Chapter 26 Operation Mole Rat

“Alright, can the chatter, you sound like a bunch of bickering traders.” Paladin Maxwell hadn’t slept, John could tell as she started her briefing. “We are currently on day thirty seven of Operation Mole Rat.” Even she sounded bored of the name, despite choosing it. Over a month of three day missions in the field took any humour right out of it. “You’ll all be pleased to know that after the next seventy two hours, we have a two day pass.” A small cheer went up from the handpicked, five strong unit Sara led. Affectionately known as Maxwell’s Marauders.

The privilege of her rank, mixed with her practical nature, meant she gave her briefings at the workbenches more often than not. Letting her unit perform the hours of required maintenance on weapons and armour.

They worked hand in gauntlet with each other. Years of shorthand and a lifetime of shared experience meant they could speak with glances alone. Styx had fair, blonde hair, Acheron had dark black. One made jokes, the other didn’t. One had a big, loud, personality, the other quiet, reserved, thoughtful.

Crixus, a freed man like John, held second in command. John liked him right away. Sara introduced them on the first day of what she called Hell Week. Tall, broad, younger than he looked. His sad tale outweighed John’s, as did the man himself. Crixus had been a labourer, sold to slavers after a bad harvest. Then promptly sold on and forced to fight others to the death for sport. Like the gladiators in pages of John’s history books. He remained undefeated until a Brotherhood unit led by a young Elder Maxwell, a paladin himself at the time, freed him. Offering him a new life, giving him a new name, one of a slave who became a great warrior, he wore it well. John admired him, terrifying in and out his armour. Yet over a meal, or just a coffee, inviting, easy to talk to, always ready to listen.

“We head to fob November, then on to sector one five one, sorry, one five two.”

“See even you can’t keep it straight boss!” Styx quipped as he helped Acheron lift on the heavy pack containing a stripped down, scoped rifle.

“Can it Styx.” The paladin snapped. She looked tired, they all were, yet her more so. “Look, I know that just about the most exciting thing to happen in the last fortnight was Ronin running from a mole rat...” She trailed off to let her team laugh. John could see the humour in it.

He’d learned what a mole rat was over a week ago. When a two foot long, stumpy legged, pale, angry, creature borrowed out of the soft earth in front of him. Right as he took a shit. He’d bolted from behind a ruined wall, then turned and shot the buck toothed creature dead. Sara had seen the whole thing and laughed so hard she cried, that made his embarrassment worth it.

“Don’t get sloppy, we don’t know what’s out there. Plus there are one thousand of the finest counterfeit caps for whoever gets us to a big metal door.” John saw her look at him, giving him the same look she’d done more often lately. A look that said to hold on, to trust her. Even if he only had a little under three weeks to find what they hadn’t so far. “Any questions? Crix and Ronin suit up, we’re wheels up in fifteen.”

John checked his gear. The rose carved pistol loaded, holstered high on the chest of his grey black under armour. The knife in his boot. Then the light machine gun on his bench, all fine. Next came the armour check. First the backup weapons, he pressed the hidden catch to pop open the compartment on the left leg. Broke down, clipped into the hollowed plate, the assault carbine took up hardly any space. Following that he checked the right leg. Finding the even smaller, whisper quiet, submachine gun squared away. With three mags for each stashed in the opposite plates. John had been drilled endlessly until he could exit the armour and return fire with both weapons during day one of Hell Week. He saw the reasoning behind it, they were effective weapons, finely made, precise.

“Looking good Ronin.” Sara hovered over his shoulder, watching him, making sure he’d learned the lessons she’d taught him.

“Feeling good Tempest.” His standard answer. John thought about how he felt like a new man after a change of clothes, or even a month of basic training. It seemed laughable to him now as he clipped his two handed warhammer to the hip of his T-60 power armour. Both of which he wielded with hard earned knowledge.

“Listen, about the r and r…rest and relaxation.” Sara had gotten better at clarifying her words.

“The two day pass? It’s ok, I’ll just fly left stick for Val, get some mapping done.”

“No, you won’t, that’s an order.” Sara meant it

John’s task when not on operations had been to sit next to Valkyrie, using the Vertibird comm system. Boosted with extra external speakers salvaged from the missile silo. Sending mapping pulses as she went about her duties, moving people here or cargo there. Val complained about the extra speakers, something about excess drag. Until John showed her he could play music through them as well, then she loved it. Using her various music holos to announce her arrival from above.

The first time John connected the wireless four pin to the pre-war aircraft, the unearned knowledge gave him a headache. Filling his mind with instructions, details, words he didn’t know, until he heard Val using them. Then he understood, it taught him the basics of flying. He asked Val to try, and impressed her so much that she taught him to get airborne and land. Two days flying sounded better to him than two days off.

“Your orders are to come with us to Farmborugh, eat fresh food, get drunk, and sleep. Not that you need extra sleep.” John found it surprising just how easy he could sleep for a few hours out in the world, Sara found it maddening. “It’s no Shadowtown, but it’s a lot nearer. Even if those fucking couriers could get word to your friends, you’d only have an hour there before you had to come back.”

“I know, but if I’m—” Sara cut him off.

“You have your orders Ronin, suit up. Who knows after the next three days you might want a weekend off.”

John stepped off the bird as it landed in the centre of the forward operating base. Sara must have been more tired than he thought, she didn’t leave her armour behind often. The Vertibird could seat two in the cockpit, two in the back, and two armoured knights on each door mounted minigun. Meaning if they only had one available, they could only bring two suits.

“Paladin Maxwell, Captain Moore needs to see you, we have a situation.” A young man in dull green spoke to Sara before she’d even retrieved her gear. A suppressed smg, and only one of her lightweight blades. She must have been more tired than John realised.

“Ronin, jump out and follow me.” He’d been like Sara’s shadow the past few weeks, as a good aspirant should be, or so he’d been told. John no longer got shouted at, or ordered to run laps, knight training felt altogether more involved. Sara's expectations went beyond proficient use of his weapons, and it was left to him to meet them.

“Captain Moore.” John stood back as Paladin Maxwell spoke to the officer. An older woman, dark hair tied back, dressed in dull green, stood outside a tent that matched the colour.

“Tempest, we have an overdue unit, missed dawn check in. Then an hour ago a raider surrendered at the gate, says his gang has them, and he’ll tell us where they are for a price.” Moore had a tense efficiency to her, and bloodied knuckles.

“Has he talked yet?”

“No sir, Recon are questioning him now.” John steered clear of Recon, like most did, apart from dropping a few out in the world alone with Val. John didn’t like the thought of dropping them alone, even with their obvious skill. He still remembered the first scout he’d met, and the people with him, lost to the abomination.

“Take us to him.”

John followed into the tent to see two black clad Recon Scouts he didn’t recognise. One male, the other female. Both with the standard issue Recon Mohawk haircut and black fatigues. They stood over a naked, beaten, sickly looking raider tied to a chair. Recent track marks in his arms, laughing manically as one of the scouts broke another one of his fingers.

“You don’t know man, you don’t know, Jones, he’ll kill ‘em man, chew ‘em up and shit ‘em out, he’s crazy man.” He sounded delirious, not from the pain, from the fresh chems in his veins.

“Sir, if I may?” John had an idea, Sara liked it when he had ideas, she nodded for him to approach. “I’d like to see the base medical supplies.” He whispered so the raider wouldn’t hear, he needn’t of bothered, he was barking like a dog to mock John’s show of respect.

“He’s not walking out of here, you know that right?” Moore looked angry that the junior in the tent seemed to want to heal the enemy. Sara knew better, and gave an order with a nod. “Third tent on the right.”

John moved double time to the med tent finding the two things he needed, the two things he’d seen before. He returned to find everyone stood back, waiting on him.

“Hold his head.” The raider struggled pointlessly as the scouts restrained him, half choking him from behind. John popped the yellow cap from the metal tube, shoved it in the raider’s nostril, and squeezed. Everyone stepped away as the pain held back by chems returned all at once. No more mocking, no more laughing, just instant agony. John knelt as he spoke. “I just gave you an opiate blocker, clearing the med-x from your veins. You know what you’re feeling right, that’s reality, welcome back, it’s a real bitch.”

“Fuck you, Jones will fuc—” The raider stopped talking as John held out the second item he collected from the med tent, a med-x injector. The only thing these animals cared about, and the only way to take away all that fresh pain away.

“You can take this, all of it, just answer our questions and you can take it.” Sara stepped forward, touching his shoulder to pull him back.

“Alright, alright, they’re south east of here, old factory, tall chimneys. Please, it hurts so bad.” As the pathetic sadist begged one of the scouts twisted a broken finger to confirm the information. Sara looked to Moore who nodded and the other scout effortlessly broke the raider’s neck with a pop that made John shudder.

“Well, it’s your intel Ronin, how do we use it?” John felt pressure as he thought about his answer. His quick thinking bought him a little respect, yet lives were on the line and his instructor had expectations.

“The factory, do we know where it is?”

“Half a day south east.” Moore answered, her tone impatient.

“Send Recon, with their frames they’ll make that in hours, set up an observation post. We’ll advance on foot, assault with sniper cover, leave birds on standby for evac.” John thought about all the drawing in the dirt, all the scenarios Sara made him run, all paying off now. She repeated the plan to give it as an order.

John watched as the Recon scouts stepped into their R frames. Power armour without the armour. An exposed exoskeleton of dark steel and pistons, strapped tight. Allowing them to jump higher, run faster, walk further with ease. Each scout carried a scoped rifle, polymer body, suppressed. Retractable blades on each forearm, and across their chests, a metal rectangle. The unearned knowledge told him what it was, an anti-personnel mine, armed. Ready to be clacked off in place, ‘front towards enemy’ printed on it.

Recon didn’t wait to be ordered. They weren’t technically under the command of anyone that wasn’t Recon, apart from the elder. They powered up and bounded over the ten foot block wall in two leaps, heading south east.

Moore left to assemble a quick reaction force, something John hadn’t thought of. Then Sara finally cracked, punching him the arm in a way she only did when she felt pleased with his progress. “Welcome back, it’s a real bitch.” She did her impression of him, it wasn’t half bad. “Pretty neat trick, I’ll have to remember that one." Her excitement faded quickly, lives were on the line. "Suit up, time to go to work.”

They moved quickly, aware the people they were going to rescue could be dead already. John and Crixus stuck to the roads, moving fast in the armour. John moved well, Sara’s Hell Week saw to that. Seven punishing days of every drill she could think up. As soon as he mastered one, it became more complicated. Entering the armour under fire. Ejecting and standing ready to shoot. Jumping from height. Getting knocked down more times than he could count, usually at the mechanised hands of the man next to him.

The freed pit fighter could turn his scarred arms to any melee weapon. The first time John met him he handed over the warhammer and saw the truly devastating capabilities of Lady Avalon’s favour.

He taught John to wield it in each combination. Two handed, separated into mace or maul, chains extended or retracted. In and out of power armour. Together they found a style that suited John. Confident side swings, heavy overhand blows, advancing, striking movements. Incorporating the spiked orb, or crowning barb. Working it all out as they fought slowed down fights, that sped up as he progressed. Learning to block and counter, to disarm, to kill.

The lady’s favour granted Crixus twin short swords, unlike his name sake, he didn’t need to carry a shield, he was a shield. At first glance the swords looked straight out of a book. Cast steel with an oversized, spherical pommel to create a finely balanced blade. Hiding a tubular magazine, capable of slam firing shotgun shells at point blank range, triggered by a pommel strike.

After his melee training Sara would take him to the range, not the small one, the one outside the wall. Targets ranging out up to a mile. A purpose built, reinforced walkway that collected the spent casings, ready to be used again.

He learnt to fire the minigun first. Six rotating barrels that sprayed bullets with next to no recoil, the power armour doing all the work. Next came the fifty calibre heavy machine gun, lots of recoil with that. Even in the armour it took real effort to keep on target, and Sara pushed him hard. Keeping him out till gone midnight that first night. She told him why as he left. That there stood a good chance he’d have to fire the bone shaking machine gun over the heads of other knights. And that even power armour didn’t like rounds that big.

Once he could shoot the big guns safely enough he returned to the Kill House. No more pot shots, no more beasting laps, worse. Live fire exercises with the whole unit. He had to qualify on the light machine gun. The brutal seven six two rifle, set to semi-automatic and fired like the pistol with a double tap. Then the black assault carbine that felt ideally suited for the task. And lastly the whisper quiet submachine gun, which after the rest seemed easy. John always went slower than the rest, more so when on point, but safe enough to pass.

Each night he collapsed on his bed, exhausted. Sleeping in the under armour because it felt easier than taking it off, all except for his last night of Hell Week. An hour after being dismissed he was rudely awoken, bundled into a Vertibird and dropped in the middle of nowhere. In the dark, with nothing but his weapon belt.

At first he feared the elder may have broken his word, but Sara whispered to him as she left that it was a test. He had twenty four hours to make it back to the outpost. And she'd bet Grimm a bottle of the good stuff his map screen would still be blank when he got back. John didn’t even think about not returning. First because he had less than a day’s water, second because it would reflect badly on Sara, and third, to stick it to Grimm.

He arrived back in just under nineteen hours. Navigating by the stars and sun, heading south through the wastes. Resting but not sleeping. John found Sara waiting for him in his quarters, mercifully letting him shower and tear through a plate of hot burgers she'd brought him. Before the last test of Hell Week. Seven shots of the good vodka in a row, joined by the Marauders, Elder Maxwell and Grimm. He never saw anyone that happy to lose a bet. John passed out in the comfy chairs around the bar shortly after and slept right through till he awoke at six like always. To be briefed on operation Mole Rat.

John’s training ramped up in the field. They left for three days at a time, sometimes as a unit, sometimes with just Sara. She would pose him hypothetical threats and ask him how to counter them. Never giving him the answer, patiently waiting for him to reach it on his own. John felt he did well, getting quicker at finding the best tactical option for the imagined threats. All the while sending mapping pulses, desperate to see the tell tale sign of a Vault door.

Thanks to a gift from Proctor Reed and his wife the lady. And delivered with far less fanfare than she no doubt would have liked, literally thrown to him in fact. He could operate the pipboy without exiting the armour. A piece of toughened glass from a Vertibird had been precisely embedded in the steel forearm. Chosen to create a magnifying effect when the screen activated. Finely made rods and gearing allowed him to work the buttons, just. And a matching piece on the other arm balanced the weight while making it seem a natural part of the design.

The unit left the road as soon as Styx saw the tall chimneys through his binoculars. Switching to hand signals, tightening up, putting the armour on point, ready to draw any fire. The ground began to rise at a steady gradient, forcing John to slow, shifting his balance. Not unsure, just wary of falling as the red canopy stretched out overhead.

They walked in near silence a while longer until, from nowhere, one of the Recon scouts emerged in front of them. They sat in a clearing, edged with trees, leaving the armour on guard. Hydrating, eating a pre-war pouch. The male scout took each person in turn to the observation post, while the female scout began to draw something in the dirt.

John waited patiently till last, as befit his rank, he didn’t mind. He went last to speak in briefings, yet he almost always spoke. And earned enough respect to be listened to by simply being there. Like the knights who sat at the round table of the mythical good king.

The observation post consisted of some netting, lifted off the ground with wooden stakes. Covered with matching foliage to blend in. They both had to crawl to get in. The scout going first and using his already set up sniper rifle, John borrowing his binoculars. He saw a red brick building, two storey, squat and wide. With a flat steel roof, two tall chimneys at the far end. A row of glass walled rooms above a series of doors.

The female scout had been busy, far from drawing simple outlines in the dirt, she recreated the entire area. Lumps of earth for the rises. Stacked magazines for the factory, torn leaves laid out to represent what John assumed to be a river. It seemed a very useful thing to have, a Vertibird’s eye view of the building to plan their rescue.

“Alright,” The bearded scout crouched and drew his knife to point. “We ran a full circle, we counted fifteen so far. No sign of the hostages, apart from a few combat rifle equipped targets.” John thought being outnumbered more than two to one was a bad sign, for the raiders. “They’ve got positions on the roof, a small group of three outside the south wall, and a patrol that passes every hour or so.”

“Pretty organised for raiders.” Tempest crouched over the modelled map, her practical instincts weighing options.

“The north wall looks weak, no windows, and the river gives some noise cover. We’ve set up positions here, here, and here, good cover, better angles.” He stepped back, getting into his frame. Assisted by his fellow scout, leaving Tempest to think a minute longer.

“Styx, Acheron, take Recon’s rifles and an lmg each, one of you stay here, one of you head to the north op. Crixus, Ronin, suit up, follow the river. On my go, breach the north wall, make a lot of noise. The scouts and I will climb the south wall and clear the offices. Whoever finds the hostages first gets them out, while the other covers them, and op’s cover us all.” She took one last look at the layout and stood, “Questions?”

“You see anything that’s going to bother the armour?” Crixus asked first, as second in command.

“No, but we didn’t really get a good look inside. You bring down a good chunk of that wall though and the north op will have clear lines of sight.” The female scout’s answer seemed to satisfy him, no one else had anything to add.

John had begun his breathing exercises to tamp down his adrenaline. He hadn’t experienced any reactions from the jet black pipboy in almost a month. Yet as he imagined breaching the wall he felt it stir, pinging his nerves, priming them. He’d grown to accept it. Knowing it didn’t always mean an episode of the full on nightmare, dreamlike state, but still weary of triggering it. Tempest snapped his attention back by cocking her weapon. “You have your orders. Good hunting.”

John walked close to the river, following Crixus. Matching his power armoured steps to reduce the noise they made. Most of it covered by the fast flowing water. Sara told him the pressurised suits could allow you to breathe underwater. The thought of water filling the suit frightened him. He couldn’t even swim, the very idea seemed odd at best. So he kept his distance from the bank where he could, thankfully he didn’t have to cross it.

Squelches broke over the radio, one to signal Styx reached his position, two to stop, and three to attack. He’d heard one already, knowing he had cover calmed him as he waited to make the last dash across open ground to the north wall. John readied his warhammer. His breathing the only sound as he tried to stay calm for what felt like an impossibly long wait.

Then it came, three rapid hisses over the comm. He saw the raider leaning on the rooftop railing go down to the side, without a trace of sound, and bolted. Pushing the balls of his feet down on the angled plates, leaning the armour forward, Ronin started bounding across the open concrete. Skidding to a halt as they reached the crumbling brick wall. Crixus walked ahead, stopping just past a narrow crack in the brickwork.

He taped the exact spot John needed to strike, with a deep breath he extended the chain. Swinging the hammerhead round vertically at his side. The armour drove the motion, creating more speed, generating more mass. Forcing the embedded liquid mercury into the head, bringing more speed, even more mass. Until he released the grip in his right hand at the perfect moment. Sending the crowning barb hurtling into the wall. Instantaneously followed by the broad, inertia infused, solid metal top of the hammerhead.

A huge chuck of brickwork flew inwards, disappearing from view. Causing cracks to echo through the old world wall. Each one weakening the structure, shifting a few bricks, then a few more. Until nearly a third of the wall collapsed into a cloud of rubble and dust. Crixus turned, clawing away at the shattered wall. Tearing more down in his wake as he pushed into the factory. John retracted the hammerhead and followed, as quickly as he dared, crushing fallen brick under heavy mechanical feet.

Right in front of him stood a stunned raider, metal chem inhaler in his mouth, dull machete in his sickly hand. John froze, not in panic, in confusion. The short, thin, raider activated the inhaler, spat it out, and charged the towering, steel armour. With nothing but a rusted blade and a scream. John moved the hammer a few inches and the crazed fool ran smack into it. Knocking himself unconscious at least with a cracking, crunching, sound.

The factory building looked little more than a shell. A central raised platform, topped with steel, instantly drew Ronin's attention. All six of the hostages bound on top of it, guarded by two more raiders.

Before the guards could react both scouts jumped from the high walkways. Their frames absorbing the drop and their skill redirecting it back up along the arms. Into the mounted blades that tore upwards through the raiders. Like slicing fruit.

John felt pings along his side. He turned, seeing three shooting at him from cover with Brotherhood combat rifles. They posed no more threat than the rain they sounded like. He strode over, readying the maul and mace.

Bullets pinged off plate armour as he swung the maul at the nearest red eyed face. Caving in a skull that offered little resistance. Then extending the geared fingers to rotate the grip. Using the spike to pierce the chest of the raider next to his instantly dead pack mate. A quick retraction sealing his fate. Witnessing the bloody demise of his cohorts the third raider scrambled to get away. Only to be cut down by a burst of silent gunfire from above as Tempest stalked the gantries. Weapon raised, her stance tight, the sound of spent casings trickling down.

The chaos seemed to subside, John looked around to get his bearings. Something that took training to do in power armour, or at least do well. Recon cleared the hostages through the breached brick wall, in a manner far from rescue like. Crixus stood over the bodies of two raiders, his twin blades slick with blood. Tempest above, still, primed, alert, nothing moved. John readied himself to yell clear through the helmet speakers when to his left a hatch in the central platform burst open with a clang. Ripping away the moment of calm, unleashing the nightmare, dreamlike state throughout John’s entire body.

Time slowed as he saw the raider climb from his hidden position. Four grenades slung across his bare chest, plus one in each hand. Pins pulled, the handles jettisoning, tumbling through the air at an achingly slow speed.

The code inside his eyes scrolled, highlighting the walking bomb in green. Arms extending to toss high explosives at his feet, or worse, at Tempest above. The dotted lines appeared, showing him a path. Whatever understanding the device on his arm and in eyes had, it recognised he didn’t have a gun. That became clear as it suggested charging the suicidal, chem addled lunatic. However it didn’t comprehend he stood clad in armour that actually obeyed the laws of physics.

For the first time the power armour felt like a hindrance. He could move pretty much normally within. Normal being a somewhat relative term in the present moment that lasted longer than a moment should. Yet the armour didn’t move. Hoping, rather than deciding, he did the only thing he could think of. He slammed the armour into full speed. Hearing every gear, every piston, hiss, grind and click as he moved agonisingly slowly. Prizing the left mechanical hand open just enough to release the mace for his grasp as he turned into a fall. The unavoidable result of a sudden burst of speed.

He fell slowly, encased in the steel suit, as the spiked orb hurtled through the air, handle tumbling end over end. John couldn’t do anything except fall and watch. The code began to panic, scrolling at an increasing rate. Unable to calculate trajectories or plot movements. Then it just stopped, vanished from view. Leaving John the sight of a spiked, grey steel mace colliding with skin and ribs, cracking, burying itself into flesh. The inertia transferred into the grenadier, knocking him off his feet. Sending the explosives he’d just armed bouncing on the metal below, and following him down into his hole. Time snapped back as all the grenades detonated. The blast focused straight up, the deadly shrapnel contained. The sound like the centre of a thunderstorm.

“On your feet Ronin.” Crixus hauled him up, leaving the maul where it fell, holding a short sword out for him to take, which he did. They turned back to back, ready for the next threat. “All call signs sound off.” Tempest didn’t sound rattled, that helped John as he drew in rhythmic breaths to help get his bearings.

“Crixus, stood ready.”

“Styx, package secure, nothing broken. Recon inbound.” The hostages were all safe that felt good, yet clouded by a growing numbness.

“Acheron inbound.”

“Ronin, stood ready.” Brotherhood code to confirm combat readiness. John felt ready, despite the sound of flesh splattering down from above.

“Solid copy, top floor clear. Acheron, Styx, take the roof. Crixus take a scout and sweep forward, I’ll sweep back with the other. Ronin cover the package.” Orders given, John strode out of the factory through the entrance he’d made, passing the bounding scouts. He took the light, in name only, machine gun from a grateful Styx as he headed for the roof.

In the cover by the river he found the hostages. Beaten, scared, but aware they were safe, despite still being almost naked. John wanted to speak to them, to calm them. Although he never found the voice amplification of the helmet very calming so he stayed quiet. He just kept scanning the environment for movement with the heads up display. No longer active inside his eyes, just in front. “All clear. Ronin, bring the package in.”