The Old Reservoir

The warmth that had filled the trailer died in an instant the moment Cody put that photograph in front of us.

An East Asian cult leader wearing a crown. Disciples on their knees around him, rifles in their hands, faces lifted in worship.

That grotesque name stole the breath from every man in the room, and for a long moment, nobody spoke.

Frank clicked his tongue and broke the silence first.

"What kind of new hustle is this? Sell religion to collect guns, sell guns to collect disciples? That's a pyramid scheme if I've ever seen one."

Bill let out a disbelieving huff of laughter.

"I've seen every kind of crazy out on the road, but these boys are a first. What, they planning to shoot each other and all ride up to heaven together?"

Gunner spat the words like a curse.

"Damn it. We just get done sweeping up the junkies, and now a pack of fanatics crazy down to the bone shows up."

Mike picked up where he left off.

"Those people might be more dangerous than the Road Warriors strung out on drugs. Think about it. Junkies charge in without thinking, but that also makes them sloppy and predictable. They can't make a rational decision to save their lives."

"But those Iron Kingdom faithful — strip away the deranged beliefs, and they're ordinary people, same as us. Meaning they can plan, they can ambush, they can run tactics. There's nothing harder to fight than an enemy that has both fanaticism and a working brain."

Dave shuddered.

"Good God... so they're like zombies that can actually think? Just imagining it gives me the creeps!"

Then Tank, who had been listening in silence the whole time, opened his mouth.

"Still, Idaho's what — almost four hundred miles from here? We've got some breathing room, don't we?"

Frank offered the optimistic take, but Mike shook his head at once.

"That's not how it works, Frank. Being that far north means the cold is worse than here, and the resources they need to survive run out that much faster. And they've probably mixed in with refugees pouring down from even farther north."

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"If you've got thousands of fanatics packed into a place like that, they'll have to come south eventually just to make up the shortfall."

He was right. There was no more time to sit on this. I turned to Cody.

"Cody, from this moment on, monitoring their movements is your top priority. The second anything looks off, you report it immediately."

Then I issued orders to Bill and Frank as well.

"Bill, mobilize the Union members. Frank, I want you combing Carson City for rumors and working the National Guard channels — any other intel on these people, I want it."

Last, I looked at Mike.

"Mike."

"Go ahead."

"We're going to have to accelerate the founding of the Division. While I'm out on the remaining transport runs, stay in contact with Lieutenant Colonel Gibson and start the groundwork."

"In particular, I want you to secure the veterans roster and start identifying — screening — anyone who might join us."

"Understood. By the time this job is done, I'll have the wheat sorted from the chaff."

With everyone's roles assigned, our time began meshing together like clockwork once more.

A few more days passed.

In the cold air of a predawn morning, before the sun had even thought of rising, the thirty-three trucks of the Polaris Union stood once more at the starting line, ready for their third run.

The road out of Carson Camp for the third transport was familiar by now. The steel column punched through the gloom of dawn and headed east again along US Route 50.

Past Silver Springs, Nevada's vast desert plains unrolled endlessly on either side of the highway. Here and there, small lakes lay frozen, catching the dim gray sunlight and glittering with an eerie sheen.

By the time we rolled into Fallon, a National Guard temporary checkpoint had come into view at the junction with US-95. As arranged, I peeled off from the rear of the column with Gunner's F-550 and parked the massive Kenworth in the vacant lot beside the checkpoint. Just like that, my truck became the Union's temporary HQ. I picked up the radio.

The F-550 carrying Gunner and Carlos disappeared toward downtown Fallon. Inside the trailer, I checked the overall status of the transport.

The reports from each branch chief came in one after another. I confirmed the column was heading safely toward Hawthorne Base. Then Gunner called back sooner than I'd expected.

A short while later, Gunner came back, loaded me into his pickup, and drove to the spot he'd mentioned.

"This is it."

"A lot this wide, sitting empty right in the middle of town..."

The place he'd marked was an abandoned commercial lot between a large gas station called Fox Peak Station and a ruined movie theater — a vacant expanse big enough to fit several football fields. Gunner parked and started laying it out.

"First off, US-50 and US-95 cross right next to us, so it's a traffic hub. Once the Division is stood up, we'll be running the Fallon checkpoint ourselves — and this is right on its doorstep. That's advantage enough. And if things go south, that theater building makes an excellent defensive strongpoint and sniper post."

"We're in the middle of downtown. Can we just use this?"

"Well, we'd need the state government or the Guard to play along, obviously. Then again, it's empty land. We occupy it and use it, who's gonna complain? Haha."

After touring the new site with Gunner, I returned to the Fallon checkpoint and started assessing the situation.

I approached Lieutenant Evans, the National Guard officer in charge of the checkpoint, and asked with due courtesy — but he answered as if he were reporting to a superior, ramrod-straight.

"The integrated command and control system is operating smoothly under the cooperation of the Fallon Police Department. The civilians have been highly cooperative with the checkpoint, and there are no irregularities to report."

He pointed at the map and added:

"Additionally, we've dispatched two armed Humvees approximately seven miles north ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on US-95 and are operating a forward observation post — F.OP."

Then Carlos's radio, waiting on comms in my truck, came through my earpiece.

Listening to Evans's report, I looked around the checkpoint. This intersection of US-50 and US-95 was practically the dead center of downtown Fallon. It was an ideal position for traffic control — but the terrain was loaded with too many variables.

The thought had barely crossed my mind when a shrill alarm erupted from the military radio in the checkpoint operations room, followed by a frantic voice.

Unease rippled through the National Guard soldiers. Evans, having grasped the situation, came running toward me, his face gone pale.

"Sir — a report just came in. An unidentified large-scale armed group has killed the sentries at the Winnemucca County checkpoint and is moving south toward Lovelock."

"Size?"

"Over the radio... they only said battalion-strength."

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I immediately switched to our own radio and called Jake.

After giving the order, I turned back to Evans.

"I'm going to the F.OP."

"Sir? Personally...?"

"Lieutenant!"

"Yes, sir."

"You planning to fight a battle at a downtown intersection? The second the enemy starts leaking into the side streets and alleys, this place turns into a slaughterhouse."

If a fight broke out here, the tangled urban grid and the civilians mixed in would make a nightmare of it. That much was obvious.

"Then wouldn't it be better to call in the QRF from Silver Springs?"

"Who says the enemy is going to come south honestly along US-95? If they stay on I-80 all the way down to Fernley and then cut south from there, Silver Springs is gone in a heartbeat."

I picked up the radio again, called Gunner, and started walking toward my truck. Evans's urgent voice followed me.

"Sir, wait. Leave one Humvee here — I'm coming with you."

In the vehicle heading to the F.OP, I broadcast the emergency over the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Union convoy channel.

We drove hard, and my truck and Evans's two Humvees arrived in the vicinity of the Old Reservoir, where the F.OP was located.

And once again, Nevada's desolation took me by surprise.

Reservoir in name only. What stretched before us was a dried mud flat and salt-laced sand, an open basin punched through in every direction, running all the way to the horizon. In the middle of it, two Humvees sat alone on the shoulder of the road.

Christ. These guys came out here on a picnic...

Then Jake's urgent transmission came in.

Bigger than a 12.7mm M2 meant an autocannon. A sense of urgency hit me. If they'd already passed Imlay, they were forty, fifty minutes from here. I ordered Jake immediately.

Steel Rain wouldn't deal a fatal blow. But a sudden aerial attack would scatter their column, and I was counting on it to buy us ten minutes — even five.

But in front of me, US-95 stretched like a lonely black line through the middle of a desert as open as the open sea.

Now what?

I looked around. A low ridge of hills ran along the side of the road.

I parked the truck on the shoulder, got out, and headed for the observation post. Evans followed.

The National Guard soldiers manning the post snapped salutes when they saw us. Evans, their superior, returned the salute — but their eyes were all on me.

I didn't stop. I gathered them and spoke.

"Move those two Humvees parked next to the post down behind that rise. Hide them completely. Now."

Evans and the soldiers looked at me, bewildered.

"A military vehicle sitting out on an empty road is a bullseye."

A young soldier spoke up.

"But if we do that, the Humvees might be hidden, but we won't even be able to fire when the enemy appears at range, will we?"

I pointed at the small hill, four or five meters above the road, and kept going.

"We fire from up there. Strip the heavy weapons off each Humvee right now and establish fighting positions on that crest."

The soldiers hesitated, glancing at each other for a cue. Evans barked.