The Horn
Walking back to the trailer with Lieutenant Colonel Gibson, it struck me that the National Guard still maintained a respectable intelligence network of its own. On a sudden impulse, I asked.
"Colonel, do you have any news from Canada?"
"Polar Bear, states up north like Montana and North Dakota have already had the gates of hell thrown open. You can imagine what Canada's like."
"Ah..."
"It's already become a frozen waste where even news no longer gets through. From what I understand, survivors have clustered in tiny pockets of the major cities near the border."
A chill settled in a corner of my heart at the grim reality of Canada — a place that had been like a second home to me. But I had to pull myself back to the here and now.
"Understood. Then what's the situation in the surrounding states?"
"Well, to put it simply — cold as it sounds, northern Nevada, excluding Las Vegas, is in the best shape right now."
I said nothing.
"Part of it's that our state has plenty of resources and a small population. Caught between the winter and the raiding up north, the collapsed land to the west, and the secessionists to the south, we've still managed to keep some kind of order. And we're a corridor connecting to the East, besides."
The thrill of victory had been brief. Cold reality and fear of what was coming crossed paths in the silence, and Lieutenant Colonel Gibson's face betrayed an impatience to get on with what lay ahead. He sat on the sofa in my trailer, finishing the last of his coffee, and continued.
"Polar Bear, there's no reason to drag this out. The sooner we formalize the command-delegation contract with the Union, the better."
"Agreed, Colonel. The sooner we're ready, the better."
Gibson nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer.
"Honestly... there was considerable opposition inside headquarters. A lot of talk about how handing military assets and command authority over to a civilian group was unprecedented."
At that, Gunner, standing beside me, let out a dry snort.
"Figures. What would a bunch of desk jockeys know."
Even at Gunner's potentially rude mutter, Gibson didn't take offense. If anything, a faint smile suggested he agreed.
"But this last battle changed everything in an instant."
"They know it too. If it hadn't been for you, the 3rd Brigade would have taken Fallon. Carson City would be cut off by now — and not just the munitions. The entire state of Nevada would be in danger."
Gibson paused, looking between me and Gunner with a look of genuine pride, and went on.
"Anyway, your victory put some real weight behind my argument. You proved why a transport operator needs its own defensive force — and just how efficiently they can fight."
"Thanks to that, the opposition inside melted away like snow. There are even voices now saying we ought to support you more aggressively. So if there's anything else you particularly need, say so. I'll do what I can."
His offer was unexpected, but it was an opportunity I couldn't let slip. I thought for a moment, then recalled the most painful lesson of the last fight.
"About the armored vehicles you agreed to provide — I have something to say."
"Go ahead."
"They have to be models equipped with autocannons."
"Well, I suppose..."
"I learned it in my bones during this last battle. Against autocannon fire, small arms are completely helpless."
As I spoke, Gunner met my eyes and nodded, and Lieutenant Colonel Gibson seemed to share the sentiment.
"Of course. At the very least, you need equivalent firepower."
"All right. Would a 30mm Bushmaster mounted on a Stryker satisfy you?"
"Yes. Thank you."
When I finished, Lieutenant Colonel Gibson tapped the table with his fingers, seeming to think it over, then shook his head.
"No. I'll give you something more decisive than a regular Bushmaster. The Stryker Dragoon. The latest model. Equipped with the 30mm Mk44 Bushmaster II."
Gunner looked equally surprised and gave a thumbs-up.
"Hell yeah."
"Thank you, Colonel."
Gibson continued with a faint smile.
"That's not all."
He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"Just in case — I'll throw in eight Javelins as well."
Javelin. The moment that name came up, neither Gunner nor I could hide our surprise. It was, without question, the most formidable man-portable anti-tank missile in existence. I couldn't keep the astonishment out of my voice as I asked again.
"Javelins? Are you... expecting a tank battle?"
Instead of answering, Lieutenant Colonel Gibson shrugged, his expression unreadable.
"Who knows. Wouldn't be surprising if those northern boys rolled in with just about anything."
His gaze drifted into the air for a moment.
After that, the colonel went over several matters related to standing up the Division, and we agreed to execute the formal contract tomorrow, once the third transport run was complete.
But in my head, Lieutenant Colonel Gibson's last words kept circling like a horn blast.
Just in case. Just in case. Just in case.
Meanwhile, the first day in Fallon was drawing to a close, beginning with Carlos taking a hot shower. Gunner had something to say.
"Still... I wonder if we're getting in too deep."
"Yeah. I've been feeling that too."
Gunner and I didn't take the conversation any further. We didn't need to confirm it — we both knew we'd arrived at the same conclusion. The night air in Fallon was as cold as ever, but it felt strangely oppressive.
"Boss."
"Yeah."
"Not like we've got a choice, right?"
"No. We don't."
What more was there to say? We were no longer survivors running from a disaster. Somewhere along the way, we had become players in a game that was vast and cruelly dangerous. And a fear had settled in my chest — that we might be thrown into the very heart of the war we had tried so hard to avoid.
While my thoughts were still tangled, Gunner finished his shower and stepped out. It was my turn.
Standing under the hot water, the colonel's words kept circling in my head. Just in case. That single phrase brought back a memory from my military training days.
Pitch-black darkness. A bone-cutting winter night in Gangwon Province.
We were on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. That was when the team leader unfolded a worn map and pointed to a fork in the road.
"You have to choose. The ridge trail that's gentle but takes the long way around — or the valley that's steep but a shortcut."
Everyone was exhausted, so of course we were about to take the ridge. But the assistant team leader — the senior NCO, the oldest hand on the team — spoke up quietly.
"There's no easy road. There's only the danger you can see and the danger you can't."
He pointed at the frozen valley.
"The valley will be cold and slick. But that's all it is. If we prepare and we're careful, it's a risk we can get through."
Then he jerked his chin toward the ridge beyond the darkness.
"But nobody knows what's waiting on the other side of that trail. You might get lucky and find an easy path. Or you might walk into an ambush, or lose the way entirely."
"More than anything — you might not reach the objective on time. The man who leaves it to luck is the first one to die on the battlefield."
The officer in charge deferred to his cantankerous assistant's years, and the rest of the team agreed with him.
That night, we took the valley. We reached the objective in one piece and completed the mission we'd been given.
I could almost feel it again — the cold of the rope sliding through my hands, and the relief of standing on solid ice instead of uncertain darkness.
By the time I finished the shower, that recollection had driven a simple truth home. Better to choose a controllable risk than an unknown threat.
After the shower, that evening, I tore open a pack of Shin Ramyun for the first time in a long while. I figured I owed myself a reward. I dropped the soup packet and the noodles into bubbling water, then pulled the kimchi and bacon I'd been hoarding from the back of the fridge. A spicy, tangy smell filled the trailer.
Carlos had already slipped in, drawn by the smell, swallowing hard.
"Whoa... Boss, that's just not fair."
Gunner followed and sat down without a word. And so a modest but special dinner for three men began.
"Ahh, nobody makes ramen like the boss. This heat! This is real man's food, right?"
Gunner snorted at Carlos's banter.
"I think about it sometimes. The boss's special talent. Figure it comes from using those hard, slippery metal chopsticks since he was a kid. I still can't get the hang of 'em."
He muttered it as he clumsily lifted noodles with the chopsticks. The sight of it cracked me up. As the night wound down, the trailer was full of the warmth of ramen and the simple laughter of three men.
And the next morning, I started my routine as always. But it was different now. I was no longer alone.
I started working out shirtless in the cold dawn air, and before long Gunner was beside me, exercising in silence. Wolf, watching us, stretched his front paws out with obvious delight and tried to copy us.
"Ugh... you guys are something else."
Carlos, woken by the noise, half-asleep, copied us for a few motions, then shook his head.
"I need coffee first."
He gave a little bow and shuffled back inside in his slippers. Gunner and I laughed without a sound.
After the workout, I went for a light jog with Wolf for the first time in a while. Running around the Fallon checkpoint, I noticed the National Guard soldiers we passed had changed. They stopped, stood at attention, and snapped off crisp salutes when they met my eyes. It was a strange look — wariness and reverence mixed together.
I was still sweating when Carlos's voice came over the radio.
I finished the jog and got back to the truck, and Matthews, leading the column, came on the radio.
I climbed down from the truck and stood with Wolf at the roadside near the checkpoint, waiting for our column to arrive.
Before long, familiar silhouettes began to appear at the far end of the road. Two Humvees from Matthews's squad in the lead, and behind them a vast procession of steel.
When the column reached the junction of US-95 and US-50, Matthews rendered a salute from the lead Humvee, and the men in the other Humvee saluted as one. The first truck behind them — Tank's Peterbilt — let out a short, deep blast of its horn.
HONK. HONK.
HONK, HONK-HONK.
BAA-BAAAMP, HONK-HONK—
BRRRAAAAAHHHHNNN—
Then, as if they'd planned it, every truck behind him began sounding their horns in turn. One trucker even rolled down the passenger window, pulled off his cap, and waved it.
"Polar Bear!"
From thirty-three trucks, horns of every pitch mixed together into one enormous roar, waking the dawn over Fallon. It wasn't an ordinary greeting. It was their own show of respect — for the victory in the last battle, and for the man who had led it.
A swell of pride filled my chest. But I couldn't shake the thought that that magnificent sound might also be a horn, warning of greater dangers still to come.