The Method

A few days later, Carson Camp was busier than ever, crowded with new equipment.

True to the agreement, the remaining two containers—payment for the Union's transport work—arrived packed with everything we had asked for. Mortars and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shells, of course, but also the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kind of special-operations matériel you don't find on a packing list by accident: anti-materiel rifles, night-vision devices. We took on two more tanker trucks, both of them full of diesel, and then the military hardware Colonel Gibson had promised began to roll in. Add the four Humvees transferred from TSP, and Polaris Division now fielded a mobile force of two Stryker armored vehicles, four FMTV tactical trucks, and twelve armed Humvees.

The night before the Division's founding ceremony, Mike came to my trailer with a thick folder under his arm.

"Chan, tomorrow the Division raises its colors for real. Want to look over the final table of organization before we do?"

I took the papers he held out. Every page bore the weight of the last few days—Mike's deliberation, his experience, poured into ink.

"How did you organize the armored vehicle platoon?"

"Two squads, one per vehicle. Including Jaguar, Rockwell, Wheeler, and Hawkeye, that's five men to a squad—ten total. Plenty to run a Stryker apiece."

"And the mobile strike platoon? That's going to be the main effort."

"I built it around the veterans who came over from TSP under Matthews and Ryker. Three squads. Each squad rides in two Humvees with eight men, and I assigned at least one designated marksman per squad. Twenty-four all told."

I kept reading.

"Fire support platoon is four men to each of the four FMTVs, sixteen total, including two trained snipers."

"What about the mortars?"

"Mortar platoon runs three gun sections—one 120mm and two 81mm. They'll split across the new mortar truck, the trailer, and two Humvees. Twelve men. We've finally got a proper indirect-fire capability."

Mike gathered the folder back up and kept going.

"Last, headquarters platoon. Communications, medical, reconnaissance—twenty-four personnel with four Humvees. And in there… I stood up a separate special-tasks squad, special-forces types only. People like Gunner. Like you. They'll be your blade."

"Headquarters seems light on vehicles for that many people."

"We'll be fine. The armored vehicles have spare room, and on actual operations we'll have people riding shotgun in the trucks. It won't be a real problem."

"That puts pure combat strength, command excluded, at eighty-six. Add the twenty-plus maintenance and supply people under Gears and Jed, and I'd say we've got a proper outfit."

He tidied the papers with a look of real satisfaction, then glanced up.

"Oh—how do you want the Javelins distributed?"

"Two per armored vehicle, with qualified operators riding along."

"Good thinking. As it happens, the people who went through the operator course are already in the armored platoon. I had them assigned that way. The remaining four I'd keep at HQ for a rainy day."

"That works. One more thing—what's the status on the JP-8?"

"Don't worry about that. Colonel Gibson is sending a ten-thousand-gallon tanker down to Fallon Camp. The man doesn't do things small."

The next day, the wide parking lot at Carson Camp filled with people gathered for the founding of Polaris Division. It was a modest affair, simple by design, but the Union's truckers and their families mixed with the families of the men and women who had just become Division members, and the whole thing took on a warmth that no amount of parade-ground polish could have manufactured. Colonel Gibson attended, along with a handful of local dignitaries, and their remarks lent the ceremony a formality it might otherwise have lacked.

I became commander as a matter of course. Gunner took the deputy slot. And Mike was given a title that went well beyond a command sergeant major's brief: Master Operator, with authority over every technical system and every hour of training in the Division.

After the ceremony I called Gunner over.

"Gunner, I need you to put together a Division advance party."

"How big?"

"They're going ahead to Fallon Camp to check what's still short and get the place ready for the main body. I'll leave the makeup to you."

"Ryker's squad ought to be plenty."

"Do it."

"I'll get them spun up. We roll tomorrow morning."

The rest of the day vanished in a blur. The next morning, around the time Gunner's advance party was rolling the Humvees out of Carson Camp, Mike found me with dust still on his clothes and a look of deep satisfaction on his face.

"Chan, come take a look. The mortar trailer is finished."

I followed him. A heavy structure sat on a massive flatbed trailer, hidden under waterproof tarps. At Mike's signal, Ark—the gun-section chief—undid the tie-downs with practiced hands and peeled back the folding cover. One 120mm mortar and two 81mm mortars came into view, squat and formidable.

"You actually pulled this off."

"Of course we did. Haha. Jed and I put some real thought into it."

Mike pointed to the machinery installed in a dense, careful layout across the trailer deck.

"Just reinforcing the frame wasn't going to cut it—not with the recoil on these monsters. So we pulled hydraulic outriggers off a scrapped crane and grafted them onto all four corners of the trailer."

"I thought you could just bolt the tubes down and call it done."

"Oh, you could. It'd even fire. But keep a sustained bombardment going and you'll beat the chassis to death, and you won't be able to stop the recoil from throwing the lay off."

"Right."

"Watch. When we fire, these plant themselves in the ground, lock the whole trailer down, and take the first hit. We also doubled the deck under each mortar baseplate and hung a second set of dampers underneath, built out of truck suspension parts."

He added it with the air of a man who was pleased with his own work.

"It's perfect on paper. I still won't be sure until we actually fire the things."

Carson Camp never did get a chance to sit still after that. Transport jobs large and small, contracted by the National Guard, started rolling one after another under Polaris Division escort. In the meantime Fallon Camp took on the shape of a real base at speed, and the Division relocated there.

Once Fallon became the Division's garrison, Mike, his son Damon, and Jed settled in to get the helicopters running. Cody stayed to teach drone operations to the Division's soldiers.

On a day when the Division and Fallon Camp were finally starting to find their feet, Mike came looking for me again.

"Chan, we need a live-fire exercise."

"I was thinking the same thing, Mike. Best equipment in the world is scrap if nobody knows how to use it."

"Exactly. Union transport happens to have a few days clear. Let's pick a date."

I took him up on it. We scheduled the Division's first live-fire for a day with no Union hauls on the board.

A few days later, in the barren desert east of Fallon, every weapon the Division owned was drawn up on a wide stretch of flats we'd scouted as a range. Tank had volunteered for the exercise as well.

"Been dying to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠actually fire that thing on the roof."

He jerked his chin at the automatic grenade launcher mounted on top of his truck.

"I put it up there and never got to use it. Just drove. I can't take the itch anymore."

"Yeah, that's how it went, isn't it. Today you shoot it until you're done, Tank." I laughed.

The live-fire opened with Humvee shooting on the move. A dozen or so Humvees kicked up plumes of dust as they maneuvered, the M2 heavy machine guns in their roof turrets opening up as one. A deep, rolling stutter carried across the desert, and the wrecked trucks we'd staked out as targets came apart in seconds, shredded into ragged scrap. Tank and the Division's other grenadiers poured grenades after them, and the impact area lit up like a fireworks show.

Then the two Strykers rolled in. The 30mm autocannon was a different class of destruction from the M2. Each sharp, bursting report tore the hulks apart until they lost all shape, collapsing into black metal dust.

The last event on the schedule was the mortar section's test fire.

"Drones, ready for launch!"

Cody and the newly trained drone observers called it out, and several drones climbed into the sky, feeding live video of the impact area in real time. Ark took the coordinates off the feed and started calling the mission.

"Gun 1! Deflection two-one-zero-three! Elevation one-two-zero-zero!"

"Gun 1, ready!"

"Fire!"

A dull whump sent the 81mm round arcing away. A moment later a column of dust rose near the target.

"Left five-zero from target! Adjust fire, Gun 2 prepare to fire."

"Gun 2, deflection two-one-two-four. Elevation one-one-niner-five!"

"Gun 2, ready."

"Fire!"

This time the 120mm spoke with a much heavier boom and flung its round skyward. The second shell landed dead in the center of the target. A cheer went up from everyone watching the live drone feed. Mike, in particular, was delighted like a child that his own creation was working exactly as designed.

"Did you see that? The hydraulic outriggers locked the recoil down tight. At that level, the trailer barely takes any strain."

Ark came over to me after the successful mortar shoot, his voice still running a little hot.

"Commander, this thing is extraordinary. Displacement and emplacement time have all but vanished, and—"

He didn't wait for me to answer.

"The trailer spreads left and right with the outriggers, which gives the gun section room to move. With that much stowage, the ready rounds and the extra ammunition are all in one place, so tactically…"

Listening to the excited after-action, Mike looked like a man watching something he had only ever sketched in his head lock into place in the real world, and finding it deeply, quietly satisfying.

That evening, after we'd wrapped the exercise and come back to Fallon Camp, a call came in from Dave.

"Hey, Dave. What's going on?"

Frank's voice mixed in over the line. Speakerphone, apparently.

"Here's the thing. Mother's been worried sick that you and Jake and Cody are just grabbing whatever's handy for meals."

"Here we go again with that old man."

Frank's grumbling came through clearly, but Dave talked right over it.

"Look, having the crew split in two like this just doesn't sit right. I was thinking maybe this is the time—Raven's people, our people, everybody moves to Fallon."

I thought the same thing. Everyone belonged in one place. Frank, though, let out a long breath.

"Dave, you go on to Fallon. I need to stay a while longer."

"The exchange?"

"Obviously! I sit there and the money practically prints itself—you think I'm handing that off to somebody else? The Tahoe salmon run is a fixed quantity every time, so I've already got people on that. The exchange is a whole different animal."

"Still, if Dave and the rest of the party all go to Fallon, it bothers me leaving only your family in Carson."

"It's fine. It's only a two- or three-hour drive."

I let my voice settle and spoke to him straight.

"Yeah? Go on."

"Frank, optimistic assumptions don't belong in a decision like this. You know what I mean. This world we're in. So even if it costs you something, find a way to make the move to Fallon."

Silence held for a moment on the other end. Then Dave's voice came back, bright with pleasure.

"See? If anyone can find a way, it's this guy. Right, Frank?"

Frank was quiet a beat longer, then answered like a man giving up the argument.

"…Alright. I'll find a way. No—I'll make one."