Slow
I grabbed the radio again and repeated the message.
"All units, continue the operation. Do not slow down. Repeat. Continue the operation."
My W990 and the Humvee trailing behind it both rolled to a stop, one after the other, in the shadow of the crippled Truck #7.
Gunner and I jumped down and ran for it. Bulldog was already there, a stricken look on his face as he surveyed the wreck of his own truck. Up close, the situation was hopeless at a glance. The trailer's entire right-side rear axle had collapsed into the pavement, and the engine compartment was riddled with bullet holes like a honeycomb.
Gunner clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Bulldog, we don't have time. Leave it. Get in our truck."
But Bulldog shook his head.
"No. I can't do that."
"What the hell are you talking about? Your life matters more than that tin can."
"I spent my whole life on this truck. I can't abandon it here. And… I don't want to be remembered as a trucker who left his cargo behind."
Gunner stared at him, incredulous.
"What good is that pride gonna do you now? You gotta stay alive first! Get in the boss's truck—"
But Bulldog wasn't listening. He turned his back and walked to his cab, pulled an assault rifle and a shotgun from inside, then looked at us with a bitter smile.
"Leave me plenty of ammo. This goddamn world… I think I'll end it right here."
His stubbornness frustrated me, but I understood him too — that feeling of being so tired of running that you just want it over.
Bulldog's feelings, though, were a secondary problem. If we pulled back now, we'd be feeding the Road Warriors with our own hands. Fattening the monster ourselves.
I looked at Gunner.
"Gunner. Think about every weapon packed in that container falling into Road Warrior hands. What do you think happens then?"
His eyes went cold.
"Got it. We finish those bastards here. Today."
"Good. We'll have some time before their main force shows."
We locked eyes, and I picked up the radio again.
Next I raised the TSP squad leader who should have been pushing ahead toward Tahoe.
Polar Bear: "Matthews, this is Polar Bear."
Matthews: "Polar Bear, Matthews standing by."
Polar Bear: "Matthews, the moment you finish escorting the column to Carson City, turn around and come support us. Over."
Matthews: "……Orders confirmed. Hold out a little longer. Over."
Then I called over the three TSP operators riding in the rear Humvee.
"You three. Listen up."
I pointed at the one whose eyes still had fire in them.
"You — set up on the opposite side of the road from Gunner. The other two, stay in the Humvee. Hide it up ahead of Bulldog's truck and wait."
"…"
"When the shooting starts, you come out swinging. Dump everything you've got."
That's when Ryker, the assistant squad leader, spoke up.
"Sir, wouldn't it be better to pre-position the Humvee in a firing formation?"
"No. A Humvee sitting out in the open just becomes their first target. We need to look like we abandoned two broken-down trucks and ran."
I turned back to Gunner and the TSP operators.
"You two — plant Claymores on both sides of the road, fifty meters forward of this position."
Right then, Jake's voice cut in over the radio, urgent.
"Polar Bear! Pursuit force just rolled out of the northern Fallon base. Vehicles… at least twenty. Wait — they're still coming! We're past thirty now."
Polar Bear: "Copy. Keep eyes on and update me."
I turned back to the operators, raising my voice.
"Fallon's about twenty-two miles from here. We've got fifteen minutes. Move!"
Bulldog and I headed back to my truck. I dropped the ramp door to horizontal, then threw a tarp over the gun nest so it looked like nothing more than a pile of cargo.
Finally I cracked open the cylinder of the newly acquired M32 Multiple Grenade Launcher and started feeding six 40mm HE rounds into it, one after another, talking to Bulldog as I worked.
"You know how to run this?"
"I've seen one. Never fired one."
"It's simple."
I swung the cylinder out to the side and showed him the wind-up charging mechanism.
"Twist this all the way counterclockwise. Until you hear it click. Then load a grenade into each hole. All six."
"…"
"When I start shooting and drop this one on the floor, you load it and put it back in my hand. Got it?"
"Got it."
I handed him a tactical vest and a ballistic helmet.
"Put these on. Better than nothing."
I jammed a helmet onto my own head.
Gunner and the TSP operator came back from planting the Claymores. Gunner took the Carl Gustaf and settled into his designated cover. Jake's voice came over the radio again.
"Polar Bear, vehicle count just passed forty. Lead vehicles have armor plate slapped all over them. About nine miles out from your position."
Polar Bear: "Jake, copy. Gunner, TSP — status?"
Gunner: "Gunner. Clacker's in hand. Standing by."
TSP: "Right side of the road. Clacker ready. Standing by."
Ryker: "Ryker. Humvee standing by. Ready to raise hell."
I racked the bolt on the Mk 48 in the gun nest, chambering a round, and stared at the faint dust cloud rising beyond the distant horizon.
The trap was set. Now all we had to do was wait for the prey to walk into it. In that taut silence, the squad leader's voice came over the radio.
Matthews: "Polar Bear, this is Matthews. Our column just passed Dayton. Once we enter Carson City, I'll turn around with support and come to you immediately. Over."
The moment Matthews signed off, Bill's voice cut in.
Big Bill: "Polar Bear, Big Bill. Once we hit Carson City, I'll take Tank's cargo — double-trailer it all the way to Tahoe. Meanwhile Tank loads spare tires and repair gear and comes to you. Hang in there, friend."
Polar Bear: "Copy. Good copy."
Knowing backup was coming was a comfort. But the simulator in my head already knew this would all be over before they arrived — one way or another.
The radio channel went dead quiet, as still as the adrenaline humming through my body.
Far off, at the edge of the horizon, a heat-haze of dust began to rise — or maybe it didn't. That in-between moment.
Wolf, who'd been crouched beside me, suddenly sprang to his feet. He stared down the road, one paw lifted, and started barking — short, sharp, urgent.
"Grrrr — woof, woof-woof."
Instinct. Telling his master which way the prey was coming.
"Wolf, sleeper!"
I called it low. Wolf let out a reluctant whine — awoo! and disappeared into the sleeper space at the back of the trailer.
Then Jake's voice tore through the radio.
"Polar Bear, one minute out. This bird is bingo on fuel — finding an LZ one mile to your rear. Good luck. Out."
I checked the Mk 48's charging handle one more time. The real show was about to start.
Then, a suffocating silence.
At last, the Road Warriors' grotesque convoy swam into my binoculars. Trucks dressed in skulls and chains. Men screaming from the windows with gun barrels shoved out. There was no mistaking it — a raider column crawled up from hell itself. All that noise told me they had no idea we were waiting.
When their lead vehicle hit five hundred meters, I picked up the M32. The sights were already set to three hundred. I aimed at the center of their formation and pulled the trigger.
Thump.
I watched the first round's arc, adjusted, and dumped the rest.
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.
A cute little sound for the damage it carried. Six grenades sailed out in lazy arcs. I dropped the empty launcher and grabbed the second M32 beside me.
BOOM — BOOM-BOOM, KA-KA-BOOM—
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump—
I kept firing without pause. Beside me, Bulldog was reloading like a madman. Twelve grenades burst overhead and the Road Warrior column started to tangle, their charge losing speed.
The explosions were still rolling when the hidden Humvee roared out of cover — engine snarling — and swung in beside my trailer. Then the heavy guns opened up.
BRRRRT. Duh-duh-DUH. Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh—
The M2 heavy machine gun's distinctive, bone-deep thunder started shaking the battlefield. Then Gunner and the TSP operator opened up from both sides of the road.
DADADADADANG — DADADADANG
A few of their vehicles caught fire and died on the shoulder, but the column didn't stop. They sped up, punching through the hail of fire, still coming. By the time I'd dumped the third M32 dry, they were already inside two hundred meters.
Then a massive dump truck emerged at the head of the Road Warrior pack. A grotesque slab of armor plate had been bolted over the bumper — it looked like an armored locomotive out of a steampunk movie. Every gun we had concentrated on that lead truck, but it just threw sparks, shrugged off the rounds, and kept coming. The pickups behind it hugged close, like infantry sheltering behind a tank.
It was a trained tactical formation. We had to break it. I grabbed the radio and shouted.
In that instant, Gunner rose from cover with the Carl Gustaf on his shoulder.
WHOOSH—
SHHHHHHIIIIIK—!
A massive backblast kicked up a wall of dust as the 84mm high-explosive warhead screamed downrange. The round painted a red tracer arc and punched dead-on into the underside of the monster truck's front end.
KAAAA-BOOOOM—!
FLASH!
A burst so bright the world went white. The blast swallowed every sound, and the monster truck lifted off the ground — floating, hanging. In my eyes it played out in slow motion. The truck hung in the air for a heartbeat, then slammed down onto the asphalt and started to slide.
KRKKK-GRNNNNNNNCH—
The dump truck, now a roaring ball of fire, scraped down the road with a sound that set your teeth on edge — metal screaming on asphalt.