James Huston - Fallout

“I’ve been hard on you. I was against your going into the Navy. I was against your flying, being a government employee, joining the military—the whole thing. I was putting my Vietnam experience before good judgment, before just allowing you to do what you want to do. Thanks for letting me be part of this.”

Thud smiled. “If it had been up to me, you wouldn’t be. Luke’s the one who thought you might want in.”

“Well, he was right. We need to do this thing together. I’ll stay out of your hair, but I wanted to let you know I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

Thud kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. “Thanks.”

“Let’s go debrief with your drunk Russian.”

The tired-looking freighter crept through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It was a misty gray morning with the beautiful Olympic Mountains obscured by haze and rain. Water ran down from the sky over the entire ship in one continuous motion—down the bridge windows, the stack, and the rusting sides of the containers secured to the deck.

The tramp steamer worked its way through the beautiful bay to the busy docks of Tacoma. It was the scruffiest of many unattractive ships at the docks, mostly Korean and Japanese container ships stacked with innumerable containers. The ship slowly maneuvered to a stop with the help of two tugs that pushed it gently against the long pier. The captain yelled to the dockworkers to secure the lines and gave the engineer the okay to shut down the propulsion. The pilot made his way out of the bridge as the crane maneuvered the gangplank to the side of the ship. The captain glanced at the clock. They were to be unloaded in one hour. The two containers, the last items placed on the ship, were to be unloaded directly onto trucks. It was unusual for him to carry cargo so time-sensitive that trucks would be waiting, but there they were. He saw the trucks from the company that was on his cargo manifest. He could deliver the containers only to them.

A second crane approached the ship and slung over the cables to grab the container. The deck crew was waiting and hooked the four thick steel cables to the top corners of the container. The cables strained as the container rose slowly off the deck and began a gentle twist. The neck of the crane bent slightly as it absorbed the full weight of the container and slung it away from the ship.

It was lowered directly onto the bed of the waiting truck and secured by the dockworkers. The crane lifted the cables away from the container, and the truck rolled slowly down the pier. The second container was lowered onto the second truck, which followed the first toward the customs shed. Looking bored and tired, the two drivers waited patiently in line for the customs inspectors. They had been driving all night, and it showed in their faces and their attitudes. They didn’t understand the need for them to pick up these loads. All they knew was that they were to drop them off in a nearby warehouse today. It had to be their trucks, and they had to pick them up immediately upon the arrival of the ship. They couldn’t imagine why they had to drive all the way up to Tacoma from San Francisco or why some local company couldn’t do it. But it wasn’t their place to wonder why, just to pick up the containers.

The first truck pulled up to the customs inspector, who regarded the driver carefully. “Documents, please,” the inspector said.

The driver handed him the documents he’d brought as well as the bill of lading from the container off the ship.

The customs inspector took the documents and went back to look at the container. The door seal was intact, and the documents were in order. The inspector debated with himself whether to open the container. Only a few were actually opened and inspected. Hundreds, if not thousands, of containers arrived on an almost daily basis in every major port in the United States. If every container were opened and inspected in any detail, the entire system would fall of its own weight. The customs inspectors looked for other things: a nervous driver, documentation that appeared odd or strange, a means of delivery that was different or out of order, or a shipper or manufacturer they’d never encountered before. Every once in a while they would open a container on a simple hunch or just to be arbitrary, so even those who thought they could predict which containers would be opened would be wrong on occasion.

The inspector sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup, something he wasn’t supposed to do while on the line, but he was cold . He walked back to the driver, signed the document, handed him the bill of lading, and said, “You’re cleared.”

The driver, still bored, pulled slowly away from the line. The second truck received the same cursory treatment from the same cold customs inspector.

The trucks threaded through the morning traffic with the mist enveloping the entire scene. It muted everything, as if nothing fast, loud, hot, or flashy was allowed. The trucks, staying together, worked their way down to the row of warehouses that was their destination. The driver checked the address again on the piece of paper he had in his shirt pocket. He drove through the narrow roads until he found the one he wanted and turned left, parallel to the water. The street was set back from the actual waterfront about two hundred yards. He came upon an open space in front of a large warehouse and saw the number on the front of the building in clear block letters. He turned sharply toward the large doors at the front of the warehouse, and the second truck did likewise. As the first truck approached the doors and started to brake, the doors slid open. A man stood in front of him motioning him to keep driving into the warehouse.

The driver released the clutch slowly, and the truck moved forward through the rain into the cavernous opening. Another door of equal size was open at the other end of the warehouse. A large steel crane hung from the girders above the truck.

Another man stood in front and motioned for him to slow down. The man watched the position of the crane and the truck, waved the driver forward slowly, and finally signaled him to stop. The driver set the emergency brake and got out of the truck with his papers. He handed his clipboard to the man who seemed to be in charge, a small dark man. “Sign for it,” the driver said.

The smaller man was of Asian descent, probably Filipino, the driver thought. He looked at the driver for any signs of suspicion or concern. There were none. The man signed with an indecipherable signature, took one copy of the form, and handed him the other. “Any problems with customs?”

The driver shook his head as he took the clipboard and tossed it through the window onto the seat. “You taking the container off now?”

The man nodded and gestured for the crane operator to begin hooking up the container. “It will be just a minute.”

The driver stood back, not relishing the thought of some crane accidentally dropping the heavy container onto the cab of his truck.

As the driver watched, the hanging crane rolled into place on large steel tracks on the beam above. He looked around the warehouse warily. He’d never seen a setup like this before. He couldn’t account for the huge, empty warehouse and the sterile, concentrated unloading of these two trucks. It didn’t smell right. He noticed several brand-new sedans and large Ford commercial trucks, which struck him as odd. He also found it strange that the vehicles were all parked inside the warehouse. Probably because of the rain, he concluded. He turned to the man who was supervising the container. “Whose trucks?”

The man looked at him. “As soon as you pull away from the crane, stop in the office,” he said, pointing. “They have your extra pay there.”