Contribution
The word sheriff, coming from Frank, sent my thoughts spinning.
"What's this about?"
"He wouldn't go into details. Just said he had something he needed to ask Polar Bear for — politely."
"Alright. No reason I can't meet him."
"Then let's go together. The sheriff's coming by the market outpost tomorrow afternoon."
I had no idea what kind of cooperation a county sheriff would be asking for. A simple favor — or an offer I couldn't refuse? I figured I might need an advisor before this was over, so I went looking for Mike.
"Mike, I'm going to need you at the market with me tomorrow. Apparently the sheriff wants to see me."
"Mm. All right then."
The next afternoon, Mike, Frank, and I headed to the market. We browsed the stalls until our appointment, picking up supplies as we went. I bought a sturdy pair of waterproof boots and a set of winter gloves. Mike, the instant he spotted a crate of welding rods, swept the entire stock as if he'd laid eyes on gold itself.
We were still shopping when Frank's radio crackled.
Mike and I followed Frank's directions to a small container office at the edge of the market, serving as a temporary security outpost. When we opened the door, a middle-aged sheriff in a well-pressed uniform layered over a thick ballistic vest rose to greet us, a man of similar age standing beside him.
The second man wore military cargo pants and a vest with a TSP — Tahoe Security Patrol — patch, but the air he carried was nothing like an ordinary militiaman's. The cropped hair, the neatly trimmed mustache, the sharp eyes — this was a veteran who had spent years in uniform.
"Pleasure to meet you, Polar Bear. Johnson. Sheriff of El Dorado County."
His handshake had more force than I expected. He immediately introduced the man beside him.
"And this is Captain Jackson. He leads our Tahoe Security Patrol."
The hand Jackson offered was rough and solid. Even without a formal rank being mentioned, I could see why everyone called him Captain. He didn't say a word — just tipped his head in greeting.
The sheriff offered us coffee and went on.
"In times like these, you folks have been... how should I put it. A breath of fresh air for Tahoe. After the world went to hell, people stopped coming out of their houses. That's why we opened the market and set up this outpost. Thanks to you — Frank especially — the market's come alive, and it's gone a long way toward settling folks' nerves."
He looked from one of us to the next.
"Truth is, I've had my eye on you from the start — that truck plate of yours. The chatter on the CB, too. A polar bear who travels with a wolf..."
I said nothing.
"At first everyone was wary of you. Then, somewhere along the way, they started wanting to lean on you." The sheriff smiled at Frank. "Anyway — Frank here's been a real help to the Patrol's books. And the fact that you haven't had a single run-in with the community... from where I sit, that's unusual."
That was when Frank jumped in, all salesman charm.
"Ah, please. If the good sheriff here hadn't been keeping the peace in this city and this market, a trader like me wouldn't have amounted to a thing."
Frank's banter eased the room. The sheriff turned back to me, as if ready to get to the point.
"I hear you gave the Road Warriors a proper beating on your way from Nevada into California. Care to tell that story?"
"There's not much to tell. We were lucky enough to get our people out without taking any losses."
The sheriff shook his head.
"Walking away from those animals without a scratch is the story."
"Nevada's in a bad way. The Road Warriors have grown their numbers so much that outside a handful of major holds like Carson City, they and their hangers-on have all but occupied the main highways. Logistics are completely shut down."
"What about the National Guard? The police?"
"For all the good it does. The Guard's holed up in Carson City and the major military sites, barely holding the line. What's left of the police is pouring everything into keeping the cities from falling apart."
Listening to him, I was starting to get a sense of what this cooperation was going to look like.
"You said you needed our cooperation. Let's hear it."
The sheriff hesitated a moment, then spoke.
"The Nevada state government promised to supply Tahoe with weapons and fuel. The problem is... we don't have the transport to bring it here."
"They're not delivering it themselves?"
"They're giving us five containers packed with ammunition, weapons, and supplies, plus two tankers of diesel — free of charge. If we turn around and ask them to haul it for us... never mind the embarrassment. They'd start questioning whether we can even handle ourselves."
"If they decide we can't deal with outside threats on our own, the aid itself could dry up. That's why I came to you. The city scrounged up five heavy trucks and drivers, but..."
He paused and let out a breath.
"We're two trucks short as it is. But that's not even the real problem."
The sheriff looked me dead in the eye.
"The problem is the truckers. Even with a convoy escort, they won't go into Nevada. Right now, in this town, you're the only man who can give them the confidence to try — and command the escort through the Nevada desert to make this operation work."
"Some of them even said they'd go if Polar Bear was leading the convoy. That's why I'm here asking."
I sat with it for a moment. Before I committed to anything, I needed more.
"First — why is the state of Nevada handing Tahoe that much matériel for nothing?"
"They're building a strategic buffer."
"As you know, Nevada's declared neutrality — neither Federal nor Southern Confederacy. They're going it alone. For them, Tahoe is the front line. It's where they sit right up against California — against Federal territory."
"If our city falls and US Route 50 gets punched through, Carson City's back door is wide open. Arming us is their way of making us a Proxy Defense Force — holding the western border if things go bad."
"Understood. I need the exact location and composition of the cargo."
"The matériel is at Hawthorne Army Depot, about a hundred and forty miles southeast of here."
The name got an immediate reaction from Mike.
"Hawthorne? That's a Federal asset, isn't it?"
"It is. But the Nevada National Guard holds it now. The problem is, a facility that famous doesn't stay safe forever."
"So the state government is trying to disperse the assets inside as fast as they can, to somewhere safer. That's how Tahoe got this opportunity."
I couldn't take the sheriff's words at face value. A state National Guard seizing a core Federal military asset was, for all practical purposes, a mutiny.
"The National Guard took a Federal facility?"
The sheriff answered my skepticism without flinching.
"The Guard was already contracted for a lot of the day-to-day — perimeter security, ammunition handling. Then the Southern Confederacy formed, and the Federal government effectively declared war..."
"Nevada figured they'd be a target for both sides. So they moved first and took control."
"The California earthquake did the rest. Once the Federal chain of command went down, the Guard assumed full control of the facility on the governor's orders."
That was when Mike, who'd been listening in silence, cut in sharp.
"And how does something that big happen without a single news story?"
"Because it's an embarrassment for the Federal military."
The sheriff gave a bitter smile.
"If word got out that a core munitions depot had been taken by a state Guard, you'd have a morale problem and a strategic one. So on paper, the Guard is still 'cooperating' with Federal forces to run the base. In practice, the Guard holds the keys."
That, at least, made the picture clearer. I thought it over, then answered.
"I understand. But this isn't a call I can make alone. I need to talk it over with the other truckers who came out here with me. I'll have an answer for you tomorrow."
"Fair enough. I figured as much."
The sheriff looked as if he'd been waiting for that answer. He locked eyes with Captain Jackson for a moment. Jackson gave a silent nod, and the sheriff spoke again.
"We won't send you out alone, of course. Captain Jackson has handpicked eight TSP operators, two up-armored Humvees, and a technical for forward recon. They'll be under your command until the escort is done."
The sheriff stood, adding one more thing.
"And in return for your cooperation, we'll compensate you — weapons, fuel, whatever you need. You won't walk away disappointed."
There was more than hope in those last words. There was pressure, quiet and unmistakable. I told him I understood. I also heard exactly what he meant.
If you want to enjoy the peace here, make a contribution worthy of it. A polite, unmistakable warning.