Neglect

Contrary to the unease gnawing at the back of my mind, once a new objective was set, Carson Camp came alive all over again.

Frank's trading post swelled in size with every passing day, and the work of standing up the Division under Mike's command moved forward without a hitch. The fishing grounds at Tahoe ran without rest, and every week a fresh haul of dressed salmon and trout rolled into camp. Marketplace chatter, children's laughter, and the rumble of truck engines all braided together until the place looked, for all the world, like a small city.

Everything was running perfectly.

And that, more than anything, filled me with an anxiety I could barely stand.

Old memories flashed through my mind like a sudden glare of light.

The day I finally set foot on home soil after finishing that interminable stretch of overseas service. I had taken every won I'd scraped together and bought my parents — who had worked themselves to the bone their entire lives — a trip abroad. I saw them off at the airport believing, truly believing, that everything had at last fallen into place, that happiness was only just beginning.

The very next day, I learned that the plane they were on had gone down.

Another memory layered itself over the first. Ten years in Canada, splitting even my sleep to keep my hands on the wheel, until the day I finally took possession of the Kenworth I had dreamed of. I sat in that perfectly customized cab and roared as if I owned the world.

And in that exact moment, the radio announced that a volcano had erupted in Iceland, and that the end of the world had begun.

In my life, perfection had always been the overture to a greater misfortune. The instant something was finished, the instant I let myself believe that everything had found its proper place, the world reached in without fail and tore away whatever I held ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠most dear.

Carson Camp was that moment now.

Temporary as it was, this was the settlement we had clawed into existence through every hardship imaginable — a trading post, a logistics hub, a family, a community. This little city, raised like a miracle in the middle of the wasteland, was the largest and most complete thing I had ever built.

And so I was afraid. I could not know what vast despair waited for us at the far edge of this perfection. All I could do was keep my eyes locked on the darkness coming toward us, trapped inside a sense of foreboding I could not shake.

Beyond repeating, like a habit, like a nag, that we had to prepare for the unexpected, there was nothing I could actually do.

The meeting ended the way they always did, but our days only grew busier.

Frank finally managed to butter up that stubborn old dealer and bought three trucks off him for a song. Dave, Frank, and Mike each had a rig of their own now.

Mike spent his days buried in interviews with retired soldiers, building the Division from the ground up, barely pausing to breathe.

A few days later he came looking for me with a stack of files under his arm, a satisfied smile sitting easy on his face.

"Chan. The Division's coming together nicely. Want to take a look at the first round of picks?"

I nodded, and Mike flipped open the top sheet and started walking me through it.

"For starters, I pulled the crews we'll need to run the two Strykers we're getting. Four men in total."

He tapped each résumé in turn, photographs clipped to the pages.

"This one's Jaguar. Used to drive an M1 Abrams."

"A tank driver?"

"That's right. A Stryker'll be nothing to him — he could drive one with his eyes closed. And this is Rockwell. Knows fire-control systems inside and out. Born gunner."

Mike turned the page and kept going.

"Second crew. Driver's a fellow named Wheeler — started out as a trucker, but he ran LAVs in the Marines. Gunner's Hawkeye, Army recon sniper. He'll shoot that thirty-millimeter like a rifle."

He gave a satisfied chuckle and moved on to the rest.

"Plenty of other good ones, too. This here's Sparky. Army aviation mechanic — exactly the rotor-wing specialist Jake's been begging for. We won't have to worry about keeping the helicopters in the air anymore."

"Ha. That's a relief. I've been uneasy about that every time we spun them up."

"And this one's Doc. Army medical NCO, as you can see. Chloe just got herself a solid pair of extra hands. Plenty of field trauma experience. Beyond that, I've got a former artillery observer, a couple of Marine riflemen and a sniper — I'll run them through a final interview, and if nothing jumps out, they're in."

"If you say it's okay, Mike, then it's okay with me."

Mike slid two last résumés across the table.

"These two are the mortar specialists I mentioned. Ark and Plum. They used to work as a team — section chief and calculator. You give the word, and I can build a proper mobile battery around them."

"Do it."

"And one more thing."

"Go ahead."

"I think we ought to help the Division troops move their families into camp, or at least nearby. Same as we do for Union members."

"Times being what they are… you don't see a problem with that?"

"Having more people to look after is a burden, no question. But for morale and discipline, the upside is real. What they're protecting stops being just the Union. It becomes their families."

"That's a fair point. What about housing?"

"These folks have already lasted more than half a year into the Great Winter. They've got their own preparations. And Frank's already buying up the leftover caravans in Carson City and hauling them here. Colonel Gibson's cooperating on that, too."

"All right. Just remember — we're a group that has to be able to move at any time. Make sure they don't become dead weight if things go south."

"Understood."

A few more days tore past in a blur, and then one afternoon a stir ran through the entire camp. I stepped outside and found a sight I could hardly believe.

Two Strykers led the column, Gibson himself riding at the head, followed by desert-camouflaged FMTV tactical trucks and armed Humvees, all of them kicking up dust as they rolled into Carson Camp.

"Whoa — holy hell. That's all ours?"

"Guess we won't have to tiptoe around the Guard every time we run a convoy."

Truckers dropped what they were doing and came out to watch, staring in open wonder as the armored vehicles and military trucks settled into their places with a kind of quiet swagger. Pride and anticipation ran thick through the murmur of the crowd.

I was watching the same scene with a solid feeling in my chest when Gibson came toward me, smiling from ear to ear. As he closed the distance at a quick clip, an unfamiliar rank insignia caught my eye on his cover and his shoulder.

"You got promoted?"

Gibson gave an embarrassed little laugh and tapped his own shoulder.

"Heh. A wartime brevet, more or less. That Hawthorne-to-Carson supply run you pulled off turned the oak leaf on my shoulder into an eagle."

"Congratulations, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Colonel."

"I appreciate that, Polar Bear."

"Colonel."

I said the new rank once more as I offered my hand, and he looked plainly pleased to hear it. Mike, Bill, and I led him into my trailer.

Colonel Gibson, as always, went straight to the point.

"There's new work coming. That's why I came in person."

"We're listening."

"Ah — before that, there's something important you need to know."

"Go on."

"If the 3rd Brigade comes south in earnest, at brigade strength, the Division won't be able to stop them."

"No. I don't imagine we could."

"We've beefed up the firepower at a few of the checkpoints, but they wouldn't last thirty minutes. And the Guard can't concentrate every soldier we've got on one stretch of the northern line."

"You've got an alternative. That's why you brought it up."

"We do. We still have a last-ditch option."

"Can you tell us what it is?"

Colonel Gibson dropped his voice.

"About eight miles north of Carson City, at Reno-Stead Airport, that's where the Nevada National Guard Aviation Troop Command sits. There's an Apache squadron on standby around the clock."

I said nothing.

"Fallon or Lovelock, they can be overhead in forty minutes. Even farther north, an hour or two. If this turns into a straight-up fight, that's what moves."

He passed me a small slip of paper.

"If the worst happens and you have to call for air support yourself, without going through the chain of command—"

I waited.

"Tune to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that frequency. Nevada National Guard Emergency TAC Channel. You won't catch it on a civilian radio, but with the military comms gear you've got, you will."

His voice dropped even lower.

"Once the channel opens, you don't need to say anything else. Call out Reno-Carson-Fallon three times and give your current coordinates. The nearest aviation asset we've got will move. Don't forget it. Reno-Carson-Fallon."

"Understood. Reno-Carson-Fallon."

Mike and Bill made no effort to hide their surprise, and I was no less stunned myself. I knew exactly what it meant to hand a civilian the authority to call in military air support, and a part of me was afraid of it.

Gibson, however, gave me no time to dwell on it. He moved on to the actual business.

"Two jobs this time. First: resupply the Guard's new strategic outposts. Destinations are Winnemucca and Tonopah."

I pulled up the map in my head and asked the obvious question.

"Making Tonopah a strategic outpost… does that mean you've written off Las Vegas?"

Colonel Gibson nodded, his expression bitter.

"In practical terms, yes. That city was already out of control from the first days of the Great Winter. The state government washed its hands of it a long time ago."

I said nothing.

"As things stand, it's more useful as a buffer — something to keep the chaos in Arizona and Southern California from pushing north."

Mike cut in from beside me.

"Doesn't that just give the armed groups down there more room to grow?"

"We don't have a choice. California, Arizona, even Utah have all taken their hands off that region. What exactly do you expect us to do that they won't? The state government and the Guard have chosen strategic neglect."

I nodded to show I understood, then asked the next question.

"All right. What's the second job?"

"Restoring the logistics corridor into Utah along U.S. Route 50."

Mike frowned, puzzled.

"If it's Utah, wouldn't Interstate 80 be the better road?"

"It would, except I-80 up north becomes a sitting target the moment the 3rd Brigade decides it is. Better to stabilize Route 50 in the south and open that road first."

I agreed with him.

"That sounds like the better play."

After that, Colonel Gibson laid out the specifics of the resupply runs and the corridor restoration, and Bill took it all down. But the phrase would not leave my head: strategic neglect.

I understood the state's dilemma. With limited resources, you had to choose and concentrate. That much was obvious.

But leaving Las Vegas and northern Arizona to rot — turning a blind eye to a stretch of land already beyond anyone's control — meant that nobody knew what was festering out there. It wasn't only the bizarre armed groups. They had simply closed their eyes to get clear of the threat in front of them.

I could not shake the thought that the price of that choice might be a vast incubator, quietly growing some disease none of us had even named yet.