The old military adage was a bitter pill to swallow: No plan survives first contact with the enemy.
It was right.
The plan hadn't just changed; it had evolved into something tectonic. The moment the words "Big MT" and "teleportation" whispered through the ranks, the logic of the treaty dissolved, and apparently, their own logic as well.
Jacob was the "Big Daddy," the iron-jawed patriarch who had seen it all. Amelia was the "Big Mommy," the one who kept their rifles clean and their wounds stitched. When they chose to follow them, even after Jacob explained the absurdity of the whole plan, they still followed.
"If the old man is going to a ghost crater, then I guess we're all becoming ghosts," Vance yelled, his voice echoing as he disappeared into the belly of the M60 Patton tank. The engine turned over with a loud growl.
Corbin, adjusting the straps on his worn riot gear and checking the seal on his gas mask, climbed onto the side of the lead APC. "I'm coming with you, old man. And if it doesn't work? Well, let's just hope the afterlife has better whiskey than the Outpost."
Then there was Markus. The heavy thud-hiss of his power armor servos announced his arrival before he even spoke. He looked like a steel golem in the moonlight, the T-60 visor reflecting the radioactive green glow of Case's Pip-Boy like the eyes of a mechanical predator.
"Let's kick some ass, kid," Markus rumbled, his voice synthesized and deep through the external speakers. He adjusted his grip on a blackened minigun, the barrels cold and hungry for a belt of 5mm.
The camp was a ghost of its former self. Everything that could be packed was jammed into the hulls of their remaining fleet—two heavy transport trucks, the three M60 tanks, and the five APCs.
They had stripped the homestead clean of the essentials: every spare medical kit, every crate of high-velocity ammunition, every tin of canned food, and every last drop of filtered water.
It was a total gamble. Case knew that if his "stupid idea" failed—if the satellite didn't lock on or the Pip-Boy fried—their backup plan was a grim one: a straight, desperate shot to deliver themselves the Mojave Outpost. That had been Amelia's suggestion, a pragmatic contingency that likely ended in a little disciplinary action.
But if this worked? If the blue beam actually took hold? It wouldn't just be an escape. It would be bloody glorious—the last, greatest rodeo of the Desert Rangers, riding off into a sunset made of high-frequency science and defiance.
The moon hung like a pale, watchful eye over the Mojave, its light just enough to silver the edges of the dunes without betraying the convoy's position. Case sat atop the lead APC, the cold metal of his marksman carbine a grounding weight in his hands. He felt the rhythmic vibration of the engine beneath him—a mechanical heart beating in time with his own racing pulse.
Around them, the world was painted in the grainy, high-contrast shades of emerald green. The Rangers, peering through their helmet-integrated night vision, scanned the ridges with predatory focus.
"Quiet," Case whispered into his comms, the words meant more for himself than the others.
"Too quiet," Jacob's voice crackled back from the Patton tank, the veteran's instinct for an ambush bleeding through the static.
"Thank God for that, then," Amelia's voice cut in from the radio, sharp and weary.
The heavy rumble of the engines vibrated through the ghost town of Nipton. They didn't slow down to investigate the grim silhouettes of the town's ruins; the tank and the APCs bypassed the main street entirely, blazing a trail through the outskirts toward the Mojave Drive-In. They moved with the frantic energy of people who knew the clock was ticking.
"Approaching the Drive-In perimeter," Milla announced, her voice tight with anticipation.
The convoy pulled to a halt, the heavy metal cooling with rhythmic ticks in the desert air. They parked beneath the towering, rusted shadow of the satellite projector. The "eye" of the machine looked down on them, an intimidating, alien-looking hologram that felt entirely too advanced for the world it inhabited.
It really gave them the creeps.
Case adjusted the strap of his Marksman Carbine and grabbed a final satchel of ammunition. He disembarked from the APC, his boots hitting the cracked pavement with a dull thud. He walked toward the satellite alone, the blue light of his Pip-Boy dancing in sync with the humming projector.
He stopped and looked back at the faces of his family—Jacob, Amelia, Milla, and the Rangers who had staked their lives on his "stupid idea."
"If it hits 08:00 A.M. and the rest of you haven't been teleported," Case said, his voice level but his eyes searching theirs one last time, "then... well, I'm fucked. And you're on your own."
"The ranger that came into this area never returns…" Milla said. "You sure you want to go first."
"Yes, it's my only chance."
The world turned into a blinding, roaring column of sapphire energy. For a split second, he felt his weight disappear, his molecules stretched across the stars, before the blue beam inhaled him entirely, leaving nothing behind but the smell of ozone and the silent, waiting Rangers.