by Frank Tayell
Screaming came from the platform. A yell of pain came from behind. Gunfire came from everywhere, and Ruth could no longer tell who was firing, or whether anyone was firing at her.
Mitchell was ten yards from the train, his hand already reaching out for the handrail by the ladder when the guard reappeared in the doorway. Before the guard could fire, Isaac did. The guard collapsed. Mitchell reached the train, and pulled himself aboard.
Isaac was ten paces behind. Eight. Six. Mitchell leaned out. Isaac let one hand fall from his rifle. He grabbed Mitchell’s hand. Mitchell pulled him on board. Ruth was twenty paces away, and the train was accelerating. Isaac gave Ruth a wave, and vanished inside the wagon. Mitchell gave her a nod of farewell and followed.
They were leaving her behind. She almost stopped, then. She almost let the train disappear into the Tunnel. Riley’s words came back to her. Either she was a copper or she wasn’t, and if she wasn’t, what was she doing out here? Another memory of Riley came to her. Not of Riley in the wheelchair, but of the sergeant lying in the staircase of Longfield Hall, bleeding, close to death. Ruth sprinted the last ten yards, jumped, and grabbed the handrail. The metal was cold, damp, and she almost lost her grip. Her legs were pulled forwards, the tips of her right boot brushed against the wagon’s spinning wheel. And then there was a hand at her wrist, pulling her up and onto the narrow platform.
“Just like Maggie,” Isaac said. “You truly don’t know when to quit.”
Behind them, Ruth could see the Tunnel’s entrance, and the Marines gathered there. Thankfully, they held their fire, but there had been no other train at the platform, there would be no help until they reached Calais.
The lights grew dimmer as the train sped away from the entrance, and deeper into the Channel Tunnel.
“We better join Henry,” Isaac said.
They went inside.
Chapter 21 - The Front Line
Calais
The wagon was a pre-Blackout passenger carriage that had been re-purposed to carry cargo. The seats had been removed, and metal racks put in their place. Each of those contained a wooden box, though it was too dark to read the stencilling on the side. Two electric lanterns hung from the ceiling, but they were fitted with the recently manufactured bulbs whose dim illumination only added depth to the shadows. Metal sheets had been riveted over the windows, but they were already deep into the Channel Tunnel and beyond the lights around the entrance. Ruth had dropped her borrowed torch somewhere. There was a brief flash of humour when she imagined the consternation of the technophobic Marine who found it. That vanished when she saw the corpse.
A dark stain slowly spread from the three neat bullet holes across the woman’s green railway company uniform. There was no weapon next to her, but Captain Mitchell had an assault rifle in one hand as he used the other to check the doors in the centre of the wagon.
“I think I saw her climbing into the carriage,” Ruth said. “I counted five guards.”
“Who were outside, yes,” Mitchell said. “Plus someone who started the engine. That was probably Rebecca. There was no ramp leading from the train down to the platform, so she must have already been on board.”
“Three dead, then,” Isaac said. “And at least three more, still alive.”
“The doors on either side are jammed closed,” Mitchell said. “In the old world, there was an electric lock, but that was modified by a handle to manually open the mechanism. It’s been broken.”
“If the doors are sealed, how are they meant to unload the ammunition at the other end?” she asked.
“They’re not,” Isaac said. Rifle held low, he followed Mitchell towards the door at the end of the wagon that connected it with the next.
Ruth’s mouth opened automatically to ask him what he meant, but then she understood. She checked her revolver was loaded, then followed the other two.
Mitchell reached the door, and pulled the handle down. The door swung open. There was a narrow gap between the two carriages, covered by three lengths of wooden panelling set on small turntables so that they moved with the motion of the train. The sides were covered in thick leather and loose chains. As Mitchell opened the door to the next carriage, a barrage of gunfire slammed into it, pushing it closed. One bullet went straight through, passing within an inch of Ruth’s ear.
“Duck down,” Mitchell hissed. “Aim high, Isaac.”
“High it is,” he said.
“One,” Mitchell said and pushed the door open. He dived through as more gunfire came from ahead. Isaac had raised his gun and fired straight up at the roof. “Two,” he muttered, and then, loud enough for his voice to be heard over the rattling wheels, he yelled “While it’s unlikely a stray round will set off one of these shells, the chances increase with each shot you fire. Do you really want to die down here?”
There was a burst of gunfire from ahead. Rounds bit into the door and wagon’s walls, others thudded into wooden crates.
“I guess he does.” Isaac fired another shot at the roof.
There was a short burst from ahead.
“Clear!” Mitchell called.
Isaac pushed himself forward, sprinting down the carriage, rifle raised to his shoulder. Ruth followed.
Mitchell was bent over a man. “Dead,” he said, his voice absent of emotion. “Did you see the wire?”
“In the connecting corridor, yes,” Isaac said. “That confirms it.”
“Taken with the doors, yes,” Mitchell said.
“What wire?” Ruth asked.
“The entire train is one giant bomb,” Mitchell said. “Missile might be a better word. When it reaches Calais, it’ll detonate. It might be on a timer, it might be on a remote trigger. It might be set to a plate attached to the very front of the locomotive so that it explodes when it hits the first obstacle. I don’t know. What I do know is that if this train explodes in Calais, it would rip a hole right through our lines. The pirates can attack, and they’ll head through the Tunnel. They’d reach Folkestone and a garrison of recruits and walking wounded. And then they’d go looking for that garden centre with the stash of rifles and ammunition.”
“But Cavendish will have to stop the train to get out, right?” Ruth asked.
“Assuming she hasn’t decided to kill herself to complete the mission,” Mitchell said. “Though that isn’t like her. There are two rail tunnels connected by a service tunnel, though we only maintain one rail line. If she stops the train, she’ll have to exit via the service tunnel, and that’ll still bring her out in Folkestone or Calais. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the Channel Tunnel’s only thirty miles long. We’re travelling at about forty-five miles an hour. We don’t have long.”
“And there are two hostiles left,” Isaac said. “I say we go hard and fast through the last wagon, then her carriage, and to the locomotive. We’ll detach it from the cargo wagons. If there is an explosion, it’ll be in the Tunnel. The garrison will be safe.”
Mitchell picked up the rifle next to the corpse. He held it out to Ruth. “You know how to fire this?”
“Sure. Kelly taught me. Well, it was something like this.”
“This train can’t reach Calais,” Mitchell said. “If it does, thousands will die in the next few hours, tens of thousands more before the month is out. It can’t reach Calais. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Ruth said. She holstered her revolver and took the assault rifle. Kelly had showed her how an assault rifle worked. Although it would be more accurate to say she had given Ruth a lesson in how savage the recoil could be while Isaac had looked on, laughing.
“Be glad you’re a copper,” Mitchell said. “Sorry, Ruth.” He ran to the connecting door, Isaac close on his heels. The captain threw the door open, and ran into the wagon. No shots came. The wagon was empty.
“Just the carriage, then the locomotive,” Mitchell said, moving quickly past the racks of munitions. He pulled open the door connecting the wagon to Cavendish’s carriage. “You see the wires?”
>
They were thick, and there were three of them, running through the wall of the cargo wagon, disappearing into a hole in the carriage wall.
“They had to have been installed after we got off the train,” Mitchell said. “So it was done quickly, probably after we alighted and before they arrived in Folkestone. Isaac, if you can find the trigger, try to disarm it. I’ll take the locomotive. Ruth, watch Isaac’s back. Ready?” He pulled open the door. No shots came. The corridor running the length of the carriage was empty. The wire snaked along the polished wooden floor until it disappeared into a compartment near the front.
Mitchell bounded forward, sprinting for the far end of the carriage. Isaac stayed close behind. Ruth brought up the rear, her eyes on the dimly lit end of the corridor until she heard a sound behind her. As she turned around, she saw the door to a compartment open. The guard, Cooper Rehnquist, pushed himself outside. The giant man had a hatchet in his left hand, a hammer in the other. He snarled. He was four feet away. Ruth barely had time to bring the assault rifle up. Her first shot took him in the groin. The man screamed, doubling over as the recoil brought the gun up another inch. Ruth’s finger hadn’t left the trigger, and the gun was still set to fully automatic. Bullets thumped into the man as he fell. Into his stomach, his chest, his neck, his head. Blood and flesh sprayed the carriage walls. Bullets thumped into wall and the roof until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
“He’s dead!” Isaac yelled. “Keep going, Henry.”
Ruth turned around. Mitchell had disappeared. Ruth dropped the rifle, drew her revolver, and bounded past Isaac as he entered the cabin into which the wires ran. She reached the locomotive, just behind Mitchell.
There was a figure there, a woman, but she was standing by the engine’s controls. The woman turned around, wildly firing a revolver. Ruth returned fire. So did Mitchell. The woman collapsed, and Ruth didn’t know whether it was her bullet or the captain’s that had killed her.
Mitchell slung his rifle, grabbed the bars either side of the short ladder, and climbed up into the locomotive’s cab. Ruth followed.
“That’s not Cavendish,” Ruth said.
“No,” Mitchell said. “That explains how she planned to escape. She was never on the train.”
“Which is the brake?” Ruth asked.
“That is,” Mitchell said, pointing to a long length of metal lying on the cab’s floor. “Carrie was dismantling it.”
“Carrie? That’s her name?”
“She was with Cavendish from the start,” Mitchell said. “Another rescued orphan, much like Riley.”
“And she was going to kill herself for Cavendish?” Ruth asked, raising her voice as her words were whipped away by the wind.
“If things had worked out a little differently, I might have done the same myself,” Mitchell said. “Loyalty’s an odd thing. Now, let’s see if we can stop the train.”
The train rattled on. Ruth couldn’t tell if it was picking up speed, and the instruments were no help. Some were covered in blood, others had been smashed by Carrie, others damaged by bullets. Those that were intact meant nothing to Ruth.
The door to the carriage opened, but before Ruth could raise her weapon, she saw it was Isaac.
“Did you dismantle it?” Mitchell asked.
“More or less,” Isaac said. “It was on a one-minute timer that hadn’t been activated. What was more interesting was who else was in that compartment.”
“Who?” Ruth asked.
“I don’t know her name,” Isaac said, “but she was already dead and in a wheelchair. Not much of her would have been found when the bomb went off, but it might have been enough to make you think Cavendish was on the train. I take it she isn’t?”
“No. It was just her,” Mitchell said, pointing at the corpse. “She sabotaged the train before we got her. Do you think you can stop it?”
Isaac stepped up into the cab, and over the corpse. “Hmm… no. Maybe. Mechanical was never my interest. Digital, yes. Circuitry, to some extent. Mechanical, not so much.”
“The train can’t reach Calais,” Mitchell said.
“I know,” Isaac said.
“Won’t they have sent a telegram from Folkestone?” Ruth asked.
“Perhaps, assuming the telegraph wasn’t cut,” Mitchell said. “But there’s not much they can do at that end. Certainly not in time. We’ll be there in about ten minutes. Fifteen at the outside.”
“Then there are three options,” Isaac said. “We can use a mortar shell to derail the locomotive, but that might set off the rest of the cargo. I don’t know whether the Tunnel was built to withstand an explosion from the inside, but there would be smoke, there would be fire, and the Tunnel would be impassable until it’s put out and any damage to the tracks and the air-circulation system repaired.”
“What are the other two options?” Mitchell asked.
“Use a smaller explosive to destroy the coupling between the locomotive and the carriage.” He pointed at the length of metal connecting the engine to the carriage. “The handle’s been broken. We can’t disconnect it, but we might be able to blow them apart. We’re on an incline now, without forward motion, gravity will bring the carriages to a halt.”
“Assuming that the wagons aren’t derailed, and that the cargo doesn’t explode,” Mitchell said.
“Right, so that leaves option three,” Isaac said. “As I say, we’re on an incline. Gravity will act as a brake if we can shut down the locomotive.”
“And that’s what I was asking you,” Mitchell said. “How do we stop the train?”
Isaac unslung his rifle “Shoot the damn thing and hope we hit something important.”
The first three magazines did nothing but send ricochets pinging into the Tunnel’s walls. The fourth magazine brought up a haze of smoke. Ruth was sent back into the carriage to collect ammo from the corpses. She found none on Rehnquist, so went back into the cargo wagons. She was on her way back to the front when the train began to slow. Thick smoke billowed from the engine, filling the corridor of the carriage.
“Will fire set off the cargo wagons?” she asked, coughing around the words.
“Almost certainly,” Isaac said, taking the ammunition from her. “Still, the train is slowing. I think the garrison is safe.”
“Not if the fire spreads,” Mitchell said, pushing them back into the carriage. He shut the door. “How fast are we going? Too fast. If the cargo explodes, the Tunnel will be impassable, the garrison cut off.”
“Other than saying a prayer to Isaac Newton, I’m not sure what else we can do,” Isaac said.
The train continued to slow. Smoke crept around the door and into the carriage. Mitchell tried the door at the side. Like those in the cargo wagons, it was sealed. He raised his rifle, and fired at the window. Glass shattered. He peered outside. “Slow enough, and slower than a run. Ruth, I’m going to lower you outside. There’s not much clearance, so be careful. Run ahead. Get to the garrison. Get fire extinguishers. Get cutting equipment. Get people.”
“Get help. Got it,” Ruth said.
Mitchell and Isaac lowered her outside. The train was barely moving, but the smoke was a thick blanket. Her left arm brushing against the Tunnel wall, she ran as smoke filled her lungs. She ran as flames licked at her coat. She ran as sparks landed in her hair. She ran past the burning locomotive, and kept running, towards the flickering lights at the end of the tunnel. Those lights were wrong. They were caused by open flame not electric lamps. As she outdistanced the train, the sound of metal grinding against metal was replaced with the dull crump and roar of artillery. That sound grew louder, all-encompassing, filling her world.
There was a sentry ahead, standing next to a pair of burning braziers. He stepped towards Ruth, the flames lit up his face and a thoroughly confused expression.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked. His hand was bandaged, his uniform torn and muddy, but his rifle was clean.
“The ammunition train. The locomotive. It’s o
n fire!” Ruth gasped.
“Sarge! Sergeant!” the Marine barked.
A moment later, another figure appeared. This one was familiar, though it took Ruth a moment to place her.
“Corporal Lin?”
“Sergeant Lin, now,” Lin said. “Ruth Deering, isn’t it? Why’s a copper come to France? Don’t tell me they’ve run out of crimes in Britain?”
“The ammunition train, it was booby-trapped,” Ruth said. “The locomotive is on fire. If it spreads—” But she didn’t have a chance to finish. She didn’t need to.
“On your feet, those of you who’ve still got ’em!” Lin yelled into the darkness. “The artillery train’s on fire! Get the shells off. Get it into the service tunnel! Go!”
More orders were given, sending for a fire crew, for more Marines, for a general. As figures ran into the Channel Tunnel, Ruth stood, blinking, confused, disorientated by the constant barrage coming from the east.
“Talk to me while we run,” Lin said, heading towards the train. “What’s going on?”
“Sabotage,” Ruth said. “The train was turned into a bomb.”
“Sabotage?” Lin said. “That must be what happened to the lights.”
“The lights?” Ruth asked.
“In the Channel Tunnel. Electricity comes from the power station in Dover. The lights went out about an hour ago. The cable must have been cut.”
“What about the telegraph?” Ruth asked. “Is that intact?”
“No idea,” Lin said. “The fans have stopped as well. Was that you?”
“Fans? What fans?”
“They have to circulate air through the Tunnel,” Lin said. “It’s why the smoke’s not clearing.”
If anything, the smoke grew thicker as they neared the locomotive.
“Down the sides!” Lin called. “And out through the service tunnels.” She turned around, and grabbed the bandaged arm of the next Marine. The man winced. “Sorry. Go back up the tracks. Get everyone into the service tunnels. The shells go back that way, away from the locomotive. Everyone stays away from the fire!” She turned back to Ruth. “Everyone but us.”