The Poisoned Chalice

Outsourcing military operations to civilians was common enough, but handing over combat equipment was another matter entirely — a rare exception. Taking on the thankless work in exchange for guaranteed autonomy was welcome in its own way, but I needed to know whether that thankless work was a discard or a hidden ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ace.

"Lieutenant Colonel."

"Go ahead."

"Then how far does this support actually go?"

I locked onto his eyes, trying to read his true intent. Gibson didn't look away, and his answer caught me completely off guard.

"Excuse me?"

I asked again, startled. He waved a hand and went on.

"That doesn't mean we're transferring ownership, of course. Think of it as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a limited Operational Control Transfer."

I said nothing.

"In other words, the National Guard retains title. Operational use and tactical command of those assets are delegated to you."

Having armored vehicles and being able to run them, though, were two different problems.

"Lieutenant Colonel, we don't have the specialized people to operate those properly."

"There's a way to solve that."

Lieutenant Colonel Gibson pulled a sheet of paper from his drawer.

"Nevada has a veterans' group called the Sierra Nevada Veterans Association."

"Plenty of highly capable veterans who lost their jobs when the world turned upside down and have been killing time ever since. I can arrange for you to hire them."

He added another piece.

"Most of the Guard serves part-time, but these days more and more of them are looking to convert to AGR — Active Guard Reserve."

"If you want, we can attach our people to your Union on a temporary-duty basis, with the understanding they'll come back to us eventually."

Then I raised the most practical problem of all.

"Understood. Then what about fuel? We could run military equipment on regular diesel, but that's an emergency measure, isn't it?"

"Once the contract is formally signed, any military vehicles belonging to your Union will be able to draw JP-8 at Carson City, Fallon, and Hawthorne whenever they need it. Maintenance and resupply will be our responsibility as well."

"Understood. Could you be more specific?"

The lieutenant colonel continued as if he'd prepared this in advance.

"Two Stryker armored vehicles, four FMTV tactical trucks, and eight armed Humvees. That should be more than enough for most escort operations."

"In exchange, you'll take on the feeder runs — one or two trucks at a time — plus the Fallon checkpoint and a rapid-response team. Those will be yours to organize and run."

I had to press on the part of this extraordinary offer that still didn't add up.

"Lieutenant Colonel, I'll be honest — I don't understand. Why would you hand over core National Guard assets and authority like this?"

Gibson gave a bitter smile and went on.

"Polar Bear, think back over the last few months."

"It's been hard on everyone, yes."

"Never mind the Road Warriors — unidentified armed groups are popping up on every side, and on top of that we've been forced to keep one eye on the feds and the Southern Confederacy."

"The truth is, a state National Guard with limited manpower and resources can't handle all of that at once. We've simply learned to allocate resources efficiently — the same way the federal army does."

The same way the federal army does.

That last phrase lodged in my mind. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The same method of outsourcing to a PMC — a private military company — and, if things went wrong, discarding the hand as easily as calling it "unauthorized civilian action." I had a gut feeling that some such calculation sat behind this sweet offer. I needed to know whether this was a card they could afford to throw away.

"Lieutenant Colonel, one last question."

"All right. Ask it."

"Are you making this offer because of that large, heavy thing you mentioned before?"

"Hmm..."

A brief silence settled over the room. Then he spoke again.

"Well. I can't give you specifics at this point. But I won't deny it."

"Then...?"

"As you've probably guessed, Nevada is independent in all but name. We just haven't declared it — political reasons, and the practical benefits. Which means..."

"The National Guard and the federal army are living in a rather strange cohabitation. Especially at installations like Hawthorne Army Depot. The feds look the other way when we help ourselves to a little ammunition, but if we try to move sensitive assets, they'll definitely throw a wrench in it."

"So you're cultivating a civilian contractor so you can move sensitive assets with as little friction as possible, and keep it quiet. Is that the right reading?"

"Exactly. The time isn't right yet. But we're keeping you as a strategic card — just in case."

"Understood for now. We still have cargo to haul, so I'll take this to the members and get back to you."

"Think it over carefully. In this world, the military is the only outfit that won't let those trucks of yours sit idle."

"Understood."

Perhaps it was a poisoned chalice. But it promised a power we could not refuse — a hand far too attractive to fold. And on a practical level, it meant we could skip the tedious process of coordinating every major haul with the National Guard and waiting on their approval.

After wrapping up with Lieutenant Colonel Gibson, I returned to camp and immediately convened every member of the Union High Council — Gunner, Mike, Bill, Frank, and Dave. When I laid out Gibson's extraordinary proposal, a brief silence filled the trailer.

Dave spoke first.

"Whoa... armored vehicles and combat trucks? This thing just keeps getting bigger."

"It's not a bad offer."

Frank's eyes lit up.

"With a proper escort force, is there anywhere we couldn't go? This is a massive opportunity!"

Mike went on in a calming, even tone, as if settling the room.

"Once you decided to lead this Union, this was an inevitable current. You should take it."

"I agree."

Gunner chimed in.

"No more getting operational approval from those guys every time, no more reporting our routes... all that red tape disappears. Being able to move our own way — that's what matters."

"The problem is somewhere else."

At my serious tone, every eye in the trailer turned to me.

"Something I learned talking to Gibson. We may end up hauling sensitive cargo down the line."

Mike rested a hand on his chin.

"Sensitive... Not ammo or fuel, then. Something secret enough they'd even leave the convoy to civilians?"

"That's right. He wouldn't say exactly what. He said that's why they're building up a civilian contractor."

"Well, that's vague..."

Gunner picked it up.

"Once you start picking and choosing cargo, there's no end to it. If you want the honey, you'd better be ready to get stung."

Mike, still stroking his chin, took it back.

"Gunner's right. In a world like this, the military is the only place you can get work without worrying about fuel. And it's a monopoly, for all practical purposes."

He paused, then added,

"There's another advantage, too."

"Another advantage?"

"Think about it. If the National Guard is planning to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠secretly move sensitive military assets — we'd be the first to know."

"Knowing important information you can't get from the news or rumors... that might let us prepare for a much bigger disaster ahead of time."

Tank, who had been listening quietly, opened his mouth.

"They'd be telling us when it's time to leave."

Dave followed right after.

"That's a then-problem, isn't it? The world's liable to end tomorrow anyway. Who cares if we take that job or not when the time comes?"

"Whoa—"

Frank looked at Dave and let out a laugh.

"Our model citizen Dave's got some real steel in him, huh? Hahaha."

It struck me then that we had all been through too many terrible things. And that coming through them had given us something like faith. The consensus formed naturally: use the military for everything we could, and don't let this opportunity slip. I raised the next issue.

"Then how should we structure the armed organization?"

Mike answered first.

"It needs to be a separate organization from the Union, or you'll have chaos."

"I agree. So the transport cooperative stays the Polaris Union, and we need a name for the military organization that protects us."

Gunner proposed first.

"The manpower's company-sized, but the equipment's almost battalion-level. How about Battalion?"

Dave's eyes sparkled.

"Battalion? Whoa, that's got a warrior-band ring to it. I like it."

Mike set down his coffee cup.

"Too on-the-nose. If you get labeled a private army, nothing good comes of it."

"Then?"

"Division, I think. It's a military term, sure, but it also means a department or business unit in a company. Depending on the situation, you could even pass it off as a Security Division."

"That works."

Mike wrapped both hands around his mug and added,

"So Polaris sits at the top, splitting into the Union and the Division. While we're at it, we rename the High Council to Polaris, and the whole thing takes shape."

Bill chimed in.

"Union, Division... rolls off the tongue. Polaris above the Union and the Division, and Polar Bear above Polaris. Haha."

And so, beneath the North Star, the new organization's name was decided. I looked at Mike.

"While I finish the remaining escort missions, I'd like you to handle the Division's founding. Scout the veterans, and once the organization is in place, I'd like you to take command as well."

Mike shook his head firmly.

"That's not appropriate, Chan."

"To command hard-bitten veterans who've been through hell, my years alone aren't enough. The only thing that can make them fall in line is the reputation and charisma of the name Polar Bear. I'll be fine as the sergeant major who handles the dirty work at your side."

"Ah. Understood."

This whole affair had also driven home the need to watch the surrounding situation more closely.

"Frank."

"Yeah, boss."

"Keep checking the rumors circulating among the mayor and the people of Carson City — the public mood, that kind of thing. Knowing the local atmosphere is important. Report back to me."

"Don't worry. That's my specialty."

I turned to Cody.

"Cody, keep compiling Reddit and the news like you've been doing. Summarize the situation in Nevada, the neighboring states, and the country as a whole, and brief me every evening."

"Yes, boss. Actually, I've got an anomalous trend to report."

Cody's sudden, serious expression pulled every gaze in the trailer toward him. He turned his laptop screen to face us.

"We've picked up unusual activity in northern Idaho."

"A new armed organization has started operating openly on Reddit."

"A new organization?"

"Road Warrior remnants?"

"Ah, now what?"

Questions erupted from all sides. Cody opened the laptop calmly and continued.

"Nothing's confirmed yet. But one thing is certain — these people aren't simple raiders. They're a group with a very strong religious character."

"Religious?"

Mike echoed, puzzled. Cody gave a hollow laugh and enlarged a photograph on the screen.

"The funny part is, these people hold worship services in church... holding AR-15 rifles."

The image Cody showed us was a shocking sight. Dozens of congregants in white garments stood in ranked rows inside a sanctuary, each clutching a rifle of their own. On the pulpit, a young East Asian man in an ornate crown held a gold-plated AR-15 high above his head as he conducted the service.

Cody pointed to the caption beneath the photo.

"They call themselves the Sanctuary of the Iron Rod. An emerging religious group."

"According to them, they are the ones prophesied in Scripture to rule the world with a rod of iron. And they claim that rod of iron is the AR-15 rifle."

"A faction based on that religious organization has formed an armed group called A.R., and they already number in the thousands."

"What? Thousands?"

"Yes. They seem to have grown fast because of the religious foundation. They call themselves A.R."

On the laptop screen Cody showed us next, two crossed AR rifles sat above a line of bold text.

AR meant the rod of iron they claimed — the rifle itself — and it also meant the armed group they had created.