblazoned with an old, battered image. One with history, and well-respected within the New California Republic. An image he knew would be recognized by his compatriots - the image of Hathaway's mechanized NCR unit, a skull and crossbones on a field of brown. What he did not know, was whether it would mean anything to them. It was a long shot, but the alternative pinned him against his own - something he dreaded. He cut the ropes keeping the canvas fastened over the flatbed of the truck and the wind sent it flying behind them. He raised the flag pole, fighting against the wind trying to blow it back down, and raised it over the back of the truck. It flew high above the vehicle, and over the rest of the columns. He looked behind him to see other trucks raising their own banners, as planned.
Then they waited.
Still the machine-guns roared, their muzzle-flashes lighting up the airfield. Hathaway and his men waited anxiously, ducking as rounds whizzed by. Then came what they were waiting for. A machine-gun nest went silent. And then another. The shells ceased to fall. "It worked." Hathaway said to himself. "It worked!" he called out. It wasn't long before every machine-gun nest and artillery emplacement manned by NCR troopers dissipated. Only those manned by the Township remained, their tracers firing wildly around the armored columns. "It fuckin' worked." Hathaway whispered. His name - and the deeds of his unit - still meant something. Though it was much simpler than that, and he knew it. Like his own men, the NCR troopers in the airfield had little interest in fighting their own countrymen. Hathaway only hoped now they would leave the Township under the cover of night, before President Clearwater's promised reinforcements arrived and trapped his countrymen within the airfield.
Now came the easy part. Hathaway looked around to see his men readying their weapons and training them on the Township defenders nestled within the crumbling ruins around the airfield. The Township would fall by dawn, and it wouldn't be dragging any good NCR men with it.
- - -
Private Log, Day 4:
It's done -Laugh-. The mole-people reinforcement arrived just as we made our final push. The Township put up a defense but it wasn't much after, well.. you know. We pushed through it, and soon enough they were scattering. The mole-people would have me believe their targeting of leadership had something to do with it, but the fact is this battle was over before they arrived. Four-fucking-days. It'd had been easier if those Klamath boys weren't so damn accurate -Laugh-. Fuck. -Sigh- A lot of good men killed a lot of other good men for fuckin' nothin'. They had left when we poured onto the airfield. Good, too. I'm not sure what I would have had to force my men to do if we had found a whole company of troopers lying in wait for us. They left in the night, after.. you know - after we identified ourselves. I imagine they wanted no business shooting at their own people -- If only they knew how many they took down. -Deep breath- Well, it's over now. My men found a couple of them south of the airfield. One of them told me he was sorry -- I said I was too. I let them go after that. -End transmission-
