The Road is a River. Nick Cole

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       Chapter Twelve

      “This is General Watt calling.”

      “We’re here,” said the Old Man into his mic after a moment of fumbling with the communications system.

      “I have some good news,” she said as a static squall crested and then was gone.

      The Old Man stopped the tank.

      They were on a small rise far out in the bowl of the desert. Somewhere within all the brown dust ahead lay the Proving Ground, the military base north of Yuma the villagers had avoided simply because it shared the same name of another place they had all seen destroyed.

      I feel I don’t know everything I need to know about what we’re doing. But what am I supposed to ask her? This person, this General, she could be keeping the truth from me. And the others, Pancho, they could have been right all along.

      For now, you must play the game according to its rules, my friend.

      Maybe I should turn back.

      “Our installation keeps a record of all the communications we tracked before the nets went completely offline. I’ve conducted a data search and found that a convoy carrying JP-9 arrived in the Yuma Proving Ground a week before the city of Yuma was destroyed. There is a chance that you may find the remains of that convoy somewhere within the facility.”

      “Would this JP-9 be usable? It’s been forty years,” asked the Old Man.

      “If it still exists, then theoretically, yes. JP-9 was a prototype fuel rushed into production in the lead-up to the war. The Defense Department officials foresaw the need for a long-shelf-life fuel replacement and ordered as much of it as they were able to in the months prior to the war. There were some concerns over its use, but at this stage, it might be your only option. Unless someone took the time to use fuel stabilizers and conduct an additive removal process, the chances of finding a completely airtight fuel source are highly improbable. Your only other option will be clean diesel or kerosene. Again, these are not optimal sources, but the M-1 Abrams Main Battle Tank uses a multifuel vehicle system.”

      “What will these tankers look like?”

      “They resemble standard military fuel transports and there should be twelve of them. JP-9 had a projected eighty-year shelf life. Though this was never tested, reports indicate the lifespan was achievable.”

      Our whole journey depends on the word “reports.”

      “All right then, we’ll try and find the tankers.”

      The Old Man listened to the tank, letting the massive turbine idle in its screaming high-pitched drone as he scanned the horizon once more with his binoculars.

      There is no sign of the Proving Ground. We are nearing the end of our fuel. Soon, I’ll have to pump our two fifty-gallon drums.

      “Grandpa, below that mountain there’s a sign sticking out of the ground. Maybe we should go and see what’s written on it?”

      It’s a good thing she has come with me; I never would’ve seen that sign.

      “I can’t see the sign,” said the Old Man. “Where is it?”

      “See that mountain, the low one off to our left that’s all shadowy and bumpy and rocky?”

      “Yes.”

      “Right in there.”

      The Old Man found the sign through his binoculars but it was still too far away to read what, if anything at all, was still written upon it.

      He took hold of the controls, pressed his foot onto the pedal slightly, and watched the terrain ahead. I have to keep the tank on the firmest ground. We cannot get stuck. If we do, there is no way to rescue the tank that I can think of right now.

      Then maybe you will think of a way when you need to, my friend. Try not to worry about what has not happened to you. And may never happen at all.

      “How did you see the sign?”

      “I can make this target thing bigger with a dial on the side of it.”

      “I don’t think we should touch those buttons. We don’t want to make the gun go off.”

      “It also sees in the dark if you turn this knob,” she continued.

      “You’re very smart. But we must be careful. We don’t know everything yet. Still, you’re very smart and I am proud of you. Much smarter than me.”

      When they reached the sign, the Old Man got down off the tank as his granddaughter watched him from the hatch she’d learned to open on the side of the tank. Again a new thing she understood about the tank and which he hadn’t yet figured out.

      The sign was sand scoured, and what words had once been written upon it were gone. But the Old Man could feel the hard remains of a road buried beneath the drifting sand under his boots. He took out his map and began to look around.

      The Proving Ground must be that way. On the map they are north of Yuma.

      There were people all alongside the highway that day, camped out, hoping to get to the airport, onto a plane, and flee. I remember the rumor that airplanes were waiting to take us all somewhere safe.

      I remember wanting to believe the rumor was true, which is the terrible thing about rumors.

      In his mind he could see Air Force One floating across the sky. Black smoke trailed from one of its engines, coming in to land one last time.

      That was a long time ago.

      Concentrate! That last day doesn’t have anything to do with today. Today you must find these trucks that contain the fuel. If you don’t find them, then you have failed.

      The Old Man climbed back into the tank and checked the dosimeter.