Route 95

Operation Crossroads began in the darkness before dawn — a vast procession of steel.

We left the faint lights of South Lake Tahoe behind us and slipped onto US Route 50, bound for Nevada. To the left of the highway, frozen Lake Tahoe stretched away like a sheet of absolute dark, and only the occasional spill of moonlight cut a silver path across the ice.

The column rolled past Zephyr Cove and swept by the wealthy vacation homes of Lakeridge. The darkened mansions stood silent as haunted houses, and everything was going smoothly.

The reports came in one after another over the convoy channel. Tension ran through every voice, but there was no confusion.

By the time we passed Glenbrook, a faint dawn had begun to pale beyond the eastern mountains. The ashen sky deepened slowly into navy, then flushed with red. The magnificent ridgelines of the Sierra Nevada, swallowed until now in darkness, gradually revealed themselves, and the road seemed to be drawn down into a vast canyon.

As we dropped into Carson Valley on the approach to Carson City, a bitter wind funneled through the gorge and hammered the sides of the trailers. Gazing out at that desolate canyon landscape where darkness and light crossed each other, I tried to gauge where this road intended to take us.

Just as the column emerged from the long, rugged stretch of Carson Canyon, I stared into the silence beyond the radio and waited for Jake's call.

He should be checking in any time now.

Jake had taken the Robinson R44 up over the Sierra Nevada — more than nine thousand feet of canyon and ridgeline — and headed east. He was supposed to recon the roughly forty-mile stretch of US-395 from the Topaz Lake area north to Carson City, then rendezvous with us.

The worry didn't last. A burst of static, and the voice I'd been waiting for came through.

Reassured by Jake's report, we kept rolling east on Route 50 through Carson Valley. The magnificent mountains receded behind us, and the vast plains of Nevada began to reveal themselves in the distance. Then Matthews came over the radio from the point.

We pulled the column onto the shoulder near the intersection where Jake was waiting. The technical truck that had been running point raced across the lot and stopped beside the landed helicopter, and TSP operators quickly ran hoses from the aviation-fuel drums and started refueling.

I opened the convoy channel and issued orders to the whole formation.

Gunner and I settled for energy bars and coffee as a late breakfast. Out the window, the big truckers had lined up along the shoulder, pissing toward the barren desert. The unselfconscious, perfectly natural sight of it pulled a laugh out of me before I knew it. I tossed a strip of jerky to Wolf, who was lying quietly in the cab.

Fifteen minutes or so later, the ready reports started coming in.

I confirmed every report, then opened the channel again.

A short while later the lead Humvee started moving, and our long formation headed south once more. Jake's helicopter swept over the column at low altitude and pushed out ahead. Then, with a hard roar of engine, the technical truck blasted past us and took back the lead.

We ran south on US-395 across the barren plains. There had been some pushback when I first chose this route, but everyone had followed my call.

We passed the gentle hills of Indian Hills, and off to the left the abandoned runway of South Lake Tahoe Airport showed faintly through the distance. Not long after the technical truck pulled well out ahead, Matthews's voice came over the radio.

The column kept south on US-395. On both sides of the road, the landscape was nothing but endless sagebrush and the occasional juniper pushing up out of the dirt. Far off on the eastern horizon, the rugged peaks of the Pine Nut Mountains stood like a folding screen, and civilization seemed to consist of this one strip of black asphalt beneath our wheels.

Near Topaz Lake, a flash of blue water cut through the parched country for a moment — a desert oasis sliding past the glass. Then Jake checked in.

A short while later the column reached the fork with Route 208, and Matthews called it from the point.

The column headed east on Route 208 through the farm country of Smith Valley, and at last we joined the road that would decide the day — US Route 95.

Before we knew it we were running the highway the Road Warriors were known to hunt — and Jake, who had already finished his recon and was waiting ahead, came back on the air.

The column passed the abandoned village of Schurz with every nerve still tight, but the road itself was strangely, almost unnaturally quiet. Then, off to the left, the vast blue of Walker Lake came into view.

That was when Tank, from Truck One, cut in over the convoy channel — flat and blunt.

We were nearly past Walker Lake when Matthews called it from the point.

The column pulled onto the shoulder near Navy Beach, where Jake was waiting, and stopped in sequence. I keyed the TSP Humvee.

A short while later, two military trucks appeared at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the far end of the road, throwing dust. The Nevada National Guard officer in the lead asked no extra questions. He ran a brief identity check, then waved for us to follow.

The moment we passed through the massive steel gates and the tight ring of security into Hawthorne Army Depot, even Gunner couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Before us, across a desert plain that seemed to have no end, thousands upon tens of thousands of munitions bunkers stretched away in a checkerboard that went on forever. They covered the earth like the scales of some colossal dragon, each one the size of a small hill. Everyone had said this was the largest ammunition depot in the U.S. military, but "depot" didn't do it justice. It was a city of munitions.

Gunner looked out the window and spoke, low.

"I'd heard the stories. Seeing it in person is something else. Place this size, nobody'd even notice if we rolled out a few containers."

While Matthews finished the paperwork with the Nevada National Guard, our truckers hooked their assigned containers and tankers to their tractors. The trucks, now shouldering that heavy cargo, carried a weight that made the outbound run look like nothing.

When everything was ready, I called the truckers and Matthews, the TSP squad leader, into my trailer for the final briefing on the return. One by one they climbed the steps, and every man who came through the door let out a low sound of appreciation at the ordered interior and the weapons racked along the walls. Matthews's eyes went wide when he saw the Gun Nest built into the inside of the ramp door.

"Now I understand the commander's rear-defense doctrine."

Once everyone had found a place, Recon spoke up, impatient.

"Alright then. Cargo's loaded — let's get the hell out of here."

"No. We stay here tonight. We roll out at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dawn."

Recon pushed back at the flatness of it.

"If we leave now we can make Carson City before sundown. After that it's a safe road, isn't it?"

I looked around at all of them and added the rest.

"We leave tomorrow, when every man's body and mind is at its best. And we're changing the return route."

One of the truckers asked, startled.

"Change the route? That wasn't part of the plan, was it?"

Gunner cut him off.

"We didn't disclose it in advance. Operational security."

Tank, who had been sitting quiet, dropped a single line.

"Empty trucks went through. They'll be waiting for those same trucks to come back loaded."

Bill picked it up.

"Tank's right. If the raiders saw us run empty, they'll be sitting somewhere waiting for us to come back. Different road on the return is the smart play."

I nodded and laid it out.

"Return route is north on US-95 ALT, then west when we hit Route 50. We roll at first light."

I had considered simply reversing today's path. But hanging tankers and trailers on those winding roads would have bled the column's speed, and I didn't like that math. So we had come in on the rough, little-used road, and we would go home on the straight one.

When the briefing ended and everyone started to scatter, I called Matthews aside.

"Matthews."

"Yes, Commander."

"Did you verify the inventory we took on?"

"Yes, sir. We opened the containers and cross-checked the items with the Guard."

"Good. I understand that includes Carl Gustaf recoilless rifles."

A flicker of tension crossed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Matthews's face.

"Yes, sir. They're in there."

"Pull two Gustafs, twenty HEAT rounds, and four Claymores. One rifle goes in the lead Humvee. The other rifle, the warheads, and the Claymores come to my truck."

In a certain light, it was an overreach. Until the cargo was delivered, every crate still belonged to the city of South Lake Tahoe. Matthews hesitated, reading my face — and whatever he found there left no room to bargain. He answered short.

"Understood. I'll take care of it."