Pie

Alpha and Bravo echelons vanished eastward in succession. While I was checking over the rest of the column, the commander of the Ely garrison came walking toward my truck.

It was Jackson, the officer in charge of the Ely forward base, a major's oak leaf on his shoulder. Matthews had introduced us before we rolled out, so we were acquainted — but I had said nothing to him about Palo Verde. He still seemed to know nothing at all.

"Polar Bear. A word, if I may."

"What is it, Major."

"I thought you'd want to hear this."

I waited.

"We just received intelligence that the 3rd Brigade boys have crossed the state line and started setting up a camp."

"Where?"

"About thirty miles north of Winnemucca, near Orovada."

I said nothing.

"That's not all. A few hours ago, an unidentified armed group showed up in Wells — about a hundred and fifty-five miles north of Ely — and tried to loot the place. They're currently engaged with our National Guard."

I couldn't keep the surprise off my face. They were moving faster than Gibson had predicted. Major Jackson seemed to read the look and added, as if to put me at ease.

"Don't worry too much. Thanks to the Union's cooperation, the forward bases at Wells and Winnemucca are well fortified."

"Even so — if the enemy is pitching camp inside state territory..."

"Command appears to have chosen a strategy of waiting."

"So they're deliberately letting the 3rd Brigade occupy Orovada?"

"That's how it looks. My guess is they'll wait until the 3rd Brigade establishes a foothold, then throw Reno's air assets at them and wipe them out in one stroke."

I held my tongue.

"So don't worry. Just build us a solid Union outpost in Utah. We'll still need your help going forward, won't we?"

He understood our movement as the establishment of a new Union base in Utah. He had no idea the entire Union was leaving Nevada.

I chose my words, then answered lightly, the way I always did.

"Of course. We need to restore the logistics with Utah."

I pulled a carton of cigarettes and a tub of instant coffee mix from the truck and handed them over.

"In times like these, this kind of thing comes in handy more often than you'd think."

A smile spread across Jackson's face.

"Haha. I should've known. I'll take them gratefully."

After the major returned to base, we hurried our departure. Winter and warlords were blowing down from the north; a wind of death from the south. We had to thread the needle between those two fronts.

As Charlie and Delta echelons rolled out, Ely's residents came out along the roadside in twos and threes, waving. In this little rural city of barely four thousand souls, our procession itself was a spectacle. People who spotted the polar bear plate on my truck waved, and some even doffed their worn hats in respect.

Leaving Nevada to their cheers, having said nothing of the disaster coming their way, sat heavy in a corner of my heart. I just kept my hands on the wheel.

Gunner, in the passenger seat, spoke quietly.

"Our good-hearted boss. Weighing on you, huh."

"Doesn't change a thing. In the end you still have to make the selfish call."

And so we faced Nevada's endless expanse once more.

US Route 50 stretched southeast all the way to the horizon, and the column of vehicles filling that road looked like another horizon unto itself. To either side, two great mountain ranges stood like folding screens in the far distance. To the left, the Snake Range uncoiled like a serpent; to the right, the Egan Range's sawtooth ridgeline faded into a faint silhouette. The vast basin between them was still as primordial earth, as if time itself had stopped.

After racing nearly twenty miles down a road as straight as a desert runway, a radio call came in from Matthews at the head of the column.

Our column wound along the gentle road crossing the Egan Range. The landscape differed from the barren basin, but these were not mountains thick with tall trees. Nothing but skeletal junipers and scrub — Nevada mountains through and through.

We crossed the range without incident, passed through the little settlement of Majors Place, and met another road stretching straight as a runway. The column recovered the speed it had lost. After a long stretch, a weathered sign for Great Basin National Park slid past, but to my eyes it was nothing but endless, desolate desert.

As the tedious driving wore on, a radio call came from Mike, who had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠joined the lead element.

Every last one of Polaris's vehicles assembled at the rest point near the Route 487 junction. When I climbed down from the truck, Wolf hopped down after me, tail wagging.

The sight of our entire column lined up along the shoulder of a road cutting through the heart of the desert was a spectacle in itself. I moved up and down the line, encouraging the weary union members and Division troops.

"Roadhog. How's the truck?"

"Don't you worry, boss. Ever since Gears worked it over, she's running like a champ."

Colonel Gibson's family seemed to have settled into the column well. As I approached, Mrs. Elizabeth spoke first.

"Mr. Polar Bear — the satellite phone connected by luck today. I spoke with my husband."

"That's good to hear. How's Carson?"

"He said the north is a bit noisy, but there shouldn't be any major problems. And... rumors from the south have started trickling into Carson as well."

"And the Colonel?"

"...He said he'll get out once he no longer has a job to do."

I couldn't find anything more to say. Gibson had wanted to leave his wife even a sliver of hope, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but Elizabeth seemed to already understand what those words meant.

I looked over the column, lost in thought. Crossing the Nevada-Utah border was the most critical gate of this entire journey. I trusted Matthews and Mike, but this was a place where anything could happen. When fast judgment and action were needed, a commander had to be at the front. I returned to the truck and took the radio.

At my brief order, the column began to move again. I drove the Kenworth forward along the long procession. When I reached the front, Matthews and Mike opened a gap in the formation to make room. My position was right behind the lead Stryker and two Humvees.

The column, rest complete, rolled out again. After another ten miles or so, a Utah state sign stood alone on the road in the distance — and in front of it, like gatekeepers at a castle gate, four armed Humvees and one armored vehicle blocked the way.

Gunner looked at the outpost planted in the middle of the barren plain.

"Building a forward post in a place like that. The Utah boys know something, don't they."

"They may not know about Palo Verde, but they'll have a handle on the 3rd Brigade up north and the Iron Kingdom's movements. Nothing strange about it."

Our column came to a halt before the checkpoint. Matthews and Mike climbed down first and could be seen talking with the checkpoint personnel. After a moment, Mike pulled documents from his coat and explained something at length, but the soldiers' reaction was lukewarm.

At that, I got down from the truck. Wolf and Gunner followed without a word.

By the time I approached, Mike's voice had already risen. He was waving the official transport contract signed with the Nevada state government.

"Look here. It clearly says 'cargo transport for trade with the State of Utah'!"

When I drew near, the soldiers' eyes shifted subtly at the sight of an Asian man and the massive Wolf standing beside him. But the officer who appeared to be in charge of the checkpoint spoke bluntly.

"We can't let a column this heavily armed through. In this chaos, what are we supposed to trust you on?"

Gunner couldn't hold his temper and shot back, cynical as ever.

"Then how do we know you're real National Guard and not a bunch of deserters?"

Ryker, standing nearby, muttered just loud enough to be heard.

"The 3rd Brigade boys were National Guard too, originally."

As the atmosphere turned ugly, I said shortly,

In that instant, the Utah National Guard soldiers' eyes went cold, and hands moved to check their personal weapons. Mike stepped forward with both hands slightly raised.

"Whoa — whoa. Everybody settle down."

Meanwhile Gunner added one more.

"Hey. Take a look around and think it through, friends."

His words were a reminder that this might be a state border, but within a hundred klicks in every direction there was nothing but isolated wasteland. An implication that anything could happen here and it wouldn't be strange. Ryker added a line of his own.

"The 3rd Brigade boys got their bones picked clean in a field just like this."

As the situation teetered on a hair trigger, Mike tried to calm Gunner and the soldiers, but it wasn't easy. It wasn't so much hostility as a clash of pride.

Right then, Frank's voice came from behind.

"What the hell's taking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so long?"

Frank and Dave were loaded down with something in both hands. Dave strode toward the soldiers in the rear with a box of Red Bull and beer cans and started handing them out. Meanwhile Frank sidled up to the officer with his salesman patter.

"Looks like you're in the middle of official business, but time is money for us. You do us a courtesy, we'll make it worth your while."

He casually showed the coffee and cigarette cartons he was carrying. But the officer didn't budge.

"Communications with headquarters aren't reliable out here. Every decision is my responsibility."

"Even better! This isn't all we've got."

Just as Frank finished speaking, a cheerful pssht— sounded from behind the officer. Dave was already sharing drinks and beer with the soldiers. That single sound of a can cracking open shattered the taut tension as if it had never been.

Then a soldier approached the checkpoint commander and whispered something. The officer looked at me with startled eyes, then asked,

"You're... Polar Bear?"

"I am."

"The 3rd Brigade... how far south have they come?"

"They're setting up a camp in northern Nevada. But by now the Apaches that lifted off from Reno should be flying over their heads."

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lieutenant in charge of the checkpoint still looked plainly hesitant.

Right then, Sarah and Raven appeared from the rear of the column carrying a large tray. On it sat two steaming, mouthwatering shepherd's pies.

The rich smell of meat and butter spread through the cold air, and the eyes of the Utah National Guard soldiers — who had been chewing on canned rations for days — wavered openly. Sarah and Raven approached the soldiers without a word and began handing out warm slices of pie, one by one.

A young soldier who took a forkful of pie had the wariness on his face replaced by pure wonder. Starting from that, the taut standoff vanished without a trace, and an awkward warmth began to flow.

At last, the lieutenant let out a sigh and waved them through.