the Devil's Workshop (1999) (48 page)

"Son-of-a-bitch," Calvin said, as he anticipated going off the tracks. Out of the right side of the cab, he could see several men running on the graded bank. At first he thought they were hobos inadvisedly still trying to board the doomed train. Then he realized they were running away, trying to get as far from the screeching train as possible. They knew the freight was about to derail.

The last man Calvin Hickman saw was a tall silver-haired hobo. He was standing on the grade beside the tracks. He was the only hobo who wasn't running, and it appeared as if he was reading aloud from an open Bible as the train cab flashed past.

Calvin knew that these men had thrown the switch open. The track supervisor had often warned that F
. T. R. A. S
would derail freights, then steal what they could from the wreckage before police or emergency crews arrived.

The cab passed by the last warning light, and Calvin could feel the wheels under the Bombardier jump the rails and begin rattling over open ties. Then the engine was completely off the tracks, still going fifty miles an hour. He felt the huge locomotive start to dig itself into the dirt. It slammed abruptly to a stop and Calvin was thrown out of his seat into the front of the comfort cab, smashing his head violently on the metal dash.

The cars behind began to slam into each other, piling up, breaking off the tracks, snapping couplers, and being flung off into the trees that lined the rails. The sounds of crashing cars and tortured metal filled the air. The fifty-foot sections of continuous welded rail snapped and speared upward, right through the floors of the first cars. The wrecked cars were immediately overrun by the cars behind, and as the energy dissipated from the in-train collisions, the cars jackknifed, spilling lading everywhere.

More than fifty cars derailed, throwing themselves all over the side of the mountain grade, before the whole smoking, ruptured mess finally came to a shuddering stop. Ash and dirt filled the air.

Fannon inhaled the smell of disaster, then said, 4 4 'And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord henceforth, that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them." * " Then he closed his Bible and folded up his glasses, returning them to his pocket.

Fannon Kincaid had been only five feet from the track, yet he was not hit by any of the wreckage. For some reason, known only to God or the Devil, the crazy Reverend had miraculously survived.

Chapter
53

They were on the Norfolk Southern track from Frederick, Maryland, heading southeast toward Baltimore on a unit train, which was only thirty cars long and making good time. Cris and Stacy were in a sleeper car buried in the middle of the train. They had heard about the huge derailment in the Appalachian Mountains, which had killed the engineer and the fireman, and injured several others. Talk of the wreck had spread down the rails like a burning trail of gas.

"You're worried about that derailment, aren't you?" Stacy said.

"Yeah. Something tells me it's Kincaid."

"Why? Why would he do it? Why derail a manifest train full of pipe and agriculture products?"

"To block the Appalachian Pass, maybe. I've gotta get my hands on a track map."

"Why?"

"He says he's gonna attack the Great Satan. Who's the Great Satan?"

"I don't know. I guess it's anything that Kincaid thinks is evil."

"F
. T. R. A. S
are a lot like survivalists. Kincaid is an ex-'Nam vet who got shut out by the system after the war, so who's the Great Satan?"

"Saddam Hussein says it's America."

"And that's Washington, D
. C
."

"So that's why you wanted to get on this train, heading east?"

"Believe me, this isn't over." And the ominous tone in his voice convinced Stacy he was right. Cris looked at her. "There's a Yard
-
master station in Alexandria, just on the Maryland-Virginia border. I've never been through there, but I've heard it's a friendly yard. We look pretty clean--maybe I can get the Yardmaster there to let me take a look at the track map."

"Will he show it to you?"

"Maybe ... if you smile at him and bat your eyelashes."

"That's a politically incorrect idea," she said mischievously.

"You wanna help, or you wanna march in a parade?" He grinned at her.

They moved into the switching area in Alexandria, skirting the edge of the yard to keep out of sight of the patrolling cinder bulls. Finally, Cris led her up to the Yardmaster's office. It was in a two
-
story brick building, with a tower on the far end that went up an additional story.

Cris knocked on the wooden door. A twenty-something, dark
-
haired girl, with a trim figure in tight jeans, opened the door. She had a wide, engaging smile.

"Hi," she said brightly.

"Hi," Cris replied. "I'm looking for the Yardmaster."

"You're looking at her," the girl said. On closer examination, Cris could see the collection of smile lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. He revised his age estimate; she appeared to be in her early thirties. She smiled at Cris, who quickly smiled back.

"I'm working on an insurance claim for some missing truck air bags and radios," he said. "We lost 'em out of a hundred-unit shipment that was delivered to D
. C
. Motors about ten days ago; half the stereo components and almost all the air bags had been ripped out. We think F
. T. R. A. S
did it. I was wondering if I could take a look at a map of the local system. I'm trying to get an idea which way they went."

"You got a card?" she asked.

Cris dug into his wallet and pulled one out, handing it to her.

"You're A1 Kleggman," she said. "Insurance Underwriter."

"In the flesh."

"You don't look like an A1 Kleggman," she said with a smile.

Stacy could see that the girl found Cris attractive. She felt a flash of jealousy, which surprised her with its intensity.

Cris let out some more line. "I could call my office and get the map from them, but we were here and I thought it would just be easier and quicker to ..."

"You know your office number?" she said, holding the business card like a winning poker hand, peeking over the edge at him.

"This is a test?" he smiled.

"If you wanna look at my system map it is," she answered.

"My office is 555-7890," he recited. "You want my fax and e-mail?"

She handed the card back. "Come on in, Al. I'm Sylvia." Then, looking at Stacy, she added, "Who's this?"

"I'm Lenore Kleggman," Stacy smiled sweetly. "We were going out for lunch and a nooner."

Sylvia looked at them speculatively, then turned and led them into a small, cluttered office with several radio and phone hookups, which kept the Yardmaster in touch with the trains on her section of track.

"You hear about the derailment up in the mountains?" Cris asked her.

"Kinda hard not t'hear about it. Got the whole system futzed," she said, as she led him to the map.

"Who do you think did it?"

"Damn F
. T. R. A. S
. Leastways, that's what the dispatcher's train delay report says." She pointed to a boxed section of the wall map. "This is us, here."

Cris studied the map, memorized the track configurations, and finally nodded. "Okay, that helps a lot. Thanks for everything," he said, and turned to Stacy. "Okay, dear, time to tie on the feed
-
bag and find a motel."

"Such a romantic," Stacy smiled, as they headed to the office door.

"By the way," Sylvia said, "you aren't fooling anyone."

Cris turned and faced her.

"You two aren't married, you're having an affair."

Cris smiled as he and Stacy stepped out the door of the office and began moving across the pavement.

Sylvia's eyes were burning holes in their backs.

"That was cute," Stacy said, "with the little card."

"A nooner?"

"She was about to jump on you and rape you. I had to do something."

He grinned. They turned the corner and were out of Sylvia's sight.

"Who the hell is Al Kleggman?" she asked.

"I don't remember. Probably some insurance guy I met back when Kennidi was sick. I had the card in my wallet, so I memorized the number as we were walking up there."

They arrived at a public park. Cris sat at a wooden picnic table and took a sheet of paper out of his wallet. "You got a pen or pencil?" he asked.

"Lipstick." She got it out of her backpack and offered it to him.

He took it and began to draw a map on the back of the piece of paper. "Okay, here's the CSXT Appalachian rail line

Here's the main pass heading through the Appalachian Mountains; any train going south from New York or Philadelphia or Baltimore has to go on that CSXT line. Unless you detour back up into New Jersey or Pennsylvania, which adds hundreds of miles, this track through the Appalachian Pass is the quickest shot south."

"What're you getting at?"

"If Kincaid threw the switch and bounced that manifest train off the tracks up in the mountains, then he had to have a good reason, and it wasn't to steal some apples off an agriculture car."

"Then what was it?"

"I've been wondering where the White Train that left Fort Detrick was headed," Cris said. "When I was in the Rangers, I heard that a lot of the nuclear waste was pumped out in Texas. If it's going south, and the Appalachian Pass was blocked, then the only other way to get there is on this Northeast Corridor track here." He added that track to his drawing and labeled it "NEC." Then he put the tip of the lipstick on a place on the NEC track, making an X.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Washington, D
. C
. The route the White Train will most likely take now is through the capital. It's the only other good way t
o g
et south." Then he handed the lipstick back to her and they stood in the sunshine looking at Cris's map.

"But the White Train has soldiers aboard. Ten armed Marines," she finally said, "and two Blackhawk helicopters to fly over it."

"They're Bell Jet Rangers, but you're right, it's heavily guarded."

"Could he do that? Could he figure a way to hijack or derail the White Train in D
. C
., and let all that toxic stuff loose? It would be suicide."

"Kincaid is a fanatic," Cris said. "Some fanatics live so they can die."

They stood over Cris's map for a long, thoughtful moment.

"We've got to stop him," she said.

Chapter
54

The White Train had been on its way up the east face of the Appalachian Pass when they had been radioed and informed of the wreck up ahead. Now they were parked on a siding two miles east of the accident, with the engine idling. The two Bell Jet Rangers had landed in a clearing next to the train, and the Marines had set up an armed perimeter around it.

Major Adrian Flynn now sat in the small communications office in the troop car, trying to make arrangements to get them on their way. His first call was to Admiral Zoll, who growled at him through the scrambled speakerphone.

"Get that load outta there, Major," he said. "I don't want you parked. Find a way around."

Major Flynn looked with dismay at the Marine Captain seated next to him. "Sir, there are only two ways out of here. Unless you want me to go all the way into Pennsylvania, I'm going to have to back this train down twenty miles of track through the mountains, then switch to the NEC track heading into Washington, D
. C
.

Because we're a toxic event, I'm going to need to get half a dozen district area track clearances."

"Then do it. But that stuff has got to get lost. It's still possible that some nosy Senator's gonna hear that the White Train was on base and stop you before you can pump out in Texas. Time is critical here. This stuff can't be just hanging around, waiting for an accident!" Zoll was glaring at the scrambled phone on the conference table in his huge office at Fort Detrick.

"Yessir," Major Flynn said, and then hung up. He quickly called the area Trainmaster for the Eastern Section and applied for the clearances to run the White Train backward down the mountain into the Brunswick, Maryland, switching yard. Then he began working on the clearances necessary to take the NEC track into Washington. Later, he would get the required clearances for Richmond, down to Atlanta, and on to Texas.

A little past two P
. M
. the clearance for Brunswick came through, allowing them to back down out of the mountains. Major Flynn ordered the perimeter guards back up onto the roof of the Train. He radioed the helicopter gunships, and they began to wind up their turbines. The whine of the Bell Jets' engines was drowned out by the locomotive's deep, throaty roar as the White Train's diesel engine powered up.