BMNT
Listening to Frank, I finally understood why this stretch of country had been so unnervingly still. Clamp down on a handful of roads threading the narrow gorges between the ranges, and you held a fortress that was also a prison — one that controlled everything that moved. The killing cold and the brutal mountains were a barrier nature had already built. Into those gaps the raiders had slipped, appointing themselves gatekeepers, and out of that arrangement a deformed kind of order had taken shape. That was the true face of the silence now ruling western Colorado.
Gunner let out a dry chuckle.
"Black Bear, huh... pretentious name. For a scavenging omnivore that just pokes around everywhere."
Frank didn't laugh.
"Don't laugh it off. Even in the wild, black bears aren't animals you take lightly. They're the ones that go after people more often than grizzlies. Meaner. More persistent."
Frank's analogy sank in with a strange, heavy precision. This wasn't going to be a squabble with mountain bandits collecting a toll. It felt like a fated collision between two packs of predators, both thrashing to survive the coming winter and the radiation. A white bear come down from the north, and a black bear that had claimed these mountains. A fight that would not end until one of them yielded.
Frank went on.
"No way they stop at one tanker. Who knows when they'll change the terms. Those bastards will try to pick us clean to the bone."
I shook my head.
"They won't."
"Huh? Why not?"
"They know. If they cut the road completely so nobody comes through, they're the ones who'll starve."
"..."
"They're parasites, not hunters. That's why they make demands that give you pause — but that you'll ultimately give in to."
Frank's eyes narrowed.
"So what you're saying is... they know we have exactly three tankers, and they applied their own little tax rule of exactly one-third?"
"That's how it looks."
"Ha, I'll be damned. Bandits with a sense of proportion, is that it? Then maybe I should go try talking them down a bit more. If I play it right, maybe we settle for some fuel or food..."
Frank made the offer like a man who still had something left to haggle over. I cut him off.
"Waste of time. You negotiate when the balance of power is even. Right now we need to show strength and establish order. There's no law that says Black Bear is the only one sitting on these choke points."
"Order, huh... Alright. I get what you mean. Then I'll head out and scrape together as much more intel as I can."
Frank stood, opened the trailer door, and nearly walked into Matthews, Ryker, Jake, and Cody, who had been waiting outside. He tapped their shoulders as he passed.
"I'm counting on you boys. That's my precious fuel on the line."
Frank left, and the four of them took their seats in front of me. I welcomed them in.
"Good work. What's the situation?"
Matthews spread the map he'd brought onto the table and began his report.
"Reporting results of the first reconnaissance. Currently, along US-50 running southeast from the laager camp through Delta, Olathe, and into Montrose, there are no direct threat forces."
He tapped several points on the map with his finger.
"However, at these locations we've identified multiple sites suspected to be Black Bear reconnaissance teams or observation posts."
Ryker picked it up from beside him.
"They're not just watching. We've picked up indications that gas station and shop owners in the towns are colluding with them. The local residents appear to be cooperating with Black Bear, or living in a symbiotic relationship with them."
I'd expected as much. If Grand Junction was an isolated island, the satellite towns around it were already under the raiders' influence.
"Wait. Wasn't Black Bear supposed to be the nickname of the Mountain Reapers' leader?"
"Ah — about that. The Mountain Reapers were the original raider group, and after that several other groups sprang up. This Black Bear character absorbed them. So the residents seem to use the names interchangeably."
"Figures for this neck of the woods... Anyway, where does Black Bear actually block the traffic and throw his weight around? Where's the stronghold?"
Jake stepped in.
"Helicopter reconnaissance shows their first blocking line is near the Cerro Summit wildlife refuge, east past Montrose. We've confirmed an armed outpost along the roadside there."
"The stronghold?"
"Judging by the size and layout, it looks like an outpost. We estimate the main base is around Monarch Pass, or deeper in the mountains."
I studied the map. Cerro Summit sat at roughly two thousand meters. On paper, it didn't look that rugged.
"Looks pretty ordinary for an ambush site."
Jake shook his head.
"It does on the map. In reality, the road runs through a gorge with fairly high hills rising on both sides. Plenty of blind corners. A perfect bottleneck."
"Hmm..."
"They probably made a practical compromise — garrisoning any deeper would be too difficult because of the temperature."
He paused, then delivered the piece that mattered most.
"And... they've built fighting positions on the ridgelines on both sides of the outpost. Three M2 heavy machine guns on each side — six total — trained on the road."
"Six M2s?"
I heard myself repeat it. Six heavy machine guns throwing 12.7-millimeter. I couldn't quite hide the shock. We'd plated the trucks and reinforced them, but the penetrating power of 12.7 was a different league. A civilian vehicle would come apart like paper. Even a truck's engine block would struggle to hold.
Matthews's face was grim.
"That's correct. If they pour crossfire down from the high ground... a forced passage would mean accepting considerable casualties."
I said nothing.
"Based on the combined intelligence, we assess a garrison of platoon strength or greater at the Cerro Summit outpost."
"Hmm."
"Back-calculating from the barracks scale captured on drone thermal cameras, traces of outdoor cooking, and the number of sentries rotating every hour, it looks like at least forty to fifty. On top of that, there were over twenty vehicles parked in the lot behind the outpost."
Too large, and too well organized, to write off as a simple bandit gang.
"That size, and it's not the main base?"
"Based on vehicle movements and various other indicators, the main base appears to be elsewhere."
Jake cut in.
"Hold on. If all they've got is machine guns, couldn't we just push through with our Strykers up front?"
Ryker shook his head.
"Won't work. A Stryker's base armor maxes out at 7.62-millimeter AP. The front's got MEXAS ceramic add-on, so it might hold — but the flanks would be punched through."
"Ah... right."
Jake fell silent, disappointed. Matthews offered the next idea carefully.
"We could attempt a frontal breakthrough with as much improvised armor as we can bolt on — leftover steel plate and sandbags from the warehouse. We do have the frontal sloped armor plus the add-on package."
I shook my head.
"No. We can't guarantee a hundred percent protection with improvised armor, and with six M2s already in place, we don't know what else they're hiding. Anti-tank rockets, IEDs — if they have those, it's over."
I drew a breath and went on.
"Even if we stopped them, the Strykers — the Division's most valuable assets — would be riddled or immobilized. Lose the APCs here, and everything left of this journey gets a lot harder."
My mind started working overtime. This was a different kind of fight from anything we'd faced so far. At the California farm, at the battle for Fallon, we had built the defensive positions in advance and crushed whatever came at us with overwhelming firepower. This was the opposite. We would have to walk, of our own accord, into a well-prepared enemy kill zone — and we would be leading a large number of non-combatants in with us.
If there was no way to punch through without taking casualties, then we wouldn't punch through. We'd go over them.
The thought landed while I was still turning it over, and I locked eyes with Gunner. He read the look and let out a short, knowing laugh.
"That's the only way, isn't it, boss?"
I looked at him, my voice even.
Matthews's and Ryker's eyes went wide. They knew what that meant. Neither of them spoke.
Gunner smiled, easy and unhurried.
"But it's not just the two of us anymore. Old man Mike put together a Special Tasks Unit while he was building the Division — gathered them up real careful."
"How many?"
"Eight total. Counting you and me, we can stand up two five-man teams."
"Skill?"
"Might be a little light on real combat experience, but they're all guys who trained in tier-one units. We only picked Raiders, Rangers, Force Recon — they'll more than pull their weight."
The certainty in Gunner's voice settled it. I gave the orders at once.
"Good. Tomorrow we move to US-50 east of Montrose, establish a base camp, and reorganize the column."
I turned to Gunner.
"Gunner, get the team composition and equipment checks done immediately."
"Okay."
"And we need a solid backup team to support the infiltration element — fire support and ISR assets. Jake's helicopter is too loud, so make full use of Cody's drone team."
"Don't worry."
I looked at Matthews and Ryker.
"You two assist Gunner and gather more intelligence on Black Bear's main base. We need at least a rough location."
"Yes, sir."
"We need to know at least how long it takes their reinforcements to arrive — whether we're putting together a strike or a decapitation op."
"Yes, sir."
"Coordinate with Frank and you should be able to fit the scattered pieces of intel together more precisely. Dig into where they sleep, where they eat, who they report to. Leave no stone unturned."
"Understood."
They were starting to disperse to their assignments when Gunner asked, low.
"We'll need to wrap it up before BMNT, won't we?"
I nodded.
"That's right. Start one or two hours before the main column rolls out, time it so they can pass through the moment the operation ends. Or we use the trap they built."
"Solid."
Gunner's eyes gleamed.
We were walking once more into the familiar smell of gunpowder on the battlefield.