The Weight
The Polaris Union's first hauling job was being put together piece by piece under Bill's direction, and while that work went on, word kept coming in of how hard the comrades still at Tahoe were driving themselves.
Frank had found a buyer through a Reddit private message — someone willing to take over the entire Tahoe fishing operation — and they were in the thick of a hard-nosed negotiation. Dave and Mike had finished preparing the camp to move, and they sent word that the Anderson family would follow us when we shifted our base.
In the process of organizing the union, I also discovered a new side of Bill.
He was not merely a hearty, loyal trucker. He understood the laws of the road as only a lifer could, and he mixed without pretension among dozens of truckers of every temperament and history while still bending them into an organization.
Men of every stripe had gathered into the union, truckers who had drifted in from all over Nevada, from Utah, Oregon, and Idaho. They were intimidated by me. They were careful around the taciturn Gunner and Tank. But Big Bill lived among them without airs and still got every last thing done. That was how the Polaris Union's structure came together so fast.
First, we formed a High Council with me at the apex, joined by Mike, Gunner, Bill, Tank, Frank, and Dave, to decide every matter of importance for the union. The union was then divided into four regionally based branches.
The Tahoe Branch, built around the truckers who had joined in Tahoe City, was headed by Gears, our vehicle-maintenance specialist, with Bulldog as his second. The Nevada Western Branch was composed of Carson City natives. The Nevada Southern Branch was a cluster of truckers who had escaped Las Vegas and washed up here. And the Nevada Eastern Branch was formed of a handful of veterans tempered by the brutal runs between Nevada and Utah.
As Bill pushed the union's founding forward, he recommended the men he had formed bonds with as the heads of each branch.
Walter, a gray-haired veteran who had once owned a small but long-established trucking company in Carson City, was appointed head of the Nevada Western Branch. He knew the local situation inside and out, and he had connections that reached into the state government.
The Nevada Southern Branch went to a man named Slick, whose snake-sharp eyes — and a rumor that he had hauled goods for the mob out of Las Vegas — preceded him. He was rough, but nobody knew the southern roads better.
The Nevada Eastern Branch was given to Salt Dog, a taciturn, stubborn-looking man whose name had been made crossing the salt deserts.
With the heads of each branch decided, and with Bill as union secretary overseeing the administrative work, the Union had its skeleton in place.
While the regional branches were taking shape, another Reddit PM arrived from Frank, still at Tahoe. I paused the meeting and checked his message. The screen was packed with Frank's trademark mix of bluster and success story.
I burst out laughing as I read it. No matter where he went, he found a way to turn a profit. His knack for it never ceased to impress me.
A few days after the news that Frank and the others had finished preparing to leave Tahoe, Bill, Tank, Gunner, Jake, and even Bulldog gathered in my trailer. It was time to review the final preparations for the Polaris Union's first large-scale transport operation.
Bill went first, sharing what he had negotiated with the Nevada state government.
"The stretch of US-95 from Hawthorne Base to Fallon — the National Guard's going to escort that themselves with Stryker APCs."
I waited, and he went on.
"And from the Fallon city limits to the intersection where 95 meets 50, they promised to set up a temporary checkpoint, control other traffic, and lock down security."
"Road control?"
"That too. The Guard's putting together a separate team. They'll send control teams to the junctions with US-50 ALT, US-95 ALT, and 439 an hour before the convoy passes, start the checkpoints, and completely shut down traffic about five minutes before and after we go through."
"Good."
I was surprised at how much cooperation Big Bill had wrung out of the state government. He had gotten almost everything I had asked for. And at the same time, I could feel how desperately the Nevada state government and the Guard needed this shipment.
Bill pointed at the map and added, "Here — they also agreed to station a QRF at Silver Springs around the clock."
"That's a relief. Well done."
"Carson City Guard's taking that. Hawthorne Base is only covering the escort on 95."
"What's the QRF's size?"
"One APC, one gun truck, two Humvees. And the convoy escort itself — Tahoe TSP detachment, same as last time."
"Matthews's squad?"
"That's right. But this time they're committing two squads, four Humvees. Alpha's Matthews, Bravo's Ryker."
"I was worried about how long the column would be. That's a solid amount of support."
"I think Tahoe City figured they had to play some kind of role."
"Well, they're getting twenty-five containers for free. They couldn't exactly sit on their hands."
"Ah, and like you said, Tank's up front and my truck's at the rear, both running empty. Do we really need two empties?"
"Tank's Peterbilt is a combat truck, more or less. Your truck at the rear is in case someone in the column breaks down or we have an accident. Oh — we need a grenadier for Tank's truck..."
"That's covered. Matthews's squad is putting one man on Tank's truck."
"Good."
"And painting the Union's symbol on the trucks — that work'll be done today."
"Already? Cody's not even here."
"Haha. We got the stencil sheets in. The members tracked down the spray paint themselves."
"Good. And before we roll, fill the trucks from our own diesel."
The three-thousand-gallon tanker had come over with us from Tahoe, but Bill tilted his head.
"From our own fuel? Ahead of time?"
"Nothing's certain right now. We have to give the people who've gathered some reason to believe. We can't have them worrying about fuel before we even roll."
"Got it, boss."
I left the departure preparations with Bill and gave Jake a separate order.
"Jake, Silver Springs is a traffic hub — 439, 95 ALT, and 50 all meet there."
"The Carson Guard QRF base, sir?"
"That's right. From that point, run a recon toward Fallon and the Hazen area to the north."
"Yes, sir."
I turned my gaze to Tank.
"Tank."
"Yeah, boss."
"Same as last time — you take an empty tractor, open the road at the head of the column. You're the breakthrough if anything goes wrong. Stay on comms with Matthews and be ready for whatever comes."
"Don't worry."
Then I looked at Gunner and went on.
"Gunner, you ride with me. You'll control the overall situation from the rear of the column."
"Shotgun again, huh."
"You don't want it?"
"No, it's not that."
Gunner thought for a moment, then made a suggestion.
"We should bring Carlos too. You've gone and mounted a new turret on the trailer roof — we're going to want another gunner."
"Alright. We'll do that."
The frantic days of preparation were over, and at last the morning of departure dawned.
The vast parking lot of Carson Camp, in the old industrial park, was no longer empty.
Thirty-three massive tractors, each a different color and shape, fired up as one, and the heavy roar of dozens of diesel engines tore through the silence of dawn. Headlight beams danced through the darkness and the fog, and the thick exhaust that bloomed from the stacks hung low over the ground, as if some colossal beast were waking and drawing its first breath.
It was the moment the Polaris Union's first journey began. In the gray of dawn, I picked up the radio mic.
The great column began to move. Gunner, in the seat beside me, looked out the window.
"Quite a sight. Could be a Roman legion."
Carlos, watching from the sleeper, was equally impressed.
"All of this is on our side. That's... really reassuring."
Then Wolf, who had been sitting quietly between us, lifted his head and began a long, low howl.
"Awoooo—"
It was as if he were announcing the departure of this great wolf pack himself, and the three of us burst out laughing at once.
Even as we laughed, I could not take my eyes off the endless procession of headlights.
Thirty-three truckers, and their families. Every one of those lights was a life whose weight I now had to carry. I felt that tired old saying in my bones — with great power comes great responsibility.
And I knew, by instinct, that the shadows hunting us had grown longer and darker by the same measure as that weight.