MagustheRed

War Never Changes

West Coast Brotherhood Aerial Expeditionary Force – Across the Midwest

The overflights were the first step.

The standard operating procedure was simple, a take-off and rapid ascent to 12,000 metres, optimal surveillance level it had been decided in a dawn flight. Low enough to enable the best pictures to be taken, and high enough to avoid notice, and if noticed, to be likely dismissed as a bird. After all it was reasoned, in the centuries since the great war, who kept their eyes on the skies for aircraft? Not since the Enclave had there been any continent-wide flights on a semi-regular basis. That and it was noted that the Cult’s airspace defence measures were, as ongoing black-op raids and surgical strikes had gathered, non-existent for the time being.

The surveillance gathered revealed a bevy of actionable data for the entire warfront, cult troop movements enabled a thorough review of possible future offensives in the vein of deep battle operations. The possibility was raised in the Western Brotherhoods staff elements of a single offensive dislocating an entire warfront of the cult all the way through to its rear echelon areas. It was ultimately decided to forward the proposals over to the Midwestern and Legionary staff elements at the central command in the SAC bunker where the central command node had been established.

Whilst feedback on a potential deep battle offensive was awaited, the Western Brotherhood general staff plotted the opening stages of the “Public” aerial campaign. The original plan of a swift and massive bombing campaign was, following intelligence from midwestern briefings following the arrival of the aerial expeditionary force, found to be both logistically over-confident for the moment, and also a threat to future joint operations. In particular, Dayton was removed from targeting lists following confirmation of allied elements having established themselves in the settlement. This change in course had resulted in much grumbling from the general staff, more used to unilateral action.

The watchword of the day however, was multilateral action, and with that in mind the general staff had settled on an in-depth series of reconnaissance flights and intelligence sharing. Following this series of missions and subsequent reflection, a new war-plan was devised. A series of staggered aerial bombardments in which the entirety of the western brotherhoods aerial expeditionary force was concentrated on a single settlement in turn, over the course of two months rather than week. This would allow a stockpile to be built up for missions, until such time as the logistical networks could be connected properly.

And so, days turned to night turned to days and come the approach of the dusk, the first great raid of the Western Brotherhood’s Aerial Expeditionary Force took flight. From dawn until midday, the work had begun, moving planes from hangars to their waiting bays, munitions rolled in and loaded up and pre-flight checks undertaken. Then, at the stroke of midday and lined up upon the runways of Peoria Airbase, macro-fusion engines were initiated and away they went. Up and up to their maximum flight ceiling, and in tandem with forward operational directions by a special forces team on the ground, they were guided to their target.

The route selected involved cutting over the 69th highway between Indianapolis and Fort Wayne and then over the 75th. Overflying primarily rural country to avoid any possible spotters in place in Cult lands. It was felt that with the relatively recent conquest of this area, that most of the Cult’s focus would be controlling the major settlements and roads, and thus plans were drawn accordingly. On and on they went, deeper into enemy territory until at last, they were in line for their bombing runs.

Down and down the aerial force descends, lower and lower to increase the accuracy and effectiveness of the run. The radios become saturated with the voices of the bombardiers as they align their sights and order corrections on aircraft bearings and altitude. And below, as the land was bathed in the red rays of a setting sun, with the city swaying in the growing autumn breeze that promised respite from the hot summer heat of the weeks before, the first bombs were dropped.

The munitions for the Columbus raid comprised a mix of microfusion cell clusters, plasma grenade clusters, mini-nuke clusters and phosphorous based incendiary cluster bombs. The mix of weaponry saturates the centre of Columbus, igniting a thousand fires across the city in the space of a few minutes. The fires took only a few minutes more to gather into conflagrations spanning what passed for city blocks in the shell of Columbus. All of this was a mere opening movement to the infernal symphony that would become known as the Scouring of Columbus.

Following the great war, and with the lack of “Modern” building methods, most methods of repair involved patchy repairs of structures utilising whatever could be found. Production of concrete and metal was, as the decades had worn on, forgotten and replaced instead by the more readily available material of timber that grew in abundance in the countryside surrounding the many settlements scattered across the wasteland. Further fuel for the fires was, quite literally, the firewood gathered and stored in abodes across Columbus in preparation for the harsh winters that seized and froze the region each year. Added together with the previous summer heat that had dried out the city and aided in their spread by westerly winds, so it was that the flames rose higher and higher across the city of Columbus.

Roaring and screaming across the city, the inferno sucked in the air towards it in monstrous gasps, hungry for air and burning out in search of more tinder to devour. And as night blanketed the Midwest, for Columbus, there was no night, only the fire. Inside the city, panic reigned across Columbus, all viewed ahead by the progenitors of this act of fiery carnage. The West Coast brotherhood’s planes circled the city, intentionally seeking to try and create an updraft from their motions, and all the while occasionally dropping munitions and unloading bullets into the city below them to stoke the panic of the cultists below and distract them from any attempts at firefighting.

At last, satisfied with their work, the Brotherhood circled one last time and left, leaving behind a long night of terror for those behind them. And come the morning sun, a sight came to greet those who rose with it within and without the former settlement of Columbus. All that was left were the charred remains of the buildings and denizens of the targeted settlements melting into one another. A swirling firestorm had been unleashed upon the city, a pillar of smoke billowed into the air for dozens of miles around as the embers hissed and cracked as they died away. The flames had now grown out of control, beyond the ability of any possible actions to contain them without a massive directed effort. Such an effort did not come, shell-shocked and strangled by the fire and the smoke, Columbus burned.

War Never Changes

Briefing Hangar - Peoria Airport – Illinois - Aerial Elements of the West Coast Brotherhoods Expeditionary Force against the Cult

“Damn, this is some tasty cake.”

A hum of agreement met the statement of Lance-Airman Stevens as freshly baked Victoria sponges and purified water were devoured and drank respectively. The setting for this positively picnic-esque meal was a simple one, a gaggle of officers stood huddled in various little circles inside one of the spare hangars of Preoria Airport. Having landed at Preoria as the advance element for the West Coast’s Expeditionary Force against the Cult, they’d been able to grab a single night of shut eye after an exhausting day of flying, followed by all hands pitching in for set up, and now, they could prepare for the task ahead of them.

Before the task though, came the briefing, and before the pre-briefing, age old traditions were to be observed. In this case, the soldiers quickly espied a buffet table set out for them, and promptly set about devouring the pre-briefing snacks before the CO and his entourage could arrive and hog it all for themselves. Such was the way of the world in military circles, grabbing good food and eating before others could.

“We should probably take some iodine tablets with them really, looking out from the transports I’m not sure if the land has been properly tilled and treated. The grain for the flour was probably harvested in some fallout dusted field in Iowa. If you get any lumps on your tongue, they’re probably cancer from the latent radiation from these.”

This remark caused the members of one of these military circles to all look at the outspoken member of the group who had made the remark, that of Scribe Antonio Orsatti, the deputy medical officer for the air-wing. The look on the faces of these soldiers, and their thoughts, were shortly summed up by the reply of Lance-Airman Bryant.

“Can’t you just let us eat the cake in peace Antonio? Without another one of your observations on how this or that causes cancer?”

Raising his fork, Antonio prepared to hold forth on the dangers of a subject he knew all to well from years of preparing a magisterial thesis on the matter. His lecture, which would have undoubtedly revolutionised the thinking of the group of soldiers surrounding him was interrupted by the warning cry of the unlucky sentry who drew the short straw, and thus was on lookout for the CO.

“Carter incoming!”

With a speed and swiftness, perhaps even outpacing the speeds some of the aircraft could reach, the room snapped into activity, divesting themselves of incriminating evidence such as forks and plates and cakes. As well as quickly checking appearances, and arranging themselves into a more orderly grouping rather than just a gaggle of soldiers lazing about. A mere moment after the last soldier had moved to their place, the door slammed open and in strode Lance-Commander Carter with a militantly purposeful march.

“Ten-hut!”

The command was called and a responding crack was the reply as dozens of feet snapped to the position of attention.

“At ease people.”

Jumping up onto a platform prepared for this briefing, Carter drew out and extended a pointer, and lazily wafted it over the map behind him. A giant map of the North America, with the current borders of all of its known geopolitical entities plotted out upon in. In a vast swathe of black covering a significant portion of the map was where Carter gestured.

“Here, is where our enemy lies. A vast, wild horde of savages. A theocratic entity known by a number of names, but to us, simply The Cult. This cult, radiates out from Pittsburgh, a hive of scum and villainy the likes of which is unmatched anywhere else in the North America. Through a shockingly successful campaign, they have poured their forces into the midwestern region.”

The pointer struck the map with a snap, calling attention to the scattered dashes of colour within the western reaches of the cult, before dragging it across to Indianapolis as he spoke.

“Through a policy of infiltration and quite frankly, blitzkrieg, the Cult has reduced what was once the Republic of Detroit, to a few pitiful holdouts. They then moved west, to Indianapolis where, as well all well know, victory was secured by the allied forces of Barnaky’s brotherhood and by Caesar’s Legion. As these forces recuperate from a hard-fought battle, ready to undertake a grand campaign unseen since before the days of the Great war, it will fall, or rather, rise to us, to keep up the pressure upon this breed of miserable and misbegotten bastards.”

In a swift succession of strikes, targets were tapped by Carter.

“Columbus, Springfield, Louisville, Lexington, Toledo, Sandusky, Canton, Youngstown. These will be hit in the next six days. All of them, multiple targets to be struck multiple times. We will rain fire and fury upon the hideouts of these theocratic thugs and let them know that there is no place, no dark and dank crevice which they can crawl into to attempt to escape the might and reach of the Western Brotherhood and this Continental League that has been assembled against it.”

Finally, the pointer gently came to rest on a final site.

“And then on the seventh day, we will not rest like god did oh-so lazily, no in our biblical ambitions, we will raze Pittsburgh to the ground. We will muster our full aerial force, and flatten the heart of this Cult. We will reduce their monolith to mere rubble, our arsenal shall be emptied against them, and they will be wrought to nought but dust.”

The pointer snapped shut, and Carters eyes bored into the watching eyes of those watching.

“Any questions?”

War Never Changes

Lance-Sergeant Watkins - Illinois - West Coast Brotherhood of Steel

When it comes to aircraft, especially combat aircraft, a single maxim tends to be considered, the faster an aircraft, the better it is.

This is somewhat true. In the great and heady days before the great war, the bickering nation states of the world competed to build the fastest planes with which to outdo each other. Single seated rocket craft became a common sight, their vapour trails crisscrossing the upper atmosphere in near hypersonic speeds as control for the highest of altitudes was sought. When the atomic fire burned the world below, the last of these crafts fought each other, seeking a pointless domination of the skies in the final hours of their nation-states, even as those nation-states fell into non-existence.

In the age since the great war, few societies had the means to fly, fewer still had the means to use that control in a tangible way. The Enclave had been the first and most renowned society to wield this power to an unparalleled degree until their defeat in both the west and the east. Following their destruction, control of the air was opened up to the rest of the factions of North America. These societies ranged from the Boomers of New Vegas, the New Californian Republic, the shattered remnants of the East Coast brotherhood of steel, the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel, and the West Coast Brotherhood of Steel.

For the last on the list, the projection of airpower was currently being exercised over the skies of Illinois. Flying in a tactical bombing formation, a chevron formed of three YB-35 strategic bombers, further enhanced by nine XB-42 tactical bombers and finally, twenty-one P-47 thunderbolts as escort fighters for the entire force. All of them were prop aircraft, all of them were, to be specific, former training aircraft of the United States. With the literal scrapyards worth of jet aircraft lying around within reach of the West Coast Brotherhood, it might have been a source of bewilderment that prop aircraft were favoured over jet aircraft.

After all, jet aircraft were faster, more agile, and just more advanced. The simple reason, and end-of-the-matter fact in the chamber discussions during the construction of the air force, had been that of cost. Jet aircraft were expensive in terms of resources, prop aircraft were cheaper, easier to build and maintain, and cost-effective, in that it was felt that using jet aircraft against the local tribes was felt to be a little over the top. As such, with their fusion powered engines, the west coast brotherhoods bombing wing made its way to join the fight against the cult.

The prior mentioned force was, barring the vertibirds which were exclusively operated by the special operations section, the entirety of the manned air-force of the west coast brotherhood of steel. Their current mission was simple, find and locate the airport they’d been directed towards, that of the former General Wayne A. Downing Preoria International Airport, now rechristened “Preoria Airport”, and land at the damn place.

For Lance-Sergeant Watkins and his fellow pilot, Lance-Airman Stevens, this was a rather tedious and boring task, and the two had taken up a game of wing tap as they lazed along at the rear of the formation, out of sight of Lance-Commander Carter, who was at the front of the formation, currently on mute as he delivered a long-winded patriotic and hawkish speech on the inevitable ass-whupping they were going to give those “Two-bit upstart inbred theocratic mud-fucking savages” that they’d been sent to fight, known in short hand as “The Cult” by everyone else. It was as the Lance-Commander took a breath, likely to prepare for another outburst of xeno-phobia, that the radio crackled as a new speaker spoke over the radio.

“-me in, come in over. Whirlwind Leader this is Preoria, come in come in over.”

The dulcet tones of Lance-Commander Carter thundered over the radio.

“Preoria, this is Whirlwind Leader, we are on approach for an ETA of five minutes. Request status update of ground conditions for landing over.”

At this point, Watkins could practically hear the mental sighs and thanks of the rest of the wing at being finally able to land. Knight-Colonel Carter had been ordered to remain on the ground for the duration of the campaign in order to help coordinate with the midwestern brotherhood, and as such, the sooner they landed, the better. Directions and updates were given, and the wing dropped into landing formation, strategic bombers first, then the tactical bombers, and finally the escorts, each taking turns to circle the airport before coming landing.

As he approached, Watkins let out a sigh of relief, lowered the wheels, and grinned as the place gently touched down. His eyes glanced over to his wing mate who was taxiing alongside him as they made their way to the hangars. At long last, they were in the east and going to war, letting out a comment over the radio, Watkins summed up their feelings in a single sentence.

“This is where the fun begins.”

War Never Changes

High Elder Gladstone – Western Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe Conference

"We're arranging transport from Cheyenne, we can move your force directly to Indianapolis by rail. Indianapolis's airport has been secured and is operational, we have plenty of room for your air units there. Grissom AFB has also been taken, but it took a direct hit during the War and the fueling facilities there are a total loss."

Gladstone nodded his assent at the plan. His voice a soft rasp as he made his thanks and thoughts known.

“That would be most agreeable Brother Martin. I’ll order forward air units to be there hopefully within the next forty eight hours to be aerial reconnaissance and precision strikes in preparation for the full scale campaign. Furthermore, I’ll have a team of scribes and the like sent forth to evaluate Grissom air force base, to see what elements it might be possible to station there, if any.”

The conversation then moved to the status of the east coast, at least that which did not lie under the shadow of the cult.

"We have a Mission in the Capital Wasteland. Contacting the Children of Atom is one of the priorities of that expedition. Progress is being made, but they take issue with our nuclear non-proliferation efforts...they consider it a form of Iconoclasm though their leader, Confessor Cromwell, has taken a reasonably pragmatic attitude towards it. As for the Cult, they are sworn enemies... they invaded the Capital Wasteland in force, the Children used tactical nuclear weapons to repel them.”

An eyebrow, or at least Atticus’ remaining eyebrow, rose to display a visible sign of both surprise and amusement at the thought of a faction utilising tactical nuclear weaponry against the tribal marauders of the east. He’d have to see if covert contact could be made with the Children of the Atom, Maxson had noted the group in his communiques west, dismissing them as religious fanatics, then re-evaluating them later on as a credible threat. And besides it wouldn’t do to allow the Midwest a free hand in the east, even if the only presence his brotherhood could establish would be a fingernail-hold there.

“Currently we are not in direct contact with the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, but I am organizing a diplomatic mission to them. At present, our sources in the IRD and Capital Wasteland indicate the Commonwealth is actively fighting the Cult along its Western border, and we are getting reports they are planning a joint offensive with the Children of Atom in Eastern Maryland."

That sounded promising, he’d have to see about establishing relations with the Commonwealth as well. Multiple groups in the east boded well for the Western Brotherhood, and allowing himself a small hum of thoughtfulness, Gladstone nodded his thanks to Brother Martin for a most revealing debrief, the best of which had yet to be revealed.

"As far as the Institute, records we've found in the Pentagon, or Citadel as the Eastern Order called it, refer to such an organization, believed to be in or near Boston. We found a survivor of Maxson's Expedition recently, he tells us that they had been there to find this Institute, but had never found any hard evidence it even existed before they were attacked and overwhelmed by the locals. Any information about this group or the Expedition in general you could share that Maxson provided you would be greatly appreciated...Maxson was young for an Elder, but hardly a novice and well advised. It beggars belief that there is nothing at all to his suspicions."

Curiouser and curiouser. Gladstone nodded slowly, voicing his agreement with the midwestern assessment of the situation.

“Yes, it beggars belief indeed. Maxson thought the Institute an incredibly advanced faction, more advanced than any faction of the Brotherhood. And more advanced than the Enclave at their peak. The reports he made to me were he admitted a mix of rumour, and unsettling evidence. I bid him investigate carefully, however, the boy in his haste seems to have taken to looking at every problem as a nail, and his ascendant order as a hammer. The forces he marshalled for the expedition were formidable, his last report stated that he was moving north with considerable force. And I mean considerable, armour, aerial and robotic elements all. An aerial aircraft carrier, vertibirds, power armoured contingents, and a nearly operational pre-war superweapon, all at the boy’s disposal.”

Atticus’ eyes flicked upwards to meet Brother Martins.

“Would it be possible to view the report this itinerant eastern survivor made? To make comparisons to my own reports from Maxson himself. Whilst the man was likely not in full possession of the facts, and neither am I, I am however in possession of the thoughts of Maxson himself. Or as close as any of us can come to the boys thoughts following his unfortunate demise.”

War Never Changes

High Elder Gladstone – West Coast Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe

Gladstone listened raptly as Brother Martin laid out the present situation as concerned the war against the cult. He nodded, taking in all the man had said, pondering in silence for a few moments before replying.

“The North would seem to me to be the best front for my troops. As the sector closer to Pittsburgh, it would enable a forward air base to be established from which to begin a strategic bombing campaign against the heart of the cult. Might I enquire as to what our knowledge of the east coast is? I can only suppose the midwestern brotherhood is liaising with resistance groups there or even nations that are hostile to the cult?”

A pause from the High Elder, a small internal struggle, before he decided to press on.

“I have to admit, our last communiques from the east by Maxson made note of a number of organisations in the east. The cult of the atom, the Pennsylvania commonwealth, the free state and the keys and prior to his death, an apparently extremely technologically advanced organisation known as the Institute. I recall at the last convention some of these groups were represented, perhaps dispatches should be made east to confirm the status of nations east of the cult, to see which are at war or considering war against the cult? And from thereon, to organise a full war effort with the aims of forming a total noose around the cult, thus containing it lest it escape a full extermination such as is the aims of a scourge?”

Elder James Mallard – West Coast Brotherhood of Steel - Electric City Committee Chambers

“To state for the record, this meeting of the Appropriations Committee is decreed confidential. The project before us is that of Project Hermes, Head Scribe Waverly of the Montana Chapter acting as spokesperson for this project. Waverly, you have the floor.”

It was perhaps surprising that an organisation such as the Western Brotherhood of Steel had a political-financial machinery. It was assumed sometimes that it did not possess such a thing, that the society existed in a state where monetary policy was non-existent. In truth, the Brotherhood possessed a long standing system of monetary policy. Of credits and scrips, 100 scrips to 1 credit, simple enough, the economy itself was also rather simple. A rapidly growing automated industrial base, along with an increasingly automated agricultural sector. Machines would do most of the menial work for the Brotherhood, leaving more time for waging war and ensuring the security of their fledgling nation.

“Thank you Elder Mallard for granting the time to consider the proposal my colleagues and I have spent a significant period of time preparing. The proposal itself is named Project Hermes, in honour of the Greek god of messengers and suchlike and would focus on the initiation and development of a long range Missile Programme. The project itself would be divided into two sets, a cruise missile programme and a ballistic missile programme. We feel that both should be pursued with the aim of the cruise missile programme having conventional warheads to focus on military targets, such as the cult in our upcoming war against them. And the ballistic programme to focus on EMP weaponry in the event of a campaign against a more technologically advanced enemy. With the ability for the ballistic programme to allow for the development of a satellite program to increase our intelligence and communication capabilities in the coming years and decades.”

Head Scribe Waverly had stepped forwards to speak once Mallard had finished speaking, a short frumpy man, past middle age, bald and with simple rimmed spectacles in Scribe robes and hands clasped behind his back. His eyes cast around the room, flitting over the denizens within as his calm voice spoke softly on the details of his brainchild.

“A timeframe for this project estimates a successful programme within ten years, allowing for acceleration if we begin securing local pre-war missile silos and scientific installations, to allow for the collection of data to help our own project. The project would have many benefits, affording us a military capability which other nations do not possess as far as we are aware, and if they do, would enable us to act on a level playing field against them. Appropriations of land for missile testing and construction of test facilities will compose the bulk of the budget for the initial period, but as a one off investment, will help to pay dividends for cost savings over later years. Overall, the project would ideally have a budget of a million credits initially, dropping to a per annum rate of two hundred and fifty thousand. Such a budget may be subject to increases and decreases respectively once a more solid picture forms as to the difficulty of missile development.”

The Head Scribe fell silent, bowing his head and stepping back, raising his head after a moment to espy the gathered and murmuring figures of the appropriations committee. A hush fell over the room, before finally it was broken when Elder Mallard cleared his throat, a signal for Waverly to step forwards again. The elder leaned forwards, speaking into the microphone in a calm and clear voice as he delivered the verdict of the committee.

“Let the record state that Project Hermes has been approved, the preliminary budget will be the one requested, subject to review should this committee find the project delivery not up to par. I hereby declare this session adjourned.”

War Never Changes

High Elder Gladstone – Santa Fe Conference

He inclines his head at Barnaky’s words, standing up whilst replying. He makes a motion to his side, an aide steps forward and takes his place at the table, words drift lazily into the air.

“Brother Martin and a sufficiently informed Legion representative will suffice. This is Elder Jacobs. He is my voice at this council until I return.”

His cane raps on the floor as he limps away from the room, leaving the deliberations behind him to focus on the more pressing matter of war. A legionnaire guides him to a small room with a map of the war situation resplendent on a table. Once the necessary representatives are convened, Gladstone dives straight into the situation. His hand traces a single hand along from the Western Brotherhood lands, towards Salt Lake City, and then straight along towards the east.

“The route will simple, south, and then east. I have delegates at the court of the Great Khan already entreating for passage. Bread and Salt will meet us at their threshold, from there, the path is simple, my forces will march for Cleveland. Will raze the city before us, driving the cult scurrying back to Pittsburgh. It is my opinion that a trident must be made. Detroit, Cleveland and Indianapolis, we must keep the enemy on edge, spreading their forces thin to defend along the widest front possible, I would then recommend we close the jaws of the trident. With what forces we have in Detroit and Indianapolis punching through to form a salient around Pittsburgh. From there, we may sever the promontory and contain the enemy.”

A pause as he wetted his lips, not allowing any other to interject.

“Alternatively, my forces can swing south, and rather than attacking Cleveland, will bypass Louisville and instead focus on interdicting within the enemy’s outer interior. With airbase rights in the midwestern territory and boots on the ground, we can sever the enemies supply and communication lines. And in doing so, can serve to act as a funnel from which to emplace partisan elements into the cults inner interior.”

The High Elder rolls on forwards, eyes tracing the map as he speaks, noting the numbers in the east, his own contribution won’t be as large, but he will make sure that it punches above its weight.

“I have a force of eleven thousand preparing to move including aerial elements. One thousand of which are fully power armoured infantry complete with energy weaponry or higher projectile weaponry. Eight thousand are standard combat armour infantry with artillery and armour elements and the remaining two thousand are tribal elements. They will be rather bloodthirsty I daresay, I have commanded them to collect scalps of the enemy in my name, to be piled at the foot of my throne as a sign of fealty once the war is over, local politics, I’m sure you both understand.”

He made the statement in a matter-of-fact tone, Atticus takes a seat clasping his hands together on the top of his cane and eyeing the two dignitaries before him.

“So, what say you? Am I instead to command a march towards Indianapolis? Should I bring more or less soldiers? I would hear the input of my allies, you are both far more acquainted with the needs of this war than I.”

Paladin-Commander Thatcher – Electric City

Preparations for the war were coming along nicely, nothing to match a good cup of coffee and a slice of cake than the rumble of tank treads and the march of power armoured boots below him. He sat overlooking the plains from his privileged seat upon the Grand Coulee dam, he could taste the thrum of power that ran through the air. Its capacity dwarfed the Hoover dam far to the south of them, and the Columbia watershed had around potentially a dozen repairable and reclaimable dams to be put into action. The potential was vast, an empire in the north built on clean water and electricity, the tribals would be pacified, turned into vassals and the Brotherhood strengthened thereon.

Footfalls interrupted his thinking, a message delivered straight to his hands. A printed note, his eyes paused on it. He read it once, and then again, and then a third time, before leaping to his feet, taking a light jog towards his office on the dam. Once inside, the chaos in the room could be seen as analysts stood shouting and arguing, his own voice cut across it.

“Is this confirmed?”

One stepped forward, the lead agent for the Khan desk.

“Yes sir. Salt Lake City was ransacked by raider elements, from what we can gather, they were so-called 80s, under whose command is still being verified. Orders sir?”

“Send word to the Great Khan, as we are marching to Salt Lake City already, we will split our forces to leave a three thousand man detachment to secure the highway, for the safety of our citizens within the Khan lands. Make moves at the Great Khan’s court, have friendly elements step up the rhetoric, we’ve been given a godsend, let’s not waste it.”

A predatory grin made its way onto the Director’s features. Khan blood was in the water, he could smell it, and if he could so could others. The sharks were circling, it was best that the Brotherhood took the first bite.

War Never Changes

High Elder Gladstone – West Coast Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe

Discussions and discussions. Gladstone’s eyes swept the room, passing over each and every delegate, idly noting the talk of those present. He had greater plans to implement, this petty squabble with this band of theocratic tribal raiders calling themselves ‘The Cult’ would likely be over by the next year, it would be foolishness and tempting fate to say “Over by Christmas” as the old maxim went. Still, a small war would be good practice come the time for making a path to the sea for his order. Speaking of which, he had to lay the groundwork for that. His hands moved, beckoning to his aide, who promptly leaned in, pen and paper were given, and Gladstone wrote a small missive on it, folding the letter and handing it to an aide. He murmured a few words of instruction, and then returned his attention to the conference.

Ah, the Keys. Yes, a nation on the Mexican Gulf, or was it the Gulf of Mexico? Whichever it was, it was an issue that was far removed from him. And so, leaning back in his chair, Gladstone sat and watched in silence the proceedings before him. All he could do was take note of them, he supposed that was the blessing and curse of the Midwest. Sitting in the middle, all affairs west, east, north and south concerned you. Burned hands moved to sit clasped in his lap, he wondered how he must look, a burned man a picture of an old world dictator. He wouldn’t deny it, he was a dictator, cruel necessity had forced it upon him so. And thus he sat wreathed in military regalia, he supposed he was the only one among the warlords, with the exception of what seemed to be Texas, to freely admit himself a tyrant.

Most likely thought themselves a benevolent dictator, rulers of an autocratic state for the good of the people for their vision was one of peace and prosperity. One hand moved to his cheek, his eyes bored and his face a picture of stormy ponderance. Brooding was something unbecoming of a leader, but he’d be damned if he was to be told what he should do. As the conference wandered on, his thoughts strayed away from the dusky heat of Santa Fe, drifting back home to cold mountains and green forests wrapped in foggy dew. His forces would be marshalling themselves, according to the timetable he had lain out, they should be marching on the day after tomorrow. Passage was being secured through the khan lands, the trucks and tanks would trundle along the 88th highway east towards Chicago. Which reminded him actually, clearing his throat in a lull in the conversation, he directed his words towards Caesar and Barnaky.

“If it would please your eminencies Caesar and Barnaky, might I have permission to withdraw with your aides for deliberations over when and where the Western Brotherhood’s military forces will enter the fray against the cult.”

War Never Changes

High Elder Gladstone – Western Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe

The High Elder let out a grunt at the words of the Texan president once the man had sat down, as well as Barnaky’s replies. He dismissed both of them, choosing to focus on the main figure for his plans against the NCR, the Vegas representative, the King. He nodded in agreement with the man’s words before making his own reply. He managed to bite his tongue and hide his disdain for yet another warning against his nation, the Texan representative had mentioned expansion into Oklahoma and nobody seemed to be batting an eyelid at that.

Why not? Oklahoma formed an ideal staging ground into either Legion territory or Midwestern territory, and enabled a buffer area to be formed to ensure that any wars against Texas could be held in check. Better a war in the front garden rather than the front living room.

“I welcome such a pragmatic view as Vegas has come to take with the NCR. And would be happy to discuss further arrangements, pending the agreement of the Midwest and the Legion.”

His eyes glanced over to the two respective representatives, before turning to briefly scan over the NCR and Texas representatives again. The NCR was a wounded bear, it might be bleeding, but it still had its teeth and claws. It had been a worthy adversary, that much he admitted freely in private, a travesty to see it become what it had now. As for Texas, it was an unknown quantity, still, it seemed to hold some potential. It would be interesting how things developed for them.

Special Operations Council – Western Brotherhood of Steel – Electric City

“This meeting of the Special Operations Council will come to order. Please note that only general minutes will be taken and following this meeting, the Council will remain to review and censor the record as necessary.”

Elder Laughlin was the one speaking, an African-American woman of senior age, and once a fearsome warrior in her own right. As of now, with a senior paladin and senior scribe seated to her left and right respectively, she looked across the room at the man before her. Paladin-Commander Thatcher, Director of Military Intelligence sat in the new uniform of the Brotherhood military, a small smile on his features. Laughlin gestured for the man to speak, the Director wasted no time in doing so.

“Thank you Elder, for convening this meeting on such short notice. I will be brief. Last night, a covert operations taskforce successfully completed a mission east of the Mississippi. A success because we completed all objectives and exceeded them in proving the military capabilities of all systems involved. It is my request that the Hermes class drone be approved for immediate full-scale production, the type one will run for a limited run of fifteen drones for deployment against the Cult in the east. And a further nine drones for deployment in the immediate vicinity.”

The director gestured to the dockets he’d handed to the council members before the meeting had been called to order.

“Full details of the mission and the Hermes class are in the briefings before you. Future deployments will be launched from Western order secured airfields under cover of darkness. This well enable a more secure platform to launch drone strikes from. In addition, this will enable any kinks to be worked out, allowing for a type two to be developed and deployed next year. We intend this class to be in use for the long term and have intentions of developing the drone program into short, medium and long-range systems. Along with very low to very high-altitude capable systems.”

Laughlin spoke up as she lazily leafed through the docket in her hands, interrupting the Director just as he seemed to be hitting his stride.

“Tell me Director, why drones? Why not manned aircraft?”

“Easiness.”

The reply was immediate, all replies were with this man, always sharp Laughlin idly noted, looking up from her docket, and over her glasses at the Director.

“Drones are easier to replace than pilots. They’re easier to run and easier to control. They don’t get tired, you can’t really swap pilots in our current fighter craft in mid-air. They don’t have crises of conscience, with a drone, one can switch to a backup operator willing to pull the trigger. They’re cheaper to run, both per unit cost and over their lifetime.”

The chamber fell silent for a few minutes, before the council drew back to confer amongst themselves, and at last, Laughlin leaned forwards.

“This council has made its decision. The request is approved. All missions will be reviewed by this council pre and post mission. Is this acceptable Director?”

“Completely.”

Laughlin nodded.

“Good. Meeting dismissed.”

War Never Changes

The Smoker - Western Brotherhood of Steel - Eastern Kentucky

A match in the wind.

A crack, a strike of flame, a small flickering light in the dark. It seemed to float and dance in the air, before calloused hands moved it to light the pipe dangled precariously from a man’s lips as he sat reclined in a wicker chair. A sudden shake of the hand, the flame was extinguished, the blackened match dropped into a pristine crystal ashtray. Brown eyes watched the soot stain the once glistening glass, fingers clasping the pipe in between them pulled the pipe to his lips.

Inhale.

Fingers moved, leaving a small trail of smoke from their path.

Exhale.

A cloud of grey wisps sighed into the air, eyes turned upwards, looking up at the night sky in a brief gap from the rainclouds.

“Onscreen.”

The command was simple, a flickering dull projection shining onto a flat plaster wall. The smoker’s eyes cast themselves around their surroundings as the scribe checked their connection was secure for the tenth time. An old airport or something, or an airfield, hard to tell what with the burned-out buildings and ramshackle scaffold structures that had been there. Wendell something or other in Kentucky had been its name and location. Had, his orders were simple, get in and out with no witnesses. It had been a raider settlement, or maybe not, either way it didn’t matter. Their cover was Vertibirds and Advanced Power Armour mark 1, blame it on the Enclave in the event of discovery. That was if the bastards still existed. Rumour was they’d moved east, and then been destroyed, or scattered to the winds.

Three vertibirds, night attack, IR scopes from half a mile out with close up silenced submachine guns and CQC systems had made short work of any of the occupants, about twenty-seven of them. When they were done they’d set thermal charges, make it look like a fire and a raider attack. With war all around, who’d question another burned out settlement on the edges of a war? It'd be just another ruin in a wasteland full of ruins. For now, it served as the temporary HQ of the Mobile Recon and Reaction Force of the Western Brotherhood of Steel. The scalpel in the armoury of the one true brotherhood, a black-ops team formed to gather intel and execute missions, people and whoever needed killing without a trail leading back to the west.

“Drone link onscreen.”

They had the tools to get it done. Three vertibirds with fusion engines for transcontinental range, theoretically at least. Lab tests had said the same, whether that was true in the field remained to be seen, but they didn’t need to go that far. Yet. And other goodies, such as the access to specialist equipment, like the bespoke made to measure weapons his force hoisted. And the latest in reconnaissance goodies the scribes could make. Case in point, a prototype turboprop high altitude recon drone, problem was the further the link, the less secure and stable. Hence his mission, establish a temporary forward position to allow a server connection without risk of signal-intercept by the Midwest.

Also the fact that if it crash-landed, a squad to be with a close enough reach to recover it was a strategic necessity. So, here he was with three Vertibirds, two for his squad, one to act as a mobile server/control centre to co-ordinate the drone’s recon systems. And that was what he was looking at on the projection, staring into the very belly of the beast. This cult, or whatever the hell it was, that was what they’d been sent to establish.

So, with the newest brainchild of the aviation division of the scribe’s military science branch, they were going to do just that. And at a steady two hundred miles an hour, the drone was holding a steady beautiful pace over the skies of Charleston, West Virginia. Just what the hell was he looking at? The smoker wondered that as he felt a headache building at just whatever was onscreen. A giant pile of skulls, like something out of those pulp horror novels and Mongol conquest histories he’d read as a kid.

Psychological warfare.

He’d practiced it before, this was what was happening here. Subjugate the local landscape with something that would cow them into non-rebellion. Kill the rebellious and build a pile of skulls out of them and anyone else who disobeys you. Simple, effective and quite a pragmatic decision he had to admit. The legion crucified, these cultists seemed to build monoliths. Both had emerged through stunning acts of brutality to rule large swathes of America and threaten pre-established polities, evidently fortune favoured the brutal.

“Focus on grid two.”

A click as the image brought up an area of the city in the shadow of the monolith, figuratively speaking as the monolith wasn’t that big. Factories pouring out armaments, slaves toiling on production lines as pyres burned bright in the night. He was impressed, these cultists certainly meant business. For the next hour, the drone scoured the Monolith-ship of Charleston, block by block a full run-down was made. Before finally the Smoker clicked his fingers, a hand beckoning for the secure line back to the west. It was handed to him, a crystal-clear voice on the other hand reaching his ear.

“Confirm code over.”

“Surgery One this is Scalpel One, authorisation three sixty-nine alpha foxtrot. Confirm code long range security coverage over.”

“Scalpel One this is Surgery One, five forty-two gamma tango. Code A-OK over.”

“Surgery One this is Scalpel One. Radio check, we have you loud and clear over.”

“Scalpel One this is Surgery One. Loud and Clear. We have Sixty secs on the clock, go over.”

“Surgery One this is Scalpel One. Request permission for remote full kill mission over.”

A pause. The smoker took a drag from his pipe as ten seconds passed on the clock before a reply came.

“Scalpel One, this is Surgery One. Mission approved. Slash and Burn. Out.”

The phone clicked, the smoker let himself grin, before setting aside the phone and standing up, pipe in mouth, hands on hips, giving orders as he was born to do.

“We have a-go. Lock primary targets on the monolith and what looks like the explosives factory, set command for HE burst. Prep secondary line-up for spread on the guardhouses.”

The screen turned red as crosshairs were laid on the targets, missile systems activated, confirmation of launch status.

“Fire away.”

Two lances of light emanated from the cameras viewpoint, lighting up the night as mini-nuclear warheads struck true. The trails were followed by four more one after the other in quick succession, four plasma-tips bathing the night in green light. A moment went by as the drone increased speed and changed position, rotors shifting to increase altitude and banking to afford a picture of the aftermath. A panorama of death and destruction. Wheat before a burning scythe.

“Kills confirmed.”

“Success achieved. Terminate mission.”

The order was an immediate reply, a suitably immediate response. The projector screen flickered out as the scribes set a course back to home. North over Detroit airspace and then north of midwestern airspace, and then a direct route over khan airspace. Invasions of sovereignty, but to avoid potential midwestern outrage over potential violation of their more developed airspace, and thus more likely to detect them, was necessary.

They’d link up with the drone over cincinatti and set it to follow-my-footsteps mode, and as they did that. The only trace that anything had happened would be when the High Elder saw fit to announce their hand behind this apparent act of god to the wider world. For now, the smoker took a final puff on his pipe, before boarding the vertibird, its engines roaring as they took off, doors whirring shut as behind them, thermal charges ignited. And as they settled into the night, the fires burned in their wake.

For the next few hours, silence was the order, until finally, they passed north of midwestern space and a more direct connection home was established. The smoker giving his field report to the overwatch committee back in Electric City.

“Surgery One, this is Scalpel One. We have a tier three point five plus power facing us, tribal elements with industrial capability. Religious fanaticism suggests destruction of iconography a solid psychologically damaging strategy. In short, destroy their monoliths and factories and they should fold like a house of cards.”

Pause.

“Further suggestion that Midwestern Brotherhood military elements weaker than previously theorised, recommend increase in reconnaissance levels to ascertain accuracy. To be blunt-”

The smoker’s hands moved to prepare a tobacco pipe for landing as he spoke.

“-They must be pussies if they can’t deal with some lousy tribals.”

War Never Changes

High Elder Gladstone – Western Brotherhood of Steel

"Ordnance such as you describe is not prohibited, and with proper deployment should be quite effective against the massed feral attacks the Cult likes to use-"

Gladstone smiled as Barnaky’s tone smoothened over, the abomination was unlikely to have been completely pacified by his own change of tact, but if an outright confrontation could be avoided, then all the better. The High Elders eyes and ears noted the entrance of a gaudy suited man, the Vegas representative if he recalled correctly.

"-I'd love to hear more about your capabilities in these fields, especially in tactical air support."

His attention returned to the Midwestern Brotherhood’s leader at that question. He considered the question, before cautiously replying.

“Whilst our vertibird capabilities number roughly six Vertibirds of now fully operational capability, and plan to produce more, the Western Brotherhood has invested in more readily secured and easily produced prop aircraft. Specifically a force of fifteen A-1 Skyraiders for ground attack, as well as three B-17s for a dedicated bombing role. We have a range of anti-infantry and anti-armour systems ready for usage.”

Gladstone paused to wet his lips.

“However, should this war last into next year, we should have jet aircraft in service in a tactical and strategic role. Such development is necessary considering the ease of constructing rudimentary anti-air capability against prop aircraft by raider elements. In addition to this, our scribes are building on pre-war experimentation with precision guided bombs should a decapitation strike become necessary in the event of usage of civilian elements as cover.”

Turning away from Barnaky once he had finished, Gladstone addressed “The King” as the man called himself.

“Mr, King, I would be pleased if our nations could come to an arrangement concerning an irritant to the both of our lands. It is my belief that an entente between the Western Brotherhood, Vegas and the Legion should be formed to both contain the NCR and deter it from any future acts of aggression. Would you be open to such an arrangement? And of course, the reopening of trade between our lands would also be on the table as well.”