[color=f7941d][b][u]Colonel Denver Abernathy - Fort Golf [/u][/b][/color]


The officer had come to Denver just after dusk. He was a young lieutenant who had been called back from leave in Vegas two days before but had waited before coming to Denver. He said he was scared and that he didn’t know what to do. He apologized and handed Denver the note. It was from the Omertas. They wanted to talk. Denver had dismissed the man and dismissed the idea on the spot. A dialogue with the deviants who controlled the city? A ridiculous notion. If he hadn’t lost a garrison earlier in the week he’d have had the officer lashed for even conversing with them about such a matter. But he needed the man to work and he didn’t want to draw anymore attention to the matter. Strategically it may be beneficial to hear the king of criminals out but tactically, to enter the city with anything less than a company of armed men was suicide. He didn’t have men to spare or time to waste. The Omertas had waited more than eight years to meet with him. They’d have to wait a little longer.    

Denver was exhausted. It had been a grueling four days since the sudden Brotherhood raids and he had barely gotten any sleep. Everyday had been spent in his office with his staff, attending to the growing crisis in the Mojave and attempting to wrestle control of the situation. The normally austere room was now packed full of chairs, radios, stacks of folders, boxes of requisition records and tired officers. There was a light knock at the door before it was opened and a young private stepped in with a tray of cornbread, a pitcher of coffee and a basket of fruit. Denver nodded to her to step forward and she placed the tray on the weathered table in the center of the room. It was dominated by paperclipped files, empty envelopes, pencil shavings and pens. She gently slid these aside to make room and laid the tray where it was easily accessible by all. The other officers paid her little mind but eagerly went after the food and drink. 

Denver stood and stretched as the private found her way out of the office. He was handed a tin cup of coffee by his communications officer and he held it gingerly in his hands as he looked down on the Fort from the east-facing window. The first red rays of dawn had just begun to reflect off the surface of lake Mead as his troops stirred from their barracks and mustered for roll call. It all seemed so calm and orderly from a distance. Every man and woman had a role and knew their place. They understood where they fit in the greater machinery of the military and they trusted in Denver to guide that machine with care and resourcefulness. He had earned that responsibility, the burden of command. He had felt secure in it for years. Even during the famines and the Hunger and the growing spread of the Green across the land. He had kept these soldiers fed, paid and healthy. It had come at a terrible cost to many in the Mojave but Denver refused himself to offer any sympathy to those people. It was the way of the world. His duty was to his battalion, and no one else.  

Through diplomacy and outright brutality Denver had held a tenuous peace across the Mojave. In a single night of orchestrated violence the Brotherhood of Steel had shattered that hard fought peace. He gritted his teeth and swallowed his anger, even exhausted as he was it wore at him to think of all that had been undone. All that could have been avoided had he disobeyed his orders all those years ago. He should have run down the survivors, the knights, the scribes, the elders, even the children. He should have killed them in the shade of Helios One and left them for the scorpions. In the years since he had let himself grow restrained, hampered at every turn by politicians in Shady Sands and the incessant demands of the Mojave people. He had become a wet nurse for a territory of thieves and degenerates and a lapdog for bureaucratic sycophants. He had failed in his duty as an officer of the Republic. Denver had fallen so low as to actually convince himself that the Brotherhood might be willing to cooperate with him to combat the spread of the Green. He had taken a risk and contacted the Followers of the Apocalypse and for more than a month he had fed, and housed one of their doctors as they attempted to bridge the divide with Denver’s captured Brotherhood knight. Dr. Chez had managed to get Knight Maven to speak and they engaged in minor personal banter but still she remained tight lipped about her people. Only offering the concession that they were in the hills Northwest of Helios One, in a place called ‘Hidden Valley’. Denver had scoffed when Dr. Chez reported it to him at the time and he scoffed at the thought now. How gullible he had been, how soft and weak to ever believe the Brotherhood would be capable of helping anyone else but themselves. Time wasted chasing a dream of unity and mutual aid while the Brotherhood plotted against him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

Denver took a slow careful sip of his coffee and puckered his lips at the bitterness. It was a strong batch. Good. He would need it today. He turned away from his regrets and towards his officers. They had made lightwork of the food placed before them and saved just enough for Denver to be polite. They remained in uniform but their shirts were untucked and buckles and laces had been loosened, their eyes were ringed with lack of sleep and they all wore grim expressions of exhaustion and determination. The table between them was a mess of papers and letters, each of them was another problem he had to solve, another choice Denver had to make and another request he had to respond to.

First was the rescue and relief of the NCRCF. It had been a massacre. Out of a garrison of fifty soldiers only fifteen survived, most of them injured. The civilian support staff had likewise suffered greatly at the hands of the Brotherhood, numbering only twenty out of seventy-one. There were conflicting reports of whether some had run or were taken prisoner. What they agreed upon was the mutiny of Lt. Newman and a handful of others against Major Addams and his command staff. They had beaten the senior officer unconscious and threatened his staff into cooperating with the surrender. The only silver lining to be had was that the Brotherhood had locked the mutineers up with the rest when they seized the facility headquarters. Then all that remained was the court martial of Lt. Newman and the other troopers who surrendered the prison to the Brotherhood.

The trial had taken place the night they returned from the ruins of the NCRCF. The survivors had been taken to the infirmary and assessed for injuries. They hadn’t the ability to take the dead back to the fort and instead arranged for them to be taken to Sloan and buried in their cemetery. Those suspected of participating in the mutiny were led to the basement of the resort building and held there while arrangements for a trial were made. As the chief commanding officer in the region Denver had presided over the trial and he knew that an example had to be made of the insubordinate troops to avoid further acts of insurrection among his army. Therefore he ensured it was a short trial and in less than an hour Lt. Newman and the others were found guilty and executed by firing squad. They wrapped the bodies in plastic tarps and buried them in a mass grave with no marker two miles outside Fort Golf. Their personal belongings were divided up among the other survivors and their last salary and notice of prosecution and death was mailed to their next of kin through the Mojave Express the next morning.

Denver had stayed up all that first night going through the personal files of the soldiers killed in the Brotherhood attack. Those with families had their personal effects, salaries and hand written letters of condolence mailed back the next day. Those without any family to contact instead had their squad decide what to do with their things. It had pained Denver to pen those letters and watch his soldiers grieve for one another. Even after a lifetime of soldiering, it never got easier. 

Then came the assessment of the damage done to the Van-Graff regional headquarters at the old Repconn building. Unable to go himself, Denver sent ranger Holmes and his other veterans. When the rangers arrived to conduct an investigation they were blocked by Peter-Gabrial  Van-Graff and his CSF agents. All they could report back to Denver was that the facility was a near-total loss. Extensive structural damage was evident and the entire staff was either wiped out or missing, including Gloria Van-Graff. It had given Denver some smug satisfaction knowing that the Van-Graffs had suffered that night as well. Even if their injuries were parallel to his own. Likewise, the Van-Graff’s were deeply self-concerned and that enabled him to conserve his resources and focus his efforts on the other pressing matters. First they had sorted through their requisition records and found a copy of the prison staff and their assignments. Through a process of elimination they were able to determine which private contractors and support staff had been killed in the fighting. Like his own men, they had been buried at Sloan but without extensive personal files it would take considerably longer for Denver and his staff to track down next of kin. Still, it had to be done and while much of that work was conducted by his junior officers Denver personally involved himself with the scouring of the remaining prison records. 

The records recovered at the NCRCF were in dismal shape, much of it destroyed or seemingly stolen by the Brotherhood. What use they would have for those records Denver couldn’t help but wonder. Yet with what remained Denver had started a list of those prisoners who escaped in the fighting. These names were cross referenced with the bodies, but due to exposure, scavengers and the weapons used by the Brotherhood the corpses were largely unidentifiable. Still, to avoid growing chaos in the region Denver had issued orders to local militias in Primm, Goodsprings, Nipton, Sloan and NoVac to coordinate and assist each other in the detainment and prosecution of any fugitives. The process had only just started but given his history with the territory he doubted the ability and integrity of the towns to comply. Even as he called upon them for aid the people of the Mojave responded to him with lists of grievances and armfuls of requests. He eyed the fresh stack of letters on the table in front of him, took another sip of coffee and sat down. 

The first one was from Mayor Cynthia Myers. Two more missing persons in Primm, teenage siblings by the name of Nash. They were the niece and nephew of the operator of the local branch of the Mojave Express. There had been a series of disappearances in the town the past few months, enough to convince the people there had been foul play. Mayor Myers had asked for Denver’s assistance before, and since she had signed the Articles of Incorporation she was entitled to it. Denver had sent ranger Holmes to investigate the matter after transporting Knight Keyes to the prison, but the Great Khan ambush had derailed that. Now it had been another month and without his intervention two more people were gone. But this letter was more than a call for an investigation, Myers had a suspect and a request. There was a small village of mutants just north-west of Primm called Jacobsville. It was sheltered in the canyons and hills but little more than a collection of junked sheds housing refugees and desperados. Denver first heard of the place from years ago when Jacobstown was abandoned but hadn’t concerned himself with a community of freaks living on the edges of the Mojave. They had seemed content enough to keep to themselves and aside from a passing mention or a disparaging word he hadn’t thought much of them till now. Many of the townsfolk of Primm blamed the disappearances on the mutants and now the mayor formally requested that Denver raid the settlement and find the people or evidence of their abduction. 

In the past Denver would have been more acquiescent to such demands, hell he probably would have been excited at the excuse to gun down a few vagrant mutants. But the Brotherhood attack had consumed his attention and resources. He couldn’t intervene, he hadn’t the time or the human resources to stretch himself out on a wild gecko chase. But he had to do something, or he would violate his own contract with the town. So he would ask Gloriana to send a rough rider or two to investigate and corroborate the town’s suspicions. 

Glorianna. His heart sank at the thought of her name. He shuffled through the letters looking for her name. It was at the bottom. Still dusty and stained with what looked like sweat. Denver just sat and looked at it for a moment. He didn't want to read it. It was never good news and only ever about one subject. The Legion. Every letter only added to the amount of Arizona that had been raided and enslaved. The Legion had been less than a hundred miles away in her last report. He feared how close they could be. He picked up the letter, opened it and read it. When he finished he took a deep breath and spoke. 

“The Legion is less than fifty miles from the Colorado. They’ll be here in three days by Glorianna’s estimate.” 

The room was still. The staff officers looked at each other and then back to Denver. The communications officer spoke first. 

“Should I put the word out to the other garrisons sir?” 

Denver nodded but then held up his hand 

“Don’t tell them how far. Just say they have one day to prepare themselves for immediate deployment. I don’t want the troops to panic.”  

“What about the dam? Should we contact the Van-Graffs?” 

“No.” Denver paused, a bit surprised at his abrupt answer. “No.” he repeated again, more sure of himself. “I’ll communicate to them directly.” 

There was another soft knock at the door, the young private had returned. She saluted Denver and the other officers this time then stepped forward and handed another letter to Denver. 

“From a courier sir, it just came from Vegas. It's from the ambassador.” 

Denver checked the letter and saw the seal of the republic in wax. He broke the seal and read the letter. He was ordered to the embassy for a ‘strategic reassessment meeting’ to combat the growing crisis in the Mojave. The letter was spartan and didn’t offer any elaboration other than the fact these orders came from the president herself and that a senior member of the Van-Graff administration would be there to oversee the conversation. He was expected there no later than noon tomorrow. Denver wanted to chuckle, a dry weak laugh to work against the pain in his chest but it would be unprofessional. He couldn’t warn his staff of an imminent enemy only to laugh at the fact he was being called away. He folded the letter and put it into his chest pocket. 

“Anything of importance Colonel?” Asked his chief of staff. 

“Just a meeting in the embassy.”

“They’ve never asked for you before.” voiced another officer, concern in her voice. 

“The situation has changed. The peace of the Republic is gone and now we must all shoulder the responsibilities of that fallout. Even if it means I must rub elbows with the scum of the Strip.” He smirked and the officers nodded in response, satisfied with his answer.
Even as he assuaged the fears of his comrades Denver knew his future as a commander and a freeman was in jeopardy. He had been so preoccupied with the threats posed by the Brotherhood and the Legion he had neglected the danger of Shady Sands. Public opinion against him had grown with Secretary Tannhausers’ condemnation following his son’s near death. The people Denver once relied on to let him know how the administration felt about his grievances were gone. Denver's eyes and ears in the capital had dried up and he was left wondering how much was the president ignoring and how much was she considering. He was short of allies and he needed any help he could get.

But was he desperate enough to get that aid from the Omertas? The Don was an avatar of every vice Denver abhorred. Could he make a deal with a man like that? It would be a gamble and there were few things Denver hated more than gambling.