The Hauling Contract

My mind was a tangle the entire way back from the marketplace to the rest-stop ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠camp. This was no ordinary business proposition.

The moment I returned, I summoned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the key people to my trailer — Bill and Tank among them.

"I just came from a meeting with the county sheriff."

"The sheriff?"

With every eye in the room locked on me, I laid out the sheriff's proposal in brief. When I finished, Dave was the first to speak.

"But Chan, we're not exactly hurting for anything right now. Do we really need to take on a risk like this…"

His voice trailed off, and Mike picked up the thread.

"That's not the kind of problem this is, Dave. Those people are the law in this region. If they decide they want to make our lives miserable, they can do it anytime they please."

Bill chimed in.

"Honestly, I've been wondering why the sheriff and those vigilantes haven't already come knocking, demanding protection money or a cut of the stall fees."

"That's because I've been greasing the wheels here and there."

Frank added, his tone suddenly serious.

"Boss. Don't get attached to that fishing hole or the market stall. We can dump them for cheap anytime and get out of here. Don't even worry about that."

I met Bill's eyes, then Tank's. Tank spoke first, blunt as ever.

"A trucker walking away from a job he's already taken on… that doesn't sit right."

Bill nodded.

"You decide, Boss. We follow."

"We could always refuse the sheriff's request and just leave Tahoe."

Mike shook his head at that.

"Sneaking out isn't an option. Tahoe Security will have measures in place. And if we smash through a TSP checkpoint by force, that makes us raiders too."

I said nothing.

"Chan, heading into the Nevada desert right now means jumping into risks we know nothing about — uncertain ones. But taking the sheriff's offer, that's a risk we can prepare for and control. Predictable. Which of those two is the smarter play isn't hard to figure out."

His words cut through the tangle in my head all at once.

"Even if we leave eventually, getting a read on the Nevada situation wouldn't be a bad thing. I'll take the sheriff's offer."

The air in the trailer went taut again at my decision.

"Well, looks like we'll need to give every truck a full once-over."

Frank muttered, and Jed added:

"Good thing we already started working on the trucks. Just need to mount the ballistic skirts on the fuel tanks and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠we're done."

"I'll have the helicopter inspected and brought up to peak condition."

Jake said, and Cody followed right on his heels.

"Boss, if you need drone recon, take me with you."

I shook my head.

"No. You stay here. We can't have you leaving your post too."

"Ah… understood. The new Mavic drone is so easy to fly that Uncle Gunner or even Tank could operate it."

"Tank?"

Cody grinned at the question.

"Yes, sir. Those huge hands of his are surprisingly delicate. Sometimes he flies it better than I do."

Tension settled over every face in the room, and I launched straight into the operational plan.

"All three of our trucks will take part in this haul."

Mike looked puzzled.

"Hold on, Chan. Didn't the city say they were short two trucks?"

"My truck is going with a trailer attached."

Gunner seemed to catch my meaning at once.

"Some kind of decoy, then?"

"That's part of it. But a convoy's weakest point is always the rear. I'll take the trailer myself, hold the tail, and command the entire formation from the back."

I looked at Gunner.

"Gunner, I want you in my truck this time. I need you next to me."

Gunner nodded without a word. Then Mike, who had been listening quietly off to the side, tossed out a remark, a little sharp around the edges.

"Heh. Planning to leave this old man behind again, are you?"

"No, sir. I need you here, holding down our camp and covering for anything that might go wrong. That's the only way I can leave and do this job with a clear head."

Mike looked at me for a moment, then shook his head as if he couldn't win.

"Heh heh. If that's what the boss wants… this old man can't argue."

The next morning, Mike and I went back to the sheriff's office.

"We've decided to accept the proposal."

Color rose in Sheriff Johnson's face. I looked him straight in the eye and added:

"Of course, Polar Bear. Don't you worry about that."

The sheriff stood, clearly pleased, and went on.

"Is there anything else we can support you with? Name it."

"I intend to use our helicopter aggressively for lead reconnaissance. I'd like aviation fuel — AVGAS — provided. The TSP recon vehicles taking point will handle mobile refueling for the helicopter."

"That's no trouble. I'll have it arranged immediately."

The sheriff agreed readily, then spread a map across the desk and began briefing us on the cargo and the route.

"Now, everyone, pay attention. Here's our route."

His finger tapped a point on the map.

"We depart South Lake Tahoe and head east on US Route 50. About thirty miles in, we reach Carson City, the state capital of Nevada. The National Guard has that place locked down tight, so no concerns there. The problem starts after that."

His finger traced southeast from Carson City, following US Route 95 as it stretched long across the map.

"Once we leave Carson City and get on Route 95, that's when it really begins. This stretch — about a hundred miles — is going to be the most dangerous part of the operation."

The sheriff drew a red circle around a wide area north of Walker Lake.

"Especially this region, from the town of Schurz up to the north end of Walker Lake — there have been reports of Road Warrior activity. South of that, both sides of the road are wide-open wasteland. Hard to ambush, hard to run. And it's close to Hawthorne Base besides. In other words, from Walker Lake on, you're in the safe zone."

I said nothing, taking it in.

"This is the latest intelligence, received directly from a Nevada National Guard intel officer. They typically scout for targets along this stretch, then start the chase."

When he finished, Mike, standing beside me, cut in quietly.

"Sheriff. Before we start this job, I think we ought to get the terms of our compensation in writing. The fuel you mentioned, and the weapons we'll be bringing back — I'd like those spelled out specifically."

"Heh heh. Of course. Compensation should be clear before the work begins."

The sheriff nodded at Mike's words and pulled out a document.

"First, upon successful completion of the mission, three thousand gallons of diesel will be set aside as your share."

He consulted the paper and began reciting the inventory of goods we would be transporting.

I took a moment to catch my breath at the sheer volume. That was enough to arm a small army. I ran the numbers in my head, calculating what we actually needed.

"We don't need the rifles or standard ammunition."

The sheriff waited.

"Instead, I want one M2, two Mk.19s and a thousand grenade rounds, five night vision devices with IR laser aiming modules to match, twenty Claymores, and two Carl Gustaf recoilless rifles with a hundred rounds."

At my request, the sheriff's face hardened for a moment. Quality over quantity. This was a golden opportunity to secure the core equipment that would dramatically increase our combat power, and I had no intention of letting it slip.

The sheriff seemed to be turning it over hard; he bit down on his lip. I took a step back to ease his hesitation.

"If that's difficult, we can reduce the amount of diesel you promised."

His face brightened at once.

"Good. In that case, the diesel we promised will be one thousand gallons, and I'll turn over every piece of equipment you asked for."

"And the delivery deadline? By when do we need to bring it back?"

"The Nevada side said that once we're ready, we just need to come take delivery within five days."

"Understood."

I had confirmed everything I needed. There was nothing left to hesitate over.

With a look of satisfaction, he drafted the contract on the spot. Beneath the heading of a hauling contract made out to Polar Bear, he entered the list of weapons just agreed upon, then scrawled his signature across it.

The moment I took the hauling contract in my hands, a strange feeling washed over me.

It felt like a certificate — proof of an essence I had forgotten amid a world of gun barrels and collapse. That's right. I was a trucker. An unfamiliar thrill — the feeling of taking on a legitimate job for the first time in a long while — bloomed in a corner of my chest.

Preparations were needed before the work could begin, and I said as much to the sheriff.

"Before the hauling operation starts, I want to inspect the truckers and the TSP personnel myself."

"Of course. I'll have everyone assembled at the sheriff's office tomorrow morning."

"I'll need to thoroughly inspect the condition of the trucks as well."

The sheriff caught my meaning and looked over at Captain Jackson.

"Understood. In that case, tomorrow morning, I'll have all personnel and equipment assemble at the rest stop where your camp is."

The next morning, our little rest-stop camp had transformed into something resembling a massive military base.

Five heavy trucks the city of Tahoe had sourced rolled in one after another along the shoulder, and close behind them came two up-armored Humvees and a technical with a machine gun mounted in the bed, gathering in a steady stream.

The newly arrived men stood staring across the road at the fishing tents pitched out on the frozen lake and the smoke rising from the chimney of the dry van trailer, murmuring among themselves in open curiosity. A few wandered over to Anderson's people, or to ours, asking what on earth all of it was.

Frank and Mike gathered the personnel assigned to the operation inside the dry van shelter — the one fitted with the wood-fired boiler — and then called for me.

When I stepped into the shelter with Wolf at my side, a low murmur of awe ran through the truckers assembled there.

"It's the real Polar Bear…"

The biggest among them, a man with a thick scruffy beard, stepped forward first and put out his hand.

"Good to meet you, Polar Bear. Folks call me Bulldog. Heard plenty about you. This job — I'm putting my trust in you."

I took that rough hand in mine, and the other four truckers came up in turn, giving their names and offering handshakes of their own.

"Name's Gears. If it's a truck, I can fix it."

"Call me Road Hog. Fastest thing on the highway."

"Hammer. Anything that takes muscle, I'm your man."

"Recon. Eyes a little sharper than most."