by Jon Land
“Can you hear me, Blaine?” came the garbled voice of Jack Tunnel.
McCracken adjusted the communicator built into his helmet. “Loud. Not so clear.”
“Okay. If you look down, you’ll see you’re coming to the first catwalk. You don’t want that one or the next one. It’s the third one you’ve got to reach.”
“How much time?”
“Just over five minutes now.”
Blaine quickened his descent. The rungs of the ladder passed swiftly, his drop falling into a symphonic rhythm of hands and feet moving together. The second catwalk was gone before he knew it, then the third was upon him. He stepped off from the ladder and onto the catwalk.
“Okay, Jack. I’m on it.”
“You should be able to see the water gushing out…thirty yards down on the right.”
“Yup, there it is.”
“The valve you’ve got to close is above the pipe, say about eye level.”
McCracken started for it. He took each step on the thin catwalk cautiously, wondering if Abraham had left more surprises for anyone who managed to get this far. The water rushing out of the burst pipe was superheated now, boiling hot and getting hotter. Approaching it, Blaine realized his flesh seemed to be baking. He was breathing hard and the sweat continued pouring into his eyes from his brow. He felt light-headed and wanted desperately to have something to catch hold of, but nothing was available. He reached the blown valve, choosing his steps carefully to avoid the plume of steam he could already feel through his radiation suit.
“I’m at the valve, Jack,” he said when he was behind the steam’s flow. The valve was circular, six inches in diameter, colored in the same almond shade as the rest of the pipes and valves in this section.
“Reach up and turn it to the left, counterclockwise. Your gloves will insulate you from the heat briefly, but when your fingers start to burn, pull your hands off and let them cool.”
“Hey, this isn’t a pie we’re talking about here!”
“Just go to work. Four and a half minutes left now.”
Blaine ran his fingers cautiously around the circumference of the valve. Along its squat neck, he felt a small attachment no bigger than a matchbox. Abraham’s final precaution would have done the job just fine if the man who had come down here hadn’t known what to look and feel for. Blaine closed his fingers on the small but potent charge and pried it away.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, letting it drop harmlessly to the catwalk and returning his attention to the valve.
“My hands feel hot already, Jack,” he said an instant after his gloved fingers tightened around it. “God, this thing’s tight!”
“Is it moving? If it’s been jammed we’ll have to go to a backup.”
“I can get it…. There, it’s starting to go now….”
McCracken twisted with all his strength. Progress came slowly. Finally he detected a marked slowing in the water sprouting from the pipe. When at last the valve was turned tight against the other side, it slowed to a trickle.
“That’s it, Jack.”
“Halfway there, Blaine. All we gotta do now is reroute the cooling water by opening up a backup valve and bringing it back into the central core. You’ve got to go down to the next catwalk.”
“Four minutes to critical stage.…”
“That bitch has been known to be wrong before,” said Tunnel, venting his tension on the mechanical female voice that sounded through the core area.
“How many times?”
“Twice in simulations.”
“I’m back at the ladder, Jack, and going down.”
“Okay. The valve you’ve got to open is in the same spot as the other, just along the next catwalk. How you holding up?”
“Dizzy. I can’t catch my breath.”
“No wonder. The temperature down there just topped the hundred-and-fifty-degree mark.”
“And I’m not even getting a tan to show for it.”
Blaine reached the fourth sublevel catwalk; the piping was colored blue instead of white. He proceeded down it as quickly as he could through the intense heat and located the valve just where Tunnel said it would be.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Okay, Blaine. This one you want to turn to the right. You’ve got to open it all the way or there won’t be enough pressure to cool the reactor in time.”
“Just how much time is that?”
“Thirty seconds to a minute—or we go to the critical stage.”
“That means we’ve only got something over two left.”
“Turn the valve now and you’ll have time to spare.”
Blaine reached up for it, his hands burning with the intensity of fire. “It won’t give, Jack.”
“Ease off a little. No pressure inward. Just twist.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Blaine said, the strain of exertion telling in his voice. “It feels like somebody’s—”
He felt it all go at once and realized the valve had come off in his hand.
“Jack, I think I’ve got a problem down here….”
Chapter 36
THROUGH HIS BINOCULARS, Abraham could see the motorcade edging down Boylston Street. A pair of motorcycle cops, sirens screaming, led the way. There were three more squad cars both in front and in back of the president’s limo. The helicopters were hovering above the steel structure of the building where he was hidden, but they couldn’t possibly spot him. Two to three minutes more and the limo would have reached the stripe lined with his deadly explosives. Abraham felt no excitement, only anticipation.
He had started to reach into his pocket for the detonator when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something alerted his senses enough to make him swing. He never actually heard the elevator coming, but as soon as he turned he saw the steel coil sliding through the pulleys, unaccompanied by any engine sounds.
Someone was coming up!
Abraham only distantly registered that whoever it was had taken precautions so he wouldn’t be heard. He sprinted across the steel skeleton of the building, strides bringing him from one girder to another. He already knew who it was, did not have to see the big Indian he had glimpsed across rooftops in Philadelphia to know that their fated meeting was about to take place.
He reached the edge of the skeleton just as the exposed elevator had cleared the floor immediately beneath his. He gazed down and locked stares with the Indian once again. Still staring into the Indian’s eyes, Abraham grabbed hold of the cable pulley. The Indian was barely a floor from him when Abraham tore the steel cable from the left slot harnessing it, instantly sending the elevator platform careening downward.
Wareagle had stopped the elevator two floors down. The automated pulley system shut down, he had hoisted himself up the rest of the way manually to keep Abraham from hearing his approach. He had watched helplessly as the Wakinyan yanked the steel cable free of the pulley on the platform’s left side and lunged to grab hold of it at the last moment to keep from falling himself.
The move met his expectations. The results exceeded them.
The burden of the platform’s entire weight forced the attached right cable into a grinding downward slide, the momentum of which drove the loosened left cable straight upward. Johnny felt himself launched like a rocket and drew his legs inward. As soon as Abraham’s frame flashed before him, he kicked out, throwing himself forward through the air. The move carried him over the edge and head-on into Abraham.
Impact between the two giants was stunning. Equally stunning was the fact that both gave only slightly. Abraham grabbed hold of a support beam to steady himself; Wareagle lowered himself to a crouch to lock home his balance. Then he rose to the full breadth of his seven feet and squared off against his foe. Johnny knew a gun might have finished the job quicker, but a gun was not a weapon his ancestors knew; if they were to help him here today, he would have to fight on terms they would understand. Against Abraham, he’d choose his ancestors over a clip of shells any day.
The steel girders that created a checkerboard effect of open air fifty stories high severely limited mobility. They were on the same girder briefly; then Wareagle leaped to the adjacent one and faced Abraham on a diagonal. Abraham’s eyes darted sideways and he leapfrogged away from Johnny. At first it looked as if he were retreating, but then he stooped to pick up a six foot steel rod used to fasten the girders together.
He had barely grasped it when he was airborne again, this time skipping a girder entirely and landing on the one next to Wareagle’s, the rod already coming overhead. Wareagle dodged the blow and lashed out with a dangerous kick for Abraham’s left wrist. But the Wakinyan let go of the steel rod with his left hand, so Johnny’s foot struck only steel. Abraham took advantage of the moment by swinging the rod sideways, aiming for Johnny’s planted leg, but the big Indian jumped deftly into the air, the rod passing harmlessly beneath him.
Abraham kept the heavy steel’s momentum going in the same direction by rerouting its force into a baseball-like swing directed higher, for the ribs. Wareagle ducked under this blow and jumped backward, to the next girder, as yet another swing whistled for him. The Wakinyan came after him, but Johnny’s eyes had spotted a stray piece of chain generally used to fasten the girders together. He gambled and dipped to grasp it; the gamble paid off when he managed to bring the chain upward in time to deflect the blow.
Abraham went for a straight thrust with the steel rod next, reaching across the open space separating the girders. Johnny whipped the chain in a downward snapping motion and forced it aside. Abraham came around fast for another overhead blow, and this Wareagle blocked by stretching the upraised chain taut between his hands. The Wakinyan responded by switching his strike to an uppercut, but again Johnny was equal to the task. He used the chain to parry the thrust, then forced the steel rod downward. This latest strike left the right side of Abraham’s head exposed, and Johnny used the opening to lash his chain against the Wakinyan’s face.
The blow mashed Abraham’s flesh. He grunted in pain as blood spurted upward, some spraying into his right eye. He sensed the next blow coming in time to snap his steel rod upward, in a diagonal line in front of him. The chain clanged home, and Abraham used the higher end of the rod to jab at the Indian’s ribs. He felt a bone crack under the blow and brought the rod around for what should have been a killing strike to the head.
Instead, Johnny locked his hands on the steel bar that the Wakinyan controlled. Using it as a pivot point, he hurdled across the space between girders and joined Abraham on his. They grappled, each trying to shove the other over the edge with brute force, neither about to relinquish their hold on the rod. But Johnny still held on to the chain with two fingers, a fact that was clear to him, though not necessarily Abraham. The next time the Wakinyan thrust forward against the steel they jointly held, Johnny let him complete the move, ducking down and coming up behind him. Before Abraham could respond, Johnny had wrapped the chain around his throat from the rear. He pulled his hands across each other, fighting against the incredible strength of the Wakinyan’s neck muscles.
Abraham pummeled Johnny’s broken rib with a series of elbow blows. The Indian winced and bit his lip, but did not release his death grip. Abraham flailed desperately with the steel rod, his blows finding nothing. His eyes dipped downward and saw Johnny’s boot next to his shoe. With the last effort of strength he could manage, the Wakinyan slammed the rod down toward the boot, then let go of it.
Johnny howled in agony at the impact. His grip on the chain slackened enough for Abraham to pry his hands up between his flesh and the chain. He yanked powerfully and dipped his shoulder at the same time. Wareagle flew up and over him, coming down hard enough to shake the steel girder they shared. They both had hold of the chain now, and the Wakinyan leaned over to yank it from Johnny’s hand. Wareagle’s response was to launch a kick behind him that caught Abraham square in the chin. He reeled backward and slammed against a steel support beam.
Johnny turned around and tried to get up again. By the time he had started to rise, though, the steel rod was back in Abraham’s hands and whipping around. The blow caught Wareagle in the hip and buttocks and pitched him sideways off the girder. The force of the blow was potent enough to drive Johnny all the way to the next girder over; he managed to grab a desperate hold of the steel rim, saving himself from falling all the way down. Abraham leaped on the girder after him and began slamming the rod down in the direction of the Indian’s hands. Johnny jammed his fingers into a precariously small groove cut in the girder and began to shimmy across it.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Abraham’s blows were preceded by wails now, as Johnny swayed back and forth fifty stories up. He had only one chance left. Abraham had dropped to his knees, one hand holding the girder for support while he used the other to lash Johnny with the steel rod. Wareagle let go with his right hand and relied only on his left to hold him there dangling, while his right slid into his belt and withdrew the hunting knife that had been passed down through his family for generations. It was bulky and poorly weighted compared to the Gerber MKII he was used to, but it had worked for his ancestors, and that was good enough for him. The palm Abraham was using to support himself was visible through a slight crack in the girder, and Johnny jammed the blade upward.
Abraham’s wail turned into a scream of utter agony as the blade cut all the way through his palm and hand and emerged coated with blood and gristle. The incredible force of the blow had actually wedged the sides of the knife into the steel of the girder. Abraham yanked his mutilated hand up off the blade with a cry that bubbled in Johnny’s ears and heaved himself backward.
Wareagle seized the moment to swing himself back up on the girder. When he regained it, ready to spring, Abraham, leaning uneasily against a support beam, grasped something black in his hand.
“You’ve failed,” the Wakinyan said calmly, the presidential motorcade moving ever closer to his mark. “You’ve failed.”
Johnny froze. He could see that Abraham was holding a detonator in his hand, and that if he lunged for him it would activate. The Wakinyan was smiling, his eyes on the approaching motorcade.
Johnny stood there helpless. What was the Wakinyan waiting for? Why wasn’t he pushing the button?
The motorcade snailed a little closer.
Of course! Johnny realized. Of course!
Suddenly, as if somehow reading the Indian’s thoughts, the president’s limousine took off. It shot forward, police cars suddenly rushing up alongside it.
“No!” Abraham screeched. “Nooooooooooo!”
And with Wareagle halfway into his lunge, the Wakinyan pressed the detonator’s button. “I’ve got them, Alley Cat!” one of the choppers had reported seconds before. “High steel building. Three floors from the top.”
“What do you mean them?” Triesman demanded.
“Two guys, big as houses. Looks like they’re fighting, Alley Cat.”
“What? Say that again.”
“I said they’re fighting.”
“Do you have a clear shot?”
The pilot checked again with his on-board marksman. “Negative, Alley Cat. We’ve got open air between us and the next office building if we miss.”
“I’ll take the responsibility.”
“This is Boston, sir. It’s my call.”
“Dammit!” Triesman yelled, and pressed the button linking him to all his men in the field. “This is an evac order. Let’s get Top Guy the hell out of here!”
Triesman was already into a sprint, heading toward the high steel shell the limo had been passing in front of, when the explosion came. The force of it staggered him; his ears filled with a terrible ringing. His vision never betrayed him, but all he could see was a gray-black cloud of rubble encompassing the entire street before him.
“Top Guy, come in! Top Guy, do you read me?”
When no response came, Triesman ran still faster.
“Okay,” Jack Tunnel said, “I’ve got
one.”
“How much time have I got?”
“Under a minute before the core gets too hot for the cooling mechanism to touch it at all.” Blaine heard Tunnel take in a thick gush of air. “But if she goes critical, you’ll never get out in time, no matter what.”
“Last thing on my mind right now.”
What was first on McCracken’s mind was the pliers Jack Tunnel was dangling seventy feet above him in the open shaft. Because Abraham had taken steps to sabotage the second valve, the only chance he had now of rerouting the cooling water through the backup pipe was to open the line with pliers. Tough work under the best of conditions, and these were anything but. “Okay,” Blaine said when he reached the ladder directly beneath the open hatch. “Can you see me?”
“Just barely.”
“Well, I can’t see you at all. I’m gonna have to take my helmet off.”
“It’s approaching a hundred and seventy-five degrees on your level.”
“Call it a free face peel. Might take years off my life. When I give you the word, count to ten and then drop the pliers down. I catch them, we got a shot. I don’t, get the fuck outta here.” McCracken unhinged the locks on his helmet and made sure it was ready to come free. “Okay,” he told Tunnel. “Start counting.”
He had the helmet placed beneath him and was gazing upward by the count of four. The heat tore into his face and burned his eyeballs. He wanted so damn much to close his eyes, to stop the pain, but he didn’t. And then they started filling with tears, blurring his vision. Dammit! How was he going to catch the damn pliers?
Blaine risked a second and dabbed them with the sleeve of his radiation suit. When he looked up again, a silver blur was dropping toward him.
Too fast to catch, he had time to think. Too fast to catch… .
McCracken managed to get his chest under the falling pliers, but it was a wasted motion. He caught them in his gloves with the dexterity of an all-pro receiver and stooped to retrieve his helmet. He jammed it gratefully over his head again, locking it down as he rushed back toward the bolt the valve had broken away from.