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His hand still aches from Novac.
The fact that it came down to throwing punches doesn’t surprise Boone as much as he thinks it should. He and Manny – well, they never did manage to see eye to eye after Carla came along...
Boone wrenches his mind back from the past and focuses on the job at hand. The ridges overlooking the Dam are perfect vantage points for the NCR snipers – and Boone is an NCR sniper, he will be until the day he dies, buried in a dusty grave somewhere in the Mojave, with his red beret. The problem is, these ridges are also damned obvious spots for NCR snipers and the Legion are not stupid.
Still, Boone has his orders and he’s not about to let those slaving bastards take the Dam and the Strip and the State like they took Arizona, like they took...
The radio crackles as more orders are issued to the snipers and Rangers that prowl the hills. Years of experience are the only reason Boone manages to interpret the staccato sounds coming from the radio as orders: “Legion advancing. Main force pushing through power plants, secondary force crossing Dam’s exterior.”
Boone turns the radio’s volume low and sights his rifle on the eastern reaches of the dam, right hand resting along the trigger, still aching from Novac.
He clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to get the circulation moving, trying to keep it from freezing up. There’s skin missing from his second knuckle – well, Manny had always been hard-headed – and suddenly Boone’s back there, looking down on a sprawled body with disbelief in its eyes. Because that was the point really – suspicion and silence, cold watches and colder changeovers until they simply weren’t friends anymore. But they never threw a punch, never took the step from being simply nothing to being enemies. You don’t turn on your partner because he watches out for you, he has your back. And Boone supposes that was the problem, going back there when he needed, when the NCR needed everyone they could get to hold the dam. Didn’t matter that they weren’t friends anymore, this was about duty.
Spotter and sniper, your partner always has your back.
“No.”
And it breaks, as simple as that. Some questions you just shouldn’t ask – better to keep the illusion than hear the truth. His hands are balled into fists and the man standing in front of him is a stranger. He only needs to punch him once, the man’s not expecting it and once he’s down, beret lying next to him in the dirt, he doesn’t try to get up again.
Silence has always been Boone’s friend and there’s nothing left to say now anyway so he simply turns and leaves, his rifle slung across his back, beret firmly on his head, shades masking his eyes from the world and a man he doesn’t know lying behind him in the dirt of the Mojave.
More crackling hisses from the radio but Boone doesn’t need to know what they’re saying, he can see the dirty maroon of the Legion as they set foot on the concrete of the dam.
Deep slow breaths as he sights through the scope – he doesn’t need a spotter to tell him where the bastards are – his finger sliding over the smooth, worn surface of the trigger. Breathe in – he looks for the senior soldiers, the prime legionaries and spots one – breathe out.
The man’s head explodes in a shower of gore and he drops bonelessly to the ground as Boone searches for another target. There. A Vexillarius, his movements slowed by his standard.
It modestly covers his mangled face once he lies face down on the quickly reddening concrete.
His hand is cramping up, so Boone rolls onto his back and flexes it a few times, ignoring the blinding blue and white infinity of the sky. He could be anywhere...
The Courier is down there, somewhere on the Dam almost certainly fighting back to back with Raul in all of his gun-slinging glory. Boone isn’t concerned, the old ghoul has skill and experience and the Courier has talent and youth on her side. Besides, it’s war and people die. Sometimes they’re your friends, sometimes they’re the innocent and every time, you have to make peace with it. If you let it, the guilt will take you over and one day, it’ll get you killed. Death isn’t a penance. The Courier taught him that.
And Boone thought he’d made his peace with Novac.
Another Prime decanus goes down and then a Veteran after that. Boone crouches low and sets off for another sniping position – the Legion is much closer now and too many shots from the one position could get him killed.
He sets up on a ridge close to the Visitor’s Centre. It’s not the best position, there’s a ridge across the road, perched right above the Centre that has good cover and a near-clear line of sight from one end of the dam to the other but another sniper has already taken the position, his head bare of the red beret – no sniper worth his salt would wear such a highly visible piece of equipment during a daytime engagement. Boone doesn’t begrudge the sniper the spot – it’s the same place he would have chosen.
More Legion fall to Boone’s prowess as a team of black-armoured Rangers make their way quietly around his position, heading for the dam. Boone’s eyes never leave the sights.
Caesar must be struggling now, he thinks – the battle fodder has given way to mostly Prime and Veteran decanii – but their prowess is starting to push back the NCR lines.
The battle has become more vicious and faster, Boone struggles to pick out his targets without compromising the NCR troops. He finds one, then another, then another. He doesn’t notice the detachment of Legion scouts that have splintered away and are making for the hills.
The Rangers have finally hit the side of the Legion’s column and Boone can see they’ve taken out the officers first, leaving their troops in a swirling mass of indecision. It sends a wash of satisfaction through Boone’s body and he helps them out by dropping the last two decanii. It’s only his suspicious mind that interprets that one scuffing sound behind him as a footfall and saves his life. Wrenching himself sideways, the scout’s bullet misses him by inches. Boone is up and already going for his close-range weapon – a 10mm pistol but before his legs are even straight Boone knows he’s dead. There are ten well-armed scouts in his shaded vision. Now it’s just a matter of how many he can manage to drag down to hell along with him.
There’s a pause, a moment as he tightens his grip on his pistol and prepares to go down fighting; as the scouts ready their weapons and turn their cold eyes on him. Then the pause is shattered by a sharp, single shot, then another and another. Two scouts are down and the others are on alert – crouched down and scanning the terrain. Boone takes the opportunity to grab his rifle and redeploy – close combat has never been his strong point. He finds a small ridge twenty feet above the scouts and turns his rifle on his previous position.
But the shots are still ringing out from across the road, above the Visitor’s Centre – one after another, with the occasional pause for a reload – and the scouts are no longer where they were. They’re moving, quickly and low to the ground, too well-covered by the terrain for Boone to get a shot off. The damn sniper keeps on firing but the scouts are moving down now, heading towards the road, towards the sniper’s one blind spot.
“Stop firing” Boone whispers fiercely but the shots keep coming, sharp whizzing thuds that can no longer find their targets.
The scouts are moving faster now and Boone can tell that they’ve calculated the sniper’s location. Swearing, he grabs his rifle and heads after them, sliding down the gullies of the uneven terrain at a dangerous speed. He knows that the sniper won’t get another clear view of the scouts until they’re on top of him. He needs to move and he needs to move now but the shots keep coming, slower now, he’s picking his chances more carefully but it won’t help him.
Boone’s made it to the road but the scouts have disappeared from sight, halfway up the hill. It won’t be long now until –
The cacophony of firing rifles reaches Boone’s ears even here down on the dam, so close to the clashing roar of the battle. Silence and then another shot, this time a pistol. Boone quickly aims at the rocks near the sniper’s position and fires in rapid succession. Scrambling up the rocky slope, he slows as he reaches the sniper’s ridge. He strains to hear anything over the battle but there’s nothing but his own laboured breathing. Rifle up, he slowly slides around the rocky wall and out onto the ridge. The scouts have gone, bar the one that the sniper must have killed and the sniper himself lies on his back by his rifle, a 9mm pistol in his hand. Perhaps the scouts thought he was already dead, perhaps Boone’s wild firing had scared them off. Perhaps, if the sniper had been lying face down, Boone wouldn’t have had to face the certain knowledge that it was Manny lying underneath the searing Mojave sun, his red beret tucked into his worn leather jacket.
There is a dark, ugly bruise under Manny’s left eye and to Boone that seems far more terrible than the red ruin that covers his chest. He’s still breathing – barely – but it’s obvious that the wounds are mortal; his breathing is already beginning to slow down.
Boone shifts forward and Manny’s eyes flicker open, closing softly again when he sees Boone.
Manny grimaces in a grotesque parody of a smile.
“You owe me,” he chokes.
Boone crouches over Manny’s dying form. He and Manny have to end well, they have to finish on good terms, it just can’t end as they left it in Novac. Millions of thoughts and words crash through Boone’s mind: why did you come, what changed your mind, are you here for me, are you here for them?
“You should have let me die,” is all he can think to say.
Manny shakes his head faintly and reaches for Boone’s bruised hand. Manny’s fingers are slippery with blood but his grip is strong, crushing Boone’s hand in his own. Boone thinks it’s the most unbreakable grip he’s ever felt. Manny smiles a brilliant smile, his face wiped clear of pain as his body slowly shuts down.
“No.”
There’s a man he doesn’t know lying behind him in the dirt of the Mojave and Boone’s hand still aches from Novac.