[b]Operation: Swooping Crane - Phase One - Outskirts of Goldendale[/b]

The field before Goldendale was a roaring sea of metal; a storm of thundering engines looming just outside its ruined edifices. The eye of the vehicular storm was a peculiar sight. There, nestled between dozens of rumbling, Old World metal beasts, and beneath fluttering Yakima standards stood a tarpaulin on three clumsy legs. But this was no command tent. Lieutenant Colonel Caelan J. Hathaway had hoped it would be the opposite -- a place of understanding. He sat under the tarp and in between the growling war-machines with his legs crossed and his greatcoat resting on the backrest of his rusty folding chair. Before him was a metal table, one its legs too short and supported by a piece of concrete. On it were not battle plans, or firearms, but food. Two roasted squirrels, a can of Pork n' Beans, two bottles of water and some whiskey. Not for him, but for his guest.

The mechanized columns had come to a halt outside of the city, the full brunt of their guns made to face Goldendale and its crudely-built fortifications. Each vehicle had its target; this had been decided long ago. The improvised, armored vehicles provided him with some cover, and he could see the opposition from where he sat - traders and farmers armed with the crudest of firearms, some of them armed with little more than clubs. They peered their heads over concrete barriers and crumbled buildings - what was left of Goldendale. They weren't soldiers; Hathaway could see it in their eyes. They were frightened men and women made to stand against impossible odds, by their pride, or their government. And so he arranged a meeting, sending forth unarmed messengers with an offer to the Goldendale leaders to meet in person.

"Sir." one of the men standing nearby called, giving the Lieutenant Colonel a brief salute. "Their leader has agreed to meet with you." he said, "But he demands he be allowed to carry his weapon."

"Let him." Hathaway shrugged. He understood the request. Were he in the man's shoes, he'd have made a similar demand. "Keep [i]your[/i] weapons ready." he said, looking around at some of the soldiers around him. "I would not sit here unarmed, with dinner on the table in place of a .45 if I did not trust you all with my life."

There was brief pause, and some shouting could be heard toward the front of the formation -- their guest was near. "Yes, sir." the soldier with the message said, turning on his heels.

The leader of the Goldendale defenders came marching into the formation from the field between it and the city. He was a tall man with a potbelly and greying muttonchops. His clothes were ragged; ripped and loose. His face was covered in grime and absolute defiance. More troubling was the bolt-action rifle he clutched between his arms as he stomped closer. 

"Git da feck off me!" he shouted, pulling away from soldiers trying to slow him down or restrain him. He looked one from head to toe and erupted into concentrated anger. "Who da feck are ye!?" he demanded to know, pushing the young soldier against one of the armored vehicles. The others were quick to pull him off their comrade but the old man broke free again and kept stomping towards the center, where Hathaway sat patiently. "Are ye NCR!?" he asked furiously, eying the uniforms worn by Hathaway's men. They did, indeed, resemble those worn by the NCR; khaki tunics and breeches reinforced with hardened leather pauldrons and occasionally thin metal breastplates. "Ye comin' ta take wut little we gots!?" he pressed on, wiping the spit from his lips. "Ye comin' ta tax hard workin' folk fer da air they breaf!?"

The man was just a few feet from Hathaway when the soldiers stepped between the two, their weapons drawn as they formed a wall. "Feck you!" the old man shouted over their shoulders, towards Hathaway. "Take yer feckin' ass back ta California!"

"I would love to, sir." Hathaway said with a smile, standing up. It seemed to catch the man off-guard, and put an end to his shouting. "I was born in NCR -- the state. It's a lovely place, if a bit loud. But I'm afraid I wouldn't be welcomed there anymore." that seemed to have intrigued the grizzled farmer. A man who the NCR wouldn't welcome. Hathway stepped closer and offered his hand, which the farmer shook firmly.

"Ye sum kinda deserter?" the old man asked, this time more calm. Hathaway waved the soldiers to ease and they stepped back to allow the man to walk under the tarp. "Wut ye do ta da NCR?" he asked and smiled, his teeth crooked and chipped. It was as though it brought him pleasure to think the NCR had suffered a great deal at the hands of Hathaway and his men.

"I told them they could go to hell." said Hathaway, eliciting another smile from the farmer. It was a lie, of course. The truth was, Hathaway wished he could go back. He loved the NCR and its people, though he recognized its imperfections. He gestured for the man to sit on the other side of the table, noticing how the man could not keep his eyes off the food. "I just wanted to talk." Hathaway explained. "And we can enjoy this meal while we do so. I know you and your men must be hungry."

The man looked just short of licking his lips, but it was as though something had clicked in his head and he suddenly pulled back. "Wait'a goddayum second, boy." he said, looking at Hathaway with narrowed eyes. "Wut if ye poison dis?" he asked rhetorically. "Dis look mighty gud, but dees 'ere squirrels could be goddayum poison squirrels."

Hathaway let out a snicker. "That would be a waste of effort, and a waste of good food." he said, but the man didn't seem convinced. "If I wanted you dead, I'd just have the man behind you plunge his bayonet into your back." he said bluntly. It had been meant as a threat, and a way to establish that the man was on his terms, but the farmer didn't seem to catch the hint and instead dove into the food in front of him upon being reassured it wasn't poisoned.

The mood was much lighter now. They exchanged pleasantries and it was explained that Hathaway and his men were not with the NCR, but with the Yakima Republic. The revelation seemed to upset the farmer but only just, and he kept eating away at the food before him, occasionally taking shots of the whiskey he had poured himself.

"You see, my men and I have been tasked with a mission to head down into California and put a halt to NCR advancement northward." It was only half true, but Hathaway knew the man would like to hear that the NCR would suffer from all this. His voice was soothing, calm. It was meant to comfort the farmer. "It is of utmost importance that the Yakima Republic hold the bridges south of this position. If the NCR gets their hands on them first - and that they will, unless we act now - there will nothing to stop them from absorbing the territory in its entirety." he explained.

The man nodded between bites and sips.

"Holding Goldendale means holding the bridge further south. Holding the bridges puts a muzzle on NCR operations into the north and puts us in a position to take the offensive. What I am asking is that you and your men lay down your arms and surrender the town to the Yakima Republic, so that we may avoid bloodshed in the interest of regiona-"

"Why da feck would I do dat?" the farmer cut in. "We ain't droppin' no dayum guns. Dat town be our livelihood."

Hathaway took a deep breath, pausing for a moment. The conversation had suddenly grown tense. "I can promise you and your men will not be treated as combatants if you surrender Goldendale willingly. You will not be treated as prisoners and you will be allowed t-"

"I ain't givin' up no dayum town, boy."

The Lieutenant Colonel stared him down. "You don't have a goddamn choice; that man with the bayonet is still behind you." the soldier pressed his bayonet against the farmer's back and kicked the bolt-action rifle aside. 

"Ye sumbitch."

"There is nothing you can say, or do, that will stop me from taking the city today. But I [i]am[/i] offering you and your men an easy way out. On my terms, not yours. You can lay down your arms, live and be accommodated within the Yakima Republic, where you will prosper and grow as a community, or you can refuse, and watch your people die because you were too stubborn."

The man looked defeated, but didn't budge.

"Those men and women don't want to fight. I can see it -- [i]you[/i] can see it. They're not soldiers." Hathaway said. "They can live, or they can die. It is up to you. Do you want their blood on your hands?"

The man said nothing.

"I'm going to give you three seconds to make your decision -- to decide their fate. Surrender, and they live. They go on to prosper under Yakima rule. Refuse, and I'll give the signal for every one of these goddamn guns to open up and obliterate the city. But I swear, if you make me do that, I will kill you with my own hands."

"Three."

"Two."

"One."

Hathaway stood up and raised his hand to signal the artillery.

"I surrender!" the farmer screamed.

[b]Outcome:[/b]
[hider=Outcome]
Goldendale falls under Yakima control without bloodshed. Its citizens, and defenders, are assimilated into the Yakima Republic. ('Off-screen') Hathaway's forces continued south unopposed, capturing a bridge directly south of Goldendale after a brief firefight. Afterward, they began to move westward toward the second bridge and airport, where they expect to encounter heavy resistance.[/hider]