Truck Seven
Once it was settled that we'd spend the night at Hawthorne Base, Matthews coordinated with the National Guard and secured lodging for the convoy.
What they gave us was a massive field barracks called a DRASH—a Deployable Rapid Assembly Shelter. It was the kind of military tent you used to stand up a camp for hundreds of people in a matter of days, out in the desert wind and sand. Inside, it was as wide and snug as a decent gymnasium.
The truckers and TSP operators were already mixed together in there, taking their rest. When I stepped through the flap, I saw a knot of people gathered around Bill. He was spinning a war story with those trademark exaggerated gestures of his.
"So Polar Bear takes one look at my arm, doesn't even twitch an eyebrow, and just goes, 'Don't move.'"
"Then he pulls a needle and thread out of his bag and sews me up in a flash, like he's weaving a spiderweb. When I got to the hospital the doctor damn near fainted. Said it was a work of art!"
Murmurs of amazement broke out around him. Holding back a laugh, I walked over.
"Bill, I think you're laying it on a little thick."
Every eye in the room snapped toward my voice. Bill looked at me and let out a booming laugh.
"Hey, Polar Bear. That's because you were the one doing it. The rest of us watching from the sidelines saw something else entirely."
In the middle of the noisy chatter, Matthews came up and spoke quietly.
"Commander. The Carl Gustaf you requested—I've got it."
Gunner, Matthews, and a few TSP operators followed me out to my trailer. We cracked open the wooden crate, and the heavy, solid green recoilless rifle revealed itself. While we were loading it onto the truck, Matthews opened another, smaller box.
"Brought these along as well."
Inside were two under-barrel M203s, one M32 Multiple Grenade Launcher, and fifty rounds of 40mm grenades.
"Perfect timing."
Gunner grabbed an M203 without hesitation and mounted it to his M4 with practiced ease.
"We've been short on grenades. This is a godsend."
I was just as pleased. After Matthews headed back to the barracks, I stowed the Carl Gustaf safely under the sleeper bunk, then pulled a few HE rounds out and set them at the passenger-side footwell.
"If something happens," I told Gunner, "you grab this and get out of the truck."
He met my eyes and nodded without a word. I didn't need to explain why.
Back in the trailer, Gunner and I spread the map again. We traced the newly planned return route over and over, but the unease in the back of my mind wouldn't lift. The problem was a contingency. If our primary route got blocked, we had no decent backup—no real way out. A Humvee or Gunner's F-550 could run the side trails and dry riverbeds all day. For heavy tractor-trailers loaded with cargo, those same paths were nothing but traps.
Gunner said it quietly.
"There's only one option."
"Yeah..."
"We can't shake them. Annihilation's the only answer. Once we make contact, we finish it."
"How are the TSP operators?"
"Give 'em decent command and they'll hold their own."
"Good."
Gunner headed back to the barracks where the TSP operators and truckers were settling in. I stood up, trying to shake off the tangle of thoughts. Wolf was at my feet, looking up at me with his tail wagging, and it hit me that he'd been cooped up in that cramped cab all day too.
"Want to run?"
"Awooo!"
At that single word, Wolf barked with all the joy he'd been holding in. I stripped off the heavy plate carrier, kept just the pistol on my tactical belt, and stepped out of the trailer with him.
The light was already fading toward sunset as Wolf and I started running through Hawthorne Army Depot. National Guard soldiers we passed now and then stared at him like they'd never seen anything like it—a creature that looked more giant wolf than dog. As we cut past a cluster of them, someone called out.
"Are you Polar Bear?"
I didn't slow down. I just answered over my shoulder.
"I am."
As we faded into the dark, I found myself thinking. Has the rumor reached inside the military too?
We ran until I was soaked through. As I headed back to the trailer, Matthews's voice came over the radio.
Gunner, Matthews, and one TSP operator piled into a vehicle the base had sent, and we headed for the officers' mess. When we arrived, a middle-aged officer wearing a colonel's silver eagles was waiting. He introduced himself as Colonel Collins, Deputy Commander of the Nevada National Guard.
"Appreciate you coming out to personally command a civilian transport, Polar Bear."
Colonel Collins cut into a reasonably well-prepared steak and started talking.
"Truth is, this transport operation means a great deal to us as well. If we officially committed military assets to move supplies to Tahoe, it could raise unnecessary suspicions with the feds still watching us—and the paperwork would be a nightmare."
He set down his knife and looked at me.
"I've heard the stories about you. That you went a round with the Road Warriors."
He pointed at a map and started briefing us on their recent movements.
"They've been hitting US Route 50, US-95, and Interstate 80 to the north. Looks like they're split into at least three groups operating independently, then linking up when a big score presents itself."
Matthews asked,
"Have they inflicted any direct damage on military assets?"
"Not yet. They're cunning. They seem to be deliberately avoiding a head-on fight with the military."
Matthews pressed, frustration in his voice.
"Then if the National Guard committed in force, we could wipe them out. Why are you sitting on your hands?"
Colonel Collins paused, then answered with a bitter look.
"The situation in Nevada right now..."
"Think of it as Afghanistan all over again. It's desert, sure, but the place is riddled with mountains and canyons, and the land is just too damn big. Satellite recon might as well not exist thanks to the Great Winter."
"Aerial search is so restricted it's barely useful. And more importantly—given the current political mess, preventing civilian raiding has been pushed to the back of the queue, whether you're talking federal or National Guard."
He swirled his wine glass and added, almost to himself,
"There may well be a few more civilian transport operations coming. The Nevada state government hasn't completely turned its back on the feds, but they're effectively charting their own course."
"They're concentrating Hawthorne's assets toward maximizing Carson City's defensive power—and supporting Tahoe in the rear."
He looked at me with a meaningful expression.
The conversation about Nevada and the neighboring states went on for a while. Then the colonel stood.
"When you roll out tomorrow morning, we'll detach additional troops and equipment to escort you through the high-risk stretch of US-95."
"Thank you, Colonel!"
Matthews expressed his gratitude. From the conversation with Collins, I could dimly grasp just how tangled the interests were around the mountain of munitions piled up at Hawthorne Army Depot.
After dinner, Matthews and Gunner went back to the barracks the National Guard had provided. I returned to my trailer. I opened the door, and Wolf was waiting, tail wagging as if he'd been counting the seconds. I scratched his head and thought that a quiet night with this dog was better than any comfortable bed.
The next day.
At first light, Operation Crossroads resumed. On the paved roads inside the base, our column was lined up longer and more imposing than the day before. With Stryker wheeled armored vehicles added to the front and rear, the formation looked like a military column. Gunner looked out the window.
"Armor on the flanks, and it actually feels like we're rolling into a war zone. Good thing those things are on our side."
Hands on the wheel, I waited in silence at the very tail of the long column for the departure signal.
With a National Guard Stryker in the lead, our long, heavy column finally rolled out of Hawthorne Army Depot and headed north.
Past Walker Lake, as we approached Schurz, I keyed the radio again.
US-95 split in two: the main highway running straight toward Fallon, and 95 ALT, which met State Route 208 at Yerington. Anyone could guess we'd change the route once. That's why I'd already decided we'd switch it again while we were rolling.
When I changed the route mid-run, Gunner asked,
"Chan, you think we've got a mole?"
"Doesn't matter. Better to operate as if there always is one than risk hunting for it."
"That's you. Always one step further. Hahaha."
The column rolled on without incident. With armor covering the front and rear, the road was so quiet it made a mockery of the idea that this was Road Warrior country. After about ninety-three miles, we reached Fallon, the city where US-95 meets US Route 50.
Jake's helicopter met us at the designated point, and the two Strykers, their mission complete, honked their horns and headed back to base. Now it was about a hundred miles west on US Route 50 to Tahoe.
After a short rest, the column rolled out again. Tension was at its peak. From here on, we were on our own.
The column was almost clear of the long straight road that cut across the dry lakebed of Lahontan Reservoir when it happened.
The still desert air split open—a single crack, then a ripping burst of automatic fire. A frantic shout tore across the radio.
[UNKNOWN]: Right side of the road—AMBUSH!
I mashed the PTT.
[HQ]: All elements, increase speed and punch through.
Every truck engine roared as the column surged. Rounds sparked off armor—ting, ting-ting, tingtingting—and the ballistic skirts we'd added in advance sent glancing fire skipping off the lead vehicles as they punched through the kill zone one after another.
Gunner said,
"Doesn't sound like many of them."
"We changed the route. Their lookouts are trying to buy time until the main force gets here."
Just as I'd figured—a handful of hostiles on the roadside pouring desperate fire into the column. The shooting intensified as Bulldog's Truck Seven passed through. Truck Seven barely cleared the kill zone, and then it was my turn.
The instant we hit the ambush point, I mashed the Shotgun Tube buttons in sequence—truck, then trailer.
BOOM. Boom. Boom.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.
The Shotgun Tubes mounted on the right side belched fire, dumping 12-gauge buckshot into the hillside. Gunner was already hanging out of the sleeper sunroof, holding down the trigger of the M249 for suppressive fire.
"Got all three of them!"
The second I let myself feel relief that every vehicle had made it through, an urgent call came from Truck Seven.
[TRUCK SEVEN]: Truck Seven. Rear tire pressure dropping fast. Engine's not right either. Slowing down.
Bulldog's Truck Seven pulled onto the shoulder with its hazards flashing. I stopped tight behind him and keyed the radio again.
[HQ]: This is HQ. Rest of the column, do not stop. Continue to Carson City at maximum speed. Repeat: do not stop!