The Union
Lieutenant Colonel Gibson's silence stretched on, the two of us taking each other's measure in nothing but the look in our eyes.
Mike broke the stillness with a cough.
"Ahem. Lieutenant Colonel."
"Yes. Go ahead."
"I'll be honest with you. If Polar Bear hadn't put his life on the line and finished those Road Warrior packs, would anyone even be imagining a transport operation of this scale?"
"..."
"And that's why the truckers of Tahoe — of the whole of Nevada — never trusted the government or the military. They trust Polar Bear."
"Hmm..."
"The only reason those truckers were able to come together as a union is because they said they'd stand with him if he stepped up."
"Well. I've heard the rumors, certainly."
"But from Polar Bear's point of view — from our crew's point of view — we don't actually need a transport union. We've gotten by just fine on our own, and we're not short on supplies."
Mike let the words hang. The silence he left behind said it louder than anything he could have spoken: We don't have to do this.
I found myself impressed. It was a different animal from Frank's bargaining tricks, but no less effective.
Then Mike broke the silence he had made, and added:
"And yet our boss is doing something he doesn't have to do. There's only one reason. The brotherhood of men who've rolled the same roads. Once he agreed to take on their union, he has no choice but to represent every trucker out there."
Lieutenant Colonel Gibson glanced at my face, then spoke again.
"Polar Bear."
"Yes, sir."
"So what you're saying is, you want to use this opportunity to raise the truckers' combat capability."
"That's right. This isn't a world where you can just sit behind a wheel anymore."
"Hmm. Long-term, if the transport union is armed, that would take some of the load off the National Guard."
"Exactly. Dumping a hundred and twenty-eight containers in one place isn't the end of it. You'll still need feeder runs connecting to the main corridors — and putting a full convoy together every single time isn't going to be easy."
"I see."
Gibson stroked his chin and sat with it a moment, then looked up.
"All right. I'll do what I can to get thirty thousand gallons of diesel and four containers approved. However—"
"..."
"Giving civilians the right to choose military materiel... that's unprecedented. I can't explicitly authorize it. That said, if you present a list of what you want, I'll do my utmost to accommodate you through subsequent negotiations."
That was enough. I looked at Bill and Mike. Both men nodded, and I held out my hand to Lieutenant Colonel Gibson.
"Thank you. Let's do it that way."
Gibson started drafting the transport contract on the spot. He began to write my nickname in the contractor field, then paused.
"Wait — what am I supposed to put here? I can hardly write Polar Bear."
"Lieutenant Colonel."
Bill stepped forward.
"Put Polaris Union."
"Ah. That's the union's name?"
"That's right."
There was no corporation yet. No filing, no registration, no stamp from anyone who still pretended to run a government. In a broken world, none of that mattered.
Besides, I didn't believe the state of Nevada had actually gotten federal authorization to move federal military assets. The fact that they had taken my terms only confirmed the hunch.
Once the signatures were on the state contract, Mike cocked his head and turned to Bill.
"Hey, Bill."
"Yeah?"
"That thing you said earlier. About the run taking ten thousand gallons."
"Haha. I may have padded that a little."
"Figured as much. What's the real number?"
"Hmm... about five thousand? Six, if we're being generous."
"Whoa. This guy's as bad as Frank. Hahaha."
The outcome of the negotiation was more than satisfactory. Bill had opened the door, I had bet big the way Frank would, and Mike had closed it. I found myself marveling at how he had talked the lieutenant colonel around.
"Mike, I'm impressed you convinced him. It's different from Frank's style, somehow."
"Heh heh heh. That's just years of living, son."
"Sir?"
"What was that word you used before... the Korean one?"
"Jjam? Seniority?"
"That's it. Jjam. Heh heh."
"Care to walk me through it?"
"Sometimes you run into a man you can't move with leverage alone."
"Right. I was actually worried about that."
"Exactly. And that's when empathy does the work."
"Ah..."
"You get the other fellow to put himself in your shoes. I'd bet the lieutenant colonel was thinking, Hell, I wouldn't take that deal either if I were them."
"You think so?"
"No question. The way I see it, Gibson tried a clumsy lowball first — the old talk-them-down routine."
"Ah... haha."
"Then you came back even harder, and he looked rattled. Think about it from his side. What happens if the whole transport contract falls through?"
"He has no alternative."
"Right. Meanwhile we lose nothing. So I dug into that wobble, got him to feel our position, and he manufactured his own justification for taking every one of our terms."
"That's impressive. Honestly, I quoted high expecting him to knock it down..."
"I know. But looking at his face, he seemed pinned by the look in your eye. That's why I pushed the we-don't-have-to-do-this angle."
"Whoa. Hahaha. Well, it all worked out beautifully."
"It did. This is going to be a step up for the union and the crew both."
We were still debriefing the negotiation when a radio call came in from Gunner.
We headed straight for the rally point Gunner had given us. With him riding along, we followed US Route 50 out to the old industrial park on the eastern outskirts of Carson City.
The place Gunner and Tank had found was a massive logistics warehouse inside the park.
Rusted iron gates, shattered windows, a parking lot thick with withered weeds — everything about it said the building had been abandoned for a good long while.
But I saw something else.
A lot wide enough to hold a hundred trucks and then some. A warehouse solid enough to keep out the wind and rain. And dozens of loading docks, as familiar to me as the rooms of my own house. Foot traffic was thin, but the site sat right on US Route 50, which meant mobility was perfect.
I named it on the spot: our temporary headquarters, and the inaugural ground of the Polaris Union. We would call it Carson Camp.
In the days we remained in Carson City, nothing sat still.
Bill arranged for Carson Camp to serve as a National Guard logistics depot. Containers hauled out of Hawthorne Army Depot would be dropped at the camp, and the Guard would draw their supplies from there.
The arrangement cut two ways. First, it meant the National Guard had a reason to protect our base. Second, every time a container left the yard, it was another job.
Bill posted the time and place of the inaugural ceremony to the Union subreddit, and he made no secret of the fact that we had just landed our first official transport contract with the state of Nevada.
And then, at last, the promised day.
The empty parking lot of the old industrial park began to fill with the roar of heavy tractor engines. Alongside the trucks of our own crew — mine, Bill's, Tank's — dozens of rigs from every corner of Nevada rolled in, throwing dust, falling into line.
Trucks of every make and color drawing up in orderly ranks: the sight itself was magnificent. Men who had never met clapped each other on the shoulder and shook hands like old comrades reunited, and the whole yard warmed with it.
Bill called them into the warehouse that would serve as our makeshift hall, and the inaugural ceremony of the union began. He announced the name and a brief statement of principles. Then, with Bill as master of ceremonies, I stepped up onto the temporary platform.
Wolf, who never left my side, took the command Wolf, stay and sat at the edge of the stage as if he owned it. The truckers murmured among themselves — Polar Bear's wolf, they said.
Dozens of them looked up at me with flushed, expectant faces.
I kept the speech short. When I finished, the applause came hard, and Bill climbed up beside me, settled the room, and called out:
"All right, listen up. Our boss, Polar Bear, is going to announce the Union's first job!"
I took the microphone again.
"We have signed a contract with the state of Nevada to haul one hundred and twenty containers of military supplies. Every man in this room will be running Hawthorne to Carson City — or Tahoe — four times or more."
"..."
"And for that work, each of you will receive a thirty-day supply of MREs, one automatic rifle, fifteen hundred rounds of live ammunition, and five hundred gallons of diesel."
The warehouse erupted. The cheer of the truckers was loud enough to lift the roof.
Live rounds were a medium of exchange that commanded a premium over cash, and five hundred gallons of diesel would fill a heavy truck's tanks twice over. In peacetime it might not have been a fortune. Now, when a single drop of fuel was worth a man's life, every one of them knew it was as rich a payment as the road still had to give.
Then someone threw his head back and bellowed.
"Union!"
The cry caught. Every trucker in the warehouse thrust a fist into the air and took it up.
U-NI-ON—
U-NI-ON—
U-NI-ON—
I stepped down from the stage into that heat. The truckers closed in around me. Some pulled off their caps in a show of respect. Others crowded forward, competing to shake my hand.