Mr Enclave

How Little We Know

James Hargreaves leaned against the railing of his watch tower and took a swig of water. It was another pleasantly balmy day, some of the last few for the year undoubtedly before things started to get progressively colder and the risk of radstorms increased. He had one of the better plots this season, right between Party HQ and Washington Monument. The distant booms of progress somewhere behind him signalled another old building being demolished. He scanned his eyes, bored, over the workers toiling away at the tomato plants.
Everything was fine, and yet he knew in his gut that something was wrong.

He wasn’t alone in thinking it. Jonesy had told him about sudden amendments to quotas. A girl he’d was seeing in the Peace Force had told him that she was being redeployed to the west—along with many others. MacFarland complained of getting angry communications from settlements over rerouted water shipments. Then just a couple of weeks ago, more Enclave Vertibirds than he’d ever seen together at once all took off to the west; the next day, the Enclave had held a funeral, you could tell since the massive flag was at half-mast outside of standard holidays. Tomorrow, they were going to hang a dozen Brotherhood of Steel sympathisers who come “from the west”. Something was going on out there.

He was shaken from his reverie when he noticed his little hourglass had finally run through.

“Come on people,” he bellowed through his megaphone. “We must work harder! Peace and plenty are the watchwords of our great leader!”
At least the Enclave themselves are still about he thought absently for a moment until his eyes widened. He’d first noticed the immense forms of the Enclave soldier in their fighting suits before noticing their lumbering gait, barrelling down the road before Party HQ ahead of an armoured vehicle.

“God,” he gasped. “That could only mean one thing.”

---

“He’s coming here?” Moria Brown gasped. “What? You're kidding, right? Wait, you aren't kidding. Oh dear. But he didn’t tell me.”

“Why would he?” Burke said, with one of his sickly grins. “In my **long** experience Moria he doesn’t usually broadcast these things ahead of time.”

“No not him—ooh whatever,” she said. Burke, like her, was an old member of the Party—unlike her he still wore one of the original party armbands before they changed the typeface.

“Get everyone ready in the lobby immediately. How long do we have?”

“About two minutes.”

Moria held a scowl in check. It must be a five-minute drive from Victory Bridge to here and doubtless Burke and his Party Security cronies had spotted the vehicle as soon as it crossed. She pushed past him, leaving him in her office as she strode down the corridor.
“Everyone in the lobby please!” She shouted, opening doors as she went down. “Come along, come along. To attention immediately!”
Fixing the creases on her Party armband, she took the stairs in the lobby two at a time, pulled the pencil holding her bun in place out and took her position before the door. People were mostly in place as the doors opened—Party Security certainly were—and a pair of Enclave soldiers preceded him.

“Hail to the chief, who in triumph advances,
Honour'd and blessed; We salute you, one and all!
Hail to the chief, and the flag of his expanses,
Hail to the Commander! Hail to the Chief!”

Sutler raised his hand slowly, fingers uncurling. The room fell entirely silent with only Sutler’s footsteps on the marble as solemnly strode past the arrayed ranks of petty officials.

“Moria Brown,” he said, and she felt her spine as length of freezing rebar. “The Party Select Committee is called to order immediately, for a matter most urgent.”

“Very well Your Excellency. Yes,” Moria said. There was another moment of silence, this time more awkward as Moria released that she was supposed to lead the way. It occurred to her for a moment that Sutler may not actually know where he was going.

“Your Excellency, this way,” she said finally, fixing a grin to her face again before smartly turning on the spot to lead the way from the lobby, through the courtyard and up the great spiral stairs.

Once in the room however, Sutler took no time to seat himself at the head of the table, framed both by his towering guards in their fighting suits and a portrait of himself which peered at them sternly from above his own head.

“I do not make appearances lightly,” he said finally once everyone was seated.

Moria didn’t look around or take her eyes from Sutler, but she could instinctively feel the press of the Enclave personnel whom formed a semi-circle around the table to the back. None of them sat down, even Granite, but loomed behind them all out of sight. The firing squads also shot people from behind.

“Yet I am drawn here for a matter of exceeding importance to the future of the nation and of the Peace. Doubtless you are aware that the Brotherhood in the west has fallen.”

There was a stunned silence; nobody dared to admit or doubt. Moria did not in-fact know this, nor did she think anyone else did.
“This otherwise happy occasion is ruined only by the fact that it was not because of us. The reason for this is the appearance of an army of mutants; akin to those that plagued here before the Enclave’s peace.”

Even Burke was stunned to silence she noticed. Sutler nodded to someone behind her and in a moment a projector was being wheeled in. They watched in silence the footage of the Enclave’s flying machines laying waste to an enormous column of Super Mutants. Moria noted Burke’s continued stone-faced silence, as well as the absence of Gustavo or any other Peace Force members—clearly, Burke’s network wasn’t as deep as he had always supposed.

“We believe that we have curtailed the mutant advance for the moment,” Sutler said as the presentation finished. “But we have reasons to believe that they will attack again. These are the reasons for recent policy changes. All headquarters are to revise their minimum effective manpower numbers accounting for a shift increase of two hours. I want this done very discreetly. Maximum secrecy. I assume you can ensure this for us Burke?”

“Yes, Your Excellency, of course. Our record is exemplary.” Burke said obsequiously.

“See that it’s done then,” Sutler said plainly. “We cannot allow knowledge of this threat or the temporary redirection of our attentions to be leaked unless it is necessary; that this unprecedent scenario has came about now during a resurgence of attacks Baltimore gangs is very much unwelcome. Food, water, construction materials, security—all will continue to be redirected towards our defensive line. It will be your task going forward to ensure the stability of Party control over outlaying regions for the duration.”

The past had been difficult enough, so many angry communications from outlaying settlements regarding cancelled shipments—she now knew why. She could only imagine the deluge of paperwork that would overcome her desk.

How Little We Know

The elevator door closed a guillotine, the dappled light through the courtyards leafy canopy and sound of the young children of the 9th and 10th troops cut off as the Granite was plunged into the “Down Deep” as Sutler called it—to the cavernous war centres and situation rooms of Strategic Air Command and the Commonwealth Defence Administration where Sutler preferred to haunt in his rare moments out of Sim. The rest of the Colonels were already present as Granite entered the vast space, a single long table down the centre of a space big enough for a hundred. Only one of the giant screens on the far wall was still on, showing a looping shot of the Flag overlayed with the text “America Prevails”.

“Colonel Granite. You’re here.” Sutler said, flashing him the same goofy, lopsided grin he’d always had since Granite first met him back in mid-2230’s—the rest of his waxen face was motionless.

“Yes sir, sorry gents. Business over at Party HQ.”

“Who is in charge of the Party these days?” Cortiz asked absently as Granite continued his approach and took his place.

“Moria Brown,” Granite said. “She ran a commissary in the Springvale settlement, very early Party member. Rose to prominence due to her input on the irrigation system for the Mall. Unorthodox, if effective.”

“And now she’s in-charge of the Party? Some bilge turd mechanic?” Colonel Fuentes said with an incredulous snort before cutting himself short at Sutler’s inquisitorial gaze. Only Granite had known Sutler long enough to remember that he was a Down Deeper from below the water line—the old Seabees descendants were very proud of their little slice of the old Rig, and Sutler (as the last of them) carried an entire dead cultures worth of dismissive shit-flinging from the mid-deck Army types.

“In-charge is a strong word,” Granite interjected, cutting off the awkward pause. “Besides, we had little luck with the business types before her. They thought above their station.”

“Like that shitbird Moriarty,” Colonel Hale said with a sick smile. “Glad we gave him his chicken dinner early on.”

“Yeah,” Sutler said. “I remember when we brought him here. Skimming brass of-course as they all are. Not even bad discharge. I remember actually, he looked me dead in the eyes and blubbered ‘But… I’m the Party Chair.’ Who gives a fuck I said.”

“Why do we call them ‘the Chair’? Weren’t we original going to go with Speaker?”

“Too Canadian,” Sutler said. “Etymologically Chair doesn’t confer any specific authority. First amongst equals et-cetera.”

“Yes Sir. But they they understand that?”

“This Brown seems content to realise her place at least. These shitty little job officer types seem to do the best.”

“Unconsciously as-well,” Sutler added. “We don’t want people who agree with us through rational thought—which is circumstantial. Blind acceptance is the key. But anyway, they’re animals and already dead so let’s move onto actual business. The Pittsburgh settlement seems receptive to our advances.”

“Yes Sir. I read the reply after Billings passed it along to me. Suitably acquiescent.”

“Yes-yes,” Sutler said absently. “As if our people need their congratulations. Still we’ll have to devise something. Pittsburgh is in Verti range, maybe another fly over worthy of the Good General is in order. A demonstration of power, as-well as an effective manoeuvre. I fear we won’t have many of them left.”

There was another brief moment of pause. The loss of Blue-One had been unexpected. It had been a damn lucky hit.

“We need to go full steam on that. This could be an excellent opportunity for us.”

“I’ll speak with Richter,” Sutler said. “He always had the fortitude for these long-range Ops and he has a good team with Sharp and Knowles.”

“The raid was exceptionally well timed Sir,” Granite said. “It gave us the rest of the time we needed to shore up the Shenandoah Line. But there’s been some disturbing developments. We lost a couple of settlements behind the Line. Razed to the ground, no survivors.”

“Yes, I heard. I thought we put that down to opportunists?” Colonel Glover said. “Like the Baltimore lot have been more active recently since we’ve had to divert the Birds.”

The Baltimore region had always been a problem. Shortly after the Enclave ascendency, predatory gangs had remerged to enslave and raid the refugees flocking to the Purifier. Like Paradise Falls, their bases had been open and expansive and not designed to defend against an aerial assault. They’d been easy fodder and massacred wholesale. Only a few years ago had they started to reemerge, now operating of basements and urban ruins to pillage the Enclave’s most northerly settlements and disguised for convenient bombing runs.

“This space was designed to wage war on the World!” Sutler shouted. “Not deal with some pissant rebels. Stars and stripes I hate the fucking future so much.”

“We’re not sure Sir,” Granite quickly interjected. “I’ve seen the photos myself from these raids in the west. The big boot prints give away that these are FEV mutant attacks.”

“Infiltration units? From these mutants? They’re fucking nine feet tall,” Colonel Fuentes said.

“That’s the thing Colonel,” Granite continued. “You remember the AAR on the I-50 run. How some of the mutants were blue?”

“Ah,” Colonel Ortiz said. “That’s why you asked about the archives. Stealth-Boys?”

“Stealth-Boys?”

“There was something in the Pentagon archives about skin discoloration in Chicom infiltration units. Blue pigmentation. It had been suggested that it was side-effect from the usage of stealth technology.”

“And why am I just hearing about this?” Sutler demanded.

“It was just a few settlements; we weren’t certain as to the cause.”

“It sounds pretty damn certain to me! Do Stealth Boys show up in thermals?”

“Not sure Sir. We’ll have to check the archives.”

“We have to appear omnipotent. That means all seeing.” Sutler said with an exasperated gasp. “Evacuate more settlements east of the Line. The influx of refugees from Brotherhood territory gives us good rope-fodder for a while to maintain the ease of the masses. I want anyone who’s so much as held a spanner for a Brotherhood fighter hanged in public. Distribute the swine around as needs be.”

“Perhaps Sir,” Ortiz said. “We should finally make an announcement. It could rile the rabble up in our benefit.”

“Yes Sir,” Granite said. “The Party know something is happening. The western refugees and redeployment of the Peace Force. We need to get a lead on this.”

“Very well,” Sutler said finally. “It’s not unreasonable. Put some stick about after all. They need to understand that we are here for their safety. A good threat can remind the newer ones that things haven’t always been so stable.”

How Little We Know

double-post

How Little We Know

The first thing that he felt was the cold. He choked on the air of a great rattling breath before descending into shallow, pitiful gasps. There was a great sound of clanking around him, servos whirring.

“Sir. Sir. Sir.”

It was the sound of a woman somewhere. A grasped his own, warm even through the fabric. He wanted to pull away, but his entire body felt like lead.

“Sir. Sir. Sir.”

It was always like this; went you were in for too long. He felt needles and tubes being pulled out of him; all he could do was focus on breathing.

“Sir. Are you ready to have the blindfold removed sir?”

“Yes,” Sutler gasped.

He felt the warmth of hands near his head, and the rustling of fabric, before everything became a blurry white haze.

“Here sir.”

He felt the tingle of real moisture and took great rasping pulls from the damp cloth pressed to his lips.

“Get the gurney,” the voice said. “He’s ready for transport.”

He felt more hands—so warm—envelope him as he was lifted from the cradle into the gurney. The wheels whistled and rattled as the gurney was moved. He felt something over him, getting closer, and felt the wrap the plastic arms of his eyeglasses around his head.

---

It was an unusually iron sky over Arlington, appropriate for the events. It had taken Sutler three days to be properly rejuvenated—endless rounds of massages and drip-feed bags—which had allowed time for the 1st Troop to be recalled to the capital. Menzel lay in a simple box draped with the flag. Fortunately, Sims and Rivas had survived the crash landing. Blue-One had come down hard in the designated area. Broken bones all around and an expedited ticket to permanent internment in the simulation. Blue-One herself was done—an irreplaceable loss. Sutler, Granite, Fuentes, and the rest of the Old Guard had come out for the occasion.

The whole of 1st Troop, with representatives from the others were arranged in formation on the other side of Menzel. The great American flag which flew over the Commandery flew at half-mast. Sutler had even permitted some members of the Party to be present. Observers rather than participants, they were off somewhere to the left keeping solemn silence.

Sutler loathed their presence, but understood the realpolitik that they had to see that the Enclave did lose their own for the Peace. More so, he knew that they were awed too by the ceremony of official events—every action had purpose and tradition and weight. The Peace Force had its own traditions, its own marches and salutes and styles, but Sutler had invented them in a single afternoon somewhere between an after-action report and an evening agenda. They held no weight.

When it was time, he alighted the podium.

“You lost your compatriot. It hurts me as much as it hurts you. I sent him there. And I’ve been there, I know what it is. Corporal Menzel gave his life for the future. For our future. And he will rest here, forever, amongst the heroes. We will right the great error of history. Remember always the words of the Good General. When you kill enough of them, they will stop fighting. We will take that that to it's logical conclusion. When we kill all of them, there will be no fighting.” He stepped back from the podium before giving the signal.

“Firing Party! Present! Fire!”

Sutler and the rest of the Old Guard stood to attention as the full 21-gun salute was offered. The flag was folded and offered to the standing Troop commander Cheeves, before the tinny music began from the assembled eyebots and they dutifully sung.

“Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave,”

The whole thing brought back nasty memories—they hadn’t had to bury someone in five years. Recovering the bodies from the Purifier under the ceasefire terms he’d bullied Eden into. Finding Autumn’s shattered corpse, his badges and ribbon bar taken as ghoulish souvenirs by the Brotherhood. Sending him into the furnace later. Sobbing into Lucy’s shoulder back in their quarters before becoming so blinding angry that he’d actually scared her.

“Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep;”

Just before the battle of Adams, his intended swansong, they’d euthanised the non-coms—the last four women and children in America at the time. They cremated them in a crater on the runway atop a mattress of all the remaining flags folded and the Declaration of Independence; the camp doctor shot himself afterwards. He remembered Granite’s face the day before when he’d been given his orders; when he’d listed them as bullet points on the last lot of materials to be scuttled somewhere between some old archive material and a bunch of spare generator parts.

“O hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.”

“If I should die for some reason,” he said to Granite. “Don’t put me in the soil… or the air. Keep me on ice; you know where I want to go.”

“Yeah Alan. I know. How long are you staying out for?”

“I’m not sure. But since I’m out, I’ll show my face for a while.” He glanced over at Chair Moria Brown and the other Party officials in the distance. “Put some stick about amongst the rabble. Let them know I’m more than some glowering portrait. I am here. And I exist now as much as ever.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll make them fear. This is a world of terror, as much as a world of triumph. Until we can get rid of them. Send the photos of the raid north to Pittsburgh, with a redacted AA report, perhaps it’s time I met with this Queen of Pittsburgh.”
It was so ludicrous a thing to say, he regretted it given the setting. He felt a monstrous urge within him rise up, only to be settled.

The members of the 1st troop filed past Menzel’s box, each tapping it twice. After it was lowered, they returned to the Commandery—beating the retreat to a sole bagpiper playing Auld Lang Syne.

How Little We Know

It was the first time the entire squadron had been mobilised in twenty years. Twelve birds, four platoons; red, white, blue, and gold. No light, all heavy. There was no chalk element, no slicks, no stopping of any kind. Just punch off everything in two passes—assuming that there was even a target of opportunity. Just like the run over Paradise Falls, back when he didn’t have any greys, or the later runs on the Baltimore gangs. In short, a good old-fashioned, all-American, aerial massacre.

The plan was a modification of the old SIOP; the general plan for war with the Brotherhood of Steel in the west. It had been assumed that any offensive from them would utilise the I-50 for logistics. Mutants, being mere creatures, would likely use the path of least resistance when transporting large elements over land—again assuming that they would continue any kind of advance further west.

They passed little settlements on the way, friendly smoke trail from cooking fires and light industry, and later another long column of refugees who stopped to wave at them as they burned over head.

“Castle, this is White Lead. We’ve just over… Clarksburg. Nothing since the last refugee column.” Hillenkoetter said, looking at his copilot who had the map. “Nothing in sight over.”

“Rodger that White Lead over.”

Hillenkoetter looked behind him, at Wilkins on the big gun. Command had been clear on this, Last Watch only in the seats and FNGs from the New Troops on side gun for some action. It wasn’t really fair since 1st troop was already two years into deployment. For all Hillenkoetter Wilkins could be one of his; all the samples had been anonymised, nobody had the stomach for families anymore—they didn’t even have fore names, just aft-names for their tags pulled from a DC phonebook.

“You okay their bud?” He asked.

“Fucking-A Sir,” Wilkins responded; he’d not taken his eyes from the sights of the .50 for the whole ride.
They kept on going, minor chatter between the leads and Castle as they ploughed forward to Cincinnati.

“All, all. This is White Lead. Greens ahead. Over.”

“Castle Rodger. Green?”

“Green mutants. They’re scattering. All Leads target the one with the antenna. Over.”

There was a chorus of ‘Rodgers’ and a scattering of gun fire over the comms. The mutants had some kind of scouting party with a radio.

“All leads, this is White Lead. Confirm tango-down?”

Comms came in; nobody could confirm, just fire down on the area as they passed but nobody was staying around to confirm.

“All Leads, we’re assuming advanced scouts for a column. Heat ‘em up and prep for contacts. Break into contact formation. Over.”

A chorus of ‘Rodger thats’ came in as the Vertibirds platoons broke.

It didn’t take much longer. A mutant column, a veritable sea of green.

"Contacts ahead, they’re breaking south into the trees. Gold-Blue leads break off.”

Assuming the orders were followed, Hillenkoetter centred on the road. The mutants were still scattering, tugging at ghoul-drawn carts.

“Firing.”

The command was echoed over the comm as the road exploded into so many little smoke plumes. Rockets were loosed as they passed over, through there was no telling the damage done. White and Red pummelled the main road as Gold and Blue went port to strafe the scatters.

“Taking Fire. Taking Fire.”

Not unexpected. It had been the plan of attack, come in low with the morning sun behind them and trust the mutants couldn’t maintain a good firing arc. Hillenkoetter felt the dings reverb through the aircraft as the bullets hit. The mutants could sport a minigun in-hand, and rockets, the entire operation was based on them being unprepared for an air-attack so hit them hard once whilst the element was present.

They passed over. Being lead-lead, Hillenkoetter wouldn’t see the full aftermath till the AAF.

“This is White Lead, all Leads. Sit-Rep. Over.”

The news was good. They ploughed ahead, leaving the mutant train behind before whirling back for the second pass.
“Firing. Firing.”

It had been a few minutes, the dust plumes gone and mutants reorganising as they let loose again with whatever was left.
“Rockets! Rockets!”

“Evade, evade!”

The second pass continued, rockets and micro-nukes deployed over the remainder.
“This is Blue-Two, we’re hit. Hit!”

“Clear comms. Keep Moving. Blue-Two status.”

“We took a rocket. Starboard. I’ve lost starboard wing control. Huns’ get back and check. I can’t move the right wing Castle, stuck on forward.”

“Blue-One slow and visualise. Damage report.”

“Blue-Two you’ve lost—”

“Keep him in! Keep him in! White-Lead. Menzel is hit.”

“This is Papa,” the voice suddenly came over the comm, cool and authorative. “Is anyone hit? Blue-Two talk.”

“Menzel is hit.”

“What’s his status. Status.”

“He’s dead, Menzel is dead Sir.”

“Rodger that. Blue-Two how’s it looking?”

“Blue-Two. This is Blue-One behind. You’ve lost starboard landing gear.”

“I’m pulling starboard.”

“Blue-Two. Slow down to minimum. Blue-Lead take point, Blue-One stay behind. We’re prepping emergency landing at Harpers. Over.”

“Rodger that Castle.”

“Fuck,” Hillenkoetter cursed. Menzel was a side-gunner. “Castle this is White Lead. Orders."

“All leads, belay Blue. Gun it back to Castle-town. Blue-Lead, Blue-Two take fore and aft respect, look after this guy okay.”

“Rodger that Castle.”

“Blue-One prep how are you fairing?”

“Still pulling starboard Papa. Maintaining.”

“Prep Plan-D, keep it airborne. Can you clear the Blue Mountains? Over.”

“Rodger that,” Blue-One lead said, muffled around the glass ampule. “We can go forward with a list, getting a lot of vibrations here— steady on it dude.”

“Blue-Two sit-rep.”

“You're losing fluid Blue-One."

"Close the feedthoughs! Castle this is Blue-One, we've lost all hydraulics confirmed in starboard wing."

“Rodger that Blue-One; keep it going and keep us covered.”

The wind pulled at Blue-One, pulling her starboard as she limped back towards the Blue Mountains.

How Little We Know

The Colonels were gathered around the table in the expansive ExComm briefing room, nominal equals arranged around a round table. They were all, inherently, survivors of the Enclave’s greatest calamities over the century—people who survived by virtue of being on post somewhere else. They were all leafing through the briefing packs before them, examining the glossy photographs in detail as Granite chaired the meeting.

“Mariposa?” Colonel MacDonald said. “It’s absurd, that’s over 3000 klicks from Cincinnati.”

“There are no other sources of FEV.”

“There was some research conducted in West Virginia, so the records say.”

“Clearly that must be the case. The Brotherhood of Steel, in their ignorance, has created this army locally. Probably as a vanguard to attack us.”

“The transcripts from refugees that have been turning up indicate that the mutant army came from their west, fighting them back to Cincinnati.” Granite said, cutting over the general chatter.

“They are rabble, and probably mistaken,” Colonel Ortiz countered. “Do we even know what the western most extent of their occupation was? Would you place the same level of geographic knowledge in the denizens under our control Granite?”

“It is immaterial,” Colonel Fuentes said. “These are so many semantics. The present facts indicate that there is a large army of mutants occupying Cincinnati who have moved in a westerly direction. They clearly have the capacity for self-replication—from *somewhere*. Look here,” Fuentes indicated one of the photos captured by the recon team.

Super Mutants were moving through a lightly urbanised area, but rather than the shambolic fashion that was typical, they were exhibiting a greater degree of organisation—so much as could be ascertained from a single photograph.

“They are maintaining some degree of formation; they are keeping close to cover. They are clearly more advanced than the those produced from the Vault 87 strain; even those dumb brutes had enough going-on to abduct people to bolster their numbers.”
“Indeed Colonel Fuentes,” Granite said, silently grateful that someone seemed to be taking this more seriously. “Look at three.”
Dutifully, the Colonels turned back to photograph no. three, taken by the recon team on their approach to Cincinnati. A column of refugees were pouring away from the glowing city against columns of rising smoke.

“This level of damage, the entire city was assaulted in a coordinated campaign across the entire line of contact. These are not the shambolic monsters lumbering around D.C. They appear well armed, with heavy weaponry, now bolstered by the Brotherhood’s arsenal.”
Granite cast a quick side glance at Sutler, whom had been largely silent through-out the proceedings. His calculating mind doubtless processing what he was hearing.

First had been the revelation that Granite had conducted this operation without his knowledge. Then the confirmation of the mutant threat—the refugee columns streaming into their western-most dominion had been causing alarm even before Granite’s team had come back. Then someone mentioned Mariposa.

Mariopsa was an old army base in California. The source of the FEV from which the Project, the unrealised salvation of the American people, had required. The place where Sutler’s father had was KIA to retrieve those samples. Sutler hadn’t really spoken much about his father, even before ’77; now their parents belonged to an entirely different age. Granite had always privately felt, for decades, that Sutler’s inability to put ’42 behind him were perhaps holding them back. Now, it seemed like the ghosts from the past were coming back for them all.

“How is the SIOP configured for this threat?” MacDonald again.

“Much of the initial stages can remain,” Granite said. “The Shenandoah Valley will be our primary defensive line, blow every bridge standing north of Charlottesville, FOL at Harpers Ferry.”

“Can the Peace Force be relied upon?”

“They handled the mutants in downtown well enough.”

“It’s not the same,” Granite said. “We had the advantage of numbers in D.C. The Mariposa Mutant hide is thick, but they’d go down under sustained fire. We may not have the advantage of being able to concentrate our fire like that… the Peace Force is largely about maintaining order, not offensive operations.”

“We are going to DefCon 3,” Sutler said finally and everyone fell silent.

“We are going to mobilise the Peace Force reserves Granite, and I will summon the Party Select Committee to expand the reserve list by 50%. All Peace Force leave is cancelled. All transfers are cancelled. All Party HQs are to conduct censuses of numbers. And we are going to call an All-Hands Congress.”

There was a moment of pause at that, it had been a long time since all the members of the Last Watch had been in-sim.
“Who is furthest away?” Sutler directed the question at one of the mute constructs that the simulation could create, and they used generally as aides.

“Captain Richter,” it returned flatly. “He and elements of the Second Troop are conducting peace keeping operations in vicinity of Walkersville.”

“They’re cancelled. Send them return orders, and the rest.”

The aide construct scuttled away.

---

When the meeting was over, Granite was asked to stay behind.

“You’re *team*,” Sutler said, “are to be remanded for extensive decontamination.”

Granite knew what that meant, and had them confined to quarters beforehand anyway—at least they weren’t going to be killed.
“And you are to prepare an unclassified version of this report for transmission to the Pittsburgh occupation.”
That however was unexpected.

“Sure Alan… you’re going to bring them in on this?”

“Pittsburgh is downstream of Cincinnati down the Ohio. Plus, if any Brotherhood elements did withdraw, where do you think that they are likely to go? They certainly weren’t going to come here. They may have access to additional intelligence that we don’t have. We always make use of local sources when we can.”

“Very well Alan. We can present it with the next water shipment.”

“Indeed…” Alan said finally before a long pause. “You didn’t have your team deployed, to the extent of friendly territory, by Vertibird Granite.”

“Yes… sir. Because I knew that you were aware of all Vertbirid flights,” Granite confessed, “and I figured that you might pull the plug.”

It was pointless to lie to Sutler, even more so when he clearly already knew everything.

“Don’t make me clips your wings Granite,” Sutler said calmly. “I’ve known you too long to want to do that. So don’t wilfully keep things from me again—regardless of your intentions.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now I’ve got to inform the Party. You’re dismissed.”

How Little We Know

Peace Force Away Team
Anderson looked back east—any sign of civilisation swallowed by the darkness of the night. They were only one day into enemy territory, with another week to go before they reached some place called Sin-Sinaty. Warrick, the lead of the County Patrol fireteam, had built something called a Dakotafire; it was some kind of stealth fire that was “something you wouldn’t need in the Urban Patrol”.

It was hard not to be nostalgic, sat around a campfire again so far away from everything which had become the new normal. Out here it was like the old days of the Capital Wasteland; before checkpoint stamps and ID papers, before the Party and the Peace Force, before the Enclave and the surety of a clean water.

Looking back, he wished that Sonora and the bosses had joined the majority in moving over to the Peace Force; the Enclave’s concept of justice was the same as their own, and even most of their crimes were. There had been scattered reports and rumours about the conduct of Enclave soldiers in those first few weeks since they’d emerged—from where-ever. But in retrospect, they didn’t make any sense. Most of the people they’d killed for the Enclave were genuinely bad, though others (like Father Clifford and some Rivet City civilians) who’d been vanished admittedly made less sense.

Anderson watched Warrick, sleeping soundly and spooning a .50 cal rifle he’d been issued for this mission—he had never let go of it since it was issued, even to eat. He’d known of Warrick by reputation for nearly twenty years now, since the Regulators. But now here he was, guarding someone whose finger he’d have taken the last time he’d ever taken watch-shift around a campsite whist Sonora and the one’s who’d stayed had eventually been declared as “Enemies of the Peace” like any other common raider.

---

They met few people as they moved forward, but then that was the plan. Warrick and his “posse” of County Patrol on point; they were good at this kind of thing, being out on the range. But they had relatively little in the way of major combat experience as Anderson delighted in reminding him. He could tell that Warrick was chomping to use that rifle he’d been given—almost certainly for use against a Brotherhood soldier in his fighting suit. As the days went on, and the numbers on the signs saying “Cincinnati” got smaller, his chance to blow their cover would only become more and more prevalent.

How Little We Know

The Long Watch, Think Machine 3600r—The Commandery, Washington D.C.

The Executive Committee conference room was clearly a Sutler creation. Like his office, it was needlessly voluminous space—dimly lit—centred around a single table and atmospheric spot lighting. The sole criteria for membership was being born in the earliest years of the century. Sutler himself was actually the youngest; he was born in 2222. They were the last generation that knew the Oil Rig.

The usual affairs were dealt with swiftly, denizen affairs, a hearty cheer at Ashur’s death, a teleconference with the Party’s Steering Committee. Granite watched the two dozen or so committee members, shabby and nervous, delivering their reports to Sutler who—they couldn’t see—looked somewhere between bored and repulsed at the indignity of the whole thing. Granite saw Sutler examining his finger nails, whilst the Party rep bleated out some potato-yield statistics—finger naials didn’t even grow in here, and there wasn’t any dirt.

“Mainland vermin,” Sutler said dismissively; the vid-link shut off after the committee had finished their rendition of “Hail to the Chief”.
“Now that that’s dealt with, is there any other business?”

“Sir,” Granite said. “I’ve been thinking more about the Brotherhood of Steel situation. I had a report from the Peace Force garrison at Twin Lakes concerning some refugees—from the Brotherhood of Steel territory. They said that there was fleeing from mutants… their description bore a strong resemblance to the Mariposa Mutants.”

“Mariposa? Some of the remnants of the Vault 87 strain then?” Sutler said.

“They said they’d come from Cincinnati.”

“Cincinnati? Well then probably not. And they’ve came east, all this way?”

“From what I can tell, they made it sound like there’s war. Full mobilisation by the Brotherhood of Steel. They’d heard about us and our state, and figured the Enclave would be a more secure place.”

Sutler leaned back in his chair.

“It would certainly be an explanation as to why their border-zone with us is so short-staffed,” he said finally. “But, really? Mariposa-strain mutants? In large numbers? That lunacy was confined entirely to the Mariposa base… and Vault 87 for some reason. You’ll have to send me the report, circulate it around us all.”

“I was thinking sir, that maybe we should take a more proactive stance on this one. Maybe conduct some reconnaissance. If something is large enough to concern the Brotherhood of Steel, then it must be serious.”

Granite saw the steely look already forming on Sutler’s face before he’d even finished.

“The western-most area of the pretenderate Brotherhood of Steel state is being threatened by some unknown force. Who cares. Even if they topple the Brotherhood, what difference will it make? The Mariposa-strain mutants are mindless animals, we saw it here. They’ll burn themselves out, I’m not risking any of our personnel for this.”

The National Mall, Washington D.C.

Of all the things that they’d accomplished in the last 20 years, Granite considered the great green expanse of the National Mall to be their greatest. He looked out from the sidecar as Denizens toiled away at tomato vines growing around rebar and fields of potato bushes—all looking so small against the looming monolith of the new Pentagon in the distance over the Potomac. Thundering booms and sirens in the distance heralded more and more of old Washington falling. The entire city was to be systematically razed—buildings and roads—and then reconstituted into the new city. Granite’s destination was the only building that had been spared.

The Party’s headquarters had been, perhaps fittingly, been located in the Department of Agriculture building. As the motorcycles pulled up outside, a few Peace Corps officers loitering around outside snapped to attention, placing their fist over their heart. Before Granite had even had time to get to the building, a Party official was almost tripping over himself to arrive and greet him. They never announced when they were going to drop in, and after a recent purge the Party was very eager to please.

The "Party” had been a Sutler idea, a middle-rung between themselves and the denizens. Truthfully, the remaining Enclave did not have the experience, or the numbers, to manage a commercial operation. Fortunately, there had been no shortage of lackeys, boot-lickers, and hangers-on amongst the growing circle at the Jefferson purifier whom had been more than happy to avail themselves in return for concessions. Despised equally by the Enclave and the Denizens, they were a self-serving clique that dispensed the Enclave’s orders and soaked up most of the resentment.

“Sir, Colonel Granite,” the official said standing to attention. Granite and his guards didn’t break stride, and the official stumbled about himself to turn around and keep pace. It was genuinely gruelling to keep the pace, Granite’s muscles stung and ached after his stint in the simulation—but no weakness could be shown in front of the rabble.

“Welcome back to Party Headquarters sir. Should I call Commissioner Gustavo?”

“No. I’m here on other business. There should be eight Peace Force officers waiting for me in a conference room. Do you know which one they have booked?”

It was a bit cruel he had to admit as he saw the colour drain from the official’s face, his fatigues and blue party armband utterly powerless in the face of their actual masters.

“No sir, but I can find out for you right away.”

There was a brief look between them, before the official made a squeaking sound and scurried off ahead of them to make his enquiries. It didn’t take too long, Granite stood silently in the atrium, watching various officials scuttle around looking appropriately tired. Before long, some hurried looking official appeared and usher him towards a conference room. Granite and his guards marched through the corridors, watching as anyone in the vague vicinity jumped out of the way. Bidding his guards to remain outside, Granite entered the conference room.

As he entered, the assembled Peace Corps officers dutifully saluted.

“At-ease,” Granite said with a casual wave and they returned to their seats.

Granite momentarily caught the portrait of Sutler on the wall, sternly staring down anyone that may be present and felt a pang of unease.

“I’m sure long-timers like yourselves are more than acquainted. Some of you have been with us since the very beginning I believe. Daniels, you were one of Gustavo’s boys at Twin Lake’s I believe?”

“Yes sir,” Daniels said, his neck stiffening.

“And that’s why you’re all here, you’re all veterans and possess between you several lifetimes of experience. I’ll cut to the chase; the Enclave has a mission for you. One which you are uniquely suited too. There have been disturbing intelligence reports coming from the west in the lands occupied by the Brotherhood of Steel. They’ve completely redirected their forces to their western-most territories to fight some-kind of mutant uprising, and we need boots on the ground intel as to what is happening out there.”

How Little We Know

The Simulation - Washington D.C.

As the great door to Sutler’s office slid open, Granite waited a respectfully for his two ruffle and flourishes to conclude before stepping over the threshold. It was a monstrous chamber, far vaster than it needed to be and dimly lit. Plain metal columns rose up and pale blue fluorescent lamps hung down from ceiling that vanished into darkness. Sutler’s desk didn’t move as Granite approached.

Striding professionally between a pair of colonnades, he caught the stern expression of the portraits which hung from them from the corner of his eye: General Pershing, General Le May, General Chase, and other obscure revenants from the past that only the bookish sort like Sutler could be expected to remember—there was notably no post-war figures amongst Sutler’s pantheon. It took precisely forty seconds, Granite coming to a halt with the final cymbal of Stars and Stripes Forever; without the piccolos, much of its cheer had been gutted.

Sutler’s desk was modelled on those used by Vault Overseers, a large torus on a raised column that would give 360 degrees of vision over some kind of Combat Information Center. The column descended into the floor almost silently until it nestled into a nook in the floor. As it descended the great glass window was gradually revealed. Beams of flickering light fell on him—sickly blue and wavering from the water outside—in a way that kept Sutler largely consumed in silhouette.

“Good Afternoon, Commander Sutler,” he said, snapping to salute.

“Good Afternoon.”

“Ashur is dead,” Granite continued after Sutler had sat back down. Sutler’s thin mouth pulled into a smile.

“You don’t say,” he sneered. “How long ago?”

“Uncertain, Continental Army posting at the Pittsburgh rail site heard it from them. But I’d wager within the last 48 hours.”

“Well…” Sutler said. “Good news at-last, with Ashur dead all traces of the Brotherhood of Steel had been eliminated this side of the Ohio River. Do we know who has succeeded him?”

“His daughter, the mutant girl.”

“They’re all mutants,” Sutler said dismissively, his smirk uncontrollable. “Well, we’ll see how long that lasts for. Can’t have someone that inexperienced in command, regardless of their pseudo-religious pretensions. Imagine if we gave that level of command to someone from the First Company—they must be around the same age as the girl.”

“Should we consider some kind of condolence… even if it’s merely tactical,” Granite said even though he knew the answer.

“Of course not, we can offer nothing which could be interpretated as recognition. Just get confirmation that our scheduled shipments will continue. There’s little we can do now until we get more information. Our file on her is small…”

“She has kept a relatively low profile beyond their propaganda.”

“Indeed. We’ll pencil it in for the next meeting of ExComm and determine our strategy going forward. Trouble is befalling all of our enemies it seems. You’ve read the latest dossier on the western front?”

“Or lack there-of, yes Commander. What does the Service make of it?”

“Their eastern perimeter unmanned, no patrols sighted, massive drop off in SIGINT. Current theory is some kind of internal unrest, but that’s unverified… it’s a shame that such timely misfortune befalls our enemies now whilst we are still unready to exploit it properly. I suppose we can’t have expected Ashur to have lasted another ten years—when the Joint Forces would have been at strength—but it would have been nice.”

Granite stood silently as Sutler spoke to himself. Before Sutler had been a cautious officer, over-cautious even, and didn’t have countenanced anything but mild operational risks. Now, with American blood becoming increasingly more plentiful as each Company reached majority, it seemed even that part of the old Sutler was dissipating into this place. He had been the lead on the mission to recover the equipment from Vault 112 and he knew that this programme was capable of producing pretty much anything. But Sutler preferred it to be a ghoulish mausoleum to a place long since gone.

War Never Changes 2 : A Post Nuclear Nation Roleplay

Alan Sutler

The one thing that Sutler enjoyed most about leaving the simulation world was it allowed for true isolation. He’d ordered away his close protection and simply gone for a walk in the dusty perimeter above Vault 101 before stopping to sit on the small rock from which he could see his domain. The pyramid dominated his field of view, its lofty pinnacle still higher than he currently was, but the sunlight reflected beautifully from the Augustus Autumn Memorial Reservoir.

Objectively of-course, it was a unnecessary risk, a sharpshooter or even a quiet molerat could easily get the best of him from here. It was such moments though, outside of the simulation, that let him feel like a real human again. He liked to be alone, and he liked a cold beer, and he liked to throw stones aimlessly just to see them skitter across the ground. Being the Supreme Commander was not easy and he remembered an argument before with Autumn where he had told Sutler that he was fit to be an NCO but nothing greater.

He didn’t like to remember the arguments he’d had with his long-gone friend, including the last time that they had ever spoke, made only more bitter by the fact that Sutler was basically doing everything that Autumn had wanted to do before anyway. He preferred the older memories, back on the Oil Rig, as young and carefree men more concerned with boredom than existential crisis; of taking their two beers and chatting aimlessly about the chests of various compatriots they would enjoy being able to pin medals on.

“Sir,” a voice unexpectedly called. Sutler glanced over to see a red-faced officer waving a slip of paper tape. Sutler had given permission for his moment to be interrupted for anything especially pressing. The officer saluted and handed the slip over to him.

ESTABLISHED_FOB_IN_COMMONWEALTH._TRANSMITTING_COORDINATES_AND_SURVEILLANCE_DATA._MISSION_PROCEEDING_AS_PLANNED_SUPREME_COMMANDER.

* * * * *

Back in the cool interior of Vault 101, Sutler returned to the former administration wing. The duty officer saluted and handed-him a clipboard, the documents of which Sutler scanned whilst the officer briefed him.

“We informed you immediately sir,” he was saying. “Co-ords indicate a Poseidon Energy plant on the southern periphery of Boston.”
Poseidon Energy, of-course…

“Have you tried to establish a PoseidoNet connexion?” Sutler asked.

PosiedoNet was one of the Enclave’s many aces. A pre-war communications network between the facilities of the Poseidon Energy company, it had also served as a secure network for the Department of Defence and other government agencies with whom the company was intimately involved; it had been selected for use after a possible nuclear conflagration and hardened sufficiently. Even today the network remained partially operational, though was seen more as a liability than a useful tool – at-least until now.

“We’re working on it sir,” the officer continued. “North-east took it fairly bad in the War, we’re trying to figure out which nodes are still running and won’t result too much packet loss.”

“I see.”

The away team was currently just one man, Issac Jascabo, of the Americorps and a relative to the incumbent Commander Joseph Jascabo; a competent and highly capable reconnaissance asset. That Jascabo had replied directly to him showed a degree of temerity and, if Sutler had to guess, ambition. It was true that Sutler was the operational head of the mission, but the personal nature of the response still irked him. Or maybe it was just a Wasteland thing, or a Talon Company thing, or stars knows what-ever else with these people.

“You should send a message to Commander Jascabo,” Sutler continued. “I’m sure he’d like to know that his brother is still alive.”

“Very good Sir.”

“And I’ll dictate something right now.”

<STANDBY_FOR_FURTHER_COMMUNICATIONS._SUPPORT_ENROUTE_ETA_48_HOURS._CONFIRM_BUILDING_SECURITY_AND_MONITOR_LOCAL_RADIO_CHATTER.>

They had prepared their away team in-advance, more than just field-ops it was equally likely that some diplomacy or official overtures may be necessary. The forward-commander then had to be someone whom Sutler could trust to act as a plenipotentiary – of which there was only one candidate.

* * * * *

It was some hours later when Sutler would look up from his desk, as the door slid open and the towering figure of his oldest compatriot stepped in.

“Sir,” Colonel Granite said, snapping a firm salute. Sutler returned the salute, before crossing the ground between them and following up a firm handshake with a solid embrace. On the rare occasions when Sutler was already out before Granite, he never met him at the Pyramid, preferring the privacy of the office.

“Good to see you in the flesh again Dom,” Sutler said, beaming un-controllably. He waved for the man to sit down before resuming his place at his desk. For a man, physically, pushing 60 Granite was still a physically active man; even the ravages of the Hibernation Chambers hadn’t taken away his imposing stature.

“Likewise Al, though I’m just as excited to be going on an away mission. Just like old times.”