15 Best Small Towns to Visit in Nevada - The Crazy Tourist

Indonesia might have seized its independence from its Dutch colonizers in 1949, but that didn’t put an end to external involvement on the islands. The West proved a less menacing ally than Mao’s China in those early years, so President Sukarno was willing to turn a blind eye now and then when a European or American firm wished to develop mining or timber operations on its islands. As long as a native -or a Javanese, more like- seemed to be running things, the fiercely protectionist economic policy of the new government would seem totally intact.
I came to the island of Borneo in late January of 1967 alongside a group of four prospective silver miners from Nevada, who wished to expand upon the rudimentary operations of the locals. We were kept hushed up about our purpose on the island, and it was an added selling point for our employers that not one of us spoke Indonesian- or any of the myriad other local languages, for that matter. Our overseer, a sturdy Jakarta man with the air of governmental importance, didn’t even give us his name. As I understand it, he introduced the handful of us to locals as advisors, and ensured the few villages we passed while boating into the interior didn’t get a chance to mingle with us.
The ride inland was defined by buzzing, gnawing insects and a heat so dense with moisture it seemed to catch in your throat like snot. It was a heat that somehow made the arid scorch of the desert back home seem tame, and left me feeling nauseous for the first few days of the expedition. The murky swamps along the coast gave way to rough water as we followed the river into the mountains, and we seemed to spend as much time portaging the boats around rapids as motoring steadily upstream. The muddy banks were uncomfortably thin, close to both the tepid brown water and the impenetrably thick mire of leaves, vines, and gnarled roots that carpeted the jungle. The others didn’t seem as worried as I was, but I couldn’t help but notice the Javanese porters amongst us hurried us on whenever we carried the boats along the shore, always conscious of the time spent mired in the muck and trapped in the open. The miners chattered about the job ahead to distract from the monotony of the sweat-stained trip into the jungle, but I wasn’t here for the silver, and their talk of drills and transport was a foreign language to me.
I’d been hired on as insurance against the tigers which roamed the island, and I kept my rifle close at hand throughout the trip- leaving it cradled beneath my arm when we moored in shallow riverside pools to sleep in the boats at night. No crocodiles troubled us in the lower swamps, but they tended to steer clear of motorboats, and the higher stretches of the river were guarded by rapids that kept them out. It was the cats in the trees that concerned me. Each flash of some flowered plant or tropical bird in the foliage had me gripping my gun until my eyes could process what had broken the tangle of tenebrous greens that pressed greedily in all ‘round us. These bursts of color never spat forth a tiger, but if anything, the lack of a focus for my nerves only heightened them.
The crocodiles, at least, had sunned on banks or lazily watched on from the shallows, their glinting eyes belaying a hunger they weren’t bold enough to fulfil. If there were similar glinting eyes on the landward side, slinking through the trees, not one of us spotted them. Their lurking owners might simply not be there, for the Borneo tigers were a dwindling breed even then. But, with each droning mile down the lonely, mosquito-haunted river, my own imagination left me certain there were more than jabbering monkeys behind the green shroud throttling the banks.
Our isolation didn’t help, for the bustling stilt-villages that had lined the shore closer to sea had all but disappeared, and our Javanese overseer knew little about the region through which we traveled save its name. Indeed, he and his fellows from Indonesia’s most vital island seemed almost disgusted by the locals, fretting about thieves, savages and brigands in the slums in which we occasionally docked for food. Still, for all their worry, I slept easier within earshot of the indecipherable Bornean villagers chattering and gambling their nights away than I’d ever sleep bobbing on the riverside scanning the jungle for massive slitted pupils.
A week brought us at last to the beginnings of the river, where many tiny mountain streams pooled to feed its long descent to the Java Sea. We continued on foot, tracing meandering paths uphill through the mountains. If I’d thought the press of the jungle upon the riverbank was suffocating, the little pathway through its bowels was another thing altogether- leaving us to putz single-file with me at our rear, my eyes scanning the trail behind me as often as the mountainous climes in front. Once again, my paranoia proved vain, and we reached the mouth of the silver mine just before dusk- my heart leaping at the prospect of sleeping within the sturdy little cabins the locals had cobbled together for us.
The crag in the jungle-choked mountains was small, and my companions immediately set about making plans on just how they’d get components for largescale machinery upriver for assembly near the rudimentary little silver mine. Now that they had their eyes on the place, the Javanese workmen showed them around at the behest of our overseer, leaving me to settle in and enjoy a modest meal of rice and smoked fish. The evening played out well, and after a few hours swapping stories over a low fire between the cabins, I enjoyed the first real sleep I’d had in days. The rigid wood floor beneath me did nothing to dull how rejuvenated I felt by the time the sun rose and the camp began to bustle- refreshed enough to begin feeling more at home within my alien environment, if only just a little.
When the overseer dispatched a couple of the Javanese men back to the river to fetch what was needed for the mining equipment from the towns downstream, I went along with them to the boats with rifle in hand, ensuring no tigers slunk out form the trees. My lonely walk back was tense, but I was beginning to feel at ease with the din of the jungle, and the proximity of the trees weighed less heavily on me. At home in boreal forests or New World deserts, I’d initially been drowned in the sensations of the raucous tropics, but now I began to find methods in their madness. The birds and cackling apes had rhythms and schedules to their calls, and the buzzing of insects faded to white noise once one got used to their constant drone. The jostling of branches by small animals in the underbrush ceased to make me jump, and the calls of strange frogs and crickets ceased to be strange. By the time dusk came on our second day at the mining camp, I’d begun to actually enjoy the claustrophobic beauty of the drooping leaves and interwoven vines, and I drifted off satisfied that the months ahead wouldn’t be agonizing for me after all.
This isn’t to say I let my guard down. I kept an ear out for lulls in the clamor of the forest, and kept my eyes trained on breaks in the leaves where a threat might dwell. During the second week, as more parts brought upriver for expanding the mine made it ashore, I picked out a yellow viper half-masked amongst the tree limbs overhanging the path toward our camp. The path to the riverbank became second nature to me, as did the perimeter of the clearing on the mountainside where our mine broke the moss-eaten stone. When the first month came to a close, and my companions had gotten a sizable drilling machine built to carve their way deeper into the hills, I was feeling right at home.
That comfortable security was not to last.
We’d enjoyed a comfortable relationship thus far with a small village to the west of our encampment, who sent a few armed porters each week to deliver fruit, bushmeat, and eggs. They were generally in and out, very business oriented- but always punctual. When they missed their delivery at the beginning of the fifth week, we assumed they’d been held up by a storm which had shaken the jungle the night prior. We waited, but two more days passed without word from the village, and our sparse reserves of meat began to run dry. It was only when a group returned from fetching gasoline and rice downriver that we learned the village had radioed local forestry personnel to complain of several missing residents walking the path toward our camp- presumably, the distress call had speculated, victims of a tiger.
We mulled it over, and finally our overseer let me send a message back downriver to transmit to the village. I asked for more information, and upon the boatman’s return, he told me the villagers had possessed only two serviceable rifles, and both had been lost with the missing trio of porters. The villagers had probed the trail with bows and spears, but found that a mudslide had shorn away the precarious mountainside trail during the almost omnipresent seasonal rains- forcing any who wished to walk the route between our encampment and the village to do so in the green tangle of the valley floor below.
Any area of inner Borneo which was not a sheer rockface or a pre-cleared pathway seemed an emerald prison of constricting growth to my eyes. It was no wonder a search party with bows had turned back rather than risk encountering a dangerous animal in the trees, where it might lurk within arm’s reach without betraying a single clue as to its hungering presence. Whether it were a python or a big cat, the prospect of suddenly being face to face with a predator in the leafy prison all ‘round us was no small thing, and it made my stomach lurch to hear they’d requested we walk up the trail to meet them and help in the search for the missing men. I could hardly decline, however- the forestry service on Borneo might as well have been a cartel in those days, and it wasn’t likely aid would come from anywhere else for a long while.
Four days after our missed shipment, I set out up the winding trail along the mountainside that snaked away from camp. With me came two Javanese workmen armed with their own old rifles- holdovers from the revolution, they’d eagerly told me. While they weren’t locals, they were better acclimated to the jungle than I, and knowing they’d put their weapons to good use before put me at ease. We could communicate very little, for my own handful of Indonesian words was matched by their equally sparse English vocabulary. Still, we read expressions and gestures well enough, and spent the first few hours on the steep pathway around the mountains drinking in the scenery.
The landscape was beautiful from the heights, for there were stretches of the switchback trail that climbed along stony slopes separated from the trees below, allowing me to look out across the waves of rolling, green-girdled hills and valleys. Save for occasional outcrops of sturdy ferns and woven scrub on the mountainside, there was very sparse cover for the imagination to project lurking predators into, leaving our eyes free to wander. The humidity lessened out here in the open, and the sky was clear and void of coming rain. The ascent seemed to have left the gnawing insects behind and, for the first time, I could enjoy Borneo without the observant leer of ominous trees glaring down upon me from all sides. It was a while after noon when we came across the massive mudslide- barring our path and dispelling the joyous freedom we’d felt trapsing the cliff face above the tree line.
The wooded heights of the mountain up above us had been swept down the slopes in the storm, and a half-dry morass of muck pincushioned with dead trees and jagged rocks ran the full two or three hundred yards downhill into the waiting canopy of the valley beneath us. It was as if the mud had laid siege to the stony cliff only to be devoured by the waiting jungle, which lay calm and placid below- its bustle of sounds lost on us where we stood far above the canopy.
We resolved to wait a while, to see if the group from the village which had aimed to meet us would show up soon. They’d had a shorter hike out, but we reasoned they might’ve been distracted or delayed and been unable to radio a warning given how disconnected our camp was.
The leavings of the mudslide were perhaps two hundred feet across. While it looked like it would be dangerous to attempt to scale across it without sliding down into the jungle below through the jagged graveyard of roots and upturned trunks, we could see where the path continued beyond the sprawl. We kept watch for them, but with the afternoon slipping onward into evening, the three of us grew more and more certain something was wrong.
My two companions talked among themselves, most of their words lost on me through the language barrier. They seemed agitated, arguing over something- frequently pointing across the treacherous mudbank to the farther pathway or gesturing down into the jungle below. Then, one prompted me to weigh in with broken English, asking me whether I thought the villagers had already descended the mudbank to try and find a way back up on the other side. I found it hard to believe a group of searchers so wary of the predator-prone trees in the valley would risk the slippery mire of refuse without having seen us- after all, the whole point of us meeting them out here was to hearten them for the search.
It was only when we sat exhausted an hour and a half before sunset, still at a loss for explanations and debating the best course of action, that one was decided upon for us. Up from the jungle, muffled behind the intervening carpet of greenery, a long, low wail sounded- hopeless as the cry of a hurt child, run through with gasps and stutters as if the screamer were sobbing. The three of us were at once keyed in on the forest at the foot of the mudbank, its verdant shadows already lengthening in the evening’s dying light. I had almost asked a question about descending the slope aloud when slurred words rang out, punctuating the end of the wailing, broken by the same desperate gasping that had scored the awful scream.
The two Javanese men spoke little of the myriad local languages of Borneo, but they recognized enough to tell me the garbled words had been a plea for help- help from God, as they heard it. At once we were clambering down the treacherous mudbank, half-sliding and half-crawling, catching gnarled roots and torn sticks as handbrakes all the while. We had little idea of how we might escape the valley, for the muddy slope was so steep and so slick that climbing up it again seemed impossible, but the horrible agony in the cry swept away any thoughts of hesitation we might’ve held. By the time we tumbled past the canopy into the depths of the forest with rifles held ready, the trees had fallen silent again.
Indeed, the area we entered was remarkably quiet- a hush that went far deeper than the end of the pained screams which had drawn us down from the mountain path. The birds seemed gone from this part of the jungle, and the clatter of monkeys or snakes in the trees had fallen away. The only remnant of the familiar jungle panoply which had served as a backdrop to our camp was the not-so-fond buzzing of mosquitoes and flies, more resonant now than ever before. It took us some time to realize this, for the canopy made the noise of our clumsy descent to the valley floor into a cacophony. Once one of my companions mentioned it, though, none of us could shake how strange the place felt.
The jungle around us was more swamp than solid ground. The trees here were broad but relatively sparse, and their trunks were surrounded by a murky soup of tepid water only occasionally broken by muddy islands and twisted root pathways between the bloated trunks. This part of the valley seemed a sort of drainage dump for the surrounding mountains, and it carried the sickly, paradoxically sugary scent of rotten plant matter and fungal growth. My fear of tigers fast abated, for they wouldn’t thrive in a place like this. Still, the repulsiveness of our new surroundings seemed to wash away my memory of those awful screams. The place made me wish I’d stayed put on the mountain.
It took the group of us a moment to begin picking our way through the gloom. Partly this was due to our repulsion, but even once we’d gotten underway, the stygian mire made progress slow. My companions called out in Indonesian, their words echoing out over the swamp as we skirted along stagnant pools and tested caked mud with fallen limbs to ensure it was safe to tread on. We kept an eye out for snakes, though the roots and mud in the shadowy water made certainty difficult. We were far more worried about poisonous vipers than the pythons we knew must lurk in the depths- the latter could be hacked to death with machetes before their work was done, whereas a single bite from the former would spell death for any one of us. The water seemed as vacant as the land, though, and as the minutes ticked by, our apprehension grew, with each failed call into the bent and mangled trees still going unanswered.
It took nearly ten minutes for the call to come again. The scream rang out just as we were beginning to consider retreat, reverberating out over the water from deeper in the swamp. It was deafening, amplified by the leafy roof above, and from here it sounded even more ragged. It was punctuated by those same halting, juddering rasps, which we’d taken to be sobs before. From the ground, I wasn’t so sure- they sounded more like air escaping burst tires than shuddering breaths taken amidst the scream. The vocalization culminated in another call for help, and it struck me the words sounded strange- their droning cadence seeming almost mechanical, void of the moisture of living lungs.
We stayed frozen in place until they’d ceased, their last echoes playing out into the distance through the trees and sending a distant cloud of bats skyward through the leaves. They were hard sounds to listen to, made all the more awful by the growing shadows all around us, deepened by the coming of dusk. It was easy to dream up all manner of things which could slink and sneak through those shadows as we summoned up the courage to advance and call out for the injured screamer, but we didn’t have to imagine for long.
Scaling a steep mud bank, we came through a hedge of thickly woven vines to see yet another stagnant pool, this one far deeper and wider than most of the others in the swamp. Its surface was split here and there by long, spindly things, we saw- dead trees or roots which plunged up from the muck to tower ten or twelve feet overhead. One of my companions called out once more, and his words seemed to stir up movement near the center of the pool. Ripples slunk their way across the brown liquid from the bases of the spindly plants nearest the center, drawing our eyes to them- and the things which hung atop them.
It took us only a moment to pick out the corpses through the gloom. The swarming flies and heightened stink helped us determine what it was we saw, but they were mangled beyond belief. Three men had been run through upon the spindly ‘trees,’ spiny tips protruding from their mouths- impaled like the Turks during their marches into Wallachia. Their bodies were bloated, their flesh sloughed off like hot wax, and their sodden limbs hung loose at their sides.
They shuddered again, but we saw it was not the corpses themselves who moved- rather, it was the tree-like spines on which they’d been skewered. The botanical-looking forest of branches all retracted at once back down towards the water, sinking a few feet into the murk. When they did so, the screaming began again, washing over us with a renewed vigor, its volume so intense it set my head throbbing as if I’d been physically stricken.
I’ve had far too many years to ruminate on what was happening. Those protrusions from the mud raked the interior of each corpse’s throat as they withdrew, I think. Though I can’t be certain, I imagine their rough surfaces displaced air and lacerated long-dead vocal chords in such a way that the dead were played like string instruments. They sounded a long, dismal note before surging back up to their full height once more. Not one of us could deny that we’d seen them all move, whether they bore one of the corpses or not. The whole forest of them shivered and twitched, writhed in the air with movements so slight they might have been jostled branches- like the hairy, many-jointed legs of an insect, I’d later decide.
Though it took our minds several moments to process what we’d seen, we scattered when one of the stiff limbs nearest the shore lazily bent toward us. We scrambled back over the lip of the slope the way we’d come, and I swear to this day I saw a great shape stir beneath the water as we went, darkening the opaque stew in which it brooded beneath its prey.
Reaching camp by following the base of the mountains was reasonably easy, even in the dark. It was made all the easier by the fact that tigers and snakes seemed a trifling worry to the three of us after what we’d seen in the swamp. What followed our return was confusing, for us foreigners were let in on little of what was said. The village was radioed after a hasty trip downriver, and it was agreed that the mountain pathway would be cleared- and no more searchers would be sent down into the swamp after their missing clansmen.
I talked little with the men who’d shared my experience with me. They abandoned the expedition the following week, and I was too shaken to think to consult them until after they’d gone. I didn’t last another month, for the overseer seemed to have grown wary of me- perhaps doubting my mind was holding up under the strain of the environment, or perhaps wanting to keep me from talking about what we’d seen in the swamp. A new hired gun was brought up from southern Borneo, and I was dispatched downriver to return home.
I didn’t exactly mind. The farther I was from the jungle, the better. The discharge doomed me to wonder, though- to replay in my mind again and again the events of that balmy evening in Borneo, without a way to ask locals what light they might shed on the subject. I’ve never been able to dig up anything similar to what we saw in anthropological records of folklore or local legendry, either, despite my snooping around.
I’ve reasoned it couldn’t have been something the Bornean people knew about. They wouldn’t have assumed a tiger was responsible if such travesties as what we saw regularly dwelt in the lowland swamp. That leaves me to think it was a massive sort of crustacean or insect from beneath the soil, something dredged up from the mountain’s innards during the mudslide that just happened to come to rest in the swamp, where we had the misfortune to see it.
Was it knowingly baiting us in? If so, why did it seem so languid and slow? If it was ‘full’ and simply uninterested in taking us, why make the screams at all? What was it?
I’m caught between desiring answers, and wishing I could forget the questions entirely. Whatever it was, I only hope its new home proved inhospitable. I pray it withered and died outside of the earth where it brooded in the swamp- a horrible fish removed from the water for which it had evolved.
That does little to calm my nerves about what might yet lurk beneath the mountains on Borneo. I’m old enough now that I don’t have long left to wonder, which is a small mercy. If fate is kind, I’ll never know if there’s more of them.

So, I live in a mining town in Northeastern Nevada. We have several Casinos, and a small airline to bring in tourists into town play the slots, and free casino shuttles (important later) to drive customers around town. We also get a lot of contractors, drillers, tramp miners, and such that will stay at the Casinos and enjoy the night life.
This happened to my mother-in-law about 16 years ago right before my wife and I met.
My in-laws had 9 kids, they didn't own a tv or something. My wife is the second oldest, and her youngest sister was about 2 when this happened.
My father-in-law would take his paycheck down to one of the casinos to cash it on payday. Not because he gambled or drank, but for the coupon for the buffet. After all, they had 9 kids.
So one payday, they loaded up the kids in the 15 passenger van (you're probably guessing where this is going) and my mother-in-law drove my father-in-law down to the casino to cash his pay check.
She pulled up, under the awning at the front door and dropped him off. She stayed parked under the awning in the shade with the kids, like 7 of the 9. She was just reading a book while she waited, not really paying attention.
All of a sudden, not one, but both the passenger door and side sliding door opened and a group of men with drinks and cigarettes in hand started climbing in.
The guy who jumped in the passenger seat started giving her directions on where they wanted to go, while the guys climbing in the back seats just froze.
As they were climbing into the side door, they came face to face with two little girls in toddler seats, and five other little cherubs looking over the seats at them.
My mother-in-law was just sitting there with a shocked look on her face, as the guy in the passenger seat was still cussing up a storm and still hadn't realized what was going on.
I don't know if it was my mother-in-laws shocked and confused look, or not hearing his friends laughing in the back seat, but he realized something was up.
He slowly turning around to see a whole gaggle of confused, and slightly scared kids.
His gaze, turned back to my mother-in-law, "This isn't the Casino Shuttle, is it?" He asked
"Nope" she replied, "it's not!"
All of the men were very apologetic, and really felt bad. They weren't "bad" men, and they didn't throw a fit. All in all, it was a pretty happy ending, aside from a little scare to the kiddos. But they all still laugh about it to this day.
Moral of the story; If you drive a big white van, don't sit parked with the engine running outside of the front door of a casino.

Even if the Legion were to win the Second Battle of Hoover Dam and conquer the Mojave Wasteland, they'd merely be buying themselves a little extra time and simply stall their inevitable demise. Note that the following analysis assumes that the Legion won the Second Battle of Hoover Dam and that the Courier died in Goodsprings.
To start off this analysis, let's begin with a run-down of the respective weapons, equipment and gear of the respective ranks of the NCR and the Legion going into the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. Beginning with the NCR garrison at Hoover Dam. The NCR Trooper comprises the core of the Republic's colossal armies and is the prime component of the NCR Army. A superb combination of volunteers and conscripts whose degrees of training, motivation, combat experience and access to equipment vary across the ranks, they're some of the most disciplined, most professional soldiers in all of the Wastes.
They're outfitted with modern military-grade ballistic vests that offer excellent protection against small arms fire, shrapnel and melee weapons alongside steel helmets. The NCR Army battalion that's stationed at Hoover Dam in particular is fully comprised of battle-hardened, fully-trained volunteer veteran NCR Troopers that are armed with 5.56 × .45mm NATO Marksman Carbines, 5mm Assault Rifles, 12-gauge Riot Shotguns and .308 Sniper Rifles to supplement their standard-issued 5.56 × .45mm NATO Service Rifles.
The NCR Patrol Ranger is one of the finest, most elite warriors in both the NCR military and the Wastelands, overall. Having survived a brutal training regimen that's so ludicrously difficult that 8-out-of-10 aspiring recruits wash-out, these purely volunteer harbingers of death have little to no equals in terms of skill, fighting prowess and strength.
They're outfitted with a suit of hand-made First-Generation Combat sporting a knife sheath, a hydration pouch and spiked spurs for unarmed combat that is impervious to any and all small arms fire, shrapnel and melee attacks. They're armed with 5.56 × .45mm NATO Marksman Carbines, .308 Sniper Rifles and .44 Magnum Trail Carbines.
The NCR Heavy Trooper is not only the elite heavy shock infantry of the NCR Army, but is also the proverbial sledgehammer through which the Republic may crush its enemies and obliterate all that may threaten its values.
Having earned their distinctive armor through immense sacrifice in blood, sweat and most of their young lives, they're the absolute best-trained, best-equipped, most battle-hardened, most professional, most skilled, most fanatically-devoted warriors in the whole of the NCR Armed Forces (rivaled only by the legendary NCR Veteran Rangers). Warriors that are more than willing to fight to their absolute last breath in defense of the Republic and all that it represents.
They're outfitted with NCR Salvaged Power Armor, suits of T-45d Power Armor that were captured from the Brotherhood of Steel during the Brotherhood War that have had their joint servomotors removed and their back-mounted power cylinders replaced with custom-built energy modules and built-in air-conditioning units so that Power Armor Training wouldn't be needed to wear them.
And while they're no longer legitimate suits of Power Armor in that they're no longer powered, they're still some of the absolute best and most protective suits of armor within the Republic's entire mammoth arsenal. Completely invulnerable to all but the most powerful conventional firearms, highly-advanced energy weapons, specialized ammunition and high-powered explosives, they can truly absorb Hellish amounts of punishment. They're armed with 5.56 × .45mm NATO Light Machine Guns, 5mm Miniguns, Heavy Incinerators, Flamers and Missile Launchers (albeit rarely).
The NCR Veteran Ranger is a living, breathing legend walking amongst the ruins and ashes of the Old World, drawing inspiration and hope from soldiers and citizens of the Republic as well as fear and terror from enemies and all those who dare to oppose the NCR.
Fabled for their unmatched fighting prowess, envied for their flawlessly unequalled marksmanship technique, feared for their unrivaled warfighting skills, awe-inspiring for their unsurpassed pugilist talent and legendary for their innate mastery over hardcore survivalist skills, the NCR Veteran Rangers are the absolute finest, best-trained, most battle-hardened, most professional, most skilled, most-elite and all-around most bad-ass warriors in not only the entire history of the Republic military, but also the whole of the Western Wastes, as well.
Centurions and Praetorian Guards of Caesar's Legion, Knights and Paladins of the Brotherhood of Steel and even the Republic's very own NCR Heavy Troopers have learned to shudder in terror and fear at the mere mention of the mythical phenoms of the Wastelands that are the NCR Veteran Rangers
These fabled guardian angels of the Republic are outfitted with the equally legendary Black Armor, a hyper-advanced suit of Third-Generation Combat Armor consisting of a highly-flexible vest of incredibly-rigid high-impact armored plating with adjustable straps on both the sides and the shoulders and a built-in throat protector that's mounted on the vest.
Combined with the state-of-the-art rounded-shell ballistic helmet sporting built-in lamps and infrared/visible light projectors as well as the complimentary highly-sophisticated armored mask with built-in low-light optics, an incorporated locking mechanism that joins the mask itself with the helmet shell, ear covers with built-in membranes that confer additional protection without inhibiting the wearer's hearing and built-in air filters, the mythical Black Armor is well-deserving of its stellar reputation.
As you can see, the NCR's forces are extremely heavily-armed, well-equipped and armed to the teeth with the absolute latest in top-of-the-line, high-powered firearms and state-of-the-art, highly-sophisticated energy weapons as well as superbly well-protected with an abundance of different varieties of military-grade body armors with varying degrees of effectiveness and even Salvaged Power Armor.
Now it's time for an evaluation of the Legion's weapons and technology. The Recruit Legionary is the primary foot soldier of Caesar's army and comprises the vast majority of the Legion's ranks. Trained and conditioned from before they could walk to become the perfect warriors, Recruit Legionaries are incredibly well-conditioned and in phenomenal physical shape, owing to a savagely intense training regimen that even the NCR Rangers would envy. Despite said conditioning, however, they're still the equivalent of literal cannon fodder with little-to-no actual skill in firearms usage and maintenance.
They're outfitted with a suit of makeshift featherweight armor that consists of sports equipment with bits and pieces of scrap metal atop a cloth tunic that's all lashed together with leather straps. An armor that's so weak that it couldn't even protect its wearer against the likes of a straight razor.
They're armed primarily with a "Machete" (what's really a lawnmower blade that's lashed to a stick) and "Throwing Spears" (what's really even bigger sticks with pieces of sharpened scrap metal fastened and jabbed into the tips), though they can rarely get their hands on firearms (albeit damn near broken ones) such as .357 Magnum Revolvers, .357 Magnum Cowboy Repeaters, 9mm Pistols, 20-gauge Single Shotguns, 20-gauge Caravan Shotguns, 5.56 × .45mm NATO Varmint Rifles and 10mm Pistols.
The Prime Legionary is the centerpiece of the Legion's fighting force and the core component of any Legion formation. Having survived 5 years in Caesar's forces, a remarkable accomplishment in and of itself, Prime Legionaries are no longer mere cannon fodder but are now the main frontline fighting force of the Legion. With the accompanying improvement in weapons and equipment as well as adequate firearms skills to make the promotion that much sweeter.
They're outfitted with the exact same armor as before, only with a slight improvement in protection. It still can't protect the wearer from shit, however. They're armed with the standard-issued "Machetes" and "Throwing Spears" though they also have much better access to more advanced weapons than before.
Melee weapons, such as Machete Gladius', Power Fists and Chainsaws, and firearms (of decent quality), such as 10mm SMGs, 12-gauge Sawn-Off Shotguns .44 Magnum Revolvers and .308 Hunting Rifles are all available to them in significant quantities.
The Veteran Legionary is the oldest, most experienced, most elite warrior within the lesser ranks of the Legion and is also the precise scalpel to the blunt, destructive warhammer of the Recruit and Prime Legionaries.
Having survived a full decade in Caesar's service, a monumental achievement in its own right, Veteran Legionaries are the elite rapid reaction force of the Legion that's tasked with neutralizing particularly tough adversaries that their lesser counterparts can't defeat and typically remain in reserve until otherwise needed for tipping the scales of a pivotal battle or campaign in the Legion's favor.
As they're the oldest Legionaries (a lot of whom have been with Caesar since day 1), they're also the most experienced, most capable Legionaries who are in their absolute prime in regards to martial prowess and physical resilience. They're second only to Centurions in terms of skill and experience, which is reflected in their improved access to superior weapons and equipment. They can also use and maintain firearms with frightening levels of efficiency.
They're outfitted with the same armor as before, though with even better protection. Still couldn't protect you from anything meaningful, though. They're armed with the usual standard kit in addition to melee weapons such as Fire Axes and Power Fists as well as firearms (of mint condition and with virtually unlimited access to) such as .44 Magnum Revolvers, .308 Hunting Rifles, 5.56 × .45mm NATO Marksman Carbines and 12.7mm SMGs.
The Decanus of the Legion is the lesser officer beneath the Centurion and is responsible for tactical small-unit operations and squad-level leadership. While not too different from ordinary Legionaries in terms of skill, equipment and even appearance, they still have slightly better access to weapons hence they deserve a separate segment.
Recruit Decanii can get access to 9mm SMGs and 10mm SMGs unlike Recruit Legionaries, Prime Decanii aren't any different from Prime Legionaries and Veteran Decanii can get access to 12.7mm Pistols unlike Veteran Legionaries (not a real improvement, I know). Everything else is exactly the same.
The Centurion is the absolute apex of the Legion's strength and the top field commanders of Caesar's armies, second in authority only to Legate Lanius and Caesar himself amongst a tiny select few of other superiors.
Having survived 15-20 years of a long, arduous life of fighting in Caesar's name (a completely unimaginable phenomenon, indeed) before finally earning the treasured armor of the Centurion (which they can decorate with the trophies of their fallen enemies at their leisure), Centurions are the absolute most elite, most skilled, most battle-hardened and ultimately the most dangerous warriors in the entirety of the Legion.
To even BEGIN to qualify for Centurion status, one must have fought in and survived numerous Legion campaigns as well as slain countless opponents in battle alongside the time requirement. All to ensure that only the finest of Caesar's warriors ever reach that level of authority in his Legion.
As the oldest, most experienced warriors in Caesar's army, the Centurions comprise the old guard of Caesar's army, most of them having served their lord since the very beginning. Their status all but ensures that they're reserved for only the absolute deadliest, most lethal of assignments that even Veteran Legionaries can't handle. They're ultimately only deployed if absolutely necessary.
In order to ensure that his Centurions can both accomplish their missions without even the slightest chance of failure and protect themselves without difficulty, Caesar has granted them unlimited access to the absolute finest weapons in his Legion's arsenal and has seen to it that they have acquired the absolute sharpest firearms skills that money can buy as a corresponding reward for their reaching Centurion status.
They're outfitted with Centurion armor which, while legendary amongst the Legion, really isn't that special. It's actually just Veteran Legionary armor with some cool decorations on it at the end of day.
Pieces of T-45d Power Armor on the right arm, the sleeve from a suit of NCR Ranger Patrol Armor and the pauldrons from an Armored Vault Suit on the left arm, the boots and shin guards from a suit of First-Generation Combat Armor on the lower legs, the crotch/thigh guards from a suit of NCR Ranger Patrol Armor on the upper legs, gloves from a suit of Leather Armor on the hands and a Super Mutant Brute chestplate on the torso, to be exact.
Realistically speaking, Centurion armor would be just about useless against virtually any weapon in the NCR's arsenal. Even a single 5.56 × .45mm NATO round fired from a basic Service Rifle would most certainly do the job, flawlessly.
They're armed with basic melee weapons such as Machete Gladius' and Chainsaws as well as high-tech melee weapons such as Thermic Lances (which are actually just repurposed metalworking tools) and Super Sledges in addition to powerful firearms such as .308 Hunting Rifles, 12-gauge Hunting Shotguns, 5.56 x .45mm NATO Marksman Carbines and even .50 BMG Anti-Materiel Rifles (albeit rarely).
Now we must now examine what will inevitably be a huge problem for the Legion even if they were to win the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. The Legion, even though it does in fact have access to some top-of-the-line weapons, only has them in an extremely limited capacity and strictly reserves them for only the highest-ranking, most elite Legion forces and field commanders.
The overwhelming bulk of the Legion's troops have little-to-no real firearms and what pitifully little that they can get their hands on are in extremely piss-poor condition. Not that it would matter, considering the fact that they don't have the proper training that's necessary to actually use them, much less maintain them.
The vast majority of Caesar's troops rely almost entirely on primitive makeshift melee weapons and their own martial prowess to fight their battles, which inevitably means that the Legion has to avoid direct engagement with NCR forces, instead relying on subterfuge and guerilla warfare to combat the Republic.
And it gets even worse for the Legion when one considers that the higher that its troops advance up the totem pole, the fewer Legionaries that it finds at the higher levels. A direct consequence of the Legion's overprioritization of quality and individual skill in combat is that it inevitably results in an extremely small cadre of elite warriors and field commanders surrounded by a sea of lesser soldiers and officers.
Combined with the fact that the Legion is only 34 years-old by the events of F:NV (meaning that even if one were to ignore things like inevitable attrition all throughout the Legion's war-filled history of expansion and conquest, they still wouldn't have that many Veteran Legionaries/Decanii and Centurions) as well as the fact that attrition over the years must be taken into account (the First Battle of Hoover Dam and the Legion's invasion of Colorado alone absolutely devastated their elite ranks), it's only obvious that the Legion's elite forces are relatively puny.
Furthermore, we know for a fact that there's enough Veteran Legionaries/Decanii for them to form a few of their own exclusive Centuria (a Century is 80-men-strong, I might add), with the Red Okie Centuria being a prime example of this. This definitely suggests that the Legion has at least a couple hundred Veteran Legionaries/Decanii at its disposal. As for Centurions, it's a little known fact that they're so incredibly rare in the Legion that they're actually explicitly ordered to not enter combat until absolutely necessary (i.e self-defense or if they're ordered into battle by a superior).
This, along with the fact that they're never really seen in any meaningful numbers in-game until the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, strongly suggests that there might only be at most several dozen Centurions in the whole of the Legion (there definitely wouldn't be over 100 of them). Either way, however, the Legion's elite forces are so pathetically tiny that they couldn't possibly justify the Legion having any meaningful amount of high-end weaponry.
The NCR, on other hand, doesn't have these problems as 1. the NCR prioritizes protection and firepower above all else for their forces and 2. even their most basic troops have exclusive access to essentially unlimited supplies of all manner of firearms and explosives as well as highly superb protection in the form of military-grade body armor.
Meaning that the NCR not only has a hopelessly insurmountable edge in firepower, technology and protection over the Legion, but that soldiers of the NCR also have a far higher life expectancy than their Legion counterparts, as well. All but ensuring that the NCR has a vastly higher volume of surviving battle-hardened combat veterans relative to the Legion that enables for the Republic to easily distribute extremely invaluable, ultimately irreplaceable combat experience and lessons learned in battle across the entirety of their military to a far greater extent than the Legion.
Scores of battle-hardened NCR Troopers that distinguish themselves on the battlefield go on to enlist with the NCR Rangers upon receiving an invitation to do so (fun fact: the vast majority of NCR Ranger recruits and even NCR Rangers themselves are/were NCR Troopers who earned their new status while serving in the NCR Army), earn the coveted Salvaged Power Armor and become NCR Heavy Troopers or earn promotions to positions of authority in the NCR Army (prime examples being Colonel Cassandra Moore and Colonel James Hsu). All of the above information will have colossal long-term consequences for the Legion, at the end of the day.
With that out of the way, let's move on to the main argument itself. The most positive estimates of the Legion's total numbers and military strength would be at best 5,000-8,000 troops. Then we must take into account the fact that the Legion is going to suffer massive losses (easily numbering into the thousands) taking Hoover Dam from the NCR as the NCR garrison here is extremely well-defended, well-supplied and heavily-fortified by both an entire battalion of elite, battle-hardened NCR Troopers and God only knows how many NCR Patrol Rangers, NCR Heavy Troopers and NCR Veteran Rangers.
Combined with the fact that General Oliver's Compound is extremely well-defended with force fields, a turret system, NCR Veteran Rangers, NCR Heavy Troopers, elite NCR Troopers and an absolute labyrinth that's filled to the brim with all manner of booby traps ranging from rigged shotguns, bear traps and mines of all types to grenade bouquets and overhanging objects (and given that you see a pile of fresh Legionary and Centurion corpses at your feet whenever you enter the Compound during the "Veni, Vidi, Vici" quest it's more than safe to assume that Legion casualties will be extremely massive just securing this area alone), this only serves to bolster my claim that thousands of the Legion's troops will perish at Hoover Dam even if they were to take it.
With only a mere fraction of their original number (that 5,000-8,000 will have been massively depleted after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam), now the Legion has to set out and secure the rest of the Mojave Wasteland, which will prove to be completely impossible over time. The Legion will find next to no tribes to assimilate as they exterminate the Powder Gangers, Fiends, Vipers, Jackals and the Kings in all of their endings.
And while the Legion still has the Great Khans and the Boomers, they won't help much. The Great Khans are down to little more than a pitiful rag-tag band of holdouts after both their ass-whipping at the hands of Mr. House and their decimation at Bitter Springs by the NCR. A fact that only gets worse when we subtract the women and female children (breeding stock), the elderly, the sick and the disabled (killed off immediately) as well as mention the fact that the Frumentarius Karl does say in his journal that the Legion would have to decimate most of the tribe, anyways. Meaning that the Legion will at most get a couple paltry handful of warriors from them.
As for the Boomers (assuming that the "Volare!" quest isn't completed) will prove to be more than a huge cost than a real benefit to the Legion. The Boomers' artillery alone would kill hundreds, if not thousands, of Legionaries with the Boomers themselves, armed to the teeth with Missile Launchers, Fat Mans, Grenade Machine Guns, Grenade Launchers, Grenade Rifles, 5.56 x 45mm. Marksman Carbines and 5mm Assault Carbines in addition to Mr. Gutsy combat robots and Sentry Bots, killing hundreds and even thousands more before the Legion finally conquer them.
Also consider that the Boomers, who worship their artillery and weapons with a near religious reverence, will by no means let their weapons fall into the hands of savages. Thus we could easily see them sabotaging their artillery (how hard would it be to load an artillery shell and lob a frag grenade down the barrel, after all?; and given that the Boomers only have 3-4 artillery pieces it wouldn't take long to do) and munitions stockpiles (just a few bricks of C4 could easily destroy all of the Boomers' weapons and ammunition supplies) to keep them out of Legion hands, which only adds insult to injury.
Even worse for the Legion is that when we subtract those Boomers that died in battle (most likely all of the adult males), the women and female children, the elderly, sick and disabled the Legion will have only a handful of male children to their name (remember that the Boomers are a really puny tribe that depend entirely on their firepower to survive) which means that they will have achieved nothing despite their massive losses incurred from conquering Nellis Air Force Base.
Then we also consider the fact that the Legion doesn't enslave civilized communities or Independent Towns unless under extraordinary circumstances (as evidenced by Siri over at the Fort who hailed from an Independent Town in New Mexico and was a medical student there prior to its destruction by the Legion).
Of course, it wouldn't matter as even if they did, the entire New Vegas area is completely evacuated by the NCR in the event of a Legion victory at Hoover Dam as evidenced by Arcade Gannon's Legion ending where he's convinced to remain in Freeside (all of Freeside, North Vegas, Westside, East Vegas and the Strip, which is really just a resort for NCR tourists rather than an actual community, are evacuated with those few that don't make it out, Arcade included, being killed by the Legion).
And when we consider that Nelson was butchered, Camp Searchlight irradiated and Nipton destroyed by the Legion with Goodsprings being left alone and Primm just falling under Legion authority (no point in enslaving the town anyways considering how it's just one big retirement home alongside Goodsprings which is also evacuated by all save a few old, stubborn folks) then it's blatantly clear that the Legion will have very few civilized people left to enslave.
With an even smaller fraction of survivors thanks to their conquest of Nellis AFB (in addition to hundreds more casualties against the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel, the Kings and what's left of House's Securitron police force and the Chairmen) the Legion will soon realize its folly and discover that both holding the Mojave Wasteland and continuing their advance West is literally impossible.
The Legion's logistical situation and acquisition of supplies will soon prove to be an insurmountable nightmare within mere weeks of their occupation of the Mojave. The loss of Nipton, Camp Searchlight and Nelson will serve to severely hamstring the Legion's logistics with the eventual deaths of New Vegas, Primm and Goodsprings only complicating the Legion's supply lines even further.
As 99% of the Strip's revenue comes from NCR tourists and soldiers on leave and given how the Legion will most likely tear down the casinos and ban whores, booze, chems and gambling under Caesar's law, the Strip will eventually shrivel up and die due to loss of revenue. North Vegas, East Vegas, Westside, Freeside, Primm and Goodsprings, which are entirely dependent on Republic trade and commerce for survival, will eventually suffer the same fate as NCR trade and business abandon the region out of both fear and hatred for the Legion.
Especially after the Legion's successful assassination of President Kimball which will see him martyred and ensure that the NCR will cut off all ties to the fallen Mojave Wasteland. With all of the Mojave's communities and towns dying off, the Legion's supply lines will crumble and face imminent collapse within only a few months time (Hoover Dam isn't a viable supply route as while it does allow the Legion to cross the Colorado River in force it's just too far to provide adequate, long-term support) which will only serve to doom the Legion's occupation of the Mojave Wasteland.
We must also take into account that the Legion will need every last man, Denarius and resource at its disposal if it so much as hopes to hold the region and continue the advance West. Which will force Caesar to relinquish the Legion's entire empire East of the Colorado in order to do so. In Legate Lanius’ own words, the Legion's expansion campaigns in the East have been faltering badly as Caesar's obsession with Hoover Dam, New Vegas and the West has seen the Legion's full strength syphoned off towards Hoover Dam as part of Caesar's plan to overrun Hoover Dam, conquer New Vegas and eventually invade the West.
Imagine the Hell that the Legion will have trying to secure the Mojave Wasteland, which will prove to be so bad that the Legion heartlands will have to be left defenseless, lawless and chaotic just to even begin to make such an ambitious feat even remotely feasible. Some would probably argue that Caesar would surely never abandon the East just for the tiniest, southernmost tip of Nevada and just one little city but I'd advise you to reconsider.
Caesar explicitly states that while the Legion does have their own cities back East, NONE OF THEM are ANYTHING like New Vegas. Why is that such a big deal, one might ask? It's simple, really. While the Mojave Wasteland was relatively untouched by the nuclear holocaust that was the Great War, thanks to the quick and decisive actions of Robert Edwin House, New Vegas is at best a total dump and at worst an absolute shithole.
Filled to the brim with disease, essentially overrun with Raiders, bandits and common criminals of all stripes, absolutely crushed beneath the iron heel of a colossal drug-addiction crisis, bursting at the seams with abject misery and poverty and rampant with starvation, New Vegas is without a doubt little more than a massive dumpster fire.
Things are so bad in that cursed place that you actually have children chasing rats in the streets just to survive, locals constantly complaining about hunger pains and withdrawals and scum ranging from the Fiends to random little hooligan punks constantly ransacking the place.
Westside, the South Vegas ruins, East Vegas, North Vegas and Freeside are all Hellish nightmares that are almost completely hopeless causes, at the end of the day. Even if one takes into account the diamond in the rock, the New Vegas Strip, you still wouldn't find many reasons to be impressed.
What you have is a tiny wealthy resort community that still looks like a dump (though it's still a major improvement from the rest of New Vegas), has highly dilapidated infrastructure (the Tops Casino still has a giant hole on the side of the building) and is surrounded by a wall that's held together with spit, grit and a whole lotta' duct tape.
And while the Strip is safe, orderly and prosperous by the standards of the Mojave Wasteland (a very shit standard, I might add), it's ultimately a very terrible place by the standards of the rest of the post-apocalyptic world (i.e. NCR territory and lands under Legion control). If Legion cities can't even match the standards of that shithole, what does that say about Caesar's willingness to hold them? Especially in light of what he'd be gaining in return?
Furthermore, Caesar often tends to view himself as a mere barbaric king of the Gauls, with his Legion being nothing but one big nomadic tribe of savages without a true home or purpose in his eyes, which is extremely depressing. Caesar sees New Vegas as a true city, a true capital, a true home for both himself and his Legion, a true Rome that he can rule over and could preside over a true empire in. And the West as that very true empire that he so desperately relishes.
Do you honestly believe that Caesar wouldn't trade his current empire (which he clearly holds in very low esteem and almost regrets ever conquering it) for his new Rome and a stepping stone towards eventually conquering his new Roman Empire (the stepping stone being the Mojave Wasteland)? He'd trade the whole of the East for New Vegas and the Mojave Wasteland in a heartbeat and in doing so will seal the Legion's fate and imminent doom.
With the Legion having completely relinquished the East (and therefore cutting themselves off from their resource base, source of revenue/income and escape route, in the process) their supply lines and logistical network in chaos and having absolutely no source of replenishment and reinforcements for their ranks, the Legion will slowly but surely disintegrate, trapped in a permanent holding pattern in the Mojave that'll bleed them dry and drain them of all their resources.
The NCR, meanwhile, will have simply dug in at the Mojave Outpost and fortified their defenses there. They'd have most certainly brought in the 3 VB-02 Vertibirds (which are armed with Gatling Lasers, Missile Launcher racks and Mini Nuke Launchers and outfitted with heavy armor) that were conducting combat air patrols of the NCR military base just a few miles away from the Mojave Outpost.
Far from stopping there, however, Colonel Royez (who's outfitted with the Scorched Sierra Power Armor which is a fully-operational suit of heavily-modified T-45d Power Armor upgraded with onboard medical systems capable of healing any injury and an improved back-mounted power pack from a suit of T-51b Power Armor that will be capable of resisting nearly all of the Legion's weapons and armed with a Plasma Caster chock full of overcharged Microfusion Cells so incredibly strong that it can kill a lvl. 50 Courier in Power Armor with just 2-3 hits!) and his men (NCR Heavy Troopers armed to the teeth with Gatling Lasers, Plasma Casters and Tesla Cannons as well as NCR Troopers armed with Tri-Beam Laser Rifles, Multiplas Rifles, Laser Rifles and Plasma Rifles) will also redeployed there from the same military camp, as well.
Republic artillery pieces can also be deployed there to help bolster the outpost's defenses, as well. A massive network of bunkers, pillboxes and trenches all along the hill below the outpost as well as machine gun nests, sniper nests, minefields and razorwire can also be established to further enhance the impregnable defensive perimeter of the new frontline. Once all of this is done, the NCR will then proceed to flood the outpost with tens of thousands of NCR Troopers, NCR Heavy Troopers, NCR Veteran Rangers
And when coupled with the fact that the Mojave Outpost is atop a high hill, is flanked by mountain ranges on both sides (which will completely prevent the Legion from attacking its flanks and rear), is right on the border with fully-controlled Republic territory (which will make it impossibly easy to keep well-supplied and will also ensure that Republic reinforcements are plentiful and easily available) and the fact that one could see everything up to Primm and Nipton from the Mojave Outpost (that particular area is also wide-open, completely exposed and lacks any real cover which means that any Legion force of any meaningful size would be spotted from miles away day or night which in turn will prevent Legion surprise attacks), the Mojave Outpost will truly become a 100% impregnable fortress.
To make things even worse for the Legion, there's absolutely no bypassing the Mojave Outpost either as the only areas that can allow such a short cut around the Long 15 are completely and literally impassable. The Big Empty is often described as a wall to any living thing approaching it, the Divide is little more than a death trap and is completely avoided by the Legion for obvious reasons and Death Valley is so inhospitable that even the NCR, with its fleet of military cargo trucks and Vertibirds, flat out avoids that area out of habit.
Any army stupid enough to try and cross through these areas will not return alive under any circumstances. Which in turn ensures that only through the Long 15 can the Legion hope to invade the West and given that the Mojave Outpost is purely impenetrable and that the Mojave Wasteland is completely entrapped with mountains and the Colorado River, the Legion will be completely trapped in the Mojave Wasteland and will never be freed from their holding pattern there.
The NCR simply bides its time and let's the Legion wear itself out and tear itself apart trying to hold the Mojave Wasteland, occasionally fending off Legion assaults on the Mojave Outpost whilst inflicting heavy losses on the Legion, launching several limited-scale offensives here and there so as to deplete the Legion's ranks even further and deploying NCR Veteran Rangers into the Mojave Wasteland so as to ambush Legion supply caravans and patrols to worsen the Legion's logistical nightmare.
After almost a year, the Legion will finally be vulnerable, it's forces stretched absolutely thin down to their absolute breaking point, their supply lines and logistics completely exhausted and expended alongside their supplies as a whole, the Legion's ranks reduced to little more than a tiny skeleton crew, the Legion completely scattered across the entire Mojave Wasteland unable to guard it or defend it any longer and the Colorado River at its back, with absolutely no way of escaping their inevitable demise.
At this moment, the NCR finally attacks with a full-scale assault across the entirety of the Mojave, completely and utterly destroying the Legion in its entirety and killing/capturing Caesar himself as Republic forces swarm across New Vegas and wipe out his Legion all around him within mere hours, days if the Legion is lucky. And so the NCR-Legion War finally draws to a close, with the back of the Legion broken forever and ceasing to exist.
Either way the Legion is fucked with a Legion defeat at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam being a mercy killing at best for the Legion.
(Sources are down below in the comments section).

2044 election Prediction: lanie (D) vs James (R)
Background: With both candidates slightly over the age of 35, the minimum age to become president, rival siblings James and Lanie both won their highly competitive primaries and are facing against each other. Their home state, Pennsylvania, is the ultimate swing state that might decide the election (previous attempts to destroy the EC in 2032 have failed). The siblings are not gonna treat each other well in the debates- they have many personal stories to smear the other person. The country still has the 2 party system and is as divided as ever- urban vs rural. Both parties have relatively the same platform as 2020, though the progressives have had a bit more successes with AOC being president in 2028. The suburbs will decide this election.
Primaries: both primaries were very competitive and close. LANIE barely edged out Al (D), EPA member , after scandals broke out about Al using plastic utensils, and lying about it! Al’s polling lead got slowly chipped away, as Lanie’s high public speaking skills spoke to the shrinking Mormon population and growing veganism in the state.
James was initially tossed to the curb in terms of republican candidates, but with his charisma and charm, his polling gradually got better and better. However, he faced incumbent Dylan (R) who rigged the election to beat london “garlic” (D) in 2040. Normally, incumbents are strong, but scandals from 2040 really hurt Dylan, and Jim, once his close ally, denounced him and won over voters.
Key issues:
LANIE- pro choice, LGBT, traditional religiousness, veganism, anti capitalist/free market
JAMES- pro life, guns, baseball, free market capitalism
Controversies:
After he won the primary, James said “since childhood, Lanie has, and always will, refuse to shave”. Lanie tweeted a counter- saying “at least my hairline doesn’t look like PAPA johns”
Lanie called James a “fucking asshole” at the first debate, after he supported Dylan’s decision to pardon Trump jr from various crimes. James simply called lanie unattractive and “gay”- LGBT members were insulted
After a national election poll showing lanie up by 7 nationally, Jim called the polls “faker than Lanie’s butt-job”
Lanie brought up “the silent majority might’ve helped you win that whiplash game in 2020, but they will vote for me now”
Jim showed a Lanie tweet saying “she has various fetishes she can not share” . Lanie called it a joke, but her poll numbers dropped.
Jim’s admin Released a poll stating 83 percent of self- described “furries” would back Lanie. “Is this really the person you want to lead this country?”
Lane said Jim “assulated” a ref on the baseball field in 2021, after he made a call against his side. She has no proof to back this up.
The day before the election, it’s a close one. It’s time to make an official call for the swing states. The national environment is pretty similar to 2016 and 2020; not much has changed. Since both candidates are very good contenders in a polarized environment, voter turnout will skyrocket and third party candidates, such as Sexy Party member Colton, will prolly not get more than 1 percent of the popular vote, despite his broad appeal. Lanie would normally win the popular vote by a wide margin, but her hardcore progressivism drives away some moderate democrats. Let’s see how they do in swing states:
Nevada- gambling, gambling, gambling. Nevada is usually blue, though Jim has a small chance to flip it because of his past gambling addiction.
Colorado- WEED. Neither candidate does weed, lane says it’s “against her religion” and Jim “prefers harder drugs, maybe, but that was more of my past.” But Colorado is usually blue, so Lanie is likely to win here.
Texas- jims appeal to rural areas with his center right policies (mix of authoritarianism and libertarianism) and traditional republicans of earlier in the decade) will outnumber Texas’ cities; probably. Though Texas has lurched leftward since 2020, lanes hardcore progressivism will turn down some moderate democrats, putting Texas’ huge electoral clout in jims hands, probably.
Utah- Utah is typically a red state, but lanes Mormonism might cause a shift- Utah almost went blue in 2040 (Dylan “ass shredder” ’s campaign did not bode well with the traditionalists) and it could e’en shift further to the left.
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Florida- Florida is full of crazy people, and while lane is arguably the crazier one, lanes LGBT outing in 2025 won’t do well with all the old people there. It’s a tossup, it always is.
Georgia- as Atlanta grows, it could flip the state as lane does very well in cities, but lane is too progressive for the moderates there.
Ohio, Iowa, Wisconsin, New Hampshire- Jim appeals to rural areas because of his background in small town montoursville, a town with sub 5,000 members. Combined with his republicanism, and the urban rural divide growing stronger, Jim will probably take these more rural states.
New Hampshire- it’s typically a blue state, and apparently it was one of lanes fetishes in the leaked Deleted Lanie tweet, helping her there.
Michigan- lane needs to make the Detroit black vote turnout to win this state, which probably will happen because Jim said the n word 30 years prior, making him only get a little bit of the black vote. Michigan is in Lanie’s hands.
Pennsylvania- their home state. this is the ultimate swing state, as both candidates campaigned endlessly here as a symbol for how the election will go. It’s a tossup, with lane doing well in philly and Pittsburgh, but Jim running up margins in central Pennsylvania, including his home county.
Minnesota- both candidates have extremely close ties with Minnesota, as they have vacationed there their whole lives. This is the other ultimate battleground where a lot of their campaign money is going- though the George Floyd riots in 2020 really put the liberals in a bad light, including Lanie. Voters still remember it many moons later, so it tilts slightly towards jim.

Small Town, Big Politics

Republican National Committee; April 2022, Washington D.C.
By early April 2022, the Republicans realized they would be in a heap of electoral trouble if they didn't do anything about the situation mounting against them. While they controlled the Supreme Court, the Electoral College was already not in their favor, and their chances of a GOP supermajority in the House and Senate were rapidly fading away, quite possibly forever. Key GOP strategists determined that between the traditional Democratic voting states, if the Republicans did not make any changes, they were going to lose North Carolina, Georgia, Arizona, and the Rust Belt. Additionally, the Democrats had made it clear that they were going to bring out the big guns, by opting to support DC, Puerto Rican, Northern Marianan, Samoan, Guamanian, and Virgin Islander statehood. The people of these soon-to-be states would never forget the services the Democrats did them, and the Republicans left them out of. Specifically, difficulties were destined to ensue since former AZ Senator Martha McSally, as well as Mitch McConnell have announced their position against additional statehoods. The Republicans convened an emergency committee meeting to decide the future of their policy, and how they would approach the new proposals for statehood and their strategy for waning states.

Securing New Strongholds

With Georgia, North Carolina, and Arizona drifting away from GOP stronghold status at varying rates, the Republicans were facing a reality that they were going to have to make some policy and focus changes if they wanted to hold on to their valued states. Without these changes, they would likely lose their majority states one after another to the tide of social justice. With religious values waning among younger generations, they simply couldn't drop social justice forever, and they also can't turn their back on the religious values of the older generations. When deciding how to approach this issue, they took a deep look at the history of the Republican Party. Historically, the party was a champion for political rights, and civil liberties. What had changed? They would likely be able to for-go the need to address social justice civil rights, by instead addressing the political rights and civil liberties of diverse groups. By bringing minorities, and other diverse groups to the political stage by encouraging voting among these groups and fighting for their equal political rights and civil liberties in law and court, they might be able to pull in some of the Democrats base. In places like Arizona, Nevada, Texas, and Florida, with large Latino populations; assisting them in filling out taxes to get the most relief for Latino businesses, assistance in obtaining government documents like a driver's license would be a segway for voter registration. Funding Latino religious groups, encouraging effective firearms training and ownership, and addressing the needs of Latino farmers and workers would be an excellent way for the Republicans to pick off the Democrats in states that they used to control and bring it back.
An issue was going to be addressing historically black communities, that they had not been particularly kind to, nor forgiving for several decades. Places like Virginia, North Carolina, and Georgia were slipping away. The one thing that the Republicans made an excellent showing of during Trump's campaign, was assistance for the little guy- it is what won the unions of Michigan and Pennsylvania with robust promises to revive their dying industries. What if similar things could be done in the Deep South? The Republicans could encourage the uplifting of impoverished communities with government subsidies and projects to revive their infrastructure, schooling systems, and urban renewal. For example, rebuilding the roadways of the south, and large urban renewal projects targeted to uplift the value of down-trodden and impoverished neighborhoods. Additionally, such projects would also help African American, and poor White businesses lift the value of their properties, and give a face-lift to their surroundings which could help attract more customers. Small business subsidies are additionally, an excellent way to get local businesses off the ground. The local party offices could put Southern Hospitality back to work by remodeling local businesses and building houses, fixing schools and the like to assist their local communities. While Democrats are largely focused on their city centers, who is caring for the most neglected areas? Perhaps it is time the GOP teaches the new dog, old tricks.

Sandbar Storming

With the incoming new states, the Republicans knew that Washington D.C., and the US Virgin Islands were going to be a lost cause. D.C. is historically very liberal, and the Virgin Islands is mostly comprised of African American, and the GOP does not have the reputation yet to face the Democrats toe-to-toe on those platforms. The GOP isn't even prepared to face the Democrats in Puerto Rico, however, due to how the electoral college additions will pan out, the Republicans have to shore up as many of the new incoming states as possible, Puerto Rico is indispensable. The Strategy Team decided it would be most reasonable for the Republicans to launch a new campaign to set up GOP strongholds in American Samoa, Guam, and the Northern Mariana Islands. The strategy, which they called "Sandbar Storming," involved deploying full-blown party outreach campaigns to make these distant territories aware of US politics, and provide opportunities for involvement, party registration, advertisements, billboards. Additionally, it would involve the local party offices communicating with local people, businesses, and government representatives to determine what these islands will need, and begin pilling on their requests as part of the official Republican Party platform. The Democrats are always infinitely more concerned about cities, but who is going to take care of small-town Saipan? The Republicans devised a plan that would put each of these islands on energy independence, with a focus on renewable energy, disaster preparedness, small business and community uplifting, and respect for local politics. Given that some of these places are literally the most distant ethnically, and politically from the United States, not all of the local issues mesh well into the big party platforms, but because Republicans claim to represent the small communities and businesses, there is no better way for them to get involved than draw national attention to these issues. Most importantly, the Republicans are interested in developing big-name local politicians from these prospective states
With statehood imminent, the GOP deployed on a tactical mission to announce the support of the entry of all of these new states, but also- to understand their local political situations and integrate accordingly. Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz, both with Latino roots, both took some time away from the Senate to work alongside the Partido Republicano de Puerto Rico to grab as much support from the Partido Nuevo Progresista (PNP) and Partido Popular Democrático (PPD) as possible before the Democrats came in swinging. The PPD, historically a center-left party, are more focusd on building up their local independence and maintaining commonwealth status than anything else. The GOP, although has some ideological differences than the PPD, has reached out to them because the PPD understands that their cause will lose a lot of legitimacy once they gain statehood. The two Senators have begun working with the PDP to focus "State's Rights" policies, which will focus on Puerto Rico making laws and policies that are best for Puerto Rico, the people, and local businesses, rather than selling themselves out to whatever mainland-focused agenda the Democrats will run. No doubt, the Democrats will try to draw Puerto Rico closer with trade policies, and integration measures, however the Republicans alongside the PPD will be more focused on the application of federal laws to Puerto Rico where not damaging their local regulations. This would mean, building up local roads, developing more modern port facilities, tourism projects, energy independence, disaster preparedness upgrades, and federal bailout that benefits Puerto Rico above anything else.
In American Samoa, Republicans would dig for closer ties to the strong military community. Due to the unique US citizen situation, many Samoans seek military service as a means for full American citizenship. The Republicans will assure American Samoa that they support citizenship for every Samoan, but also, the forever in debt to their service in the United States Armed Forces. Samoa is a closely-knit brotherhood that saw tribal culture merge into a military tradition. The Republicans will remind the Samoans that the Democrats have rejected their path to citizenship for decades, and the Republicans will continue to support them and address their island matters after a long period of Democrat ignorance.
Guam has been the forward operating base of the United States Navy for decades, and it would be foolish to not capitalize the military-public relations and economy maintained there by the Republican Party. The Republicans will help to work on maximizing the local benefit from the military base, and open a new tourism industry to found infrastructural overhauls to the civilian side of the island. The more citizens they can work on employing in the military-civilian service, and tourism industries, the less the island itself will have to rely on anything else other than what they already have.
The Northern Mariana Islands is the most peculiar prospective new addition. Its population is quite small, and it reflects a Kuwait-type situation where the native people are vastly outnumbered by a migrant working population. Thankfully, Republicans have been historically kind to the Northern Marianias by giving them a minimum wage law, however, child labor and sweatshops are still rife on the islands. The Democrats formerly not only delayed the minimum wage bill, but Obama-era trade policies saw most of the manufacturing on the island disappear, as well as tourism with it. The Republicans plan on revitalizing the local industry to focus on tourism, and gambling with special economic laws, with the revival of a new and more sustainable industry with economic protections for both the citizens and temporary workers. Additionally, they will work on a special pathway to citizenship for migrant laborers on the island who have been on the island for longer than five years.

Continuing
We are mapping along, rather, I was mapping along and Leo was monitoring our various gas levels. He was still a bit skittish about being gassed in some abandoned mine; even more so after I told him to do a couple off deep-knee bends and watch his monitor.
He remained ramrod straight up from that point on. Heavier gasses always collect nearer the floor. It’s just that they usually become mixed with the moving surface air and don’t remain pooled for overly long.
We’re trudging along, slip-sliding through the goo, poo, and shmoo of the mine floor. Mud, organic detritus, but oddly enough, no animals; no signs at all, not even spoor. I don’t mean just the larger critters like cats and rats and elephants, but no evidence of spiders, scorpions, snakes, or unicorns.
I puzzled a bit, then a thought hit. I dipped my gas monitor slowly to the floor of the mine while Leo kept a keen eye on me.
“Holy shit,” I said, “This whole mine is one, huge death gulch. It’s just we’re too tall to tell.”
I didn’t realize just how long this mine’s been static and atmospherically stratified.
This is not supposed to be able to happen.
I key the mike on our radios.
“Guys, heads up. Stratified air column. Breathable air levels OK above four feet, below that SCBA must be worn. Be advised. Careful walking around. You might cause the stagnant heavier-than-air gasses to mix and waft upwards. Walk slowly and with purpose. Check your Self Rescuers. High alert status.”
A stratiform air column like this is not such an unusual situation in many mines and caves.
But it is when the air column has such a strong, obvious upper airflow, and still develops such a heavily stratified vertical air column with the heavier gasses still concentrated toward the base; well, that’s one for the books.
After a bit of consideration over the scenario, I get back on the radio.
“OK, guys,” I say over the radio, “New plan: evacuation. Photograph everything on the way out. Let’s rendezvous at the first inner drift ASAP. Mind your monitors. If you must go into any hollow or declivity, use your SCBA. Apply caution. Maximum effort.”
“Roger that,” I received from Chuck and Al.
Leo and I walked stiffly back to our pre-arranged meeting point.
We all meet and we’re fine. All gas monitor levels are in the green. Some gas levels that should be in the serious green were just hovering in the lower green. But all within acceptable values.
“Chuck,” I say, “You’re the tallest. Spark an orange smoke-bomb and hold it high above your head.”
We had specially-designed MIL-spec luminous-smoke smoke-bombs.
As I said: Back off, man. We’re scientists.
He did so and the orange smoke was immediately wafted into a horizontal layer that spread above our heads through the mine on the obvious airflow.
“OK, as I expected.” I said, “OK, guys, watch this.”
I spark a purple smoke-bomb and drop it into the lowest divot on the mine floor.
The purple smoke mooched around near the ground. It spread laterally but didn’t rise.
It formed pools, impoundments, and puddles.
“Stratified lower air column with a strong active upper airflow. OK, that’s a new one.” I said.
We spent the rest of the day in the mine carefully documenting this weird phenomenon. If this isn’t one for Science Magazine and the Weather’s Prize, I don’t know what is.
Back at camp, after de-gearing, and checking that we hadn’t brought any nasties along with us, we formulated our revenge.
“This fucking mine aggravates me. We did everything by the book, yet it still threw us a curve,” Chuck notes, peevishly.
“Looks like we are going to need to re-write some geochemistry books,” I reply.
“Well,” Al adds, “We’re getting more data than any lab will know what to do with. What are we going to do about the mine, I mean besides close it? It’s easy as deadly as that one where Leo knocked on that locker of old explosives.”
Leo bristles. Chuck and Al laugh. I shake my head and grab a beer.
“Rock?,” Leo asks, “You’ve been awfully quiet. Your thoughts on the subject?”
“Oh, hell. There’s no question about it.” I say, “We’re going to kill this fucking mine. Kill it fucking true and dead.”
Chuck, Al, and Leo look at me and say: “Now you’re talkin’!”
I lay out the plans for the next two days.
“It’s going to take some doing, but I want you guys to prepare the adit for dynamiting. Stay close to the entrance as I don’t want to have to suit up to drag your hapless asses out.” I tell them.
“And the good Doctor?” Al asks.
“Oh, I’m going to gin up a special little surprise for our friend,” I say, “I’ve got to map the gas concentrations in the mine from the geochemical and air data sample data we took.”
“Uh, oh. This sounds ominous,” Chuck says.
“Oh, no, no, no. Nothing like that. Just the proper amount of unstable chemicals delivered to the proper place.” I reply, with a very evil-looking increasing Grinch-like grin.
“Doctor. You’re doing that thing again. You’re scaring your colleagues.” Al says with wide eyes.
I do a quick Groucho-style eyebrow waggle, give a small wave, take my cold beer, and saunter over to the back of my truck while I open up the trailer.
I start with an inventory of our remaining explosives.
The guys begin work on getting the adit ready for demolition.
It’s taking me a bit more time than I planned, so I allow Chuck and Leo to go back into the mine and get some further airflow and gas concentration data.
I work that new information into my maps. I’m up all hours, posting data, verifying data, swearing at missed data points and outliers, smoking cigars, having my toddies for warmth, strength and inspiration, mapping and contouring data.
The guys are just leaving me alone to my own devices. They drop by every so often with a cold beer, being inquisitive, but I’m being ambiguous.
“Thanks for the suds, but you’re going to have to wait just a little while longer,” I tell them, grinning evilly.
I’ve even gone to skipping meals, I’m that focused.
Finally, I’m done. The mine has been mapped as to concentrations of six different gasses.
I’ve located the perfect spot in the mine for my little gift; the place where isocons, lines connecting equal values of concentration, of methane and oxygen intersect.
I’m going to let this nasty old hole in the ground help us destroy it.
The mine adit’s been worked, charged, and primed. In fact, the demo wire leading back to the portal is grounded out against the leg of my camp chair.
After dinner dishes, I call everyone over to my truck. I have an announcement to make.
“OK, guys, here’s the deal,” as I whip back the sheet of tarpaulin to reveal my masterwork.
There lies a six-foot-long torpedo composed of multiple layers of various explosives. It weighs about 450 or so pounds. It would weigh more, but that’s the last of our explosives for the season. I have no intentions of taking any back. I hate the paperwork.
We have a battery-powered wheeled A-frame we can use to drag the thing to its final resting place.
The guys look. Blink. Look again, eyes wide, and just slowly say: “F….U…C….K…”
“Yeah,” I beam, “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”
“Holy hopping fuck, Rock,” Chuck says, “We just want to kill this mine, not vaporize it.”
“You people just don’t listen.”, I say, shaking my head.
“Remember: ‘Nothing succeeds like excess’.” I profess.
Leo asks me what’s all in it.
“Oh. A little of this, a little of that, a lot of love…” I say.
“No. Really.” Leo persists.
“OK. Full disclosure,” I begin, “From the center out: Torpex, Kinestik and HELIX binaries. Then, Tyvek and duct tape. Layer two: RDX, PETN, ANFO, Tyvek, and duct tape. Layer three: Seismogel, Tyvek and duct tape. Layer four: 40% Extra Fast Dynamite, 60% Extra Fast Dynamite, Tyvek and duct tape. Layer five: Blasting caps, Primacord, C-4, Tyvek and duct tape. All wrapped up in jolly Kevlex blasting skin.”
One of our radio-controlled detonators is the cherry on top.
I smile as I sproing the little detonator’s antenna.
“SPROING, SPROING, SPROING,” sproinged the antenna as it waved cheerily to and fro.
“Rock,” Al says, “That’s…ah, I don’t know. That’s just overkill personified. I fucking love it.”
“Gentlemen, here’s the deal.,” I say, “Miners left their mark. Taggers leave their mark. I’d appreciate it if you all would sign this little creation as our proper and fitting final testimonial to our desert adventures.”
“Doctor,” they all say, “We’d be honored.”
We manhandle the thing down out of my truck. We assemble the electric woky that we’ll use to sling the thing into the mine, in just such a precise position, tomorrow after morning chow.
The day’s shot, and it’s dinner time.
Leo attempts again but redeems himself with grilled bratwurst and fresh-made sourdough buns, corn on the cob, sauerkraut, boiled buttered baby potatoes, and banana, chocolate, and marshmallow dessert burritos.
After clean up, we sit around and reflect. We also have a couple of tots.
And a few toddies.
With a couple of shots.
We add to that a few beers.
And the better part of a bottle of my best Polish vodka.
I have to admit, that after those last two days of mapping and fabrication, I’m a bit on the snoozy side.
I say good night to my colleagues and sleep the sleep of the just, dreaming my dreamy little demolition dreams.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast of sausage, egg, and cheese hash brown pies and coffee, I wander over to my truck to inspect, for one final time, our last creation together.
It’s not there.
“The fuck?” I say, “I could have sworn I left it here last night…”
I hear Chuck, Al, and Leo calling me back over to camp central.
I wander over and there it is, by creation, nestled all snug and secure in its travel cradle.
But it’s not the same as I left it last night. Something’s changed…
My guys, my stalwart colleagues, used all our remaining spray paint and committed an act of art on the goofy thing.
Leo may have had a sheltered life, but he sure knows how to paint.
The thing is aglow with transparent taupe, sky-blue pink, hot beige, electric mauve, neon periwinkle, fluorescent peach, and shocking lavender.
Chuck and Al were obviously responsible for all the geo-graffiti on the device.
“Reunite Gondwanaland!”
“Protest dinoflagellates! Signed: * he Mesozoic society against perverted practices.*!”
“All my faults are normal!”
“Geologists know how to make the bedrock!”
“Let’s get dates and funky. We’ll all be (Mg, Fe^{²⁺)₂(Mg,} Fe^{²⁺)₅Si₈O₂₂(OH)₂”}
And other similar sad stabs at geological humor.
Plus there were three bold signatures, with room for one more.
I was moved. It was a really nice touch by my students, nay, my colleagues.
“Guys,” I say, “that is a violent work of art.”
“Not until it’s signed by its author,” Al says and hands me a Sharpie.
With a flourish, I sign the device: “Dr. Rocknocker. From the best field team in the history of detonic chemistry and geology. [date] Nevada, USA.”
Leo looks over and says, “Well, Doctor. We ready to go now?”
“Yeah,” I reply, briefly wiping my eyes as a quick dust storm must have blown through, “I do believe it is time.”
We suit up in our mine access gear, leaving back fully 75% of the usual kit, just taking our gas monitors, SCBA gear, and Self Rescuers. We’re going to need all hands on deck to wheel this thing up to the mine.
“Doc,” Al suggests, “How about this? I’ll get the Land Cruiser, and back it down here. We hook up the A-frame to the trailer hitch, leave the frame in neutral and I’ll drag it up to the adit.”
“Damn good thinking,” I reply.
“Make it so, gentlemen. I’ll meet you up there.”
Al does so and just to impress me, backs the damn thing all the way up the access trail right to the mine’s adit.
He later tells me he likes to fish, has a boat, and spends a lot of his summers backing a boat trailer up and down a lake access ramp.
We unhook the A-frame and engage the electric motor. Luckily, my selected spot is in the middle of the main tunnel, down about 350 meters.
Al says he’ll park the truck, we’ll deliver the device, and can all ride back to camp in the Land Cruiser.
45 minutes later, we’re bouncing down the access road with the empty A-frame trailer in tow.
We were done and dusted in less than an hour. I figured this would take us at least half a day.
I explain that I want the adit blown first, to seal off the mine one way or the other. Then we’ll wait an hour or so, and then initiate the device. I want it all nice and quiet in the mine when I pop this party favor.
The guys go through the safety dance, and when I say “HIT IT!,” the mine adit explodes inward and downward. There’s a huge blow of dust as the debris settles. This mine is permanently closed for business.
Now, I want to drive the last nail in its metaphorical coffin.
But first, I want to savor the moment. I pop a bottle of not-too-terribly-expensive Dom champagne I’ve had hidden all this time. It’s been shaken, rattled, rolled, frozen, thawed, warmed, and finally iced for just such an occasion.
It should still be OK. I think.
I tell Leo to break out the Solo Cozy cups as it’s time for the Tamandar to toast.
We’re standing around my worktable, flanked by plastic tumblers of posh, sort of expensive French champagne.
It tasted of furniture polish. I thought it went off but then remembered, the pricier the fizzwater, the funkier the taste.
There are the obligatory toasts to Alfred Nobel, E. I. du Pont de Nemours, Ascanio Sobrero (the father of nitroglycerine) and Kievan Rus', the forefather of vodka.
We salute each other in turn and slurp down this awfully pricey and awful giggle water.
Leo goes to the back of my truck, gets a bottle of vodka, some ice, a lime, and a can of bitter lemon.
He grabs my glass, tosses out the contents, and creates for me my signature cocktail.
“Now, things are right in the universe.” He says.
The remainder of my crew follows suit for themselves.
Once all that is sorted, I pull the radio detonator out of my vest pocket. I gently set it on the table. We’re all in the cardinal positions, one per side.
“Mr. Albert. If you would. Please press the first button.” I say.
He does, and the unit powers up. “Beep.”
“Mr. Charles. Please engage the second.”
He does, and after a bit of blinking, it’s solid yellow. We have a radio connection.
“Mr. Leonard. Please press the third button.”
He does. The device vibrates, buzzes, lights flicker, stock prices fluctuate, winds shift, tides change, and suddenly, all remaining system lights are bright green.
That leaves the final flip-top button.
I flick open the cover.
“Gentlemen,” I say, “I can’t thank you enough for all your hard work this field season. We’ve been through a lot together. We’ve re-written old texts and will be writing some new ones. Seldom before have I had the privilege of working with such capable and affable scientists of your caliber. As this is the final shot of our field season, I’d be obliged if you gave me a literal hand.”
I place my palm above the button. Leo puts his hand atop mine. Then Al does the same, with Chuck bringing up the last.
“Rock. Ah, Doctor Rocknocker. We’d be grateful if you gave the word.” They say in unison.
“Gentlemen, the word is given:…3…2…1…HIT IT!”
We as one, mashed the big, shiny red button.
The throbbing desert above the mine cracked along a series of deep fault lines. A huge and hitherto undetected underground reservoir of gaseous methane gas lying far below the deepest mine drift detonated with the fury of a newborn volcano. This was followed seconds later by the eruption of millions of tons of boiling carbon dioxide and oxygen combustion-reaction products. These blew hundreds of feet into the air, lifting a huge piece of the roof of the mine in an explosion that echoed to the far side of the state and back again. This piece of desert real estate rose like a giant geological pancake, artfully flipped over, hung ever so briefly in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't, then flopped back down in the very same place from where it originated.
Well, that mine is well and truly dead.
We all agreed it was "a good gig."
So that was the last shot that ended our field season. At camp we didn’t have a final field blowout, there was no need. It would be overegging the pudding at this point. We did however run through a case of cold beer, a whole box of my best cigars, and the remainder of my stock of bourbon and vodka.
“Well, Rock,” Chuck says, “It’s official. We have to go back to town. We’re out of cigars. Can’t run a camp without cigars now, can we?”
“That's the conditions that prevail,” I reply, smiling at the ancient reference. Besides, they didn’t know I always have a spare box hidden in my truck.
So we retired for the night and everyone awoke to our last field breakfast on the campfire.
I decided to use all our last provisions for a glorious final field feed.
Besides the orange and cinnamon rum-ice glazed cinnamon rolls already baking in the fire, I was making eggs to order, cheesy hash browns, twice-fried French toast, elk sausage, ‘collision mats’ as Al dubbed my light and airy pancakes, back bacon, baked beans, fried green tomatoes, wild mushrooms, and homemade sourdough split-rolls with Nevada ‘Desert Delight’ candied honey.
And camp coffee, of course. With just a touch of Napoleon brandy, to put a fire in the belly.
Just a light morning field repast.
After breakfast dishes, we all pitched in packing. That took all of an hour.
We had plenty of time, so I worked on my usual after breakfast cigar. Al continued to try and teach Leo how to play cribbage. Chuck futzed around with the truck, shoveling out the accumulation of desert in the truck’s footwells.
“Well. Can’t put it off any longer,” I mused.
“Gents. It’s been an honor. Mount up! Remember: keep the shiny side up and the greasy side down. See you in the Bureau’s backlot in Reno.” I say by way of final motivation.
We got in our vehicles, fired them up, and headed down the dusty trail for the last time this season.
I was in for a bit of a shock as I was passed by the guys a short time down the path.
Leo was actually driving. Off-road. And actually not doing too bad.
But Al was riding shotgun white-knuckling it. He was having none of this as I could hear him screaming instructions at Leo.
Chuck was snoring in the back seat.
It was a pleasant drive back to Reno. The truck and trailer were virtually empty compared to our inbound journey. Sure, the trailer bounced around a bit more, but since it was empty, who cares?
Little traffic, the sky as clear as a fake confession, I actually had squirreled away a few cigars in my field vest and I was puffing contentedly away as I motored down the highway.
An hour or so later, I realized I needed fuel. I saw I was only about 60 miles from the town of Shitewater, Nevada. They actually had a gas station. And an air hose.
How 20th century.
I wheel in and am greeted by an attendant.
“Gas, mister?”
“Yeah, fill’er up. Here are the keys, she has three tanks. Two saddle and one rear.”
“OK. No problem. Regular or high test?”
“She deserves the best ya’ got. Oh, and check the oil and blinker light fluid. I’ve been bush for the last month.”
“Can do!” he says and begins his tasks.
I see they have a little general store with their gas station. I wander over to see what they have that I didn’t know I couldn’t live without.
“Ding, ding,” dinged the door dinger.
An older silver-haired woman behind the counter greets me. I do so in return.
“Help you, son?” she asks.
“Thanks. Just lookin’ while getting gas.,” I reply.
“OK.”
“Jesus,” she exclaims, “That’s some hogleg you got there.”
I sort of forgot I was still wearing my sidearm.
“I apologize, ma’am. I am licensed.” I explain, “I can go lock it in my truck…”
“No need, sonny,” she says, “Everyone out here is carrying.”
“OK. Thanks. ‘Sides, I’m just window shopping,” I say.
I look around and decide on a couple of pounds of their homemade ‘desert jerky’. The free samples taste uber good and so it falls into that ‘don’t ask, they won’t tell’ you of what it’s made.
I bought the kids some cactus candy. They’ll get a kick out of that.
There’s this really nice custom made Bowie knife with a sheath that catches my eye. The matron explains that her husband makes them now since he’s retired.
“Yeah,” she says, “He used to be a miner. 40 years diggin’ out gold, silver, nickel, vanadium…”
“Vanadium?” I ask.
“Yep. From the Pandora’s Box mine. It’s not that far from here.” She says.
“Now there’s a coincidence,” I say, “I’m a geologist. I just am right now returning from that mine. Or, at least, where that mine used to be.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
I tell her that I’m with the Bureau, and what my team and I have been up to for the last couple of months.
“Wait here,” she asks, “ELMER!” she yells, “Come here, you got to meet this guy.”
Her husband Elmer walks out and greets me.
“Go on, son,” she asks, “Tell Elmer what you just told me.”
“Well, sir,” I said, “As I was telling your wife, my team and I are just returning from what used to be the Pandora’s Box mine. We blasted that mine good and shut. It was abandoned, worked out, and was a potential death trap. We closed it down good and proper.”
Elmer looks crossly at me.
I wonder, did I say something wrong?
He grabs my hand and shakes it heartily.
“God damn, son. It’s about time!,” he exclaims, “About time someone killed that worthless pit.”
I just stood there, looking puzzled.
“Oh, she paid good when she paid, “he continued, “But she demanded blood sacrifice. I had many friends crippled by that mine. Then there was the gas. Fires, explosions, burnouts. Didn’t never kill no one, but sure scarred some for life. Then the pay run out. Then local kids used it as a hangout. Bad idea. But you can’t tell them that. I always said if they don’t close that hole, it’s gonna take some life.”
“Sir,” I say, “I can report to you, without fear of contradiction, that the Pandora’s Box mine will never harm another living being. My team and I saw to that.”
“Damn fine, son,” he says, “Who are you, if I may ask?”
“I’m Dr. Rocknocker, late of Houston, Albuquerque, and Reno. All my friends call me ‘Rock’,” I tell him.
“Well, Rock,” Elmer says, shaking my hand again, “I’m Elmer and this is my wife, Esme. Damn nice to meet you.”
“I’m sorry,” I ask, directing to the matron, “Your name again?”
“Oh. It’s Esme. Short for Esmeralda.,” she smiles, “My parents were very German.”
I just stood there with this very odd smile on my face.
“How’s this for a coincidence?,” I say, “Esme is my wife’s name, short for Esmeralda. Her parents are very German as well.”
She lights up, laughs, and pats me on the shoulder.
“Funny old thing, life,” Elmer notes.
Elmer shows me the Bowie knife I had my eye on. It’s a truly nice expression of the craft of knife making. Although, the asking price was a bit steep.
So, Elmer showed me the ‘private stock’ he and Esme made.
Elmer specialized in knives and Esme specialized in native jewelry.
I spent far too much, but it was from Es to Es. They gave me a dandy discount.
I also ended up with a Bowie knife, at a 40% discount.
I also got Elmer’s address and contact info. He said it would be fine if I wanted to interview him about the history of mining in this part of Nevada from a “grunts-eye view”.
After settling up with the gas jockey, plus an extra tenner for him as he scraped the bug juice and desert shmoo off my windshield, I’m back on the road, headed to Reno.
Four and a half hours later, I’m in Dr. Sam Muleshoe’s Reno Bureau office. I’m sipping his expensive hooch and he’s smoking one of my cigars.
The guys haven’t arrived yet. I figured it’s because they have three bladders to keep drained and I have only one.
They found the safety blitz behind my seat before we hit the highway.
It’s going to take me at least two-three days to finalize everything here before I leave.
Explosives manifests, and that annoying associated paperwork. Initial field reports. Expense accounts had to be padded. Letters of recommendation for my guys. Reports to their schools about their ‘grades’ and award of field credits. This is going to take some time.
Sam tells me that the hotel we stayed in still has plenty of room. The Bureau would foot the bill for another few days if that’s what it took.
Just then, Al, Chuck, and Leo stroll into Sam’s office.
“Well,” I say, “Looks like I fulfilled my contract. Even after all I did, you guys went ahead and lived.”
“Just made it back,” Al replies, “The truck’s back in the hands of the bureau and now we’re here.”
“Yes, you are,” I note, “All set to get back to the world?”
Three heads, in unison, shake no.
“Sam,” I ask, “Can the Bureau reserve four rooms for a couple of days? My guys need to decompress some before returning back to the daily grind.”
I slide a couple of cigars his way.
“I see no problem with that,” he replies, smiling. “Besides from the looks of all you, it’ll take you that long to scrape the Nevada desert off your epidermis.”
“OK, guys,” I say, “See you later. Make it tomorrow, at the hotel. Exit interviews. Al, Chuck, please clean and bring my Glocks. Now, the lot of you, shoo.”
Sam and I go over particulars for the rest of the day, at least until his private stock runs out.
“Let’s pick this up in a while,” Sam says, “Day after tomorrow. Leave me your keys, I’ll get the Bureau guys to give your truck the once over. Oh, if you want, you can leave the trailer here. Talked with Harry. No need for you to make a side trip to Albuquerque after all you guys have done. It’s Bureau property, after all. Let us worry about it.”
“I have…no objections,” I say, stone-faced. Sam laughs.
“Go get the shit you need for now out of your truck and we’ll drag you over to the hotel,” Sam says.
And true to his word, a Bureau employee drops me at the hotel.
Up to my room, after I see the guy’s signatures in the hotel register, I drop all my gear, pick up the phone and make a quick call.
“Hi, hon. We’re done,” I say, “In the hotel in Reno. A couple of days to finish up paperwork and I’ll be on the way home. Love to you and the girls.”
I hate talking to answering machines, but Es was out with the kids evidently.
Drawing the shades after remembering Myanmar, I lock the door, I peel and traipse to the bathtub.
“Calgon, take me away…” bubble, bubble.
It’s been a long couple of months.
Later, I work on the mountain of paperwork and finalize all the exit interviews.
Chuck, Al, and Leo will be leaving tomorrow. They want to take me to dinner tonight at some local hotspot before they depart.
“Thanks, guys. We’ll see,” I say, “I’ve got to work through this bookkeeping. Call me around 1900, I should know by then.”
“Rock,” Leo says, forcefully, “No fucking way. We’re taking you to dinner and you’re damn well gonna be there. Got that, mister?”
I poof an exclamation.
“Message received’, I laugh. “OK. See you in the lobby at 1900 hours.”
“Sir!” I add. “Now scat.”
“Yeah, he’ll do fine.” I smile, returning to my paperwork.
I work through the landslide of form-filling and filing. I talk with Es and she was out at the park, feeding the ducks with the kids. I realize that’s gonna cost me. Everything else is going along well at home. They’re all eagerly awaiting my return.
Back to my pencil-pushing. Letters finished. Interviews annotated. Manifests finally finished. I take a break, pour myself a cocktail, fire up a smoke, and look at the clock.
“What the fuck, over?” I wonder, “Two hours ago it was 1300 hours. Now it’s 1830. Damn.”
Paperwork-induced time-warp.
I meet the guys in the lobby. Leo has laid on cabs for us. He’s taking us all to the Eldorado Resort’s Roxy Bistro and Restaurant.
Or, as Leo puts it, “His father is…”.
We have no protestations.
We arrive at the resort and it’s packed. No visible empty tables. And they don’t take reservations.
Leo saunters up, elbows us aside and says: “Gentlemen, this is my turf. Watch and learn.”
Ten minutes later, we’re seated at one of the nicer tables in the restaurant. We already have a round of Rocknocker cocktails before us.
“I bribed the bartender,” Leo smiles and tips his glass in the time-honored Midwestern tradition.
We salute his ingenuity.
Amuse-bouche arrives as do the menus.
Tiny cognac-boiled quail eggs on a bed of puréed mushrooms. The pre-appetizers are tiny, delicate, and very, very rich.
The menus are varied, but beef heavy. I could go for a nice steak, but for some odd reason, there are no prices listed on the menus.
Leo pipes up, “Gents, by your discretion. I’m buying. Have what you want, stuff the price. It’s the very least I could do.”
“Well, then,” I say, “Let’s see if they have something off the menu.”
Leo asks what I’m up to.
“Well,” I say, “They have ribeye, New York strip, and T-bone. They must have a porterhouse or two hanging around back there.”
Chuck, Leo, and Al look at me, nod, smile, and fold their menus.
“Porterhouse sounds good.” They all concur. “Brilliant, Herr Doctor.”
Leo gives the garçon the high sign. He hurries over.
He and Leo converse for a few seconds and the garçon scurries off.
“He’s checking,” Leo reports.
The garçon returns and says that, yes, they do have dry-aged and hung porterhouse steak available. But, it will have to be cut to order, and that’s going to be expensive, he warns.
Leo dismisses that thought with a backward wave of his hand.
“I’d like one, 20 ounces, done medium. Mushrooms, corn, and a baked potato.” Leo orders.
The garçon is scribbling like mad on his order pad.
Al orders the same, though medium-rare. Chuck ups the ante to a 24-ounce steak, medium-rare as well.
They all sit and stare at me, knowing that a circus is about to erupt.
“Hmm…no grilled bierkaese sandwiches? Pity. OK, guess I’ll not break a new tradition. I’d like a porterhouse, 40 ounces, done blue. Grilled mushrooms and onions, corn, no potato, please.” I request.
The garçon writes down the order, declares “Very good, sir,” and scurries off.
Leo, Al, and Chuck look disappointed.
“Well, hell. That wasn’t any fun at all,” Leo groans.
The dinner came with house-made rolls, soup, and salad course.
Oh, yes; very nice.
Our steaks begin to arrive. They look and smell bloody wonderful.
After this, the sommelier arrives and places two free-standing ice buckets on opposite sides of the table. He brings a large bottle up to Leo. He inspects it and evidently it passed muster. Both ice buckets receive one of their own.
The sommelier stands at rapt attention.
Leo continues, “Rock, remember that Dom you had for us out in the field”?
Chuck snickers, “How can we forget?”
Leo continues, “It’s not that it was bad, or bounced around the back of your truck for a month or two in the desert heat. It was a 1991. Terrible year” he shudders.
“If you say so,” I reply.
The sommelier is shaking his head in fervent agreement.
“Now this is the real McCoy,” Leo asserts, “Dom Perignon, 1963. It’s the best.”
Leo gives the sommelier the high sign. He goes through the oenophile’s safety dance, Leo sips a soupçon and pronounces it fit.
We are all poured a glass. In a real champagne glass, not a Solo cup to be seen.
Leo proposes a toast to us all and our futures.
CLINK!
I don’t care what anyone says, it still reminds me of bubbly furniture polish.
We finish dinner, which was spectacular. They are actually one of the few who knew how to do blue.
A person pushing a cart appears.
“Oh, I can’t,” I say, “The pot is full.”
Leo is aghast.
“Doctor Rocknocker! Turning down a cigar?”
“Oh, my apologies. Thought that was the dessert cart.” I said.
The cheapest cigar on the cart was $45. I joked that I’d take a box. I instead chose one that was $65.
It was exquisite. I asked for the cigar’s pedigree. I’d quite like to look them up and see if they’re available in Houston. For only very special occasions.
Leo arranged for me to receive the information.
The check arrives after our second round of after-dinner brandies.
Leo grabs it, signs it, and returns it to the garcon.
“Don’t worry, guys. This one’s on me. Dad actually. Whatever.” Leo smiles.
We stand up, walk out, and into the resort’s lobby.
“Well, I’m off gambling. Anyone want to accompany me?” Leo asks.
“Leo,” I remind him, “Let’s not backslide.”
“But I’m just trying to be…,” he replies, “Oh. Yeah. Gotcha.”
Leo decides he wants to try his luck at craps. I could never figure that game out as I choose to cab it back to the hotel. Al and Chuck are going to hang around, just for shits and giggles.
I bid them goodnight and head back to my room.
The next day, it’s early and everyone’s up, packing their cars.
I understand why Leo didn’t want to take his new Cayenne into the field.
Sheesh. A Porsche SUV.
I’m hanging around one extra day, so I’m seeing everyone off.
Al, Chuck, and I all shake hands. There’s the obligatory small talk and promises to stay in touch. We all know these white lies. We’ll try, but life is never a guarantee.
“Drive safe, guys,” I say, “It’s been a privilege.”
With that, Chuck and Al wheel out of the Bureau’s back lot, and down the road in opposite directions.
Leo is taking a bit longer, with his all leather six-piece matched luggage set.
Well, Leonard,” I say, “I guess this is it. It was a bit shaky at first, but I’m pleased to tell you, you’ve really made some huge strides this last month.”
“Yeah, no shit.,” Leo smiles, “I suppose my Dad’s going to be in for a bit of a shock. But, that’s on him. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, right?”
“Leo,” I say, “Remember when we first met and you told me how your Dad worked to get you here?”
“Yeah? So?” he asks.
“I recall you said he ‘ran to your major professor’ after he found out I was running the show,” I noted.
“Yeah?” Leo was sore perplexed.
“You also said this all occurred after your father did some research on me,” I added.
“Yes…?” Leo said.
“Well, maybe,” I said, “Just maybe, your father had an ulterior motive…?”
Leo stopped, looked at me, and just pondered.
“Maybe…,” I said, “He was intent on my tutelage for you for some reasons beyond the scientific…?”
Leo’s eyes went wide.
“Fuckbuckets. I never thought of that.” He said.
“OK,” I replied, “Now you have something to keep you occupied on your way home. Drive safe, Leo. Keep in touch. Stay lucky.”
We shake hands, Leo gets into his ridiculous contraption and eases out of the lot and down the road.
“I hate long goodbyes,” I muse.
Back in Sam’s office, I deposit the pile of paperwork I had completed for this project. There will be more reports later, but my expense account’s been vetted, and Sam hands me a nice check, which includes a healthy bonus.
“We can cash that here for you before you go if you want,” Sam notes.
“Thanks. I’m good,” I say, “I’m leaving the trailer, as expected. I’m hot-footing it back to Houston, so that’s 32 plus hours driving. Definitely have to take a night’s snooze somewhere along the line. Besides that, if my truck’s ready, I am as well. I appreciate everything, Sam. We’ll be in touch.”
“We will,” Sam replies, “Stay safe, you old pyro and other kinds of maniac. Your truck’s in back, ready to roll. See you on the flip side.”
We shake hands, I get to my truck and saddle up. After a very quick stop at the hotel to retrieve my leftover gear, I toss it in the back of my truck and prepare to hit the road.
I’m just about to hit it when a courier runs into the hotel. I’m futzing around, getting everything in road-trip order. A second or two later, I hear a knock on the window of my truck.
“You ‘Dr. Rocknocker’?” he asks.
“Yep,” I reply.
“Please sign here.” As he hands me a clipboard.
I scribble my unintelligible signature.
He hands me a package.
It’s a box of cigars from last night. Leo bought them from the restaurant and sent them here before he left.
“That’s going to make the drive that much more interesting.” I think.
Reno to Vegas. Vegas to Phoenix. Overnight in Tucson. On to El Paso, hard south at Ozona. Follow I-10 through San Antonio. Schuss through San Antone, next stop, Houston.
Made it intact. Damn, it’s good to be back home again.
After greetings and customary present disbursement, Esme leads me to my office. There are piles of mail.
There are three that are marked important.

We have a contractor in New Mexico. We can begin our dream house.
A road on our New Mexico property has been dozed. Here’s the bill. I fish the Bureau check out of my wallet. Oh, well. Easy come, easy go.
It’s a telegram from the Middle East. They’ve accepted my revised offer. They want me there in three months.

Well, as I say, it’s nut cuttin’ time.
“Es, can you and the kids be ready to move in three months?”
“We can, Rock,” she affirms, “Is that the letter from the Middle East?
“Yeah,” I say.
“And…” she prompts.
“They’ve made us an offer we can’t refuse. Especially with the new house being started.”
“Well,” Es smiles, “Guess I need to call Sally, my realtor friend. Looks like we have a house to sell...”

I posted this in a UFO related sub, but I thought people may find it interesting here too. Sorry for the length, but it involves three incidents that I believe are all connected.
I have had three encounters involving UFOs between 2003 and 2005. I was born and raised in Northern California in the Sacramento Valley. It is an incredibly rural area surrounded by orchards and cattle pastures. On August 17th 2003 I was driving from my Grandmother's home in Gridley, California to my home in Live Oak, California. This is a roughly 7 mile drive, I take the back road, Township Road and at 10:00 PM, there was absolutely no one around on the road.
I was surrounded by orchards and farm houses. My 1986 Ford LTD would always have electrical problems and it was no shock to me when my lights started flashing erratically on their own. The radio started getting nothing but hissing static. I pulled over, thinking my alternator was going out.
The moment I stopped the car, I noticed an incredibly bright blue light coming from across the street on my left. I looked over at the orchard and I saw a triangle shaped craft hovering about ten feet above the tree. There was a column of bright blue light coming out of the craft and illuminating the dirt on the ground. The triangle rotated slowly but made no noises whatsoever. Around the edges of the craft were pulsating blue lights, but every other feature of the craft was glossy black.
The craft itself was very wide, yet it was probably less than six feet tall. My automatic locks in the car were moving up and down. I shut the car off and I opened the door, I was contemplating walking across the street and into the orchard to get a better look. The moment I stepped my foot onto the street I felt incredibly dizzy and nauseous. In that moment, I thought that something horrible would happen to me if I went closer to the object.
This was before I had a cell phone and there were no cars anywhere around me. I quickly closed my door and tried to start my car. It started easily and I drove as fast as I could. I looked in the mirror behind me and saw that the craft was still there. I told my younger brothers, but I kept it to myself, mostly.
This was a small town and I was already seen as the weird writer, artist guy. I didn't want to be mocked even more than I already was. To be honest, Beale Air Force Base is about 30 miles from where I saw the craft and the first thing I thought was that this had to be some find of test flight. Then I realized that if this were a top secret, silent stealth craft, why the hell would it be out in the open. This was a small town, but not exactly desolate. There were homes a few miles away from where I had stopped the car, if this was the government’s idea of a secret, they were doing a lousy job.
A year later (I don't have the exact date, but it was in August as well), I was in Gridley, California at my Grandma and Grandpa's farm on French Avenue. They have eight acres of property and there are other farms surrounding them. About a mile away is a huge wildlife refuge called Grey Lodge. The stars light up the night sky because there is practically zero light pollution, especially on a moonless night like the one in question. My father and I had just bailed the hay in the pasture and we were staring up at the sky.
Miles above us was an object zooming through the night sky, it was egg shaped and all we could really make out was a vibrant bright yellow light. My dad and I watched as the craft dropped rapidly toward the ground and suddenly stopped in mid air and hung in the air. If that wasn't odd enough, the craft shot back up and started doing loops in the air. My dad kept saying that this had to be from Beale Air Force base because of the way the aircraft was moving. It would hang in midair and suddenly appear on the left, then the right. It repeated these movements for about five minutes.
Then, it dropped down, plummeting toward the earth. Once again, the craft stopped and hung in the air. This time, without any sound at all, the craft split in two sections, each flying in separate directions. My dad just shook his head and started complaining. “How much do you think this fucking bullshit costs us taxpayers?” I laughed at him and we both went inside. I wasn’t so certain that this craft was from the base. Nothing on this planet moves like that. This craft was so fast, it almost appeared to teleport. It’s movements were fluid and graceful almost as if the sky itself was water and it was swimming through a sea of stars.
Living so close to Beale Air Force Base, my family and I would often attend the annual air shows. I’ve seen all manner of aircraft performing stunts and I’ve never seen anything move like that, let alone split into two pieces. My last experience also has something to do with Beale Air Force Base. It was on January 16th, 2005. It was my 23rd birthday and I usually try to celebrate with a solo driving adventure. I decided to drive from my Grandmother’s home in Gridley, CA to a small gold mining town called Grass Valley. It’s a very cool little town that has many of its historical, Victorian era buildings still in tact.
There is also an abandoned insane asylum nearby that attracts ghost hunters. I just wanted to browse through the old book stores and shops. I was there for hours. At the time, I had a cell phone, but it wasn’t that dependable and this far up in the hills, the reception was a bit of a gamble anyway. When night fell, I decided to head for home. I had a much better car, a 1995 Oldsmobile.
This car was a lot more dependable than my previous car, but I didn’t want to get stuck on the side of the road with a so-so cell phone. When I stopped to get gas, there was a beat up red studebaker pickup truck next to me. Its owner was a portly oldman with a long, bushy beard. As I pumped gas, he stared down the freeway and started laughing. I saw headlights coming our way from the highway. The old man turned next to me and asked if I lived around there.
I told him no and he said that there have been a lot of military vehicles driving down the Nevada City Highway through Grass Valley for the past few days. He noticed that at around 8 or 9, a convoy of camouflaged trucks with government license plates would roll through town. Every single night it would be around the same time. It was 8:30 and a lot of trucks were headed our way. While it was dark, the lights from the gas station lit up the road enough to see the green trucks roll by. Each one had a canvas top over the bead of the truck. The first ten or so trucks were nearly identical military trucks. The kind you see in every episode of M.A.S.H. then there were two black Lincoln Continentals that drove past, followed by an enormous flatbed truck.
A large black tarp was draped over a large, gun metal grey oval shaped object. There were two more Lincoln’s following the truck. After that, they were gone as fast as they came. I asked the old man where he thought they were going. He turned to me and laughed. I’ll never forget what he told me. “Don’t you know, Beale is the new Area 51.” Once he gassed up, the old man jumped in his truck and drove away. I drove back home with an eerie feeling. If this was a secret government project, this was a terrible way to keep a secret.

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