Note – some expletives at the very end!

He raised the glasses to his eyes and scanned to the distant horizon. The land was grey and dismal and the sea almost black. Between him and the far coastline hints of squally rain misted his quest for the vessel he was looking for. With the binoculars away from his eyes, he scanned the sky above and to the west and saw the weather was closing in quickly.

The ferry was almost halfway across the Channel now and would be in the docks within the hour. It would take another hour to unload the trucks and tired and out-of-season holidaymakers but today, his target could be off first or last, there was no way he could tell.

“The ship is on its way,” he spoke clearly into the radio as he faced away from the drizzle on the wind and turned up the collar of his heavy coat. It was going to be an unpleasant wait, even though he would be able to get back into the warm SUV for a while until they began disembarking the vehicles.

“English weather.” His fake smile did not stimulate much of a response from his foreign colleague, who lit yet another cigarette, as though in a vain attempt to brighten the fading daylight. They sat listening to the cheerful pop radio, incongruous with their grim task of saving a few more pathetic lives.

At last the trucks began to roll and now they would need to be on their toes. He lifted his glasses, now to the North, for he would only be able to make out the vehicle they were looking for as it passed under their bridge and sped off towards London.

He scanned each trailer carefully, looking for the sign he needed. The sign he knew would identify their goal and at which point the whole team would kick into action. Even though he promised himself he wouldn’t each time he was on this gig, he counted the trucks that passed by until he saw what he was looking for.

Finally, there were the three azzurri stripes, horizontally smeared across the top right corner of the back doors. “Fifteen,” he shouted as he got back in the driving seat and the engine burst into life, “It was the fifteenth. Better than most, worse than a some. We could have been here half the night.” His passenger snorted. Not much humour in this one, our man thought to himself, not that their line of work ever gave anyone much to smile about.

The big black Mercedes roared off in a trail of spray towards the motorway. With the team alerted now along the way, their plan fell into place. The truck was progressing unremarkably on the inside lane on its journey and along the way, their several vehicles joined in the procession.

The motorway services were about an hour from the port and if, as they expected, there was to be a stop, that would be where they would intercept the operators of this despicable trade. For the moment, they progressed gradually, everyone keeping their distance and taking their time.

“Just the driver.” A voice crackled over the air. One of the team was acting as a spotter on another bridge, but this time he was able to see into the cab as it approached to confirm there would be no-one else for them to take into account.

But then there was a problem, for less than 20 miles into the journey, the truck turned off and took the road into Canterbury, and a tangible unease spread across the airwaves.

“Keep calm everyone,” he said into the radio. He looked about him to take stock of where they were going and before they reached the maze of streets in the historic city, he was relieved to see the truck turning off into a collection of warehouses, industrial units and an edge of town shopping mall.

”Standby,” he almost whispered into the radio, “They’ve turned off.”

Slowly, the truck meandered through the range of small businesses and well-known retail outlets. The driver seemed to know where he was going, so they followed at a distance, yet within sight. More of the team showed up behind them. After about 5 minutes, the truck pulled into an empty road and parked up in a distant corner.

He found a space out of sight of the truck and leaving their vehicle, they eased their way back to the parking area to watch. They sought shelter in the trees and waited to see what would happen next.

“No-one else is here,” he told the rest of the team, “so keep out of sight on the approach roads. There will be someone else along soon.” Curt grunts in words of agreement spewed from the radio.

“There’s a van approaching.” The radio burst into life. “A big one, white.”

“On your toes people.” He rushed back to the SUV. “On my shout.”

He made out the van as it reversed to their truck, so they were back to back. They sat in the eerie orange glow thrown by the sodium steetlamps.

Both drivers got out, shook hands and the truck driver proceeded to open the rear. At the same time the van doors were opened and obscured the view of the team.

“Time to go,” he shouted.

Suddenly there was pandemonium. Their seven vehicles screeched down the road and over to where the transaction was taking place. Armed police were first out, screaming and shouting at the two men in the process of transferring their precious, illicit cargo. They hit the ground with their arms outstretched.

He was lost in the clutter of the radio as the strong arms do their business, until he hears the all-clear.

“We’re good for you now,” they said and he and his team rushed in to look for what they so desperately needed to find. Lives they needed to save. People they needed to rescue. Weak people depending on them.

He was the third or so to get there and completely startled by what he saw.

“What’s this then?” he spits out, “What the fuck is this?”

He peered into the back of the truck, clambering up into it, began rooting around inside. They can hear him move along the inner walls and finally after a minute or so, he reappeared red-faced at the door, looking across into the van.

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s a wine run boss.” One of his people explained, “Beaujolais Nouveau they call it. They bring it over on the first day that it gets released. It’s like a  race.” He looked at the man, who sensibly made himself scarce.

“Wine. Fucking wine? Where are the people?” He looked over at the truck driver hoping for some explanation. But he’s French and simply shrugs, of course.

“Get the Customs and Excise people here,” he bellowed and a couple of his people rush off to their mobile phones to call the right people to sort this out.

It might not seem that way right now, but in some ways, it’s a really good result. At least he tried to tell himself, eventually.

“Fucking wine.”