Bear
An old story surfaced without warning — the one I'd used a few days ago to talk my comrades into this.
Hannibal crossed the Alps with an army of elephants.
At the time it had been nothing but a figure of speech. Now we were going to have to do it for real: cross a frozen mountain range in the dead of winter, and maybe fight our way through an enemy while we did it.
Inside the trailer, the room was split.
"Wouldn't I-70 still be better? That's an interstate. Wider road, and there are tunnels — we'd have cover from the snow and the wind."
"Yeah, but the guys holding that stretch have bombs planted. Better to take US-50 even if it's colder and just stay out of a head-on fight."
The two sides were locked. I looked down at the map, sat with it for a moment, then made up my mind.
"We stick to the original plan. We take US Route 50."
Every eye in the room came to me. I traced the map with a finger as I laid it out.
"First — I-70 is Colorado's jugular, the main supply artery. That means the bandits will have their best people there, and the defenses will be tighter."
No one spoke.
"Second — the tunnels might keep the cold off, but they're a double-edged sword. If they seal the entrance, or if something goes wrong inside and we get bottled up, we're rats in a trap. No detour. No way out. A perfect kill zone."
Still silence.
"And in a closed space, a firepower advantage doesn't mean a damn thing. You can't flank, you can't envelop, you can't maneuver at all."
The man who'd been pushing for I-70 nodded.
"Yeah... if we get stuck in a tunnel, that's game over."
Once the decision was made, we moved straight to the next step.
"All right. Time to divide the work."
I looked at Frank.
"Frank, put a team together and make contact with the outfits collecting tolls along US-50. If we can get through without a fight, that's the best outcome. Find a way to negotiate."
Frank smiled like a man who already had this in the bag.
"Don't worry. Even the Denver government has been cutting deals in advance. I poke around Grand Junction a little, finding a contact point to these guys is nothing."
Then the salesman look faded, and he studied me with a question in his eyes.
"They're not going to ask for pocket change, though. How far are we willing to go?"
"Ten thousand rounds of ammo. Hell, I'll go as high as thirty thousand."
Frank's eyes went wide.
"What? Thirty thousand? Are you insane? Why would we throw that much at them? It'd be cheaper to hire mercenaries and just roll over them."
"Frank, listen. We've got over a hundred vehicles in this column. They already know we're moving, or they will soon. To them, we're a walking treasure vault."
He didn't argue.
"If they open the road and we don't have to fight, a few tens of thousands of rounds is a bargain. But food and fuel are off the table. That's our lifeline. No compromise there."
"Got it. Settle it with ammo. Okay, I'm on it."
Frank nodded, satisfied. I turned to Matthews.
"Matthews, when Frank moves, attach a few Division operators. Civilian clothes, not uniforms. We need to be ready if things go sideways."
"Understood. I'll pick the sharp ones — guys who can read a room and handle themselves."
I looked back at Frank with one last instruction.
"And while you're out negotiating, hit the markets and the shops. Winter running gear — antifreeze, chains, whatever you see. Scrape it all up."
Frank snorted and thumped his chest.
"Hey, Chan. I'm from Yellowknife too. Snow driving and winter prep? I'm your senior on that. Don't you worry about a thing."
His solid answer drew a brief laugh around the trailer. But outside the window, the dark silhouette of the Rocky Mountains still looked down on us — like a vast fortress wall.
"Jed, Mike. I need every vehicle in the column inspected, top to bottom."
I looked from one to the other.
"Engine, transmission, tires, heater. Anything that looks shaky, we cut it before we leave. If a rig dies on the mountain, we can't even dump it."
Jed nodded, his face grim.
"That's the truth of it. Ain't no wrenching on a rig at forty-five below. Near enough impossible."
Then Mike spoke up.
"Chan, if we scrap the old cars and the trucks that aren't holding up, we're going to be short on space for the people riding in them."
"That's the worry, yes."
"What if we empty a couple of cargo containers, throw some insulation in, and convert them into makeshift bunks? We can shuffle the ammo around."
"That works."
Mike thought for a moment.
"How much time do we have to work with?"
"Factoring in Frank's negotiations and the supply run... at least two or three days, wouldn't you say?"
"Good. That should be enough."
His confidence eased something in my chest. I called Matthews, Ryker, Jake, and Cody over.
"Matthews, Ryker, Jake, Cody."
All four locked onto me at once.
"I need you to gather precise location and firepower intel on the raider outfit along US-50 — the so-called Mountain Reapers. Drone recon is baseline. If you have to, go in close and confirm with your own eyes."
"Understood."
"One condition. Do not expose our military capability to them ahead of time."
Ryker asked as if he'd already guessed.
"In case the talks fall through?"
"No. Even if the deal goes through, we can't trust them completely. Bandits are bandits. The second we show a weak spot, they'll put a knife in our back."
I tapped the likely points on the map, making the orders concrete.
"Their main checkpoints. High ground that looks like an ambush site. Terrain we can use to bypass them or pick them off one by one if it comes to a fight. Get me everything that's tactically useful."
"Understood, Commander."
Finally I looked at Dave.
"Dave, look after the civilian column. Parkas, sleeping bags, hand warmers — make sure nothing's short. Especially the vehicles with elderly and kids. Check the heat twice. Three times."
"Don't worry, Chan. I'll look after them the way I look after my own mother. If we're short on anything, I'll squeeze it out of Frank."
Dave's hearty answer seemed to take some of the tension out of the room. In the eyes of the men who'd just received their assignments, there was a hard resolve.
We weren't standing still. We were only catching our breath before we climbed something higher and harder.
I found Tank and Bill next.
"Tank, put together a trailblazer team — truckers and Division operators both."
"I'll take it."
Tank's answer was a low rumble. I turned to Bill.
"Bill, I need a plan for if a vehicle dies or falls behind on the move. Speed doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that we don't stop."
"You mean dumping problem vehicles, or having the spare capacity to haul extra cargo?"
"That's it. Stop on the mountain and we all die. Tow it immediately or shift the load and keep moving."
"I'll slot trucks with leftover towing capacity into the civilian column at intervals. Roadhog's rig's got power to spare now, so... I'll have to rerun the truck condition and weight numbers. Got it."
With that, everyone had their assignment, and the meeting was over.
Alone in the trailer, I reached down and scratched Wolf's head where he lay at my feet. His warmth came up through my fingertips.
Tomorrow another war begins.
The long day wound down, and morning came.
A strange vitality hung over the laager camp from early morning.
Jed and Gears had the maintenance crew crawling under the trucks, checking antifreeze and oil, while Mike threw welding sparks converting empty containers. Dave was with the Anderson family, packing thick blankets and emergency rations into the family vehicles and checking every last detail.
There was a kind of energy in the way everyone moved. Perhaps it was the vague hope that once we crossed the Rocky Mountains — the spine running through this enormous country — some kind of peace would be waiting on the other side.
The day tore past in a blur. The following evening, Frank came to my trailer.
His face was not good. The usual salesman cheer was gone. He looked like he'd been chewing glass.
"What's going on, Frank? Talks not going well?"
He dropped onto the sofa and let out a long breath.
"Haaah. They won't listen. The Mountain Reapers holding the approach to Monarch Pass. Something about Black Bear's rules..."
"Black Bear?"
"Funny, right? Guy's probably never even seen a real bear in his life. Anyway, I finally got a line to their boss, Black Bear, and ammo doesn't even get us in the door."
"So what do they want?"
"A fuel tanker. A full one. They want the whole damn truck."
Frank was fuming.
"They're out of their minds. I talked myself hoarse and it didn't move them an inch. Tanker or no road. That's it."
I sat with that for a moment.
"So they've had eyes on the whole column."
"Looks like it. They've probably had scouts on us since we rolled into Grand Junction. They knew exactly how many tankers we're running."
"Hmm. Tell them we'll think about it."
"What?!"
Frank nearly came off the sofa.
"You're not actually going to give it to them? Do you know what that's worth? And without that fuel we could be in real trouble once we're over the mountain."
I looked him dead in the eye and said his name, low and even.
"Frank."
That one word. His pupils shifted, and his expression changed as he caught my meaning.
"Ah... got it. I'll stall them. Keep it looking natural."
"Good. And even if the deal goes through, tell them we hand over the goods after the whole column is safely through. We leave it at the tail end."
Frank grinned.
"Heh. Got it. The tail end, huh... That's funny, though."
"What is?"
"Black Bear."
"?"
"You're Polar Bear. So it's a black bear versus a polar bear. Hahaha."