“Damn. Being a hero hurts.”
In two minutes, Doc had the man’s knife, his own feet cut loose, and his mercenary guard bound and gagged in the same manner he had been. He cut loose the other captives, eight in all; two women besides Mary, four kids including his own grandkids, and John Sites.
Doc Knight’d had enough. It was time to move.
He went to the head end of the caboose, opened the door and stepped outside. He recognized the town they were passing through as Winter Park. They’d be going through the Moffat Tunnel and be only a few miles out of Denver suburbs.
Doc stepped across the couplers to the white tank car in front of him, then knelt down and turned the cutout cock closed on the brake pipe air hose. He stepped back over to the caboose and did the same thing on the way car’s brake pipe. After moving to the right side of the end platform, he stepped down the caboose steps and pulled up on the uncoupling lever. The caboose separated from the train with a small pop. He went to the wheeled handbrake, spun it tight and the car slowly came to a stop.
* * *
After rocking the truck, working the steering wheel and doing a considerable amount of cussing, I finally drove the fuel truck off the shoulder where it had been stuck.
My cell rang and I put on the brake, hoping somehow it would be good news. Since the phone rang, it meant service had been restored, at least to some extent on this side of the mountains — the front range.
As I answered, I noticed my cell phone battery was nearly dead.
“Ethan, we’re okay!” It was Doc.
“Dad,” I gasped, “where are you?”
“In the caboose. I cut us loose from the hazmat train.”
“The kids? Mary?”
“We’re all okay. And looks like John Sites will pull through if we get him to the emergency room soon. They let my Mary bandage him up while they flew them in. John still needs surgery, but he’s stable. Between what John’s told me and from what I’ve been hearing, you’ve been kicking some butt out there. Glad you’re on the case, son. But, as if you didn’t know it, these bastards mean business — so watch your ass.”
“Where exactly are you?”
“Just outside Winter Park — but listen, Ethan. We’ve got some folks here that say they’re being used as hostages for leverage. A lady here with two kids about Amy and Dusty’s ages says her husband is the pilot of that Chinook.”
As I listened to Doc, I dismantled the Beretta 9mm I’d gotten from Big Deal. I opened the truck cab door enough to put the gun’s bent slide into the jam beside one of the hinges, and I pulled on the door, springing against it. After a couple of attempts, it looked as if the slide might be straight enough to work.
Doc continued, “Another lady says her husband’s the copilot. They’re telling me their men were coerced into flying the helicopter for those mercenaries. But since the guys’ families are safe and sound, if we can get word to them, maybe they’ll help do what they can to stop those bastards.”
“Do the men have cell phones?” I asked as a reassembled the gun.
“They took them away when they took their families.”
“What are the men’s names?”
“Boss Grimes and Ted Newman. Both National Guard captains. Grimes is the pilot.”
“Okay, Dad,” I said, and I pulled the Beretta’s slide back. I allowed the slide to snap back into place, racking a 9mm cartridge into the chamber. I hoped the gun would work — hoped holding onto the thing when it was jammed was worth the pain and the large bruise I was sure was just above my sacrum from when I fell onto the flatcar with the Beretta under the back of my belt. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, we’re okay, but you know what, son?”
“What Dad?”
“They killed The Boys,” Doc said, a crack in his voice. “John said they mowed The Boys down, shot ‘em like they was nothing.”
I took a deep breath. The Boys were Docs dogs. He loved them as much as anything he’d ever had, apart from his human family. I was sure he would have given his own life for theirs — he loved them that much.
“I know, Dad. I saw them.”
“Well, you don’t worry none about us, son. Just stay safe, but stop those bastards!”
I thought for a moment. “Dad, what’s Captain Grimes’ lucky number?”
“What?”
“Ask his wife. What’s his lucky number?”
After a couple seconds, he said, “Six.”
I ended the call and speed-dialed Judge Hammer.
Chapter 19
Mama Lo’s Lei Laid Low
Mama Lo answered as usual. “Mama’s Lei’s awaitin’ for you, hon!”
I knew whenever she talked to me about her “lei” she always meant “lay”. In her heart, the always jovial Mama Lo seemed to have a warm spot for me — and a warm spot in another part of her body for me, as well.
“Listen, Mama. I need your help.”
“Ah, E Z, hon, my day’s more better, already — you a callin’ me! Anything for you, tall, dark an’ handsome.”
“I don’t have any idea whose side the Judge is on. I don’t care, right now. But I need you to be on my side for the next ten minutes. I’m a mile or two from the east entrance to Moffat Tunnel—”
“I know where you are, honey. You’re one-point-four miles from the tunnel, to be ‘xact. Knew that from your last call. I got you triangulated. By the way — so glad those cute kids o’yours an’ your sweet daddy’s okay.” She paused. “My understandin’ of your little world’s gotten a lot more better since they got cell service back up in that area.”
I could have been pissed that she’d been eavesdropping from thousands of miles away. But I wasn’t. I’d only met this woman once, but from my many conversations with Mama Lo, I knew that she sees data, piecing it together in her mind, like I would pictures. She not only reads the numbers, information and digital symbols, but they actually form images in her head as naturally as looking at a photo. When the data is dynamic, to her it’s like watching a movie. She’s brilliant. She’s a genius.
She is legally blind.
I imagined the large Hawaiian woman sitting at a wide bank of computer screens, her thick glasses making her look like some kind of large, bug-eyed Japanese Beetle — she loves wearing jade green kimonos with large pink and yellow hibiscuses.
“I’m in a fuel truck near a small railroad maintenance facility of some type.”
“Wait a minute … yeah. I see you. Wave toward their office building. The UP railroad has a security camera on a light pole about 200 feet in front of you.”
“Geez!”
“We ain’t talked in a while, hon. Been pretty borin’ around here without you callin’ — more worser’n you can ‘magine. An’ you done forgot how good I was.”
“Okay, what I need is to talk to Captain Boss Grimes, National Guard pilot of the stolen CH-47. But all I’ve got is my cell phone. Grimes doesn’t have his cell with him. Any ideas?”
“That transport you’re in have a CB radio?”
I looked at the dash. It did. “Yes.”
“Okay, E Z, honey. Switch to channel nine, then you just leave it to me. Looks like they’re pingin’ the comm towers all over the state now, and a good many of ‘em are workin’. I’ll get ‘hold of Denver Central Flight Control and have ‘em ready for your CB transmission. An’ I’ll give the Sundail Oil Company’s dispatcher a call to let you know when we got the hookup. They’ll relay your signal to Denver Central, and Denver’ll send your transmission over the IFF band. Your Chinook jock should be able to pick it up. Just give me ‘bout five minutes.”
I was going to ask her how she knew I was in a Sundail Oil truck, then I remembered it was stenciled in large letters on the gas tanker trailer.
“Five minutes is probably about all the time we have.”
“Okay, hon. I promise they’ll get right back with you. You’d better come to Maui an’ get some rest after this, E Z. You look a mess. Now, wouldn’t
that be more better?”
I glanced at the tall light pole from where I guessed Mama Lo was viewing me, and I gave her a wave.
“‘Course, after ‘little restin’, Mama’ll give you the biggest, an’ bestest lei y’ever had — that’d be more better, yet!”
I started the truck and pulled onto the highway, heading for Moffat Tunnel.
* * *
“This is Denver Central. We’re ready to transmit your comm on Frequency one-three-six.”
“Denver Central, can you monitor our conversation and then change our channel to one-two-zero when prompted.”
A pause. “Yes, we can do that.”
“Captain Boss Grimes in the National Guard CH-47 Chinook, come in, over,” I called and repeated once.
“Captain Grimes,” he said. “Go ahead.”
I said, “Please switch to your lucky number times twenty, Captain Grimes. Do you copy?”
A pause. “Roger. Copy.”
“Denver Central, please change our comm channel, now.”
I waited five seconds and, hoping we’d gotten switched, I asked, “Captain Grimes, do you copy?”
He was terse as if trying to be secretive. “Copy, over.”
“My name is E Z Knight,” I told him. “I’m—“
“I know who you are, Mr. Knight, and I think you’d better get out of our way.”
“Listen, Grimes, your family’s okay. So’s Captain Newman’s wife. They’re with my father in the caboose. They cut away from the hazmat train earlier than these bastards planned.”
Silence.
“Grimes?”
Silence.
“Grimes — Newman, your people are okay. You copy, over?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his emotion quavering his voice. “We copy. You caught us at a good time. Our handler has left the cockpit without his headset.”
“Perfect. Now listen. You’re taking a demolition team to disable the last two switches that would prevent the Thundertrain from making it all the way to Denver. I need you to ensure that demolition team doesn’t get that far. Copy.”
“Copy, Mr. Knight. What do you think we should do?”
“That’s up to you. You know your situation. Just make sure they don’t make it.”
“But they’ll still blow the train someplace, won’t they.”
“Yes, but not in as populated of an area. I’m going to try to stop them. I’m going to ram them with a fuel truck as soon as they get near the east end of Moffat Tunnel.”
“Even if that stops the train, that won’t keep Winter Park from getting a huge shot of radioactive dust?”
“No, it won’t. I figure with most of the LP gas cars near the head end, it will blow out the west and a good part of it will settle in Winter Park. But, that being on the back side of the front range, it should keep any residual from Denver. I’m hoping the tunnel and the mountain will absorb a great deal of the shock. Maybe the yellowcake and chlorine gas won’t push out with much force. The explosion might seal off the east end, but I don’t’ see that happening to the west since all the tankers are on the head end.” I paused. “We’re in a war with these pricks. We have to make a choice. The choice has to be limiting the friendly body count to as few as possible.”
“Limit the body count,” he repeated “Roger that. But I don’t know that they’ll let me.”
“You’re the pilot. Can they fly it without you or Newman?”
“No, I don’t think any of them aboard our aircraft are flight trained. By the way, I see the caboose stopped on the main line, now. It looks like the hazmat train is about to enter the tunnel.”
“Great. Since they don’t have any leverage on you anymore, you can do whatever you want with that bird.”
“You’re right … uh … but the caboose … it’s on the back side — the west side.”
I knew where he was going with that. “Yes.” Our families were sure to catch at least some of the radiation if my plan worked — the explosion forcing the radioactive material out the tunnel only a short distance away from them. The alternative could mean the deaths of thousands.
Grimes said, “Sounds like our crew chief is coming back. I’ll give them an option — force them to make the choice,” he said.
“Good man.”
“Tell my wife and kids I love them. Grimes out.”
* * *
I have my foot to the floor and the transmission in high gear. I must make it to the tunnel entrance well before the lead locomotive passes through.
Three minutes later, my cell rings again.
“Ethan,” Doc says, “had to let you know: that big Chinook helicopter passed overhead, slowed down and started dropping those mercenaries out like a goose shitting mulberries. I think every one of those dumb bastards broke their legs and arms — couple probably broke their necks, too. Cops are all over them. Wonder what happened?”
“Good,” I tell him. “Sounds like Captain Boss Grimes gave them a choice.” I pause. “Dad. I love you. Tell your Mary and the kids I love them, too, would you?”
“Ethan? What’s going on, boy? What are you doing?”
“I don’t know if I’m going to make it this time, Dad.” I’m getting ready to tell him to prepare for a storm of radiation — cover up, breath through blankets.
“You sure as hell better — oh, damn!”
“What happened?”
“That Chinook. It went down low and rammed right into the tunnel. One hell of a fireball. Must have had explosives on it.”
“It did. Did the entrance collapse?”
“I think … wait … yeah, it did.”
“Okay. Tell the cops to get everyone away from there. It could get a lot worse real soon — and tell those brave men’s wives their husbands loved them very much. Goodbye, Dad.”
“Ethan? Son, what—“
After throwing down the microphone, I switch off the radio and then wheel into the Moffat Tunnel facility, tires squealing from the high-speed turn, the gas pedal still to the floorboard.
Chapter 20
Tunnel of Death
Lining up on the six-mile-long hole bored into the front range of the Rocky Mountains, I see a light — and thank the good Lord it’s not yet at this end of the tunnel. I drive the gasoline truck at over sixty-miles-per-hour past a number of astonished railroad and state workers. With the truck straddling the rails and the tires flying over the track ties, it’s a bumpy ride to say the least.
Initially thinking I’m on a suicide mission, I reconsider when I make the tunnel entrance and the train is still quite a ways down the six-mile-long tunnel. The closer to this east end of the tunnel I’m able to stop it, the better for the residents and visitors in the skiing community of Winter Park. And If the LP gas tankers blow near where I am now, the east end of the tunnel will collapse and be sealed off as well as the west entrance.
I stop the truck, jump out and peer down the long, dark passage. Nearly impossible to estimate, I guess I’ll be abandoning the truck perhaps a little more than a quarter mile in front of the fast moving freight train.
I sprint back toward the mouth of the tunnel nearly fifty yards away. Sprinting is not a good word to describe what I’m doing with injured toes inside an oversized steel-toe boot, bruised ribs, aching back and wounded shoulder. From a distance, to the curious tunnel workers peering in from the lighted end, I probably look like Quasimodo.
The approaching locomotive sounds its air horn. Even from nearly a quarter mile away, the echoing blast hurts my ears. The engines roar behind me.
I wave to the workers, holding my injured arm close, hunched over, limping, my voice coming out in grunts from the pain to my ribs, “Get back. Run. It’s going to blow!”
I can imagine their eyes, seeing this contemporary hunchback of Notre Dame running at them, growling, while leading a speeding train.
The thing is close, now. I’m wincing like the first time I pushed the trigger button on that LAW rocket in infantry training nearly twenty yea
rs ago, expecting one hell of an explosion.
The workers scatter as I reach the outside. I’m running a few yards out before I leap to the side, but when the anticipated explosion comes, I trip on a tie and fall between the rails.
Two-hundred tons of burning steel locomotive shoots from the tunnel entrance, fire and debris belching out with it — the lead loco being propelled by the 4500 horsepower diesel engine driving it. Only small fiery pieces of the transport truck and gas tanker trailer remain caught up on the monstrosity bearing down on me.
I have the Beretta 9mm out, lifting myself off the track while firing at the engineer’s side of the flame-engulfed, hellish behemoth, as if that will do any good at all. Yet, if whoever is running the locomotive is still alive, I’m doing my best to ensure they get to the great beyond before I do.
With the tunnel mostly blocked at both ends, and it having a dozen LP gas cars trapped inside, the hole through the mountain becomes a pressure cooker. The burning tankers’ 30,000-gallon liquid petroleum loads are boiling inside the big tanks, the liquid expanding into vapor.
In an intense, ground rippling blast, the mountain shakes violently. The LP BLEVEs with a nuclear-size explosion the force of 8 kilotons of TNT and equaling half the yield of the Hiroshima A-bomb. Above, the entire mountain ridge trembles, rising a full three feet, and the mouth of the huge tunnel collapses behind it.
I roll to the side, feeling the intense heat as dust and flames spew from the tunnel mouth. The only other escapee from the Hell hole, the lead locomotive, derails from the tracks as it passes by, its big wheels and axles with huge, three-ton traction motors still attached, tearing from its underbelly. The heavy cab and massive diesel engine vault over their own drive gear and electric motors. With the enormous 5,500 gallon diesel tank under the engine rupturing into flames, the nose of the cab angles into the ground. Over and over, the colossal fireball somersaults, finally coming to rest in a pile of burning and melting steel 100 yards away.
One of the railroad workers steps next to me and gapes at the flaming heap of steel and the fire-lined trail in the asphalt that the derailed locomotive created.
Knight's Late Train Page 13