The Mojave

Chapter 1: The Bear

Captain James Avella

5th Infantry Division

Bulkhead City, Arizona

March, 2285

I never wanted this, quite honestly, I never wanted to be a soldier, let alone one for the NCR (New California Republic) and here I was, newly promoted to Captain; leading and training new recruits into a war I didn't want to be part of. I didn't hate the NCR or anything that they stood for, it was just that I never knew anything else. There were no other set of politics, no other set of rules or laws; it was always what the New Republic of California believed. I always believed that one day, while I was growing up in San Francisco, I would get a small spot on the beach and grow my own crops away from all the bullshit this "New World" threw at us. Away from the taxes the NCR claimed. I wanted to live a peaceful life, a farming life, something where death didn't come knocking at every moment. Obviously in the current situation, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. So here I was, stuck in the state of Arizona, sweating my balls off and doing everything I possibly could to either not get burned to a crisp or die of dehydration. Both knocked at the door. Today's weather, 109 degrees Fahrenheit . Funny enough, it actually seems like it's starting to cool down lately. That or maybe I'm just losing it and my brain is starting to fry; who knows.

Before I headed out of my tent to meet the higher ups on my next mission, I grabbed some old rags and soaked them with whatever water was still left in my tent, and jammed them into my helmet so it would keep me cool while the relentless sun beat down on me like a hammer. I next grabbed my rifle and examined it to see if sand or debris had made it's way into the small nooks of it, which could end up causing it to misfire and potentially get myself killed; both things I did not want. "Things look good," I spoke out to myself, knowing that my optimism was fake. These rifles, who were being manufactured by an unknown source only the higher ups knew about were complete garbage, and that's being nice.

The metal was tarnished from who knows, the gears and springs, though claimed to be "brand new", always broke and needed replacement. Hell the damn sights were usually off and needed to re-calibrated when we first got them. I pitied the fool who goes out into battle without checking his rifle. It wasn't always like this however, the NCR once had the best equipment around, fitted with the weapons one could possibly own. This was before my time as an enlisted man, before the "Liberation of New Vegas" happened. That battle, or if I could it that; was regarded as one of the bloodiest battles the NCR had ever been apart of. Many armed forces died, many more died as civilians, who found themselves trapped between the two armies firing back and forth at one another. I'm glad I didn't see that. I once thought, because I grew up in the violent wasteland, I had seen it all. My time in the military has shown me horrors I never want anyone who doesn't have to fight to ever see. I have lost ones I call friends, brothers, family in this war. Even though who we fight against are among savage beasts, what I have heard of that day and seen as a result of the aftermath, nothing could prepare one for that, nothing.

I shrugged the thought of the day from my mind as I slung my rifle's strap around my shoulder and made my way out of my tent to start the day. It was a bright morning, like all morning's here in Arizona, the sun was out in full effect. I could feel the water soaked rags start drying as I tossed my helmet onto my head. The walk to my superior's office was always the same. Leave the tent, walk by the firing range, here the constant ring as the triggers are pulled and bullets fly through the air at the same old targets, only some can hit. Then a quick pass to the recruits I was in charge of, who though at their best efforts tried to look productive, were far from. As the second I walked by would then start their daily tasks of cracking jokes and smoking cigarettes they gambled for only as I was away. I then was close to where I needed to be. The last stop before the main office, was the mechanic's garage we had. A massive complex to look at, one that would intimidate any who were unaware of what lied within. It was our pride and joy for our military, as many thought and believed the newly upgraded "pre-war" tanks would turn the tide of battle in this war. I was one who believed in them, as well.

Our opposition, who fights rarely with ballistic weapons, and more of blunt and bladed weapons would surely crumble when they see these "death dealers" rolling towards them. "How's Caesar's presents coming?" I shouted to one of the mechanics working on the main firing mechanism of the tank. He looked up and gave a thumbs up, in reassurance that the one who called himself, "Caesar", surely would croak when we saw these at his front lines. Caesar, the old asshole, who thought of himself as a God, was far from it. Though he was smart, and had endless experience in war tactics, his health was deteriorating. Years ago when the war turned its ugly head, he battled relentlessly with what we heard was a brain tumor. Magically, or the result of a good doctor or someone specifically trained in medicine cured him of it. Why someone would want that, is beyond me. He made a comeback and advanced his troops forward with the help of his right hand man, Legate Lanius. Though I hadn't and surely wouldn't want to meet on the battlefield, Lanius, is one who is best described as "Hell walking on Earth". He's cold, and relentless and if his and Caesar's forces were to overrun us, well let's just say we would all wish we were dead then be alive under their reign.

"Captain Avella, you're early," a voice spoke out, breaking my thoughts. "Early bird, gets the worm. Morning Colonel." Colonel Hernandez, a smart and very charismatic leader, though I question his battlefield record as I feel he is only in charge due to being a resident of the state of Arizona. My hand went to head as I saluted my superior. "At ease," he ordered. "Yes, sir. You wanted to see me?" He sipped his coffee as he looked out into the desolate desert ahead of us; I awaited his response. "Yes, it has come to my attention that a recon squad 305, has not yet returned from their expedition tracking Legion movement. It had been almost three days since we last made contact with them." My thoughts gathered as I knew where he was going with this. "We need to know what happened to them, or their whereabouts. You know what I'm getting at, correct?" He questioned me as he turned around to find a folder of the briefing for myself. "Yes Sir. Is this a solo job or will their be a squad attachment with me?" "Unfortunately, due to recent reports of Legionaries to the west of us, we cannot spare more another squad to be sent out. However, I have tasked you with one of the best soldiers I can spare. You are familiar with Staff Sergeant O'Connor?"

Patrick O'Connor was the one he spoke of; a loud and obnoxious Irishman, who loved to dabble into all the different types of liquor the Mojave had. He was a regular at the casinos and brothels back in New Vegas, where he spent his military pay on anything he could get his hands on, especially women. It was a surprise he was such a highly ranked officer but from what he lacked in disciple and personal choices; he made up ten fold in battle. He had been in many of the battle with the NCR, so many that if it wasn't for his lack of disciple towards others, including superiors, he most likely would of been leading this mission instead of me. Oh how, I wish I could go back to California. "Yes, I know much about him. However with all due respect, though he is exceptionally skilled in battle, I do not expect cooperation on this mission." The colonel laughed to himself, "You'd be correct, but he has no choice but to go. He is waiting at the gym, be fast captain, our boys need it. Dismissed." I thanked him and continued my commute to the makeshift gym we had here at HQ, to find the Irishman. As I entered the gated off area, housing the makeshift weights and exercise machines, the man by the name of Patrick was working on his chest as he was performing the bench press. One hundred and eighty five pounds were held up by the bar that had seen better days, this weight he lowered and raised off his chest, was the bench mark for all soldiers here at the base. If you couldn't lift it, you were automatically scolded, and most likely given a position in a office or a kitchen; both places I much rather be in. "Twenty two........twenty three............twenty four...........twenty........five," Patrick finished his set as he clanged the bar off the rank. When he finished he shot up and stared at me and nodded. "Is it time?" "You're briefed on the mission?" I asked back. "Aye, you're referring to the suicide mission where, two soldiers sneak into Legionary territory in hopes to find the remains of our guys. Yeah, I've been briefed." I felt and understood his hostility in this objective but, I needed to gather myself and be ready, not only physically but mentally. If our boys were still alive, we needed to find them, and find them before the Legion did...