Bear
Before I knew it, the camp had erupted into a celebration, ringing with welcomes for the nine soldiers and their families. Leaving that clamor behind, I called Staff Sergeant Stone into my trailer.
The moment the door shut, I asked him.
"What's Colonel Gibson's message?"
Staff Sergeant Stone drew a crumpled, tightly folded map from inside his jacket and handed it over.
"This is it."
I unfolded it. Northern Nevada, Idaho, and the Utah state line were covered in a dense web of symbols and lines.
"This is..."
"A military intelligence map, sir. It shows recent engagement zones between the 3rd Brigade and the Iron Kingdom's armed forces, along with the movement routes of their primary FOBs."
I grasped the map's meaning at once. The two factions' arrows, marked in red, weren't pointing at each other. They were pointing the same way.
I looked up and met Staff Sergeant Stone's eyes. His expression was grim.
"The two armed groups have gone beyond a simple alliance. They've effectively become a single unified force."
"They've fully merged?"
When I asked again, Stone nodded and went on.
"Yes. Not just merged — they've declared themselves a nation."
"A nation?"
"They call themselves New Zion."
"New Zion..."
I'd figured that kind of thing was possible in a world gone mad, but the news that actual lunatics had crowned themselves and founded a country still didn't quite feel real. The thought settled over me that the monsters this age of chaos had spawned were growing without end.
Staff Sergeant Stone stepped closer, pointing at the map as he continued.
"And... they've abandoned their southward push into Nevada. They've changed course."
"Where to?"
"Utah. Salt Lake City, as you can see on the map."
I studied it. The red arrows bypassed northern Nevada and stretched in a straight line toward Salt Lake City.
"Why Salt Lake City, of all places?"
"According to Iron Kingdom doctrine, everyone but themselves is a heretic. They mean to conquer Salt Lake City — the holy city the Mormons built — and turn it into their own new Zion. The name says it all. New Zion."
"That's just a fig leaf of a pretext."
Stone gave a bitter smile, as if he agreed.
"That's right. The real goal is the massive resources and infrastructure of a city with 1.2 million people. Take Salt Lake City, and they hold the inland West."
"Do they know about Palo Verde?"
"Colonel Gibson believes they almost certainly do. New Zion absorbed a substantial portion of the Oregon and Idaho National Guard's forces and equipment, so their intelligence is probably on par with ours. They know the south is going to be contaminated with radiation, so they turned their eyes to Utah — relatively safe, and rich."
"What about the Utah National Guard? They won't just sit there and take it."
Stone's face darkened at the question.
"Thanks to the Nevada National Guard seizing and opening Interstate 80, they've been able to send some weapons and ammunition that way. They're also drawing up additional plans."
"Hmm. Do you know much about the Utah Guard?"
"Not in detail, sir. Colonel Gibson said their army strength is around five thousand."
I looked down at the map, sinking into thought. Until now, what I'd worried about was a new civil war between the federal government and the Southern Confederacy.
But looking at how things were actually unfolding, that wasn't the real problem.
While the state governments staggered and lost their grip, armed factions were springing up everywhere, tearing at each other in a free-for-all. The age of dogs fighting in the mud had arrived. It felt as if China's Sixteen Kingdoms, or Japan's Sengoku period, were being restaged on the soil of modern America.
If New Zion grew strong enough to take Utah... where would they go next?
East, of course. Colorado — the very place I was heading. Hiding behind the natural fortress of the Rocky Mountains was no reason to feel safe.
"Commander?"
Staff Sergeant Stone's voice pulled me back.
"Staff Sergeant Stone. You fell behind the main body, but you used your own judgment to complete a more valuable mission — gathering target intelligence and bringing in supplies. Outstanding work."
"That's too kind, sir. Colonel Gibson's help made all the difference."
"There's a major operation at dawn tomorrow. Once it's done, we cross the Rockies immediately. Get the details from the Master Operator — Mike. Go get some rest."
"Yes, sir."
Staff Sergeant Stone snapped a crisp salute and left the trailer.
Watching the door close, I found the word Commander lingering in my ear. My inner circle still called me Boss, easy and familiar — but somewhere along the way, the Division troops and the officers had started addressing me as Commander. There was a weight to it.
And hearing about this new power called New Zion, I was reminded that we were still just a small armed group.
Death was rolling in from the southwest as radiation. From the northwest, New Zion was coming south. One more reason to get over the Rockies.
And the first real winter was coming. The route over the Rocky Mountains dropped below forty below even in midsummer. Once winter hit, it would become a no-man's-land. If we didn't cross now, we never would.
At least there's that.
The fact that the ones blocking the eastern pass were nothing more than a bandit gang looking to shake down travelers for tolls felt, strangely, like a blessing. At least they were an enemy we could fight and beat.
Not long after Stone left, Mike, Jed, and Chloe came into my trailer. A bright smile had spread across Chloe's face — well past her usual composure.
"Chloe, that look on your face says you like the present Staff Sergeant Stone brought. He came pretty well stocked, I take it?"
Chloe shook her head hard, her voice running high with excitement.
"It's more than that, Boss. This is... a miracle."
"A miracle?"
"The potassium iodide alone — KI — is enough for at least ten thousand people."
"Ten thousand?"
I echoed it without thinking. Our entire headcount was maybe three hundred. Ten thousand doses was hard to picture. Chloe counted it off on her fingers as she explained.
"Standard protocol for radiation exposure is one tablet a day for an adult, up to ten days. Each small bottle holds a hundred tablets, a hundred bottles to a box — and there were ten boxes. That's a hundred thousand pills."
"Huh. All of that fit in that little pickup?"
"They're small. And I don't think whoever loaded them did the math that carefully. Probably just said, 'Throw ten boxes on,' or something. Haha."
"Well, that's a win."
"And the Prussian blue is enough to treat five hundred severe radiation cases for over a month. We don't have to worry about running short on radiation meds anymore."
Watching Chloe light up like a kid, I felt the relief settle in myself. Then Mike, standing beside her, picked up with that easy, good-natured laugh of his.
"It's not just the medicine. I checked the M291 and M295 personal decontamination kits — there's a good five hundred sets. N95 masks came in by the box; I couldn't even count them. Gas masks and replacement filter canisters, too — hundreds of them."
Mike's words settled heavy in my chest. Colonel Gibson had entrusted us with his family, and in the same breath packed everything we needed to survive to the brim. And the fact that Staff Sergeant Stone and his people had hauled all that precious cargo here without a scratch made me proud of them all over again.
Jed held up something in his hand, looking satisfied.
"And take a look at this. We only had two of these AN/UDR-13 military electronic dosimeters, and we treated them like gold. Now we've got twenty more. Every platoon and every echelon can put one on a commander."
"Well, that kind of puts those radiation meters Frank worked so hard to get to shame. Haha."
"Those still have their uses. And this is even better. Personal pen-type dosimeters — IM-93s. There are three hundred of them."
Jed held the fountain-pen-shaped device up to his eye, pretending to peer through it.
"Analog, no batteries, so they won't break down on you, and they're easy to maintain. Enough to issue one to every last soul in the Union and still have leftovers. Now everyone can see the state of their own lifeline with their own eyes."
"Good. That said, handing them out to everyone individually will just create unnecessary confusion and make them harder to track. Mike, allocate them as you see fit. Set up a checkout system — especially for recon teams and anyone heading outside. Issue them, then take them back."
"Will do. And while we're on it — we've been managing Union and Division supplies separately. Doesn't make much sense anymore."
"You're right. What do you suggest?"
"Ammo and weapons stay as they are. Everything else, Dave takes overall charge. Medical supplies go to Chloe."
"All right. Let's do it that way."
I nodded, agreeing with Mike's proposal. Efficient supply management and distribution would matter more than anything on a journey that might well become a long war.
We wrapped up the division of roles and scattered to our posts. Preparation, maintenance, and brief snatches of rest took turns, and the last hours before the operation ran out like an arrow.
Before I knew it, we'd gathered in the motorhome for dinner, but with Colonel Gibson's family joining us, there wasn't room to put a foot down. The table was already full, so some of us had to scatter to the sofa and folding chairs.
Mike took one look at the scene and let out that rumbling laugh of his.
"Heh heh. Time we built ourselves a proper dining car. Keep this up and there won't even be a place to sit and eat."
It was a tight squeeze, but when Eleanor began her prayer, everyone fell quiet and folded their hands.
"Lord, we thank You for watching over us even on these hard roads, and for granting us this day our daily bread. Grant wisdom and courage to Chan, who leads us..."
When the prayer ended and the meal began, people's eyes went wide. The table was laden with steaming chicken pot pie and a generously roasted chicken, golden brown. Tank let out a sound of pure wonder.
"Chicken! Been a long time."
The others didn't hide their delight at the rare meal either. Curious, I asked,
"What's the occasion? Why the special spread?"
Dave answered around a chicken leg.
"Figured there was no way we were getting all the chickens over Monarch Pass alive. Kept twenty for breeding, got them a proper warm setup, and processed the rest."
He grinned and added,
"Sent plenty over to the special ops boys and everyone rolling on tonight's operation, too. Can't fight on an empty stomach — they need some real meat in them."
Dave's thoughtful call warmed me.
"Good work, Dave. That's a solid call."
Even as I praised him, a strange sense of déjà vu crept in. It was the same scene as a battlefield, right before a fight — the good meat, the special rations.
I quietly put a piece of the warm pie in my mouth.
The evening passed, peaceful and taut with tension all at once, and at last the deep dark of the small hours arrived. The moment had come. We were no longer the hunted. We were the hunters, and we were going for the enemy's throat first.
0400 hours.
In the pitch-black dark, Humvees, armored vehicles, and self-propelled gun trucks stood in formation along one side of the laager — that was what we called the mortar carriers. The four Humvees carrying the special operations team had every light killed, engines warming, running on nothing but the faint glow of IR lights — infrared blackout lamps.
Gunner, the special ops team, and I were kitted out in full tactical gear, splitting up among the vehicles. I took the passenger seat of the last of the four Humvees.
I flipped down the GPNVG-18 night-vision goggles mounted on my helmet, and the pitch-black world snapped back to life in a wash of blue-gray. To the naked eye, it was darkness you couldn't see an inch into. Through the NVGs, it was a different world entirely.
I slotted the earpiece in and spoke low.
Then, still wearing the NVGs, I tapped the Division driver twice on the shoulder. The signal to move.
The infrared headlights of the lead vehicle painted the asphalt of US Route 50 in the stark clarity of a black-and-white film. A secret path of light, granted to us alone. The tails of the Humvees ahead, every sagebrush clump along the roadside — all of it was sharp enough to touch.
And so we slipped through the dark like ghosts, sliding toward the enemy's heart.