Crossroads

After we'd finished greeting the truckers we'd recruited from Tahoe City, the man who'd introduced himself as Recon looked at Wolf standing quietly at my side and let out a breath of genuine awe.

"Whoa. He really does look like a wolf. Mind if I pet him?"

The moment he started to reach out, Wolf's head snapped up and a low warning rumble rose from deep in his throat.

"Grrrrrr—"

His tail shot up nearly vertical, the fur along his nape standing on end. I eased Recon's hand aside.

"Doesn't look like the time for that just yet."

Just then, TSP Commander Jackson caught the convoy squad leader's eye, and the squad leader called out to his men.

"All hands, attention!"

I raised a hand to stop them and held out my right.

"That's enough. A handshake will do."

"Squad Leader Matthews. Served with the Army Rangers."

I took his hand, and the other operators came forward in turn, offering their names and service records as they shook mine. Ryker, out of Marine Force Recon. Scream, from the 101st Airborne. Breacher, who'd come up through police SWAT. Every one of them a veteran with a record that didn't mess around.

The mood shifted naturally toward our own service histories. I caught Gunner's eye without a word, and he spoke first.

"Marine Raider Regiment. Gunner."

"So — SOCOM?"

"That's right."

Matthews couldn't hide his surprise. Gunner just gave him the short answer and left it there.

Then every gaze drifted toward me, and Frank jumped in with a grin, as if he'd been waiting for the opening.

"Our boss here served in two whole countries. Korea and France, no less."

I picked it up without fuss.

"Last posting was GCP, French Foreign Legion."

They seemed to know well enough that the units Gunner and I had served in were Tier One outfits that saw combat on a regular basis. We went straight to business.

"What's the current armament status of the convoy vehicles?"

"The technical and both Humvees assigned to lead recon each have an M2 heavy machine gun mounted. The remaining Humvee has an M249 gunner aboard."

"No RPGs or Carl Gustaf anti-tank weapons?"

"That..."

"Fine. If we take contact during the transport, my truck will handle it. Rear convoy Humvee — on contact, you pull alongside the trucks and keep the enemy from overtaking the column."

"Understood. But in that case, wouldn't that put you under direct fire, sir?"

I answered Matthews's concerned question evenly.

"We're prepared for that."

The moment I finished, Mike grinned and added,

"There's a Gun Nest built into the back of the boss's trailer."

Bill and Tank stepped forward, shook hands with the truckers, and exchanged brief greetings. I looked the parked rigs over again.

"Looking at the trucks, I noticed one with steel skirts over the fuel tanks and tires. Whose is that?"

"Mine."

The man who'd introduced himself as Gears raised his hand.

"Good."

I looked around at the truckers and went on.

"The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠most vulnerable point in a transport column is always the flanks. If the enemy sets an ambush on the road to stop us, the first thing they'll go for is your wheels."

"I know it might not sit well, having someone else work on your own truck. But for everyone's safety, I'd like ballistic skirts on every truck's wheels and fuel tanks. We'll help you do it."

The other truckers nodded one after another.

"Fine by me, long as it keeps us safe."

"We'd be grateful if you did."

"Wasn't that we wouldn't. We just couldn't."

"Times like these, we really need it."

I caught Mike's eye and continued.

"Then I'll leave it to you, Mike."

Gears raised his hand and stepped up.

"I'll help too. Give me tools, I know what I'm doing."

I thanked him, then laid out the order of the column.

"From today, we're one team. We'll set the convoy order right here, and for convenience we'll number the trucks One through Seven."

"Tank's Peterbilt is Truck One. Bill's is Truck Two. Then Recon, Hammer, Roadhog, Gears, and Bulldog — Trucks Three through Seven, in that order. Last, my truck at the rear will be Truck Eight, and HQ."

When I finished, Recon asked, curious.

"When we came in earlier I saw a blue truck on the shoulder with a hell of a bumper on it. Whose is that?"

Tank, who'd been listening in silence the whole time, answered in a low voice.

"Mine."

"Haha. So Truck One's the rig that'll punch a hole through whatever's in our way. Looking forward to it."

Tank just tossed back a blunt reply.

"Just keep up."

With the roster and the column set, I looked around at all of them and spoke, low, like a declaration.

"We're standing at a crossroads on the road to Carson City — and it's a fork that our survival ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and our future hang on. Keep your heads on straight. Use the time we have left to prepare thoroughly."

For Operation Crossroads, our camp transformed into a massive field workshop.

"Hey, Gears! That weld angle's wrong. You slap it on like that, one round knocks the whole thing off."

At Mike's shout, Gears grumbled and pulled off his helmet.

"Damn it, I can handle my own truck!"

They bickered, but they worked day and night, sparks flying, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠welding thick ballistic skirts onto every truck's tires and fuel tanks. Frank got the sheriff's cooperation and hauled drums of tire sealant that had been sitting idle in a city warehouse, filling every wheel to the brim. Gunner gathered the TSP operators and drilled them on tactical movement and signal protocols on the road. Jake went over helicopter refuel points and procedures with the driver of the lead technical, checking every detail.

The days blurred past in a frenzy of work.

At last, dawn broke on the morning we would leave for Hawthorne Army Depot.

The shoulder in front of the rest stop filled with a column of steel assembled for a new mission. Through the bustle of moving bodies, the low roar of diesel engines cut the cold dawn air. While we synced the common radio channel we'd share with the TSP operators, the convoy's full presence came into view.

I sat in the Kenworth's high driver's seat and looked down in silence at the vast steel column we had built. Lanterns and headlights cut through a sky veiled in volcanic ash. Off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the distance, Bill's and Tank's tractors had both dropped their trailers, looking leaner and more agile for it. Ahead of me, behind Tank's and Bill's trucks, the five rigs we'd scraped together from Tahoe City showed their heavy bodies — an old cab-over Freightliner, a classic Peterbilt 379, and a relatively new Volvo tractor. Make and year all over the map, but every one of them wore crude steel skirts over the tires and fuel tanks. They were no longer ordinary freight haulers. They were members of a combat column, bound to a single purpose.

Desert-tan TSP vehicles were posted ahead of and behind those trucks. Up front, a technical with an M2 heavy machine gun was ready to open the road. On the roofs of the two Humvees backing it, gunners had their hatches open and their eyes sharp.

The last ready reports started coming in over the radio, one after another.

The TSP technical and Humvees at the head of the column, the seven giant tractors behind them, and at the rear the last Humvee and my trailer. The exhaust from that train-like line of trucks rose into the cold air like the breath of a living giant.

Across the road, Dave and Frank, the families we'd left behind, and Anderson's people watched us go, waving small flashlights. In their worried eyes was a silent, desperate prayer that this dangerous journey would end safely.

And on the far side, in a lakeshore lot where the dark had not yet fully lifted, the Robinson helicopter with Jake aboard turned its rotors in a quiet final warmup. The side lights blinked, waiting only for the order to lift into the operation about to begin.

Beside me, Wolf lay with his head cocked. In the passenger seat, Gunner held a radio in one hand and a map in the other, checking the route one last time.

Every report was in. There was no reason left to wait. I pressed the PTT.

With Matthews's clipped reply, the technical was the first to slide onto the road, its engine a heavy, rolling growl. The Humvees and the giant tractors followed in turn, punching through the dark, heading east along the shore of Lake Tahoe.

In the side mirror, the people waving flashlights in farewell shrank slowly, then collapsed into a single small light. I called Jake.

Even the last thin light reflecting in the rearview mirror vanished completely. In the pitch-black dark, the only sound was the pulse of eleven steel hearts.

Tahoe's quiet dawn was already the past.

In that moment, what rolled along US Route 50 was not a column of vehicles fleeing disaster. We were heading into the Nevada wasteland, where raiders bared their hungry teeth, and I believed that what waited at the end of this road was not a promised reward, but a future we would have to bear. And yet another thought stayed with me — that we might be the ones to first open Hawthorne Army Depot, a place that could well prove to be a Pandora's box.