The tobacco shed south of town was a cathedral of dry rot and forgotten labor. It smelled of a hundred years of hanging leaf, damp limestone, and the sharp, ozone tang of high-voltage batteries. It was a skeletal structure, held together by habit and the grace of the Driftless oaks, but for Brett Whyte, it was a fortified hangar.

Brett didn’t speak. He never did when a task was in front of him. He moved to the back, past a rusted-out thresher, and gripped the edge of a heavy, oil-stained hay tarp. With a violent, rhythmic yank, he revealed the machine.

It was a BMW R1200GS Adventure. Even under a layer of dust and spiderwebs, it looked like a hunk of German industrial sculpture designed for the end of the world. The matte-black paint was gouged from old gravel, and the oversized aluminum Touratech panniers were dented, but the bones—the massive, horizontal boxer twin engine—were solid.

Cronauer stepped forward, his fingers tracing the cylinder heads. He checked the oil by the dim amber glow of a headlamp, his mind running through the mechanical checklist he’d learned in the Corps. He turned the key. The digital dash flickered to life—a ghostly amber glow in the dim shed—and the fuel pump primed with a high-pitched, clinical whine.

He hit the starter.

The engine didn’t just turn over; it barked. The roar was deep, mechanical, and rhythmic, sending a vibration through the dirt floor that Cronauer felt in the marrow of his shins. It was the sound of a mission finally gaining a heartbeat.

They loaded the GS into the back of Brett’s truck, the heavy suspension groaning as they winched the 600-pound beast into the bed. The drive back to Viroqua was a study in paranoia. Brett took the back-road logging veins, eyes glued to the dark treeline, avoiding the gaze of the Blackhawks they knew were circling the bluffs.

When they rolled into the lot at Station Zero, Bill Norman and Dave were already pacing by the back door under the hum of the rooftop solar array.

“I heard her,” Cronauer said the moment his boots hit the pavement. “Emmy. She’s at the river. She’s at the Lock and Dam, and they’re out of meds. We need to hit your waypoint, Brett. The one with the cold-chain stash.”

Bill didn’t celebrate. He exploded. “You’re chasing a phantom, Cronauer! You heard a voice through sixty cycles of hum and atmospheric skip. You have any idea how many lures the DHS is throwing out there? You’re going to throw your life away for a sound wave.”

“It wasn’t static, Bill. I know her voice like I know the frequency of this station. I’m going.”

Seeing the wall in Cronauer’s eyes, Bill reached into a rucksack sitting on the Wheatstone A-500 console inside. “Fine. If you’re going to be a fool, be a fool with enough lead.”

He handed Cronauer the custom AR-15 Takedown. Cronauer checked the Law Tactical folder and the Cry Havoc barrel, snapping the rifle together with a metallic clack that echoed in the sound-treated room. Beside it, Bill dropped a Glock 43X and three extra magazines.

“Twenty miles,” Cronauer muttered, spreading a topo map across the board. “But I have to stay on the logging veins. It’s a week-long crawl.”

“You’re missing something,” Bill said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an original 1st Generation Apple iPod.

Cronauer stared at the monochrome screen. “How is that even alive?”

“I swapped the mechanical drive for a one-terabyte SSD,” Bill grunted. “And I put your music on it. The stuff we used to trade back in the WORT days. I kept the folders exactly as you had them.”

Cronauer scrolled the mechanical wheel, his thumb ghosting over his own history. The file names flickered by: Nine Inch Nails: The Downward Spiral. Rush: Moving Pictures. Queensrÿche: Operation: Mindcrime. He stopped when he saw James Taylor.

“James Taylor, Bill? Really?”

“Don’t look at me,” Bill muttered, heading toward the gear pile. “It was in your ‘Favorites’ folder back in ’96.”

Cronauer felt a tight, internal smile. You’ve Got a Friend. That was Emmy’s song. Having it here, sitting next to the industrial grind of Trent Reznor, felt like a good omen.

The tactical prep moved with a grim, surgical efficiency. They sat at the workbench, stripping the cardboard off MREs to save weight and vacuum-sealing the high-calorie components into the Sitka Gearslinger pack.

“Dave, stay locked on 146.520 MHz,” Cronauer commanded. He tucked the Roll-up Slim Jim antenna into the GS’s frame. “If you’re not on the 2-meter band at that exact frequency, I’m shouting into the void.”

• The Blade: He clipped a Microtech Combat Troodon—a modern, out-the-front switchblade—to his pocket.
• The Tool: A Gerber Center-Drive went into the Sitka’s side pouch.
• The Kitchen: Bill handed over the GoSun Sport solar stove. “No smoke, no thermal signature. You need to boil water, you use the sun.”
• The Eyes: Brett handed him a set of PVS-14 Night Vision Goggles. “The bike has an IR-dead switch now. You ride by the green glow, or you don’t ride at all.”

Before the final departure, Cronauer sat at the Yaesu FTDX101D. He sent a tight, narrow-beam burst to Norm Stockwell in Madison. The reply came back minutes later, scrolling across the display:

MADISON COMPROMISED. DHS OCCUPATION COMPLETE. 40,000 AGENTS FLOODED THE CITY. CAPITOL IS A FORTRESS. WORT IS DARK. SOUNDS LIKE YOU GUYS NEED HELP. I’M ON MY WAY.

“Norm’s coming?” Dave asked, looking over Cronauer’s shoulder.

“If he says he’s coming, he’s coming,” Cronauer said. But then, a new signal bled through the receiver—a frantic, unencrypted transmission from Coon Valley.

“…multiple roadblocks on Highway 14… searching for ‘contraband calories.’ Standoff near the old creamery. Gunfire reported. If you’re heading south of town, stay off the blacktop…”

Cronauer looked at the map. Coon Valley was the gateway. Whatever was happening at the creamery was the first test of the night.

“Madison is gone,” Cronauer said, standing up. “And Coon Valley is burning. It’s time to move.”

At 23:30, the lot at Station Zero was heavy with Driftless mist. Cronauer pulled on the Biltwell helmet, feeling the hardwired leads click into place. He checked the tension on the rucksack and the spare helmet strapped for Emmy. He lowered the PVS-14s over his eye. The world turned a grainy, glowing green.

He hit the ignition. The boxer twin hummed low. He scrolled the iPod wheel to Queensrÿche’s Empire. As the opening bass line of ‘Best I Can’ slammed into his ears, he clicked the visor shut and kicked the GS into gear.

He didn’t turn on the lights. He just leaned into the darkness and vanished into the treeline.

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