220
Few words are exchanged as Rickenbacker, Kate, yourself, and six Tucson men climb into your pick-up truck and follow behind the gas tanker as it leaves the Desert View Tower. Three other vehicles follow you in line, each with its complement of stern-faced defenders pledged to holding off Mad Dog Michigan for as long as it takes the convoy to reach Pine Valley. You sense that, like you, the others are trying hard not to think about the outcome of losing the impending battle, for deep down they know that, at best, only a few of you can expect to survive.
Ten uncomfortable minutes pass before Rickenbacker’s transceiver crackles into life. It is Cutter calling all vehicles: ‘Bridge ahead. Get ready to deploy your vehicles and take cover. Follow my lead. Out.’
Then you see the parapets of the railroad bridge in the distance, and a sick feeling rises in your stomach. The tanker starts to brake, and then it turns towards the gap in the central crash barriers where Cutter brings it shuddering to a halt. You copy his manoeuvre, as do the vehicles following, and together you park in a line, nose to tail, across all ten lanes of Interstate 8.
