Steel Among the Oaks

Looking at Big Bill and Tank — at the unguarded joy written across their faces as they took us in — I could guess at hardships they hadn't spoken of, the kind that sit too deep for easy telling. The exhaustion on both men was plain. What they needed wasn't a hail of questions. It was a little rest.

I picked up the radio and called Cody.

With that settled, I had the key people gather in my trailer. The moment Bill and Tank stepped inside, a low whistle escaped them both at once.

"Well, I'll be damned."

Bill's eyes went wide as he took in the ordered interior, the weapons racked along the walls.

"Polar Bear, this is really... I nearly fell over when I saw the helicopter, but this is a whole other level. Just what have you—"

Tank said nothing, only nodded, the same verdict written in the set of his jaw. Gunner shrugged.

"This is our headquarters."

While we found our seats, Dave and Frank moved with the busy efficiency of men who had done this a hundred times, setting warm stew and bread down in front of the newcomers.

"Hey, you two — welcome to the crew. Eat first. Then we'll talk."

Frank nodded, backing him up.

"Let's get some food in you. You must be starving."

That was when Mike came over with a small box in his hands. He drew out a pair of radios and set them on the table.

"These are your issue comms. You'll use them to talk to the column in ordinary running. Keep them on, and take them with you whenever you leave the truck."

Then he handed each of them a second unit, larger and built heavier.

"And these are for long range. Emergencies. Or if you get separated from the column."

While Bill and Tank turned the radios over in their hands, Gunner opened the arms locker at the back of the trailer. With practiced ease he lifted out two AR-15s, ran the charging handles with a sharp clack, and checked the chambers. He pulled two submachine guns as well, gave them the same once-over, and held them out.

"These'll serve you better if you have to shoot from the cab. Easier to handle than a rifle."

He set the weapons down beside them and said it like he was handing over tools.

Bill and Tank shoveled stew into their mouths by the bowlful, barely pausing for breath. My mind was already out on the road. New variables meant the column had to be rebuilt.

"Lead stays with Gunner."

Every face in the trailer turned toward me.

"Tank's Peterbilt 389 right behind him. If it comes to it, those two monsters can open the road. Behind them, the bus motorhome as before — fire support."

I looked at Gunner.

"Gunner, how's Frank's shooting? And Jed's boys?"

Gunner didn't waste a word.

"Frank's decent — hunting experience, I figure. Of Jed's sons, the oldest, Luke, is the better shot. That's why we put Owen, the second boy, on the five-ton."

"Good. Behind the motorhome: Bill's tanker, then Jed's fuel truck, Raven's camper, Frank's caravan, Dave's pickup, Damon's minivan, in that order. I'll take the rear."

The new order was set when Cody's voice came over the radio.

I looked around the trailer.

"We'll save the long stories for tonight. Move to your new positions. We roll in fifteen."

I climbed out and took the driver's seat. Mike settled into the shotgun side. A few of the others headed for the rest-stop bathrooms. In the side mirror I watched Bill's and Tank's trucks ease into the gaps that had been waiting for them.

A moment later Tank's blue Peterbilt 389 left the shoulder and rumbled past us. The heavy engine note, the sheer mass of steel under way — it was a sight that filled the road.

Mike gave a low, jovial laugh.

"Slap a turret on that thing and you could run it as an assault tank."

"That bumper really does look like a bulldozer blade."

For all its bulk, running as a tractor without a trailer, it even had a kind of lean agility to it.

I waited until every vehicle was in its place, checked readiness over the net, and called Jake.

In the distance, Gunner's F-550 flicked on its turn signal and slid onto the pavement. Tank's Peterbilt followed, and after it the rest of the steel procession joined the asphalt one machine at a time. I put the Kenworth in gear and took my place at the very end of the line.

Eleven vehicles on their own — more than that, once you counted the trailers and caravans — and the running column stretched for hundreds of meters down the road.

We hadn't been northbound on Highway 99 long before a familiar rotor beat came in overhead. Jake's helicopter. It made one low circuit over the column, then climbed and pushed forward. His voice followed a moment later.

Jake's transmission cut out, and the cab filled again with nothing but the Kenworth's steady engine note. Even so, something like fullness settled over me — the sense that we finally had a proper formation.

Gunner opening the road at the point. Tank's overwhelming presence behind him, ready to smash whatever the road put in our way. Jake's helicopter and Cody's drone as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠our eyes in the sky. The bus motorhome, a sanctuary on wheels for everyone who needed it. And beside me, as always, the solid weight of Mike — and Wolf, tipping his head into my hand as if to make sure I was still there.

We were past the point of simply running to stay alive. We needed to find safe ground. A place to catch our breath, even if only for a little while.

"Mike, we can't just keep running east forever. Where do you figure we should stop and really take a breath?"

He pulled an old road map from the glove box and spread it across his knee.

"You're right about that. We need to get through the Nevada and Utah deserts as fast as we can. Colorado, maybe Kansas — that's about where we'll find a place we can actually rest easy for a while."

The column settled into a cruise, riding Highway 99 north through the familiar country of the Central Valley.

Then Jake's voice tore through a long stretch of radio silence, tight and urgent.

My hands tightened on the wheel. I keyed up the lead.

Jake reported he would hold a hover over the washout and keep eyes on the situation. I reached for the CB mic mounted beside the seat. It was already on channel 19 — the common channel for every trucker in North America.

It was a world where selfishness had become a virtue of survival. But among those who made their living on the road, I still wanted to keep the rules you couldn't see.

How far the voice would carry through the static, I couldn't know.

A short while later Gunner came up on the net and told us to bleed off speed. Far ahead, Jake's helicopter hung in the sky like a dark speck. Then his voice came down from it again.

Gunner's F-550 crossed the centerline onto the southbound pavement. The Peterbilt that had been following him planted its enormous body across the southbound lanes and stopped there. Jake dropped to a low pass, shepherding any traffic coming the other way down to a crawl, while Tank's truck stood in the road like a wall.

Under Gunner's and Jake's direction, the column crossed one vehicle at a time onto the opposite lanes and made it safely around the missing stretch of highway.

We put the formation back together on a safe stretch of shoulder, and Jake's helicopter settled onto a nearby empty lot as gently as if the ground had been marked for him. As if they had rehearsed it, Dave and Cody were already out of their trucks, jerry cans of avgas in their hands, running for the aircraft.

While the helicopter took on fuel I had Cody put a drone back in the air for another look ahead, and then we rolled.

We ran a long time after that. At dusk, having finally put Sacramento behind us and come in near Folsom, we pulled into a wide lot beside the road and made the decision to stay the night.

Jake had already marked the place from the air — the best ground he could find. As we rolled into the rest area near a bend in the river, gentle hills and oaks that had to be centuries old rose up to meet us. The spot he had chosen had a steep rise on one side and a dense oak wood on the other, a piece of ground that protected us on three sides by the shape of the land itself.

The moment we nosed into the entrance, Tank's Peterbilt and my Kenworth pulled up side by side and closed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way in. Two heavy tractors, and they made a bastion of steel all by themselves. Behind them the rest of the vehicles parked in a soft arc, and in the safest ground at the center the bus motorhome and the caravans took their places.

It felt considerably colder than it had at Jake's farm — we had come a couple hundred miles farther north, after all — but the fatigue of a long day's running fell away as everyone moved without being told, each to their work.

The women and the children were already busy with supper. Even in the middle of that, Gunner and Carlos were out on the perimeter, stringing warning traps — a crude arrangement of captured twelve-gauge shotguns and fishing line, ugly and effective, and a way of husbanding the wire trips I still had on hand. Frank and Jed jockeyed the tanker from vehicle to vehicle, topping off tanks and going over every machine for trouble they might have missed.

Tank had been watching all of it in silence. He came over to me and spoke in that low voice of his.

"Really something. Even in the army you don't see a team this tight."

"You too, Tank?"

"Nothing like what you and Gunner have done. I was a sergeant in the 1st Cavalry Division Support Brigade. Joined up to pay for school, more than anything."

Bill let out a big, warm laugh and picked it up.

"See, that's why Gunner threw in with Polar Bear. That man can read people like nobody's business."

The work was winding down when Sarah's voice came over the radio.

People drifted in one and two at a time. The motorhome had its slide-outs run out to either side, the living space opened into a dining hall that could hold a good twenty. It was still cramped, still a hassle — and not a soul complained. If anything, the bustle itself was the comfort.

When Dave's mother, Eleanor, made ready to say grace, Gunner glanced at Bill and Tank and spoke quietly.

"These are the times when we need prayer too."

Eleanor's calm voice filled the room.

When the meal began, Bill took a great spoonful of the hot stew, and the look on his face was close to wonder.

"Lord, I can't remember the last time I sat down to a hot meal with this many people."

Tank nodded, slow and silent, and then he spoke.

"Eating without watching your back... so this is what that feels like."

And so we came to the threshold of US Route 50, the starting point of a long journey still ahead. That night we shared our warmth, and we talked of tomorrow.