An Isolated Peace

Matthews's report was followed by acknowledgments from each echelon.

With that, our column picked up speed as well.

The open plains and vineyards fell away, and a landscape worthy of western Colorado's largest city unfurled before us. The great red sandstone cliffs of the Colorado National Monument wrapped the city's southwest like a folding screen. Ahead, two rivers — the Colorado and the Gunnison — joined to carve a broad valley basin, split east from west by US Route 50.

What I saw was a stranger country still than Canada, California, or Nevada had ever been. That a city of sixty thousand like Grand Junction could serve as the economic and cultural heart of an entire region felt at once familiar and alien. Born and raised in a Seoul of ten million, I was reminded all over again of how vast and empty this American land really was — the same way Carson City, population fifty thousand, had been the capital of Nevada.

The thought didn't last. Before I knew it, our column had followed the main body into downtown Grand Junction. The streets were quieter than I'd expected, and more shops were shuttered than open. The traffic lights were dead, but at every intersection, armed local police or militia directed traffic by hand. Their eyes were full of wariness toward unfamiliar outsiders, but they didn't block the road.

Then Jake's voice came over the radio.

Site B was one of several candidates we'd assigned coded names to on the map before we rolled out — a private arrangement, in case anyone was listening in. Then Frank came through with unexpected news.

We kept rolling along US Route 50. When we reached the Walmart, we pulled the armored vehicle and my truck onto the shoulder. Gunner and I climbed into the F-550 Carlos was driving ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and headed in.

And I understood immediately why Frank had said we'd find them easy enough.

The massive Walmart parking lot had already become a market that put Tahoe's bazaar and Carson's trading post to shame. Even in that crush of people, one stall had a line stretching out from it — Frank and the Anderson family's setup. As we got closer, I could see Anderson and Smith selling salmon, nuts, cigarettes, coffee, even ammunition.

Anderson and Smith, minding the stall, spotted us and broke into wide grins.

"Polar Bear! What brings you all the way out here?"

"We're heading out together."

"Well I'll be — Gunner's here too. That's a comfort. Haha."

We exchanged warm handshakes, then I asked after Frank. Anderson pointed into the crowd.

"Ah, Frank's off with Walker hunting down some other goods. He'll be back shortly."

I scanned the goods on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠display. Salmon, nuts, ammo. But the most important item was missing.

"Why no eggs?"

Anderson's face fell at the question.

"Those damn chickens haven't been laying well — too much stress from all the moving, I suppose. We barely have enough for our own people right now."

"Salmon holding up?"

"Heh. We've got so much salmon we could hang frozen fillets on the trucks instead of armor plate. We're fine."

Gunner, standing beside me, furrowed his brow.

"We're not getting any more food coming in after this. Do we really need to be selling it?"

Anderson shrugged.

"That's what I thought too, but Frank sees it different. Says you've got to put out bait like this if you want the people with the stuff we actually need to come sniffing around..."

I looked around at the stalls filling the Walmart parking lot. Chaotic, but buzzing with life — far busier than the trading posts at Tahoe or Carson.

Then Frank came pushing through the crowd, grinning from ear to ear. It hadn't been long since we'd split up, but we shook hands like it had been.

"Did you get it, Frank?"

"The owners'll be bringing them over shortly."

"Owners?"

"Haha. You think they'd be selling those at a place like this?"

Frank shot the question right back at me.

"So why set up a stall here in the first place?"

He puffed up a little, clearly pleased with himself.

"Chan, how am I supposed to find goods and gather intel wandering a city this size by myself? You put the honey pot where the flies already swarm. And thanks to that, I learned a few things."

"Haha. This guy. I swear, he's an operator."

Gunner threw in the assist, and Frank, clearly on a roll, kept going.

"And I found out Grand Junction is exactly the right city for getting what the boss wants."

"Yeah? What's that?"

I asked, smiling. Frank dropped his voice.

"Turns out this city's surrounded by shale gas drilling rigs. That's why they still don't know what an energy shortage ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠looks like. The place is actually still running."

"And those drilling operations need Geiger counters?"

"That too — but the real prize was something else."

"The real prize?"

"This whole area is riddled with uranium mines. Operations are all shut down now, of course. So I started asking around among the people who used to work them, and sure enough — every one of them had a counter or two sitting around."

I didn't say anything.

"They've got no use for them, so they've been sitting pretty in houses and offices. I told them if they bring them here, I'll pay a handsome price."

I had to admire Frank's hustle. At the same time, a strange irony settled over me. We had run from radiation for our lives — and the place we'd run to was a city ringed with uranium mines.

At that moment, Alpha echelon came through on my earpiece.

While I was answering the radio, a middle-aged man in worn work clothes approached the stall. Frank greeted him like an old friend.

It was the engineer who'd brought the radiation meter.

"This the one? Ludlum Model 3 Survey Meter. As you can see, it works just fine."

He held out the meter. The number on the display was unmistakable.

The technician glanced at the reading and put on a mildly surprised face.

"Huh. Running a little high today. Well, this area's full of mines, so it's usually a bit elevated anyway... Nothing wrong with the machine, don't you worry."

His casual tone told me everything. The terrible truth of Palo Verde hadn't reached the civilians here yet. Frank handed over the payment he'd prepared, as promised.

"Here you go, as agreed. Two frozen salmon, two hundred fifty rounds of 5.56. And coffee, a carton of cigarettes, and a bottle of Jack Daniel's."

The middle-aged engineer couldn't hide his smile as he loaded Frank's goods onto a hand cart. Then he wheeled it off toward another stall.

Gunner turned to Frank.

"Whoa. You paid him pretty damn well, didn't you?"

"Didn't have a choice. Figured in the fuel they burned hauling it over here. They all wanted to wait and deal when we come back in a few days — like that's an option."

"Yeah, fair enough. Not like we've got another play."

I figured it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was worth every bit of that. The first time we'd run into someone with radiation exposure — if I hadn't been right there, there was no telling how it would've gone sideways. Division troops might've searched a contaminated body without knowing, or confiscated gear and supplies that were hot.

Now that we had another radiation meter, I was already thinking about splitting them between the lead and rear columns. I turned to Frank.

"Frank, what's the mood like around here? Colorado in general?"

The smile left Frank's face.

"This place has its own problems."

"Figured. What kind?"

I waited.

"For starters, the whole state's split down the middle by the Rocky Mountains. East and west are basically doing their own thing."

"Like Arizona?"

"It's not that kind of political mess. Grand Junction specifically is using shale gas as a weapon — running out of step with the state government. And the state doesn't seem to have any real way to bring them in line."

"Well, yeah. Block a few roads and..."

"Exactly. Except those few roads are in a pretty ridiculous situation."

"Ridiculous how?"

"The mountain passes — Glenwood Canyon, Monarch Pass, places like that — there are people collecting tolls. Call themselves the Canyon Rats, the Mountain Reapers, that kind of thing."

"Sanjeok."

Frank and Gunner both looked at me, puzzled.

"Sanjeok?"

"It's Korean. Means bandits or gangs that hole up in the mountains and hold the passes."

Frank clicked his tongue.

"That's exactly it. The funny part? The state government over in Denver pays those bandits a toll just to come get energy from here. They're getting shaken down twice, basically."

"So it's not completely sealed off."

"Here's the even funnier part. They shake down everything leaving this place — but they let traffic coming in from Denver go through."

"Which means..."

"Right. Those bandits are probably in bed with the local powers."

"Hah. So whatever happens around here gets passed along to them."

"That's about the size of it..."

Listening to Frank, I was beginning to understand the quiet. This was a region you could cut off from the world just by blocking a handful of canyon roads through the mountains — and the various factions here were keeping it that way, bound together in a strange kind of cooperation.