Pawn

While everyone stared at Bill in surprise, he swallowed once and went on.

"And of the hundred and twenty-eight containers and tankers the state government wants moved, twenty-five of them are supplies meant to support Tahoe City."

Whoa—!

Frank let out the first cheer, and Dave couldn't hide his excitement either.

"That's something else. For a first job, this is enormous."

While everyone was riding the high, Mike, who had been listening in silence, spoke in a low voice that fell across the table like cold water.

"It's about time we started getting ready to leave Tahoe."

"What? Uncle Mike, what are you talking about?"

Frank and Dave asked at the same time. Mike stroked his beard and spoke calmly.

"The Nevada state government handing over twenty-five containers' worth of military supplies just to tighten Tahoe's security… that doesn't sit right with me."

"Yeah. That doesn't add up."

Gunner agreed. Mike picked up from there and kept going.

"I can understand Tahoe and Carson City being one economic community, linked through Carson Valley. But they're just giving away twenty percent of the newly secured military supplies?"

No one answered.

"Twenty-five containers' worth… this is clearly an attempt to turn the western border into a fortress, with California and the federal government on the other side of the Sierra Nevada in mind."

I nodded at his analysis and took it up.

"That's a sound point. They may have gotten hold of some intelligence — or Nevada may be cooking something up."

"Right. On paper, Tahoe is still California land."

"Yes. This job might actually be a good excuse to leave Tahoe. Moving our base near Carson City first wouldn't be a bad idea."

At that, Frank clicked his tongue as if the thought of leaving pained him, then the salesman in him came right back into his eyes.

"Alright. Then I guess I'd better go find some sucker who'll take this fishing hole and all the gear off our hands wholesale."

Mike added, his face still troubled.

"Hmm. The fact that it's military supplies this time bothers me too. This is happening in the middle of a staring contest between Nevada, the federal government, and the Southern Confederacy…"

"If we're not careful, we ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could end up as pawns. Of course, it could go the other way too."

Bill picked that up.

"That's exactly why we need the union. Take a job as an individual or a small group, and you can be thrown away whenever it's convenient. Form a union and take the whole contract, and they can't do that so easily. The cargo itself becomes collateral, too."

It occurred to me that this job might not be a pot of honey at all, but a prize hanging over a giant chessboard.

And now I had to become more than the leader of a fledgling transport union. I had to become a strategist who could survive among these giant powers.

Looking at Mike's worried face, I went on.

"Mike."

"Yeah."

"Come with us when the transport union sits down with the state government."

"I'm not a trucker, and I'm not a union man."

"Haha. Our crew might as well all be union members. And it's not like you don't know this business. Come along as an advisor. Put the brakes on when the moment's right."

"Alright. I'll do that."

Seeing the quiet relief in him, I turned to the rest of the table.

"We'll do it Bill's way. We hold the founding ceremony of the Polaris Union in Carson City, and we scout a new base of operations."

Frank jumped on it.

"Where? In Carson City?"

"Yeah, for now. But Carson City has too many variables we can't control. We'll make Carson one of the union's bases — but we keep looking for others."

Mike backed me up.

"I'm of the same mind. Going there to rally truckers is the right first move, but that place still has the state government's system running. It might be fine for now, but if our relationship with the state ever sours, we could end up trapped inside the city."

"Then… how about Silver Springs, past Dayton, as the next base after Carson?"

Bill offered the alternative, and Gunner shot it back at him.

"The same place we smashed those Road Warriors?"

Bill nodded.

"There's a symbolic meaning to it, isn't there? Planting our flag right where we wiped those bastards out."

"There's nothing there."

Tank's remark was as blunt as a hammer. Gears, who knew the local geography better than anyone, took it from there.

"Tank's right. It was a quiet country town even in ordinary times. Now it's basically empty wasteland."

He let that hang a moment, then went on.

"To get clean drinking water you'd have to go to Virginia Beach on the Lahontan Reservoir, or take US-95 ALT a good five miles… I'd say Fallon, if we just keep heading east on Route 50, would be better."

"It's right at the midpoint between Hawthorne Base and Carson City, and the population is around ten thousand — about half of Tahoe's — so it should be a size we can actually control."

I agreed with him, but I couldn't shake a lingering unease. I turned to Jake.

"Jake. During Operation Crossroads, the Road Warrior main force came out of the Fallon side, right?"

"Yes, Boss. We confirmed their vehicles joining up from multiple points on the outskirts of Fallon."

"Didn't we smash all those bastards?"

Gunner answered Frank's question without raising his voice.

"The ones we could see, sure. But nobody knows how many more are still out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there that we ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never saw. Even so, Fallon should be fine."

Everyone's eyes went to him, and he continued.

"I know a thing or two about Fallon. It's not just a farming town. It's a major military city — home to a U.S. Naval Air Station. NAS Fallon."

"The Top Gun school from the movies is actually there. I don't see the Road Warriors daring to use a place like that as a base."

The room split into competing opinions, and I felt it in my gut: this was a moment that called for a decision.

"Alright. First, an advance party moves to Carson City, announces the founding of the Union, and signs a formal contract with the state government. Then we secure a temporary base in Carson. After that—"

I let the pause sit, then finished it.

"We push the first transport operation to Hawthorne and the work of securing Fallon as our new base at the same time."

Gunner, Mike, and the rest of my comrades nodded with serious faces. There were no further objections.

I pointed at the map and added the rest.

"If we're going to do the state's work anyway, we have to hold Fallon — the midpoint between Hawthorne and Carson City — or the job gets a lot harder."

"To avoid Fallon you'd have to wind all the way around on Routes 95, 208, and 395, and moving more than a hundred containers over those rough roads would be wildly inefficient. Fallon is the right spot both for the work itself and for moving east later."

Once the new objective was set, our camp grew busy all over again.

The next day.

Together with Bill, Mike, and Gunner, I headed to Carson City for the transport contract meeting with the Nevada state government. The place we were shown to was not the state capitol. It was a conference room at the Nevada National Guard Joint Operations Center — the JOC — on the outskirts of the city.

The man who received us was Lieutenant Colonel Gibson of the state National Guard. True to a soldier, he skipped the unnecessary pleasantries and went straight to business.

"Good to meet you, Polar Bear, Big Bill. Time is money, so let's get started."

He spread a map and spoke.

"The volume we're requesting is a hundred and ten containers and eighteen tankers. Of those, twenty-five go to Tahoe. The rest go to Carson City."

"From Hawthorne Base to the Schurz area, the US-95 stretch will be escorted by our armored vehicles. After that, on the US-50 stretch, four armed Humvees dispatched from Tahoe City will support the convoy."

When the briefing ended, he moved on to compensation.

"Complete this mission, and we'll pay you one container's worth of MREs, another container's worth of medical supplies and cold-weather gear, and five thousand gallons of diesel."

The moment the offer left his mouth, Mike, sitting beside me, cut in. His voice was gentle. It was also firm.

"Colonel, we put our lives on the line out on those roads. For that kind of risk, the compensation seems a little thin."

Lieutenant Colonel Gibson's brow furrowed slightly. Then Bill piled on.

"Colonel, thirty trucks will have to make four round trips. The diesel that'll burn through alone is roughly ten thousand gallons."

Silence filled the conference room, and I sat with it, thinking. Then I recalled a conversation Frank had once tossed off in passing.

In that brief recollection, it struck me that not bringing Frank to this table had been a mistake. Now it was my turn to channel him, and I did my best impression.

"Colonel."

"Go ahead, Polar Bear."

"I'm sure the military knows perfectly well how important — and how difficult — a supply operation is. And how inefficient it is to move containers with military assets. And, Colonel."

"Go on."

"Coordinating thirty-three truckers and thirty-three trucks, each with different backgrounds and different demands, into a single coordinated movement is no simple matter. If you had to move that volume with just a handful of trucks, it could take months."

"And for a large-scale transport like this, a convoy escort of all of four Humvees?"

"That's why we came looking for you, Polar Bear — a man who brings his own firepower."

I gave him no answer. I just held Lieutenant Colonel Gibson's eyes.

"I take your meaning. You're saying the pay is too low. Let's hear it."

"Thirty thousand gallons of diesel — three tanker loads — and one of those includes the tanker itself. Food and medical supplies, of course, plus four containers' worth of weapons and ammunition."

"And lastly, we'd like the authority to choose for ourselves what kinds of weapons go in those four containers."

At my counteroffer, Lieutenant Colonel Gibson was briefly at a loss for words.

"Hmm…"

The last condition in particular was a sensitive matter. It stepped on the military's own discretion.

But I believed that under no circumstances should we become pawns. And I knew full well that from the National Guard's position — moving a large volume of federal assets, with no alternative that could solve the problem in a short time — they did not have much of a choice.

Lieutenant Colonel Gibson looked into my eyes without a word, and I did not look away.