The City
Frank never let an accomplishment pass without making a production of it. He had to preen, one way or another, and I could never quite bring myself to mind.
"Wow. That's impressive. That's Frank for you."
At my praise, his triumphant voice on the other end of the line climbed even higher.
"Haha, this is just the beginning. Now we sit back and let money make money — wealth compounding exponentially."
"What else did you pull off this time?"
I asked it holding back a laugh. His business instincts had gone well past impressive and into the realm of the uncanny.
"Who, you ask? Who else but this Frank!"
He cleared his throat and launched into the explanation.
"I set up an exchange booth inside the trading post."
"An exchange booth? For Canadian dollars?"
"Come on, why would I bother with that?"
"Then what?"
"Listen. I noticed people were trading in cash at the post, but the second they sold something they'd turn around and sink the money into bullets, cigarettes, coffee — that kind of thing. Cash could be toilet paper tomorrow, after all."
Pride in his own insight filled every word.
"So I just set up a kind of exchange where people can convert the main currencies on the spot. Bring cash or cigarettes, walk out with ammo. Or the other way around — ammo for cash. We take a small commission, of course."
"Oh-ho."
"And it's exploding. People love converting safely into whatever they actually want, and we sit there collecting fees. On top of that, ammo, cigarettes, and coffee have basically become our exclusive trade."
"Sounds good, but doesn't that mean we're sitting on too much cash?"
He paused to catch his breath, then went on even more excited.
"Please. You think this Frank would just sit on it? I take that cash and immediately buy back the important goods trading inside the post. So without even leaving the lot, our stock of ammo, coffee, everything — it just keeps growing."
I let that sit.
"It's exactly like — what was it, that guy you told me about who sold river water, Bong—"
"Haha. Bong Yi Kim Seon-dal."
"That's the one. Sitting still and raking it in like that gentleman from Korea — I almost feel a little guilty."
"Huh. If Frank's feeling guilty, this has to be something else. Haha."
"And that's not all. I worked over the state government and the Guard boys and got five empty containers transferred to us. Two of them I'll pack full of reserve supplies and send up to Fallon with the next Union convoy."
"You could just send what we need."
Frank clicked his tongue at that.
"Chan, you said yourself we won't be at Carson Camp forever. We might have to move on short notice. Stashing everything in one place doesn't sit right with me."
"Alright, alright. Fair enough."
I was privately relieved. Frank was always thinking one step ahead. His voice brightened again.
"Oh, and I think I can pick up three heavy trucks for a steal pretty soon. Then Dave and I can roll with the rest of you in proper rigs instead of those pickups."
"Trucks? From where, all of a sudden?"
"Haha. There's a dealership on the outskirts of Carson City that hasn't shut its doors yet. I was hunting for parts and consumables, and I managed to track down the owner."
I waited.
"Stubborn old coot. He was clinging to the last trucks on the lot. I named a price and he dug in — said he wasn't selling."
As Frank talked, I could picture him haggling.
"Anyway, we're in the thick of negotiations. In times like these, how many people are going to buy trucks like that in cash? Haha."
"What about your caravans?"
"What's the problem? We can tow them behind a trailer, or load two of them onto a flatbed."
"Haha, alright. We'll wrap the fourth haul and head back to camp. See you then."
As I hung up, it struck me that we were changing as the world changed. And that Frank, maybe, was already a step ahead of the rest of us.
Another night in Fallon passed, and by the time Wolf and I finished our morning jog, the Union's fourth haul was underway.
I'd just gotten off the radio with Bill confirming the convoy had left Carson Camp when Gunner walked up and pointed outside.
"Boss, we've got company."
I looked. A handful of familiar Nevada National Guard vehicles and trucks had pulled in.
"Lieutenant Colonel Gibson sent them. Combat engineers, here to put up our barracks."
"Already?"
Gibson had promised support, but I hadn't expected him to move this fast. Not that speed was a problem.
I exchanged brief greetings with the officers in charge, then sent Gunner with them to the site where Fallon Camp would go up.
And just like that, the Polaris Union's third outpost — and the Division's first camp — had begun to take shape. The final haul, one hundred twenty-eight containers bound for Carson City, was already rolling.
Word came over the radio that the convoy had left Carson City heading east. The run was going smoothly.
As the convoy neared Fallon, two trucks from the lead group — Gears and Bulldog — peeled off, picked up speed, and rolled into the Fallon checkpoint. They dropped the two promised containers in a hurry, didn't linger for more than a wave, and slotted back into the tail of the convoy, pushing on toward Hawthorne Base.
The fourth haul went far smoother than the ones before it. By afternoon, word came that the convoy had offloaded everything and was heading back to Carson.
But nothing ever goes perfectly.
I answered Bill's urgent call at once.
The face of Roadhog, who'd insisted on driving that beat-up cab-over, floated into my mind. I left it in Bill's hands.
Bill's command was crisp and seamless. He immediately hooked Roadhog's trailer to his own truck — the spare — and in the meantime, Gears came up on the radio.
Once that little drama was settled, the haul resumed without any real delay.
Only after confirming every last truck had made it back to Carson Camp did I let out a breath. That night, I told Gunner and Carlos:
"Alright. We head back to Carson Camp tomorrow."
Carlos's face lit up.
"Really? Wow. But... what about the containers that came in today?"
Gunner, cleaning his weapon beside us, answered without looking up.
"That's why we parked them inside the checkpoint."
I added:
"Right. Those containers are backup stores. We're pre-positioning them here in Fallon, just in case."
The next morning, before we left for Carson Camp, we walked the Fallon Camp site the engineers had been working. Gibson's combat engineers had, in a single day, already finished a compound of linked DRASH tents. Gunner spoke as we looked it over.
"I had them connect everything into one structure — insulation and heating efficiency. Billets, briefing room, commander's office, aid station, mess — all one connected unit."
"Whoa. That's something."
"They said they'll deliver the vehicles and fuel to Carson Camp."
"To Carson? Not from Hawthorne?"
"They're pulling them from the Guard headquarters motor pool. So once we select Division personnel, we'll drive them out here ourselves."
"Come to think of it, two armored vehicles isn't exactly a surplus."
"Agreed. I think we should hold the regular runs until we've got enough trucks to make a proper convoy, rather than sending small groups."
"We set the shipping dates, not the clients?"
"Given how things are, it won't be a stretch. And if someone's in a real hurry, they can pay an express fee for a dedicated escort."
"Yeah. That's the way to do it."
Walking Fallon Camp with Gunner, I could see it was more than just DRASH tents. The original lot already had several old but solid maintenance bays, a wide staging yard, and a high chain-link fence. Using all of that as-is, the place already looked like a proper military installation.
We finished our walkthrough of what would become the Division's garrison and headed for Carson Camp. We'd been gone a little over a week, but it felt like a month. The thought of the friends waiting for us put a lift in my chest I hadn't asked for.
Outside the window, a different kind of emptiness unrolled. Not the desert that ran to the horizon along US-95, but a road that wound through treeless hills of rock and sand.
We ran US-50, the road linking Fallon and Carson, and came home to Carson Camp.
The camp was still riding a delayed victory high. Union truckers and TSP troopers lined the entrance to meet us. Matthews and Ryker's squads saluted. The truckers pulled off their caps or waved, each in their own way.
I stepped down from the truck, and Dave and Frank came running, faces bright. Dave grabbed my arm like he meant to hug it.
"Chan! Being your friend is going to shrink my heart right down to nothing."
Frank grinned and cut in.
"Dave, ease up. People are going to think you two are dating. Haha."
"Frank! How can you be so calm after hearing about that fight?"
"The boss isn't the kind of guy who goes down. When I hear stories like that, I just think, well, some poor bastards just got wrecked. Haha."
Watching the two of them bicker, I felt a strange calm settle over me. It had always been this way.
Then I worked my way through the welcome line — Eleanor, Dave's mother, then Raven, Sarah, Chloe, Jake, Cody, Mike, and Jed's sons, one after another.
That night a modest party filled the big warehouse at Carson Camp. TSP troopers mixed with the truckers, drinking beer and spinning war stories. They told it with their hands — the brutal fight when they'd arrived at the Fallon FOB, the armored vehicles forming up with the convoy and sweeping the 3rd Brigade off the map — raising their voices to make sure everyone understood just how complete the victory had been.
Once the noisy welcome had settled, the key people gathered again in my trailer — to sort out Union and Division business, and to talk about where we went from here.
Bill went first, reporting on the Union truckers.
"Boss, most of the members say they're relocating here to Carson Camp, or somewhere close."
"Because of the fuel?"
"That's part of it. And now that the trading post is up, this is a safe zone. Hard to blame them."
Then Mike brought good news.
"Chan, Matthews and every man in Ryker's squad can join the Division immediately."
"What? TSP's just letting them go?"
"TSP isn't even a real army. Lieutenant Colonel Gibson made a few calls, and they transferred straight over — no need to report back. Haha."
"Feels like we skipped a few steps, but I'll take it."
"And the four Humvees that were TSP assets, plus the weapons — those come with them."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. Lieutenant Colonel Gibson's word carries some weight in Tahoe, apparently."
Frank, for his part, reported that he'd acquired a rather impressive title: Director of the Carson Trading Post. No commission, no business cards — but local government people and the police all called him that anyway.
He'd also waived the trading post's stall rents in exchange for exclusive rights, through the exchange booth, to ammo, cigarettes, liquor, and coffee. That, in turn, had unified all internal trade on a cash standard.
And so Carson Camp had grown beyond a union outpost into something larger — a real community, truckers and their families living side by side. A small city that was trading post and logistics hub in one. The first settlement the nomads of the road had ever built.
And yet.
Somewhere underneath it all, I was uneasy. The same feeling I'd had the day I first got my truck.