Start Fiction:
Dwayne turned down the air conditioning and gripped the wheel tighter. Checking his mirrors, he took a deep breath as he approached Des Moines. His cargo was sensitive, and every city he had to drive through reeked havoc on his ulcer.
Popping a half dozen antacids, Dwayne flipped radio stations. The chatter on the CB was minimal since his cargo limited his reception. The idea it blocked free floating radio waves often made him wonder what effects it had on biological systems. However, it was something he didn't want to know; something he did not to think about it.
"Shit," Dwayne said as he approached traffic at a stand still. His brow beaded up. He swallowed hard. Emergency lights could be seen over the horizon, lots of lights. "Guess I will be sitting here for a while." Quickly he began to move his cargo van to the far right lane in anticipation of assistance.
He opened his laptop and began to enter his password; he was prompted for voice recognition. On the top of his van a small satellite sprang up. To everyone else it looked like a satellite t.v. dish; however, that is was not.
Dwayne entered his message: delayed, traffic at a stand still, mile marker 141. A response came quickly. Dwayne smiled and closed the computer. "I guess my wait won't be so long after all."
Five minutes later two unmarked sedans were escorting Dwayne down the shoulder, out and around the accident. He tried not to smile as he enjoyed moments like these, knowing the average citizen was infuriated; yet that was better than public knowledge regarding his cargo. Some might even consider him a Man in Black if they knew the materials he was hauling. But he had a duty; country first.
As they approached the accident, Dwayne noticed a Suburban had taken advantage of the escort and snuck through with him.
Out and around the accident, it was clear sailing as there was very little traffic. The sedans peeled off and Dwayne was once again on his own. He adjusted the air conditioning and sat back a little in his seat.
Traffic began to fill the road as Dwayne reached the downtown area. Dwayne sat up, adjusted the air conditioning again. Cars jumped off and on the interstate; he tried to stay in the center lane. Why he was instructed to go through Des Moines via 235 made no sense to Dwayne, but orders are orders.
Constantly checking his mirrors, he noticed the Suburban was still behind him; three car lengths. The windows were too tinted to determine the amount or type of passengers, but he tried to not to make too much of a big deal of it. Just a few more miles left through town, he told himself. Omaha was next, so he would have a few hours to relax a little.
Traffic thinned and exits became more scarce as Dwayne drove. Dusk settled in and headlights lit the highway like shooting stars. He paid a little more attention to the Suburban since it was still behind him now some one-hundred miles out of Des Moines.
It had been years since he had needed or been given continued support staff. There was nothing overly special about his cargo, any more than most transports. Perhaps there was information he had not been given; it couldn't hurt to ask.
He opened his laptop and secured a channel. Requesting information could be difficult at times, but once his message was received he knew there was potential for excitement.
Dwayne's mobile rang. He never received calls on transport. Excitement was affirmative.
"Yes sir," Dwayne said. Punching in a code on his stereo, the face opened to reveal a control panel. He pushed a few buttons and he heard the hydraulics kick in opening the panel under the van reveling a camera. Sending live feed, streaming video, his commander was able to adjust the feed to gain a visual on the license plate, but also utilize he infrared to determine occupants.
End Fiction.
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