The Wait

At Lieutenant Evans's brief command, the National Guard soldiers moved without hesitation. They vaulted onto the four Humvees and, with practiced if slightly clumsy hands, unmounted two M2 heavy machine guns and two M240s from their pintles.

Men with the heavy receivers slung across their shoulders paired off with others hauling tripods and ammo cans in both hands, and started climbing toward the hilltop I had marked.

Watching them go, Lieutenant Evans came over to me. Fear of his first real fight and a last, desperate hope in the foreign commander standing in front of him were written across his face in equal measure.

"Polar Bear... I'd like you to take command of this operation."

I held his eyes for a moment, then asked,

"How many Claymores and anti-tank weapons do you have?"

"No anti-tank weapons. We've got eight Claymores. Should we emplace them on both sides of the road, fifty yards out?"

"Hold on."

I called him in close and started sketching in the dirt with a stick.

"First — do you have enough M4 firing wire?"

"Four five-hundred-foot spools and about a dozen hundred-foot ones."

"Five hundred feet is roughly a hundred and fifty yards. We'll put two mines on each side of the road at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a hundred and fifty, and two more at fifty. That's to stop their lead vehicles and throw the column into confusion."

Then I drew a semicircle in the dirt, centered on the hilltop position.

"And this is the part that matters. From twenty-five yards in front of our line, we emplace Claymores at twenty-yard intervals."

"You're turning the entire forward one-eighty into a kill zone?"

"Exactly. Overlap the sixty-degree kill arcs so they cover each other. We'll need eight or more, so I'll make up whatever you're short."

"Wouldn't it be better to put all that firepower on the road?"

"Lieutenant. If it were me, I wouldn't be stupid enough to come barreling down that road in column when I knew a crossfire was waiting."

He said nothing.

"Once we hit them hard, that column will fan out into the open ground beside the road. And some of them will dismount and come up this hill."

Evans's face hardened as the meaning landed. Then, as if he'd made up his mind, he turned on the National Guard soldiers gathered around him and shouted.

"All hands, fall in!"

And to the men who closed in, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠called,

"Attention!"

Every eye locked on him.

A murmur ran through the soldiers at the bombshell. Evans pressed on, unfazed.

"From this moment, Polar Bear's orders carry the same weight as mine, and will be executed at once — no confirmation, no delay."

The men were silent.

"We are fighting to survive. As of right now, that man is the only commander responsible for keeping every one of us alive. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

There was no doubt and no complaint in the answer — only the relief and resolve of men who had finally found a clear banner to follow in the chaos. They already knew the weight the name Polar Bear carried.

Evans split them into Claymore teams.

"Team One, emplace two Claymores each at one-fifty and fifty yards up the road. Team Two—"

Carlos stepped in and handed him a bag of Claymores he'd brought from the trailer.

"Team Two, on me. We're building a defensive line in front of the position!"

The soldiers acknowledged and scattered. Evans climbed into one of the Humvees that had been stripped of its heavy weapons and moved out with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Team Two to put the forward line in himself.

The quiet desert hill was suddenly thick with the smell of a fight coming on.

While two Humvees kicked up dust and vanished toward the roadside, I looked up at the hill where the defensive position was taking shape. Gunner was personally walking the National Guard gunners through their fields of fire, correcting the dead angles by hand.

I climbed up to inspect the work. The remaining soldiers were improvising sandbags on the spot, and every weapon's firing line had been laid to form a clean interlocking web. Ammunition was stacked where it could be fed without a wasted step. Seeing a position of that quality thrown together in a matter of minutes, I felt a measure of relief — these men had at least been trained properly.

I called Gunner over.

"Gunner, I'm going to need you to put in some work on this one too."

"Name it."

"The problem is they've got two armored vehicles in the column. Can't say for certain, but they look like they're packing twenty- or thirty-millimeter autocannons."

"The Carl?"

He had read me immediately.

"Yeah. Pick a sharp one from the Guard to run as your assistant gunner. Then set up an ambush at the base of that hill across the road, well off our position. I need you taking the opening shots again."

"OK."

He answered, but I added a word of caution anyway.

"Gunner — don't give the hunter-killer team's position away too early. Let the rest of the rabble roll past. You only engage the armor."

"Don't worry about it."

He said it short, then walked over to one of the National Guard soldiers, exchanged a few words, and the two of them headed for my truck.

From the hilltop I stared down the dark road ahead and ran the worst case in my head. If those autocannons started pouring fire on us, it would be all but impossible to even raise our heads on this low sand rise. We would have to buy every minute we could until reinforcements arrived.

If the hunter-killers fail, this turns into a slaughterhouse.

I was also worried that if the enemy fanned out into the open, the front would widen and our fire would thin. On the other hand, the broken ground off the road would slow them — and that was something we could use.

Once every position was set, the desert silence settled over the hill once more.

I scanned the northern road through binoculars, mapping their movement in my head. Then something snagged.

If they were really just a raiding party, they never would have bypassed a city like Winnemucca.

They had killed the checkpoint sentries and driven straight south without looting or occupying the place — which meant they were moving on a specific, urgent objective.

Someone leaked intel.

They weren't raiders drifting the highways. They were trained hunting dogs, coming for us on a trail of information somebody had fed them.

The thought had barely formed when Jake's voice burst from the radio.

I opened the F.OP common channel at once.

Then a short transmission came in from Gunner.

I didn't like it, but I decided to trust his judgment. I called over the driver of an empty Humvee and sent him out with extra ammunition and water. The Humvee bounced across the uneven open ground, racing toward Gunner's team as they vanished into the dark.

Then I gave orders to the heavy-weapons gunners on the left side of the hilltop.

"Number One M2, Number One M240, listen up. The anti-armor team has moved to a new ambush point. If the enemy leaves the road and closes on that position, you provide covering fire immediately."

A moment later the distant Humvee picked up the two men and pushed on toward the deeper site. The empty vehicle that had dropped them was already coming back when Jake's voice came over the radio again.

I could hear him catching his breath as he went on.

Meanwhile I fired up the Kenworth and eased the trailer into a new position. I parked it so the rear ramp door and the turret mounted on top sat just at the edge of the road shoulder. Most of the truck and trailer remained hidden behind the hill, but the turret had a perfect view of the road ahead. From a distance it would look for all the world like a wreck — or a vehicle that had simply pulled over.

I marveled again at the care Mike and Jed had put into the camouflage covers, dirtied and weathered to match the dust and the ground around us.

Before I climbed the interior ladder up to the turret, I called Carlos over. He was waiting with a face tight with tension.

"You're going to assist me from inside the trailer. Understood?"

"Yes, boss."

I pulled the Carl Gustaf from the truck sleeper, set it down just below the turret, and went on.

"Carlos. You know how to load this?"

He answered with real confidence.

"Yes, sir. Gunner taught me."

I opened the turret's roof hatch in advance and traversed it ninety degrees left and right, giving the drive a final check. Everything moved smooth. Through the firing ports I could see Gunner settling into the new ambush, and the Humvee that had been emplacing Claymores rolling back to our lines.

All preparations were complete. I opened the F.OP common channel and issued the last order.

A moment later, Lieutenant Evans's terse report came through my earpiece.

Then his voice came again, urgent this time.

I keyed the PTT and put it on them one more time.

A suffocating silence hung over the hill. Then Evans's voice came again, tight with urgency.

I had to cut his impatience off at the root.

A stretch of time passed in which only the desert wind and the grit on it broke the silence — short, but already tasting of the hell to come. At last, beyond the heat shimmer at the end of the road, enemy vehicles began to resolve as black dots to the naked eye.

As they drew closer and their shapes came clear, a frantic voice burst from the radio.

The instant my transmission ended, a flash erupted that swallowed the soldiers' fear whole.

From Gunner's distant ambush, two muzzle flashes and two launch signatures bloomed at once.

Fwoosh. Fwoosh.

Shhhk— shhheeeeek—

With a sharp, air-splitting crack, two high-explosive warheads carved red trails through the desert sky. Gunner and his assistant gunner had fired both Gustafs at the same time.