New Orders, Badlands Arc #4
Tooele County,
UDF Containment Site TC004
Formerly: US Army Deseret Chemical Weapons Depot
12-27-2069
The sun went down slowly over the looming Stansbury Mountains, silhouetting the stately form of Deseret Peak. The 11,031 foot monolith stood as a lone defender of the heart and soul of the Ute Nation against the trackless expanse of the desert wastelands, the last barrier, last castle against the invasion of chaos. The bulk of Deseret Peak and her geological battalion of ridge-lines and summits kept the salt at bay and allowed the Tooele, Jordan and Provo Valleys to flower in peace. It was a sacred duty, one that was often overlooked, despite its strategic importance.
Major Mort Richards felt a certain kind of understanding sympathy with that lone peak, as he watched the sun slide behind her, sipping a cup of Caff in the sanctity of his office. As commanding officer of what remained of the Deseret Chemical Weapons Depot, he knew what it was to be an old warrior given a last line of defense. The Depot had been the repository for almost half of the Old United State’s chemical weapons. The very place from which the poisons used in the internment camps had come from. He stood as a defender of the past, and a protector of the future.
Mort reflected on his long career as a member of the Ute Defense Force. His father had served in the AIM movement so long ago, and while he lacked magical talent, his family was well respected in those who remembered the Struggle. The Struggle, so many people forgot what it was really like. Fewer still knew what it was like in the first place. He set the coffee cup to the side, its comical admonition that he should ‘pet the sweaty stuff’ disregarded. The youth and current administration liked to pontificate and preach about the sanctity of the old ways.
The Old Ways had been alternately to scrape out enough dirt to make it through a winter with minimal death, or to subsist hand-to-mouth waiting for the White-Mans government to deliver that months meager benefits. The Ute People had never been a proud empire, or a raiding warrior people, Mort knew, but don’t let the Ministry hear you say that.
A military man, Mort knew you had to adapt to or adopt the tactics of the opposition if you wished to overcome them in battle, be it political, economic or military. He knew that you could not simply do what you had always done, but louder, to secure victory. He knew the Ute Nation had adapted many of the ways of its enemy. He shook his head sadly, knowing they had been the wrong ways of a bested enemy. The Ute Nation with its policies had become the United States, circa 2010. A place of racist dogma that overcame good sense, only the Ute Nation lacked the economic robustness of the United States.
He chuckled bitterly for a moment, then sipped at his rapidly cooling Caff, a tepid soy blend that looked like brown water and tasted the same. The Amazonian crop this year had been a shortfall, and the Ute Nation was never a great market for such luxury goods anyway. Once, he had been able to get real coffee. You could still get real coffee in Salt Lake City or Las Vegas, if you had a transit permit. His father had objected to the foundational agreements that had made Salt Lake City and Las Vegas, the two greatest engines in the regional economy, in to what amounted to Foreign Nations unbeholden to the Ute Nation as a whole.
It was a sign of respect, they said, thinking in the short term and already segregating the world in to ‘Native Blood’ and ‘Everyone else’. In casting out the Anglo’s from the nation and giving them no say in how the nation would be formed, they found themselves lacking the critical long range economic analysis skills required to really appreciate what that would do to the Ute Nation in the future.
Las Vegas’s tourism may generate hundreds of millions of Nuyen a year in profit for the corporations that administer it… but none of that money makes it back to the Ute Nation, nor did the bounty of the SLC-AZ’s industry and financial sectors. How could it? They operated as sovereign governments by treaty, and you cannot tax a sovereign government.
The founders had ripped the guts out of the viability of the nation in the early days, and everything since then had been a slow decent, slowed, but not halted, only by its sister nations in the NAN. The Ute Nation subsisted mostly off of very meager mineral rights, transit tariffs and NAN Subsidies and the fact that by and large, the nation was empty and required no support.
“Major Richards?” Came the voice of his Aide-de-camp in the doorway. “It’s the Shaman-Minister of Defense on line one.”
That caught Mort somewhat by surprise. The SMD? He quirked an eyebrow, turning to Lieutenant Jacob Sanders. “That’s unexpected.” He groused, moving to pick up the phone.
“I know, Sir. He said it was urgent, and who am I to deny him?” responded Jake with a grin. He been assigned to the DCWD just weeks before, but had already earned Mort’s trust and respect. He was a good, hard working soldier who seemed to appreciate the gravitas of the posting. With all the personnel shuffling at the base recently, it was good to have someone to count on.
Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Mort waved off the Lt. “As you were, Jake.” Then, with some measured amount of trepidation, he took the call.
It was a few hours later when the helicopter swung low over the landing pad. The markings on the chopper were not the familiar roundels of the UDF, the Howling Coyote, a homage to the founder himself, but instead, the Golden Bear and Rising Sun of the Japanese Protectorate of California. The angular lines of the military helicopter, a Mitsuhama Akikaze class heavy transport. Fully capable of moving a platoon of men and able to provide fire-support from twin fifty millimeter door guns, the Akikaze was the backbone of the Imperial Marine Corps airlift capacity.
It was long past dusk and in to the dead of night now, an unusual time for a courtesy tour. Even more unusual was bringing two full fireteams of Imperial Marines and making a combat rappel landing to ‘secure’ the landing pad. But the Shaman-Minister of Defense had told him they were coming. Something about the way they came out of the helicopter brought back Roger Two-Eagle’s, the Ministers, words. ‘You cannot disobey an order that comes from the proper chain of command.’
Raising a hand to ward off the downdraft from the ponderous aircraft, Major Richards looked back to Lt. Sanders. “Make sure the security force is mobilized. I don’t like this. It could get tense.”
Lt. Sanders nodded, snapping a salute and then moving to one of the Ares-made ITV light trucks, leaving Major Richards with his four man security team and the Japanese Visitor.
After the drop-marines ‘secured’ the secure landing pad in the middle of the UDF military base, the chopper touched down on its wheels. The engines moved to idle, the power to the rotors disengaging with an audible shift in tone and pitch. After a moment, the side door slid open to reveal a whip thin, gauntish man of his mid forties. He looked to be Japanese by the cut of his features, but given he was a Japanese Military officer on a Japanese Military transport, that wasn’t so odd.
The man, a Colonel by the rank insignia on his collar, was wrapped in a dark grey trench coat that blew open to reveal the military Katana strapped to his side, the sidearm that matched it, and the curious Jodhpurs style bloused trousers the Japanese favored, a hold over from the colonial era. Nobura Tanaka. Commandant of Internment in the Japanese Protectorate of California.
Now this, if anything, was the devil of the day. It was something Major Richards did not understand. How could the Great Chief willingly work with a people who were doing to others what had been done to them? Internment camps, rumors of forced marches and deaths… it was as the Americans had done to them. A brutal military regime even before the invasion of California.
And yet, here they were, being shown in to the core of one of the UDF’s most secure sites. It grated on Mort, it offended his sense of justice and purpose. Still, the authorization for the visit came from the Sha-min-def and he was to extend every courtesy on behalf of the Great Chief. Mort would never disobey a direct order from a superior officer.
“Welcome to the Tooele Ute Defense Force Depot, Colonel Tanaka!” Called out Major Richards as the Japanese officer stepped off the chopper and on to the tarmac, raising his voice to carry over the whine of the chopper as it spooled down.
Colonel Tanaka regarded Major Richards coolly, the sort of gaze that betrayed that displayed with no uncertain terms, the lack of interest or respect that the Colonel held for those around him. A sort of thousand-yard-stare that had no warmth whatsoever, no real humanity or appreciation for the feelings of others. The jagged scar down the right side of his features did little to help.
“Major Richards.” Came the response, at length, from the Japanese man. “I wish to see…” a pause as he looked over the security detail for the Major. “Bunker A-402.”
A-402. The bunker requested sent a chill down the Major’s spine, not entirely unexpected, but the reality of it left Major stunned. “Respected Colonel. I must regretfully deny your request. That’s a secure area of operations. No visitors are allowed, and only qualified personnel may enter.”
Without pause, the Colonel reached in to his jacket, pulling out a piece of paper. “My authorization, signed by your…” A pause again, a heartbeat… “Government.” The tone of voice used suggested sarcasm, though not direct enough to be called out.
Mort nodded to one of his men, sending him forward to get the supposed order sheet. Within short order, he was reviewing the paper while the Japanese man stood smugly by. ‘By order of the Ministry of Defense, as authorized by Great Chief Michael Iron-Eyes, Colonel Nobura Tanaka of the Japanese Protectorate of California is to be accorded access to Bunker A-402 for purposes of inspection.’
The orders were signed by Roger Two-Eagle and embossed with the proper seals. Offering a nod of acceptance, the Major turned back to Nobura. “If you will follow me, Bunker A-402 is on the far side of the base. It will be a drive of fifteen minutes or so.” He exhaled, watching the breath turn to mist in the dry cold. “We can take my staff car. Your men can remain here with the helicopter.”
Nobura nodded, but gestured to two of the Marines. “They will come as my personal attachment.” The Marines stepped forward with a crispness of movement that spoke of long hours of drill and deadly competency.
There was no good reason to deny the man a personal guard, so Major Richards nodded his acceptance. “They can ride with my own detail. Come. Let us be to the warmth.” He says, gesturing with one hand outstretched.
Two Hours Later.
“You want to do what?” Asked Major Richards, his jaw setting.
“We will remove four canisters for stability testing. It’s very routine. Your nation does not possess the sophistry to properly maintain such -dangerous- materials and the Governor-General has graciously agreed to assist the Ute Nation. ” Stated the Colonel, his demeanor commanding, demanding and not at all accommodating.
“I cannot allow that. The orders I have do not, whatsoever, allow the removal or direct handling of these canisters. It is explicit and I would be in violation of my orders if I were to allow it. For fifty years, we have been -quite- capable of caring for our arsenal.” The Major was adamant, holding his ground. His four man security team was now joined by Lt. Sanders and about half of the ten man base security force.
“Your adherence to orders is commendable.” Stated the Colonel now, holding up another piece of paper. “But I have new orders here, signed by your Great Chief.” The smug smile returned, all the more infuriating for it.
Major Richards took the orders, his eyes holding a furious anger in them, livid with the very idea of removing the weapons. He knew very well what manner of testing this Colonel likely had in mind. ‘By order of the Ministry of Self-Determination, as authorized by Great Chief Michael Iron-Eyes, Colonel Nobura Tanaka of the Japanese Protectorate of California is authorized to remove four canisters of VX 301 Weaponized Chemical Compound and aerosol delivery systems for the purpose of testing and evaluation.’
He had to read them over four times before he finally understood, really, what was going on. He swallowed hard, gesturing to Lt. Sanders. “Escort Colonel Takana back to his aircraft. He will be leaving now.” A gesture then to one of the Sergeants in the base security force. “You and your men, re-secure the bunker. The Gas is going nowhere. We are charged with its defense, and we are not handing it over to anyone without proper orders.”
“But Major.” Countered Nobura. “You have orders there, explicitly stating you are to do as requested.” His tone remained level, composed as though he had expected this rejection.
As the conversation continued, Lt. Sanders held his position, as did the other men, waiting to see what the Major said in response.
“These so-called orders…” This time, the Major dropped the pretense of respect. He snarled the words that followed. “… come from the Ministry of Self Determination. That Ministry, while it may be powerful, is not in my Chain of Command. If the Great Chief wishes to authorize your removal of these Weapons of Mass Destruction from my command, then the Great Chief will have to reissue the orders through proper channels, proper -military- channels. Channels that will undoubtedly labor to change the Great Chief's mind.”
Major Mort Richards, Commander of the Tooele UDF Depot, on which resided the Deseret Chemical Weapons Depot, did not wait for the Colonels retort, simply turning sharply on his heel to walk back to his car. “Lt. Sanders, You have your orders.”
“Indeed I do sir.” Said the fullblood Comanche Lieutenant, so recently transferred to the command. “I’m sorry, Major.” His voice was firm, resolved, perhaps a little on the side of Zealous. "But my orders are different." The report of the two gunshots rang out in the cold morning air, echoing off the sloped sides of the hardened bunker-field that made up the bulk of the depot.
“Jake?” Asked the Major, stumbling back, one hand moving to his chest where blood blossomed from the wound. He looked to Jake, still holding the smoking pistol. "You've… killed… us all." He tried to speak again, but managed only a faint, inarticulate and ragged gasp as he fell to his knees.
Trying his best to shake the truth of the words spoken by the dying Major, Jake exhaled, then turned to the men standing by. He had selected them for this mission based on their loyalty to the Great Chief. The vast majority were Comanche, part of Iron-Eye's own extended tribe. “By order of the Great Chief, I am taking command of this facility. Sergeant, assist Colonel Tanaka with the loading of his payload.” Barked Jacob Sanders, Commander of the Tooele UDF Depot, on which resided the Deseret Chemical Weapons Depot.
Colonel Tanaka nodded simply, while one of his Marines called the Akikaze to relay their position. After a moment, he withdrew a simple black Satellite Phone from his coat pocket. He dialed a number, then spoke in to the phone as several Ute Soldiers carried off Major Richard's body. "Tanaka. White Mesa is a go. Seal the roads and prepare for our arrival."