The Head
The dump truck that had been charging at the head of the Road Warriors' column was a roaring fireball blocking the road, and in that brief, savage instant I couldn't help myself — I mashed the PTT.
But they didn't stop. The enemy that had been lurking behind the burning dump truck like a giant centipede split apart like severed tentacles, crawling out onto both sides of the road. Then they came at us again, muzzles spitting fire like madmen.
I grabbed the M32 Bulldog had reloaded for me, raised the sight, and snapped the red dot onto the 120-meter mark. The muzzle pointed at empty air a handspan above their heads — a lead calculated for the speed of their advance.
Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk. Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk.
Switching launchers, I sent twelve grenades in rapid succession. They arced on invisible parabolas over the enemy column, and a chain of detonations rolled back to us.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.
The blasts scattered their formation and bled off their speed. On both sides of the road, Gunner and the TSP operators poured automatic fire without pause. The M2 heavy machine gun on the Humvee thundered, picking off the vehicles shoving to the front. A few pickups were shredded like paper by the 12.7mm .50 BMG rounds. I set down the M32 and racked the charging handle of the Mk 48 mounted in the Gun Nest.
BRRRRRRRRT—
Seven-six-two spat fire, hammering the lead pickup. Bulldog finished reloading grenades and opened up with his own rifle in support. Whenever one of their vehicles was riddled and stopped dead, the ones behind shoved it onto the shoulder and kept coming.
These bastards… they must be high as hell.
They didn't seem to feel pain or fear. Before long they were using their wrecked comrades' vehicles as shields, shoving the riddled hulks forward, stubbornly closing the distance. The gap had shrunk inside seventy meters. I could start to make out their faces. I grabbed the radio, ready to play our last card.
The Claymores — the last death traps we'd planted at their feet.
Using the riddled pickups as massive shields, they kept grinding forward. When the lead elements finally crossed the fifty-meter mark, I keyed the radio and shouted.
KA-BOOM — CRACK!
KA-KA-BOOM-BOOM—!
Four Claymores erupted simultaneously from both sides of the road, right at their feet. A tremendous blast wave shook the air as twenty-eight hundred steel balls fanned out in a lethal arc and chewed the lead formation to pieces. The thin truck doors shredded like paper. The men hiding behind them never even screamed — they came apart as blood and meat.
For a moment, a strange silence hung over the burning road.
Then Matthews's voice came over the radio.
Ryker, the TSP squad leader, answered in my place. But the words had barely left his mouth — the barrels hadn't even cooled — when another roar came from the enemy rear.
A fresh dump truck was shoving the burning wreckage aside and charging straight at us. A massive bulldozer blade was mounted on the front like a siege ram, and the surviving vehicles packed in tight behind it.
These crazy sons of bitches.
Everyone opened up at once. But the dump truck shrugged off dozens of rounds and kept coming like a suicide bomber. In the instant that fear gripped us all, Gunner shouldered the Carl Gustaf once more.
WHOOSH—!
SSSHHHHH—.
A backblast, and another 84mm warhead flew. This time the range was much closer.
KABOOOOOM—!
The dump truck's cab tore clean off like a tank turret blowing out, and the whole thing erupted into a massive fireball. The blast wave and heat reached us vividly even dozens of meters away.
Bulldog couldn't contain himself.
"Holy shit, awesome!"
Right then, the Humvee column Matthews was leading roared up and pulled in alongside Ryker's Humvee. Four M2 heavy machine guns opened fire.
DAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA— DUGGA-DUGGA-DUGGA-DUGGA-KRAK-KRAK-KRAK—
From the four Humvees filling the road, 12.7mm rounds chewed through the Road Warriors' trucks like a blender. And through that earth-shaking thunder, Matthews's voice came through my earpiece.
I looked at the TSP Humvee column. The drivers and the rest of the operators were already dismounted, using the Humvee doors as cover, firing prone at the enemy.
At last, even the Road Warriors gave up the advance. They hunkered down among the burning, riddled vehicles and poured fire at us in a last desperate stand. After a stretch of fierce suppressive fire, their resistance visibly died down. They couldn't even lift their heads anymore.
I realized it was time to go in and clear the field.
We entered slowly from both ends of the road, using the burning vehicles as cover. We put clearing fire into closed doors and anything that looked like it might move. A few survivors crawled out moaning. We put them down without mercy.
We'd cleared about two-thirds of that hellscape when a shriek of tires cut the air.
SCREEEECH—.
Two vehicles at the very rear suddenly U-turned and tore off in a panic.
"Those bastards!"
Every operator who saw it opened up on the fleeing vehicles. Then Gunner squeezed the trigger on the M203 mounted under his M4.
Thunk—!
The 40mm grenade went in under the rear wheel of the trailing vehicle and hit dead on.
CRACK—.
The vehicle flipped in a roar. But the one out front punched through our hail of fire and vanished into the dark.
Whether the one that got away was the Road Warriors' head honcho or just a scared remnant, there was no way to know. I decided it didn't matter.
We reversed through the enemy position, searching as we went, and I called for a casualty report over the radio.
By the time the field was cleared, a new but familiar engine note rolled in from the distance. Tank's truck finally arrived, escort Humvee in tow. Gunner and I greeted him warmly.
Tank climbed down, swept a glance over the hellscape in front of him, and said, deadpan:
"Shame I missed a good time like this."
We got to work on Bulldog's truck without delay. Gunner and the TSP operators pitched in, lifting the truck on air jacks. Impact wrenches screamed as we swapped the wrecked wheels for new ones. Tank, who'd been checking the engine bay, wiped his greasy hands and said:
"Coolant line's blown. I patched the cracks with epoxy and bypassed the line, but… she won't do long haul. We can limp her to Carson City, though."
By the time the emergency repairs were done, the ash-gray sky had gone dark red. The sun was going down. Then Jake's voice came over the radio.
We pushed on. The container trailer Bulldog had been hauling was hooked to Tank's truck. With the four TSP Humvees, we started rolling again down Nevada's darkening night roads. I sat in the driver's seat, thinking about that last truck that had vanished into the dark.
We'd cut the body of the giant snake called the Road Warriors — but we'd missed the head. It was a shame, but I had to be satisfied we'd finished the fight with no KIA.
And so we ran the Nevada night roads again. U.S. Route 50. True to its nickname — the Loneliest Road in America — the world around us was drowned in pitch black. Only our headlights cut through it, like a survey ship navigating a dark ocean, lighting the old, cracked asphalt. Outside the window, the desert glowed faintly in moonlight, and the silhouettes of mountain ranges drifted past like shadows.
After a while longer, lights of civilization appeared in the distance. Carson City.
At the city entrance, a Nevada National Guard captain and his soldiers were waiting, as promised. He couldn't hide his shock at the bullet holes covering our column. The Guard captain approached Ryker and asked a few questions for his report.
"During transit… you engaged a hostile force. Is that correct?"
"That's correct."
"Enemy strength?"
"Minimum forty vehicles. Over a hundred personnel."
The captain's eyes went wide at Ryker's deadpan answer. He asked again, as if he couldn't believe it.
"And there were five of you on site?"
"No. Six, including one trucker."
The captain was speechless for a moment, looking back and forth between Ryker, the TSP operators behind him, and Gunner and me. His gaze wavered. Then he looked from me to Wolf and back, and asked Ryker, as if confirming.
"This is him?"
"Polar Bear. He commanded this escort operation."
"So the rumors were true…"
His last words were less a question than the awe of a man who'd just confirmed a legend with his own eyes. Ryker said nothing. His silence was confirmation enough.
The Nevada National Guard officer led us to a secure temporary billet. Around then, a radio call came in from Bill — the rest of the column had arrived safely at Tahoe.
The long, long day was finally ending. We decided to spend the night in Carson City. But it was a night none of us would fall asleep easily.