Troika

A steady, soaking rain fell as the eighteen-wheeler backed slowly into the loading dock. With short, skilful manoeuvres, the driver, Alex Burr, jockeyed into the assigned cargo bay. The crew loaded several grey canisters. The crew chief flipped up the required yellow and black logo. The contents were radioactive. Burr returned, checked his load, wrote “16” on the bill of lading, climbed into the cab, swung left, and continued to the exit road, where a guard waved him out of the compound. The truck exited the access road parallel to the New Jersey Garden State Parkway.

The windshield wipers oscillated rapidly to clear the heavy rain obscuring his vision. Four and a half miles outside the gate, Burr stopped, opened the rear door, removed two canisters, and placed them in a slight depression on the edge of a clearing. He returned to the cab, slipped a thin sheet of cardboard under the top layer of the bill of lading, erased “16” and wrote “14” in the space left by the erasure, then checked the altered bill to ensure it was not smudged. Satisfied, he edged onto the highway. Burr reached over with his right hand and felt again for the package on the passenger seat. The large manila envelope picked up at the tuck sign-up hall held the job sheet and other related papers and ten used one-hundred-dollar bills.