From the author of the international bestseller The Apollo Murders: an edge-of-the seat Cold War thriller, set against the backdrop of the real 1970s "Space race" between the US, USSR, and China . . .
1975. A new Apollo mission launches into orbit, on course to dock with a Russian Soyuz craft: three NASA astronauts and three cosmonauts, joining to celebrate a new dawn of Soviet-American cooperation.
But a third power is rising, in the race to dominate Space. As NASA Flight Controller Kaz Zemeckis listens in from Earth, three of the six astronauts are killed in a depressurization accident. And from a remote location in east Asia, a capsule secretly launches with China's very first astronaut aboard, purpose unknown . . .
Full of Cold War intrigue and real historical characters, Final Orbit accelerates to a thrilling conclusion – and brings to life the loneliness, majesty and pure rush of Space flight, with all of the hard-won experience of a writer who is himself one of the most decorated astronauts alive.
Publisher:
Little, Brown and Company
Print pages:
368
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General Tom Stafford was getting angry—it was almost launch date, and he needed the spaceship’s primary systems to work.
They didn’t.
Seated in Mission Control at the Johnson Space Center, near Houston, Kaz Zemeckis was equally frustrated. As military liaison CAPCOM for the first-ever American–Soviet spaceflight, he was supposed to be making everything smooth and efficient for the US crew, including General Stafford, the mission commander. This morning had been anything but.
Tom Stafford shifted in the reclined seat of the Apollo Command Module. His spacesuit was uncomfortable enough without the increasingly annoying lumpy pressure points pushing up into his back. Worse, they were way behind on the mission timeline.
He pressed the transmit button. “Houston, I say again, how do you read the Apollo crew?”
Kaz’s reply in Tom’s headset was still garbled and full of static. Unintelligible.
Tom swore to himself. Dammit! We’re inside two weeks from launch. And we still can’t even talk to each other?
He leaned forward in his seat and turned his helmet to make eye contact with the two astronauts lying on their backs beside him in the capsule, checking to see if they could hear Mission Control any better than he could. Both men frowned, shaking their heads.
A Russian spoke, very scratchy and distant-sounding, but understandable. “Tom, this is Alexei. We hear you good enough.” Alexei Leonov, commander of the Soyuz.
Good enough? Tom was disgusted. Is this what the nation’s space program has sunk to? He said, “Alexei, moy droog, great to hear your voice. I hear you good enough too. Just need to get our Mission Controls on the line with us.”
The Apollo crew were in their spaceship, sitting on top of their Saturn 1B rocket, pointed at the sky on Launch Pad 39B at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Alexei Leonov and his cosmonaut crew were on the other side of the world, lying in their Soyuz simulator in Star City, just outside of Moscow. Today was meant to be the Countdown Demonstration Test, one last chance to make sure everything was ready for launch.
But it wasn’t.
The plan had been to follow the countdown procedures with the clock running, all the way until just before engine ignition. It would give every system a chance to misbehave now, with enough time left to get things fixed before they filled the rocket with fuel and launched for real. On Tom’s previous spaceflights they’d checked communications with the launch team in Florida and also with Mission Control in Houston. But this time, since they were headed for a space rendezvous and docking with the Soyuz, NASA had included Russian Mission Control in Kaliningrad, near Moscow, and the Soviet crew in the communications check.
Tom looked up at the Apollo instrument panel in front of him. At least the vehicle was healthy. He tried another tack. “Launch Control, are you hearing Alexei and us okay?”
The launch director, three miles away, staring out at the rocket through the thick windows of the Launch Control bunker, answered immediately. “Roger, Tom, we hear you both loud and clear. Be advised we have Houston on the phone, and they’re trying a different switch config to try to patch in Moscow as well.” He’d heard the frustration in Tom’s voice, and added, “Appreciate your patience.”
A new voice broke in on the communication loops. “Apollo, Houston, how do you read us now?”
Everyone on the loop heard Tom’s sigh of relief. He said, “Loud and clear as a bell now, Houston. How do you hear us, Kaz?”
Kaz stamped hard on the transmit button. “You’re loud and clear too, Tom. Stand by for a voice check with Kaliningrad.” He glanced at the Ground Control console, and the officer there gave him a thumbs-up. “Moscow, Houston, go ahead with your voice check with the Apollo crew.”
Kaz held his breath. It had been a challenging morning, trying to get the whole complex communications system lashed together, but the backroom technicians were certain they had it right this time.
“Apollo, this is Moscow, how do you hear?” The Russian flight director was reading from a script, his English heavily accented.
In the Apollo capsule, Tom clenched a gloved fist where his crewmates could see it. He decided to use some of the Russian he’d learned, in return. “Slooshayoo horoshow, Moscow.” I hear you great.
The Russian voice came back after a few seconds—the inherent time lag of the long vocal relay.
“Prinyata.” Copy.
From Star City, Alexei’s voice broke in again, clearer now. “Apollo, this is Soyuz. I hear everybody good too.”
Tom replied, “Adleechna, moy droog. Spasiba!” Excellent, my friend. Thanks!
In Houston, Kaz looked at the countdown checklist. “Launch Control, this is Houston. We show our part of the comm checks as complete.”
The launch director responded, “Copy, Houston, we concur. We’ll discuss the snags at the debrief, but for now we’re picking back up with the countdown timeline at L minus seventy minutes.”
Kaz turned the pages in his checklist, verifying that all of today’s actions for Houston were done. He pictured his counterpart in Moscow Mission Control, and the Soyuz crew still in their simulator in Star City, soon to fly to Baikonur and go through the final stages of their launch preparations.
Still lots of moving parts, but Houston and the Soviets were ready for Apollo to launch.
Despite today’s aggravations, Kaz loved the psychotechnical intricacy of the work. Some of the most complex, capable machines and people in the world, docking spaceships together as a counterpoint to the menace of the Cold War—a job requiring all his skills and responsibilities.
He glanced back at Flight Surgeon JW McKinley at his console. His friend was peeling off his headset, smiling with relief.
Kaz realized he was smiling too. “What’s up, Doc?” he called. “Wanna go grab a coffee?”
Kaz pivoted the small black toggle at the bottom of the large silver coffee urn towards himself and watched as the hot brown-black liquid splashed into his white ceramic mug, filling it. He released the handle, caught the last few drops and stepped back to make room for other flight controllers keen to get their needed shot of caffeine.
Coffee was the lifeblood of Mission Control.
He took a tentative sip, then asked his friend, “Were you watching their heartbeats during all that?”
“Sure was. What else do flight surgeons do?”
Dr. JW McKinley was a head shorter than Kaz, squarely built, with a high-and-tight dark crewcut and a naturally smiling face. His thick black glasses failed to hide the amusement in his eyes. He asked, “Whose do you think was beating fastest?”
Kaz considered. Vance Brand and Deke Slayton were rookie spaceflyers, so they’d feel the most uncertainty, but veteran Tom Stafford was in command and had done the talking.
“I’m guessing Vance,” he said.
JW’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “How’d you know?”
“Tom’s done it all before, knows when to apply pressure, and Deke’s been chief astronaut for years. Vance is the only true rookie.”
JW shrugged. “You’re right. Tom barely registered, Deke hit 110 beats per minute, and Vance peaked at 130.” He blew on his coffee and took a tentative slurp, then a large swallow. “Though at the end there, when things were a little more heated, Tom was breaking 100.”
“Even generals are human,” Kaz said, smiling. Tom Stafford was a brigadier general in the US Air Force, the first general officer ever to fly in space. He’d been to the Moon on Apollo 10.
JW looked past Kaz and made a beckoning gesture. “Someone I’d like you to meet.”
Kaz turned in time to see JW catch the eye of a tall Asian man. As he walked over, JW said, “He’s a USAF flight surgeon, new to NASA, just getting up to speed to work console for mission support.”
To JW’s surprise, Kaz broke into a wide smile and reached to shake the man’s hand. “Well, look who the cat dragged in! Jimmy, how are you?”
Dr. Jimmy Doi pumped Kaz’s hand, his large, crooked teeth showing in a broad smile. “Kaz! I’ve been watching you on console all afternoon. It’s been a while since China!”
JW looked between the two men, nonplussed. “China?” He shook his head, squinting at them. “How do you two know each other?”
Kaz held Jimmy’s gaze while he explained. “We were both part of Nixon’s boondoggle to China in seventy-two. Jimmy was medical staff, and I was officially aircrew.” He winked at JW with his good eye. “Mostly we hung around and learned to drink baijiu together.”
Kaz found himself smiling again at Jimmy. The slightly mismatched eyes he remembered, with the left one higher and rounder than the right. A long, straight nose and a grinning mouthful of teeth.
“How did you end up at NASA?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I could ask you the same question! Weren’t you at the Pentagon?”
“Yeah, but the Navy had other plans. I’ve been working missions as military liaison and crew support.” He raised an eyebrow. “NASA even sees fit to let me fly their T-38s. You back-seat-qualified yet?”
Jimmy squinted at him. “They let you fly front seat with just one working eyeball?”
Kaz nodded and pointed a thumb at JW. “Doc McKinley convinced them I was worth the risk. So long as I keep landing on the right part of the runway, everybody’s happy.” He tipped his head to one side. “Where have you been since the Great Wall?”
“Working on Vietnam vet rehab in Washington, keeping my hand in doing surgery at Walter Reed, and occasionally flying Thud two-seaters with the 113th Wing guys at Andrews.” He smiled. “Occasional joyrides on Air Force One too.”
Kaz snorted. “Cushy. Why would you leave all that for beautiful Houston-by-the-sea?”
“Tropical breezes and sandy beaches, like everybody who moves here.” Both men knew it was sweltering outside and the nearest beach was in Galveston, 30 miles away. “And a chance to be part of this last Apollo mission, and, even better, to help with selection for the new Space Shuttle astronauts.” President Nixon had approved the shuttle program in 1972, and the first flight was planned for 1978.
Jimmy glanced at JW. “Rumor has it we’ll select women this time.”
JW nodded. “The Soviets have been flying women since sixty-three—it’s about time we caught up.” He looked at his near-empty coffee cup. “Don’t know about you two, but I need a refill.” He headed for the coffee pot.
Kaz glanced at his wristwatch and then looked at Jimmy. “I’m gonna be mostly tied up on console until the Apollo-Soyuz mission is done, and I want to take my girlfriend out somewhere different tonight to make up for all the time I’ll miss. You been here long enough to suss out any good Chinese restaurants?”
The restaurant was busier than Kaz had expected for a Monday, and it took a couple of circuits of the nearby side streets until he found a good spot to park. He’d recently bought a 1955 Ford Thunderbird, a three-speed manual shift with electric overdrive, white with red interior. He’d always liked the look of the sporty little two-seater, especially the ’55 model, the first year Ford had made it. He didn’t want it to get dinged in a crowded, poorly lit restaurant parking lot.
It was a hot, humid July night, but no rain was forecast, so he left the T-Bird’s top down. He pulled the parking brake, shut the motor off, pulled out the key and looked across at his passenger. It had been too noisy to talk driving up on I-45 from Clear Lake, and the quiet felt suddenly intimate.
Laura Woodsworth was smiling at him, taking off her NASA baseball cap and running her fingers through her long brown hair to detangle it. “So how’d you hear about this place? I’ve never been to this part of Houston.”
“A new doc, Jimmy Doi, recommended it. Said the cooks and staff are all recent immigrants, so the food is the real deal. He said we should definitely try the shrimp dim sum.” Kaz smiled. “I’m not really sure what dim sum is, but I got him to write out a few dishes to order.”
He’d been admiring the view while he spoke. The sun was nearly setting, and its angled rays, filtering through the overhanging live oak trees, dappled Laura’s face in light and shadow. They’d been dating on and off for a couple of years, and he’d been glad when she accepted the dinner invitation.
Laura swung her door open and climbed up and out of the low-slung T-Bird. She was wearing a T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, the tawny brown of her long, tanned legs flashing as she closed the door.
She looked down the dark block at the bright lights in the distance.
“Let’s go get us some dim sum.”
The China Star restaurant was at the center of a row of one-story brick buildings linked by a long, covered high veranda, just north of the constant truck tire hum of I-10. Converted store from an early strip mall, Kaz thought, as they climbed the three cement steps up from the concrete parking lot. Right height for unloading a delivery truck. As he and Laura had walked up the side street where they’d parked, they’d seen an abandoned set of train tracks out back. He looked at the restaurant’s covered outdoor seating, listened briefly to the traffic noise and asked Laura if she wanted to go inside. She nodded, and he opened the single door for her.
He’d expected the entrance to lead straight into the restaurant, but the owners had added a small reception area. An obese Asian man with black hair, wearing a bulging white suit and a black bow tie, sat impassively behind a built-in desk facing them. The wall behind him was papered with posters of the Chinese countryside and the Great Wall. A green paper dragon and two red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, and there were potted plants at each end of the desk. The man surveyed Laura for several long seconds and then, without moving his head, he made and held eye contact with Kaz, then nodded. Kaz heard the click of the door to his left unlocking. He pulled it open and held it for Laura.
Rough neighborhood.
A waiter wearing a slender version of the same white suit and bow tie stood just inside the busy restaurant, menus in one hand, a water jug in the other. He bowed slightly and said to Kaz, “Welcome to the China Star. Indoor table for two?”
“Yes, please,” Kaz said, and they followed him past a couple dozen tables filled mostly with Asian families to an empty one next to the far wall. The waiter set a menu at each place, poured water and retreated through a door in the back into the bright light of the kitchen. Kaz caught a glimpse of dark-haired men in frantic motion over hot burners.
Laura looked bemused. “What was up with the guy at the entrance?”
It had seemed odd to Kaz too, but they were on a date after a long day, so he opted to make light of it. “They have beauty standards, and you got us in.”
She gave a lopsided smile at the compliment. “Thanks, handsome.” She picked up her menu, written in a mix of English and Chinese. “I’m starving.”
Kaz shifted in his seat to get at the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the list Jimmy had written out for them. “Wanna just go with Jimmy’s recommendations?” He squinted with his good eye at the bad handwriting. “Assuming I can read what the doctor wrote.”
Laura shrugged. “Sure, so long as it’s not too spicy.” She dropped the menu and sat back. “I’m a midwestern girl, remember. We think paprika on deviled eggs is pretty crazy.”
Kaz laughed and scanned the menu for drinks. “How about we try a beer called Tsingtao?”
“Why not? When in Peking, and all that.”
Kaz waved at a tiny waitress in a red silk dress who was standing near the kitchen entrance. When she came over, he ordered two beers and consulted with her on Jimmy’s list. The combination of bad handwriting, Kaz’s poor pronunciation of unfamiliar words and the waitress’s lack of English meant ordering took a while. By the end, Laura was openly laughing.
After the waitress left, she asked, “Any idea what we’re going to be eating?”
Kaz chuckled ruefully. “I’m confident we’re getting two beers. Everything after that is a crapshoot.” He raised his glass of water. “Until then, here’s to a good day in simulated spaceflight.”
Laura clinked her glass against his. “Nice job keeping everybody calm today, Space Boy.” She took a sip. “Sounded like there are still lots of problems.”
“Yeah. Trying to connect all the different communications systems is a nightmare. But I’m glad we ran into it today and have a workable solution. Communications are bound to screw up in some form or other once we get launched.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, deliberately shedding the events of his day. “How’d things go on your console?”
“Fine. Mostly prep work for the docked phase.” Laura was a planetary geologist, but she worked all types of science support during missions. “We have a bunch of microgravity experiments inside the ship, as well as a solar observatory and my favorite, Earth observation.” The Apollo crew were scheduled to have five days of free flight after undocking, and Laura was hoping they would come through with photos of many hard-to-access Earth geology locations. “I made them a long list,” she said with a smile.
Kaz was nodding but realized he didn’t want to talk about work. They were out on a date, after all. He looked around the restaurant. “Jimmy said this place hasn’t been open for long. I wonder where they hire everybody.”
Laura leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “I get my nails done at a place near the Johnson Space Center, and the manicurist there is Chinese. I bet her story is similar.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Apparently, things really opened up ten years ago, when President Johnson changed the Asian immigration laws. Used to be we let in almost no one from China. But suddenly it was like twenty thousand a year, mostly from Hong Kong, plus lots from mainland China as well.” She paused, recalling what the manicurist had told her. “There’s also some loophole that once an immigrant gets naturalized, spouses and kids can get in too, beyond the quota.”
The red-silk-clad waitress arrived with two bottles and two tall glasses on a tray. As she set the glasses down, she asked, “I pour?”
“Sure, please,” Kaz answered, once he’d sifted her accent and understood what she meant.
As he watched her, he tried to guess her age. Maybe twenty-three? He also tried to picture her childhood and the uncertain path she’d followed to be here serving beer at the China Star on Jackson Street in Houston. The way she was concentrating on carefully tipping Laura’s glass to get the right amount of frothy foam, Kaz guessed that pouring a beer was a recently learned skill.
“Are you from Hong Kong?” he asked.
The waitress gave a quick side glance at Kaz as she brought Laura’s glass vertical to catch the last drops from the bottle. “Hong Kong, yes.” She pronounced it “Heung Kong,” and nervously nodded twice as she began on Kaz’s beer, eyes down to concentrate. Conversation with patrons wasn’t part of her job.
Kaz glanced towards the door to the kitchen, where the white-suited head waiter was standing watching them. Watching her, he realized.
He stayed silent until she’d finished, bowed and retreated through the swinging kitchen door, out of sight, the head waiter right behind her.
He picked up the brightly labeled green beer bottle and looked at Laura. “Does your manicurist seem that nervous?”
Laura pursed her lips, considering. “No, but it’s an all-girl place and her English is better. No fat man guarding the door either.”
Time to change the mood. Kaz smiled and raised his glass, holding it out for Laura to touch with hers. “Think this Chinese beer is gonna taste good?”
“It’ll be the best one I’ve ever had,” Laura answered, laughing.
The meal ended up being several small courses served haphazardly, apparently brought directly to the table as soon as they were ready. One dish came in a round wooden basket with an internally raised perforated platform, maybe to let the cooking liquid drain off the four glistening white and pink dumplings within.
“Dim sum,” the waitress said as she set the basket amongst the many plates. “Shrimp,” she added, rolling the “r.”
Kaz and Laura had fumbled for a while with the chopsticks, laughing at each other’s ineptness, but eventually settled on knives and forks. The dumplings were moderately spiced, and the mix of food textures went well with the Chinese lager, so Kaz ordered two more. By the time they arrived, he and Laura were mostly picking at the small amount of food that remained.
“So, what’s the verdict?” he asked. “Jimmy’s choices okay for an Indiana girl?”
Laura sipped her beer, had to cover a sudden burp, and laughed. “Sure were! Laura likes.”
At the surrounding tables, many families had also finished their meals. Some were paying their bills as the kids restlessly waited to leave; at other tables, the men leaned back, smoking an after-dinner cigarette. The smoke smelled different to Kaz, more like herbs or plums than the Marlboros and Camels a lot of the NASA guys smoked. The head waiter was seating another wave of guests, and the kitchen door swung open repeatedly, the cooks even busier now.
Kaz realized that with the sun fully set, the restaurant looked more like a nightclub than an eatery; the head waiter had lowered the lighting and turned on some twinkling lights that were strung across the ceiling. Makes sense, he thought. Serve two crowds, double the profit. The volume was rising with the incoming, more adult crowd as well. There’ll be music soon, he guessed.
The waitress in red silk approached their table with a tray carrying two small plates. On each was a small, yellow-orange curved pastry. She smiled as she set the plates in front of them and said, “Fortune cookie, made here.” She nodded encouragingly and said, “Break open,” and retreated to the kitchen.
Laura glanced at Kaz and smiled. She grabbed the two upper wings of the cookie and snapped it in half, revealing a small white slip of paper within. She slid it out and spoke the typed message aloud, her eyes sparkling as she read it to him: “You will be awakened in the morning with a kiss.”
“I like the sound of that fortune!” In turn, Kaz carefully broke his cookie in half, pulled out the slip and read, “Good fortune takes preparation.” He made a wry face. “The cookie knows I’m a CAPCOM.” He looked at Laura. “I like yours better.”
Laura took a tentative bite of her broken cookie and was surprised at the hardness of it between her teeth. “I’m not sure we’re supposed to eat these.”
The waitress had returned and was reaching past them to clear the plates and glasses.
“Maybe they glue them back together and reuse them,” Kaz joked.
The waitress, with the beer bottles and glasses now balanced on her tray, turned too quickly. Kaz saw the tall bottles starting to topple and reached to catch them, but too late. One tumbled past his hands and clattered noisily onto the table, knocking over a water glass, which fell and shattered on the tile floor. The sudden crash momentarily stopped conversation in the restaurant, all eyes naturally turning their way. The waitress froze, seeming stricken. Looking enraged, the head waiter came bursting through the swinging door and strode purposefully to their table. As soon as he was close, he laced into the waitress in intense, blistering Chinese, making her cringe even smaller, then flee past him towards the kitchen, clutching her tray.
Kaz frowned at the white-suited man. “Hey, it was just an accident, man! No harm done.”
The waiter’s face was once again a mask of calm as he picked up the larger pieces of broken glass from the floor and cradled them in a napkin, avoiding Kaz’s gaze. “We are very sorry, sir,” he said, eyes on the floor. “It was a clumsy mistake. This will not happen again.”
Kaz and Laura made eye contact, both uncomfortable. The head waiter stood, carefully folding the ends of the napkin over the broken pieces, then waved for a man to come with a dustpan and broom. He looked at Kaz. “Our apologies, sir, we’ll get this cleaned up.” He walked stiffly back to the kitchen, his raised voice immediately audible once he was through the swinging door.
Concerned, Kaz pushed himself to his feet and walked towards the kitchen, past the dishwasher approaching with the broom. Conversation in the restaurant had started to pick back up, but he was aware that a few of the patrons were watching him. He gave the door a hard rap. It opened a crack, and the white-clad waiter slid through to face Kaz.
“Yes, sir?” he said, looking blandly up at the taller man.
“I want to make sure you know we have no problem with what happened. It was just an accident—not her fault.” He stressed, “I was reaching for the bottle and it fell.”
The waiter held Kaz’s gaze for several seconds. Then he said, “I understand, sir. Don’t worry. We will take care of it.”
The kitchen door swung wide as a waiter came through carrying a tray of food, and Kaz leaned to look past him. The girl in red silk was nowhere in sight.
The head waiter bowed to Kaz and disappeared again through the swinging door. Frowning, Kaz returned to his seat.
“It was good of you to try to check on her,” Laura said.
Kaz shrugged. “Yeah, for all the help I was. Seems like she’s on pretty thin ice here.” He shook his head slowly. “Different cultures.”
They sat together in silence for several moments, each of them wondering what was facing the waitress whose only sin was to break a glass.
Then Kaz took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Enough,” he said. “How about I pay the bill and we go compare our fortunes?”
She was a rust-stained hulking saltwater ship, her peeling blue paint and faded ivory lettering a testament to both her long years at sea and the indifference of her owners. The name on her bow and across her stern was Pacific Triumph, but any pride of victory was long since gone.
The flag hanging limply from her stern showed the faded red and blue squares with opposing stars that denoted registry in Panama. A salt-yellowed flag of convenience to avoid paying taxes. With 1,600 Panama-registered ships plying the world’s oceans, the vessel was as anonymous as a 165,000-ton floating behemoth of welded steel could be. She could have come from anywhere. Just a working ship doing her job, hauling goods to market around the globe.
The Triumph was tied up at a Port of Houston unloading dock, deep in the brackish Buffalo Bayou, two hours of winding maneuvers inland from the Gulf of Mexico. Tall cranes were slowly swinging back and forth, lifting large packaged blocks out of the deep hold and placing them on pallets and trailers on the wide cement pier. Small teams of stevedores met each suspended load to guide it into place, unhook it, inspect it for damage, ensure customs compliance, then move it to temporary storage in the massive wharf warehouse or load it directly onto waiting transport if the cargo was perishable.
Most of what the men unloaded was exactly what was printed on the manifest. But like any large-scale operation, there were time-proven ways to slip certain items through, avoiding special notice.
Smuggling was as old as money.
The paperwork accompanying one large, square, cross-strapped cargo block showed that it was documented for direct delivery. It was said to contain several dozen bags of gypsum plaster for a Houston construction company and dozens more sacks of rice and beans, along with industrial-sized plastic jugs of soy sauce and peanut oil, meant for a distributor to the food markets and restaurants of Houston’s growing Asian community. The crane set the heavy block gently beside a delivery van, its driver already waiting in an idling forklift to load it.
After the stevedores had released and cleared the lifting cable, the agent from the customs broker and freight-forwarding company pulled the paperwork out of the heavy reusable sleeve strapped to the pallet load and checked it. A quick count of visible plastic-wrapped bags and jugs matched the bill of lading, and there had been zero alerts and no history of smuggling from the Pacific Triumph or the receiving companies. A roving canine handler with a drug-sniffing German shepherd on a leash walked around the pallet, the dog showing no interest.
Satisfied, the agent compared his list to the driver’s, signed and stamped the forms for the ship’s loadmaster, slapped the side of the load for luck, like he usually did, and folded the page over on his clipboard, already walking and looking skyward, ready for the next crane load.
The driver revved up the forklift and maneuvered to expertly slide its long twin forks into the pallet slots. Barely pausing, he pivoted up the lever to lift the load off the ground and continued raising it as he drove forward towards the waiting open hold of his truck. He gently eased it squarely into place and lowered it down, the truck’s heavy springs and shock absorbers compressing with the added weight.
After returning the forklift to its parking spot, the driver clambered into the back of the van to strap the load down. He jumped to the ground, leaving the rear door open for now, then climbed into the cab, started the engine and moved slowly to join the small, patient line of simil
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