Terminal D, Vehicle Load/Unload Area
Port of Bremerholm
Gilchrist Heights, Bremerholm
Canton of Western Crownland
Commonwealth of Cornavia
When the Border Services agent that had walked up from the booth to the front of his truck asked if his collagues could take a look inside of his trailer, Terry Leavitt had felt his pulse momentarily go up. He watched from the left side mirror as the man's two collagues - one in the dark blue of the Commonwealth Constabulary and one in the light green of the Commonwealth Customs and Excise Agency - opened the rear doors of the big truck trailer and climbed up.
Feigning disinterest and at the same time reminding himself to keep his calm, Terry watched from the mirror as the Constable and the female Customs and Excise Agent eventually climbed out of the trailer. Nothing, it seemed, had been discovered by their check of the trailer's interior with the exception of the stated load of Tyskreicher-made domestic appliances bound for a wholesaler up in Ashland. He watched from the mirror as the two Constables stepped to the side and the Customs and Excise woman walked up to the Constable who'd just checked out his Commonwealth passport.
"All's in order, sir, welcome back to Cornavia", the woman, a blonde who could've been beautiful had she not chosen to keep her hair in its ultimate shortest length as was done by women in the Commonwealth Army, said to Terry after walking back to the truck's front. He smirked, wondering to himself if the woman was a dyke as she handed him his cargo and customs documents.
"Aight", Terry replied in his thick working-class accent as he opened his glove compartment and slipped the documents back in, "G'day to you, then, miss."
When the border officers finally stepped back and the pole gate of the checkpoint was lifted up, Terry gave a relieved sigh. The most stressful five minutes of his leg were now over, he noted to himself. Later Terry would remark that had he been held up at the border checkpoint for even a minute longer, he'd have lost his nerve. In fact, when he pressed down the clutch of his vehicle to drive it away from the checkpoint and into the area connecting the zone with Bremerholm traffic, he had to struggle to keep his left foot from shaking uncontrollably. He'd never carried this large a cross-border load with him. Still, everything had gone well, and the border officers had not noticed the hidden compartments concealed under the trailer's "official" contents. The only possibility for them to discover something would have been through the use of an x-ray scanner, and his boss had people at the Bremerholm Port Authority on the take to tell when incoming vehicles were at the risk of being scanned.
Five years ago, Terry Leavitt had served as a driver and assistant to Johnny Blackridge, an Ashland owner of a large indoors weed cultivation facility who'd also taken up the sale of his produce to clients in Tyskreich in violation of Cornavian drug law. The thing with weed was that it was all well and good as long as it stayed within Cornavian borders, but it became smuggling once across the border, at least if it went to places with stricter drug laws.
And no one smuggled anything in or out of Ashland without paying tribute to Kenneth Latham. So one night five members of Partisans MC - Latham had hired the club's Ashland chapter to provide muscle for his drug ring - had broken down the door to Johnny Blackridge's house, busted the man's kneecaps in front of his wife and two kids and presented him with a simple choice: Either leave town or end up in a one-way car journey outside of the city limits with the Partisans.
Blackridge had chosen the former, and his subordinates had been incorporated into Latham's organization. Terry hadn't exactly been given a choice in the matter, but with time he'd decided that working for Latham was a far better gig. The man valued his experience in everything that came with moving stuff across borders, and as Latham had learned to trust him Terry had been given more responsible jobs such as this one.
The Latham Organization had opened a new heroin pipeline. Vangalan dope came in from the remote communist state by boat, ending up in Tyskreich, from where Terry Leavitt and his collagues would pick it up and transport it by truck to the Commonwealth. The legs over the Aren Sea took place by ferries, in today's case onboard the Cornavian-registered M/S Emerald River. Terry would've been more comfortable if the Organization's intermediaries would have taken care of everything up to Cornavia, but alas, this wasn't a possibility for them.
Terry Leavitt drove his eighteen-wheeler away from the Port area amidst the stream of vehicles big and small that had come in with the Emerald River. The Port of Bremerholm was familiar to him, and with routine he joined the traffic in Bremerholm's South Avenue. Bremerholm's longest street would after five kilometers to the North conclude in the starting point of I-55, which in turn would lead into Commonwealth Highway 12 into Ashland. However, before that he'd need to stop at the Unity gas station here in Gilchrist Heights to pick up the Partisan biker Latham had hired as a guard for the rest of the leg. The man was there more to guard the shipment against Terry, though, he suspected. Kenny Latham trusted rather few people.
At eight in the evening, the sun had already set, and Terry thanked his foresight of having slept well and long at the ferry. There'd be no need to stop except to let Latham and his men know where he and his truck were.
Terry could be in Ashland before dawn.
Port of Bremerholm
Gilchrist Heights, Bremerholm
Canton of Western Crownland
Commonwealth of Cornavia
When the Border Services agent that had walked up from the booth to the front of his truck asked if his collagues could take a look inside of his trailer, Terry Leavitt had felt his pulse momentarily go up. He watched from the left side mirror as the man's two collagues - one in the dark blue of the Commonwealth Constabulary and one in the light green of the Commonwealth Customs and Excise Agency - opened the rear doors of the big truck trailer and climbed up.
Feigning disinterest and at the same time reminding himself to keep his calm, Terry watched from the mirror as the Constable and the female Customs and Excise Agent eventually climbed out of the trailer. Nothing, it seemed, had been discovered by their check of the trailer's interior with the exception of the stated load of Tyskreicher-made domestic appliances bound for a wholesaler up in Ashland. He watched from the mirror as the two Constables stepped to the side and the Customs and Excise woman walked up to the Constable who'd just checked out his Commonwealth passport.
"All's in order, sir, welcome back to Cornavia", the woman, a blonde who could've been beautiful had she not chosen to keep her hair in its ultimate shortest length as was done by women in the Commonwealth Army, said to Terry after walking back to the truck's front. He smirked, wondering to himself if the woman was a dyke as she handed him his cargo and customs documents.
"Aight", Terry replied in his thick working-class accent as he opened his glove compartment and slipped the documents back in, "G'day to you, then, miss."
When the border officers finally stepped back and the pole gate of the checkpoint was lifted up, Terry gave a relieved sigh. The most stressful five minutes of his leg were now over, he noted to himself. Later Terry would remark that had he been held up at the border checkpoint for even a minute longer, he'd have lost his nerve. In fact, when he pressed down the clutch of his vehicle to drive it away from the checkpoint and into the area connecting the zone with Bremerholm traffic, he had to struggle to keep his left foot from shaking uncontrollably. He'd never carried this large a cross-border load with him. Still, everything had gone well, and the border officers had not noticed the hidden compartments concealed under the trailer's "official" contents. The only possibility for them to discover something would have been through the use of an x-ray scanner, and his boss had people at the Bremerholm Port Authority on the take to tell when incoming vehicles were at the risk of being scanned.
Five years ago, Terry Leavitt had served as a driver and assistant to Johnny Blackridge, an Ashland owner of a large indoors weed cultivation facility who'd also taken up the sale of his produce to clients in Tyskreich in violation of Cornavian drug law. The thing with weed was that it was all well and good as long as it stayed within Cornavian borders, but it became smuggling once across the border, at least if it went to places with stricter drug laws.
And no one smuggled anything in or out of Ashland without paying tribute to Kenneth Latham. So one night five members of Partisans MC - Latham had hired the club's Ashland chapter to provide muscle for his drug ring - had broken down the door to Johnny Blackridge's house, busted the man's kneecaps in front of his wife and two kids and presented him with a simple choice: Either leave town or end up in a one-way car journey outside of the city limits with the Partisans.
Blackridge had chosen the former, and his subordinates had been incorporated into Latham's organization. Terry hadn't exactly been given a choice in the matter, but with time he'd decided that working for Latham was a far better gig. The man valued his experience in everything that came with moving stuff across borders, and as Latham had learned to trust him Terry had been given more responsible jobs such as this one.
The Latham Organization had opened a new heroin pipeline. Vangalan dope came in from the remote communist state by boat, ending up in Tyskreich, from where Terry Leavitt and his collagues would pick it up and transport it by truck to the Commonwealth. The legs over the Aren Sea took place by ferries, in today's case onboard the Cornavian-registered M/S Emerald River. Terry would've been more comfortable if the Organization's intermediaries would have taken care of everything up to Cornavia, but alas, this wasn't a possibility for them.
Terry Leavitt drove his eighteen-wheeler away from the Port area amidst the stream of vehicles big and small that had come in with the Emerald River. The Port of Bremerholm was familiar to him, and with routine he joined the traffic in Bremerholm's South Avenue. Bremerholm's longest street would after five kilometers to the North conclude in the starting point of I-55, which in turn would lead into Commonwealth Highway 12 into Ashland. However, before that he'd need to stop at the Unity gas station here in Gilchrist Heights to pick up the Partisan biker Latham had hired as a guard for the rest of the leg. The man was there more to guard the shipment against Terry, though, he suspected. Kenny Latham trusted rather few people.
At eight in the evening, the sun had already set, and Terry thanked his foresight of having slept well and long at the ferry. There'd be no need to stop except to let Latham and his men know where he and his truck were.
Terry could be in Ashland before dawn.